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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/22732.txt b/22732.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad7a68d --- /dev/null +++ b/22732.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2780 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Last Poems, by Edward Thomas + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Last Poems + +Author: Edward Thomas + +Release Date: September 23, 2007 [EBook #22732] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAST POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Lewis Jones + + + + + +Edward Thomas (1918) _Last Poems_ + + + +LAST POEMS + + +By + + +EDWARD THOMAS + + + +LONDON: +SELWYN & BLOUNT, +12, YORK BUILDINGS, ADELPHI, W.C. 2. +1918. + + + +CONTENTS + +I never saw that Land before +The Dark Forest +Celandine +The Ash Grove +Old Man +The Thrush +I built myself a House of Glass +February Afternoon +Digging +Two Houses +The Mill-water +A Dream +Sedge-Warblers +Under the Woods +What will they do? +To-night +A Cat +The Unknown +Song +She dotes +For These +March the Third +The New House +March +The Cuckoo +Over the Hills +Home +The Hollow Wood +Wind and Mist +The Unknown Bird +The Lofty Sky +After Rain +Digging +But these things also +April +The Barn +The Barn and the Down +The Child on the Cliffs +Good-night +The Wasp Trap +July +A Tale +Parting +Lovers +That Girl's Clear Eyes +The Child in the Orchard +The Source +The Mountain Chapel +First known when lost +The Word +These things that Poets said +Home +Aspens +An Old Song +There was a Time +Ambition +No one cares less than I +Roads +This is no case of petty Right or Wrong +The Chalk-Pit +Health +Beauty +Snow +The New Year +The Brook +The Other +House and Man +The Gypsy +Man and Dog +A Private +Out in the Dark + + + +I NEVER SAW THAT LAND BEFORE + +I NEVER saw that land before, +And now can never see it again; +Yet, as if by acquaintance hoar +Endeared, by gladness and by pain, +Great was the affection that I bore + +To the valley and the river small, +The cattle, the grass, the bare ash trees, +The chickens from the farmsteads, all +Elm-hidden, and the tributaries +Descending at equal interval; + +The blackthorns down along the brook +With wounds yellow as crocuses +Where yesterday the labourer's hook +Had sliced them cleanly; and the breeze +That hinted all and nothing spoke. + +I neither expected anything +Nor yet remembered: but some goal +I touched then; and if I could sing +What would not even whisper my soul +As I went on my journeying, + +I should use, as the trees and birds did, +A language not to be betrayed; +And what was hid should still be hid +Excepting from those like me made +Who answer when such whispers bid. + + +THE DARK FOREST + +DARK is the forest and deep, and overhead +Hang stars like seeds of light +In vain, though not since they were sown was bred +Anything more bright. + +And evermore mighty multitudes ride +About, nor enter in; +Of the other multitudes that dwell inside +Never yet was one seen. + +The forest foxglove is purple, the marguerite +Outside is gold and white, +Nor can those that pluck either blossom greet +The others, day or night. + + +CELANDINE + +THINKING of her had saddened me at first, +Until I saw the sun on the celandines lie +Redoubled, and she stood up like a flame, +A living thing, not what before I nursed, +The shadow I was growing to love almost, +The phantom, not the creature with bright eye +That I had thought never to see, once lost. + +She found the celandines of February +Always before us all. Her nature and name +Were like those flowers, and now immediately +For a short swift eternity back she came, +Beautiful, happy, simply as when she wore +Her brightest bloom among the winter hues +Of all the world; and I was happy too, +Seeing the blossoms and the maiden who +Had seen them with me Februarys before, +Bending to them as in and out she trod +And laughed, with locks sweeping the mossy sod. + +But this was a dream: the flowers were not true, +Until I stooped to pluck from the grass there +One of five petals and I smelt the juice +Which made me sigh, remembering she was no more, +Gone like a never perfectly recalled air. + + +THE ASH GROVE + +HALF of the grove stood dead, and those that yet + lived made +Little more than the dead ones made of shade. +If they led to a house, long before they had seen + its fall: +But they welcomed me; I was glad without cause + and delayed. + +Scarce a hundred paces under the trees was the + Interval-- +Paces each sweeter than sweetest miles--but + nothing at all, +Not even the spirits of memory and fear with + restless wing, +Could climb down in to molest me over the wall + +That I passed through at either end without + noticing. +And now an ash grove far from those hills can bring +The same tranquillity in which I wander a ghost +With a ghostly gladness, as if I heard a girl sing + +The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed, +And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost, +But the moment unveiled something unwilling + to die +And I had what most I desired, without search or + desert or cost. + + +OLD MAN + +OLD Man, or Lad's-love,--in the name there's + nothing +To one that knows not Lad's-love, or Old Man, +The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree, +Growing with rosemary and lavender. +Even to one that knows it well, the names +Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is: +At least, what that is clings not to the names +In spite of time. And yet I like the names. + +The herb itself I like not, but for certain +I love it, as some day the child will love it +Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush +Whenever