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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/22668-8.txt b/22668-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5205b15 --- /dev/null +++ b/22668-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7280 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems of To-Day: an Anthology, by Various + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems of To-Day: an Anthology + + +Author: Various + + + +Release Date: September 18, 2007 [eBook #22668] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF TO-DAY: AN ANTHOLOGY*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +Transcriber's note: + + Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed + in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page + breaks occurred in the original book. + + + + + +POEMS OF TO-DAY: + +an Anthology. + + + + + + + +London: +Published for the English Association +by Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., 1918 + +First issued in August, 1915; +Reprinted October, 1915; January, March, +June, September, and December, 1916; +May, July, September, October, 1917, +January, February, and July, 1918. + + + + +{vii} + +PREFATORY NOTE + +This book has been compiled in order that boys and girls, already +perhaps familiar with the great classics of the English speech, may +also know something of the newer poetry of their own day. Most of the +writers are living, and the rest are still vivid memories among us, +while one of the youngest, almost as these words are written, has gone +singing to lay down his life for his country's cause. Although no +definite chronological limit has been set, and Meredith at least began +to write in the middle of the nineteenth century, the intention has +been to represent mainly those poetic tendencies which have become +dominant as the influence of the accepted Victorian masters has grown +weaker, and from which the poetry of the future, however it may +develope, must in turn take its start. It may be helpful briefly to +indicate the sequence of themes. Man draws his being from the heroic +Past and from the Earth his Mother; and in harmony with these he must +shape his life to what high purposes he may. Therefore this gathering +of poems falls into three groups. {viii} First there are poems of +History, of the romantic tale of the world, of our own special +tradition here in England, and of the inheritance of obligation which +that tradition imposes upon us. Naturally, there are some poems +directly inspired by the present war, but nothing, it is hoped, which +may not, in happier days, bear translation into any European tongue. +Then there come poems of the Earth, of England again and the longing of +the exile for home, of this and that familiar countryside, of woodland +and meadow and garden, of the process of the seasons, of the "open +road" and the "wind on the heath," of the city, its deprivations and +its consolations. Finally there are poems of Life itself, of the moods +in which it may be faced, of religion, of man's excellent virtues, of +friendship and childhood, of passion, grief, and comfort. But there is +no arbitrary isolation of one theme from another; they mingle and +inter-penetrate throughout, to the music of Pan's flute, and of Love's +viol, and the bugle-call of Endeavour, and the passing-bell of Death. + +May, 1915. + + + + +{ix} + +INDEX OF AUTHORS + + + PAGE +A. E. (GEORGE RUSSELL) + Shadows and Lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 + +ABERCROMBIE, LASCELLES + Margaret's Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 + +BEECHING, H. C. + Fatherhood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 + Prayers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 + +BELLOC, HILAIRE + Courtesy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + From "Dedicatory Ode" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + The South Country . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 + +BINYON, LAURENCE + Bab-lock-hythe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 + England . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 + For the Fallen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 + In misty blue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 + O summer sun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 + The Little Dancers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 + The Road Menders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 + +BLUNT, W. S. + A Day in Sussex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 + Chanclebury Ring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 + St. Valentine's Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 + +BRIDGES, ROBERT + Awake, my heart, to be loved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 + Elegy on a Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 + I love all beauteous things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + I never shall love the snow again . . . . . . . . . . . 148 + I will not let thee go . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + London Snow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 + +{x} + + On a Dead Child . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + Spring goeth all in white . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + The hill pines were sighing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 + There is a hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 + When June is come . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 + +BROOKE, RUPERT + The Dead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 + The Old Vicarage, Grantchester . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 + The Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 + +CANTON, WILLIAM + Heights and Depths . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 + +CHALMERS, P. R. + Roundabouts and Swings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 + +CHESTERTON, G. K. + The Praise of Dust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 + +COLERIDGE, MARY E. + A Huguenot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 + Chillingham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 + Gibberish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 + Street Lanterns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 + Where a Roman Villa stood, above Freiburg . . . . . . . 33 + +COLUM, PADRAIC + A Cradle Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + +CORNFORD, FRANCES + Pre-existence + To a Lady seen from the Train . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 + +CRIPPS, A. S. + A Lyke-wake Carol . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 + A Refrain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 + Essex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 + +DAVIDSON, JOHN + A Cinque Port . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 + In Romney Marsh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 + London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 + +DAVIES, W. H. + Days that have been . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 + Early Morn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 + Leisure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 + +{xi} + +DE LA MARE, WALTER + All that's Past . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 + An Epitaph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 + Martha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 + Nod . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 + The Scarecrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 + +DRINKWATER, JOHN + A Town Window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 + Mamble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 + The Defenders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 + +FLECKER, J. E. + A ship, an isle, a sickle moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 + Brumana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 + +GOSSE, EDMUND + Lying in the Grass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 + Philomel in London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 + +GOULD, GERALD + Fallen Cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 + Oxford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 + 'Tis but a week . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 + +HODGSON, RALPH + Time, you old gipsy man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 + +HOUSMAN, LAURENCE + Annus Mirabilis (1902) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 + +JOHNSON, LIONEL + A Friend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 + By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross . . . . . 10 + The Precept of Silence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + +KIPLING, RUDYARD + Sussex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 + The Flowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 + +LESLIE, SHANE + Fleet Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 + +MACAULAY, ROSE + Many Sisters to Many Brothers . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 + The Devourers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + +MACKAIL, J. W. + On the Death of Arnold Toynbee . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 + +{xii} + +MASEFIELD, JOHN + Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 + By a Bier-side . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 + Fragments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 + Laugh and be merry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 + Tewkesbury Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 + Twilight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 + +MEREDITH, GEORGE + Juggling Jerry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 + From "Love in the Valley" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 + Lucifer in Starlight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 + The Lark Ascending . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 + +MEYNELL, ALICE + A Dead Harvest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 + At Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170 + Chimes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + November Blue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 + Parted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 + The Lady Poverty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + The Shepherdess . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134 + To a Daisy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 + To the Beloved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 + +MOORE, T. STURGE + Idleness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 + Renaissance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 + Rower's Chant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 + +NEWBOLT, SIR HENRY + Drake's Drum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 + He Fell among Thieves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 + Minora Sidera . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 + The Volunteer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 + Vitaï Lampada . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 + +NICHOLS, J. B. B. + On the Toilet Table of Queen Marie-Antoinette . . . . . 9 + +NOYES, ALFRED + The moon is up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 + +QUILLER-COUCH, SIR A. T. + Alma Mater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 + Upon Eckington Bridge, River Avon . . . . . . . . . . . 9 + +{xiii} + +RADFORD, ERNEST + Plymouth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 + +SMITH, ADA + In City Streets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 + +STEVENSON, R. L. + I will make you brooches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 + If this were Faith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 + In the Highlands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 + My Wife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 + Requiem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 + The Celestial Surgeon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 + The House Beautiful . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 + The Vagabond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 + To S. R. Crockett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 + To Will H. Low . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 + Youth and Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + +SYMONS, ARTHUR + In Fountain Court . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 + In the Meadows at Mantua . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 + Montserrat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 + +THOMPSON, FRANCIS + All Flesh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + Daisy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 + Messages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 + The Kingdom of God . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130 + To a Snowflake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 + To my Godchild . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 + +TRENCH, HERBERT + Musing on a Great Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 + O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 + +TYNAN, KATHARINE + Farewell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 + The Choice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 + The Old Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 + +WATSON, WILLIAM + Estrangement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 + Ode in May . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 + +WOODS, MARGARET L. + Gaudeamus Igitur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 + To the Forgotten Dead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 + +{xiv} + +YEATS, W. B. + A Dream of a Blessed Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 + A Dream of Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 + Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven . . . . . . . . . . 156 + Down by the galley gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + Into the Twilight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 + The Folly of being Comforted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 + The Lake Isle of Inisfree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 + When you are Old . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + + + +For permission to use copyright poems the English Association is +greatly indebted to the authors; to the literary executors of Mary +Coleridge (Sir Henry Newbolt), J. E. Flecker (Mrs. Flecker), Lionel +Johnson (Mr. Elkin Mathews), George Meredith (Trustees, through Mr. W. +M. Meredith), R. L. Stevenson (Mr. Lloyd Osbourne), Arthur Symons +(through Mr. Edmund Gosse), and Francis Thompson (Mr. Wilfrid Meynell); +and to the following publishers in respect of the poems enumerated: + +_Mr. B. H. Blackwell_: + A. S. Cripps, _Lyra Evangelistica_ (Nos. 25, 26, 39). + +_Messrs. W. Blackwood & Sons_: + Alfred Noyes, _Drake_ (No. 12). + +_Mr. A. H. Bullen_: + W. B. Yeats, _Poems_ (Nos. 101, 133, 146). + +_Messrs. Burns & Oates_: + Francis Thompson, _Works_ (Nos. 105, 106, 110, 123, 127, 145). + Alice Meynell, _Collected Poems_ (Nos. 62, 74, 81, 107, 111, 115, + 137, 140, 147). + Shane Leslie, _Eyes of Youth_ (No. 84). + +_Messrs. Chatto & Windus_: + R. L. Stevenson, _Underwoods_ (Nos. 51, 73, 90, 109), and + _Songs of Travel_ (Nos. 29, 32, 68, 71, 94, + 96, 135). + +_Messrs. Constable & Co._: + Walter de la Mare, _The Listeners_ (Nos. 1, 61, 67, 117, 142). + +{xv} + +_Messrs. J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd._: + W. Canton, _The Comrades_ (No. 28). + G. K. Chesterton, _The Wild Knight_ (No. 131). + +_Messrs. Duckworth & Co._: + Hilaire Belloc, _Verses_ (Nos. 35, 45, 112). + T. Sturge Moore, _The Gazelles_ (Nos. 89, 93). + +_Mr. A. O. Fifield_: + W. H. Davies, _Songs of Joy_ (Nos. 48, 86), and + _Nature Poems_ (No. 53). + +_Messrs. Max Goschen, Ltd._: + J. E. Flecker, _The Golden Journey to Samarcand_* (Nos. 24, 60). + +_Mr. William Heinemann_: + W. S. Blunt, _Poetry of_ (Nos. 36, 64, 65). + Edmund Gosse, _Collected Poems_ (Nos. 82, 87). + Arthur Symons, _Poems_ (Nos. 85, 113, 130). + +_Mr. John Lane_: + L. Abercrombie, _Interludes and Poems_ (No. 31). + John Davidson, _Ballads and Songs_ (Nos. 37, 38, 80). + William Watson, _The Hope of the World_ (Nos. 66, 121). + Margaret L. Woods, _Lyrics and Ballads_ (Nos. 10, 91). + +_Mr. Elkin Mathews_: + Laurence Binyon, _Poems_ (1894), (No. 79), + _London Visions_ (Nos. 75, 77), and + _England_ (Nos. 16, 57, 129). + Lionel Johnson, _Poems_ (Nos. 9, 95, 118). + +_Messrs. Maunsel & Co._: + P. R. Chalmers, _Green Days and Blue Days_ (No. 99). + Padraic Colum, _Wild Earth_ (No. 124). + +_Messrs. Methuen & Co._: + Rudyard Kipling, _The Seven Seas_ (No. 50), and + _The Five Nations_ (No. 34). + Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch, _Poems and Ballads_ (No. 8), and + _The Vigil of Venus_ (No. 44). + Herbert Trench, _New Poems_ (Nos. 14, 92). + +{xvi} + +_Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd._: + Rupert Brooke, _1914 and Other Poems_ (Nos. 20, 21, 47). + John Drinkwater, _Swords and Ploughshares_ (Nos. 19, 40, 41). + Laurence Housman, _Selected Poems_ (No. 83). + Rose Macaulay, _The Two Blind Countries_ (No. 46). + +_Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co._: + Robert Bridges, _Poetical Works_ (Nos. 54, 56, 63, 76, 104, 125, + 126, 128, 132, 139, 141). + +_Messrs. T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd._: + Ernest Radford, _Poems_ (No. 42). + W. B. Yeats, _Poems_ (Nos. 49, 88, 138, 143, 144). + +_The Poetry Book Shop_ (through Mr. Harold Monro). + Ralph Hodgson, _Eve_ (No. 5). + + +* Now transferred to Mr. Martin Seeker. + + +The Editor of _The Times_ courteously confirmed the permissions given +by Mr. George Russell ("A. E.") in respect of No. 23, and by Mr. +Laurence Binyon in respect of No. 22--the latter being reprinted in +_The Winnowing Fan_ (Elkin Mathews). + +The Association desires also to acknowledge the generosity with which +authors and publishers have waived or reduced customary copyright fees, +in view of the special objects of their organisation. They regret that +considerations of copyright have rendered it impossible to include +poems by T. E. Brown, Thomas Hardy, W. E. Henley, and A. E. Housman. + + + + +{1} + +POEMS OF TO-DAY + + + 1. ALL THAT'S PAST + + Very old are the woods; + And the buds that break + Out of the briar's boughs, + When March winds wake, + So old with their beauty are-- + Oh, no man knows + Through what wild centuries + Roves back the rose. + + Very old are the brooks; + And the rills that rise + Where snow sleeps cold beneath + The azure skies + Sing such a history + Of come and gone, + Their every drop is as wise + As Solomon. + + Very old are we men; + Our dreams are tales + Told in dim Eden + By Eve's nightingales; + +{2} + + We wake and whisper awhile, + But, the day gone by, + Silence and sleep like fields + Of amaranth lie. + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 2. PRE-EXISTEHCE + + I laid me down upon the shore + And dreamed a little space; + I heard the great waves break and roar; + The sun was on my face. + + My idle hands and fingers brown + Played with the pebbles grey; + The waves came up, the waves went down, + Most thundering and gay. + + The pebbles, they were smooth and round + And warm upon my hands, + Like little people I had found + Sitting among the sands. + + The grains of sands so shining-small + Soft through my fingers ran; + The sun shone down upon it all, + And so my dream began: + + How all of this had been before; + How ages far away + I lay on some forgotten shore + As here I lie to-day. + +{3} + + The waves came shining up the sands, + As here to-day they shine; + And in my pre-pelasgian hands + The sand was warm and fine. + + I have forgotten whence I came, + Or what my home might be, + Or by what strange and savage name + I called that thundering sea. + + I only know the sun shone down + As still it shines to-day, + And in my fingers long and brown + The little pebbles lay. + + _Frances Cornford._ + + + + + 3. FRAGMENTS + + Troy Town is covered up with weeds, + The rabbits and the pismires brood + On broken gold, and shards, and beads + Where Priam's ancient palace stood. + + The floors of many a gallant house + Are matted with the roots of grass; + The glow-worm and the nimble mouse + Among her ruins flit and pass. + + And there, in orts of blackened bone, + The widowed Trojan beauties lie, + And Simois babbles over stone + And waps and gurgles to the sky. + +{4} + + Once there were merry days in Troy, + Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals, + The passing chariots did annoy + The sunning housewives at their wheels. + + And many a lovely Trojan maid + Set Trojan lads to lovely things; + The game of life was nobly played, + They played the game like Queens and Kings. + + So that, when Troy had greatly passed + In one red roaring fiery coal, + The courts the Grecians overcast + Became a city in the soul. + + In some green island of the sea, + Where now the shadowy coral grows + In pride and pomp and empery + The courts of old Atlantis rose. + + In many a glittering house of glass + The Atlanteans wandered there; + The paleness of their faces was + Like ivory, so pale they were. + + And hushed they were, no noise of words + In those bright cities ever rang; + Only their thoughts, like golden birds, + About their chambers thrilled and sang. + + They knew all wisdom, for they knew + The souls of those Egyptian Kings + +{5} + + Who learned, in ancient Babilu, + The beauty of immortal things. + + They knew all beauty--when they thought + The air chimed like a stricken lyre, + The elemental birds were wrought, + The golden birds became a fire. + + And straight to busy camps and marts + The singing flames were swiftly gone; + The trembling leaves of human hearts + Hid boughs for them to perch upon. + + And men in desert places, men + Abandoned, broken, sick with fears, + Rose singing, swung their swords agen, + And laughed and died among the spears. + + The green and greedy seas have drowned + That city's glittering walls and towers, + Her sunken minarets are crowned + With red and russet water-flowers. + + In towers and rooms and golden courts + The shadowy coral lifts her sprays; + The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts, + The shark doth haunt her hidden ways, + + But, at the falling of the tide, + The golden birds still sing and gleam, + The Atlanteans have not died, + Immortal things still give us dream. + +{6} + + The dream that fires man's heart to make, + To build, to do, to sing or say + A beauty Death can never take, + An Adam from the crumbled clay. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 4. FALLEN CITIES + + I gathered with a careless hand, + There where the waters night and day + Are languid in the idle bay, + A little heap of golden sand; + And, as I saw it, in my sight + Awoke a vision brief and bright, + A city in a pleasant land. + + I saw no mound of earth, but fair + Turrets and domes and citadels, + With murmuring of many bells; + The spires were white in the blue air, + And men by thousands went and came, + Rapid and restless, and like flame + Blown by their passions here and there. + + With careless hand I swept away + The little mound before I knew; + The visioned city vanished too, + And fall'n beneath my fingers lay. + Ah God! how many hast Thou seen, + Cities that are not and have been, + By silent hill and idle bay! + + _Gerald Gould._ + +{7} + + 6. TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN + + Time, you old gipsy man, + Will you not stay, + Put up your caravan + Just for one day? + + All things I'll give you, + Will you be my guest, + Bells for your jennet + Of silver the best, + Goldsmiths shall beat you + A great golden ring, + Peacocks shall bow to you, + Little boys sing, + Oh, and sweet girls will + Festoon you with may, + Time, you old gipsy, + Why hasten away? + + Last week in Babylon, + Last night in Rome, + Morning, and in the crush + Under Paul's dome; + Under Paul's dial + You tighten your rein-- + Only a moment, + And off once again; + Off to some city + Now blind in the womb, + Off to another + Ere that's in the tomb. + +{8} + + Time, you old gipsy man, + Will you not stay, + Put up your caravan + Just for one day? + + _Ralph Hodgson._ + + + + + 6. A HUGUENOT + + O, a gallant set were they, + As they charged on us that day, + A thousand riding like one! + Their trumpets crying, + And their white plumes flying, + And their sabres flashing in the sun. + + O, a sorry lot were we, + As we stood beside the sea, + Each man for himself as he stood! + We were scattered and lonely-- + A little force only + Of the good men fighting for the good. + + But I never loved more + On sea or on shore + The ringing of my own true blade, + Like lightning it quivered, + And the hard helms shivered, + As I sang, "None maketh me afraid!" + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + +{9} + + 7. ON THE TOILET TABLE OF QUEEN MARIE-ANTOINETTE + + This was her table, these her trim outspread + Brushes and trays and porcelain cups for red; + Here sate she, while her women tired and curled + The most unhappy head in all the world. + + _J. B. B. Nichols._ + + + + + 8. UPON ECKINGTON BRIDGE, RIVER AVON + + O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm + Of green days telling with a quiet beat-- + O wave into the sunset flowing calm! + O tired lark descending on the wheat! + Lies it all peace beyond that western fold + Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star + Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold + Yon cloud with prophecies of linked ease-- + Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees, + To drowse beside her implements of war? + + Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept + Avon from Naseby Field to Severn Ham; + And Evesham's dedicated stones have stepp'd + Down to the dust with Montfort's oriflamme. + Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower + Abides; but yet these eloquent grooves remain, + Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour + By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes. + E'en so shall man turn back from violent hopes + To Adam's cheer, and toil with spade again. + +{10} + + Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap + Like a repentant child at length he hies, + Not in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap + Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries: + But when in winter's grave, bereft of light, + With still, small voice divinelier whispering + --Lifting the green head of the aconite, + Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot-- + She feels God's finger active at the root, + Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring. + + _Arthur Quiller-Couch._ + + + + + 8. BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS + + Sombre and rich, the skies; + Great glooms, and starry plains. + Gently the night wind sighs; + Else a vast silence reigns. + + The splendid silence clings + Around me: and around + The saddest of all kings + Crowned, and again discrowned. + + Comely and calm, he rides + Hard by his own Whitehall: + Only the night wind glides: + No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. + + Gone, too, his Court; and yet, + The stars his courtiers are: + Stars in their stations set; + And every wandering star. + +{11} + + Alone he rides, alone, + The fair and fatal king: + Dark night is all his own, + That strange and solemn thing. + + Which are more full of fate: + The stars; or those sad eyes? + Which are more still and great: + Those brows; or the dark skies? + + Although his whole heart yearn + In passionate tragedy: + Never was face so stern + With sweet austerity. + + Vanquished in life, his death + By beauty made amends: + The passing of his breath + Won his defeated ends. + + Brief life and hapless? Nay: + Through death, life grew sublime. + _Speak after sentence?_ Yea: + And to the end of time. + + Armoured he rides, his head + Bare to the stars of doom: + He triumphs now, the dead, + Beholding London's gloom. + + Our wearier spirit faints, + Vexed in the world's employ: + +{12} + + His soul was of the saints; + And art to him was joy. + + King, tried in fires of woe! + Men hunger for thy grace: + And through the night I go, + Loving thy mournful face. + + Yet when the city sleeps; + When all the cries are still: + The stars and heavenly deeps + Work out a perfect will. + + _Lionel Johnson._ + + + + + 10. TO THE FORGOTTEN DEAD + + To the forgotten dead, + Come, let us drink in silence ere we part. + To every fervent yet resolvèd heart + That brought its tameless passion and its tears, + Renunciation and laborious years, + To lay the deep foundations of our race, + To rear its stately fabric overhead + And light its pinnacles with golden grace. + To the unhonoured dead. + + To the forgotten dead, + Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein + Of Fate and hurl into the void again + Her thunder-hoofed horses, rushing blind + Earthward along the courses of the wind. + +{13} + + Among the stars, along the wind in vain + Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed, + And nothing, nothing of them doth remain. + To the thrice-perished dead. + + _Margaret L. Woods._ + + + + + 11. DRAKE'S DRUM + + Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) + Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, + An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. + Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, + Wi' sailor-lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, + An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', + He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. + + Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) + Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, + An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. + "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, + Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; + If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, + An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." + + Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) + Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, + An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. + +{14} + + Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, + Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; + Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' + They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 12. THE MOON IS UP + + The moon is up: the stars are bright + The wind is fresh and free! + We're out to seek for gold to-night + Across the silver sea! + The world was growing grey and old: + Break out the sails again! + We're out to seek a Realm of Gold + Beyond the Spanish Main. + + We're sick of all the cringing knees, + The courtly smiles and lies! + God, let Thy singing Channel breeze + Lighten our hearts and eyes! + Let love no more be bought and sold + For earthly loss or gain; + We're out to seek an Age of Gold + Beyond the Spanish Main. + + Beyond the light of far Cathay, + Beyond all mortal dreams, + Beyond the reach of night and day + Our El Dorado gleams, + +{15} + + Revealing--as the skies unfold-- + A star without a stain, + The Glory of the Gates of Gold + Beyond the Spanish Main. + + _Alfred Noyes._ + + + + + 13. MINORA SIDERA + + Sitting at times over a hearth that burns + With dull domestic glow, + My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns + To you who planned it so. + + Not of the great only you deigned to tell-- + The stars by which we steer-- + But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell + To night again, are here. + + Such as were those, dogs of an elder day, + Who sacked the golden ports, + And those later who dared grapple their prey + Beneath the harbour forts: + + Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world + To find an equal fight, + And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled + Ships of the line in flight. + + Whether their fame centuries long should ring + They cared not over-much, + But cared greatly to serve God and the king, + And keep the Nelson touch; + +{16} + + And fought to build Britain above the tide + Of wars and windy fate; + And passed content, leaving to us the pride + Of lives obscurely great. + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 14. MUSING ON A GREAT SOLDIER + + _Fear? Yes_ . . . I heard you saying + In an Oxford common-room + Where the hearth-light's kindly raying + Stript the empanelled walls of gloom, + Silver groves of candles playing + In the soft wine turned to bloom-- + At the word I see you now + Blandly push the wine-boat's prow + Round the mirror of that scored + Yellow old mahogany board-- + _I confess to one fear! this, + To be buried alive!_ + + My Lord, + Your fancy has played amiss. + + Fear not. When in farewell + While guns toll like a bell + And the bell tolls like a gun + Westminster towers call + Folk and state to your funeral, + And robed in honours won, + Beneath the cloudy pall + Of the lifted shreds of glory + +{17} + + You lie in the last stall + Of that grey dormitory-- + Fear not lest mad mischance + Should find you lapt and shrouded + Alive in helpless trance + Though seeming death-beclouded: + + For long ere so you rest + On that transcendent bier + Shall we not have addressed + One summons, one last test, + To your reluctant ear? + O believe it! we shall have uttered + In ultimate entreaty + A name your soul would hear + Howsoever thickly shuttered; + We shall have stooped and muttered + _England!_ in your cold ear. . . . + Then, if your great pulse leap + No more, nor your cheek burn, + Enough; then shall we learn + 'Tis time for us to weep. + + _Herbert Trench._ + + + + + 16. HE FELL AMONG THIEVES + + "Ye have robbed," said he, "ye have slaughtered and made an end, + Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead; + What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?" + "Blood for our blood," they said. + +{18} + + He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five, + I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: + I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." + "You shall die at dawn," said they. + + He flung his empty revolver down the slope, + He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; + All night long in a dream untroubled of hope + He brooded, clasping his knees. + + He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills + The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows; + He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, + Or the far Afghan snows. + + He saw the April noon on his books aglow, + The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; + He heard his father's voice from the terrace below + Calling him down to ride. + + He saw the gray little church across the park, + The mounds that hid the loved and honoured dead; + The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, + The brasses black and red. + + He saw the School Close, sunny and green, + The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, + The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between + His own name over all. + +{19} + + He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof, + The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; + The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, + The Dons on the daïs serene. + + He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, + He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; + He heard her passengers' voices talking of home, + He saw the flag she flew. + + And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, + And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; + He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet; + His murderers round him stood. + + Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, + The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white; + He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, + Cut by the eastern height. + + "O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, + I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." + A sword swept. + Over the pass the voices one by one + Faded, and the hill slept. + + _Henry Newbolt._ + +{20} + + 16. ENGLAND + + Shall we but turn from braggart pride + Our race to cheapen and defame? + Before the world to wail, to chide, + And weakness as with vaunting claim? + Ere the hour strikes, to abdicate + The steadfast spirit that made us great, + And rail with scolding tongues at fate? + + If England's heritage indeed + Be lost, be traded quite away + For fatted sloth and fevered greed; + If, inly rotting, we decay; + Suffer we then what doom we must, + But silent, as befits the dust + Of them whose chastisement was just. + + But rather, England, rally thou + Whatever breathes of faith that still + Within thee keeps the undying vow + And dedicates the constant will. + For such yet lives, if not among + The boasters, or the loud of tongue, + Who cry that England's knell is rung. + + The fault of heart, the small of brain, + In thee but their own image find; + Beyond such thoughts as these contain + A mightier Presence is enshrined. + Nor meaner than their birthright grown + Shall these thy latest sons be shown, + So thou but use them for thine own. + +{21} + + By those great spirits burning high + In our home's heaven, that shall be stars + To shine, when all is history + And rumour of old, idle wars; + By all those hearts which proudly bled + To make this rose of England red; + The living, the triumphant dead; + + By all who suffered and stood fast + That Freedom might the weak uphold, + And in men's ways of wreck and waste + Justice her awful flower unfold; + By all who out of grief and wrong + In passion's art of noble song + Made Beauty to our speech belong; + + By those adventurous ones who went + Forth overseas, and, self-exiled, + Sought from far isle and continent + Another England in the wild, + For whom no drums beat, yet they fought + Alone, in courage of a thought + Which an unbounded future wrought; + + Yea, and yet more by those to-day + Who toil and serve for naught of gain, + That in thy purer glory they + May melt their ardour and their pain; + By these and by the faith of these, + The faith that glorifies and frees, + Thy lands call on thee, and thy seas. + +{22} + + If thou hast sinned, shall we forsake + Thee, or the less account us thine? + Thy sores, thy shames on us we take. + Flies not for us thy famed ensign? + Be ours to cleanse and to atone; + No man this burden bears alone; + England, our best shall be thine own. + + Lift up thy cause into the light! + Put all the factious lips to shame! + Our loves, our faiths, our hopes unite + And strike into a single flame! + Whatever from without betide, + O purify the soul of pride + In us; thy slumbers cast aside; + And of thy sons be justified! + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 17. THE VOLUNTEER + + "He leapt to arms unbidden, + Unneeded, over-bold; + His face by earth is hidden, + His heart in earth is cold. + + "Curse on the reckless daring + That could not wait the call, + The proud fantastic bearing + That would be first to fall!" + +{23} + + O tears of human passion, + Blur not the image true; + This was not folly's fashion, + This was the man we knew. + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 18. MANY SISTERS TO MANY BROTHERS + + When we fought campaigns (in the long Christmas rains) + With soldiers spread in troops on the floor, + I shot as straight as you, my losses were as few, + My victories as many, or more. + And when in naval battle, amid cannon's rattle, + Fleet met fleet in the bath, + My cruisers were as trim, my battleships as grim, + My submarines cut as swift a path. + Or, when it rained too long, and the strength of the strong + Surged up and broke a way with blows, + I was as fit and keen, my fists hit as clean, + Your black eye matched my bleeding nose. + Was there a scrap or ploy in which you, the boy, + Could better me? You could not climb higher, + Ride straighter, run as quick (and to smoke made you sick) + . . . But I sit here, and you're under fire. + + Oh, it's you that have the luck, out there in blood and muck: + You were born beneath a kindly star; + +{24} + + All we dreamt, I and you, you can really go and do, + And I can't, the way things are. + In a trench you are sitting, while I am knitting + A hopeless sock that never gets done. + Well, here's luck, my dear;--and you've got it, no fear; + But for me . . . a war is poor fun. + + _Rose Macaulay._ + + + + + 19. THE DEFENDERS + + His wage of rest at nightfall still + He takes, who sixty years has known + Of ploughing over Cotsall hill + And keeping trim the Cotsall stone. + + He meditates the dusk, and sees + Folds of his wonted shepherdings + And lands of stubble and tall trees + Becoming insubstantial things. + + And does he see on Cotsall hill-- + Thrown even to the central shire-- + The funnelled shapes forbidding still + The stranger from his cottage fire? + + _John Drinkwater._ + + + + + 20. THE DEAD + + These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, + Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. + The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, + And sunset, and the colours of the earth. + +{25} + + These had seen movement, and heard music; known + Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; + Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; + Touched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is ended. + + There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter + And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, + Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance + And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white + Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, + A width, a shining peace, under the night. + + _Rupert Brooke._ + + + + + 21. THE SOLDIER + + If I should die, think only this of me: + That there's some corner of a foreign field + That is for ever England. There shall be + In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; + A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, + Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, + A body of England's, breathing English air, + Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. + + And think, this heart, all evil shed away, + A pulse in the eternal mind, no less + Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; + Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; + And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, + In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. + + _Rupert Brooke._ + +{26} + + 22. FOR THE FALLEN + + With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, + England mourns for her dead across the sea. + Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, + Fallen in the cause of the free. + + Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal + Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. + There is music in the midst of desolation + And a glory that shines upon our tears. + + They went with songs to the battle, they were young, + Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. + They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, + They fell with their faces to the foe. + + They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: + Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. + At the going down of the sun and in the morning + We will remember them. + + They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; + They sit no more at familiar tables of home; + They have no lot in our labour of the day-time: + They sleep beyond England's foam. + + But where our desires are and our hopes profound, + Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, + To the innermost heart of their own land they are known + As the stars are known to the Night; + +{27} + + As the stars that shall be bright when we are duet + Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, + As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, + To the end, to the end, they remain. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 23. SHADOWS AND LIGHTS + + What gods have met in battle to arouse + This whirling shadow of invisible things, + These hosts that writhe amid the shattered sods? + O Father, and O Mother of the gods, + Is there some trouble in the heavenly house? + We who are captained by its unseen kings + Wonder what thrones are shaken in the skies, + What powers who held dominion o'er our will + Let fall the sceptre, and what destinies + The younger gods may drive us to fulfil. + + Have they not swayed us, earth's invisible lords, + With whispers and with breathings from the dark? + The very border stones of nations mark + Where silence swallowed some wild prophet's words + That rang but for an instant and were still, + Yet were so burthened with eternity, + They maddened all who heard to work their will, + To raise the lofty temple on the hill, + And many a glittering thicket of keen swords + Flashed out to make one law for land and sea, + That earth might move with heaven in company. + +{28} + + The cities that to myriad beauty grew + Were altars raised unto old gods who died, + And they were sacrificed in ruins to + The younger gods who took their place of pride; + They have no brotherhood, the deified, + No high companionship of throne by throne, + But will their beauty still to be alone. + + What is a nation but a multitude + United by some god-begotten mood, + Some hope of liberty or dream of power + That have not with each other brotherhood + But warred in spirit from their natal hour, + Their hatred god-begotten as their love + Reverberations of eternal strife? + For all that fury breathed in human life, + Are ye not guilty, answer, ye above? + + Ah, no, the circle of the heavenly ones, + That ring of burning, grave, inflexible powers, + Array in harmony amid the deep + The shining legionaries of the suns, + That through their day from dawn to twilight keep + The peace of heaven, and have no feuds like ours. + The morning Stars their labours of the dawn + Close at the advent of the Solar Kings, + And these with joy their sceptres yield, withdrawn + When the still Evening Stars begin their reign, + And twilight time is thrilled with homing wings + To the All-Father being turned again. + +{29} + + No, not on high begin divergent ways, + The galaxies of interlinked lights + Rejoicing on each other's beauty gaze, + 'Tis we who do make errant all the rays + That stream upon us from the astral heights. + Love in our thickened air too redly burns; + And unto vanity our beauty turns; + Wisdom, that gently whispers us to part + From evil, swells to hatred in the heart. + Dark is the shadow of invisible things + On us who look not up, whose vision fails. + The glorious shining of the heavenly kings + To mould us in their image naught avails, + They weave a robe of many-coloured fire + To garb the spirits thronging in the deep, + And in the upper air its splendours keep + Pure and unsullied, but below it trails + Darkling and glimmering in our earthly mire. + + With eyes bent ever earthwards we are swayed + But by the shadows of eternal light, + And shadow against shadow is arrayed + So that one dark may dominate the night. + Though kindred are the lights that cast the shade, + We look not up, nor see how, side by side, + The high originals of all our pride + In crowned and sceptred brotherhood are throned, + Compassionate of our blindness and our hate + That own the godship but the love disowned. + Ah, let us for a little while abate + The outward roving eye, and seek within + +{30} + + Where spirit unto spirit is allied; + There, in our inmost being, we may win + The joyful vision of the heavenly wise + To see the beauty in each other's eyes. + + _A. E._ + + + + + 24. BRUMANA + + Oh shall I never never be home again! + Meadows of England shining in the rain + Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green + With briar fortify, with blossom screen + Till my far morning--and O streams that slow + And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, + For me your love and all your kingcups store, + And--dark militia of the southern shore, + Old fragrant friends--preserve me the last lines + Of that long saga which you sang me, pines, + When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree + I listened, with my eyes upon the sea. + + O traitor pines, you sang what life has found + The falsest of fair tales. + Earth blew a far-horn prelude all around, + That native music of her forest home, + While from the sea's blue fields and syren dales + Shadows and light noon spectres of the foam + Riding the summer gales + On aery viols plucked an idle sound. + + Hearing you sing, O trees, + Hearing you murmur, "There are older seas, + That beat on vaster sands, + +{31} + + Where the wise snailfish move their pearly towers + To carven rocks and sculptured promont'ries," + Hearing you whisper, "Lands + Where blaze the unimaginable flowers." + + Beneath me in the valley waves the palm, + Beneath, beyond the valley, breaks the sea; + Beneath me sleep in mist and light and calm + Cities of Lebanon, dream-shadow-dim, + Where Kings of Tyre and Kings of Tyre did rule + In ancient days in endless dynasty, + And all around the snowy mountains swim + Like mighty swans, afloat in heaven's pool. + + But I will walk upon the wooded hill + Where stands a grove, O pines, of sister pines, + And when the downy twilight droops her wing + And no sea glimmers and no mountain shines + My heart shall listen still. + For pines are gossip pines the wide world through + And full of runic tales to sigh or sing. + 'Tis ever sweet through pines to see the sky + Blushing a deeper gold or darker blue. + 'Tis ever sweet to lie + On the dry carpet of the needles brown, + And though the fanciful green lizard stir + And windy odours light as thistledown + Breathe from the lavdanon and lavender, + Half to forget the wandering and pain, + Half to remember days that have gone by, + And dream and dream that I am home again! + + _James Elroy Flecker._ + +{32} + + 25. A LYKE-WAKE CAROL + + Grow old and die, rich Day, + Over some English field-- + Chartered to come away + What time to Death you yield! + Pass, frost-white ghost, and then + Come forth to banish'd men! + + I see the stubble's sheen, + The mist and ruddled leaves, + Here where the new Spring's green + For her first rain-drops grieves. + Here beechen leaves drift red + Last week in England dead. + + For English eyes' delight + Those Autumn ghosts go free-- + Ghost of the field hoar-white, + Ghost of the crimson tree. + Grudge them not, England dear, + To us thy banished here! + + _Arthur Shearly Cripps._ + + + + + 26. A REFRAIN + + Tell the tune his feet beat + On the ground all day-- + Black-burnt ground and green grass + Seamed with rocks of grey-- + "England," "England," "England," + That one word they say. + +{33} + + Now they tread the beech-mast, + Now the ploughland's clay, + Now the faery ball-floor of her fields in May. + Now her red June sorrel, now her new-turned hay, + Now they keep the great road, now by sheep-path stray, + Still it's "England," "England," + "England" all the way! + + _Arthur Shearly Cripps._ + + + + + 27. WHERE A ROMAN VILLA STOOD, ABOVE FREIBURG + + On alien ground, breathing an alien air, + A Roman stood, far from his ancient home, + And gazing, murmured, "Ah, the hills are fair, + But not the hills of Rome!" + + Descendant of a race to Romans-kin, + Where the old son of Empire stood, I stand. + The self-same rocks fold the same valley in, + Untouched of human hand. + + Over another shines the self-same star, + Another heart with nameless longing fills, + Crying aloud, "How beautiful they are, + But not our English hills!" + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + +{34} + + 28. HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS + + He walked in glory on the hills; + We dalesmen envied from afar + The heights and rose-lit pinnacles + Which placed him nigh the evening star. + + Upon the peaks they found him dead; + And now we wonder if he sighed + For our low grass beneath his head, + For our rude huts, before he died. + + _William Canton._ + + + + + 29. IN THE HIGHLANDS + + In the highlands, in the country places, + Where the old plain men have rosy faces, + And the young fair maidens + Quiet eyes; + Where essential silence cheers and blesses, + And for ever in the hill-recesses + _Her_ more lovely music + Broods and dies. + + O to mount again where erst I haunted; + Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, + And the low green meadows + Bright with sward; + And when even dies, the million-tinted, + And the night has come, and planets glinted, + Lo, the valley hollow + Lamp-bestarred! + +{35} + + O to dream, O to awake and wander + There, and with delight to take and render, + Through the trance of silence, + Quiet breath; + Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, + Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; + Only winds and rivers, + Life and death. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 30. IN CITY STREETS + + Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping, + Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; + Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, + And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. + + Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, + (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) + Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, + Homeless in the City, poor among the poor! + + London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting + 'Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! + London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting-- + God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run! + + Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, + Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! + Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing + Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells. + + _Ada Smith._ + +{36} + + 31. MARGARET'S SONG + + Too soothe and mild your lowland airs + For one whose hope is gone: + I'm thinking of a little tarn, + Brown, very lone. + + Would now the tall swift mists could lay + Their wet grasp on my hair, + And the great natures of the hills + Round me friendly were. + + In vain!--For taking hills your plains + Have spoilt my soul, I think, + But would my feet were going down + Towards the brown tarn's brink. + + _Lascelles Abercrombie._ + + + + + 82. TO S. R. CROCKETT + + Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, + Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, + Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, + My heart remembers how! + + Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, + Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, + Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, + And winds, austere and pure: + +{37} + + Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, + Hills of home! and to hear again the call; + Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, + And hear no more at all. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 33. CHILLINGHAM + + I + + Through the sunny garden + The humming bees are still; + The fir climbs the heather, + The heather climbs the hill. + + The low clouds have riven + A little rift through. + The hill climbs to heaven, + Far away and blue. + + + II + + O the high valley, the little low hill, + And the cornfield over the sea, + The wind that rages and then lies still, + And the clouds that rest and flee! + + O the gray island in the rainbow haze, + And the long thin spits of land, + The roughening pastures and the stony ways, + And the golden flash of the sand! + +{38} + + O the red heather on the moss-wrought rock, + And the fir-tree stiff and straight, + The shaggy old sheep-dog barking at the flock, + And the rotten old five-barred gate! + + O the brown bracken, the blackberry bough, + The scent of the gorse in the air! + I shall love them ever as I love them now, + I shall weary in Heaven to be there! + + + III + + Strike, Life, a happy hour, and let me live + But in that grace! + I shall have gathered all the world can give, + Unending Time and Space! + + Bring light and air--the thin and shining air + Of the North land, + The light that falls on tower and garden there, + Close to the gold sea-sand. + + Bring flowers, the latest colours of the earth, + Ere nun-like frost + Lay her hard hand upon this rainbow mirth, + With twinkling emerald crossed. + + The white star of the traveller's joy, the deep + Empurpled rays that hide the smoky stone, + The dahlia rooted in Egyptian sleep, + The last frail rose alone. + +{39} + + Let music whisper from a casement set + By them of old, + Where the light smell of lavender may yet + Rise from the soft loose mould. + + Then shall I know, with eyes and ears awake, + Not in bright gleams, + The joy my Heavenly Father joys to make + For men who grieve, in dreams! + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + + + + + 34. SUSSEX + + God gave all men all earth to love, + But since our hearts are small, + Ordained for each one spot should prove + Beloved over all; + That as He watched Creation's birth + So we, in godlike mood, + May of our love create our earth + And see that it is good. + + So one shall Baltic pines content, + As one some Surrey glade, + Or one the palm-grove's droned lament + Before Levuka's trade. + Each to his choice, and I rejoice + The lot has fallen to me + In a fair ground--in a fair ground-- + Yea, Sussex by the sea! + +{40} + + No tender-hearted garden crowns, + No bosomed woods adorn + Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs, + But gnarled and writhen thorn-- + Bare slopes where chasing shadows skim, + And through the gaps revealed + Belt upon belt, the wooded, dim + Blue goodness of the Weald. + + Clean of officious fence or hedge, + Half-wild and wholly tame, + The wise turf cloaks the white cliff edge + As when the Romans came. + What sign of those that fought and died + At shift of sword and sword? + The barrow and the camp abide, + The sunlight and the sward. + + Here leaps ashore the full Sou'west + All heavy-winged with brine, + Here lies above the folded crest + The Channel's leaden line; + And here the sea-fogs lap and cling, + And here, each warning each, + The sheep-bells and the ship-bells ring + Along the hidden beach. + + We have no waters to delight + Our broad and brookless vales-- + Only the dewpond on the height + Unfed, that never fails, + +{41} + + Whereby no tattered herbage tells + Which way the season flies-- + Only our close-bit thyme that smells + Like dawn in Paradise. + + Here through the strong unhampered days + The tinkling silence thrills; + Or little, lost. Down churches praise + The Lord who made the hills; + But here the Old Gods guard their round, + And, in her secret heart, + The heathen kingdom Wilfrid found + Dreams, as she dwells, apart. + + Though all the rest were all my share, + With equal soul I'd see + Her nine-and-thirty sisters fair, + Yet none more fair than she. + Choose ye your need from Thames to Tweed, + And I will choose instead + Such lands as lie 'twixt Rake and Rye, + Black Down and Beachy Head. + + I will go out against the sun + Where the rolled scarp retires, + And the Long Man of Wilmington + Looks naked toward the shires; + And east till doubling Rother crawls + To find the fickle tide, + By dry and sea-forgotten walls, + Our ports of stranded pride. + +{42} + + I will go north about the shaws + And the deep ghylls that breed + Huge oaks and old, the which we hold + No more than "Sussex weed"; + Or south where windy Piddinghoe's + Begilded dolphin veers, + And black beside wide-banked Ouse + Lie down our Sussex steers. + + So to the land our hearts we give + Till the sure magic strike, + And Memory, Use, and Love make live + Us and our fields alike-- + That deeper than our speech and thought, + Beyond our reason's sway, + Clay of the pit whence we were wrought + Yearns to its fellow-clay. + + God gives all men all earth to love, + But since man's heart is small + Ordains for each one spot shall prove + Beloved over all. + Each to his choice, and I rejoice + The lot has fallen to me + In a fair ground--in a fair ground-- + Yea, Sussex by the sea! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + +{43} + + 35. THE SOUTH COUNTRY + + When I am living in the Midlands, + That are sodden and unkind, + I light my lamp in the evening: + My work is left behind; + And the great hills of the South Country + Come back into my mind. + + The great hills of the South Country + They stand along the sea, + And it's there, walking in the high woods, + That I could wish to be, + And the men that were boys when I was a boy + Walking along with me. + + The men that live in North England + I saw them for a day: + Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, + Their skies are fast and grey; + From their castle-walls a man may see + The mountains far away. + + The men that live in West England + They see the Severn strong, + A-rolling on rough water brown + Light aspen leaves along. + They have the secret of the Rocks, + And the oldest kind of song. + + But the men that live in the South Country + Are the kindest and most wise, + They get their laughter from the loud surf, + And the faith in their happy eyes + +{44} + + Comes surely from our Sister the Spring + When over the sea she flies; + The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, + She blesses us with surprise. + + I never get between the pines + But I smell the Sussex air; + Nor I never come on a belt of sand + But my home is there. + And along the sky the line of the Downs + So noble and so bare. + + A lost thing could I never find, + Nor a broken thing mend: + And I fear I shall be all alone + When I get towards the end. + Who will there be to comfort me + Or who will be my friend? + + I will gather and carefully make my friends + Of the men of the Sussex Weald, + They watch the stars from silent folds, + They stiffly plough the field. + By them and the God of the South Country + My poor soul shall be healed. + + If I ever become a rich man, + Or if ever I grow to be old, + I will build a house with deep thatch + To shelter me from the cold, + And there shall the Sussex songs be sung + And the story of Sussex told. + +{45} + + I will hold my house in the high wood, + Within a walk of the sea, + And the men that were boys when I was a boy + Shall sit and drink with me. + + _Hilaire Belloc._ + + + + + 36. CHANCLEBURY RING + + Say what you will, there is not in the world + A nobler sight than from this upper down. + No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled + From its Creator's hand as with a frown; + But a green plain on which green hills look down + Trim as a garden plot. No other hue + Can hence be seen, save here and there the brown + Of a square fallow, and the horizon's blue. + Dear checker-work of woods, the Sussex weald. + If a name thrills me yet of things of earth, + That name is thine! How often I have fled + To thy deep hedgerows and embraced each field, + Each lag, each pasture,--fields which gave me birth + And saw my youth, and which must hold me dead. + + _Wilfrid Blunt._ + + + + + 87. IN ROMNEY MARSH + + As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, + I heard the South sing o'er the land; + I saw the yellow sunlight fall + On knolls where Norman churches stand. + +{46} + + And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, + Within the wind a core of sound, + The wire from Romney town to Hythe + Alone its airy journey wound. + + A veil of purple vapour flowed + And trailed its fringe along the Straits; + The upper air like sapphire glowed; + And roses filled Heaven's central gates. + + Masts in the offing wagged their tops; + The swinging waves pealed on the shore; + The saffron beach, all diamond drops + And beads of surge, prolonged the roar. + + As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, + I saw above the Down's low crest + The crimson brands of sunset fall, + Flicker and fade from out the west. + + Night sank: like flakes of silver fire + The stars in one great shower came down; + Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire + Rang out from Hythe to Romney town. + + The darkly shining salt sea drops + Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; + The beach, with all its organ stops + Pealing again, prolonged the roar. + + _John Davidson._ + +{47} + + 38. A CINQUE PORT + + Below the down the stranded town + What may betide forlornly waits, + With memories of smoky skies, + When Gallic navies crossed the straits; + When waves with fire and blood grew bright, + And cannon thundered through the night. + + With swinging stride the rhythmic tide + Bore to the harbour barque and sloop; + Across the bar the ship of war, + In castled stern and lanterned poop, + Came up with conquests on her lee, + The stately mistress of the sea. + + Where argosies have wooed the breeze, + The simple sheep are feeding now; + And near and far across the bar + The ploughman whistles at the plough; + Where once the long waves washed the shore, + Larks from their lowly lodgings soar. + + Below the down the stranded town + Hears far away the rollers beat; + About the wall the seabirds call; + The salt wind murmurs through the street; + Forlorn the sea's forsaken bride + Awaits the end that shall betide. + + _John Davidson._ + +{48} + + 39. ESSEX + + I go through the fields of blue water + On the South road of the sea. + High to North the East-Country + Holds her green fields to me-- + For she that I gave over, + Gives not over me. + + Last night I lay at Good Easter + Under a hedge I knew, + Last night beyond High Easter + I trod the May-floors blue-- + Tilt from the sea the sun came + Bidding me wake and rue. + + Roding (that names eight churches)-- + Banks with the paigles dight-- + Chelmer whose mill and willows + Keep one red tower in sight-- + Under the Southern Cross run + Beside the ship to-night. + + Ah! I may not seek back now, + Neither be turned nor stayed. + Yet should I live, I'd seek her, + Once that my vows are paid! + And should I die I'd haunt her-- + I being what God made! + + England has greater counties-- + Their peace to hers is small. + +{49} + + Low hills, rich fields, calm rivers, + In Essex seek them all,-- + Essex, where I that found them + Found to lose them all! + + _Arthur Shearly Cripps._ + + + + + 40. A TOWN WINDOW + + Beyond my window in the night + Is but a drab inglorious street, + Yet there the frost and clean starlight + As over Warwick woods are sweet. + + Under the grey drift of the town + The crocus works among the mould + As eagerly as those that crown + The Warwick spring in flame and gold. + + And when the tramway down the hill + Across the cobbles moans and rings, + There is about my window-sill + The tumult of a thousand wings. + + _John Drinkwater._ + + + + + 41. MAMBLE + + I never went to Mamble + That lies above the Teme, + So I wonder who's in Mamble, + And whether people seem + Who breed and brew along there + As lazy as the name, + And whether any song there + Sets alehouse wits aflame. + +{50} + + The finger-post says Mamble, + And that is all I know + Of the narrow road to Mamble, + And should I turn and go + To that place of lazy token, + That lies above the Teme, + There might be a Mamble broken + That was lissom in a dream. + + So leave the road to Mamble + And take another road + To as good a place as Mamble + Be it lazy as a toad; + Who travels Worcester county + Takes any place that comes + When April tosses bounty + To the cherries and the plums. + + _John Drinkwater._ + + + + + 42. PLYMOUTH HARBOUR + + Oh, what know they of harbours + Who toss not on the sea! + They tell of fairer havens, + But none so fair there be + + As Plymouth town outstretching + Her quiet arms to me; + Her breast's broad welcome spreading + From Mewstone to Penlee. + +{51} + + Ah, with this home-thought, darling, + Come crowding thoughts of thee. + Oh, what know they of harbours + Who toss not on the sea! + + _Ernest Radford._ + + + + + 43. OXFORD + + I came to Oxford in the light + Of a spring-coloured afternoon; + Some clouds were grey and some were white, + And all were blown to such a tune + Of quiet rapture in the sky, + I laughed to see them laughing by. + + I had been dreaming in the train + With thoughts at random from my book; + I looked, and read, and looked again, + And suddenly to greet my look + Oxford shone up with every tower + Aspiring sweetly like a flower. + + Home turn the feet of men that seek, + And home the hearts of children turn, + And none can teach the hour to speak + What every hour is free to learn; + And all discover, late or soon, + Their golden Oxford afternoon. + + _Gerald Gould._ + +{52} + + 44. ALMA MATER + + Know you her secret none can utter? + Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown? + Still on the spire the pigeons flutter, + Still by the gateway flits the gown; + Still on the street, from corbel and gutter, + Faces of stone look down. + + Faces of stone, and stonier faces-- + Some from library windows wan + Forth on her gardens, her green spaces, + Peer and turn to their books anon. + Hence, my Muse, from the green oases + Gather the tent, begone! + + Nay, should she by the pavement linger + Under the rooms where once she played, + Who from the feast would rise to fling her + One poor _sou_ for her serenade? + One short laugh for the antic finger + Thrumming a lute-string frayed? + + Once, my dear--but the world was young then-- + Magdalen elms and Trinity limes-- + Lissom the blades and the backs that swung then, + Eight good men in the good old times-- + Careless we, and the chorus flung then + Under St. Mary's chimes! + + Reins lay loose and the ways led random-- + Christ Church meadow and Iffley track, + +{53} + + "Idleness horrid and dog-cart" (tandem), + Aylesbury grind and Bicester pack-- + Pleasant our lines, and faith! we scanned 'em; + Having that artless knack. + + Come, old limmer, the times grow colder; + Leaves of the creeper redden and fall. + Was it a hand then clapped my shoulder?-- + Only the wind by the chapel wall! + Dead leaves drift on the lute . . . So fold her + Under the faded shawl. + + Never we wince, though none deplore us, + We who go reaping that we sowed; + Cities at cockcrow wake before us-- + Hey, for the lilt of the London road! + One look back, and a rousing chorus! + Never a palinode! + + Still on her spire the pigeons hover; + Still by her gateway haunts the gown. + Ah, but her secret? You, young lover, + Drumming her old ones forth from town, + Know you the secret none discover? + Tell it--when _you_ go down. + + Yet if at length you seek her, prove her, + Lean to her whispers never so nigh; + Yet if at last not less her lover + You in your hansom leave the High; + Down from her towers a ray shall hover-- + Touch you, a passer-by. + + _Arthur Quiller-Couch._ + +{54} + + 45. FROM "DEDICATORY ODE" + + I will not try the reach again, + I will not set my sail alone, + To moor a boat bereft of men + At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone. + + But I will sit beside the fire, + And put my hand before my eyes, + And trace, to fill my heart's desire, + The last of all our Odysseys. + + The quiet evening kept her tryst: + Beneath an open sky we rode, + And passed into a wandering mist + Along the perfect Evenlode. + + The tender Evenlode that makes + Her meadows hush to hear the sound + Of waters mingling in the brakes, + And binds my heart to English ground. + + A lovely river, all alone, + She lingers in the hills and holds + A hundred little towns of stone, + Forgotten in the western wolds. + + _Hilaire Belloc._ + + + + + 46. THE DEVOURERS + + Cambridge town is a beleaguered city; + For south and north, like a sea, + There beat on its gates, without haste or pity, + The downs and the fen country. + +{55} + + Cambridge towers, so old, so wise, + They were builded but yesterday, + Watched by sleepy gray secret eyes + That smiled as at children's play. + + Roads south of Cambridge run into the waste, + Where learning and lamps are not, + And the pale downs tumble, blind, chalk-faced, + And the brooding churches squat. + + Roads north of Cambridge march through a plain + Level like the traitor sea. + It will swallow its ships, and turn and smile again-- + The insatiable fen country. + + Lest the downs and the fens should eat Cambridge up, + And its towers be tossed and thrown, + And its rich wine drunk from its broken cup, + And its beauty no more known-- + + Let us come, you and I, where the roads run blind, + Out beyond the transient city, + That our love, mingling with earth, may find + Her imperishable heart of pity. + + _Rose Macaulay._ + + + + + 47. THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER + + _Café des Westens, Berlin_ + + Just now the lilac is in bloom, + All before my little room; + And in my flower-beds, I think, + +{56} + + Smile the carnation and the pink; + And down the borders, well I know, + The poppy and the pansy blow . . . + Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through, + Beside the river make for you + A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep + Deeply above; and green and deep + The stream mysterious glides beneath, + Green as a dream and deep as death.-- + Oh, damn! I know it! and I know + How the May fields all golden show, + And when the day is young and sweet, + Gild gloriously the bare feet + That run to bathe . . . + _Du lieber Gott!_ + + Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot, + And there the shadowed waters fresh + Lean up to embrace the naked flesh. + _Temperamentvoll_ German Jews + Drink beer around; and _there_ the dews + Are soft beneath a morn of gold. + Here tulips bloom as they are told; + Unkempt about those hedges blows + An English unofficial rose; + And there the unregulated sun + Slopes down to rest when day is done, + And wakes a vague unpunctual star, + A slippered Hesper; and there are + Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton + Where _das Betreten's_ not _verboten_ . . . + +{57} + + _Eithe genoimên_ . . . would I were + In Grantchester, in Grantchester!-- + Some, it may be, can get in touch + With Nature there, or Earth, or such. + And clever modern men have seen + A Faun a-peeping through the green, + And felt the Classics were not dead, + To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head, + Or hear the Goat-foot piping low . . . + But these are things I do not know. + I only know that you may lie + Day long and watch the Cambridge sky, + And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass, + Hear the cool lapse of hours pass, + Until the centuries blend and blur + In Grantchester, in Grantchester . . . + Still in the dawnlit waters cool + His ghostly Lordship swims his pool, + And tries the strokes, essays the tricks, + Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx; + Dan Chaucer hears his river still + Chatter beneath a phantom mill; + Tennyson notes, with studious eye, + How Cambridge waters hurry by . . . + And in that garden, black and white + Creep whispers through the grass all night; + And spectral dance, before the dawn, + A hundred Vicars down the lawn; + Curates, long dust, will come and go + On lissom, clerical, printless toe; + And oft between the boughs is seen + +{58} + + The sly shade of a Rural Dean . . . + Till, at a shiver in the skies, + Vanishing with Satanic cries, + The prim ecclesiastic rout + Leaves but a startled sleeper-out, + Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls, + The falling house that never falls. + + God! I will pack, and take a train, + And get me to England once again! + For England's the one land, I know, + Where men with Splendid Hearts may go; + And Cambridgeshire, of all England, + The shire for Men who Understand; + And of _that_ district I prefer + The lovely hamlet Grantchester. + For Cambridge people rarely smile, + Being urban, squat, and packed with guile; + And Royston men in the far South + Are black and fierce and strange of mouth; + At Over they fling oaths at one, + And worse than oaths at Trumpington, + And Ditton girls are mean and dirty, + And there's none in Harston under thirty, + And folks in Shelford and those parts, + Have twisted lips and twisted hearts, + And Barton men make cockney rhymes, + And Coton's full of nameless crimes, + And things are done you'd not believe + At Madingley on Christmas Eve. + Strong men have run for miles and miles + +{59} + + When one from Cherry Hinton smiles; + Strong men have blanched and shot their wives + Rather than send them to St. Ives; + Strong men have cried like babes, bydam, + To hear what happened at Babraham. + But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester! + There's peace and holy quiet there, + Great clouds along pacific skies, + And men and women with straight eyes, + Lithe children lovelier than a dream, + A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream, + And little kindly winds that creep + Round twilight corners, half asleep. + In Grantchester their skins are white, + They bathe by day, they bathe by night; + The women there do all they ought; + The men observe the Rules of Thought. + They love the Good; they worship Truth; + They laugh uproariously in youth; + (And when they get to feeling old, + They up and shoot themselves, I'm told) . . . + + Ah God! to see the branches stir + Across the moon at Grantchester! + To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten, + Unforgettable, unforgotten + River smell, and hear the breeze + Sobbing in the little trees. + Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand, + Still guardians of that holy land? + The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream, + +{60} + + The yet unacademic stream? + Is dawn a secret shy and cold + Anadyomene, silver-gold? + And sunset still a golden sea + From Haslingfield to Madingley? + And after, ere the night is born, + Do hares come out about the corn? + Oh, is the water sweet and cool + Gentle and brown, above the pool? + And laughs the immortal river still + Under the mill, under the mill? + Say, is there Beauty yet to find? + And Certainty? and Quiet kind? + Deep meadows yet, for to forget + The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet + Stands the Church clock at ten to three? + And is there honey still for tea? + + _Rupert Brooke._ + + + + + 48. DAYS THAT HAVE BEEN + + Can I forget the sweet days that have been, + When poetry first began to warm my blood; + When from the hills of Gwent I saw the earth + Burned into two by Severn's silver flood: + + When I would go alone at night to see + The moonlight, like a big white butterfly, + Dreaming on that old castle near Caerleon, + While at its side the Usk went softly by: + +{61} + + When I would stare at lovely clouds in Heaven, + Or watch them when reported by deep streams; + When feeling pressed like thunder, but would not + Break into that grand music of my dreams? + + Can I forget the sweet days that have been, + The villages so green I have been in; + Llantarnam, Magor, Malpas, and Llanwern, + Liswery, old Caerleon, and Alteryn? + + Can I forget the banks of Malpas Brook, + Or Ebbw's voice in such a wild delight, + As on he dashed with pebbles in his throat, + Gurgling towards the sea with all his might? + + Ah, when I see a leafy village now + I sigh and ask it for Llantarnam's green; + I ask each river where is Ebbw's voice-- + In memory of the sweet days that have been. + + _William H. Davies._ + + + + + 49. THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE + + I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, + And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; + Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, + And live alone in the bee-loud glade. + +{62} + + And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, + Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; + There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, + And evening full of the linnet's wings. + + I will arise and go now, for always night and day + I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; + While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, + I hear it in the deep heart's core. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 60. THE FLOWERS + + _Buy English posies! + Kent and Surrey may-- + Violets of the Undercliff + Wet with Channel spray; + Cowslips from a Devon combe-- + Midland furze afire-- + Buy my English posies, + And I'll sell your heart's desire!_ + + Buy my English posies! + You that scorn the may, + Won't you greet a friend from home + Half the world away? + +{63} + + Green against the draggled drift, + Faint and frail and first-- + Buy my Northern blood-root + And I'll know where you were nursed; + + Robin down the logging-road whistles, "Come to me!" + Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free; + All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain. + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again! + + Buy my English posies! + Here's to match your need-- + Buy a tuft of royal heath, + Buy a bunch of weed + White as sand of Muysenberg + Spun before the gale-- + Buy my heath and lilies + And I'll tell you whence you hail! + + Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie-- + Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky-- + Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain-- + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again. + + Buy my English posies! + You that will not turn-- + Buy my hot-wood clematis + Buy a frond o' fern + +{64} + + Gather'd where the Erskine leaps + Down the road to Lorne-- + Buy my Christmas creeper + And I'll say where you were born! + + West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin-- + They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn-- + Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main-- + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again. + + Buy my English posies! + Here's your choice unsold! + Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom, + Buy the kowhai's gold + Flung for gift on Taupo's face, + Sign that spring is come-- + Buy my clinging myrtle + And I'll give you back your home! + + Broom behind the windy town; pollen o' the pine-- + Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the _ratas_ twine-- + Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain-- + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again. + + Buy my English posies! + Ye that have your own + Buy them for a brother's sake + Overseas, alone. + +{65} + + Weed ye trample underfoot + Floods his heart abrim-- + Bird ye never heeded, + O, she calls his dead to him. + + Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas; + Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these! + Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land-- + Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand. + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + + 61. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL + + _A naked house, a naked moor, + A shivering pool before the door, + A garden bare of flowers and fruit + And poplars at the garden foot. + Such is the place that I live in, + Bleak without and bare within._ + + Yet shall your ragged moor receive + The incomparable pomp of eve, + And the cold glories of the dawn + Behind your shivering trees be drawn; + And when the wind from place to place + Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase, + Your garden gloom and gleam again, + With leaping sun, with glancing rain. + Here shall the wizard moon ascend + The heavens, in the crimson end + +{66} + + Of day's declining splendour; here + The army of the stars appear. + The neighbour hollows dry or wet, + Spring shall with tender flowers beset; + And oft the morning muser see + Larks rising from the broomy lea, + And every fairy wheel and thread + Of cobweb dew-bediamonded. + When daisies go, shall winter time + Silver the simple grass with rime; + Autumnal frosts enchant the pool + And make the cart-ruts beautiful; + And when snow-bright the moor expands, + How shall your children clap their hands! + To make this earth our hermitage, + A cheerful and a changeful page, + God's bright and intricate device + Of days and seasons doth suffice. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 52. THE OLD LOVE + + Out of my door I step into + The country, all her scent and dew, + Nor travel there by a hard road, + Dusty and far from my abode. + + The country washes to my door + Green miles on miles in soft uproar, + The thunder of the woods, and then + The backwash of green surf again. + +{67} + + Beyond the feverfew and stocks, + The guelder-rose and hollyhocks; + Outside my trellised porch a tree + Of lilac frames a sky for me. + + A stretch of primrose and pale green + To hold the tender Hesper in; + Hesper that by the moon makes pale + Her silver keel and silver sail. + + The country silence wraps me quite, + Silence and song and pure delight; + The country beckons all the day + Smiling, and but a step away. + + This is that country seen across + How many a league of love and loss, + Prayed for and longed for, and as far + As fountains in the desert are. + + This is that country at my door, + Whose fragrant airs run on before, + And call me when the first birds stir + In the green wood to walk with her. + + _Katharine Tynan._ + + + + + 53. EARLY MORN + + When I did wake this morn from sleep, + It seemed I heard birds in a dream; + Then I arose to take the air-- + The lovely air that made birds scream; + Just as a green hill launched the ship + Of gold, to take its first clear dip. + +{68} + + And it began its journey then, + As I came forth to take the air; + The timid Stars had vanished quite, + The Moon was dying with a stare; + Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen, + As still as pictures, in fields green. + + It seemed as though I had surprised + And trespassed in a golden world + That should have passed while men still slept! + The joyful birds, the ship of gold, + The horses, kine, and sheep did seem + As they would vanish for a dream. + + _William H. Davies._ + + + + + 64. THE HILL PINES WERE SIGHING + + The hill pines were sighing, + O'ercast and chill was the day: + A mist in the valley lying + Blotted the pleasant May. + + But deep in the glen's bosom + Summer slept in the fire + Of the odorous gorse-blossom + And the hot scent of the brier. + + A ribald cuckoo clamoured, + And out of the copse the stroke + Of the iron axe that hammered + The iron heart of the oak. + +{69} + + Anon a sound appalling, + As a hundred years of pride + Crashed, in the silence falling; + And the shadowy pine-trees sighed. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 55. THE CHOICE + + When skies are blue and days are bright + A kitchen-garden's my delight, + Set round with rows of decent box + And blowsy girls of hollyhocks. + + Before the lark his Lauds hath done + And ere the corncrake's southward gone; + Before the thrush good-night hath said + And the young Summer's put to bed. + + The currant-bushes' spicy smell, + Homely and honest, likes me well, + The while on strawberries I feast, + And raspberries the sun hath kissed. + + Beans all a-blowing by a row. + Of hives that great with honey go, + With mignonette and heaths to yield + The plundering bee his honey-field. + + Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage + And the delicious mint and sage, + Rosemary, marjoram, and rue, + And thyme to scent the winter through. + +{70} + + Here are small apples growing round, + And apricots all golden-gowned, + And plums that presently will flush + And show their bush a Burning Bush. + + Cherries in nets against the wall, + Where Master Thrush his madrigal + Sings, and makes oath a churl is he + Who grudges cherries for a fee. + + Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here + Shall Beauty make her pomander, + Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes + That wrap her as the leaves the rose. + + Take roses red and lilies white, + A kitchen garden's my delight; + Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves, + And its tall cote of irised doves. + + _Katharine Tynan._ + + + + + 56. THERE IS A HILL + + There is a hill beside the silver Thames, + Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine + And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems + Steeply the thickets to his floods decline. + Straight trees in every place + Their thick tops interlace, + And pendent branches trail their foliage fine + Upon his watery face. + +{71} + + Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows: + His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade, + Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes + Straight to the caverned pool his toil has made. + His winter floods lay bare + The stout roots in the air: + His summer streams are cool, when they have played + Among their fibrous hair. + + A rushy island guards the sacred bower, + And hides it from the meadow, where in peace + The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, + Robbing the golden market of the bees: + And laden barges float + By banks of myosote; + And scented flag and golden flower-de-lys + Delay the loitering boat. + + And on this side the island, where the pool + Eddies away, are tangled mass on mass + The water-weeds, that net the fishes cool, + And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass; + Where spreading crowfoot mars + The drowning nenuphars, + Waving the tassels of her silken grass + Below her silver stars. + + But in the purple pool there nothing grows, + Not the white water-lily spoked with gold; + +{72} + + Though best she loves the hollows, and well knows + On quiet streams her broad shields to unfold: + Yet should her roots but try + Within these deeps to lie, + Not her long-reaching stalk could ever hold + Her waxen head so high. + + Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook + Within its hidden depths, and 'gainst a tree + Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book, + Forgetting soon his pride of fishery; + And dreams, or falls asleep, + While curious fishes peep + About his nibbled bait, or scornfully + Dart off and rise and leap. + + And sometimes a slow figure 'neath the trees, + In ancient-fashioned smock, with tottering care + Upon a staff propping his weary knees. + May by the pathway of the forest fare: + As from a buried day + Across the mind will stray + Some perishing mute shadow,--and unaware + He passeth on his way. + + Else, he that wishes solitude is safe, + Whether he bathe at morning in the stream: + Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafe + The meadows, busy with a blurring steam; + Or watch, as fades the light, + The gibbous moon grow bright, + Until her magic rays dance in a dream, + And glorify the night. + +{73} + + Where is this bower beside the silver Thames? + O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow! + O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems, + No sharer of my secret I allow: + Lest ere I come the while + Strange feet your shades defile; + Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow + Within your guardian isle. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 57. BAB-LOCK-HYTHE + + In the time of wild roses + As up Thames we travelled + Where 'mid water-weeds ravelled + The lily uncloses, + + To his old shores the river + A new song was singing, + And young shoots were springing + On old roots for ever. + + Dog-daisies were dancing, + And flags flamed in cluster, + On the dark stream a lustre + Now blurred and now glancing. + + A tall reed down-weighing + The sedge-warbler fluttered; + One sweet note he uttered, + Then left it soft-swaying. + +{74} + + By the bank's sandy hollow + My dipt oars went beating, + And past our bows fleeting + Blue-backed shone the swallow. + + High woods, heron-haunted, + Rose, changed, as we rounded + Old hills greenly mounded, + To meadows enchanted. + + A dream ever moulded + Afresh for our wonder, + Still opening asunder + For the stream many-folded; + + Till sunset was rimming + The West with pale flushes; + Behind the black rushes + The last light was dimming; + + And the lonely stream, hiding + Shy birds, grew more lonely, + And with us was only + The noise of our gliding. + + In cloud of gray weather + The evening o'erdarkened, + In the stillness we hearkened; + Our hearts sang together. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + +{75} + + 58. ROWER'S CHANT + + Row till the land dip 'neath + The sea from view. + Row till a land peep up, + A home for you. + + Row till the mast sing songs + Welcome and sweet. + Row till the waves, out-stripped, + Give up dead beat. + + Row till the sea-nymphs rise + To ask you why + Rowing you tarry not + To hear them sigh. + + Row till the stars grow bright + Like certain eyes. + Row till the noon be high + As hopes you prize. + + Row till you harbour in + All longing's port. + Row till you find all things + For which you sought. + + _T. Sturge Moore._ + + + + + 59. FAREWELL + + Not soon shall I forget--a sheet + Of golden water, cold and sweet, + The young moon with her head in veils + Of silver, and the nightingales. + +{76} + + A wain of hay came up the lane-- + O fields I shall not walk again, + And trees I shall not see, so still + Against a sky of daffodil! + + Fields where my happy heart had rest, + And where my heart was heaviest, + I shall remember them at peace + Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece. + + The golden water sweet and cold, + The moon of silver and of gold, + The dew upon the gray grass-spears, + I shall remember them with tears. + + _Katharine Tynan._ + + + + + 60. A SHIP, AN ISLE, A SICKLE MOON + + A ship, an isle, a sickle moon-- + With few but with how splendid stars + The mirrors of the sea are strewn + Between their silver bars! + + * * * * * * + + An isle beside an isle she lay, + The pale ship anchored in the bay, + While in the young moon's port of gold + A star-ship--as the mirrors told-- + Put forth its great and lonely light + To the unreflecting Ocean, Night. + +{77} + + And still, a ship upon her seas, + The isle and the island cypresses + Went sailing on without the gale: + And still there moved the moon so pale, + A crescent ship without a sail! + + _James Elroy Flecker._ + + + + + 61. NOD + + Softly along the road of evening, + In a twilight dim with rose, + Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew + Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. + + His drowsy flock streams on before him, + Their fleeces charged with gold, + To where the sun's last beam leans low + On Nod the shepherd's fold. + + The hedge is quick and green with briar, + From their sand the conies creep; + And all the birds that fly in heaven + Flock singing home to sleep. + + His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, + Yet, when night's shadows fall, + His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, + Misses not one of all. + + His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, + The waters of no-more-pain, + His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, + "Rest, rest, and rest again." + + _Walter de la Mare._ + +{78} + + 62. CHIMES + + Brief, on a flying night, + From the shaken tower, + A flock of bells take flight, + And go with the hour. + + Like birds from the cote to the gales, + Abrupt--O hark! + A fleet of bells set sails, + And go to the dark. + + Sudden the cold airs swing. + Alone, aloud, + A verse of bells takes wing + And flies with the cloud. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 63. SPRING GOETH ALL IN WHITE + + Spring goeth all in white, + Crowned with milk-white may: + In fleecy flocks of light + O'er heaven the white clouds stray: + + White butterflies in the air; + White daisies prank the ground: + The cherry and hoary pear + Scatter their snow around. + + _Robert Bridges._ + +{79} + + 64. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY + + To-day, all day, I rode upon the down, + With hounds and horsemen, a brave company. + On this side in its glory lay the sea, + On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown. + The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, + And still we galloped on from gorse to gorse. + And once, when checked, a thrush sang, and my horse + Pricked his quick ears as to a sound unknown. + I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even + Better than all by this, that through my chase + In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven + I seemed to see and follow still your face. + Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, + My horse a thing of wings, myself a god. + + _Wilfrid Blunt._ + + + + + 65. A DAY IN SUSSEX + + The dove did lend me wings. I fled away + From the loud world which long had troubled me. + Oh lightly did I flee when hoyden May + Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn-tree. + I left the dusty high-road, and my way + Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair. + A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay + From every hedge and every thicket there. + Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the grass + All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve. + +{80} + + And hares unwitting close to me did pass, + And still the birds sang, and I could not grieve. + Oh what a blessed thing that evening was! + Peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive + A soul to joy or lull a heart to peace. + It glimmers yet across whole years like these. + + _Wilfrid Blunt._ + + + + + 66. ODE IN MAY + + Let me go forth, and share + The overflowing Sun + With one wise friend, or one + Better than wise, being fair, + Where the pewit wheels and dips + On heights of bracken and ling, + And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, + Tingles with the Spring. + + What is so sweet and dear + As a prosperous morn in May, + The confident prime of the day, + And the dauntless youth of the year, + When nothing that asks for bliss, + Asking aright, is denied, + And half of the world a bridegroom is, + And half of the world a bride? + + The Song of Mingling flows, + Grave, ceremonial, pure, + As once, from lips that endure, + The cosmic descant rose, + +{81} + + When the temporal lord of life, + Going his golden way, + Had taken a wondrous maid to wife + That long had said him nay. + + For of old the Sun, our sire, + Came wooing the mother of men, + Earth, that was virginal then, + Vestal fire to his fire. + Silent her bosom and coy, + But the strong god sued and pressed; + And born of their starry nuptial joy + Are all that drink of her breast. + + And the triumph of him that begot, + And the travail of her that bore, + Behold they are evermore + As warp and weft in our lot. + We are children of splendour and flame, + Of shuddering, also, and tears. + Magnificent out of the dust we came, + And abject from the Spheres. + + O bright irresistible lord! + We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, + And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, + Whence first was the seed outpoured. + To thee as our Father we bow, + Forbidden thy Father to see, + Who is older and greater than thou, as thou + Art greater and older than we. + +{82} + + Thou art but as a word of his speech, + Thou art but as a wave of his hand; + Thou art brief as a glitter of sand + 'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; + Thou art less than a spark of his fire, + Or a moment's mood of his soul: + Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir + That chant the chant of the Whole. + + _William Watson._ + + + + + 67. THE SCARECROW + + All winter through I bow my head + Beneath the driving rain; + The North wind powders me with snow + And blows me black again; + At midnight 'neath a maze of stars + I flame with glittering rime, + And stand, above the stubble, stiff + As mail at morning-prime. + But when that child, called Spring, and all + His host of children, come, + Scattering their buds and dew upon + These acres of my home, + Some rapture in my rags awakes; + I lift void eyes and scan + The skies for crows, those ravening foes, + Of my strange master, Man. + I watch him striding lank behind + His clashing team, and know + Soon will the wheat swish body high + Where once lay sterile snow; + +{83} + + Soon shall I gaze across a sea + Of sun-begotten grain, + Which my unflinching watch hath sealed + For harvest once again. + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 68. THE VAGABOND + + Give to me the life I love, + Let the lave go by me, + Give the jolly heaven above + And the byway nigh me. + Bed in the bush with stars to see, + Bread I dip in the river-- + There's the life for a man like me, + There's the life for ever. + + Let the blow fall soon or late, + Let what will be o'er me; + Give the face of earth around + And the road before me. + Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, + Nor a friend to know me; + All I seek, the heaven above + And the road below me. + + Or let autumn fall on me + Where afield I linger, + Silencing the bird on tree, + Biting the blue finger. + White as meal the frosty field-- + Warm the fireside haven-- + Not to autumn will I yield, + Not to winter even! + +{84} + + Let the blow fall soon or late, + Let what will be o'er me; + Give the face of earth around + And the road before me. + Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, + Nor a friend to know me; + All I ask, the heaven above + And the road below me. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 69. TEWKESBURY ROAD + + It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, + Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; + Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool + rush of the air, + Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. + + And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern + at the brink + Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves + purple and white; + Where, the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink + When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. + +{85} + + O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, + Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; + And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth + At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry + of the birds. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 70. TO A LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN + + O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, + Missing so much and so much? + O fat white woman whom nobody loves, + Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, + When the grass is soft as the breast of doves + And shivering-sweet to the touch? + O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, + Missing so much and so much? + + _Frances Cornford._ + + + + + 71. I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES + + I will make you brooches and toys for your delight + Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. + I will make a palace fit for you and me + Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. + + I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, + Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, + +{86} + + And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white + In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. + + And this shall be for music when no one else is near, + The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! + That only I remember, that only you admire, + Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 72. JUGGLING JERRY + + Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes! + By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. + It's nigh my last above the daisies: + My next leaf 'll be man's blank page. + Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: + Juggler, constable, king, must bow. + One that outjuggles all 's been spying + Long to have me, and he has me now. + + We've travelled times to this old common: + Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. + We've had a stirring life, old woman! + You, and I, and the old grey horse, + Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, + Found us coming to their call: + Now they'll miss us at our stations: + There's a Juggler outjuggles all! + +{87} + + Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! + Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. + Easy to think that grieving's folly, + When the hand's firm as driven stakes! + Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, + Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch + Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful; + Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. + + Here's where the lads of the village cricket: + I was a lad not wide from here: + Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket? + Like an old world those days appear! + Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house--I know them! + They are old friends of my halts, and seem, + Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: + Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem. + + Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: + Nature allows us to bait for the fool. + Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; + But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. + You that are sneering at my profession, + Haven't you juggled a vast amount? + There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, + Juggles more games than my sins'll count. + + I've murdered insects with mock thunder: + Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. + I've made bread from the bump of wonder: + That's my business, and there's my tale. + +{88} + + Fashion and rank all praised the professor: + Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen + Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! + Ain't this a sermon on that scene? + + I've studied men from my topsy-turvy + Close, and, I reckon, rather true. + Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; + Most, a dash between the two. + But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me + Think more kindly of the race, + And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me + When the Great Juggler I must face. + + We two were married, due and legal: + Honest we've lived since we've been one. + Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: + You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. + Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! + All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. + Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! + Now from his old girl he's juggled away. + + It's past parsons to console us: + No, nor no doctor fetch for me: + I can die without my bolus; + Two of a trade, lass, never agree! + Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely, + Fighting the devil in other men's fields! + Stand up yourself and match him fairly, + Then see how the rascal yields! + +{89} + + I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting + Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: + Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: + You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. + Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen + Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! + Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, + But your old Jerry you never forsook. + + Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; + Let's have comfort and be at peace. + Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. + Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. + Maybe--for none see in that black hollow-- + It's just a place where we're held in pawn, + And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, + It's just the sword-trick--I ain't quite gone! + + Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, + Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May + Better than mortar, brick and putty, + Is God's house on a blowing day. + Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: + All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? + There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, + But He's by us, juggling the change. + + I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, + Once--it's long gone--when two gulls we beheld, + Which, as the moon got up, were flying + Down a big wave that sparked and swelled. + +{90} + + Crack went a gun: one fell: the second + Wheeled round him, twice, and was off for new luck; + There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:-- + Drop me a kiss--I'm the bird dead-struck! + + _George Meredith._ + + + + + 73. REQUIEM + + Under the wide and starry sky, + Dig the grave and let me lie. + Glad did I live and gladly die, + And I laid me down with a will. + + This be the verse you grave for me: + _Here he lies where he longed to be; + Home is the sailor, home from sea, + And the hunter home from the hill._ + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 74. A DEAD HARVEST + + _In Kensington Gardens_ + + Along the graceless grass of town + They rake the rows of red and brown-- + Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay + Delicate, touched with gold and grey, + Raked long ago and far away. + + A narrow silence in the park, + Between the lights a narrow dark. + One street rolls on the north; and one, + Muffled, upon the south doth run; + Amid the mist the work is done. + +{91} + + A futile crop!--for it the fire + Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. + So go the town's lives on the breeze, + Even as the sheddings of the trees; + Bosom nor barn is filled with these. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 75. THE LITTLE DANCERS + + Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky + Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street + Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. + Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat; + And all is dark, save where come flooding rays + From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure + Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, + Two children, all alone and no one by, + Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze + Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet, + Dance sedately: face to face they gaze, + Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 76. LONDON SNOW + + When men were all asleep the snow came flying, + In large white flakes falling on the city brown, + Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, + Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; + Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; + Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: + Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; + +{92} + + Hiding difference, making unevenness even, + Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. + All night it fell, and when full inches seven + It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, + The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; + And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness + Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: + The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; + The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; + No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, + And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. + Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, + They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze + Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snow-balling; + Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; + Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, + "O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!" + With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, + Following along the white deserted way, + A country company long dispersed asunder: + When now already the sun, in pale display + Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below + His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. + For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; + And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, + Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go; + +{93} + + But even for them awhile no cares encumber + Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, + The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber + At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the + charm they have broken. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 77. THE ROAD MENDERS + + How solitary gleams the lamplit street + Waiting the far-off morn! + How softly from the unresting city blows + The murmur borne + Down this deserted way! + Dim loiterers pass home with stealthy feet. + Now only, sudden at their interval, + The lofty chimes awaken and let fall + Deep thrills of ordered sound; + Subsiding echoes gradually drowned + In a great stillness, that creeps up around, + And darkly grows + Profounder over all + Like a strong frost, hushing a stormy day. + + But who is this, that by the brazier red + Encamped in his rude hut, + With many a sack about his shoulder spread + Watches with eyes unshut? + The burning brazier flushes his old face, + Illumining the old thoughts in his eyes. + Surely the Night doth to her secrecies + Admit him, and the watching stars attune +{94} + + To their high patience, who so lightly seems + To bear the weight of many thousand dreams + (Dark hosts around him sleeping numberless); + He surely hath unbuilt all walls of thought + To reach an air-wide wisdom, past access + Of us, who labour in the noisy noon, + The noon that knows him not. + + For lo, at last the gloom slowly retreats, + And swiftly, like an army, comes the Day, + All bright and loud through the awakened streets + Sending a cheerful hum. + And he has stolen away. + Now, with the morning shining round them, come + Young men, and strip their coats + And loose the shirts about their throats, + And lightly up their ponderous hammers lift, + Each in his turn descending swift + With triple strokes that answer and begin + Duly, and quiver in repeated change, + Marrying the eager echoes that weave in + A music clear and strange. + But pausing soon, each lays his hammer down + And deeply breathing bares + His chest, stalwart and brown, + To the sunny airs. + Laughing one to another, limber hand + On limber hip, flushed in a group they stand, + And now untired renew their ringing toil. + The sun stands high, and ever a fresh throng + Comes murmuring; but that eddying turmoil + +{95} + + Leaves many a loiterer, prosperous or unfed, + On easy or unhappy ways + At idle gaze, + Charmed in the sunshine and the rhythm enthralling, + As of unwearied Fates, for ever young, + That on the anvil of necessity + From measureless desire and quivering fear, + With musical sure lifting and downfalling + Of arm and hammer driven perpetually, + Beat out in obscure span + The fiery destiny of man. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 78. STREET LANTERNS + + Country roads are yellow and brown. + We mend the roads in London town. + + Never a hansom dare come nigh, + Never a cart goes rolling by. + + An unwonted silence steals + In between the turning wheels. + + Quickly ends the autumn day, + And the workman goes his way, + + Leaving, midst the traffic rude, + One small isle of solitude, + + Lit, throughout the lengthy night, + By the little lantern's light. + +{96} + + Jewels of the dark have we, + Brighter than the rustic's be. + + Over the dull earth are thrown + Topaz, and the ruby stone. + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + + + + + 79. O SUMMER SUM + + O summer sun, O moving trees! + O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street! + What hour shall Fate in all the future find, + Or what delights, ever to equal these: + Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind, + Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet? + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 80. LONDON + + Athwart the sky a lowly sigh + From west to east the sweet wind carried; + The sun stood still on Primrose Hill; + His light in all the city tarried: + The clouds on viewless columns bloomed + Like smouldering lilies unconsumed. + + "Oh sweetheart, see! how shadowy, + Of some occult magician's rearing, + Or swung in space of heaven's grace + Dissolving, dimly reappearing, + Afloat upon ethereal tides + St. Paul's above the city rides!" + +{97} + + A rumour broke through the thin smoke + Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace, + The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, + The million-peopled lanes and alleys, + An ever-muttering prisoned storm, + The heart of London beating warm. + + _John Davidson._ + + + + + 81. NOVEMBER BLUE + +The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary +colour to the air in the early evening.--_Essay on London_. + + O heavenly colour, London town + Has blurred it from her skies; + And, hooded in an earthly brown, + Unheaven'd the city lies. + No longer standard-like this hue + Above the broad road flies; + Nor does the narrow street the blue + Wear, slender pennon-wise. + + But when the gold and silver lamps + Colour the London dew, + And, misted by the winter damps, + The shops shine bright anew-- + Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, + It dyes the wide air through; + A mimic sky about their feet, + The throng go crowned with blue. + + _Alice Meynell._ + +{98} + + 82. PHILOMEL IN LONDON + + Not within a granite pass, + Dim with flowers and soft with grass-- + Nay, but doubly, trebly sweet + In a poplared London street, + While below my windows go + Noiseless barges, to and fro, + Through the night's calm deep, + Ah! what breaks the bonds of sleep? + + No steps on the pavement fall, + Soundless swings the dark canal; + From a church-tower out of sight + Clangs the central hour of night. + Hark! the Dorian nightingale! + Pan's voice melted to a wail! + Such another bird + Attic Tereus never heard. + + Hung above the gloom and stain-- + London's squalid cope of pain-- + Pure as starlight, bold as love, + Honouring our scant poplar-grove, + That most heavenly voice of earth + Thrills in passion, grief or mirth, + Laves our poison'd air + Life's best song-bath crystal-fair. + + While the starry minstrel sings + Little matters what he brings, + Be it sorrow, be it pain, + Let him sing and sing again, + +{99} + + Till, with dawn, poor souls rejoice, + Wakening, once to hear his voice, + Ere afar he flies, + Bound for purer woods and skies. + + _Edmund Gosse._ + + + + + 83. ANNUS MIRABILIS (1902) + + Daylight was down, and up the cool + Bare heaven the moon, o'er roof and elm, + Daughter of dusk most wonderful, + Went mounting to her realm: + And night was only half begun + Round Edwardes Square in Kensington. + + A Sabbath-calm possessed her face, + An even glow her bosom filled; + High in her solitary place + The huntress-heart was stilled: + With bow and arrows all laid down + She stood and looked on London town. + + Nay, how can sight of us give rest + To that far-travelled heart, or draw + The musings of that tranquil breast? + I thought--and gazing, saw + Far up above me, high, oh, high, + From south to north a heron fly! + + Oh, swiftly answered! yonder flew + The wings of freedom and of hope! + Little of London town he knew, + The far horizon was his scope. + +{100} + + High up he sails, and sees beneath + The glimmering ponds of Hampstead Heath, + + Hendon, and farther out afield + Low water-meads are in his ken, + And lonely pools by Harrow Weald, + And solitudes unloved of men, + Where he his fisher's spear dips down: + Little he knows of London town. + + So small, with all its miles of sin, + Is London to the grey-winged bird, + A cuckoo called at Lincoln's Inn + Last April; in Soho was heard + The missel-thrush with throat of glee, + And nightingales at Battersea! + + _Laurence Housman._ + + + + + 84. FLEET STREET + + I never see the newsboys run + Amid the whirling street, + With swift untiring feet, + To cry the latest venture done, + But I expect one day to hear + Them cry the crack of doom + And risings from the tomb, + With great Archangel Michael near; + And see them running from the Fleet + As messengers of God, + With Heaven's tidings shod + About their brave unwearied feet. + + _Shane Leslie._ + +{101} + + 86. IN THE MEADOWS AT MANTUA + + But to have lain upon the grass + One perfect day, one perfect hour, + Beholding all things mortal pass + Into the quiet of green grass; + + But to have lain and loved the sun, + Under the shadow of the trees, + To have been found in unison, + Once only, with the blessed sun; + + Ah! in these flaring London nights, + Where midnight withers into morn, + How quiet a rebuke it writes + Across the sky of London nights! + + Upon the grass at Mantua + These London nights were all forgot. + They wake for me again: but ah, + The meadow-grass at Mantua! + + _Arthur Symons._ + + + + + 86. LEISURE + + What is this life if, full of care, + We have no time to stand and stare. + + No time to stand beneath the boughs + And stare as long as sheep or cows. + + No time to see, when woods we pass, + Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. + +{102} + + No time to see, in broad daylight, + Streams full of stars, like skies at night. + + No time to turn at Beauty's glance, + And watch her feet, how they can dance. + + No time to wait till her mouth can + Enrich that smile her eyes began. + + A poor life this if, full of care, + We have no time to stand and stare. + + _William H. Davies._ + + + + + 87. LYING IN THE GRASS + + Between two russet tufts of summer grass, + I watch the world through hot air as through glass, + And by my face sweet lights and colours pass. + + Before me, dark against the fading sky, + I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: + With brawny arms they sweep in harmony. + + Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, + Rich glowing colour on bare throat and head, + My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead! + + And in my strong young living as I lie, + I seem to move with them in harmony,-- + A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I. + +{103} + + The music of the scythes that glide and leap, + The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, + And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep, + + The weary butterflies that droop their wings, + The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, + And all the lassitude of happy things + + Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood + That gushes through my veins a languid flood, + And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud. + + Behind the mowers, on the amber air, + A dark-green beech-wood rises, still and fair, + A white path winding up it like a stair. + + And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, + And clean white apron on her gown of red,-- + Her even-song of love is but half-said: + + She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; + Her cheeks are redder than the wild blush-rose; + They climb up where the deepest shadows close. + + But though they pass and vanish, I am there; + I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair, + Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer + + Ah! now the rosy children come to play, + And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; + Their clear high voices sound from far away. + +{104} + + They know so little why the world is sad, + They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad; + Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad! + + I long to go and play among them there, + Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, + And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair. + + The happy children! full of frank surprise, + And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies; + What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes! + + No wonder round those urns of mingled clays + That Tuscan potters fashion'd in old days, + And coloured like the torrid earth ablaze, + + We find the little gods and loves portray'd + Through ancient forests wandering undismay'd, + Or gathered, whispering, in some pleasant glade. + + They knew, as I do now, what keen delight + A strong man feels to watch the tender flight + Of little children playing in his sight. + + I do not hunger for a well-stored mind, + I only wish to live my life, and find + My heart in unison with all mankind. + + My life is like the single dewy star + That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,-- + A microcosm where all things living are. + +{105} + + And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death + Should come behind and take away my breath, + I should not rise as one who sorroweth, + + For I should pass, but all the world would be + Full of desire and young delight and glee, + And why should men be sad through loss of me? + + The light is dying; in the silver-blue + The young moon shines from her bright window through: + The mowers all are gone, and I go too. + + _Edmund Gosse._ + + + + + 88. DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS + + Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; + She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. + She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; + But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. + + In a field by the river my love and I did stand, + And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. + She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; + But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + +{106} + + 89. RENAISSANCE + + O happy soul, forget thy self! + This that has haunted all the past, + That conjured disappointments fast, + That never could let well alone; + That, climbing to achievement's throne, + Slipped on the last step; this that wove + Dissatisfaction's clinging net, + And ran through life like squandered pelf:-- + This that till now has been thy self + Forget, O happy soul, forget. + + If ever thou didst aught commence,-- + Set'st forth in springtide woods to rove,-- + Or, when the sun in July throve, + Didst plunge into calm bay of ocean + With fine felicity in motion,-- + Or, having climbed some high hill's brow, + Thy toil behind thee like the night, + Stoodst in the chill dawn's air intense;-- + Commence thus now, thus recommence: + + Take to the future as to light. + Not as a bather on the shore + Strips of his clothes, glad soul, strip thou: + He throws them off, but folds them now; + Although he for the billows yearns, + To weight them down with stones he turns; + To mark the spot he scans the shore; + Of his return he thinks before. + Do thou forget + +{107} + + All that, until this joy franchised thee, + Tainted thee, stained thee, or disguised thee; + For gladness, henceforth without let, + Be thou a body, naked, fair; + And be thy kingdom all the air + Which the noon fills with light; + And be thine actions every one, + Like to a dawn or set of sun, + Robed in an ample glory's peace; + Since thou hast tasted this great glee + Whose virtue prophesies in thee + That wrong is wholly doomed, is doomed and bound to cease. + + _T. Sturge Moore._ + + + + + 90. TO WILL. H. LOW + + Youth now flees on feathered foot + Faint and fainter sounds the flute, + Rarer songs of gods; and still + Somewhere on the sunny hill, + Or along the winding stream, + Through the willows, flits a dream; + Flits but shows a smiling face, + Flees but with so quaint a grace, + None can choose to stay at home, + All must follow, all must roam. + + This is unborn beauty: she + Now in air floats high and free, + Takes the sun and breaks the blue;-- + Late with stooping pinion flew + +{108} + + Raking hedgerow trees, and wet + Her wing in silver streams, and set + Shining foot on temple roof: + Now again she flies aloof, + Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't + By the evening's amethyst. + + In wet wood and miry lane, + Still we pant and pound in vain; + Still with leaden foot we chase + Waning pinion, fainting face; + Still with gray hair we stumble on, + Till, behold, the vision gone! + Where hath fleeting beauty led? + To the doorway of the dead. + Life is over, life was gay: + We have come the primrose way. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 81. GAUDEAMUS IGITUR + + Come, no more of grief and dying! + Sing the time too swiftly flying. + Just an hour + Youth's in flower, + Give me roses to remember + In the shadow of December. + + Fie on steeds with leaden paces! + Winds shall bear us on our races, + Speed, O speed, + Wind, my steed, + Beat the lightning for your master, + Yet my Fancy shall fly faster. + +{109} + + Give me music, give me rapture, + Youth that's fled can none recapture; + Not with thought + Wisdom's bought. + Out on pride and scorn and sadness! + Give me laughter, give me gladness. + + Sweetest Earth, I love and love thee, + Seas about thee, skies above thee, + Sun and storms, + Hues and forms + Of the clouds with floating shadows + On thy mountains and thy meadows. + + Earth, there's none that can enslave thee, + Not thy lords it is that have thee; + Not for gold + Art thou sold, + But thy lovers at their pleasure + Take thy beauty and thy treasure. + + While sweet fancies meet me singing, + While the April blood is springing + In my breast, + While a jest + And my youth thou yet must leave me, + Fortune, 'tis not thou canst grieve me. + + When at length the grasses cover + Me, the world's unwearied lover, + If regret + Haunt me yet, + +{110} + + It shall be for joys untasted, + Nature lent and folly wasted. + + Youth and jests and summer weather, + Goods that kings and clowns together + Waste or use + As they choose, + These, the best, we miss pursuing + Sullen shades that mock our wooing. + + Feigning Age will not delay it-- + When the reckoning comes we'll pay it, + Own our mirth + Has been worth + All the forfeit light or heavy + Wintry Time and Fortune levy. + + Feigning grief will not escape it, + What though ne'er so well you ape it-- + Age and care + All must share, + All alike must pay hereafter, + Some for sighs and some for laughter. + + Know, ye sons of Melancholy, + To be young and wise is folly. + 'Tis the weak + Fear to wreak + On this clay of life their fancies, + Shaping battles, shaping dances. + +{111} + + While ye scorn our names unspoken, + Roses dead and garlands broken, + O ye wise, + We arise, + Out of failures, dreams, disasters, + We arise to be your masters. + + _Margaret L. Woods._ + + + + + 92. O DREAMY, GLOOMY, FRIENDLY TREES! + + O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, + I came along your narrow track + To bring my gifts unto your knees + And gifts did you give back; + For when I brought this heart that burns-- + These thoughts that bitterly repine-- + And laid them here among the ferns + And the hum of boughs divine, + Ye, vastest breathers of the air, + Shook down with slow and mighty poise + Your coolness on the human care, + Your wonder on its toys, + Your greenness on the heart's despair, + Your darkness on its noise. + + _Herbert Trench._ + + + + + 93. IDLENESS + + O idleness, too fond of me, + Begone, I know and hate thee! + Nothing canst thou of pleasure see + In one that so doth rate thee; + +{112} + + For empty are both mind and heart + While thou with me dost linger; + More profit would to thee impart + A babe that sucks its finger. + + I know thou hast a better way + To spend these hours thou squand'rest; + Some lad toils in the trough to-day + Who groans because thou wand'rest; + + A bleating sheep he dowses now + Or wrestles with ram's terror; + Ah, 'mid the washing's hubbub, how + His sighs reproach thine error! + + He knows and loves thee, Idleness; + For when his sheep are browsing, + His open eyes enchant and bless + A mind divinely drowsing; + + No slave to sleep, he wills and sees + From hill-lawns the brown tillage; + Green winding lanes and clumps of trees, + Far town or nearer village, + + The sea itself; the fishing feet + Where more, thine idle lovers, + Heark'ning to sea-mews find thee sweet + Like him who hears the plovers. + + Begone; those haul their ropes at sea, + These plunge sheep in yon river: + Free, free from toil thy friends, and me + From Idleness deliver! + + _T. Sturge Moore._ + +{113} + + 84. YOUTH AND LOVE + + To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside. + Passing for ever, he fares; and on either hand, + Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide, + Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land + Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide. + + Thick as the stars at night when the moon is down, + Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate + Fares; and but waves a hand as he passes on, + Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate, + Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 95. THE PRECEPT OF SILENCE + + I know you: solitary griefs, + Desolate passions, aching hours! + I know you: tremulous beliefs, + Agonised hopes, and ashen flowers! + + The winds are sometimes sad to me; + The starry spaces, full of fear: + Mine is the sorrow on the sea, + And mine the sigh of places drear. + + Some players upon plaintive strings + Publish their wistfulness abroad: + I have not spoken of these things, + Save to one man, and unto God. + + _Lionel Johnson._ + +{114} + + 96. IF THIS WERE FAITH + + God, if this were enough, + That I see things bare to the buff + And up to the buttocks in mire; + That I ask nor hope nor hire, + Nut in the husk, + Nor dawn beyond the dusk, + Nor life beyond death: + God, if this were faith? + + Having felt thy wind in my face + Spit sorrow and disgrace, + Having seen thine evil doom + In Golgotha and Khartoum, + And the brutes, the work of thine hands, + Fill with injustice lands + And stain with blood the sea: + If still in my veins the glee + Of the black night and the sun + And the lost battle, run: + If, an adept, + The iniquitous lists I still accept + With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood, + And still to battle and perish for a dream of good + God, if that were enough? + + If to feel, in the ink of the slough, + And the sink of the mire, + Veins of glory and fire + Run through and transpierce and transpire, + And a secret purpose of glory in every part, + +{115} + + And the answering glory of battle fill my heart; + To thrill with the joy of girded men, + To go on for ever and fail and go on again, + And be mauled to the earth and arise, + And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not + seen with the eyes: + With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night + That somehow the right is the right + And the smooth shall bloom from the rough: + Lord, if that were enough? + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 97. VITAI LAMPADA + + There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night-- + Ten to make and the match to win-- + A bumping pitch and a blinding light, + An hour to play and the last man in. + And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, + Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, + But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + + The sand of the desert is sodden red,-- + Red with the wreck of a square that broke;-- + The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead, + And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. + The river of death has brimmed his banks, + And England's far, and Honour a name, + But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks; + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + +{116} + + This is the word that year by year, + While in her place the School is set, + Every one of her sons must hear, + And none that hears it dare forget. + This they all with a joyful mind + Bear through life like a torch in flame, + And falling fling to the host behind-- + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 98. LAUGH AND BE MERRY + + Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song, + Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong. + Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span. + Laugh, and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man. + + Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time, + God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme, + Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine + of His mirth, + The splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth. + + So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky, + Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by, + Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured + In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord. + +{117} + + Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin, + Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn, + Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends. + Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 99. ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS + + It was early last September nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea, + An' 'twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea, + An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane, + A Pharaoh with his waggons comin' jolt an' creak an' strain; + A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up, + An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup, + An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings + Was joggin' in the dust along 'is roundabouts and swings. + + "Goo'-day," said 'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you + find things go, + An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?" + +{118} + + "I find," said 'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found, + For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round." + Said 'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were, + It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a 'are; + But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's, + What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!" + + "Goo' luck," said 'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it + past a doubt; + An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out;" + 'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again + To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane; + An' the moon she climbed the 'azels, while a nightjar seemed to spin + That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, 'is sooth of lose-and-win; + For "up an' down an' round," said 'e, "goes all appointed things, + An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!" + + _Patrick R. Chalmers._ + +{119} + + 100. THE LARK ASCENDING + + He rises and begins to round, + He drops the silver chain of sound, + Of many links without a break, + In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake, + All intervolved and spreading wide, + Like water-dimples down a tide + Where ripple ripple overcurls + And eddy into eddy whirls; + A press of hurried notes that run + So fleet they scarce are more than one, + Yet changeingly the trills repeat + And linger ringing while they fleet, + Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear + To her beyond the handmaid ear, + Who sits beside our inner springs, + Too often dry for this he brings, + Which seems the very jet of earth + At sight of sun, her music's mirth, + As up he wings the spiral stair, + A song of light, and pierces air + With fountain ardour, fountain play, + To reach the shining tops of day, + And drink in everything discerned + An ecstasy to music turned, + Impelled by what his happy bill + Disperses; drinking, showering still, + Unthinking save that he may give + His voice the outlet, there to live + Renewed in endless notes of glee, + So thirsty of his voice is he, + +{120} + + For all to hear and all to know + That he is joy, awake, aglow, + The tumult of the heart to hear + Through pureness filtered crystal-clear, + And know the pleasure sprinkled bright + By simple singing of delight, + Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained, + Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained + Without a break, without a fall, + Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical, + Perennial, quavering up the chord + Like myriad dews of sunny sward + That trembling into fulness shine, + And sparkle dropping argentine; + Such wooing as the ear receives + From zephyr caught in choric leaves + Of aspens when their chattering net + Is flushed to white with shivers wet; + And such the water-spirit's chime + On mountain heights in morning's prime, + Too freshly sweet to seem excess, + Too animate to need a stress; + But wider over many heads + The starry voice ascending spreads, + Awakening, as it waxes thin, + The best in us to him akin; + And every face, to watch him raised, + Puts on the light of children praised, + So rich our human pleasure ripes + When sweetness on sincereness pipes, + Though nought be promised from the seas, + +{121} + + But only a soft-ruffling breeze + Sweep glittering on a still content, + Serenity in ravishment. + + For singing till his heaven fills, + 'Tis love of earth that he instils, + And ever winging up and up, + Our valley is his golden cup, + And he the wine which overflows + To lift us with him as he goes: + The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine, + He is, the hills, the human line, + The meadows green, the fallows brown, + The dreams of labour in the town; + He sings the sap, the quickened veins; + The wedding song of sun and rains + He is, the dance of children, thanks + Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks, + And eye of violets while they breathe; + All these the circling song will wreathe, + And you shall hear the herb and tree, + The better heart of men shall see, + Shall feel celestially, as long + As you crave nothing save the song. + + Was never voice of ours could say + Our inmost in the sweetest way, + Like yonder voice aloft, and link + All hearers in the song they drink. + Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, + Our passion is too full in flood, + +{122} + + We want the key of his wild note + Of truthful in a tuneful throat, + The song seraphically free + Of taint of personality, + So pure that it salutes the suns + The voice of one for millions, + In whom the millions rejoice + For giving their one spirit voice. + + Yet men have we, whom we revere, + Now names, and men still housing here, + Whose lives, by many a battle-dint + Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint, + Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet + For song our highest heaven to greet: + Whom heavenly singing gives us new, + Enspheres them brilliant in our blue, + From firmest base to farthest leap, + Because their love of Earth is deep, + And they are warriors in accord + With life to serve, and pass reward, + So touching purest and so heard + In the brain's reflex of yon bird: + Wherefore their soul in me or mine, + Through self-forgetfulness divine, + In them, that song aloft maintains + To fill the sky and thrill the plains + With showerings drawn from human stores, + As he to silence nearer soars, + Extends the world at wings and dome, + More spacious making more our home, + +{123} + + Till lost on aerial rings + In light, and then the fancy sings. + + _George Meredith._ + + + + + 101. INTO THE TWILIGHT + + Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, + Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; + Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight; + Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn. + + Your mother Eire is always young, + Dew ever shining and twilight gray; + Though hope fall from you and love decay + Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. + + Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill; + For there the mystical brotherhood + Of sun and moon and hollow and wood + And river and stream work out their will; + + And God stands winding His lonely horn; + And time and the world are ever in flight, + And love is less kind than the gray twilight, + And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 102. BY A BIER-SIDE + + This is a sacred city built of marvellous earth. + Life was lived nobly here to give such beauty birth. + +{124} + + Beauty was in this brain and in this eager hand: + Death is so blind and dumb Death does not understand. + Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs' glory, + Death makes justice a dream, and strength a traveller's story. + Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky. + Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 103. 'TIS BUT A WEEK + + 'Tis but a week since down the glen + The trampling horses came + --Half a hundred fighting men + With all their spears aflame! + They laughed and clattered as they went, + And round about their way + The blackbirds sang with one consent + In the green leaves of May. + + Never again shall I see them pass; + They'll come victorious never; + Their spears are withered all as grass, + Their laughter's laid for ever; + And where they clattered as they went, + And where their hearts were gay, + The blackbirds sing with one consent + In the green leaves of May. + + _Gerald Gould._ + +{125} + + 104. I LOVE ALL BEAUTEOUS THINGS + + I love all beauteous things, + I seek and adore them; + God hath no better praise, + And man in his hasty days + Is honoured for them. + + I too will something make + And joy in the making; + Altho' to-morrow it seem + Like the empty words of a dream + Remembered on waking. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 105. ALL FLESH + + I do not need the skies' + Pomp, when I would be wise; + For pleasaunce nor to use + Heaven's champaign when I muse. + One grass-blade in its veins + Wisdom's whole flood contains; + Thereon my foundering mind + Odyssean fate can find. + + O little blade, now vaunt + Thee, and be arrogant! + Tell the proud sun that he + Sweated in shaping thee; + Night, that she did unvest + Her mooned and argent breast + To suckle thee. Heaven fain + +{126} + + Yearned over thee in rain, + And with wide parent wing + Shadowed thee, nested thing, + Fed thee, and slaved for thy + Impotent tyranny. + Nature's broad thews bent + Meek for thy content. + Mastering littleness + Which the wise heavens confess, + The frailty which doth draw + Magnipotence to its law-- + These were, O happy one, these + Thy laughing puissances! + + Be confident of thought, + Seeing that thou art naught; + And be thy pride thou'rt all + Delectably safe and small. + Epitomized in thee + Was the mystery + Which shakes the spheres conjoint-- + God focussed to a point. + + All thy fine mouths shout + Scorn upon dull-eyed doubt. + Impenetrable fool + Is he thou canst not school + To the humility + By which the angels see! + Unfathomably framed + Sister, I am not shamed + +{127} + + Before the cherubin + To vaunt my flesh thy kin. + My one hand thine, and one + Imprisoned in God's own, + I am as God; alas, + And such a god of grass! + A little root clay-caught, + A wind, a flame, a thought, + Inestimably naught! + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 106. TO A SNOWFLAKE + + What heart could have thought you?-- + Past our devisal + (O filigree petal!) + Fashioned so purely, + Fragilely, surely, + From what Paradisal + Imagineless metal, + Too costly for cost? + Who hammered you, wrought you, + From argentine vapour?-- + "God was my shaper. + Passing surmisal, + He hammered, He wrought me, + From curled silver vapour, + To lust of His mind:-- + Thou couldst not have thought me! + So purely, so palely, + Tinily, surely, + Mightily, frailly, + +{128} + + Insculped and embossed, + With His hammer of wind, + And His graver of frost." + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 107. TO A DAISY + + Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide, + Like all created things, secrets from me, + And stand a barrier to eternity. + And I, how can I praise thee well and wide + + From where I dwell--upon the hither side? + Thou little veil for so great mystery, + When shall I penetrate all things and thee, + And then look back? For this I must abide, + + Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled + Literally between me and the world. + Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring, + + And from a poet's side shall read his book. + O daisy mine, what will it be to look + From God's side even of such a simple thing? + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 108. LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT + + On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. + Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend + Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, + Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. + +{129} + + Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. + And now upon his western wing he leaned, + Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened, + Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. + Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars + With memory of the old revolt from Awe, + He reached a middle height, and at the stars, + Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. + Around the ancient track marched rank on rank, + The army of unalterable law. + + _George Meredith._ + + + + + 109. THE CELESTIAL SURGEON + + If I have faltered more or less + In my great task of happiness; + If I have moved among my race + And shown no glorious morning face; + If beams from happy human eyes + Have moved me not; if morning skies, + Books, and my food, and summer rain + Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:-- + Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take + And stab my spirit broad awake; + Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, + Choose thou, before that spirit die, + A piercing pain, a killing sin, + And to my dead heart run them in! + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + +{130} + + 110. THE KINGDOM OF GOD + + '_In no Strange Land_' + + O world invisible, we view thee, + O world intangible, we touch thee, + O world unknowable, we know thee, + Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! + + Does the fish soar to find the ocean, + The eagle plunge to find the air-- + That we ask of the stars in motion + If they have rumour of thee there? + + Not where the wheeling systems darken, + And our benumbed conceiving soars!-- + The drift of pinions, would we hearken, + Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. + + The angels keep their ancient places;-- + Turn but a stone, and start a wing! + 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, + That miss the many-splendoured thing. + + But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) + Cry;--and upon thy so sore loss + Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder + Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. + + Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, + Cry,--clinging Heaven by the hems; + And lo, Christ walking on the water + Not of Gennesareth, but Thames! + + _Francis Thompson._ + +{131} + + 111. THE LADY POVERTY + + The Lady Poverty was fair: + But she has lost her looks of late, + With change of times and change of air. + Ah slattern! she neglects her hair, + Her gown, her shoes; she keeps no state + As once when her pure feet were bare. + + Or--almost worse, if worse can be-- + She scolds in parlours, dusts and trims, + Watches and counts. Oh, is this she + Whom Francis met, whose step was free, + Who with Obedience carolled hymns, + In Umbria walked with Chastity? + + Where is her ladyhood? Not here, + Not among modern kinds of men; + But in the stony fields, where clear + Through the thin trees the skies appear, + In delicate spare soil and fen, + And slender landscape and austere. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 112. COURTESY + + Of Courtesy it is much less + Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, + Yet in my Walks it seems to me + That the Grace of God is in Courtesy. + + On Monks I did in Storrington fall, + They took me straight into their Hall; + I saw Three Pictures on a wall, + And Courtesy was in them all. + +{132} + + The first the Annunciation; + The second the Visitation; + The third the Consolation, + Of God that was Our Lady's Son. + + The first was of Saint Gabriel; + On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; + And as he went upon one knee + He shone with Heavenly Courtesy. + + Our Lady out of Nazareth rode-- + It was her month of heavy load; + Yet was Her face both great and kind, + For Courtesy was in Her Mind. + + The third, it was our Little Lord, + Whom all the Kings in arms adored; + He was so small you could not see + His large intent of Courtesy. + + Our Lord, that was Our Lady's Son, + Go bless you, People, one by one; + My Rhyme is written, my work is done. + + _Hilaire Belloc._ + + + + + 113. MONTSERRAT + + Peace waits among the hills; + I have drunk peace, + Here, where the blue air fills + The great cup of the hills, + And fills with peace. + +{133} + + Between the earth and sky, + I have seen the earth + Like a dark cloud go by, + And fade out of the sky; + There was no more earth. + + Here, where the Holy Graal + Brought secret light + Once, from beyond the veil, + I, seeing no Holy Graal, + See divine light. + + Light fills the hills with God, + Wind with his breath, + And here, in his abode, + Light, wind, and air praise God, + And this poor breath. + + _Arthur Symons._ + + + + + 114. PRAYERS + + God who created me + Nimble and light of limb, + In three elements free, + To run, to ride, to swim: + Not when the sense is dim, + But now from the heart of joy, + I would remember Him: + Take the thanks of a boy. + + Jesu, King and Lord, + Whose are my foes to fight, + +{134} + + Gird me with Thy sword, + Swift and sharp and bright. + Thee would I serve if I might; + And conquer if I can, + From day-dawn till night, + Take the strength of a man. + + Spirit of Love and Truth, + Breathing in grosser clay, + The light and flame of youth, + Delight of men in the fray, + Wisdom in strength's decay; + From pain, strife, wrong to be free, + This best gift I pray, + Take my spirit to Thee. + + _Henry Charles Beeching._ + + + + + 115. THE SHEPHERDESS + + She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; + She guards them from the steep; + She feeds them on the fragrant height, + And folds them in for sleep. + + She roams maternal hills and bright, + Dark valleys safe and deep. + Into that tender breast at night + The chastest stars may peep. + She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + +{135} + + She holds her little thoughts in sight, + Though gay they run and leap. + She is so circumspect and right; + She has her soul to keep. + She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 116. GIBBERISH + + Many a flower have I seen blossom, + Many a bird for me will sing. + Never heard I so sweet a singer, + Never saw I so fair a thing. + + She is a bird, a bird that blossoms, + She is a flower, a flower that sings; + And I a flower when I behold her, + And when I hear her, I have wings. + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + + + + + 117. MARTHA + + "Once . . . once upon a time . . ." + Over and over again, + Martha would tell us her stories, + In the hazel glen. + + Hers were those clear grey eyes + You watch, and the story seems + Told by their beautifulness + Tranquil as dreams. + +{136} + + She'd sit with her two slim hands + Clasped round her bended knees; + While we on our elbows lolled, + And stared at ease. + + Her voice and her narrow chin, + Her grave small lovely head, + Seemed half the meaning + Of the words she said. + + "Once . . . once upon a time . . ." + Like a dream you dream in the night, + Fairies and gnomes stole out + In the leaf-green light. + + And her beauty far away + Would fade, as her voice ran on, + Till hazel and summer sun + And all were gone:-- + + All fordone and forgot; + And like clouds in the height of the sky, + Our hearts stood still in the hush + Of an age gone by. + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 118. A FRIEND + + All, that he came to give, + He gave, and went again: + I have seen one man live, + I have seen one man reign, + With all the graces in his train. + +{137} + + As one of us, he wrought + Things of the common hour: + Whence was the charmed soul brought, + That gave each act such power; + The natural beauty of a flower? + + Magnificence and grace, + Excellent courtesy: + A brightness on the face, + Airs of high memory: + Whence came all these, to such as he? + + Like young Shakespearian kings, + He won the adoring throng: + And, as Apollo sings, + He triumphed with a song: + Triumphed, and sang, and passed along. + + With a light word, he took + The hearts of men in thrall: + And, with a golden look, + Welcomed them, at his call + Giving their love, their strength, their all. + + No man less proud than he, + Nor cared for homage less: + Only, he could not be + Far off from happiness: + Nature was bound to his success. + +{138} + + Weary, the cares, the jars, + The lets, of every day, + But the heavens filled with stars, + Chanced he upon the way: + And where he stayed, all joy would stay. + + Now, when sad night draws down, + When the austere stars burn: + Roaming the vast live town, + My thoughts and memories yearn + Toward him, who never will return. + + Yet have I seen him live, + And owned my friend, a king: + All that he came to give + He gave: and I, who sing + His praise, bring all I have to bring. + + _Lionel Johnson._ + + + + + 118. TWILIGHT + + Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks + cry and call. + Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all, + There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, + Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend. + + I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear + long ago in the past, + Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that + death cannot last; + +{139} + + Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled, + Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 120. ON THE DEATH OF ARNOLD TOYNBEE + + Good-bye; no tears nor cries + Are fitting here, and long lament were vain. + Only the last low words be softly said, + And the last greeting given above the dead; + For soul more pure and beautiful our eyes + Never shall see again. + + Alas! what help is it, + What consolation in this heavy chance, + That to the blameless life so soon laid low + This was the end appointed long ago, + This the allotted space, the measure fit + Of endless ordinance? + + Thus were the ancient days + Made like our own monotonous with grief; + From unassuaged lips even thus hath flown + Perpetually the immemorial moan + Of those that weeping went on desolate ways, + Nor found in tears relief. + + For faces yet grow pale, + Tears rise at fortune, and true hearts take fire + In all who hear, with quickening pulse's stroke, + That cry that from the infinite people broke, + When third among them Helen led the wail + At Hector's funeral pyre. + +{140} + + And by the Latin beach + At rise of dawn such piteous tears were shed, + When Troy and Arcady in long array + Followed the princely body on its way, + And Lord Aeneas spoke the last sad speech + Above young Pallas dead. + + Even in this English clime + The same sweet cry no circling seas can drown, + In melancholy cadence rose to swell + Some dirge of Lycidas or Astrophel + When lovely souls and pure before their time + Into the dusk went down. + + These Earth, the bounteous nurse, + Hath long ago lapped in deep peace divine. + Lips that made musical their old-world woe + Themselves have gone to silence long ago, + And left a weaker voice and wearier verse, + O royal soul, for thine. + + Beyond our life how far + Soars his new life through radiant orb and zone, + While we in impotency of the night + Walk dumbly, and the path is hard, and light + Fails, and for sun and moon the single star + Honour is left alone. + + The star that knows no set, + But circles ever with a fixed desire, + Watching Orion's armour all of gold; + Watching and wearying not, till pale and cold + Dawn breaks, and the first shafts of morning fret + The east with lines of fire. + +{141} + + But on the broad low plain + When night is clear and windy, with hard frost, + Such as had once the morning in their eyes, + Watching and wearying, gaze upon the skies, + And cannot see that star for their great pain + Because the sun is lost. + + Alas, how all our love + Is scant at best to fill so ample room! + Image and influence fall too fast away + And fading memory cries at dusk of day + _Deem'st thou the dust recks aught at all thereof, + The ghost within the tomb?_ + + For even o'er lives like his + The slumberous river washes soft and slow; + The lapping water rises wearily, + Numbing the nerve and will to sleep; and we + Before the goal and crown of mysteries + Fall back, and dare not know. + + Only at times we know, + In gyres convolved and luminous orbits whirled + The soul beyond her knowing seems to sweep + Out of the deep, fire-winged, into the deep; + As two, who loved each other here below + Better than all the world, + + Yet ever held apart, + And never knew their own hearts' deepest things, + After long lapse of periods, wandering far + Beyond the pathways of the furthest star, + Into communicable space might dart + With tremor of thunderous wings; + +{142} + + Across the void might call + Each unto each past worlds that raced and ran, + And flash through galaxies, and clasp and kiss + In some slant chasm and infinite abyss + Far in the faint sidereal interval + Between the Lyre and Swan. + + _J. W. Mackail._ + + + + + 121. ESTRANGEMENT + + So, without overt breach, we fall apart, + Tacitly sunder--neither you nor I + Conscious of one intelligible Why, + And both, from severance, winning equal smart. + So, with resigned and acquiescent heart, + Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie, + I seem to see an alien shade pass by, + A spirit wherein I have no lot or part. + Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim, + From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn + That June on her triumphant progress goes + Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him + She is a legend emptied of concern, + And idle is the rumour of the rose. + + _William Watson._ + + + + + 122. FATHERHOOD + + A kiss, a word of thanks, away + They're gone, and you forsaken learn + The blessedness of giving; they + (So Nature bids) forget, nor turn + To where you sit, and watch, and yearn. + +{143} + + And you (so Nature bids) would go + Through fire and water for their sake; + Rise early, late take rest, to sow + Their wealth, and lie all night awake + If but their little finger ache. + + The storied prince with wondrous hair + Which stole men's hearts and wrought his bale, + Rebelling, since he had no heir, + Built him a pillar in the vale, + --Absalom's--lest his name should fail. + + It fails not, though the pillar lies + In dust, because the outraged one, + His father, with strong agonies + Cried it until the day was done-- + "O Absalom, my son, my son!" + + So Nature bade; or might it be + God, who in Jewry once (they say) + Cried with a great cry, "Come to me, + Children," who still held on their way, + Though He spread out His hands all day? + + _Henry Charles Beeching._ + + + + + 123. DAISY + + Where the thistle lifts a purple crown + Six foot out of the turf, + And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- + O the breath of the distant surf!-- + +{144} + + The hills look over on the South, + And southward dreams the sea; + And with the sea-breeze hand in hand + Came innocence and she. + + Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry + Red for the gatherer springs, + Two children did we stray and talk + Wise, idle, childish things. + + She listened with big-lipped surprise, + Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine; + Her skin was like a grape, whose veins + Run snow instead of wine. + + She knew not those sweet words she spake, + Nor knew her own sweet way; + But there's never a bird, so sweet a song + Thronged in whose throat that day. + + Oh, there were flowers in Storrington + On the turf and on the spray; + But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills + Was the Daisy-flower that day! + + Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face; + She gave me tokens three:-- + A look, a word of her winsome mouth, + And a wild raspberry. + + A berry red, a guileless look, + A still word,--strings of sand! + And yet they made my wild, wild heart + Fly down to her little hand. + +{145} + + For standing artless as the air, + And candid as the skies, + She took the berries with her hand, + And the love with her sweet eyes. + + The fairest things have fleetest end, + Their scent survives their close; + But the rose's scent is bitterness + To him that loved the rose. + + She looked a little wistfully, + Then went her sunshine way:-- + The sea's eye had a mist on it, + And the leaves fell from the day. + + She went her unremembering way, + She went and left in me + The pang of all the partings gone, + And partings yet to be. + + She left me marvelling why my soul + Was sad that she was glad; + At all the sadness in the sweet, + The sweetness in the sad. + + Still, still I seemed to see her, still + Look up with soft replies, + And take the berries with her hand, + And the love with her lovely eyes. + +{146} + + Nothing begins, and nothing ends, + That is not paid with moan; + For we are born in other's pain, + And perish in our own. + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 124. A CRADLE SONG + + O, men from the fields! + Come gently within. + Tread softly, softly, + O! men coming in. + + Mavourneen is going + From me and from you, + Where Mary will fold him + With mantle of blue! + + From reek of the smoke + And cold of the floor, + And the peering of things + Across the half-door. + + O, men from the fields! + Soft, softly come thro'. + Mary puts round him + Her mantle of blue. + + _Padraic Colum._ + + + + +136. ON A DEAD CHILD + + Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, + With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! + + {147} + + Though cold and stark and bare, + The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. + + Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer + To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be + Thy father's pride;--ah, he + Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. + + To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, + Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; + Startling my fancy fond + With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. + + Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: + But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; + Yet feels to my hand as if + 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. + + So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- + Go, lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- + Propping thy wise, sad head, + Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing. + + So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, + whither hath he taken thee? + To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? + +{148} + + The vision of which I miss, + Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee + and awaken thee? + + Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us + To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, + Unwilling, alone we embark, + And the things we have seen and have known and + have heard of, fail us. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 126. I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAIN + + I never shall love the snow again + Since Maurice died: + With corniced drift it blocked the lane, + And sheeted in a desolate plain + The country side. + + The trees with silvery rime bedight + Their branches bare. + By day no sun appeared; by night + The hidden moon shed thievish light + In the misty air. + + We fed the birds that flew around + In flocks to be fed: + No shelter in holly or brake they found, + The speckled thrush on the frozen ground + Lay frozen and dead. + +{149} + + We skated on stream and pond; we cut + The crinching snow + To Doric temple or Arctic hut; + We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut + By the fireside glow. + + Yet grudged we our keen delights before + Maurice should come. + We said, "In-door or out-of-door + We shall love life for a month or more, + When he is home." + + They brought him home; 'twas two days late + For Christmas Day: + Wrapped in white, in solemn state, + A flower in his hand, all still and straight + Our Maurice lay. + + And two days ere the year outgave + We laid him low. + The best of us truly were not brave, + When we laid Maurice down in his grave + Under the snow. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 127. TO MY GODCHILD + + _Francis M. W. M._ + + This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon, + Riding at anchor off the orient sun, + Had broken its cable, and stood out to space + Down some frore Arctic of the aërial ways: + +{150} + + And now, back warping from the inclement main, + Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, + It swung into its azure roads again; + When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you + Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew. + + To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, + Giver of golden days and golden song; + Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan + You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. + Yet ah! from any other that it came, + Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. + When at the first those tidings did they bring, + My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: + Though well may such a title him endower, + For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. + The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, + To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty, + (In two alone of whom most singers prove + A fatal faithfulness of during love!) + He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken + How God he could love more, he so loved men; + The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; + And Fletcher's fellow--from these, and not from me, + Take you your name, and take your legacy! + + Or, if a right successive you declare + When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, + Take but this Poesy that now followeth + My clayey best with sullen servile breath, + Made then your happy freedman by testating death. + +{151} + + My song I do but hold for you in trust, + I ask you but to blossom from my dust. + When you have compassed all weak I began, + Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man; + The man at feud with the perduring child + In you before Song's altar nobly reconciled; + From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see + How little a world, which owned you, needed me. + If, while you keep the vigils of the night, + For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, + Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, + As it played lover over your sweet sleeps; + Think it a golden crevice in the sky, + Which I have pierced but to behold you by! + + And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, + And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; + Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance + The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, + Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod + Among the bearded counsellors of God; + For if in Eden as on earth are we, + I sure shall keep a younger company: + Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons + The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, + The dreadful mass of their enridged spears; + Pass where majestical the eternal peers, + The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet-- + A silvern segregation, globed complete + In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet; + Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, + +{152} + + Your cousined clusters, emulous to share + With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair; + Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:-- + Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven. + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 128. WHEN JUNE IS COME + + When June is come, then all the day + I'll sit with my love in the scented hay + And watch the sunshot palaces high, + That the white clouds build in the breezy sky. + + She singeth, and I do make her a song, + And read sweet poems the whole day long: + Unseen as we lie in our hay-built home. + Oh, life is delight when June is come. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 129. IN MISTY BLUE + + In misty blue the lark is heard + Above the silent homes of men; + The bright-eyed thrush, the little wren, + The yellow-billed sweet-voiced blackbird + Mid sallow blossoms blond as curd + Or silver oak boughs, carolling + With happy throat from tree to tree, + Sing into light this morn of spring + That sang my dear love home to me. + +{153} + + Be starry, buds of clustered white, + Around the dark waves of her hair! + The young fresh glory you prepare + Is like my ever-fresh delight + When she comes shining on my sight + With meeting eyes, with such a cheek + As colours fair like flushing tips + Of shoots, and music ere she speak + Lies in the wonder of her lips. + + Airs of the morning, breathe about + Keen faint scents of the wild wood side + From thickets where primroses hide + Mid the brown leaves of winter's rout. + Chestnut and willow, beacon out + For joy of her, from far and nigh, + Your English green on English hills: + Above her head, song-quivering sky, + And at her feet, the daffodils. + + Because she breathed, the world was more, + And breath a finer soul to use, + And life held lovelier hopes to choose; + But O, to-day my heart brims o'er, + Earth glows as from a kindled core, + Like shadows of diviner things + Are hill and cloud and flower and tree-- + A splendour that is hers and spring's,--- + The day my love came home to me. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + +{154} + + 130. IN FOUNTAIN COURT + + The fountain murmuring of sleep, + A drowsy tune; + The flickering green of leaves that keep + The light of June; + Peace, through a slumbering afternoon, + The peace of June. + + A waiting ghost, in the blue sky, + The white curved moon; + June, hushed and breathless, waits, and I + Wait, too, with June; + Come, through the lingering afternoon, + Soon, love, come soon. + + _Arthur Symons._ + + + + + 131. THE PRAISE OF DUST + + "What of vile dust?" the preacher said. + Methought the whole world woke, + The dead stone lived beneath my foot, + And my whole body spoke. + + "You that play tyrant to the dust, + And stamp its wrinkled face, + This patient star that flings you not + Far into homeless space, + + "Come down out of your dusty shrine + The living dust to see, + The flowers that at your sermon's end + Stand blazing silently, + +{155} + + "Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones, + Lichens like fire encrust; + A gleam of blue, a glare of gold, + The vision of the dust. + + "Pass them all by; till, as you come + Where, at a city's edge, + Under a tree--I know it well--. + Under a lattice ledge, + + "The sunshine falls on one brown head. + You, too, O cold of clay, + Eater of stones, may haply hear + The trumpets of that day + + "When God to all his paladins + By his own splendour swore + To make a fairer face than heaven, + Of dust and nothing more." + + _G. K. Chesterton._ + + + + + 132. AWAKE, MY HEART, TO BE LOVED + + Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! + The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, + It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake + The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake! + + She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee; + Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, + +{156} + + Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: + Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! + + And if thou tarry from her,--if this could be,-- + She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; + For thee would unashamed herself forsake: + Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake! + + Awake! the land is scattered with light, and see, + Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree: + And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake; + Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! + + Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee: + She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me. + Come more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, + And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!" + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + 133. AEDH WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN + + Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, + Enwrought with golden and silver light, + The blue and the dim and the dark cloths + Of night and light and the half light, + I would spread the cloths under your feet: + But I, being poor, have only my dreams; + I have spread my dreams under your feet; + Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + +{157} + + 134. BEAUTY + + I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills + Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain: + I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, + Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain. + + I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea, + And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships; + But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me, + Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve + of her lips. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 135. MY WIFE + + Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, + With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, + Steel-true and blade-straight, + The great artificer + Made my mate. + + Honour, anger, valour, fire; + A love that life could never tire, + Death quench or evil stir, + The mighty master + Gave to her. + +{158} + + Teacher, tender, comrade, wife, + A fellow-farer true through life, + Heart-whole and soul-free + The august father + Gave to me. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 138. FROM "LOVE IN THE VALLEY" + + Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, + Swift as the swallow along the river's light + Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, + Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. + Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, + Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, + She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, + Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! + + * * * * * * + + Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows + Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. + No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: + Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. + Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, + Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: + Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones + Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. + + * * * * * * + + Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, + Arm in arm, all against the raying West, + +{159} + + Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, + Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. + Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking + Whispered the world was; morning light is she. + Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; + Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. + + * * * * * * + + Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers + Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, + Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, + Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. + Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens, + Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. + Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; + Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. + + * * * * * * + + Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, + Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. + Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine + Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. + Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? + Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, + Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine + Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. + + _George Meredith._ + +{160} + + 137. TO THE BELOVED + + Oh, not more subtly silence strays + Amongst the winds, between the voices, + Mingling alike with pensive lays, + And with the music that rejoices, + Than thou art present in my days. + + My silence, life returns to thee + In all the pauses of her breath, + Hush back to rest the melody + That out of thee awakeneth; + And thou, wake ever, wake for me! + + Thou art like silence all unvexed, + Though wild words part my soul from thee. + Thou art like silence unperplexed, + A secret and a mystery + Between one footfall and the next. + + Most dear pause in a mellow lay! + Thou art inwoven with every air. + With thee the wildest tempests play, + And snatches of thee everywhere + Make little heavens throughout a day. + + Darkness and solitude shine, for me. + For life's fair outward part are rife + The silver noises; let them be. + It is the very soul of life + Listens for thee, listens for thee. + +{161} + + O pause between the sobs of cares; + O thought within all thought that is; + Trance between laughters unawares: + Thou art the shape of melodies, + And thou the ecstasy of prayers! + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 138. WHEN YOU ARE OLD + + When you are old and gray and full of sleep, + And nodding by the fire, take down this book, + And slowly read, and dream of the soft look + Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; + + How many loved your moments of glad grace, + And loved your beauty with love false or true; + But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, + And loved the sorrows of your changing face. + + And bending down beside the glowing bars + Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled + And paced upon the mountains overhead + And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. + + _W. B. Yeats_ + + + + + 139. I WILL NOT LET THEE GO + + I will not let thee go. + Ends all our month-long love in this? + Can it be summed up so, + Quit in a single kiss? + I will not let thee go. + +{162} + + I will not let thee go. + If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds, + As the soft south can blow + And toss the feathered seeds, + Then might I let thee go. + + I will not let thee go. + Had not the great sun seen, I might: + Or were he reckoned slow + To bring the false to light, + Then might I let thee go. + + I will not let thee go. + The stars that crowd the summer skies + Have watched us so below + With all their million eyes, + I dare not let thee go. + + I will not let thee go. + Have we not chid the changeful moon, + Now rising late, and now + Because she set too soon, + And shall I let thee go? + + I will not let thee go. + Have not the young flowers been content, + Plucked ere their buds could blow, + To seal our sacrament? + I cannot let thee go. + +{163} + + I will not let thee go. + I hold thee by too many bands: + Thou sayest farewell, and lo! + I have thee by the hands, + And will not let thee go. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 140. PARTED + + Farewell to one now silenced quite, + Sent out of hearing, out of sight,-- + My friend of friends, whom I shall miss. + He is not banished, though, for this,-- + Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight. + + Though I shall talk with him no more, + A low voice sounds upon the shore. + He must not watch my resting-place, + But who shall drive a mournful face + From the sad winds about my door? + + I shall not hear his voice complain, + But who shall stop the patient rain? + His tears must not disturb my heart, + But who shall change the years, and part + The world from every thought of pain? + + Although my life is left so dim, + The morning crowns the mountain-rim; + Joy is not gone from summer skies, + Nor innocence from children's eyes, + And all these things are part of him. + +{164} + + He is not banished, for the showers + Yet wake this green warm earth of ours. + How can the summer but be sweet? + I shall not have him at my feet, + And yet my feet are on the flowers. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 141. ELEGY ON A LADY, WHOM GRIEF FOR THE DEATH OF + HER BETROTHED KILLED + + Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door, + And all ye loves, assemble; far and wide + Proclaim the bridal, that proclaimed before + Has been deferred to this late eventide: + For on this night the bride, + The days of her betrothal over, + Leaves the parental hearth for evermore; + To-night the bride goes forth to meet her lover. + + Reach down the wedding vesture, that has lain + Yet all unvisited, the silken gown: + Bring out the bracelets, and the golden chain + Her dearer friends provided: sere and brown + Bring out the festal crown, + And set it on her forehead lightly: + Though it be withered, twine no wreath again; + This only is the crown she can wear rightly. + + Cloak her in ermine, for the night is cold, + And wrap her warmly, for the night is long; + In pious hands the flaming torches hold, + While her attendants, chosen from among + +{165} + + Her faithful virgin throng, + May lay her in her cedar litter, + Decking her coverlet with sprigs of gold, + Roses, and lilies white that best befit her. + + Sound flute and tabor, that the bridal be + Not without music, nor with these alone; + But let the viol lead the melody, + With lesser intervals, and plaintive moan + Of sinking semitone; + And, all in choir, the virgin voices + Rest not from singing in skilled harmony + The song that aye the bridegroom's ear rejoices. + + Let the priests go before, arrayed in white, + And let the dark-stoled minstrels follow slow, + Next they that bear her, honoured on this night, + And then the maidens, in a double row, + Each singing soft and low, + And each on high a torch upstaying: + Unto her lover lead her forth with light, + With music, and with singing, and with praying. + + 'Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came, + And found her trusty window open wide, + And knew the signal of the timorous flame, + That long the restless curtain would not hide + Her form that stood beside; + As scarce she dared to be delighted, + Listening to that sweet tale, that is no shame + To faithful lovers, that their hearts have plighted. + +{166} + + But now for many days the dewy grass + Has shown no markings of his feet at morn: + And watching she has seen no shadow pass + The moonlit walk, and heard no music borne + Upon her ear forlorn. + In vain she has looked out to greet him; + He has not come, he will not come, alas! + So let us bear her out where she must meet him. + + Now to the river bank the priests are come: + The bark is ready to receive its freight: + Let some prepare her place therein, and some + Embark the litter with its slender weight: + The rest stand by in state, + And sing her a safe passage over; + While she is oared across to her new home, + Into the arms of her expectant lover. + + And thou, O lover, that art on the watch, + Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams, + The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatch + The sweeter moments of their broken dreams,-- + Thou, when the torchlight gleams, + When thou shalt see the slow procession, + And when thine ears the fitful music catch, + Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession. + + _Robert Bridges._ + +{167} + + 142. AN EPITAPH + + Here lies a most beautiful lady, + Light of step and heart was she; + I think she was the most beautiful lady + That ever was in the West Country. + But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; + However rare--rare it be; + And when I crumble, who will remember + This lady of the West Country? + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 143. A DREAM OF DEATH + + I dreamed that one had died in a strange place + Near no accustomed hand; + And they had nailed the boards above her face, + The peasants of that land, + And, wondering, planted by her solitude + A cypress and a yew: + I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood, + Man had no more to do: + _She was more beautiful than thy first love, + This lady by the trees:_ + And gazed upon the mournful stars above, + And heard the mournful breeze. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 144. A DREAM Of A BLESSED SPIRIT + + All the heavy days are over; + Leave the body's coloured pride + Underneath the grass and clover, + With the feet laid side by side. + +{168} + + One with her are mirth and duty; + Bear the gold embroidered dress, + For she needs not her sad beauty, + To the scented oaken press. + + Hers the kiss of Mother Mary, + The long hair is on her face; + Still she goes with footsteps wary, + Full of earth's old timid grace: + + With white feet of angels seven + Her white feet go glimmering; + And above the deep of heaven, + Flame on flame and wing on wing. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 145. MESSAGES + + What shall I your true-love tell, + Earth-forsaking maid? + What shall I your true-love tell, + When life's spectre's laid? + + "Tell him that, our side the grave, + Maid may not conceive + Life should be so sad to have, + That's so sad to leave!" + + What shall I your true-love tell, + When I come to him? + What shall I your true-love tell-- + Eyes growing dim! + +{169} + + "Tell him this, when you shall part + From a maiden pined; + That I see him with my heart, + Now my eyes are blind." + + What shall I your true-love tell? + Speaking-while is scant. + What shall I your true-love tell, + Death's white postulant? + + "Tell him--love, with speech at strife, + For last utterance saith: + I, who loved with all my life, + Love with all my death." + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 146. THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED + + One that is ever kind said yesterday: + "Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey, + And little shadows come about her eyes; + Time can but make it easier to be wise, + Though now it's hard, till trouble is at an end; + And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend." + But, heart, there is no comfort, not a grain; + Time can but make her beauty over again, + Because of that great nobleness of hers; + The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs + Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways, + When all the wild summer was in her gaze. + O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, + You'd know the folly of being comforted. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + +{170} + + 147. AT NIGHT + + _To W. M._ + + Home, home from the horizon far and clear, + Hither the soft wings sweep; + Flocks of the memories of the day draw near + The dovecote doors of sleep. + + Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light + Of all these homing birds? + Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight? + Your words to me, your words! + + _Alice Meynell_ + + +{171} + + INDEX OF FIRST LINES + + PAGE + + A kiss, a word of thanks, away (_H. C. Beeching_). . . . . . . 142 + A naked house, a naked moor (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . 65 + A ship, an isle, a sickle moon (_J. E. Flecker_) . . . . . . . 76 + All that he came to give (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 136 + All the heavy days are over (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . . . . 167 + All winter through I bow my head (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 82 + Along the graceless grass of town (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 90 + As I went down to Dymchurch wall (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . 45 + Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door (_B. Bridges_) . . . . . 164 + Athwart the sky a lowly sigh (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . . . 96 + Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! (_B. Bridges_) . . 155 + + Below the down the stranded town (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . 47 + Between two russet tufts of summer grass (_E. Gosse_) . . . . 102 + Beyond my window in the night (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . . . . 49 + Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying + (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 + Brief, on a flying night (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + But to have lain upon the grass (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . 101 + Buy my English posies! (_R. Kipling_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 + + Cambridge town is a beleaguered city (_R. Macaulay_) . . . . . 54 + Can I forget the sweet days that have been (_W. H. Davies_) . 60 + Come, no more of grief and dying! (_M. L. Woods_) . . . . . . 108 + Country roads are yellow and brown (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . 95 + Daylight was down, and up the cool (_L. Housman_) . . . . . . 99 + Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet + (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away + (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 + + Farewell to one now silenced quite (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . 163 + Fear? Yes . . . I heard you saying (_H. Trench_) . . . . . . 16 + + Give to me the life I love (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . 83 + God gave all men all earth to love (_R. Kipling_) . . . . . . 39 + God, if this were enough (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . 114 + God who created me (_H. C. Beeching_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 + Good-bye; no tears nor cries (_J. W. Mackail_) . . . . . . . . 139 + Grow old and die, rich Day (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . . . . . . 32 + +{172} + + Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . 156 + He leapt to arms unbidden (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . 22 + He rises and begins to round (_G. Meredith_) . . . . . . . . . 119 + He walked in glory on the hills (_W. Canton_) . . . . . . . . 34 + Here lies a most beautiful lady (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 167 + His wage of rest at nightfall still (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . 24 + Home, home from the horizon far and clear (_A. Meynell_) . . . 170 + How solitary gleams the lamplit street (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . 93 + + I came to Oxford in the light (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . . . . 51 + I do not need the skies (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + I dreamed that one had died in a strange place (_W. B. Yeats_) 167 + I gathered with a careless hand (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . . . 6 + I go through the fields of blue water (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . 48 + I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills + (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 + + I know you; solitary griefs (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . 113 + I laid me down upon the shore (_F. Cornford_) . . . . . . . . 2 + I love all beauteous things (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . 125 + I never see the newsboys run (_S. Leslie_) . . . . . . . . . . 100 + I never shall love the snow again (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . 148 + I never went to Mamble (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . . . . . . . . 49 + I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree (_W. B. Yeats_) . 61 + I will make you brooches and toys for your delight + (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 + I will not let thee go (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + I will not try the reach again (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . . 54 + If I have faltered more or less (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . 129 + If I should die, think only this of me (_R. Brooke_) . . . . . 25 + In misty blue the lark is heard (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . 152 + In the highlands, in the country places (_R. L. Stevenson_) . 34 + In the time of wild roses (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . . . 73 + It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not + where (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 + It was early last September, nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea + (_P. R. Chalmers_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 + + Just now the lilac is in bloom (_R. Brooke_) . . . . . . . . . 55 + + Know you her secret none can utter? (_A. Quiller-Couch_) . . 52 + + Laugh and be merry: remember, better the world with a + song (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 + Let me go forth and share (_W. Watson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 80 + Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky (_L. Binyon_) . . 91 + +{173} + + Many a flower have I seen blossom (_M. S. Coleridge_) . . . . 135 + + Not soon shall I forget--a sheet (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . . . . 75 + Not within a granite pass (_E. Gosse_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 + + O, a gallant set were they (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . . . . . 8 + O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees (_H. Trench_) . . . . . . . . 111 + O happy soul, forget thy self (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . 106 + O heavenly colour, London town (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . 97 + O Idleness, too fond of me (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . . . 111 + O, men from the fields! (_P. Colum_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 + Oh, not more subtly silence strays (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . 160 + O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm (_A. Quiller-Couch_) 9 + Oh shall I never never be home again! (_J. E. Flecker_) . . . 30 + O summer sun, O moving trees! (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . 96 + O why do you walk through tha fields in gloves (_F. Cornford_) 85 + O what know they of harbours (_E. Radford_) . . . . . . . . . 50 + O world invisible, we view thee (_F. Thompson,_) . . . . . . . 130 + Of Courtesy it is much less (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . . . 131 + On alien ground, breathing an alien air (_M. E. Coleridge_) . 33 + On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose (_G. Meredith_) . . . 128 + Once . . . once upon a time (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . . . 135 + One that is ever kind said yesterday (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . 169 + Out of my door I step into (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . . . . . . . 66 + Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . 123 + + Peace waits among the hills (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . . . 132 + Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee + (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes (_G. Meredith_) 86 + + Row till the land dip 'neath (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . . 75 + + Say what you will, there is not in the world (_W. Blunt_) . . 45 + Shall we but turn from braggart pride (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . 20 + She walks--the lady of my delight (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 134 + Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow (_G. Meredith_) 158 + Sitting at times over a hearth that burns (_H. Newbolt_) . . . 15 + Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide (_A. Meynell_) . . 128 + So, without overt breach, we fall apart (_W. Watson_) . . . . 142 + Softly along the road of evening (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 77 + Sombre and rich the skies (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 10 + Spring goeth all in white (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + + Tell the tune his feet beat (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . . . . . . 32 + The dove did lend me wings. I fled away (_W. Blunt_) . . . . 79 + The fountain murmuring of sleep (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . 154 + The hill pines were sighing (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . 68 + +{174} + + The Lady Poverty was fair (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + The moon is up: the stars are bright (_A. Noyes_) . . . . . . 14 + There is a hill beside the silver Thames (_R. Bridges_) . . . 70 + There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night (_H. Newbolt_) 115 + These hearts were woven of human joys and cares (_R. Brooke_) 24 + This is a sacred city built of marvellous earth + (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 + This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon (_F. Thompson_) . . . 149 + This was her table, these her trim outspread + (_J. B. B. Nichols_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 + Through the sunny garden (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . . . . . . 37 + Time, you old gipsy man (_R. Hodgson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 + 'Tis but a week since down the glen (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . 124 + To-day, all day, I rode upon the down (_W. Blunt_) . . . . . . 79 + To the forgotten dead (_M. L. Woods_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 + To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside + (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + Too soothe and mild your lowland airs (_L. Abercrombie_) . . . 36 + Troy Town is covered up with weeds (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . 3 + Trusty, dusky, vivid, true (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . 157 + Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks + cry and call (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 + + Under the wide and starry sky (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . 90 + + Very old are the woods (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . . . . . . 1 + + What gods have met in battle to arouse (_A. E._) . . . . . . . 27 + What heart could have thought you? (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . 127 + What is this life, if, full of care (_W. B. Davies_) . . . . . 101 + What of vile dust? the preacher said (_G. K. Chesterton_) . . 154 + What shall I your true-love tell (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . . 168 + When I am living in the Midlands (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . 43 + When I did wake this morn from sleep (_W. H. Davies_) . . . . 67 + When June is come, then all the day (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . 152 + When men were all asleep the snow came flying (_R. Bridges_) 91 + When skies are blue and days are bright (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . 69 + When you are old and gray and full of sleep (_W. B. Yeats_) 161 + When we fought campaigns (in the long Christmas rains) + (_R. Macaulay_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 + Where the thistle lifts a purple crown (_F. Thompson_) . . . . 143 + With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children + (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 + + Ye have robbed, said he, ye have slaughtered and made an + end (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 + Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping (_A. Smith_) 35 + Youth now flees on feathered foot (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . 107 + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF TO-DAY: AN ANTHOLOGY*** + + +******* This file should be named 22668-8.txt or 22668-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/6/6/22668 + + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/22668-8.zip b/22668-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ecb1dc0 --- /dev/null +++ b/22668-8.zip diff --git a/22668.txt b/22668.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4093ed4 --- /dev/null +++ b/22668.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7280 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems of To-Day: an Anthology, by Various + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems of To-Day: an Anthology + + +Author: Various + + + +Release Date: September 18, 2007 [eBook #22668] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF TO-DAY: AN ANTHOLOGY*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +Transcriber's note: + + Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed + in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page + breaks occurred in the original book. + + + + + +POEMS OF TO-DAY: + +an Anthology. + + + + + + + +London: +Published for the English Association +by Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., 1918 + +First issued in August, 1915; +Reprinted October, 1915; January, March, +June, September, and December, 1916; +May, July, September, October, 1917, +January, February, and July, 1918. + + + + +{vii} + +PREFATORY NOTE + +This book has been compiled in order that boys and girls, already +perhaps familiar with the great classics of the English speech, may +also know something of the newer poetry of their own day. Most of the +writers are living, and the rest are still vivid memories among us, +while one of the youngest, almost as these words are written, has gone +singing to lay down his life for his country's cause. Although no +definite chronological limit has been set, and Meredith at least began +to write in the middle of the nineteenth century, the intention has +been to represent mainly those poetic tendencies which have become +dominant as the influence of the accepted Victorian masters has grown +weaker, and from which the poetry of the future, however it may +develope, must in turn take its start. It may be helpful briefly to +indicate the sequence of themes. Man draws his being from the heroic +Past and from the Earth his Mother; and in harmony with these he must +shape his life to what high purposes he may. Therefore this gathering +of poems falls into three groups. {viii} First there are poems of +History, of the romantic tale of the world, of our own special +tradition here in England, and of the inheritance of obligation which +that tradition imposes upon us. Naturally, there are some poems +directly inspired by the present war, but nothing, it is hoped, which +may not, in happier days, bear translation into any European tongue. +Then there come poems of the Earth, of England again and the longing of +the exile for home, of this and that familiar countryside, of woodland +and meadow and garden, of the process of the seasons, of the "open +road" and the "wind on the heath," of the city, its deprivations and +its consolations. Finally there are poems of Life itself, of the moods +in which it may be faced, of religion, of man's excellent virtues, of +friendship and childhood, of passion, grief, and comfort. But there is +no arbitrary isolation of one theme from another; they mingle and +inter-penetrate throughout, to the music of Pan's flute, and of Love's +viol, and the bugle-call of Endeavour, and the passing-bell of Death. + +May, 1915. + + + + +{ix} + +INDEX OF AUTHORS + + + PAGE +A. E. (GEORGE RUSSELL) + Shadows and Lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 + +ABERCROMBIE, LASCELLES + Margaret's Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 + +BEECHING, H. C. + Fatherhood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 + Prayers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 + +BELLOC, HILAIRE + Courtesy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + From "Dedicatory Ode" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + The South Country . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 + +BINYON, LAURENCE + Bab-lock-hythe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 + England . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 + For the Fallen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 + In misty blue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 + O summer sun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 + The Little Dancers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 + The Road Menders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 + +BLUNT, W. S. + A Day in Sussex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 + Chanclebury Ring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 + St. Valentine's Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 + +BRIDGES, ROBERT + Awake, my heart, to be loved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 + Elegy on a Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 + I love all beauteous things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + I never shall love the snow again . . . . . . . . . . . 148 + I will not let thee go . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + London Snow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 + +{x} + + On a Dead Child . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + Spring goeth all in white . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + The hill pines were sighing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 + There is a hill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 + When June is come . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 + +BROOKE, RUPERT + The Dead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 + The Old Vicarage, Grantchester . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 + The Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 + +CANTON, WILLIAM + Heights and Depths . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 + +CHALMERS, P. R. + Roundabouts and Swings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 + +CHESTERTON, G. K. + The Praise of Dust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 + +COLERIDGE, MARY E. + A Huguenot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 + Chillingham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 + Gibberish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 + Street Lanterns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 + Where a Roman Villa stood, above Freiburg . . . . . . . 33 + +COLUM, PADRAIC + A Cradle Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + +CORNFORD, FRANCES + Pre-existence + To a Lady seen from the Train . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 + +CRIPPS, A. S. + A Lyke-wake Carol . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 + A Refrain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 + Essex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 + +DAVIDSON, JOHN + A Cinque Port . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 + In Romney Marsh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 + London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 + +DAVIES, W. H. + Days that have been . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 + Early Morn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 + Leisure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 + +{xi} + +DE LA MARE, WALTER + All that's Past . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 + An Epitaph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 + Martha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 + Nod . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 + The Scarecrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 + +DRINKWATER, JOHN + A Town Window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 + Mamble . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 + The Defenders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 + +FLECKER, J. E. + A ship, an isle, a sickle moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 + Brumana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 + +GOSSE, EDMUND + Lying in the Grass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 + Philomel in London . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 + +GOULD, GERALD + Fallen Cities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 + Oxford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 + 'Tis but a week . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124 + +HODGSON, RALPH + Time, you old gipsy man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 + +HOUSMAN, LAURENCE + Annus Mirabilis (1902) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 + +JOHNSON, LIONEL + A Friend . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 + By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross . . . . . 10 + The Precept of Silence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + +KIPLING, RUDYARD + Sussex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 + The Flowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 + +LESLIE, SHANE + Fleet Street . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 + +MACAULAY, ROSE + Many Sisters to Many Brothers . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 + The Devourers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + +MACKAIL, J. W. + On the Death of Arnold Toynbee . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 + +{xii} + +MASEFIELD, JOHN + Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 + By a Bier-side . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 + Fragments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 + Laugh and be merry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 + Tewkesbury Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 + Twilight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 + +MEREDITH, GEORGE + Juggling Jerry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 + From "Love in the Valley" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 + Lucifer in Starlight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 + The Lark Ascending . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 + +MEYNELL, ALICE + A Dead Harvest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 + At Night . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170 + Chimes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + November Blue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 + Parted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163 + The Lady Poverty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + The Shepherdess . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134 + To a Daisy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128 + To the Beloved . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160 + +MOORE, T. STURGE + Idleness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 + Renaissance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106 + Rower's Chant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 + +NEWBOLT, SIR HENRY + Drake's Drum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 + He Fell among Thieves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 + Minora Sidera . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 + The Volunteer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 + Vitai Lampada . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 + +NICHOLS, J. B. B. + On the Toilet Table of Queen Marie-Antoinette . . . . . 9 + +NOYES, ALFRED + The moon is up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 + +QUILLER-COUCH, SIR A. T. + Alma Mater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 + Upon Eckington Bridge, River Avon . . . . . . . . . . . 9 + +{xiii} + +RADFORD, ERNEST + Plymouth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 + +SMITH, ADA + In City Streets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 + +STEVENSON, R. L. + I will make you brooches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 + If this were Faith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 + In the Highlands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 + My Wife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 + Requiem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 + The Celestial Surgeon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 + The House Beautiful . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 + The Vagabond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 + To S. R. Crockett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 + To Will H. Low . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 + Youth and Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + +SYMONS, ARTHUR + In Fountain Court . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 + In the Meadows at Mantua . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 + Montserrat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132 + +THOMPSON, FRANCIS + All Flesh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + Daisy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143 + Messages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 + The Kingdom of God . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130 + To a Snowflake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 + To my Godchild . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 + +TRENCH, HERBERT + Musing on a Great Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 + O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 + +TYNAN, KATHARINE + Farewell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 + The Choice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 + The Old Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 + +WATSON, WILLIAM + Estrangement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 + Ode in May . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 + +WOODS, MARGARET L. + Gaudeamus Igitur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 + To the Forgotten Dead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 + +{xiv} + +YEATS, W. B. + A Dream of a Blessed Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 + A Dream of Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 + Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven . . . . . . . . . . 156 + Down by the galley gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + Into the Twilight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 + The Folly of being Comforted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 + The Lake Isle of Inisfree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 + When you are Old . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + + + +For permission to use copyright poems the English Association is +greatly indebted to the authors; to the literary executors of Mary +Coleridge (Sir Henry Newbolt), J. E. Flecker (Mrs. Flecker), Lionel +Johnson (Mr. Elkin Mathews), George Meredith (Trustees, through Mr. W. +M. Meredith), R. L. Stevenson (Mr. Lloyd Osbourne), Arthur Symons +(through Mr. Edmund Gosse), and Francis Thompson (Mr. Wilfrid Meynell); +and to the following publishers in respect of the poems enumerated: + +_Mr. B. H. Blackwell_: + A. S. Cripps, _Lyra Evangelistica_ (Nos. 25, 26, 39). + +_Messrs. W. Blackwood & Sons_: + Alfred Noyes, _Drake_ (No. 12). + +_Mr. A. H. Bullen_: + W. B. Yeats, _Poems_ (Nos. 101, 133, 146). + +_Messrs. Burns & Oates_: + Francis Thompson, _Works_ (Nos. 105, 106, 110, 123, 127, 145). + Alice Meynell, _Collected Poems_ (Nos. 62, 74, 81, 107, 111, 115, + 137, 140, 147). + Shane Leslie, _Eyes of Youth_ (No. 84). + +_Messrs. Chatto & Windus_: + R. L. Stevenson, _Underwoods_ (Nos. 51, 73, 90, 109), and + _Songs of Travel_ (Nos. 29, 32, 68, 71, 94, + 96, 135). + +_Messrs. Constable & Co._: + Walter de la Mare, _The Listeners_ (Nos. 1, 61, 67, 117, 142). + +{xv} + +_Messrs. J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd._: + W. Canton, _The Comrades_ (No. 28). + G. K. Chesterton, _The Wild Knight_ (No. 131). + +_Messrs. Duckworth & Co._: + Hilaire Belloc, _Verses_ (Nos. 35, 45, 112). + T. Sturge Moore, _The Gazelles_ (Nos. 89, 93). + +_Mr. A. O. Fifield_: + W. H. Davies, _Songs of Joy_ (Nos. 48, 86), and + _Nature Poems_ (No. 53). + +_Messrs. Max Goschen, Ltd._: + J. E. Flecker, _The Golden Journey to Samarcand_* (Nos. 24, 60). + +_Mr. William Heinemann_: + W. S. Blunt, _Poetry of_ (Nos. 36, 64, 65). + Edmund Gosse, _Collected Poems_ (Nos. 82, 87). + Arthur Symons, _Poems_ (Nos. 85, 113, 130). + +_Mr. John Lane_: + L. Abercrombie, _Interludes and Poems_ (No. 31). + John Davidson, _Ballads and Songs_ (Nos. 37, 38, 80). + William Watson, _The Hope of the World_ (Nos. 66, 121). + Margaret L. Woods, _Lyrics and Ballads_ (Nos. 10, 91). + +_Mr. Elkin Mathews_: + Laurence Binyon, _Poems_ (1894), (No. 79), + _London Visions_ (Nos. 75, 77), and + _England_ (Nos. 16, 57, 129). + Lionel Johnson, _Poems_ (Nos. 9, 95, 118). + +_Messrs. Maunsel & Co._: + P. R. Chalmers, _Green Days and Blue Days_ (No. 99). + Padraic Colum, _Wild Earth_ (No. 124). + +_Messrs. Methuen & Co._: + Rudyard Kipling, _The Seven Seas_ (No. 50), and + _The Five Nations_ (No. 34). + Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch, _Poems and Ballads_ (No. 8), and + _The Vigil of Venus_ (No. 44). + Herbert Trench, _New Poems_ (Nos. 14, 92). + +{xvi} + +_Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd._: + Rupert Brooke, _1914 and Other Poems_ (Nos. 20, 21, 47). + John Drinkwater, _Swords and Ploughshares_ (Nos. 19, 40, 41). + Laurence Housman, _Selected Poems_ (No. 83). + Rose Macaulay, _The Two Blind Countries_ (No. 46). + +_Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co._: + Robert Bridges, _Poetical Works_ (Nos. 54, 56, 63, 76, 104, 125, + 126, 128, 132, 139, 141). + +_Messrs. T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd._: + Ernest Radford, _Poems_ (No. 42). + W. B. Yeats, _Poems_ (Nos. 49, 88, 138, 143, 144). + +_The Poetry Book Shop_ (through Mr. Harold Monro). + Ralph Hodgson, _Eve_ (No. 5). + + +* Now transferred to Mr. Martin Seeker. + + +The Editor of _The Times_ courteously confirmed the permissions given +by Mr. George Russell ("A. E.") in respect of No. 23, and by Mr. +Laurence Binyon in respect of No. 22--the latter being reprinted in +_The Winnowing Fan_ (Elkin Mathews). + +The Association desires also to acknowledge the generosity with which +authors and publishers have waived or reduced customary copyright fees, +in view of the special objects of their organisation. They regret that +considerations of copyright have rendered it impossible to include +poems by T. E. Brown, Thomas Hardy, W. E. Henley, and A. E. Housman. + + + + +{1} + +POEMS OF TO-DAY + + + 1. ALL THAT'S PAST + + Very old are the woods; + And the buds that break + Out of the briar's boughs, + When March winds wake, + So old with their beauty are-- + Oh, no man knows + Through what wild centuries + Roves back the rose. + + Very old are the brooks; + And the rills that rise + Where snow sleeps cold beneath + The azure skies + Sing such a history + Of come and gone, + Their every drop is as wise + As Solomon. + + Very old are we men; + Our dreams are tales + Told in dim Eden + By Eve's nightingales; + +{2} + + We wake and whisper awhile, + But, the day gone by, + Silence and sleep like fields + Of amaranth lie. + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 2. PRE-EXISTEHCE + + I laid me down upon the shore + And dreamed a little space; + I heard the great waves break and roar; + The sun was on my face. + + My idle hands and fingers brown + Played with the pebbles grey; + The waves came up, the waves went down, + Most thundering and gay. + + The pebbles, they were smooth and round + And warm upon my hands, + Like little people I had found + Sitting among the sands. + + The grains of sands so shining-small + Soft through my fingers ran; + The sun shone down upon it all, + And so my dream began: + + How all of this had been before; + How ages far away + I lay on some forgotten shore + As here I lie to-day. + +{3} + + The waves came shining up the sands, + As here to-day they shine; + And in my pre-pelasgian hands + The sand was warm and fine. + + I have forgotten whence I came, + Or what my home might be, + Or by what strange and savage name + I called that thundering sea. + + I only know the sun shone down + As still it shines to-day, + And in my fingers long and brown + The little pebbles lay. + + _Frances Cornford._ + + + + + 3. FRAGMENTS + + Troy Town is covered up with weeds, + The rabbits and the pismires brood + On broken gold, and shards, and beads + Where Priam's ancient palace stood. + + The floors of many a gallant house + Are matted with the roots of grass; + The glow-worm and the nimble mouse + Among her ruins flit and pass. + + And there, in orts of blackened bone, + The widowed Trojan beauties lie, + And Simois babbles over stone + And waps and gurgles to the sky. + +{4} + + Once there were merry days in Troy, + Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals, + The passing chariots did annoy + The sunning housewives at their wheels. + + And many a lovely Trojan maid + Set Trojan lads to lovely things; + The game of life was nobly played, + They played the game like Queens and Kings. + + So that, when Troy had greatly passed + In one red roaring fiery coal, + The courts the Grecians overcast + Became a city in the soul. + + In some green island of the sea, + Where now the shadowy coral grows + In pride and pomp and empery + The courts of old Atlantis rose. + + In many a glittering house of glass + The Atlanteans wandered there; + The paleness of their faces was + Like ivory, so pale they were. + + And hushed they were, no noise of words + In those bright cities ever rang; + Only their thoughts, like golden birds, + About their chambers thrilled and sang. + + They knew all wisdom, for they knew + The souls of those Egyptian Kings + +{5} + + Who learned, in ancient Babilu, + The beauty of immortal things. + + They knew all beauty--when they thought + The air chimed like a stricken lyre, + The elemental birds were wrought, + The golden birds became a fire. + + And straight to busy camps and marts + The singing flames were swiftly gone; + The trembling leaves of human hearts + Hid boughs for them to perch upon. + + And men in desert places, men + Abandoned, broken, sick with fears, + Rose singing, swung their swords agen, + And laughed and died among the spears. + + The green and greedy seas have drowned + That city's glittering walls and towers, + Her sunken minarets are crowned + With red and russet water-flowers. + + In towers and rooms and golden courts + The shadowy coral lifts her sprays; + The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts, + The shark doth haunt her hidden ways, + + But, at the falling of the tide, + The golden birds still sing and gleam, + The Atlanteans have not died, + Immortal things still give us dream. + +{6} + + The dream that fires man's heart to make, + To build, to do, to sing or say + A beauty Death can never take, + An Adam from the crumbled clay. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 4. FALLEN CITIES + + I gathered with a careless hand, + There where the waters night and day + Are languid in the idle bay, + A little heap of golden sand; + And, as I saw it, in my sight + Awoke a vision brief and bright, + A city in a pleasant land. + + I saw no mound of earth, but fair + Turrets and domes and citadels, + With murmuring of many bells; + The spires were white in the blue air, + And men by thousands went and came, + Rapid and restless, and like flame + Blown by their passions here and there. + + With careless hand I swept away + The little mound before I knew; + The visioned city vanished too, + And fall'n beneath my fingers lay. + Ah God! how many hast Thou seen, + Cities that are not and have been, + By silent hill and idle bay! + + _Gerald Gould._ + +{7} + + 6. TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN + + Time, you old gipsy man, + Will you not stay, + Put up your caravan + Just for one day? + + All things I'll give you, + Will you be my guest, + Bells for your jennet + Of silver the best, + Goldsmiths shall beat you + A great golden ring, + Peacocks shall bow to you, + Little boys sing, + Oh, and sweet girls will + Festoon you with may, + Time, you old gipsy, + Why hasten away? + + Last week in Babylon, + Last night in Rome, + Morning, and in the crush + Under Paul's dome; + Under Paul's dial + You tighten your rein-- + Only a moment, + And off once again; + Off to some city + Now blind in the womb, + Off to another + Ere that's in the tomb. + +{8} + + Time, you old gipsy man, + Will you not stay, + Put up your caravan + Just for one day? + + _Ralph Hodgson._ + + + + + 6. A HUGUENOT + + O, a gallant set were they, + As they charged on us that day, + A thousand riding like one! + Their trumpets crying, + And their white plumes flying, + And their sabres flashing in the sun. + + O, a sorry lot were we, + As we stood beside the sea, + Each man for himself as he stood! + We were scattered and lonely-- + A little force only + Of the good men fighting for the good. + + But I never loved more + On sea or on shore + The ringing of my own true blade, + Like lightning it quivered, + And the hard helms shivered, + As I sang, "None maketh me afraid!" + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + +{9} + + 7. ON THE TOILET TABLE OF QUEEN MARIE-ANTOINETTE + + This was her table, these her trim outspread + Brushes and trays and porcelain cups for red; + Here sate she, while her women tired and curled + The most unhappy head in all the world. + + _J. B. B. Nichols._ + + + + + 8. UPON ECKINGTON BRIDGE, RIVER AVON + + O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm + Of green days telling with a quiet beat-- + O wave into the sunset flowing calm! + O tired lark descending on the wheat! + Lies it all peace beyond that western fold + Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star + Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold + Yon cloud with prophecies of linked ease-- + Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees, + To drowse beside her implements of war? + + Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept + Avon from Naseby Field to Severn Ham; + And Evesham's dedicated stones have stepp'd + Down to the dust with Montfort's oriflamme. + Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower + Abides; but yet these eloquent grooves remain, + Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour + By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes. + E'en so shall man turn back from violent hopes + To Adam's cheer, and toil with spade again. + +{10} + + Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap + Like a repentant child at length he hies, + Not in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap + Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries: + But when in winter's grave, bereft of light, + With still, small voice divinelier whispering + --Lifting the green head of the aconite, + Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot-- + She feels God's finger active at the root, + Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring. + + _Arthur Quiller-Couch._ + + + + + 8. BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS + + Sombre and rich, the skies; + Great glooms, and starry plains. + Gently the night wind sighs; + Else a vast silence reigns. + + The splendid silence clings + Around me: and around + The saddest of all kings + Crowned, and again discrowned. + + Comely and calm, he rides + Hard by his own Whitehall: + Only the night wind glides: + No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. + + Gone, too, his Court; and yet, + The stars his courtiers are: + Stars in their stations set; + And every wandering star. + +{11} + + Alone he rides, alone, + The fair and fatal king: + Dark night is all his own, + That strange and solemn thing. + + Which are more full of fate: + The stars; or those sad eyes? + Which are more still and great: + Those brows; or the dark skies? + + Although his whole heart yearn + In passionate tragedy: + Never was face so stern + With sweet austerity. + + Vanquished in life, his death + By beauty made amends: + The passing of his breath + Won his defeated ends. + + Brief life and hapless? Nay: + Through death, life grew sublime. + _Speak after sentence?_ Yea: + And to the end of time. + + Armoured he rides, his head + Bare to the stars of doom: + He triumphs now, the dead, + Beholding London's gloom. + + Our wearier spirit faints, + Vexed in the world's employ: + +{12} + + His soul was of the saints; + And art to him was joy. + + King, tried in fires of woe! + Men hunger for thy grace: + And through the night I go, + Loving thy mournful face. + + Yet when the city sleeps; + When all the cries are still: + The stars and heavenly deeps + Work out a perfect will. + + _Lionel Johnson._ + + + + + 10. TO THE FORGOTTEN DEAD + + To the forgotten dead, + Come, let us drink in silence ere we part. + To every fervent yet resolved heart + That brought its tameless passion and its tears, + Renunciation and laborious years, + To lay the deep foundations of our race, + To rear its stately fabric overhead + And light its pinnacles with golden grace. + To the unhonoured dead. + + To the forgotten dead, + Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein + Of Fate and hurl into the void again + Her thunder-hoofed horses, rushing blind + Earthward along the courses of the wind. + +{13} + + Among the stars, along the wind in vain + Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed, + And nothing, nothing of them doth remain. + To the thrice-perished dead. + + _Margaret L. Woods._ + + + + + 11. DRAKE'S DRUM + + Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) + Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, + An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. + Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, + Wi' sailor-lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, + An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', + He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. + + Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) + Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, + An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. + "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, + Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; + If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, + An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." + + Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, + (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) + Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, + An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. + +{14} + + Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, + Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; + Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' + They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 12. THE MOON IS UP + + The moon is up: the stars are bright + The wind is fresh and free! + We're out to seek for gold to-night + Across the silver sea! + The world was growing grey and old: + Break out the sails again! + We're out to seek a Realm of Gold + Beyond the Spanish Main. + + We're sick of all the cringing knees, + The courtly smiles and lies! + God, let Thy singing Channel breeze + Lighten our hearts and eyes! + Let love no more be bought and sold + For earthly loss or gain; + We're out to seek an Age of Gold + Beyond the Spanish Main. + + Beyond the light of far Cathay, + Beyond all mortal dreams, + Beyond the reach of night and day + Our El Dorado gleams, + +{15} + + Revealing--as the skies unfold-- + A star without a stain, + The Glory of the Gates of Gold + Beyond the Spanish Main. + + _Alfred Noyes._ + + + + + 13. MINORA SIDERA + + Sitting at times over a hearth that burns + With dull domestic glow, + My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns + To you who planned it so. + + Not of the great only you deigned to tell-- + The stars by which we steer-- + But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell + To night again, are here. + + Such as were those, dogs of an elder day, + Who sacked the golden ports, + And those later who dared grapple their prey + Beneath the harbour forts: + + Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world + To find an equal fight, + And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled + Ships of the line in flight. + + Whether their fame centuries long should ring + They cared not over-much, + But cared greatly to serve God and the king, + And keep the Nelson touch; + +{16} + + And fought to build Britain above the tide + Of wars and windy fate; + And passed content, leaving to us the pride + Of lives obscurely great. + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 14. MUSING ON A GREAT SOLDIER + + _Fear? Yes_ . . . I heard you saying + In an Oxford common-room + Where the hearth-light's kindly raying + Stript the empanelled walls of gloom, + Silver groves of candles playing + In the soft wine turned to bloom-- + At the word I see you now + Blandly push the wine-boat's prow + Round the mirror of that scored + Yellow old mahogany board-- + _I confess to one fear! this, + To be buried alive!_ + + My Lord, + Your fancy has played amiss. + + Fear not. When in farewell + While guns toll like a bell + And the bell tolls like a gun + Westminster towers call + Folk and state to your funeral, + And robed in honours won, + Beneath the cloudy pall + Of the lifted shreds of glory + +{17} + + You lie in the last stall + Of that grey dormitory-- + Fear not lest mad mischance + Should find you lapt and shrouded + Alive in helpless trance + Though seeming death-beclouded: + + For long ere so you rest + On that transcendent bier + Shall we not have addressed + One summons, one last test, + To your reluctant ear? + O believe it! we shall have uttered + In ultimate entreaty + A name your soul would hear + Howsoever thickly shuttered; + We shall have stooped and muttered + _England!_ in your cold ear. . . . + Then, if your great pulse leap + No more, nor your cheek burn, + Enough; then shall we learn + 'Tis time for us to weep. + + _Herbert Trench._ + + + + + 16. HE FELL AMONG THIEVES + + "Ye have robbed," said he, "ye have slaughtered and made an end, + Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead; + What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?" + "Blood for our blood," they said. + +{18} + + He laughed: "If one may settle the score for five, + I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: + I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." + "You shall die at dawn," said they. + + He flung his empty revolver down the slope, + He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; + All night long in a dream untroubled of hope + He brooded, clasping his knees. + + He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills + The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows; + He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, + Or the far Afghan snows. + + He saw the April noon on his books aglow, + The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; + He heard his father's voice from the terrace below + Calling him down to ride. + + He saw the gray little church across the park, + The mounds that hid the loved and honoured dead; + The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, + The brasses black and red. + + He saw the School Close, sunny and green, + The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, + The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between + His own name over all. + +{19} + + He saw the dark wainscot and timbered roof, + The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; + The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, + The Dons on the dais serene. + + He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, + He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; + He heard her passengers' voices talking of home, + He saw the flag she flew. + + And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, + And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; + He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet; + His murderers round him stood. + + Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, + The blood-red snow-peaks chilled to a dazzling white; + He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, + Cut by the eastern height. + + "O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, + I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." + A sword swept. + Over the pass the voices one by one + Faded, and the hill slept. + + _Henry Newbolt._ + +{20} + + 16. ENGLAND + + Shall we but turn from braggart pride + Our race to cheapen and defame? + Before the world to wail, to chide, + And weakness as with vaunting claim? + Ere the hour strikes, to abdicate + The steadfast spirit that made us great, + And rail with scolding tongues at fate? + + If England's heritage indeed + Be lost, be traded quite away + For fatted sloth and fevered greed; + If, inly rotting, we decay; + Suffer we then what doom we must, + But silent, as befits the dust + Of them whose chastisement was just. + + But rather, England, rally thou + Whatever breathes of faith that still + Within thee keeps the undying vow + And dedicates the constant will. + For such yet lives, if not among + The boasters, or the loud of tongue, + Who cry that England's knell is rung. + + The fault of heart, the small of brain, + In thee but their own image find; + Beyond such thoughts as these contain + A mightier Presence is enshrined. + Nor meaner than their birthright grown + Shall these thy latest sons be shown, + So thou but use them for thine own. + +{21} + + By those great spirits burning high + In our home's heaven, that shall be stars + To shine, when all is history + And rumour of old, idle wars; + By all those hearts which proudly bled + To make this rose of England red; + The living, the triumphant dead; + + By all who suffered and stood fast + That Freedom might the weak uphold, + And in men's ways of wreck and waste + Justice her awful flower unfold; + By all who out of grief and wrong + In passion's art of noble song + Made Beauty to our speech belong; + + By those adventurous ones who went + Forth overseas, and, self-exiled, + Sought from far isle and continent + Another England in the wild, + For whom no drums beat, yet they fought + Alone, in courage of a thought + Which an unbounded future wrought; + + Yea, and yet more by those to-day + Who toil and serve for naught of gain, + That in thy purer glory they + May melt their ardour and their pain; + By these and by the faith of these, + The faith that glorifies and frees, + Thy lands call on thee, and thy seas. + +{22} + + If thou hast sinned, shall we forsake + Thee, or the less account us thine? + Thy sores, thy shames on us we take. + Flies not for us thy famed ensign? + Be ours to cleanse and to atone; + No man this burden bears alone; + England, our best shall be thine own. + + Lift up thy cause into the light! + Put all the factious lips to shame! + Our loves, our faiths, our hopes unite + And strike into a single flame! + Whatever from without betide, + O purify the soul of pride + In us; thy slumbers cast aside; + And of thy sons be justified! + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 17. THE VOLUNTEER + + "He leapt to arms unbidden, + Unneeded, over-bold; + His face by earth is hidden, + His heart in earth is cold. + + "Curse on the reckless daring + That could not wait the call, + The proud fantastic bearing + That would be first to fall!" + +{23} + + O tears of human passion, + Blur not the image true; + This was not folly's fashion, + This was the man we knew. + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 18. MANY SISTERS TO MANY BROTHERS + + When we fought campaigns (in the long Christmas rains) + With soldiers spread in troops on the floor, + I shot as straight as you, my losses were as few, + My victories as many, or more. + And when in naval battle, amid cannon's rattle, + Fleet met fleet in the bath, + My cruisers were as trim, my battleships as grim, + My submarines cut as swift a path. + Or, when it rained too long, and the strength of the strong + Surged up and broke a way with blows, + I was as fit and keen, my fists hit as clean, + Your black eye matched my bleeding nose. + Was there a scrap or ploy in which you, the boy, + Could better me? You could not climb higher, + Ride straighter, run as quick (and to smoke made you sick) + . . . But I sit here, and you're under fire. + + Oh, it's you that have the luck, out there in blood and muck: + You were born beneath a kindly star; + +{24} + + All we dreamt, I and you, you can really go and do, + And I can't, the way things are. + In a trench you are sitting, while I am knitting + A hopeless sock that never gets done. + Well, here's luck, my dear;--and you've got it, no fear; + But for me . . . a war is poor fun. + + _Rose Macaulay._ + + + + + 19. THE DEFENDERS + + His wage of rest at nightfall still + He takes, who sixty years has known + Of ploughing over Cotsall hill + And keeping trim the Cotsall stone. + + He meditates the dusk, and sees + Folds of his wonted shepherdings + And lands of stubble and tall trees + Becoming insubstantial things. + + And does he see on Cotsall hill-- + Thrown even to the central shire-- + The funnelled shapes forbidding still + The stranger from his cottage fire? + + _John Drinkwater._ + + + + + 20. THE DEAD + + These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, + Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. + The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, + And sunset, and the colours of the earth. + +{25} + + These had seen movement, and heard music; known + Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; + Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; + Touched flowers and furs, and cheeks. All this is ended. + + There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter + And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, + Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance + And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white + Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, + A width, a shining peace, under the night. + + _Rupert Brooke._ + + + + + 21. THE SOLDIER + + If I should die, think only this of me: + That there's some corner of a foreign field + That is for ever England. There shall be + In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; + A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, + Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, + A body of England's, breathing English air, + Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. + + And think, this heart, all evil shed away, + A pulse in the eternal mind, no less + Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; + Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; + And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, + In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. + + _Rupert Brooke._ + +{26} + + 22. FOR THE FALLEN + + With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, + England mourns for her dead across the sea. + Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, + Fallen in the cause of the free. + + Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal + Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. + There is music in the midst of desolation + And a glory that shines upon our tears. + + They went with songs to the battle, they were young, + Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. + They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, + They fell with their faces to the foe. + + They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: + Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. + At the going down of the sun and in the morning + We will remember them. + + They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; + They sit no more at familiar tables of home; + They have no lot in our labour of the day-time: + They sleep beyond England's foam. + + But where our desires are and our hopes profound, + Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, + To the innermost heart of their own land they are known + As the stars are known to the Night; + +{27} + + As the stars that shall be bright when we are duet + Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, + As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, + To the end, to the end, they remain. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 23. SHADOWS AND LIGHTS + + What gods have met in battle to arouse + This whirling shadow of invisible things, + These hosts that writhe amid the shattered sods? + O Father, and O Mother of the gods, + Is there some trouble in the heavenly house? + We who are captained by its unseen kings + Wonder what thrones are shaken in the skies, + What powers who held dominion o'er our will + Let fall the sceptre, and what destinies + The younger gods may drive us to fulfil. + + Have they not swayed us, earth's invisible lords, + With whispers and with breathings from the dark? + The very border stones of nations mark + Where silence swallowed some wild prophet's words + That rang but for an instant and were still, + Yet were so burthened with eternity, + They maddened all who heard to work their will, + To raise the lofty temple on the hill, + And many a glittering thicket of keen swords + Flashed out to make one law for land and sea, + That earth might move with heaven in company. + +{28} + + The cities that to myriad beauty grew + Were altars raised unto old gods who died, + And they were sacrificed in ruins to + The younger gods who took their place of pride; + They have no brotherhood, the deified, + No high companionship of throne by throne, + But will their beauty still to be alone. + + What is a nation but a multitude + United by some god-begotten mood, + Some hope of liberty or dream of power + That have not with each other brotherhood + But warred in spirit from their natal hour, + Their hatred god-begotten as their love + Reverberations of eternal strife? + For all that fury breathed in human life, + Are ye not guilty, answer, ye above? + + Ah, no, the circle of the heavenly ones, + That ring of burning, grave, inflexible powers, + Array in harmony amid the deep + The shining legionaries of the suns, + That through their day from dawn to twilight keep + The peace of heaven, and have no feuds like ours. + The morning Stars their labours of the dawn + Close at the advent of the Solar Kings, + And these with joy their sceptres yield, withdrawn + When the still Evening Stars begin their reign, + And twilight time is thrilled with homing wings + To the All-Father being turned again. + +{29} + + No, not on high begin divergent ways, + The galaxies of interlinked lights + Rejoicing on each other's beauty gaze, + 'Tis we who do make errant all the rays + That stream upon us from the astral heights. + Love in our thickened air too redly burns; + And unto vanity our beauty turns; + Wisdom, that gently whispers us to part + From evil, swells to hatred in the heart. + Dark is the shadow of invisible things + On us who look not up, whose vision fails. + The glorious shining of the heavenly kings + To mould us in their image naught avails, + They weave a robe of many-coloured fire + To garb the spirits thronging in the deep, + And in the upper air its splendours keep + Pure and unsullied, but below it trails + Darkling and glimmering in our earthly mire. + + With eyes bent ever earthwards we are swayed + But by the shadows of eternal light, + And shadow against shadow is arrayed + So that one dark may dominate the night. + Though kindred are the lights that cast the shade, + We look not up, nor see how, side by side, + The high originals of all our pride + In crowned and sceptred brotherhood are throned, + Compassionate of our blindness and our hate + That own the godship but the love disowned. + Ah, let us for a little while abate + The outward roving eye, and seek within + +{30} + + Where spirit unto spirit is allied; + There, in our inmost being, we may win + The joyful vision of the heavenly wise + To see the beauty in each other's eyes. + + _A. E._ + + + + + 24. BRUMANA + + Oh shall I never never be home again! + Meadows of England shining in the rain + Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green + With briar fortify, with blossom screen + Till my far morning--and O streams that slow + And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, + For me your love and all your kingcups store, + And--dark militia of the southern shore, + Old fragrant friends--preserve me the last lines + Of that long saga which you sang me, pines, + When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree + I listened, with my eyes upon the sea. + + O traitor pines, you sang what life has found + The falsest of fair tales. + Earth blew a far-horn prelude all around, + That native music of her forest home, + While from the sea's blue fields and syren dales + Shadows and light noon spectres of the foam + Riding the summer gales + On aery viols plucked an idle sound. + + Hearing you sing, O trees, + Hearing you murmur, "There are older seas, + That beat on vaster sands, + +{31} + + Where the wise snailfish move their pearly towers + To carven rocks and sculptured promont'ries," + Hearing you whisper, "Lands + Where blaze the unimaginable flowers." + + Beneath me in the valley waves the palm, + Beneath, beyond the valley, breaks the sea; + Beneath me sleep in mist and light and calm + Cities of Lebanon, dream-shadow-dim, + Where Kings of Tyre and Kings of Tyre did rule + In ancient days in endless dynasty, + And all around the snowy mountains swim + Like mighty swans, afloat in heaven's pool. + + But I will walk upon the wooded hill + Where stands a grove, O pines, of sister pines, + And when the downy twilight droops her wing + And no sea glimmers and no mountain shines + My heart shall listen still. + For pines are gossip pines the wide world through + And full of runic tales to sigh or sing. + 'Tis ever sweet through pines to see the sky + Blushing a deeper gold or darker blue. + 'Tis ever sweet to lie + On the dry carpet of the needles brown, + And though the fanciful green lizard stir + And windy odours light as thistledown + Breathe from the lavdanon and lavender, + Half to forget the wandering and pain, + Half to remember days that have gone by, + And dream and dream that I am home again! + + _James Elroy Flecker._ + +{32} + + 25. A LYKE-WAKE CAROL + + Grow old and die, rich Day, + Over some English field-- + Chartered to come away + What time to Death you yield! + Pass, frost-white ghost, and then + Come forth to banish'd men! + + I see the stubble's sheen, + The mist and ruddled leaves, + Here where the new Spring's green + For her first rain-drops grieves. + Here beechen leaves drift red + Last week in England dead. + + For English eyes' delight + Those Autumn ghosts go free-- + Ghost of the field hoar-white, + Ghost of the crimson tree. + Grudge them not, England dear, + To us thy banished here! + + _Arthur Shearly Cripps._ + + + + + 26. A REFRAIN + + Tell the tune his feet beat + On the ground all day-- + Black-burnt ground and green grass + Seamed with rocks of grey-- + "England," "England," "England," + That one word they say. + +{33} + + Now they tread the beech-mast, + Now the ploughland's clay, + Now the faery ball-floor of her fields in May. + Now her red June sorrel, now her new-turned hay, + Now they keep the great road, now by sheep-path stray, + Still it's "England," "England," + "England" all the way! + + _Arthur Shearly Cripps._ + + + + + 27. WHERE A ROMAN VILLA STOOD, ABOVE FREIBURG + + On alien ground, breathing an alien air, + A Roman stood, far from his ancient home, + And gazing, murmured, "Ah, the hills are fair, + But not the hills of Rome!" + + Descendant of a race to Romans-kin, + Where the old son of Empire stood, I stand. + The self-same rocks fold the same valley in, + Untouched of human hand. + + Over another shines the self-same star, + Another heart with nameless longing fills, + Crying aloud, "How beautiful they are, + But not our English hills!" + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + +{34} + + 28. HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS + + He walked in glory on the hills; + We dalesmen envied from afar + The heights and rose-lit pinnacles + Which placed him nigh the evening star. + + Upon the peaks they found him dead; + And now we wonder if he sighed + For our low grass beneath his head, + For our rude huts, before he died. + + _William Canton._ + + + + + 29. IN THE HIGHLANDS + + In the highlands, in the country places, + Where the old plain men have rosy faces, + And the young fair maidens + Quiet eyes; + Where essential silence cheers and blesses, + And for ever in the hill-recesses + _Her_ more lovely music + Broods and dies. + + O to mount again where erst I haunted; + Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, + And the low green meadows + Bright with sward; + And when even dies, the million-tinted, + And the night has come, and planets glinted, + Lo, the valley hollow + Lamp-bestarred! + +{35} + + O to dream, O to awake and wander + There, and with delight to take and render, + Through the trance of silence, + Quiet breath; + Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, + Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; + Only winds and rivers, + Life and death. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 30. IN CITY STREETS + + Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping, + Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; + Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, + And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. + + Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, + (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) + Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, + Homeless in the City, poor among the poor! + + London streets are gold--ah, give me leaves a-glinting + 'Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! + London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting-- + God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run! + + Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, + Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! + Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing + Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells. + + _Ada Smith._ + +{36} + + 31. MARGARET'S SONG + + Too soothe and mild your lowland airs + For one whose hope is gone: + I'm thinking of a little tarn, + Brown, very lone. + + Would now the tall swift mists could lay + Their wet grasp on my hair, + And the great natures of the hills + Round me friendly were. + + In vain!--For taking hills your plains + Have spoilt my soul, I think, + But would my feet were going down + Towards the brown tarn's brink. + + _Lascelles Abercrombie._ + + + + + 82. TO S. R. CROCKETT + + Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, + Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, + Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, + My heart remembers how! + + Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, + Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, + Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, + And winds, austere and pure: + +{37} + + Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, + Hills of home! and to hear again the call; + Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, + And hear no more at all. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 33. CHILLINGHAM + + I + + Through the sunny garden + The humming bees are still; + The fir climbs the heather, + The heather climbs the hill. + + The low clouds have riven + A little rift through. + The hill climbs to heaven, + Far away and blue. + + + II + + O the high valley, the little low hill, + And the cornfield over the sea, + The wind that rages and then lies still, + And the clouds that rest and flee! + + O the gray island in the rainbow haze, + And the long thin spits of land, + The roughening pastures and the stony ways, + And the golden flash of the sand! + +{38} + + O the red heather on the moss-wrought rock, + And the fir-tree stiff and straight, + The shaggy old sheep-dog barking at the flock, + And the rotten old five-barred gate! + + O the brown bracken, the blackberry bough, + The scent of the gorse in the air! + I shall love them ever as I love them now, + I shall weary in Heaven to be there! + + + III + + Strike, Life, a happy hour, and let me live + But in that grace! + I shall have gathered all the world can give, + Unending Time and Space! + + Bring light and air--the thin and shining air + Of the North land, + The light that falls on tower and garden there, + Close to the gold sea-sand. + + Bring flowers, the latest colours of the earth, + Ere nun-like frost + Lay her hard hand upon this rainbow mirth, + With twinkling emerald crossed. + + The white star of the traveller's joy, the deep + Empurpled rays that hide the smoky stone, + The dahlia rooted in Egyptian sleep, + The last frail rose alone. + +{39} + + Let music whisper from a casement set + By them of old, + Where the light smell of lavender may yet + Rise from the soft loose mould. + + Then shall I know, with eyes and ears awake, + Not in bright gleams, + The joy my Heavenly Father joys to make + For men who grieve, in dreams! + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + + + + + 34. SUSSEX + + God gave all men all earth to love, + But since our hearts are small, + Ordained for each one spot should prove + Beloved over all; + That as He watched Creation's birth + So we, in godlike mood, + May of our love create our earth + And see that it is good. + + So one shall Baltic pines content, + As one some Surrey glade, + Or one the palm-grove's droned lament + Before Levuka's trade. + Each to his choice, and I rejoice + The lot has fallen to me + In a fair ground--in a fair ground-- + Yea, Sussex by the sea! + +{40} + + No tender-hearted garden crowns, + No bosomed woods adorn + Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs, + But gnarled and writhen thorn-- + Bare slopes where chasing shadows skim, + And through the gaps revealed + Belt upon belt, the wooded, dim + Blue goodness of the Weald. + + Clean of officious fence or hedge, + Half-wild and wholly tame, + The wise turf cloaks the white cliff edge + As when the Romans came. + What sign of those that fought and died + At shift of sword and sword? + The barrow and the camp abide, + The sunlight and the sward. + + Here leaps ashore the full Sou'west + All heavy-winged with brine, + Here lies above the folded crest + The Channel's leaden line; + And here the sea-fogs lap and cling, + And here, each warning each, + The sheep-bells and the ship-bells ring + Along the hidden beach. + + We have no waters to delight + Our broad and brookless vales-- + Only the dewpond on the height + Unfed, that never fails, + +{41} + + Whereby no tattered herbage tells + Which way the season flies-- + Only our close-bit thyme that smells + Like dawn in Paradise. + + Here through the strong unhampered days + The tinkling silence thrills; + Or little, lost. Down churches praise + The Lord who made the hills; + But here the Old Gods guard their round, + And, in her secret heart, + The heathen kingdom Wilfrid found + Dreams, as she dwells, apart. + + Though all the rest were all my share, + With equal soul I'd see + Her nine-and-thirty sisters fair, + Yet none more fair than she. + Choose ye your need from Thames to Tweed, + And I will choose instead + Such lands as lie 'twixt Rake and Rye, + Black Down and Beachy Head. + + I will go out against the sun + Where the rolled scarp retires, + And the Long Man of Wilmington + Looks naked toward the shires; + And east till doubling Rother crawls + To find the fickle tide, + By dry and sea-forgotten walls, + Our ports of stranded pride. + +{42} + + I will go north about the shaws + And the deep ghylls that breed + Huge oaks and old, the which we hold + No more than "Sussex weed"; + Or south where windy Piddinghoe's + Begilded dolphin veers, + And black beside wide-banked Ouse + Lie down our Sussex steers. + + So to the land our hearts we give + Till the sure magic strike, + And Memory, Use, and Love make live + Us and our fields alike-- + That deeper than our speech and thought, + Beyond our reason's sway, + Clay of the pit whence we were wrought + Yearns to its fellow-clay. + + God gives all men all earth to love, + But since man's heart is small + Ordains for each one spot shall prove + Beloved over all. + Each to his choice, and I rejoice + The lot has fallen to me + In a fair ground--in a fair ground-- + Yea, Sussex by the sea! + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + +{43} + + 35. THE SOUTH COUNTRY + + When I am living in the Midlands, + That are sodden and unkind, + I light my lamp in the evening: + My work is left behind; + And the great hills of the South Country + Come back into my mind. + + The great hills of the South Country + They stand along the sea, + And it's there, walking in the high woods, + That I could wish to be, + And the men that were boys when I was a boy + Walking along with me. + + The men that live in North England + I saw them for a day: + Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, + Their skies are fast and grey; + From their castle-walls a man may see + The mountains far away. + + The men that live in West England + They see the Severn strong, + A-rolling on rough water brown + Light aspen leaves along. + They have the secret of the Rocks, + And the oldest kind of song. + + But the men that live in the South Country + Are the kindest and most wise, + They get their laughter from the loud surf, + And the faith in their happy eyes + +{44} + + Comes surely from our Sister the Spring + When over the sea she flies; + The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, + She blesses us with surprise. + + I never get between the pines + But I smell the Sussex air; + Nor I never come on a belt of sand + But my home is there. + And along the sky the line of the Downs + So noble and so bare. + + A lost thing could I never find, + Nor a broken thing mend: + And I fear I shall be all alone + When I get towards the end. + Who will there be to comfort me + Or who will be my friend? + + I will gather and carefully make my friends + Of the men of the Sussex Weald, + They watch the stars from silent folds, + They stiffly plough the field. + By them and the God of the South Country + My poor soul shall be healed. + + If I ever become a rich man, + Or if ever I grow to be old, + I will build a house with deep thatch + To shelter me from the cold, + And there shall the Sussex songs be sung + And the story of Sussex told. + +{45} + + I will hold my house in the high wood, + Within a walk of the sea, + And the men that were boys when I was a boy + Shall sit and drink with me. + + _Hilaire Belloc._ + + + + + 36. CHANCLEBURY RING + + Say what you will, there is not in the world + A nobler sight than from this upper down. + No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled + From its Creator's hand as with a frown; + But a green plain on which green hills look down + Trim as a garden plot. No other hue + Can hence be seen, save here and there the brown + Of a square fallow, and the horizon's blue. + Dear checker-work of woods, the Sussex weald. + If a name thrills me yet of things of earth, + That name is thine! How often I have fled + To thy deep hedgerows and embraced each field, + Each lag, each pasture,--fields which gave me birth + And saw my youth, and which must hold me dead. + + _Wilfrid Blunt._ + + + + + 87. IN ROMNEY MARSH + + As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, + I heard the South sing o'er the land; + I saw the yellow sunlight fall + On knolls where Norman churches stand. + +{46} + + And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, + Within the wind a core of sound, + The wire from Romney town to Hythe + Alone its airy journey wound. + + A veil of purple vapour flowed + And trailed its fringe along the Straits; + The upper air like sapphire glowed; + And roses filled Heaven's central gates. + + Masts in the offing wagged their tops; + The swinging waves pealed on the shore; + The saffron beach, all diamond drops + And beads of surge, prolonged the roar. + + As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, + I saw above the Down's low crest + The crimson brands of sunset fall, + Flicker and fade from out the west. + + Night sank: like flakes of silver fire + The stars in one great shower came down; + Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire + Rang out from Hythe to Romney town. + + The darkly shining salt sea drops + Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; + The beach, with all its organ stops + Pealing again, prolonged the roar. + + _John Davidson._ + +{47} + + 38. A CINQUE PORT + + Below the down the stranded town + What may betide forlornly waits, + With memories of smoky skies, + When Gallic navies crossed the straits; + When waves with fire and blood grew bright, + And cannon thundered through the night. + + With swinging stride the rhythmic tide + Bore to the harbour barque and sloop; + Across the bar the ship of war, + In castled stern and lanterned poop, + Came up with conquests on her lee, + The stately mistress of the sea. + + Where argosies have wooed the breeze, + The simple sheep are feeding now; + And near and far across the bar + The ploughman whistles at the plough; + Where once the long waves washed the shore, + Larks from their lowly lodgings soar. + + Below the down the stranded town + Hears far away the rollers beat; + About the wall the seabirds call; + The salt wind murmurs through the street; + Forlorn the sea's forsaken bride + Awaits the end that shall betide. + + _John Davidson._ + +{48} + + 39. ESSEX + + I go through the fields of blue water + On the South road of the sea. + High to North the East-Country + Holds her green fields to me-- + For she that I gave over, + Gives not over me. + + Last night I lay at Good Easter + Under a hedge I knew, + Last night beyond High Easter + I trod the May-floors blue-- + Tilt from the sea the sun came + Bidding me wake and rue. + + Roding (that names eight churches)-- + Banks with the paigles dight-- + Chelmer whose mill and willows + Keep one red tower in sight-- + Under the Southern Cross run + Beside the ship to-night. + + Ah! I may not seek back now, + Neither be turned nor stayed. + Yet should I live, I'd seek her, + Once that my vows are paid! + And should I die I'd haunt her-- + I being what God made! + + England has greater counties-- + Their peace to hers is small. + +{49} + + Low hills, rich fields, calm rivers, + In Essex seek them all,-- + Essex, where I that found them + Found to lose them all! + + _Arthur Shearly Cripps._ + + + + + 40. A TOWN WINDOW + + Beyond my window in the night + Is but a drab inglorious street, + Yet there the frost and clean starlight + As over Warwick woods are sweet. + + Under the grey drift of the town + The crocus works among the mould + As eagerly as those that crown + The Warwick spring in flame and gold. + + And when the tramway down the hill + Across the cobbles moans and rings, + There is about my window-sill + The tumult of a thousand wings. + + _John Drinkwater._ + + + + + 41. MAMBLE + + I never went to Mamble + That lies above the Teme, + So I wonder who's in Mamble, + And whether people seem + Who breed and brew along there + As lazy as the name, + And whether any song there + Sets alehouse wits aflame. + +{50} + + The finger-post says Mamble, + And that is all I know + Of the narrow road to Mamble, + And should I turn and go + To that place of lazy token, + That lies above the Teme, + There might be a Mamble broken + That was lissom in a dream. + + So leave the road to Mamble + And take another road + To as good a place as Mamble + Be it lazy as a toad; + Who travels Worcester county + Takes any place that comes + When April tosses bounty + To the cherries and the plums. + + _John Drinkwater._ + + + + + 42. PLYMOUTH HARBOUR + + Oh, what know they of harbours + Who toss not on the sea! + They tell of fairer havens, + But none so fair there be + + As Plymouth town outstretching + Her quiet arms to me; + Her breast's broad welcome spreading + From Mewstone to Penlee. + +{51} + + Ah, with this home-thought, darling, + Come crowding thoughts of thee. + Oh, what know they of harbours + Who toss not on the sea! + + _Ernest Radford._ + + + + + 43. OXFORD + + I came to Oxford in the light + Of a spring-coloured afternoon; + Some clouds were grey and some were white, + And all were blown to such a tune + Of quiet rapture in the sky, + I laughed to see them laughing by. + + I had been dreaming in the train + With thoughts at random from my book; + I looked, and read, and looked again, + And suddenly to greet my look + Oxford shone up with every tower + Aspiring sweetly like a flower. + + Home turn the feet of men that seek, + And home the hearts of children turn, + And none can teach the hour to speak + What every hour is free to learn; + And all discover, late or soon, + Their golden Oxford afternoon. + + _Gerald Gould._ + +{52} + + 44. ALMA MATER + + Know you her secret none can utter? + Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown? + Still on the spire the pigeons flutter, + Still by the gateway flits the gown; + Still on the street, from corbel and gutter, + Faces of stone look down. + + Faces of stone, and stonier faces-- + Some from library windows wan + Forth on her gardens, her green spaces, + Peer and turn to their books anon. + Hence, my Muse, from the green oases + Gather the tent, begone! + + Nay, should she by the pavement linger + Under the rooms where once she played, + Who from the feast would rise to fling her + One poor _sou_ for her serenade? + One short laugh for the antic finger + Thrumming a lute-string frayed? + + Once, my dear--but the world was young then-- + Magdalen elms and Trinity limes-- + Lissom the blades and the backs that swung then, + Eight good men in the good old times-- + Careless we, and the chorus flung then + Under St. Mary's chimes! + + Reins lay loose and the ways led random-- + Christ Church meadow and Iffley track, + +{53} + + "Idleness horrid and dog-cart" (tandem), + Aylesbury grind and Bicester pack-- + Pleasant our lines, and faith! we scanned 'em; + Having that artless knack. + + Come, old limmer, the times grow colder; + Leaves of the creeper redden and fall. + Was it a hand then clapped my shoulder?-- + Only the wind by the chapel wall! + Dead leaves drift on the lute . . . So fold her + Under the faded shawl. + + Never we wince, though none deplore us, + We who go reaping that we sowed; + Cities at cockcrow wake before us-- + Hey, for the lilt of the London road! + One look back, and a rousing chorus! + Never a palinode! + + Still on her spire the pigeons hover; + Still by her gateway haunts the gown. + Ah, but her secret? You, young lover, + Drumming her old ones forth from town, + Know you the secret none discover? + Tell it--when _you_ go down. + + Yet if at length you seek her, prove her, + Lean to her whispers never so nigh; + Yet if at last not less her lover + You in your hansom leave the High; + Down from her towers a ray shall hover-- + Touch you, a passer-by. + + _Arthur Quiller-Couch._ + +{54} + + 45. FROM "DEDICATORY ODE" + + I will not try the reach again, + I will not set my sail alone, + To moor a boat bereft of men + At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone. + + But I will sit beside the fire, + And put my hand before my eyes, + And trace, to fill my heart's desire, + The last of all our Odysseys. + + The quiet evening kept her tryst: + Beneath an open sky we rode, + And passed into a wandering mist + Along the perfect Evenlode. + + The tender Evenlode that makes + Her meadows hush to hear the sound + Of waters mingling in the brakes, + And binds my heart to English ground. + + A lovely river, all alone, + She lingers in the hills and holds + A hundred little towns of stone, + Forgotten in the western wolds. + + _Hilaire Belloc._ + + + + + 46. THE DEVOURERS + + Cambridge town is a beleaguered city; + For south and north, like a sea, + There beat on its gates, without haste or pity, + The downs and the fen country. + +{55} + + Cambridge towers, so old, so wise, + They were builded but yesterday, + Watched by sleepy gray secret eyes + That smiled as at children's play. + + Roads south of Cambridge run into the waste, + Where learning and lamps are not, + And the pale downs tumble, blind, chalk-faced, + And the brooding churches squat. + + Roads north of Cambridge march through a plain + Level like the traitor sea. + It will swallow its ships, and turn and smile again-- + The insatiable fen country. + + Lest the downs and the fens should eat Cambridge up, + And its towers be tossed and thrown, + And its rich wine drunk from its broken cup, + And its beauty no more known-- + + Let us come, you and I, where the roads run blind, + Out beyond the transient city, + That our love, mingling with earth, may find + Her imperishable heart of pity. + + _Rose Macaulay._ + + + + + 47. THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER + + _Cafe des Westens, Berlin_ + + Just now the lilac is in bloom, + All before my little room; + And in my flower-beds, I think, + +{56} + + Smile the carnation and the pink; + And down the borders, well I know, + The poppy and the pansy blow . . . + Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through, + Beside the river make for you + A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep + Deeply above; and green and deep + The stream mysterious glides beneath, + Green as a dream and deep as death.-- + Oh, damn! I know it! and I know + How the May fields all golden show, + And when the day is young and sweet, + Gild gloriously the bare feet + That run to bathe . . . + _Du lieber Gott!_ + + Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot, + And there the shadowed waters fresh + Lean up to embrace the naked flesh. + _Temperamentvoll_ German Jews + Drink beer around; and _there_ the dews + Are soft beneath a morn of gold. + Here tulips bloom as they are told; + Unkempt about those hedges blows + An English unofficial rose; + And there the unregulated sun + Slopes down to rest when day is done, + And wakes a vague unpunctual star, + A slippered Hesper; and there are + Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton + Where _das Betreten's_ not _verboten_ . . . + +{57} + + _Eithe genoimen_ . . . would I were + In Grantchester, in Grantchester!-- + Some, it may be, can get in touch + With Nature there, or Earth, or such. + And clever modern men have seen + A Faun a-peeping through the green, + And felt the Classics were not dead, + To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head, + Or hear the Goat-foot piping low . . . + But these are things I do not know. + I only know that you may lie + Day long and watch the Cambridge sky, + And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass, + Hear the cool lapse of hours pass, + Until the centuries blend and blur + In Grantchester, in Grantchester . . . + Still in the dawnlit waters cool + His ghostly Lordship swims his pool, + And tries the strokes, essays the tricks, + Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx; + Dan Chaucer hears his river still + Chatter beneath a phantom mill; + Tennyson notes, with studious eye, + How Cambridge waters hurry by . . . + And in that garden, black and white + Creep whispers through the grass all night; + And spectral dance, before the dawn, + A hundred Vicars down the lawn; + Curates, long dust, will come and go + On lissom, clerical, printless toe; + And oft between the boughs is seen + +{58} + + The sly shade of a Rural Dean . . . + Till, at a shiver in the skies, + Vanishing with Satanic cries, + The prim ecclesiastic rout + Leaves but a startled sleeper-out, + Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls, + The falling house that never falls. + + God! I will pack, and take a train, + And get me to England once again! + For England's the one land, I know, + Where men with Splendid Hearts may go; + And Cambridgeshire, of all England, + The shire for Men who Understand; + And of _that_ district I prefer + The lovely hamlet Grantchester. + For Cambridge people rarely smile, + Being urban, squat, and packed with guile; + And Royston men in the far South + Are black and fierce and strange of mouth; + At Over they fling oaths at one, + And worse than oaths at Trumpington, + And Ditton girls are mean and dirty, + And there's none in Harston under thirty, + And folks in Shelford and those parts, + Have twisted lips and twisted hearts, + And Barton men make cockney rhymes, + And Coton's full of nameless crimes, + And things are done you'd not believe + At Madingley on Christmas Eve. + Strong men have run for miles and miles + +{59} + + When one from Cherry Hinton smiles; + Strong men have blanched and shot their wives + Rather than send them to St. Ives; + Strong men have cried like babes, bydam, + To hear what happened at Babraham. + But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester! + There's peace and holy quiet there, + Great clouds along pacific skies, + And men and women with straight eyes, + Lithe children lovelier than a dream, + A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream, + And little kindly winds that creep + Round twilight corners, half asleep. + In Grantchester their skins are white, + They bathe by day, they bathe by night; + The women there do all they ought; + The men observe the Rules of Thought. + They love the Good; they worship Truth; + They laugh uproariously in youth; + (And when they get to feeling old, + They up and shoot themselves, I'm told) . . . + + Ah God! to see the branches stir + Across the moon at Grantchester! + To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten, + Unforgettable, unforgotten + River smell, and hear the breeze + Sobbing in the little trees. + Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand, + Still guardians of that holy land? + The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream, + +{60} + + The yet unacademic stream? + Is dawn a secret shy and cold + Anadyomene, silver-gold? + And sunset still a golden sea + From Haslingfield to Madingley? + And after, ere the night is born, + Do hares come out about the corn? + Oh, is the water sweet and cool + Gentle and brown, above the pool? + And laughs the immortal river still + Under the mill, under the mill? + Say, is there Beauty yet to find? + And Certainty? and Quiet kind? + Deep meadows yet, for to forget + The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet + Stands the Church clock at ten to three? + And is there honey still for tea? + + _Rupert Brooke._ + + + + + 48. DAYS THAT HAVE BEEN + + Can I forget the sweet days that have been, + When poetry first began to warm my blood; + When from the hills of Gwent I saw the earth + Burned into two by Severn's silver flood: + + When I would go alone at night to see + The moonlight, like a big white butterfly, + Dreaming on that old castle near Caerleon, + While at its side the Usk went softly by: + +{61} + + When I would stare at lovely clouds in Heaven, + Or watch them when reported by deep streams; + When feeling pressed like thunder, but would not + Break into that grand music of my dreams? + + Can I forget the sweet days that have been, + The villages so green I have been in; + Llantarnam, Magor, Malpas, and Llanwern, + Liswery, old Caerleon, and Alteryn? + + Can I forget the banks of Malpas Brook, + Or Ebbw's voice in such a wild delight, + As on he dashed with pebbles in his throat, + Gurgling towards the sea with all his might? + + Ah, when I see a leafy village now + I sigh and ask it for Llantarnam's green; + I ask each river where is Ebbw's voice-- + In memory of the sweet days that have been. + + _William H. Davies._ + + + + + 49. THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE + + I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, + And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; + Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, + And live alone in the bee-loud glade. + +{62} + + And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, + Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; + There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, + And evening full of the linnet's wings. + + I will arise and go now, for always night and day + I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; + While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, + I hear it in the deep heart's core. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 60. THE FLOWERS + + _Buy English posies! + Kent and Surrey may-- + Violets of the Undercliff + Wet with Channel spray; + Cowslips from a Devon combe-- + Midland furze afire-- + Buy my English posies, + And I'll sell your heart's desire!_ + + Buy my English posies! + You that scorn the may, + Won't you greet a friend from home + Half the world away? + +{63} + + Green against the draggled drift, + Faint and frail and first-- + Buy my Northern blood-root + And I'll know where you were nursed; + + Robin down the logging-road whistles, "Come to me!" + Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free; + All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain. + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again! + + Buy my English posies! + Here's to match your need-- + Buy a tuft of royal heath, + Buy a bunch of weed + White as sand of Muysenberg + Spun before the gale-- + Buy my heath and lilies + And I'll tell you whence you hail! + + Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie-- + Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky-- + Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain-- + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again. + + Buy my English posies! + You that will not turn-- + Buy my hot-wood clematis + Buy a frond o' fern + +{64} + + Gather'd where the Erskine leaps + Down the road to Lorne-- + Buy my Christmas creeper + And I'll say where you were born! + + West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin-- + They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn-- + Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main-- + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again. + + Buy my English posies! + Here's your choice unsold! + Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom, + Buy the kowhai's gold + Flung for gift on Taupo's face, + Sign that spring is come-- + Buy my clinging myrtle + And I'll give you back your home! + + Broom behind the windy town; pollen o' the pine-- + Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the _ratas_ twine-- + Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain-- + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again. + + Buy my English posies! + Ye that have your own + Buy them for a brother's sake + Overseas, alone. + +{65} + + Weed ye trample underfoot + Floods his heart abrim-- + Bird ye never heeded, + O, she calls his dead to him. + + Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas; + Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these! + Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land-- + Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand. + + _Rudyard Kipling._ + + + + + 61. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL + + _A naked house, a naked moor, + A shivering pool before the door, + A garden bare of flowers and fruit + And poplars at the garden foot. + Such is the place that I live in, + Bleak without and bare within._ + + Yet shall your ragged moor receive + The incomparable pomp of eve, + And the cold glories of the dawn + Behind your shivering trees be drawn; + And when the wind from place to place + Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase, + Your garden gloom and gleam again, + With leaping sun, with glancing rain. + Here shall the wizard moon ascend + The heavens, in the crimson end + +{66} + + Of day's declining splendour; here + The army of the stars appear. + The neighbour hollows dry or wet, + Spring shall with tender flowers beset; + And oft the morning muser see + Larks rising from the broomy lea, + And every fairy wheel and thread + Of cobweb dew-bediamonded. + When daisies go, shall winter time + Silver the simple grass with rime; + Autumnal frosts enchant the pool + And make the cart-ruts beautiful; + And when snow-bright the moor expands, + How shall your children clap their hands! + To make this earth our hermitage, + A cheerful and a changeful page, + God's bright and intricate device + Of days and seasons doth suffice. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 52. THE OLD LOVE + + Out of my door I step into + The country, all her scent and dew, + Nor travel there by a hard road, + Dusty and far from my abode. + + The country washes to my door + Green miles on miles in soft uproar, + The thunder of the woods, and then + The backwash of green surf again. + +{67} + + Beyond the feverfew and stocks, + The guelder-rose and hollyhocks; + Outside my trellised porch a tree + Of lilac frames a sky for me. + + A stretch of primrose and pale green + To hold the tender Hesper in; + Hesper that by the moon makes pale + Her silver keel and silver sail. + + The country silence wraps me quite, + Silence and song and pure delight; + The country beckons all the day + Smiling, and but a step away. + + This is that country seen across + How many a league of love and loss, + Prayed for and longed for, and as far + As fountains in the desert are. + + This is that country at my door, + Whose fragrant airs run on before, + And call me when the first birds stir + In the green wood to walk with her. + + _Katharine Tynan._ + + + + + 53. EARLY MORN + + When I did wake this morn from sleep, + It seemed I heard birds in a dream; + Then I arose to take the air-- + The lovely air that made birds scream; + Just as a green hill launched the ship + Of gold, to take its first clear dip. + +{68} + + And it began its journey then, + As I came forth to take the air; + The timid Stars had vanished quite, + The Moon was dying with a stare; + Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen, + As still as pictures, in fields green. + + It seemed as though I had surprised + And trespassed in a golden world + That should have passed while men still slept! + The joyful birds, the ship of gold, + The horses, kine, and sheep did seem + As they would vanish for a dream. + + _William H. Davies._ + + + + + 64. THE HILL PINES WERE SIGHING + + The hill pines were sighing, + O'ercast and chill was the day: + A mist in the valley lying + Blotted the pleasant May. + + But deep in the glen's bosom + Summer slept in the fire + Of the odorous gorse-blossom + And the hot scent of the brier. + + A ribald cuckoo clamoured, + And out of the copse the stroke + Of the iron axe that hammered + The iron heart of the oak. + +{69} + + Anon a sound appalling, + As a hundred years of pride + Crashed, in the silence falling; + And the shadowy pine-trees sighed. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 55. THE CHOICE + + When skies are blue and days are bright + A kitchen-garden's my delight, + Set round with rows of decent box + And blowsy girls of hollyhocks. + + Before the lark his Lauds hath done + And ere the corncrake's southward gone; + Before the thrush good-night hath said + And the young Summer's put to bed. + + The currant-bushes' spicy smell, + Homely and honest, likes me well, + The while on strawberries I feast, + And raspberries the sun hath kissed. + + Beans all a-blowing by a row. + Of hives that great with honey go, + With mignonette and heaths to yield + The plundering bee his honey-field. + + Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage + And the delicious mint and sage, + Rosemary, marjoram, and rue, + And thyme to scent the winter through. + +{70} + + Here are small apples growing round, + And apricots all golden-gowned, + And plums that presently will flush + And show their bush a Burning Bush. + + Cherries in nets against the wall, + Where Master Thrush his madrigal + Sings, and makes oath a churl is he + Who grudges cherries for a fee. + + Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here + Shall Beauty make her pomander, + Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes + That wrap her as the leaves the rose. + + Take roses red and lilies white, + A kitchen garden's my delight; + Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves, + And its tall cote of irised doves. + + _Katharine Tynan._ + + + + + 56. THERE IS A HILL + + There is a hill beside the silver Thames, + Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine + And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems + Steeply the thickets to his floods decline. + Straight trees in every place + Their thick tops interlace, + And pendent branches trail their foliage fine + Upon his watery face. + +{71} + + Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows: + His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade, + Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes + Straight to the caverned pool his toil has made. + His winter floods lay bare + The stout roots in the air: + His summer streams are cool, when they have played + Among their fibrous hair. + + A rushy island guards the sacred bower, + And hides it from the meadow, where in peace + The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, + Robbing the golden market of the bees: + And laden barges float + By banks of myosote; + And scented flag and golden flower-de-lys + Delay the loitering boat. + + And on this side the island, where the pool + Eddies away, are tangled mass on mass + The water-weeds, that net the fishes cool, + And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass; + Where spreading crowfoot mars + The drowning nenuphars, + Waving the tassels of her silken grass + Below her silver stars. + + But in the purple pool there nothing grows, + Not the white water-lily spoked with gold; + +{72} + + Though best she loves the hollows, and well knows + On quiet streams her broad shields to unfold: + Yet should her roots but try + Within these deeps to lie, + Not her long-reaching stalk could ever hold + Her waxen head so high. + + Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook + Within its hidden depths, and 'gainst a tree + Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book, + Forgetting soon his pride of fishery; + And dreams, or falls asleep, + While curious fishes peep + About his nibbled bait, or scornfully + Dart off and rise and leap. + + And sometimes a slow figure 'neath the trees, + In ancient-fashioned smock, with tottering care + Upon a staff propping his weary knees. + May by the pathway of the forest fare: + As from a buried day + Across the mind will stray + Some perishing mute shadow,--and unaware + He passeth on his way. + + Else, he that wishes solitude is safe, + Whether he bathe at morning in the stream: + Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafe + The meadows, busy with a blurring steam; + Or watch, as fades the light, + The gibbous moon grow bright, + Until her magic rays dance in a dream, + And glorify the night. + +{73} + + Where is this bower beside the silver Thames? + O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow! + O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems, + No sharer of my secret I allow: + Lest ere I come the while + Strange feet your shades defile; + Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow + Within your guardian isle. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 57. BAB-LOCK-HYTHE + + In the time of wild roses + As up Thames we travelled + Where 'mid water-weeds ravelled + The lily uncloses, + + To his old shores the river + A new song was singing, + And young shoots were springing + On old roots for ever. + + Dog-daisies were dancing, + And flags flamed in cluster, + On the dark stream a lustre + Now blurred and now glancing. + + A tall reed down-weighing + The sedge-warbler fluttered; + One sweet note he uttered, + Then left it soft-swaying. + +{74} + + By the bank's sandy hollow + My dipt oars went beating, + And past our bows fleeting + Blue-backed shone the swallow. + + High woods, heron-haunted, + Rose, changed, as we rounded + Old hills greenly mounded, + To meadows enchanted. + + A dream ever moulded + Afresh for our wonder, + Still opening asunder + For the stream many-folded; + + Till sunset was rimming + The West with pale flushes; + Behind the black rushes + The last light was dimming; + + And the lonely stream, hiding + Shy birds, grew more lonely, + And with us was only + The noise of our gliding. + + In cloud of gray weather + The evening o'erdarkened, + In the stillness we hearkened; + Our hearts sang together. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + +{75} + + 58. ROWER'S CHANT + + Row till the land dip 'neath + The sea from view. + Row till a land peep up, + A home for you. + + Row till the mast sing songs + Welcome and sweet. + Row till the waves, out-stripped, + Give up dead beat. + + Row till the sea-nymphs rise + To ask you why + Rowing you tarry not + To hear them sigh. + + Row till the stars grow bright + Like certain eyes. + Row till the noon be high + As hopes you prize. + + Row till you harbour in + All longing's port. + Row till you find all things + For which you sought. + + _T. Sturge Moore._ + + + + + 59. FAREWELL + + Not soon shall I forget--a sheet + Of golden water, cold and sweet, + The young moon with her head in veils + Of silver, and the nightingales. + +{76} + + A wain of hay came up the lane-- + O fields I shall not walk again, + And trees I shall not see, so still + Against a sky of daffodil! + + Fields where my happy heart had rest, + And where my heart was heaviest, + I shall remember them at peace + Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece. + + The golden water sweet and cold, + The moon of silver and of gold, + The dew upon the gray grass-spears, + I shall remember them with tears. + + _Katharine Tynan._ + + + + + 60. A SHIP, AN ISLE, A SICKLE MOON + + A ship, an isle, a sickle moon-- + With few but with how splendid stars + The mirrors of the sea are strewn + Between their silver bars! + + * * * * * * + + An isle beside an isle she lay, + The pale ship anchored in the bay, + While in the young moon's port of gold + A star-ship--as the mirrors told-- + Put forth its great and lonely light + To the unreflecting Ocean, Night. + +{77} + + And still, a ship upon her seas, + The isle and the island cypresses + Went sailing on without the gale: + And still there moved the moon so pale, + A crescent ship without a sail! + + _James Elroy Flecker._ + + + + + 61. NOD + + Softly along the road of evening, + In a twilight dim with rose, + Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew + Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. + + His drowsy flock streams on before him, + Their fleeces charged with gold, + To where the sun's last beam leans low + On Nod the shepherd's fold. + + The hedge is quick and green with briar, + From their sand the conies creep; + And all the birds that fly in heaven + Flock singing home to sleep. + + His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, + Yet, when night's shadows fall, + His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, + Misses not one of all. + + His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, + The waters of no-more-pain, + His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, + "Rest, rest, and rest again." + + _Walter de la Mare._ + +{78} + + 62. CHIMES + + Brief, on a flying night, + From the shaken tower, + A flock of bells take flight, + And go with the hour. + + Like birds from the cote to the gales, + Abrupt--O hark! + A fleet of bells set sails, + And go to the dark. + + Sudden the cold airs swing. + Alone, aloud, + A verse of bells takes wing + And flies with the cloud. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 63. SPRING GOETH ALL IN WHITE + + Spring goeth all in white, + Crowned with milk-white may: + In fleecy flocks of light + O'er heaven the white clouds stray: + + White butterflies in the air; + White daisies prank the ground: + The cherry and hoary pear + Scatter their snow around. + + _Robert Bridges._ + +{79} + + 64. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY + + To-day, all day, I rode upon the down, + With hounds and horsemen, a brave company. + On this side in its glory lay the sea, + On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown. + The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, + And still we galloped on from gorse to gorse. + And once, when checked, a thrush sang, and my horse + Pricked his quick ears as to a sound unknown. + I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even + Better than all by this, that through my chase + In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven + I seemed to see and follow still your face. + Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, + My horse a thing of wings, myself a god. + + _Wilfrid Blunt._ + + + + + 65. A DAY IN SUSSEX + + The dove did lend me wings. I fled away + From the loud world which long had troubled me. + Oh lightly did I flee when hoyden May + Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn-tree. + I left the dusty high-road, and my way + Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair. + A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay + From every hedge and every thicket there. + Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the grass + All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve. + +{80} + + And hares unwitting close to me did pass, + And still the birds sang, and I could not grieve. + Oh what a blessed thing that evening was! + Peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive + A soul to joy or lull a heart to peace. + It glimmers yet across whole years like these. + + _Wilfrid Blunt._ + + + + + 66. ODE IN MAY + + Let me go forth, and share + The overflowing Sun + With one wise friend, or one + Better than wise, being fair, + Where the pewit wheels and dips + On heights of bracken and ling, + And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, + Tingles with the Spring. + + What is so sweet and dear + As a prosperous morn in May, + The confident prime of the day, + And the dauntless youth of the year, + When nothing that asks for bliss, + Asking aright, is denied, + And half of the world a bridegroom is, + And half of the world a bride? + + The Song of Mingling flows, + Grave, ceremonial, pure, + As once, from lips that endure, + The cosmic descant rose, + +{81} + + When the temporal lord of life, + Going his golden way, + Had taken a wondrous maid to wife + That long had said him nay. + + For of old the Sun, our sire, + Came wooing the mother of men, + Earth, that was virginal then, + Vestal fire to his fire. + Silent her bosom and coy, + But the strong god sued and pressed; + And born of their starry nuptial joy + Are all that drink of her breast. + + And the triumph of him that begot, + And the travail of her that bore, + Behold they are evermore + As warp and weft in our lot. + We are children of splendour and flame, + Of shuddering, also, and tears. + Magnificent out of the dust we came, + And abject from the Spheres. + + O bright irresistible lord! + We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, + And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, + Whence first was the seed outpoured. + To thee as our Father we bow, + Forbidden thy Father to see, + Who is older and greater than thou, as thou + Art greater and older than we. + +{82} + + Thou art but as a word of his speech, + Thou art but as a wave of his hand; + Thou art brief as a glitter of sand + 'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; + Thou art less than a spark of his fire, + Or a moment's mood of his soul: + Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir + That chant the chant of the Whole. + + _William Watson._ + + + + + 67. THE SCARECROW + + All winter through I bow my head + Beneath the driving rain; + The North wind powders me with snow + And blows me black again; + At midnight 'neath a maze of stars + I flame with glittering rime, + And stand, above the stubble, stiff + As mail at morning-prime. + But when that child, called Spring, and all + His host of children, come, + Scattering their buds and dew upon + These acres of my home, + Some rapture in my rags awakes; + I lift void eyes and scan + The skies for crows, those ravening foes, + Of my strange master, Man. + I watch him striding lank behind + His clashing team, and know + Soon will the wheat swish body high + Where once lay sterile snow; + +{83} + + Soon shall I gaze across a sea + Of sun-begotten grain, + Which my unflinching watch hath sealed + For harvest once again. + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 68. THE VAGABOND + + Give to me the life I love, + Let the lave go by me, + Give the jolly heaven above + And the byway nigh me. + Bed in the bush with stars to see, + Bread I dip in the river-- + There's the life for a man like me, + There's the life for ever. + + Let the blow fall soon or late, + Let what will be o'er me; + Give the face of earth around + And the road before me. + Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, + Nor a friend to know me; + All I seek, the heaven above + And the road below me. + + Or let autumn fall on me + Where afield I linger, + Silencing the bird on tree, + Biting the blue finger. + White as meal the frosty field-- + Warm the fireside haven-- + Not to autumn will I yield, + Not to winter even! + +{84} + + Let the blow fall soon or late, + Let what will be o'er me; + Give the face of earth around + And the road before me. + Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, + Nor a friend to know me; + All I ask, the heaven above + And the road below me. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 69. TEWKESBURY ROAD + + It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, + Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; + Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool + rush of the air, + Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. + + And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern + at the brink + Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves + purple and white; + Where, the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink + When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. + +{85} + + O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, + Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; + And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth + At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry + of the birds. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 70. TO A LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN + + O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, + Missing so much and so much? + O fat white woman whom nobody loves, + Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, + When the grass is soft as the breast of doves + And shivering-sweet to the touch? + O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, + Missing so much and so much? + + _Frances Cornford._ + + + + + 71. I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES + + I will make you brooches and toys for your delight + Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. + I will make a palace fit for you and me + Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. + + I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, + Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, + +{86} + + And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white + In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. + + And this shall be for music when no one else is near, + The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! + That only I remember, that only you admire, + Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 72. JUGGLING JERRY + + Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes! + By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. + It's nigh my last above the daisies: + My next leaf 'll be man's blank page. + Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: + Juggler, constable, king, must bow. + One that outjuggles all 's been spying + Long to have me, and he has me now. + + We've travelled times to this old common: + Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. + We've had a stirring life, old woman! + You, and I, and the old grey horse, + Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, + Found us coming to their call: + Now they'll miss us at our stations: + There's a Juggler outjuggles all! + +{87} + + Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! + Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. + Easy to think that grieving's folly, + When the hand's firm as driven stakes! + Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, + Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch + Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful; + Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. + + Here's where the lads of the village cricket: + I was a lad not wide from here: + Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket? + Like an old world those days appear! + Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house--I know them! + They are old friends of my halts, and seem, + Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: + Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem. + + Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: + Nature allows us to bait for the fool. + Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; + But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. + You that are sneering at my profession, + Haven't you juggled a vast amount? + There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, + Juggles more games than my sins'll count. + + I've murdered insects with mock thunder: + Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. + I've made bread from the bump of wonder: + That's my business, and there's my tale. + +{88} + + Fashion and rank all praised the professor: + Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen + Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! + Ain't this a sermon on that scene? + + I've studied men from my topsy-turvy + Close, and, I reckon, rather true. + Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; + Most, a dash between the two. + But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me + Think more kindly of the race, + And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me + When the Great Juggler I must face. + + We two were married, due and legal: + Honest we've lived since we've been one. + Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: + You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. + Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! + All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. + Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! + Now from his old girl he's juggled away. + + It's past parsons to console us: + No, nor no doctor fetch for me: + I can die without my bolus; + Two of a trade, lass, never agree! + Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely, + Fighting the devil in other men's fields! + Stand up yourself and match him fairly, + Then see how the rascal yields! + +{89} + + I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting + Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: + Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: + You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. + Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen + Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! + Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, + But your old Jerry you never forsook. + + Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; + Let's have comfort and be at peace. + Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. + Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. + Maybe--for none see in that black hollow-- + It's just a place where we're held in pawn, + And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, + It's just the sword-trick--I ain't quite gone! + + Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, + Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May + Better than mortar, brick and putty, + Is God's house on a blowing day. + Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: + All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? + There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, + But He's by us, juggling the change. + + I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, + Once--it's long gone--when two gulls we beheld, + Which, as the moon got up, were flying + Down a big wave that sparked and swelled. + +{90} + + Crack went a gun: one fell: the second + Wheeled round him, twice, and was off for new luck; + There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:-- + Drop me a kiss--I'm the bird dead-struck! + + _George Meredith._ + + + + + 73. REQUIEM + + Under the wide and starry sky, + Dig the grave and let me lie. + Glad did I live and gladly die, + And I laid me down with a will. + + This be the verse you grave for me: + _Here he lies where he longed to be; + Home is the sailor, home from sea, + And the hunter home from the hill._ + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 74. A DEAD HARVEST + + _In Kensington Gardens_ + + Along the graceless grass of town + They rake the rows of red and brown-- + Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay + Delicate, touched with gold and grey, + Raked long ago and far away. + + A narrow silence in the park, + Between the lights a narrow dark. + One street rolls on the north; and one, + Muffled, upon the south doth run; + Amid the mist the work is done. + +{91} + + A futile crop!--for it the fire + Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. + So go the town's lives on the breeze, + Even as the sheddings of the trees; + Bosom nor barn is filled with these. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 75. THE LITTLE DANCERS + + Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky + Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street + Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. + Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat; + And all is dark, save where come flooding rays + From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure + Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, + Two children, all alone and no one by, + Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze + Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet, + Dance sedately: face to face they gaze, + Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 76. LONDON SNOW + + When men were all asleep the snow came flying, + In large white flakes falling on the city brown, + Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, + Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; + Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; + Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: + Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; + +{92} + + Hiding difference, making unevenness even, + Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. + All night it fell, and when full inches seven + It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, + The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; + And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness + Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: + The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; + The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; + No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, + And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. + Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, + They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze + Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snow-balling; + Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; + Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, + "O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!" + With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, + Following along the white deserted way, + A country company long dispersed asunder: + When now already the sun, in pale display + Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below + His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. + For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; + And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, + Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go; + +{93} + + But even for them awhile no cares encumber + Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, + The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber + At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the + charm they have broken. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 77. THE ROAD MENDERS + + How solitary gleams the lamplit street + Waiting the far-off morn! + How softly from the unresting city blows + The murmur borne + Down this deserted way! + Dim loiterers pass home with stealthy feet. + Now only, sudden at their interval, + The lofty chimes awaken and let fall + Deep thrills of ordered sound; + Subsiding echoes gradually drowned + In a great stillness, that creeps up around, + And darkly grows + Profounder over all + Like a strong frost, hushing a stormy day. + + But who is this, that by the brazier red + Encamped in his rude hut, + With many a sack about his shoulder spread + Watches with eyes unshut? + The burning brazier flushes his old face, + Illumining the old thoughts in his eyes. + Surely the Night doth to her secrecies + Admit him, and the watching stars attune +{94} + + To their high patience, who so lightly seems + To bear the weight of many thousand dreams + (Dark hosts around him sleeping numberless); + He surely hath unbuilt all walls of thought + To reach an air-wide wisdom, past access + Of us, who labour in the noisy noon, + The noon that knows him not. + + For lo, at last the gloom slowly retreats, + And swiftly, like an army, comes the Day, + All bright and loud through the awakened streets + Sending a cheerful hum. + And he has stolen away. + Now, with the morning shining round them, come + Young men, and strip their coats + And loose the shirts about their throats, + And lightly up their ponderous hammers lift, + Each in his turn descending swift + With triple strokes that answer and begin + Duly, and quiver in repeated change, + Marrying the eager echoes that weave in + A music clear and strange. + But pausing soon, each lays his hammer down + And deeply breathing bares + His chest, stalwart and brown, + To the sunny airs. + Laughing one to another, limber hand + On limber hip, flushed in a group they stand, + And now untired renew their ringing toil. + The sun stands high, and ever a fresh throng + Comes murmuring; but that eddying turmoil + +{95} + + Leaves many a loiterer, prosperous or unfed, + On easy or unhappy ways + At idle gaze, + Charmed in the sunshine and the rhythm enthralling, + As of unwearied Fates, for ever young, + That on the anvil of necessity + From measureless desire and quivering fear, + With musical sure lifting and downfalling + Of arm and hammer driven perpetually, + Beat out in obscure span + The fiery destiny of man. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 78. STREET LANTERNS + + Country roads are yellow and brown. + We mend the roads in London town. + + Never a hansom dare come nigh, + Never a cart goes rolling by. + + An unwonted silence steals + In between the turning wheels. + + Quickly ends the autumn day, + And the workman goes his way, + + Leaving, midst the traffic rude, + One small isle of solitude, + + Lit, throughout the lengthy night, + By the little lantern's light. + +{96} + + Jewels of the dark have we, + Brighter than the rustic's be. + + Over the dull earth are thrown + Topaz, and the ruby stone. + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + + + + + 79. O SUMMER SUM + + O summer sun, O moving trees! + O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street! + What hour shall Fate in all the future find, + Or what delights, ever to equal these: + Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind, + Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet? + + _Laurence Binyon._ + + + + + 80. LONDON + + Athwart the sky a lowly sigh + From west to east the sweet wind carried; + The sun stood still on Primrose Hill; + His light in all the city tarried: + The clouds on viewless columns bloomed + Like smouldering lilies unconsumed. + + "Oh sweetheart, see! how shadowy, + Of some occult magician's rearing, + Or swung in space of heaven's grace + Dissolving, dimly reappearing, + Afloat upon ethereal tides + St. Paul's above the city rides!" + +{97} + + A rumour broke through the thin smoke + Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace, + The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, + The million-peopled lanes and alleys, + An ever-muttering prisoned storm, + The heart of London beating warm. + + _John Davidson._ + + + + + 81. NOVEMBER BLUE + +The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary +colour to the air in the early evening.--_Essay on London_. + + O heavenly colour, London town + Has blurred it from her skies; + And, hooded in an earthly brown, + Unheaven'd the city lies. + No longer standard-like this hue + Above the broad road flies; + Nor does the narrow street the blue + Wear, slender pennon-wise. + + But when the gold and silver lamps + Colour the London dew, + And, misted by the winter damps, + The shops shine bright anew-- + Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, + It dyes the wide air through; + A mimic sky about their feet, + The throng go crowned with blue. + + _Alice Meynell._ + +{98} + + 82. PHILOMEL IN LONDON + + Not within a granite pass, + Dim with flowers and soft with grass-- + Nay, but doubly, trebly sweet + In a poplared London street, + While below my windows go + Noiseless barges, to and fro, + Through the night's calm deep, + Ah! what breaks the bonds of sleep? + + No steps on the pavement fall, + Soundless swings the dark canal; + From a church-tower out of sight + Clangs the central hour of night. + Hark! the Dorian nightingale! + Pan's voice melted to a wail! + Such another bird + Attic Tereus never heard. + + Hung above the gloom and stain-- + London's squalid cope of pain-- + Pure as starlight, bold as love, + Honouring our scant poplar-grove, + That most heavenly voice of earth + Thrills in passion, grief or mirth, + Laves our poison'd air + Life's best song-bath crystal-fair. + + While the starry minstrel sings + Little matters what he brings, + Be it sorrow, be it pain, + Let him sing and sing again, + +{99} + + Till, with dawn, poor souls rejoice, + Wakening, once to hear his voice, + Ere afar he flies, + Bound for purer woods and skies. + + _Edmund Gosse._ + + + + + 83. ANNUS MIRABILIS (1902) + + Daylight was down, and up the cool + Bare heaven the moon, o'er roof and elm, + Daughter of dusk most wonderful, + Went mounting to her realm: + And night was only half begun + Round Edwardes Square in Kensington. + + A Sabbath-calm possessed her face, + An even glow her bosom filled; + High in her solitary place + The huntress-heart was stilled: + With bow and arrows all laid down + She stood and looked on London town. + + Nay, how can sight of us give rest + To that far-travelled heart, or draw + The musings of that tranquil breast? + I thought--and gazing, saw + Far up above me, high, oh, high, + From south to north a heron fly! + + Oh, swiftly answered! yonder flew + The wings of freedom and of hope! + Little of London town he knew, + The far horizon was his scope. + +{100} + + High up he sails, and sees beneath + The glimmering ponds of Hampstead Heath, + + Hendon, and farther out afield + Low water-meads are in his ken, + And lonely pools by Harrow Weald, + And solitudes unloved of men, + Where he his fisher's spear dips down: + Little he knows of London town. + + So small, with all its miles of sin, + Is London to the grey-winged bird, + A cuckoo called at Lincoln's Inn + Last April; in Soho was heard + The missel-thrush with throat of glee, + And nightingales at Battersea! + + _Laurence Housman._ + + + + + 84. FLEET STREET + + I never see the newsboys run + Amid the whirling street, + With swift untiring feet, + To cry the latest venture done, + But I expect one day to hear + Them cry the crack of doom + And risings from the tomb, + With great Archangel Michael near; + And see them running from the Fleet + As messengers of God, + With Heaven's tidings shod + About their brave unwearied feet. + + _Shane Leslie._ + +{101} + + 86. IN THE MEADOWS AT MANTUA + + But to have lain upon the grass + One perfect day, one perfect hour, + Beholding all things mortal pass + Into the quiet of green grass; + + But to have lain and loved the sun, + Under the shadow of the trees, + To have been found in unison, + Once only, with the blessed sun; + + Ah! in these flaring London nights, + Where midnight withers into morn, + How quiet a rebuke it writes + Across the sky of London nights! + + Upon the grass at Mantua + These London nights were all forgot. + They wake for me again: but ah, + The meadow-grass at Mantua! + + _Arthur Symons._ + + + + + 86. LEISURE + + What is this life if, full of care, + We have no time to stand and stare. + + No time to stand beneath the boughs + And stare as long as sheep or cows. + + No time to see, when woods we pass, + Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. + +{102} + + No time to see, in broad daylight, + Streams full of stars, like skies at night. + + No time to turn at Beauty's glance, + And watch her feet, how they can dance. + + No time to wait till her mouth can + Enrich that smile her eyes began. + + A poor life this if, full of care, + We have no time to stand and stare. + + _William H. Davies._ + + + + + 87. LYING IN THE GRASS + + Between two russet tufts of summer grass, + I watch the world through hot air as through glass, + And by my face sweet lights and colours pass. + + Before me, dark against the fading sky, + I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: + With brawny arms they sweep in harmony. + + Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, + Rich glowing colour on bare throat and head, + My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead! + + And in my strong young living as I lie, + I seem to move with them in harmony,-- + A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I. + +{103} + + The music of the scythes that glide and leap, + The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, + And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep, + + The weary butterflies that droop their wings, + The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, + And all the lassitude of happy things + + Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood + That gushes through my veins a languid flood, + And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud. + + Behind the mowers, on the amber air, + A dark-green beech-wood rises, still and fair, + A white path winding up it like a stair. + + And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, + And clean white apron on her gown of red,-- + Her even-song of love is but half-said: + + She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; + Her cheeks are redder than the wild blush-rose; + They climb up where the deepest shadows close. + + But though they pass and vanish, I am there; + I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair, + Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer + + Ah! now the rosy children come to play, + And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; + Their clear high voices sound from far away. + +{104} + + They know so little why the world is sad, + They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad; + Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad! + + I long to go and play among them there, + Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, + And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair. + + The happy children! full of frank surprise, + And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies; + What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes! + + No wonder round those urns of mingled clays + That Tuscan potters fashion'd in old days, + And coloured like the torrid earth ablaze, + + We find the little gods and loves portray'd + Through ancient forests wandering undismay'd, + Or gathered, whispering, in some pleasant glade. + + They knew, as I do now, what keen delight + A strong man feels to watch the tender flight + Of little children playing in his sight. + + I do not hunger for a well-stored mind, + I only wish to live my life, and find + My heart in unison with all mankind. + + My life is like the single dewy star + That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,-- + A microcosm where all things living are. + +{105} + + And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death + Should come behind and take away my breath, + I should not rise as one who sorroweth, + + For I should pass, but all the world would be + Full of desire and young delight and glee, + And why should men be sad through loss of me? + + The light is dying; in the silver-blue + The young moon shines from her bright window through: + The mowers all are gone, and I go too. + + _Edmund Gosse._ + + + + + 88. DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS + + Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; + She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. + She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; + But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. + + In a field by the river my love and I did stand, + And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. + She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; + But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + +{106} + + 89. RENAISSANCE + + O happy soul, forget thy self! + This that has haunted all the past, + That conjured disappointments fast, + That never could let well alone; + That, climbing to achievement's throne, + Slipped on the last step; this that wove + Dissatisfaction's clinging net, + And ran through life like squandered pelf:-- + This that till now has been thy self + Forget, O happy soul, forget. + + If ever thou didst aught commence,-- + Set'st forth in springtide woods to rove,-- + Or, when the sun in July throve, + Didst plunge into calm bay of ocean + With fine felicity in motion,-- + Or, having climbed some high hill's brow, + Thy toil behind thee like the night, + Stoodst in the chill dawn's air intense;-- + Commence thus now, thus recommence: + + Take to the future as to light. + Not as a bather on the shore + Strips of his clothes, glad soul, strip thou: + He throws them off, but folds them now; + Although he for the billows yearns, + To weight them down with stones he turns; + To mark the spot he scans the shore; + Of his return he thinks before. + Do thou forget + +{107} + + All that, until this joy franchised thee, + Tainted thee, stained thee, or disguised thee; + For gladness, henceforth without let, + Be thou a body, naked, fair; + And be thy kingdom all the air + Which the noon fills with light; + And be thine actions every one, + Like to a dawn or set of sun, + Robed in an ample glory's peace; + Since thou hast tasted this great glee + Whose virtue prophesies in thee + That wrong is wholly doomed, is doomed and bound to cease. + + _T. Sturge Moore._ + + + + + 90. TO WILL. H. LOW + + Youth now flees on feathered foot + Faint and fainter sounds the flute, + Rarer songs of gods; and still + Somewhere on the sunny hill, + Or along the winding stream, + Through the willows, flits a dream; + Flits but shows a smiling face, + Flees but with so quaint a grace, + None can choose to stay at home, + All must follow, all must roam. + + This is unborn beauty: she + Now in air floats high and free, + Takes the sun and breaks the blue;-- + Late with stooping pinion flew + +{108} + + Raking hedgerow trees, and wet + Her wing in silver streams, and set + Shining foot on temple roof: + Now again she flies aloof, + Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't + By the evening's amethyst. + + In wet wood and miry lane, + Still we pant and pound in vain; + Still with leaden foot we chase + Waning pinion, fainting face; + Still with gray hair we stumble on, + Till, behold, the vision gone! + Where hath fleeting beauty led? + To the doorway of the dead. + Life is over, life was gay: + We have come the primrose way. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 81. GAUDEAMUS IGITUR + + Come, no more of grief and dying! + Sing the time too swiftly flying. + Just an hour + Youth's in flower, + Give me roses to remember + In the shadow of December. + + Fie on steeds with leaden paces! + Winds shall bear us on our races, + Speed, O speed, + Wind, my steed, + Beat the lightning for your master, + Yet my Fancy shall fly faster. + +{109} + + Give me music, give me rapture, + Youth that's fled can none recapture; + Not with thought + Wisdom's bought. + Out on pride and scorn and sadness! + Give me laughter, give me gladness. + + Sweetest Earth, I love and love thee, + Seas about thee, skies above thee, + Sun and storms, + Hues and forms + Of the clouds with floating shadows + On thy mountains and thy meadows. + + Earth, there's none that can enslave thee, + Not thy lords it is that have thee; + Not for gold + Art thou sold, + But thy lovers at their pleasure + Take thy beauty and thy treasure. + + While sweet fancies meet me singing, + While the April blood is springing + In my breast, + While a jest + And my youth thou yet must leave me, + Fortune, 'tis not thou canst grieve me. + + When at length the grasses cover + Me, the world's unwearied lover, + If regret + Haunt me yet, + +{110} + + It shall be for joys untasted, + Nature lent and folly wasted. + + Youth and jests and summer weather, + Goods that kings and clowns together + Waste or use + As they choose, + These, the best, we miss pursuing + Sullen shades that mock our wooing. + + Feigning Age will not delay it-- + When the reckoning comes we'll pay it, + Own our mirth + Has been worth + All the forfeit light or heavy + Wintry Time and Fortune levy. + + Feigning grief will not escape it, + What though ne'er so well you ape it-- + Age and care + All must share, + All alike must pay hereafter, + Some for sighs and some for laughter. + + Know, ye sons of Melancholy, + To be young and wise is folly. + 'Tis the weak + Fear to wreak + On this clay of life their fancies, + Shaping battles, shaping dances. + +{111} + + While ye scorn our names unspoken, + Roses dead and garlands broken, + O ye wise, + We arise, + Out of failures, dreams, disasters, + We arise to be your masters. + + _Margaret L. Woods._ + + + + + 92. O DREAMY, GLOOMY, FRIENDLY TREES! + + O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, + I came along your narrow track + To bring my gifts unto your knees + And gifts did you give back; + For when I brought this heart that burns-- + These thoughts that bitterly repine-- + And laid them here among the ferns + And the hum of boughs divine, + Ye, vastest breathers of the air, + Shook down with slow and mighty poise + Your coolness on the human care, + Your wonder on its toys, + Your greenness on the heart's despair, + Your darkness on its noise. + + _Herbert Trench._ + + + + + 93. IDLENESS + + O idleness, too fond of me, + Begone, I know and hate thee! + Nothing canst thou of pleasure see + In one that so doth rate thee; + +{112} + + For empty are both mind and heart + While thou with me dost linger; + More profit would to thee impart + A babe that sucks its finger. + + I know thou hast a better way + To spend these hours thou squand'rest; + Some lad toils in the trough to-day + Who groans because thou wand'rest; + + A bleating sheep he dowses now + Or wrestles with ram's terror; + Ah, 'mid the washing's hubbub, how + His sighs reproach thine error! + + He knows and loves thee, Idleness; + For when his sheep are browsing, + His open eyes enchant and bless + A mind divinely drowsing; + + No slave to sleep, he wills and sees + From hill-lawns the brown tillage; + Green winding lanes and clumps of trees, + Far town or nearer village, + + The sea itself; the fishing feet + Where more, thine idle lovers, + Heark'ning to sea-mews find thee sweet + Like him who hears the plovers. + + Begone; those haul their ropes at sea, + These plunge sheep in yon river: + Free, free from toil thy friends, and me + From Idleness deliver! + + _T. Sturge Moore._ + +{113} + + 84. YOUTH AND LOVE + + To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside. + Passing for ever, he fares; and on either hand, + Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide, + Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land + Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide. + + Thick as the stars at night when the moon is down, + Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate + Fares; and but waves a hand as he passes on, + Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate, + Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 95. THE PRECEPT OF SILENCE + + I know you: solitary griefs, + Desolate passions, aching hours! + I know you: tremulous beliefs, + Agonised hopes, and ashen flowers! + + The winds are sometimes sad to me; + The starry spaces, full of fear: + Mine is the sorrow on the sea, + And mine the sigh of places drear. + + Some players upon plaintive strings + Publish their wistfulness abroad: + I have not spoken of these things, + Save to one man, and unto God. + + _Lionel Johnson._ + +{114} + + 96. IF THIS WERE FAITH + + God, if this were enough, + That I see things bare to the buff + And up to the buttocks in mire; + That I ask nor hope nor hire, + Nut in the husk, + Nor dawn beyond the dusk, + Nor life beyond death: + God, if this were faith? + + Having felt thy wind in my face + Spit sorrow and disgrace, + Having seen thine evil doom + In Golgotha and Khartoum, + And the brutes, the work of thine hands, + Fill with injustice lands + And stain with blood the sea: + If still in my veins the glee + Of the black night and the sun + And the lost battle, run: + If, an adept, + The iniquitous lists I still accept + With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood, + And still to battle and perish for a dream of good + God, if that were enough? + + If to feel, in the ink of the slough, + And the sink of the mire, + Veins of glory and fire + Run through and transpierce and transpire, + And a secret purpose of glory in every part, + +{115} + + And the answering glory of battle fill my heart; + To thrill with the joy of girded men, + To go on for ever and fail and go on again, + And be mauled to the earth and arise, + And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not + seen with the eyes: + With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night + That somehow the right is the right + And the smooth shall bloom from the rough: + Lord, if that were enough? + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 97. VITAI LAMPADA + + There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night-- + Ten to make and the match to win-- + A bumping pitch and a blinding light, + An hour to play and the last man in. + And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, + Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, + But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + + The sand of the desert is sodden red,-- + Red with the wreck of a square that broke;-- + The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead, + And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. + The river of death has brimmed his banks, + And England's far, and Honour a name, + But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks; + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + +{116} + + This is the word that year by year, + While in her place the School is set, + Every one of her sons must hear, + And none that hears it dare forget. + This they all with a joyful mind + Bear through life like a torch in flame, + And falling fling to the host behind-- + "Play up! play up! and play the game!" + + _Henry Newbolt._ + + + + + 98. LAUGH AND BE MERRY + + Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song, + Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong. + Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span. + Laugh, and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man. + + Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time, + God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme, + Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine + of His mirth, + The splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth. + + So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky, + Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by, + Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured + In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord. + +{117} + + Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin, + Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn, + Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends. + Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 99. ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS + + It was early last September nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea, + An' 'twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea, + An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane, + A Pharaoh with his waggons comin' jolt an' creak an' strain; + A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up, + An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup, + An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings + Was joggin' in the dust along 'is roundabouts and swings. + + "Goo'-day," said 'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you + find things go, + An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?" + +{118} + + "I find," said 'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found, + For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round." + Said 'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were, + It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a 'are; + But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's, + What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!" + + "Goo' luck," said 'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it + past a doubt; + An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out;" + 'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again + To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane; + An' the moon she climbed the 'azels, while a nightjar seemed to spin + That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, 'is sooth of lose-and-win; + For "up an' down an' round," said 'e, "goes all appointed things, + An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!" + + _Patrick R. Chalmers._ + +{119} + + 100. THE LARK ASCENDING + + He rises and begins to round, + He drops the silver chain of sound, + Of many links without a break, + In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake, + All intervolved and spreading wide, + Like water-dimples down a tide + Where ripple ripple overcurls + And eddy into eddy whirls; + A press of hurried notes that run + So fleet they scarce are more than one, + Yet changeingly the trills repeat + And linger ringing while they fleet, + Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear + To her beyond the handmaid ear, + Who sits beside our inner springs, + Too often dry for this he brings, + Which seems the very jet of earth + At sight of sun, her music's mirth, + As up he wings the spiral stair, + A song of light, and pierces air + With fountain ardour, fountain play, + To reach the shining tops of day, + And drink in everything discerned + An ecstasy to music turned, + Impelled by what his happy bill + Disperses; drinking, showering still, + Unthinking save that he may give + His voice the outlet, there to live + Renewed in endless notes of glee, + So thirsty of his voice is he, + +{120} + + For all to hear and all to know + That he is joy, awake, aglow, + The tumult of the heart to hear + Through pureness filtered crystal-clear, + And know the pleasure sprinkled bright + By simple singing of delight, + Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained, + Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained + Without a break, without a fall, + Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical, + Perennial, quavering up the chord + Like myriad dews of sunny sward + That trembling into fulness shine, + And sparkle dropping argentine; + Such wooing as the ear receives + From zephyr caught in choric leaves + Of aspens when their chattering net + Is flushed to white with shivers wet; + And such the water-spirit's chime + On mountain heights in morning's prime, + Too freshly sweet to seem excess, + Too animate to need a stress; + But wider over many heads + The starry voice ascending spreads, + Awakening, as it waxes thin, + The best in us to him akin; + And every face, to watch him raised, + Puts on the light of children praised, + So rich our human pleasure ripes + When sweetness on sincereness pipes, + Though nought be promised from the seas, + +{121} + + But only a soft-ruffling breeze + Sweep glittering on a still content, + Serenity in ravishment. + + For singing till his heaven fills, + 'Tis love of earth that he instils, + And ever winging up and up, + Our valley is his golden cup, + And he the wine which overflows + To lift us with him as he goes: + The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine, + He is, the hills, the human line, + The meadows green, the fallows brown, + The dreams of labour in the town; + He sings the sap, the quickened veins; + The wedding song of sun and rains + He is, the dance of children, thanks + Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks, + And eye of violets while they breathe; + All these the circling song will wreathe, + And you shall hear the herb and tree, + The better heart of men shall see, + Shall feel celestially, as long + As you crave nothing save the song. + + Was never voice of ours could say + Our inmost in the sweetest way, + Like yonder voice aloft, and link + All hearers in the song they drink. + Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, + Our passion is too full in flood, + +{122} + + We want the key of his wild note + Of truthful in a tuneful throat, + The song seraphically free + Of taint of personality, + So pure that it salutes the suns + The voice of one for millions, + In whom the millions rejoice + For giving their one spirit voice. + + Yet men have we, whom we revere, + Now names, and men still housing here, + Whose lives, by many a battle-dint + Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint, + Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet + For song our highest heaven to greet: + Whom heavenly singing gives us new, + Enspheres them brilliant in our blue, + From firmest base to farthest leap, + Because their love of Earth is deep, + And they are warriors in accord + With life to serve, and pass reward, + So touching purest and so heard + In the brain's reflex of yon bird: + Wherefore their soul in me or mine, + Through self-forgetfulness divine, + In them, that song aloft maintains + To fill the sky and thrill the plains + With showerings drawn from human stores, + As he to silence nearer soars, + Extends the world at wings and dome, + More spacious making more our home, + +{123} + + Till lost on aerial rings + In light, and then the fancy sings. + + _George Meredith._ + + + + + 101. INTO THE TWILIGHT + + Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, + Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; + Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight; + Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn. + + Your mother Eire is always young, + Dew ever shining and twilight gray; + Though hope fall from you and love decay + Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. + + Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill; + For there the mystical brotherhood + Of sun and moon and hollow and wood + And river and stream work out their will; + + And God stands winding His lonely horn; + And time and the world are ever in flight, + And love is less kind than the gray twilight, + And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 102. BY A BIER-SIDE + + This is a sacred city built of marvellous earth. + Life was lived nobly here to give such beauty birth. + +{124} + + Beauty was in this brain and in this eager hand: + Death is so blind and dumb Death does not understand. + Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs' glory, + Death makes justice a dream, and strength a traveller's story. + Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky. + Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 103. 'TIS BUT A WEEK + + 'Tis but a week since down the glen + The trampling horses came + --Half a hundred fighting men + With all their spears aflame! + They laughed and clattered as they went, + And round about their way + The blackbirds sang with one consent + In the green leaves of May. + + Never again shall I see them pass; + They'll come victorious never; + Their spears are withered all as grass, + Their laughter's laid for ever; + And where they clattered as they went, + And where their hearts were gay, + The blackbirds sing with one consent + In the green leaves of May. + + _Gerald Gould._ + +{125} + + 104. I LOVE ALL BEAUTEOUS THINGS + + I love all beauteous things, + I seek and adore them; + God hath no better praise, + And man in his hasty days + Is honoured for them. + + I too will something make + And joy in the making; + Altho' to-morrow it seem + Like the empty words of a dream + Remembered on waking. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 105. ALL FLESH + + I do not need the skies' + Pomp, when I would be wise; + For pleasaunce nor to use + Heaven's champaign when I muse. + One grass-blade in its veins + Wisdom's whole flood contains; + Thereon my foundering mind + Odyssean fate can find. + + O little blade, now vaunt + Thee, and be arrogant! + Tell the proud sun that he + Sweated in shaping thee; + Night, that she did unvest + Her mooned and argent breast + To suckle thee. Heaven fain + +{126} + + Yearned over thee in rain, + And with wide parent wing + Shadowed thee, nested thing, + Fed thee, and slaved for thy + Impotent tyranny. + Nature's broad thews bent + Meek for thy content. + Mastering littleness + Which the wise heavens confess, + The frailty which doth draw + Magnipotence to its law-- + These were, O happy one, these + Thy laughing puissances! + + Be confident of thought, + Seeing that thou art naught; + And be thy pride thou'rt all + Delectably safe and small. + Epitomized in thee + Was the mystery + Which shakes the spheres conjoint-- + God focussed to a point. + + All thy fine mouths shout + Scorn upon dull-eyed doubt. + Impenetrable fool + Is he thou canst not school + To the humility + By which the angels see! + Unfathomably framed + Sister, I am not shamed + +{127} + + Before the cherubin + To vaunt my flesh thy kin. + My one hand thine, and one + Imprisoned in God's own, + I am as God; alas, + And such a god of grass! + A little root clay-caught, + A wind, a flame, a thought, + Inestimably naught! + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 106. TO A SNOWFLAKE + + What heart could have thought you?-- + Past our devisal + (O filigree petal!) + Fashioned so purely, + Fragilely, surely, + From what Paradisal + Imagineless metal, + Too costly for cost? + Who hammered you, wrought you, + From argentine vapour?-- + "God was my shaper. + Passing surmisal, + He hammered, He wrought me, + From curled silver vapour, + To lust of His mind:-- + Thou couldst not have thought me! + So purely, so palely, + Tinily, surely, + Mightily, frailly, + +{128} + + Insculped and embossed, + With His hammer of wind, + And His graver of frost." + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 107. TO A DAISY + + Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide, + Like all created things, secrets from me, + And stand a barrier to eternity. + And I, how can I praise thee well and wide + + From where I dwell--upon the hither side? + Thou little veil for so great mystery, + When shall I penetrate all things and thee, + And then look back? For this I must abide, + + Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled + Literally between me and the world. + Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring, + + And from a poet's side shall read his book. + O daisy mine, what will it be to look + From God's side even of such a simple thing? + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 108. LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT + + On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. + Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend + Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, + Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. + +{129} + + Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. + And now upon his western wing he leaned, + Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened, + Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. + Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars + With memory of the old revolt from Awe, + He reached a middle height, and at the stars, + Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. + Around the ancient track marched rank on rank, + The army of unalterable law. + + _George Meredith._ + + + + + 109. THE CELESTIAL SURGEON + + If I have faltered more or less + In my great task of happiness; + If I have moved among my race + And shown no glorious morning face; + If beams from happy human eyes + Have moved me not; if morning skies, + Books, and my food, and summer rain + Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:-- + Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take + And stab my spirit broad awake; + Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, + Choose thou, before that spirit die, + A piercing pain, a killing sin, + And to my dead heart run them in! + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + +{130} + + 110. THE KINGDOM OF GOD + + '_In no Strange Land_' + + O world invisible, we view thee, + O world intangible, we touch thee, + O world unknowable, we know thee, + Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! + + Does the fish soar to find the ocean, + The eagle plunge to find the air-- + That we ask of the stars in motion + If they have rumour of thee there? + + Not where the wheeling systems darken, + And our benumbed conceiving soars!-- + The drift of pinions, would we hearken, + Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. + + The angels keep their ancient places;-- + Turn but a stone, and start a wing! + 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, + That miss the many-splendoured thing. + + But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) + Cry;--and upon thy so sore loss + Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder + Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. + + Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, + Cry,--clinging Heaven by the hems; + And lo, Christ walking on the water + Not of Gennesareth, but Thames! + + _Francis Thompson._ + +{131} + + 111. THE LADY POVERTY + + The Lady Poverty was fair: + But she has lost her looks of late, + With change of times and change of air. + Ah slattern! she neglects her hair, + Her gown, her shoes; she keeps no state + As once when her pure feet were bare. + + Or--almost worse, if worse can be-- + She scolds in parlours, dusts and trims, + Watches and counts. Oh, is this she + Whom Francis met, whose step was free, + Who with Obedience carolled hymns, + In Umbria walked with Chastity? + + Where is her ladyhood? Not here, + Not among modern kinds of men; + But in the stony fields, where clear + Through the thin trees the skies appear, + In delicate spare soil and fen, + And slender landscape and austere. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 112. COURTESY + + Of Courtesy it is much less + Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, + Yet in my Walks it seems to me + That the Grace of God is in Courtesy. + + On Monks I did in Storrington fall, + They took me straight into their Hall; + I saw Three Pictures on a wall, + And Courtesy was in them all. + +{132} + + The first the Annunciation; + The second the Visitation; + The third the Consolation, + Of God that was Our Lady's Son. + + The first was of Saint Gabriel; + On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; + And as he went upon one knee + He shone with Heavenly Courtesy. + + Our Lady out of Nazareth rode-- + It was her month of heavy load; + Yet was Her face both great and kind, + For Courtesy was in Her Mind. + + The third, it was our Little Lord, + Whom all the Kings in arms adored; + He was so small you could not see + His large intent of Courtesy. + + Our Lord, that was Our Lady's Son, + Go bless you, People, one by one; + My Rhyme is written, my work is done. + + _Hilaire Belloc._ + + + + + 113. MONTSERRAT + + Peace waits among the hills; + I have drunk peace, + Here, where the blue air fills + The great cup of the hills, + And fills with peace. + +{133} + + Between the earth and sky, + I have seen the earth + Like a dark cloud go by, + And fade out of the sky; + There was no more earth. + + Here, where the Holy Graal + Brought secret light + Once, from beyond the veil, + I, seeing no Holy Graal, + See divine light. + + Light fills the hills with God, + Wind with his breath, + And here, in his abode, + Light, wind, and air praise God, + And this poor breath. + + _Arthur Symons._ + + + + + 114. PRAYERS + + God who created me + Nimble and light of limb, + In three elements free, + To run, to ride, to swim: + Not when the sense is dim, + But now from the heart of joy, + I would remember Him: + Take the thanks of a boy. + + Jesu, King and Lord, + Whose are my foes to fight, + +{134} + + Gird me with Thy sword, + Swift and sharp and bright. + Thee would I serve if I might; + And conquer if I can, + From day-dawn till night, + Take the strength of a man. + + Spirit of Love and Truth, + Breathing in grosser clay, + The light and flame of youth, + Delight of men in the fray, + Wisdom in strength's decay; + From pain, strife, wrong to be free, + This best gift I pray, + Take my spirit to Thee. + + _Henry Charles Beeching._ + + + + + 115. THE SHEPHERDESS + + She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; + She guards them from the steep; + She feeds them on the fragrant height, + And folds them in for sleep. + + She roams maternal hills and bright, + Dark valleys safe and deep. + Into that tender breast at night + The chastest stars may peep. + She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + +{135} + + She holds her little thoughts in sight, + Though gay they run and leap. + She is so circumspect and right; + She has her soul to keep. + She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 116. GIBBERISH + + Many a flower have I seen blossom, + Many a bird for me will sing. + Never heard I so sweet a singer, + Never saw I so fair a thing. + + She is a bird, a bird that blossoms, + She is a flower, a flower that sings; + And I a flower when I behold her, + And when I hear her, I have wings. + + _Mary E. Coleridge._ + + + + + 117. MARTHA + + "Once . . . once upon a time . . ." + Over and over again, + Martha would tell us her stories, + In the hazel glen. + + Hers were those clear grey eyes + You watch, and the story seems + Told by their beautifulness + Tranquil as dreams. + +{136} + + She'd sit with her two slim hands + Clasped round her bended knees; + While we on our elbows lolled, + And stared at ease. + + Her voice and her narrow chin, + Her grave small lovely head, + Seemed half the meaning + Of the words she said. + + "Once . . . once upon a time . . ." + Like a dream you dream in the night, + Fairies and gnomes stole out + In the leaf-green light. + + And her beauty far away + Would fade, as her voice ran on, + Till hazel and summer sun + And all were gone:-- + + All fordone and forgot; + And like clouds in the height of the sky, + Our hearts stood still in the hush + Of an age gone by. + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 118. A FRIEND + + All, that he came to give, + He gave, and went again: + I have seen one man live, + I have seen one man reign, + With all the graces in his train. + +{137} + + As one of us, he wrought + Things of the common hour: + Whence was the charmed soul brought, + That gave each act such power; + The natural beauty of a flower? + + Magnificence and grace, + Excellent courtesy: + A brightness on the face, + Airs of high memory: + Whence came all these, to such as he? + + Like young Shakespearian kings, + He won the adoring throng: + And, as Apollo sings, + He triumphed with a song: + Triumphed, and sang, and passed along. + + With a light word, he took + The hearts of men in thrall: + And, with a golden look, + Welcomed them, at his call + Giving their love, their strength, their all. + + No man less proud than he, + Nor cared for homage less: + Only, he could not be + Far off from happiness: + Nature was bound to his success. + +{138} + + Weary, the cares, the jars, + The lets, of every day, + But the heavens filled with stars, + Chanced he upon the way: + And where he stayed, all joy would stay. + + Now, when sad night draws down, + When the austere stars burn: + Roaming the vast live town, + My thoughts and memories yearn + Toward him, who never will return. + + Yet have I seen him live, + And owned my friend, a king: + All that he came to give + He gave: and I, who sing + His praise, bring all I have to bring. + + _Lionel Johnson._ + + + + + 118. TWILIGHT + + Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks + cry and call. + Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all, + There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, + Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend. + + I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear + long ago in the past, + Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that + death cannot last; + +{139} + + Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled, + Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 120. ON THE DEATH OF ARNOLD TOYNBEE + + Good-bye; no tears nor cries + Are fitting here, and long lament were vain. + Only the last low words be softly said, + And the last greeting given above the dead; + For soul more pure and beautiful our eyes + Never shall see again. + + Alas! what help is it, + What consolation in this heavy chance, + That to the blameless life so soon laid low + This was the end appointed long ago, + This the allotted space, the measure fit + Of endless ordinance? + + Thus were the ancient days + Made like our own monotonous with grief; + From unassuaged lips even thus hath flown + Perpetually the immemorial moan + Of those that weeping went on desolate ways, + Nor found in tears relief. + + For faces yet grow pale, + Tears rise at fortune, and true hearts take fire + In all who hear, with quickening pulse's stroke, + That cry that from the infinite people broke, + When third among them Helen led the wail + At Hector's funeral pyre. + +{140} + + And by the Latin beach + At rise of dawn such piteous tears were shed, + When Troy and Arcady in long array + Followed the princely body on its way, + And Lord Aeneas spoke the last sad speech + Above young Pallas dead. + + Even in this English clime + The same sweet cry no circling seas can drown, + In melancholy cadence rose to swell + Some dirge of Lycidas or Astrophel + When lovely souls and pure before their time + Into the dusk went down. + + These Earth, the bounteous nurse, + Hath long ago lapped in deep peace divine. + Lips that made musical their old-world woe + Themselves have gone to silence long ago, + And left a weaker voice and wearier verse, + O royal soul, for thine. + + Beyond our life how far + Soars his new life through radiant orb and zone, + While we in impotency of the night + Walk dumbly, and the path is hard, and light + Fails, and for sun and moon the single star + Honour is left alone. + + The star that knows no set, + But circles ever with a fixed desire, + Watching Orion's armour all of gold; + Watching and wearying not, till pale and cold + Dawn breaks, and the first shafts of morning fret + The east with lines of fire. + +{141} + + But on the broad low plain + When night is clear and windy, with hard frost, + Such as had once the morning in their eyes, + Watching and wearying, gaze upon the skies, + And cannot see that star for their great pain + Because the sun is lost. + + Alas, how all our love + Is scant at best to fill so ample room! + Image and influence fall too fast away + And fading memory cries at dusk of day + _Deem'st thou the dust recks aught at all thereof, + The ghost within the tomb?_ + + For even o'er lives like his + The slumberous river washes soft and slow; + The lapping water rises wearily, + Numbing the nerve and will to sleep; and we + Before the goal and crown of mysteries + Fall back, and dare not know. + + Only at times we know, + In gyres convolved and luminous orbits whirled + The soul beyond her knowing seems to sweep + Out of the deep, fire-winged, into the deep; + As two, who loved each other here below + Better than all the world, + + Yet ever held apart, + And never knew their own hearts' deepest things, + After long lapse of periods, wandering far + Beyond the pathways of the furthest star, + Into communicable space might dart + With tremor of thunderous wings; + +{142} + + Across the void might call + Each unto each past worlds that raced and ran, + And flash through galaxies, and clasp and kiss + In some slant chasm and infinite abyss + Far in the faint sidereal interval + Between the Lyre and Swan. + + _J. W. Mackail._ + + + + + 121. ESTRANGEMENT + + So, without overt breach, we fall apart, + Tacitly sunder--neither you nor I + Conscious of one intelligible Why, + And both, from severance, winning equal smart. + So, with resigned and acquiescent heart, + Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie, + I seem to see an alien shade pass by, + A spirit wherein I have no lot or part. + Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim, + From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn + That June on her triumphant progress goes + Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him + She is a legend emptied of concern, + And idle is the rumour of the rose. + + _William Watson._ + + + + + 122. FATHERHOOD + + A kiss, a word of thanks, away + They're gone, and you forsaken learn + The blessedness of giving; they + (So Nature bids) forget, nor turn + To where you sit, and watch, and yearn. + +{143} + + And you (so Nature bids) would go + Through fire and water for their sake; + Rise early, late take rest, to sow + Their wealth, and lie all night awake + If but their little finger ache. + + The storied prince with wondrous hair + Which stole men's hearts and wrought his bale, + Rebelling, since he had no heir, + Built him a pillar in the vale, + --Absalom's--lest his name should fail. + + It fails not, though the pillar lies + In dust, because the outraged one, + His father, with strong agonies + Cried it until the day was done-- + "O Absalom, my son, my son!" + + So Nature bade; or might it be + God, who in Jewry once (they say) + Cried with a great cry, "Come to me, + Children," who still held on their way, + Though He spread out His hands all day? + + _Henry Charles Beeching._ + + + + + 123. DAISY + + Where the thistle lifts a purple crown + Six foot out of the turf, + And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- + O the breath of the distant surf!-- + +{144} + + The hills look over on the South, + And southward dreams the sea; + And with the sea-breeze hand in hand + Came innocence and she. + + Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry + Red for the gatherer springs, + Two children did we stray and talk + Wise, idle, childish things. + + She listened with big-lipped surprise, + Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine; + Her skin was like a grape, whose veins + Run snow instead of wine. + + She knew not those sweet words she spake, + Nor knew her own sweet way; + But there's never a bird, so sweet a song + Thronged in whose throat that day. + + Oh, there were flowers in Storrington + On the turf and on the spray; + But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills + Was the Daisy-flower that day! + + Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face; + She gave me tokens three:-- + A look, a word of her winsome mouth, + And a wild raspberry. + + A berry red, a guileless look, + A still word,--strings of sand! + And yet they made my wild, wild heart + Fly down to her little hand. + +{145} + + For standing artless as the air, + And candid as the skies, + She took the berries with her hand, + And the love with her sweet eyes. + + The fairest things have fleetest end, + Their scent survives their close; + But the rose's scent is bitterness + To him that loved the rose. + + She looked a little wistfully, + Then went her sunshine way:-- + The sea's eye had a mist on it, + And the leaves fell from the day. + + She went her unremembering way, + She went and left in me + The pang of all the partings gone, + And partings yet to be. + + She left me marvelling why my soul + Was sad that she was glad; + At all the sadness in the sweet, + The sweetness in the sad. + + Still, still I seemed to see her, still + Look up with soft replies, + And take the berries with her hand, + And the love with her lovely eyes. + +{146} + + Nothing begins, and nothing ends, + That is not paid with moan; + For we are born in other's pain, + And perish in our own. + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 124. A CRADLE SONG + + O, men from the fields! + Come gently within. + Tread softly, softly, + O! men coming in. + + Mavourneen is going + From me and from you, + Where Mary will fold him + With mantle of blue! + + From reek of the smoke + And cold of the floor, + And the peering of things + Across the half-door. + + O, men from the fields! + Soft, softly come thro'. + Mary puts round him + Her mantle of blue. + + _Padraic Colum._ + + + + +136. ON A DEAD CHILD + + Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, + With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! + + {147} + + Though cold and stark and bare, + The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. + + Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer + To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be + Thy father's pride;--ah, he + Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. + + To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, + Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; + Startling my fancy fond + With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. + + Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: + But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; + Yet feels to my hand as if + 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. + + So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- + Go, lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- + Propping thy wise, sad head, + Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing. + + So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, + whither hath he taken thee? + To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? + +{148} + + The vision of which I miss, + Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee + and awaken thee? + + Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us + To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, + Unwilling, alone we embark, + And the things we have seen and have known and + have heard of, fail us. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 126. I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAIN + + I never shall love the snow again + Since Maurice died: + With corniced drift it blocked the lane, + And sheeted in a desolate plain + The country side. + + The trees with silvery rime bedight + Their branches bare. + By day no sun appeared; by night + The hidden moon shed thievish light + In the misty air. + + We fed the birds that flew around + In flocks to be fed: + No shelter in holly or brake they found, + The speckled thrush on the frozen ground + Lay frozen and dead. + +{149} + + We skated on stream and pond; we cut + The crinching snow + To Doric temple or Arctic hut; + We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut + By the fireside glow. + + Yet grudged we our keen delights before + Maurice should come. + We said, "In-door or out-of-door + We shall love life for a month or more, + When he is home." + + They brought him home; 'twas two days late + For Christmas Day: + Wrapped in white, in solemn state, + A flower in his hand, all still and straight + Our Maurice lay. + + And two days ere the year outgave + We laid him low. + The best of us truly were not brave, + When we laid Maurice down in his grave + Under the snow. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 127. TO MY GODCHILD + + _Francis M. W. M._ + + This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon, + Riding at anchor off the orient sun, + Had broken its cable, and stood out to space + Down some frore Arctic of the aerial ways: + +{150} + + And now, back warping from the inclement main, + Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, + It swung into its azure roads again; + When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you + Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew. + + To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, + Giver of golden days and golden song; + Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan + You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. + Yet ah! from any other that it came, + Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. + When at the first those tidings did they bring, + My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: + Though well may such a title him endower, + For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. + The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, + To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty, + (In two alone of whom most singers prove + A fatal faithfulness of during love!) + He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken + How God he could love more, he so loved men; + The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; + And Fletcher's fellow--from these, and not from me, + Take you your name, and take your legacy! + + Or, if a right successive you declare + When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, + Take but this Poesy that now followeth + My clayey best with sullen servile breath, + Made then your happy freedman by testating death. + +{151} + + My song I do but hold for you in trust, + I ask you but to blossom from my dust. + When you have compassed all weak I began, + Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man; + The man at feud with the perduring child + In you before Song's altar nobly reconciled; + From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see + How little a world, which owned you, needed me. + If, while you keep the vigils of the night, + For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, + Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, + As it played lover over your sweet sleeps; + Think it a golden crevice in the sky, + Which I have pierced but to behold you by! + + And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, + And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; + Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance + The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, + Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod + Among the bearded counsellors of God; + For if in Eden as on earth are we, + I sure shall keep a younger company: + Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons + The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, + The dreadful mass of their enridged spears; + Pass where majestical the eternal peers, + The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet-- + A silvern segregation, globed complete + In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet; + Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, + +{152} + + Your cousined clusters, emulous to share + With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair; + Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:-- + Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven. + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 128. WHEN JUNE IS COME + + When June is come, then all the day + I'll sit with my love in the scented hay + And watch the sunshot palaces high, + That the white clouds build in the breezy sky. + + She singeth, and I do make her a song, + And read sweet poems the whole day long: + Unseen as we lie in our hay-built home. + Oh, life is delight when June is come. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 129. IN MISTY BLUE + + In misty blue the lark is heard + Above the silent homes of men; + The bright-eyed thrush, the little wren, + The yellow-billed sweet-voiced blackbird + Mid sallow blossoms blond as curd + Or silver oak boughs, carolling + With happy throat from tree to tree, + Sing into light this morn of spring + That sang my dear love home to me. + +{153} + + Be starry, buds of clustered white, + Around the dark waves of her hair! + The young fresh glory you prepare + Is like my ever-fresh delight + When she comes shining on my sight + With meeting eyes, with such a cheek + As colours fair like flushing tips + Of shoots, and music ere she speak + Lies in the wonder of her lips. + + Airs of the morning, breathe about + Keen faint scents of the wild wood side + From thickets where primroses hide + Mid the brown leaves of winter's rout. + Chestnut and willow, beacon out + For joy of her, from far and nigh, + Your English green on English hills: + Above her head, song-quivering sky, + And at her feet, the daffodils. + + Because she breathed, the world was more, + And breath a finer soul to use, + And life held lovelier hopes to choose; + But O, to-day my heart brims o'er, + Earth glows as from a kindled core, + Like shadows of diviner things + Are hill and cloud and flower and tree-- + A splendour that is hers and spring's,--- + The day my love came home to me. + + _Laurence Binyon._ + +{154} + + 130. IN FOUNTAIN COURT + + The fountain murmuring of sleep, + A drowsy tune; + The flickering green of leaves that keep + The light of June; + Peace, through a slumbering afternoon, + The peace of June. + + A waiting ghost, in the blue sky, + The white curved moon; + June, hushed and breathless, waits, and I + Wait, too, with June; + Come, through the lingering afternoon, + Soon, love, come soon. + + _Arthur Symons._ + + + + + 131. THE PRAISE OF DUST + + "What of vile dust?" the preacher said. + Methought the whole world woke, + The dead stone lived beneath my foot, + And my whole body spoke. + + "You that play tyrant to the dust, + And stamp its wrinkled face, + This patient star that flings you not + Far into homeless space, + + "Come down out of your dusty shrine + The living dust to see, + The flowers that at your sermon's end + Stand blazing silently, + +{155} + + "Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones, + Lichens like fire encrust; + A gleam of blue, a glare of gold, + The vision of the dust. + + "Pass them all by; till, as you come + Where, at a city's edge, + Under a tree--I know it well--. + Under a lattice ledge, + + "The sunshine falls on one brown head. + You, too, O cold of clay, + Eater of stones, may haply hear + The trumpets of that day + + "When God to all his paladins + By his own splendour swore + To make a fairer face than heaven, + Of dust and nothing more." + + _G. K. Chesterton._ + + + + + 132. AWAKE, MY HEART, TO BE LOVED + + Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! + The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, + It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake + The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake! + + She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee; + Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, + +{156} + + Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: + Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! + + And if thou tarry from her,--if this could be,-- + She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; + For thee would unashamed herself forsake: + Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake! + + Awake! the land is scattered with light, and see, + Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree: + And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake; + Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! + + Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee: + She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me. + Come more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, + And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!" + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + 133. AEDH WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN + + Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, + Enwrought with golden and silver light, + The blue and the dim and the dark cloths + Of night and light and the half light, + I would spread the cloths under your feet: + But I, being poor, have only my dreams; + I have spread my dreams under your feet; + Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + +{157} + + 134. BEAUTY + + I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills + Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain: + I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, + Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain. + + I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea, + And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships; + But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me, + Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve + of her lips. + + _John Masefield._ + + + + + 135. MY WIFE + + Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, + With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, + Steel-true and blade-straight, + The great artificer + Made my mate. + + Honour, anger, valour, fire; + A love that life could never tire, + Death quench or evil stir, + The mighty master + Gave to her. + +{158} + + Teacher, tender, comrade, wife, + A fellow-farer true through life, + Heart-whole and soul-free + The august father + Gave to me. + + _Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + + + 138. FROM "LOVE IN THE VALLEY" + + Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, + Swift as the swallow along the river's light + Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, + Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. + Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, + Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, + She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, + Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! + + * * * * * * + + Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows + Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. + No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: + Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. + Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, + Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: + Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones + Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. + + * * * * * * + + Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, + Arm in arm, all against the raying West, + +{159} + + Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, + Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. + Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking + Whispered the world was; morning light is she. + Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; + Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. + + * * * * * * + + Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers + Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, + Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, + Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. + Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens, + Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. + Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; + Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. + + * * * * * * + + Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, + Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. + Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine + Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. + Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? + Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, + Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine + Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. + + _George Meredith._ + +{160} + + 137. TO THE BELOVED + + Oh, not more subtly silence strays + Amongst the winds, between the voices, + Mingling alike with pensive lays, + And with the music that rejoices, + Than thou art present in my days. + + My silence, life returns to thee + In all the pauses of her breath, + Hush back to rest the melody + That out of thee awakeneth; + And thou, wake ever, wake for me! + + Thou art like silence all unvexed, + Though wild words part my soul from thee. + Thou art like silence unperplexed, + A secret and a mystery + Between one footfall and the next. + + Most dear pause in a mellow lay! + Thou art inwoven with every air. + With thee the wildest tempests play, + And snatches of thee everywhere + Make little heavens throughout a day. + + Darkness and solitude shine, for me. + For life's fair outward part are rife + The silver noises; let them be. + It is the very soul of life + Listens for thee, listens for thee. + +{161} + + O pause between the sobs of cares; + O thought within all thought that is; + Trance between laughters unawares: + Thou art the shape of melodies, + And thou the ecstasy of prayers! + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 138. WHEN YOU ARE OLD + + When you are old and gray and full of sleep, + And nodding by the fire, take down this book, + And slowly read, and dream of the soft look + Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; + + How many loved your moments of glad grace, + And loved your beauty with love false or true; + But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, + And loved the sorrows of your changing face. + + And bending down beside the glowing bars + Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled + And paced upon the mountains overhead + And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. + + _W. B. Yeats_ + + + + + 139. I WILL NOT LET THEE GO + + I will not let thee go. + Ends all our month-long love in this? + Can it be summed up so, + Quit in a single kiss? + I will not let thee go. + +{162} + + I will not let thee go. + If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds, + As the soft south can blow + And toss the feathered seeds, + Then might I let thee go. + + I will not let thee go. + Had not the great sun seen, I might: + Or were he reckoned slow + To bring the false to light, + Then might I let thee go. + + I will not let thee go. + The stars that crowd the summer skies + Have watched us so below + With all their million eyes, + I dare not let thee go. + + I will not let thee go. + Have we not chid the changeful moon, + Now rising late, and now + Because she set too soon, + And shall I let thee go? + + I will not let thee go. + Have not the young flowers been content, + Plucked ere their buds could blow, + To seal our sacrament? + I cannot let thee go. + +{163} + + I will not let thee go. + I hold thee by too many bands: + Thou sayest farewell, and lo! + I have thee by the hands, + And will not let thee go. + + _Robert Bridges._ + + + + + 140. PARTED + + Farewell to one now silenced quite, + Sent out of hearing, out of sight,-- + My friend of friends, whom I shall miss. + He is not banished, though, for this,-- + Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight. + + Though I shall talk with him no more, + A low voice sounds upon the shore. + He must not watch my resting-place, + But who shall drive a mournful face + From the sad winds about my door? + + I shall not hear his voice complain, + But who shall stop the patient rain? + His tears must not disturb my heart, + But who shall change the years, and part + The world from every thought of pain? + + Although my life is left so dim, + The morning crowns the mountain-rim; + Joy is not gone from summer skies, + Nor innocence from children's eyes, + And all these things are part of him. + +{164} + + He is not banished, for the showers + Yet wake this green warm earth of ours. + How can the summer but be sweet? + I shall not have him at my feet, + And yet my feet are on the flowers. + + _Alice Meynell._ + + + + + 141. ELEGY ON A LADY, WHOM GRIEF FOR THE DEATH OF + HER BETROTHED KILLED + + Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door, + And all ye loves, assemble; far and wide + Proclaim the bridal, that proclaimed before + Has been deferred to this late eventide: + For on this night the bride, + The days of her betrothal over, + Leaves the parental hearth for evermore; + To-night the bride goes forth to meet her lover. + + Reach down the wedding vesture, that has lain + Yet all unvisited, the silken gown: + Bring out the bracelets, and the golden chain + Her dearer friends provided: sere and brown + Bring out the festal crown, + And set it on her forehead lightly: + Though it be withered, twine no wreath again; + This only is the crown she can wear rightly. + + Cloak her in ermine, for the night is cold, + And wrap her warmly, for the night is long; + In pious hands the flaming torches hold, + While her attendants, chosen from among + +{165} + + Her faithful virgin throng, + May lay her in her cedar litter, + Decking her coverlet with sprigs of gold, + Roses, and lilies white that best befit her. + + Sound flute and tabor, that the bridal be + Not without music, nor with these alone; + But let the viol lead the melody, + With lesser intervals, and plaintive moan + Of sinking semitone; + And, all in choir, the virgin voices + Rest not from singing in skilled harmony + The song that aye the bridegroom's ear rejoices. + + Let the priests go before, arrayed in white, + And let the dark-stoled minstrels follow slow, + Next they that bear her, honoured on this night, + And then the maidens, in a double row, + Each singing soft and low, + And each on high a torch upstaying: + Unto her lover lead her forth with light, + With music, and with singing, and with praying. + + 'Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came, + And found her trusty window open wide, + And knew the signal of the timorous flame, + That long the restless curtain would not hide + Her form that stood beside; + As scarce she dared to be delighted, + Listening to that sweet tale, that is no shame + To faithful lovers, that their hearts have plighted. + +{166} + + But now for many days the dewy grass + Has shown no markings of his feet at morn: + And watching she has seen no shadow pass + The moonlit walk, and heard no music borne + Upon her ear forlorn. + In vain she has looked out to greet him; + He has not come, he will not come, alas! + So let us bear her out where she must meet him. + + Now to the river bank the priests are come: + The bark is ready to receive its freight: + Let some prepare her place therein, and some + Embark the litter with its slender weight: + The rest stand by in state, + And sing her a safe passage over; + While she is oared across to her new home, + Into the arms of her expectant lover. + + And thou, O lover, that art on the watch, + Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams, + The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatch + The sweeter moments of their broken dreams,-- + Thou, when the torchlight gleams, + When thou shalt see the slow procession, + And when thine ears the fitful music catch, + Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession. + + _Robert Bridges._ + +{167} + + 142. AN EPITAPH + + Here lies a most beautiful lady, + Light of step and heart was she; + I think she was the most beautiful lady + That ever was in the West Country. + But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; + However rare--rare it be; + And when I crumble, who will remember + This lady of the West Country? + + _Walter de la Mare._ + + + + + 143. A DREAM OF DEATH + + I dreamed that one had died in a strange place + Near no accustomed hand; + And they had nailed the boards above her face, + The peasants of that land, + And, wondering, planted by her solitude + A cypress and a yew: + I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood, + Man had no more to do: + _She was more beautiful than thy first love, + This lady by the trees:_ + And gazed upon the mournful stars above, + And heard the mournful breeze. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 144. A DREAM Of A BLESSED SPIRIT + + All the heavy days are over; + Leave the body's coloured pride + Underneath the grass and clover, + With the feet laid side by side. + +{168} + + One with her are mirth and duty; + Bear the gold embroidered dress, + For she needs not her sad beauty, + To the scented oaken press. + + Hers the kiss of Mother Mary, + The long hair is on her face; + Still she goes with footsteps wary, + Full of earth's old timid grace: + + With white feet of angels seven + Her white feet go glimmering; + And above the deep of heaven, + Flame on flame and wing on wing. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + + + + + 145. MESSAGES + + What shall I your true-love tell, + Earth-forsaking maid? + What shall I your true-love tell, + When life's spectre's laid? + + "Tell him that, our side the grave, + Maid may not conceive + Life should be so sad to have, + That's so sad to leave!" + + What shall I your true-love tell, + When I come to him? + What shall I your true-love tell-- + Eyes growing dim! + +{169} + + "Tell him this, when you shall part + From a maiden pined; + That I see him with my heart, + Now my eyes are blind." + + What shall I your true-love tell? + Speaking-while is scant. + What shall I your true-love tell, + Death's white postulant? + + "Tell him--love, with speech at strife, + For last utterance saith: + I, who loved with all my life, + Love with all my death." + + _Francis Thompson._ + + + + + 146. THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED + + One that is ever kind said yesterday: + "Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey, + And little shadows come about her eyes; + Time can but make it easier to be wise, + Though now it's hard, till trouble is at an end; + And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend." + But, heart, there is no comfort, not a grain; + Time can but make her beauty over again, + Because of that great nobleness of hers; + The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs + Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways, + When all the wild summer was in her gaze. + O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, + You'd know the folly of being comforted. + + _W. B. Yeats._ + +{170} + + 147. AT NIGHT + + _To W. M._ + + Home, home from the horizon far and clear, + Hither the soft wings sweep; + Flocks of the memories of the day draw near + The dovecote doors of sleep. + + Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light + Of all these homing birds? + Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight? + Your words to me, your words! + + _Alice Meynell_ + + +{171} + + INDEX OF FIRST LINES + + PAGE + + A kiss, a word of thanks, away (_H. C. Beeching_). . . . . . . 142 + A naked house, a naked moor (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . 65 + A ship, an isle, a sickle moon (_J. E. Flecker_) . . . . . . . 76 + All that he came to give (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 136 + All the heavy days are over (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . . . . 167 + All winter through I bow my head (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 82 + Along the graceless grass of town (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 90 + As I went down to Dymchurch wall (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . 45 + Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door (_B. Bridges_) . . . . . 164 + Athwart the sky a lowly sigh (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . . . 96 + Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! (_B. Bridges_) . . 155 + + Below the down the stranded town (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . 47 + Between two russet tufts of summer grass (_E. Gosse_) . . . . 102 + Beyond my window in the night (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . . . . 49 + Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying + (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 + Brief, on a flying night (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + But to have lain upon the grass (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . 101 + Buy my English posies! (_R. Kipling_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 + + Cambridge town is a beleaguered city (_R. Macaulay_) . . . . . 54 + Can I forget the sweet days that have been (_W. H. Davies_) . 60 + Come, no more of grief and dying! (_M. L. Woods_) . . . . . . 108 + Country roads are yellow and brown (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . 95 + Daylight was down, and up the cool (_L. Housman_) . . . . . . 99 + Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet + (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away + (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 + + Farewell to one now silenced quite (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . 163 + Fear? Yes . . . I heard you saying (_H. Trench_) . . . . . . 16 + + Give to me the life I love (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . 83 + God gave all men all earth to love (_R. Kipling_) . . . . . . 39 + God, if this were enough (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . 114 + God who created me (_H. C. Beeching_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 + Good-bye; no tears nor cries (_J. W. Mackail_) . . . . . . . . 139 + Grow old and die, rich Day (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . . . . . . 32 + +{172} + + Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . 156 + He leapt to arms unbidden (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . 22 + He rises and begins to round (_G. Meredith_) . . . . . . . . . 119 + He walked in glory on the hills (_W. Canton_) . . . . . . . . 34 + Here lies a most beautiful lady (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 167 + His wage of rest at nightfall still (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . 24 + Home, home from the horizon far and clear (_A. Meynell_) . . . 170 + How solitary gleams the lamplit street (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . 93 + + I came to Oxford in the light (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . . . . 51 + I do not need the skies (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 125 + I dreamed that one had died in a strange place (_W. B. Yeats_) 167 + I gathered with a careless hand (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . . . 6 + I go through the fields of blue water (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . 48 + I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills + (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 + + I know you; solitary griefs (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . 113 + I laid me down upon the shore (_F. Cornford_) . . . . . . . . 2 + I love all beauteous things (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . 125 + I never see the newsboys run (_S. Leslie_) . . . . . . . . . . 100 + I never shall love the snow again (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . 148 + I never went to Mamble (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . . . . . . . . 49 + I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree (_W. B. Yeats_) . 61 + I will make you brooches and toys for your delight + (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 + I will not let thee go (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 + I will not try the reach again (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . . 54 + If I have faltered more or less (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . 129 + If I should die, think only this of me (_R. Brooke_) . . . . . 25 + In misty blue the lark is heard (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . 152 + In the highlands, in the country places (_R. L. Stevenson_) . 34 + In the time of wild roses (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . . . 73 + It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not + where (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 + It was early last September, nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea + (_P. R. Chalmers_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 + + Just now the lilac is in bloom (_R. Brooke_) . . . . . . . . . 55 + + Know you her secret none can utter? (_A. Quiller-Couch_) . . 52 + + Laugh and be merry: remember, better the world with a + song (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 + Let me go forth and share (_W. Watson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 80 + Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky (_L. Binyon_) . . 91 + +{173} + + Many a flower have I seen blossom (_M. S. Coleridge_) . . . . 135 + + Not soon shall I forget--a sheet (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . . . . 75 + Not within a granite pass (_E. Gosse_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 + + O, a gallant set were they (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . . . . . 8 + O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees (_H. Trench_) . . . . . . . . 111 + O happy soul, forget thy self (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . 106 + O heavenly colour, London town (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . 97 + O Idleness, too fond of me (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . . . 111 + O, men from the fields! (_P. Colum_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 + Oh, not more subtly silence strays (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . 160 + O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm (_A. Quiller-Couch_) 9 + Oh shall I never never be home again! (_J. E. Flecker_) . . . 30 + O summer sun, O moving trees! (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . 96 + O why do you walk through tha fields in gloves (_F. Cornford_) 85 + O what know they of harbours (_E. Radford_) . . . . . . . . . 50 + O world invisible, we view thee (_F. Thompson,_) . . . . . . . 130 + Of Courtesy it is much less (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . . . 131 + On alien ground, breathing an alien air (_M. E. Coleridge_) . 33 + On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose (_G. Meredith_) . . . 128 + Once . . . once upon a time (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . . . 135 + One that is ever kind said yesterday (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . 169 + Out of my door I step into (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . . . . . . . 66 + Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . 123 + + Peace waits among the hills (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . . . 132 + Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee + (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146 + Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes (_G. Meredith_) 86 + + Row till the land dip 'neath (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . . 75 + + Say what you will, there is not in the world (_W. Blunt_) . . 45 + Shall we but turn from braggart pride (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . 20 + She walks--the lady of my delight (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 134 + Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow (_G. Meredith_) 158 + Sitting at times over a hearth that burns (_H. Newbolt_) . . . 15 + Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide (_A. Meynell_) . . 128 + So, without overt breach, we fall apart (_W. Watson_) . . . . 142 + Softly along the road of evening (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 77 + Sombre and rich the skies (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 10 + Spring goeth all in white (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . 78 + + Tell the tune his feet beat (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . . . . . . 32 + The dove did lend me wings. I fled away (_W. Blunt_) . . . . 79 + The fountain murmuring of sleep (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . 154 + The hill pines were sighing (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . 68 + +{174} + + The Lady Poverty was fair (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + The moon is up: the stars are bright (_A. Noyes_) . . . . . . 14 + There is a hill beside the silver Thames (_R. Bridges_) . . . 70 + There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night (_H. Newbolt_) 115 + These hearts were woven of human joys and cares (_R. Brooke_) 24 + This is a sacred city built of marvellous earth + (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 + This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon (_F. Thompson_) . . . 149 + This was her table, these her trim outspread + (_J. B. B. Nichols_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 + Through the sunny garden (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . . . . . . 37 + Time, you old gipsy man (_R. Hodgson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 + 'Tis but a week since down the glen (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . 124 + To-day, all day, I rode upon the down (_W. Blunt_) . . . . . . 79 + To the forgotten dead (_M. L. Woods_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 + To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside + (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 + Too soothe and mild your lowland airs (_L. Abercrombie_) . . . 36 + Troy Town is covered up with weeds (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . 3 + Trusty, dusky, vivid, true (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . 157 + Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks + cry and call (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 + + Under the wide and starry sky (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . 90 + + Very old are the woods (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . . . . . . 1 + + What gods have met in battle to arouse (_A. E._) . . . . . . . 27 + What heart could have thought you? (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . 127 + What is this life, if, full of care (_W. B. Davies_) . . . . . 101 + What of vile dust? the preacher said (_G. K. Chesterton_) . . 154 + What shall I your true-love tell (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . . 168 + When I am living in the Midlands (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . 43 + When I did wake this morn from sleep (_W. H. Davies_) . . . . 67 + When June is come, then all the day (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . 152 + When men were all asleep the snow came flying (_R. Bridges_) 91 + When skies are blue and days are bright (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . 69 + When you are old and gray and full of sleep (_W. B. Yeats_) 161 + When we fought campaigns (in the long Christmas rains) + (_R. Macaulay_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 + Where the thistle lifts a purple crown (_F. Thompson_) . . . . 143 + With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children + (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 + + Ye have robbed, said he, ye have slaughtered and made an + end (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 + Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping (_A. Smith_) 35 + Youth now flees on feathered foot (_R. L. 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