she goes in or out of the house. +Often she waits there, snipping the tips and + shrivelling +The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps +Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs +Her fingers and runs off. The bush is still +But half as tall as she, though it is as old; +So well she clips it. Not a word she says; +And I can only wonder how much hereafter +She will remember, with that bitter scent, +Of garden rows, and ancient damson-trees +Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door, +A low thick bush beside the door, and me +Forbidding her to pick. + + As for myself, +Where first I met the bitter scent is lost. +I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds, +Sniff them and think and sniff again and try +Once more to think what it is I am remembering, +Always in vain. I cannot like the scent, +Yet I would rather give up others more sweet, +With no meaning, than this bitter one. + +I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray +And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing; +Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait +For what I should, yet never can, remember: +No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush +Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside, +Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate; +Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end. + + +THE THRUSH + +WHEN Winter's ahead, +What can you read in November +That you read in April +When Winter's dead? + +I hear the thrush, and I see +Him alone at the end of the lane +Near the bare poplar's tip, +Singing continuously. + +Is it more that you know +Than that, even as in April, +So in November, +Winter is gone that must go? + +Or is all your lore +Not to call November November, +And April April, +And Winter Winter--no more? + +But I know the months all, +And their sweet names, April, +May and June and October, +As you call and call + +I must remember +What died into April +And consider what will be born +Of a fair November; + +And April I love for what +It was born of, and November +For what it will die in, +What they are and what they are not, + +While you love what is kind, +What you can sing in +And love and forget in +All that's ahead and behind. + + +I BUILT MYSELF A HOUSE OF GLASS. + +I BUILT myself a house of glass: +It took me years to make it: +And I was proud. But now, alas, +Would God someone would break it. +But it looks too magnificent. +No neighbour casts a stone +From where he dwells, in tenement +Or palace of glass, alone. + + +FEBRUARY AFTERNOON + +MEN heard this roar of parleying starlings, saw, + A thousand years ago even as now, + Black rooks with white gulls following the plough +So that the first are last until a caw +Commands that last are first again,--a law + Which was of old when one, like me, dreamed + how + A thousand years might dust lie on his brow +Yet thus would birds do between hedge and shaw. + +Time swims before me, making as a day + A thousand years, while the broad ploughland + oak + Roars mill-like and men strike and bear the + stroke + Of war as ever, audacious or resigned, +And God still sits aloft in the array + That we have wrought him, stone-deaf and + stone-blind. + + +DIGGING + +WHAT matter makes my spade for tears or mirth, +Letting down two clay pipes into the earth? +The one I smoked, the other a soldier +Of Blenheim, Ramillies, and Malplaquet +Perhaps. The dead man's immortality +Lies represented lightly with my own, +A yard or two nearer the living air +Than bones of ancients who, amazed to see +Almighty God erect the mastodon, +Once laughed, or wept, in this same light of day. + + +TWO HOUSES + +BETWEEN a sunny bank and the sun +The farmhouse smiles +On the riverside plat: +No other one +So pleasant to look at +And remember, for many miles, +So velvet-hushed and cool under the warm tiles. + +Not far from the road it lies, yet caught +Far out of reach +Of the road's dust +And the dusty thought +Of passers-by, though each +Stops, and turns, and must +Look down at it like a wasp at the muslined peach. + +But another house stood there long before: +And as if above graves +Still the turf heaves +Above its stones: +Dark hangs the sycamore, +Shadowing kennel and bones +And the black dog that shakes his chain and moans. + +And when he barks, over the river +Flashing fast, +Dark echoes reply, +And the hollow past +Half yields the dead that never +More than half hidden lie: +And out they creep and back again for ever. + + +THE MILL-WATER + +ONLY the sound remains +Of the old mill; +Gone is the wheel; +On the prone roof and walls the nettle reigns. + +Water that toils no more +Dangles white locks +And, falling, mocks +The music of the mill-wheel's busy roar. + +Pretty to see, by day +Its sound is naught +Compared with thought +And talk and noise of labour and of play. + +Night makes the difference. +In calm moonlight, +Gloom infinite, +The sound comes surging in upon the sense: + +Solitude, company,-- +When it is night,-- +Grief or delight +By it must haunted or concluded be. + +Often the silentness +Has but this one +Companion; +Wherever one creeps in the other is: + +Sometimes a thought is drowned +By it, sometimes +Out of it climbs; +All thoughts begin or end upon this sound, + +Only the idle foam +Of water falling +Changelessly calling, +Where once men had a work-place and a home. + + +A DREAM + +OVER known fields with an old friend in dream +I walked, but came sudden to a strange stream. +Its dark waters were bursting out most bright +From a great mountain's heart into the light. +They ran a short course under the sun, then back +Into a pit they plunged, once more as black +As at their birth; and I stood thinking there +How white, had the day shone on them, they were, +Heaving and coiling. So by the roar and hiss +And by the mighty motion of the abyss +I was bemused, that I forgot my friend +And neither saw nor sought him till the end, +When I awoke from waters unto men +Saying: "I shall be here some day again." + + +SEDGE-WARBLERS + +THIS beauty made me dream there was a time +Long past and irrecoverable, a clime +Where any brook so radiant racing clear +Through buttercup and kingcup bright as brass +But gentle, nourishing the meadow grass +That leans and scurries in the wind, would bear +Another beauty, divine and feminine, +Child to the sun, a nymph whose soul unstained +Could love all day, and never hate or tire, +A lover of mortal or immortal kin. + +And yet, rid of this dream, ere I had drained +Its poison, quieted was my desire +So that I only looked into the water, +Clearer than any goddess or man's daughter, +And hearkened while it combed the dark green hair +And shook the millions of the blossoms white +Of water-crowfoot, and curdled to one sheet +The flowers fallen from the chestnuts in the park +Far off. And sedge-warblers, clinging so light +To willow twigs, sang longer than the lark, +Quick, shrill, or grating, a song to match the heat +Of the strong sun, nor less the water's cool, +Gushing through narrows, swirling in the pool. +Their song that lacks all words, all melody, +All sweetness almost, was dearer then to me +Than sweetest voice that sings in tune sweet words. +This was the best of May--the small brown birds +Wisely reiterating endlessly +What no man learnt yet, in or out of school. + + +UNDER THE WOODS + +WHEN these old woods were young +The thrushes' ancestors +As sweetly sung +In the old years. + +There was no garden here, +Apples nor mistletoe; +No children dear +Ran to and fro. + +New then was this thatched cot, +But the keeper was old, +And he had not +Much lead or gold. + +Most silent beech and yew: +As he went round about +The woods to view +Seldom he shot. + +But now that he is gone +Out of most memories, +Still lingers on, +A stoat of his, + +But one, shrivelled and green, +And with no scent at all, +And barely seen +On this shed wall. + + +WHAT WILL THEY DO? + +What will they do when I am gone? It is plain +That they will do without me as the rain +Can do without the flowers and the grass +That profit by it and must perish without. +I have but seen them in the loud street pass; +And I was naught to them. I turned about +To see them disappearing carelessly. +But what if I in them as they in me +Nourished what has great value and no price? +Almost I thought that rain thirsts for a draught +Which only in the blossom's chalice lies, +Until that one turned back and lightly laughed. + + + +TO-NIGHT + +HARRY, you know at night +The larks in Castle Alley +Sing from the attic's height +As if the electric light +Were the true sun above a summer valley: +Whistle, don't knock, to-night. + +I shall come early, Kate: +And we in Castle Alley +Will sit close out of sight +Alone, and ask no light +Of lamp or sun above a summer valley: +To-night I can stay late. + + +A CAT + +She had a name among the children; +But no one loved though someone owned +Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime +And had her kittens duly drowned. + +In Spring, nevertheless, this cat +Ate blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales, +And birds of bright voice and plume and flight, +As well as scraps from neighbours' pails. + +I loathed and hated her for this; +One speckle on a thrush's breast +Was worth a million such; and yet +She lived long, till God gave her rest. + + +THE UNKNOWN + +SHE is most fair, +And when they see her pass +The poets' ladies +Look no more in the glass +But after her. + +On a bleak moor +Running under the moon +She lures a poet, +Once proud or happy, soon +Far from his door. + +Beside a train, +Because they saw her go, +Or failed to see her, +Travellers and watchers know +Another pain. + +The simple lack +Of her is more to me +Than others' presence, +Whether life splendid be +Or utter black. + +I have not seen, +I have no news of her; +I can tell only +She is not here, but there +She might have been. + +She is to be kissed +Only perhaps by me; +She may be seeking +Me and no other; she +May not exist. + + +SONG + +AT poet's tears, +Sweeter than any smiles but hers, +She laughs; I sigh; +And yet I could not live if she should die. + +And when in June +Once more the cuckoo spoils his tune, +She laughs at sighs; +And yet she says she loves me till she dies. + + +SHE DOTES + +SHE dotes on what the wild birds say +Or hint or mock at, night and day,-- +Thrush, blackbird, all that sing in May, + And songless plover, +Hawk, heron, owl, and woodpecker. +They never say a word to her + About her lover. + +She laughs at them for childishness, +She cries at them for carelessness +Who see her going loverless + Yet sing and chatter +Just as when he was not a ghost, +Nor ever ask her what she has lost + Or what is the matter. + +Yet she has fancied blackbirds hide +A secret, and that thrushes chide +Because she thinks death can divide + Her from her lover; +And she has slept, trying to translate +The word the cuckoo cries to his mate + Over and over. + + +FOR THESE + +AN acre of land between the shore and the hills, +Upon a ledge that shows my kingdoms three, +The lovely visible earth and sky and sea, +Where what the curlew needs not, the farmer tills: + +A house that shall love me as I love it, +Well-hedged, and honoured by a few ash-trees +That linnets, greenfinches, and goldfinches +Shall often visit and make love in and flit: + +A garden I need never go beyond, +Broken but neat, whose sunflowers every one +Are fit to be the sign of the Rising Sun: +A spring, a brook's bend, or at least a pond: + +For these I ask not, but, neither too late +Nor yet too early, for what men call content, +And also that something may be sent +To be contented with, I ask of fate. + + +MARCH THE THIRD* + +HERE again (she said) is March the third +And twelve hours singing for the bird +'Twixt dawn and dusk, from half past six +To half past six, never unheard. + +'Tis Sunday, and the church-bells end +When the birds do. I think they blend +Now better than they will when passed +Is this unnamed, unmarked godsend. + +Or do all mark, and none dares say, +How it may shift and long delay, +Somewhere before the first of Spring, +But never fails, this singing day? + +And when it falls on Sunday, bells +Are a wild natural voice that dwells +On hillsides; but the birds' songs have +The holiness gone from the bells. + +This day unpromised is more dear +Than all the named days of the year +When seasonable sweets come in, +Because we know how lucky we are. + +* The author's birthday. + + +THE NEW HOUSE + +Now first, as I shut the door, + I was alone +In the new house; and the wind + Began to moan. + +Old at once was the house, + And I was old; +My ears were teased with the dread + Of what was foretold, + +Nights of storm, days of mist, without end; + Sad days when the sun +Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs + Not yet begun. + +All was foretold me; naught + Could I foresee; +But I learned how the wind would sound + After these things should be. + + +MARCH + +Now I know that Spring will come again, +Perhaps to-morrow: however late I've patience +After this night following on such a day. + +While still my temples ached from the cold burning +Of hail and wind, and still the primroses +Torn by the hail were covered up in it, +The sun filled earth and heaven with a great light +And a tenderness, almost warmth, where the hail + dripped, +As if the mighty sun wept tears of joy. +But 'twas too late for warmth. The sunset piled +Mountains on mountains of snow and ice in the + west: +Somewhere among their folds the wind was lost, +And yet 'twas cold, and though I knew that + Spring +Would come again, I knew it had not come, +That it was lost too in those mountains chill. + +What did the thrushes know? Rain, snow, sleet, + hail, +Had kept them quiet as the primroses. +They had but an hour to sing. On boughs they + sang, +On gates, on ground; they sang while they + changed perches +And while they fought, if they remembered to + fight: +So earnest were they to pack into that hour +Their unwilling hoard of song before the moon +Grew brighter than the clouds. Then 'twas + no time +For singing merely. So they could keep off silence +And night, they cared not what they sang or + screamed; +Whether 'twas hoarse or sweet or fierce or soft; +And to me all was sweet: they could do no wrong. +Something they knew--I also, while they sang +And after. Not till night had half its stars +And never a cloud, was I aware of silence +Stained with all that hour's songs, a silence +Saying that Spring returns, perhaps to-morrow. + + +THE CUCKOO + +THAT'S the cuckoo, you say. I cannot hear it. +When last I heard it I cannot recall; but I know +Too well the year when first I failed to hear it-- +It was drowned by my man groaning out to his + sheep "Ho! Ho!" + +Ten times with an angry voice he shouted +"Ho! Ho!" but not in anger, for that was his + way. +He died that Summer, and that is how I remember +The cuckoo calling, the children listening, and me + saying, "Nay." + +And now, as you said, "There it is," I was hearing +Not the cuckoo at all, but my man's "Ho! Ho!" + instead. +And I think that even if I could lose my deafness +The cuckoo's note would be drowned by the voice + of my dead. + + +OVER THE HILLS + +OFTEN and often it came back again +To mind, the day I passed the horizon ridge +To a new country, the path I had to find +By half-gaps that were stiles once in the hedge, +The pack of scarlet clouds running across +The harvest evening that seemed endless then +And after, and the inn where all were kind, +All were strangers. I did not know my loss +Till one day twelve months later suddenly +I leaned upon my spade and saw it all, +Though far beyond the sky-line. It became +Almost a habit through the year for me +To lean and see it and think to do the same +Again for two days and a night. Recall +Was vain: no more could the restless brook +Ever turn back and climb the waterfall +To the lake that rests and stirs not in its nook, +As in the hollow of the collar-bone +Under the mountain's head of rush and stone. + + +HOME + +OFTEN I had gone this way before: +But now it seemed I never could be +And never had been anywhere else; +'Twas home; one nationality +We had, I and the birds that sang, +One memory. + +They welcomed me. I had come back +That eve somehow from somewhere far: +The April mist, the chill, the calm, +Meant the same thing familiar +And pleasant to us, and strange too, +Yet with no bar. + +The thrush on the oaktop in the lane +Sang his last song, or last but one; +And as he ended, on the elm +Another had but just begun +His last; they knew no more than I +The day was done. + +Then past his dark white cottage front +A labourer went along, his tread +Slow, half with weariness, half with ease; +And, through the silence, from his shed +The sound of sawing rounded all +That silence said. + + +THE HOLLOW WOOD + +OUT in the sun the goldfinch flits +Along the thistle-tops, flits and twits +Above the hollow wood +Where birds swim like fish-- +Fish that laugh and shriek-- +To and fro, far below +In the pale hollow wood. + +Lichen, ivy, and moss +Keep evergreen the trees +That stand half-flayed and dying, +And the dead trees on their knees +In dog's-mercury and moss: +And the bright twit of the goldfinch drops +Down there as he flits on thistle-tops. + + +WIND AND MIST + +THEY met inside the gateway that gives the view, +A hollow land as vast as heaven. "It is +A pleasant day, sir." "A very pleasant day." +"And what a view here. If you like angled fields +Of grass and grain bounded by oak and thorn, +Here is a league. Had we with Germany +To play upon this board it could not be +More dear than April has made it with a smile. +The fields beyond that league close in together +And merge, even as our days into the past, +Into one wood that has a shining pane +Of water. Then the hills of the horizon-- +That is how I should make hills had I to show +One who would never see them what hills were + like." +"Yes. Sixty miles of South Downs at one glance. +Sometimes a man feels proud at them, as if +He had just created them with one mighty + thought." +"That house, though modern, could not be better + planned +For its position. I never liked a new +House better. Could you tell me who lives in + it?" +"No one." "Ah--and I was peopling all +Those windows on the south with happy eyes, +The terrace under them with happy feet; +Girls--" "Sir, I know. I know. I have seen + that house +Through mist look lovely as a castle in Spain, +And airier. I have thought: 'Twere happy there +To live.' And I have laughed at that +Because I lived there then." "Extraordinary." +"Yes, with my furniture and family +Still in it, I, knowing every nook of it +And loving none, and in fact hating it." +"Dear me! How could that be? But pardon + me." +"No offence. Doubtless the house was not to + blame, +But the eye watching from those windows saw, +Many a day, day after day, mist--mist +Like chaos surging back--and felt itself +Alone in all the world, marooned alone. +We lived in clouds, on a cliff's edge almost +(You see), and if clouds went, the visible earth +Lay too far off beneath and like a cloud. +I did not know it was the earth I loved +Until I tried to live there in the clouds +And the earth turned to cloud." "You had a + garden +Of flint and clay, too." "True; that was real + enough. +The flint was the one crop that never failed. +The clay first broke my heart, and then my back; +And the back heals not. There were other things +Real, too. In that room at the gable a child +Was born while the wind chilled a summer dawn: +Never looked grey mind on a greyer one +Than when the child's cry broke above the groans." +"I hope they were both spared." "They were. + Oh yes. +But flint and clay and childbirth were too real +For this cloud-castle. I had forgot the wind. +Pray do not let me get on to the wind. +You would not understand about the wind. +It is my subject, and compared with me +Those who have always lived on the firm ground +Are quite unreal in this matter of the wind. +There were whole days and nights when the wind + and I +Between us shared the world, and the wind ruled +And I obeyed it and forgot the mist. +My past and the past of the world were in the + wind. +Now you may say that though you understand +And feel for me, and so on, you yourself +Would find it different. You are all like that +If once you stand here free from wind and mist: +I might as well be talking to wind and mist. +You would believe the house-agent's young man +Who gives no heed to anything I say. +Good morning. But one word. I want to admit +That I would try the house once more, if I + could; +As I should like to try being young again." + + +THE UNKNOWN BIRD + +THREE lovely notes he whistled, too soft to be + heard +If others sang; but others never sang +In the great beech-wood all that May and June. +No one saw him: I alone could hear him +Though many listened. Was it but four years +Ago? or five? He never came again. + +Oftenest when I heard him I was alone, +Nor could I ever make another hear. +La-la-la! he called, seeming far-off-- +As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world, +As if the bird or I were in a dream. +Yet that he travelled through the trees and some- + times +Neared me, was plain, though somehow distant + still +He sounded. All the proof is--I told men +What I had heard. + + I never knew a voice, +Man, beast, or bird, better than this. I told +The naturalists; but neither had they heard +Anything like the notes that did so haunt me, +I had them clear by heart and have them still. +Four years, or five, have made no difference. + Then +As now that La-la-la! was bodiless sweet: +Sad more than joyful it was, if I must say +That it was one or other, but if sad +'Twas sad only with joy too, too far off +For me to taste it. But I cannot tell +If truly never anything but fair +The days were when he sang, as now they seem. +This surely I know, that I who listened then, +Happy sometimes, sometimes suffering +A heavy body and a heavy heart, +Now straightway, if I think of it, become +Light as that bird wandering beyond my shore. + + +THE LOFTY SKY + +TO-DAY I want the sky, +The tops of the high hills, +Above the last man's house, +His hedges, and his cows, +Where, if I will, I look +Down even on sheep and rook, +And of all things that move +See buzzards only above:-- +Past all trees, past furze +And thorn, where nought deters +The desire of the eye +For sky, nothing but sky. +I sicken of the woods +And all the multitudes +Of hedge-trees. They are no more +Than weeds upon this floor +Of the river of air +Leagues deep, leagues wide, where +I am like a fish that lives +In weeds and mud and gives +What's above him no thought. +I might be a tench for aught +That I can do to-day +Down on the wealden clay. +Even the tench has days +When he floats up and plays +Among the lily leaves +And sees the sky, or grieves +Not if he nothing sees: +While I, I know that trees +Under that lofty sky +Are weeds, fields mud, and I +Would arise and go far +To where the lilies are. + + +AFTER RAIN + +THE rain of a night and a day and a night +Stops at the light +Of this pale choked day. The peering sun +Sees what has been done. +The road under the trees has a border new +Of purple hue +Inside the border of bright thin grass: +For all that has +Been left by November of leaves is torn +From hazel and thorn +And the greater trees. Throughout the copse +No dead leaf drops +On grey grass, green moss, burnt-orange fern, +At the wind's return: +The leaflets out of the ash-tree shed +Are thinly spread +In the road, like little black fish, inlaid, +As if they played. +What hangs from the myriad branches down there +So hard and bare +Is twelve yellow apples lovely to see +On one crab-tree. +And on each twig of every tree in the dell +Uncountable +Crystals both dark and bright of the rain +That begins again. + + +DIGGING + +TO-DAY I think +Only with scents,--scents dead leaves yield, +And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, +And the square mustard field; + +Odours that rise +When the spade wounds the root of tree, +Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed, +Rhubarb or celery; + +The smoke's smell, too, +Flowing from where a bonfire burns +The dead, the waste, the dangerous, +And all to sweetness turns. + +It is enough +To smell, to crumble the dark earth. +While the robin sings over again +Sad songs of Autumn mirth. + + +BUT THESE THINGS ALSO + +BUT these things also are Spring's-- +On banks by the roadside the grass +Long-dead that is greyer now +Than all the Winter it was; + +The shell of a little snail bleached +In the grass; chip of flint, and mite +Of chalk; and the small birds' dung +In splashes of purest white: + +All the white things a man mistakes +For earliest violets +Who seeks through Winter's ruins +Something to pay Winter's debts, + +While the North blows, and starling flocks +By chattering on and on +Keep their spirits up in the mist, +And Spring's here, Winter's not gone. + + +APRIL + +THE sweetest thing, I thought +At one time, between earth and heaven +Was the first smile +When mist has been forgiven +And the sun has stolen out, +Peered, and resolved to shine at seven +On dabbled lengthening grasses, +Thick primroses and early leaves uneven, +When earth's breath, warm and humid, far sur- + passes +The richest oven's, and loudly rings "cuckoo" +And sharply the nightingale's "tsoo, tsoo, tsoo, + tsoo": +To say "God bless it" was all that I could do. + +But now I know one sweeter +By far since the day Emily +Turned weeping back +To me, still happy me, +To ask forgiveness,-- +Yet smiled with half a certainty +To be forgiven,--for what +She had never done; I knew not what it might be, +Nor could she tell me, having now forgot, +By rapture carried with me past all care +As to an isle in April lovelier +Than April's self. "God bless you" I said to her. + + +THE BARN + +THEY should never have built a barn there, at all-- +Drip, drip, drip!--under that elm tree, +Though then it was young. Now it is old +But good, not like the barn and me. + +To-morrow they cut it down. They will leave +The barn, as I shall be left, maybe. +What holds it up? 'Twould not pay to pull down. +Well, this place has no other antiquity. + +No abbey or castle looks so old +As this that Job Knight built in '54, +Built to keep corn for rats and men. +Now there's fowls in the roof, pigs on the floor. + +What thatch survives is dung for the grass, +The best grass on the farm. A pity the roof +Will not bear a mower to mow it. But +Only fowls have foothold enough. + +Starlings used to sit there with bubbling throats +Making a spiky beard as they chattered +And whistled and kissed, with heads in air, +Till they thought of something else that mattered. + +But now they cannot find a place, +Among all those holes, for a nest any more. +It's the turn of lesser things, I suppose. +Once I fancied 'twas starlings they built it for. + + +THE BARN AND THE DOWN + +IT stood in the sunset sky +Like the straight-backed down, +Many a time--the barn +At the edge of the town, + +So huge and dark that it seemed +It was the hill +Till the gable's precipice proved +It impossible. + +Then the great down in the west +Grew into sight, +A barn stored full to the ridge +With black of night; + +And the barn fell to a barn +Or even less +Before critical eyes and its own +Late mightiness. + +But far down and near barn and I +Since then have smiled, +Having seen my new cautiousness +By itself beguiled + +To disdain what seemed the barn +Till a few steps changed +It past all doubt to the down; +So the barn was avenged. + + +THE CHILD ON THE CLIFFS + +MOTHER, the root of this little yellow flower +Among the stones has the taste of quinine. +Things are strange to-day on the cliff. The sun + shines so bright, +And the grasshopper works at his sewing-machine +So hard. Here's one on my hand, mother, look; +I lie so still. There's one on your book. + +But I have something to tell more strange. So + leave +Your book to the grasshopper, mother dear,-- +Like a green knight in a dazzling market-place,-- +And listen now. Can you hear what I hear +Far out? Now and then the foam there curls +And stretches a white arm out like a girl's. + +Fishes and gulls ring no bells. There cannot be +A chapel or church between here and Devon, +With fishes or gulls ringing its bell,--hark.-- +Somewhere under the sea or up in heaven. +"It's the bell, my son, out in the bay +On the buoy. It does sound sweet to-day." + +Sweeter I never heard, mother, no, not in all Wales. +I should like to be lying under that foam, +Dead, but able to hear the sound of the bell, +And certain that you would often come +And rest, listening happily. +I should be happy if that could be. + + +GOOD-NIGHT. + +THE skylarks are far behind that sang over the + down; +I can hear no more those suburb nightingales; +Thrushes and blackbirds sing in the gardens of the + town +In vain: the noise of man, beast, and machine + prevails. + +But the call of children in the unfamiliar streets +That echo with a familiar twilight echoing, +Sweet as the voice of nightingale or lark, completes +A magic of strange welcome, so that I seem a king + +Among man, beast, machine, bird, child, and the + ghost +That in the echo lives and with the echo dies. +The friendless town is friendly; homeless, I + not lost; +Though I know none of these doors, and meet but + strangers' eyes. + +Never again, perhaps, after to-morrow, shall +I see these homely streets, these church windows + alight, +Not a man or woman or child among them all: +But it is All Friends' Night, a traveller's good + night. + + +THE WASP TRAP + +THIS moonlight makes +The lovely lovelier +Than ever before lakes +And meadows were. + +And yet they are not, +Though this their hour is, more +Lovely than things that were not +Lovely before. + +Nothing on earth, +And in the heavens no star, +For pure brightness is worth +More than that jar, + +For wasps meant, now +A star--long may it swing +From the dead apple-bough, +So glistening. + + +JULY + +NAUGHT moves but clouds, and in the glassy lake +Their doubles and the shadow of my boat. +The boat itself stirs only when I break +This drowse of heat and solitude afloat +To prove if what I see be bird or mote, +Or learn if yet the shore woods be awake. + +Long hours since dawn grew,--spread,--and passed + on high +And deep below,--I have watched the cool reeds + hung +Over images more cool in imaged sky: +Nothing there was worth thinking of so long; +All that the ring-doves say, far leaves among, +Brims my mind with content thus still to lie. + + +A TALE + +THERE once the walls +Of the ruined cottage stood. +The periwinkle crawls +With flowers in its hair into the wood. + +In flowerless hours +Never will the bank fail, +With everlasting flowers +On fragments of blue plates, to tell the tale. + + +PARTING + +THE Past is a strange land, most strange. +Wind blows not there, nor does rain fall: +If they do, they cannot hurt at all. +Men of all kinds as equals range + +The soundless fields and streets of it. +Pleasure and pain there have no sting, +The perished self not suffering +That lacks all blood and nerve and wit, + +And is in shadow-land a shade. +Remembered joy and misery +Bring joy to the joyous equally; +Both sadden the sad. So memory made + +Parting to-day a double pain: +First because it was parting; next +Because the ill it ended vexed +And mocked me from the Past again, + +Not as what had been remedied +Had I gone on,--not that, oh no! +But as itself no longer woe; +Sighs, angry word and look and deed + +Being faded: rather a kind of bliss, +For there spiritualized it lay +In the perpetual yesterday +That naught can stir or stain like this. + + +LOVERS + +THE two men in the road were taken aback. +The lovers came out shading their eyes from the + sun, +And never was white so white, or black so black, +As her cheeks and hair. "There are more things + than one +A man might turn into a wood for, Jack," +Said George; Jack whispered: "He has not got + a gun. +It's a bit too much of a good thing, I say. +They are going the other road, look. And see her + run."-- +She ran.--"What a thing it is, this picking may." + + +THAT GIRL'S CLEAR EYES + +THAT girl's clear eyes utterly concealed all +Except that there was something to reveal. +And what did mine say in the interval? +No more: no less. They are but as a seal +Not to be broken till after I am dead; +And then vainly. Every one of us +This morning at our tasks left nothing said, +In spite of many words. We were sealed thus, +Like tombs. Nor until now could I admit +That all I cared for was the pleasure and pain +I tasted in the stony square sunlit, +Or the dark cloisters, or shade of airy plane, +While music blazed and children, line after line, +Marched past, hiding the "SEVENTEEN THIRTY- + NINE." + + +THE CHILD IN THE ORCHARD + +"HE rolls in the orchard: he is stained with moss +And with earth, the solitary old white horse. +Where is his father and where is his mother +Among all the brown horses? Has he a brother? +I know the swallow, the hawk, and the hern; +But there are two million things for me to learn. + +"Who was the lady that rode the white horse +With rings and bells to Banbury Cross? +Was there no other lady in England beside +That a nursery rhyme could take for a ride? +The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern. +There are two million things for me to learn. + +"Was there a man once who straddled across +The back of the Westbury White Horse +Over there on Salisbury Plain's green wall? +Was he bound for Westbury, or had he a fall? +The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern. +There are two million things for me to learn. + +"Out of all the white horses I know three, +At the age of six; and it seems to me +There is so much to learn, for men, +That I dare not go to bed again. +The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern. +There are millions of things for me to learn." + + +THE SOURCE + +ALL day the air triumphs with its two voices +Of wind and rain +As loud as if in anger it rejoices, +Drowning the sound of earth +That gulps and gulps in choked endeavour vain +To swallow the rain. + +Half the night, too, only the wild air speaks +With wind and rain, +Till forth the dumb source of the river breaks +And drowns the rain and wind, +Bellows like a giant bathing in mighty mirth +The triumph of earth. + + +THE MOUNTAIN CHAPEL + +CHAPEL and gravestones, old and few, +Are shrouded by a mountain fold +From sound and view +Of life. The loss of the brook's voice +Falls like a shadow. All they hear is +The eternal noise +Of wind whistling in grass more shrill +Than aught as human as a sword, +And saying still: +"'Tis but a moment since man's birth +And in another moment more +Man lies in earth +For ever; but I am the same +Now, and shall be, even as I was +Before he came; +Till there is nothing I shall be." +Yet there the sun shines after noon +So cheerfully +The place almost seems peopled, nor +Lacks cottage chimney, cottage hearth: +It is not more +In size than is a cottage, less +Than any other empty home +In homeliness. +It has a garden of wild flowers +And finest grass and gravestones warm +In sunshine hours +The year through. Men behind the glass +Stand once a week, singing, and drown +The whistling grass +Their ponies munch. And yet somewhere, +Near or far off, there's a man could +Be happy here, +Or one of the gods perhaps, were they +Not of inhuman stature dire, +As poets say +Who have not seen them clearly; if +At sound of any wind of the world +In grass-blades stiff +They would not startle and shudder cold +Under the sun. When gods were young +This wind was old. + + +FIRST KNOWN WHEN LOST + +I NEVER had noticed it until +'Twas gone,--the narrow copse +Where now the woodman lops +The last of the willows with his bill. + +It was not more than a hedge overgrown. +One meadow's breadth away +I passed it day by day. +Now the soil was bare as a bone, + +And black betwixt two meadows green, +Though fresh-cut faggot ends +Of hazel made some amends +With a gleam as if flowers they had been. + +Strange it could have hidden so near! +And now I see as I look +That the small winding brook, +A tributary's tributary, rises there. + + +THE WORD + +THERE are so many things I have forgot, +That once were much to me, or that were not, +All lost, as is a childless woman's child +And its child's children, in the undefiled +Abyss of what can never be again. +I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men +That fought and lost or won in the old wars, +Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars. +Some things I have forgot that I forget. +But lesser things there are, remembered yet, +Than all the others. One name that I have not-- +Though 'tis an empty thingless name--forgot +Never can die because Spring after Spring +Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing. +There is always one at midday saying it clear +And tart--the name, only the name I hear. +While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent +That is like food, or while I am content +With the wild rose scent that is like memory, +This name suddenly is cried out to me +From somewhere in the bushes by a bird +Over and over again, a pure thrush word. + + +THESE THINGS THAT POETS SAID + +THESE things that poets said +Of love seemed true to me +When I loved and I fed +On love and poetry equally. + +But now I wish I knew +If theirs were love indeed, +Or if mine were the true +And theirs some other lovely weed: + +For certainly not thus, +Then or thereafter, I +Loved ever. Between us +Decide, good Love, before I die. + +Only, that once I loved +By this one argument +Is very plainly proved: +I, loving not, am different. + + +HOME + +NOT the end: but there's nothing more. +Sweet Summer and Winter rude +I have loved, and friendship and love, +The crowd and solitude: + +But I know them: I weary not; +But all that they mean I know. +I would go back again home +Now. Yet how should I go? + +This is my grief. That land, +My home, I have never seen; +No traveller tells of it, +However far he has been. + +Afid could I discover it, +I fear my happiness there, +Or my pain, might be dreams of return +Here, to these things that were. + +Remembering ills, though slight +Yet irremediable, +Brings a worse, an impurer pang +Than remembering what was well. + +No: I cannot go back, +And would not if I could. +Until blindness come, I must wait +And blink at what is not good. + + +ASPENS + +ALL day and night, save winter, every weather, +Above the inn, the smithy, and the shop, +The aspens at the cross-roads talk together +Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the top. + +Out of the blacksmith's cavern comes the ringing +Of hammer, shoe, and anvil; out of the inn +The clink, the hum, the roar, the random singing-- +The sounds that for these fifty years have been. + +The whisper of the aspens is not drowned, +And over lightless pane and footless road, +Empty as sky, with every other sound +Not ceasing, calls their ghosts from their abode, + +A silent smithy, a silent inn, nor fails +In the bare moonlight or the thick-furred gloom, +In tempest or the night of nightingales, +To turn the cross-roads to a ghostly room. + +And it would be the same were no house near. +Over all sorts of weather, men, and times, +Aspens must shake their leaves and men may hear +But need not listen, more than to my rhymes. + +Whatever wind blows, while they and I have leaves +We cannot other than an aspen be +That ceaselessly, unreasonably grieves, +Or so men think who like a different tree. + + +AN OLD SONG + +I WAS not apprenticed nor ever dwelt in famous + Lincolnshire; +I've served one master ill and well much more than + seven year; +And never took up to poaching as you shall quickly + find; + But 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the season + of the year. + +I roamed where nobody had a right but keepers and + squires, and there +I sought for nests, wild flowers, oak sticks, and + moles, both far and near. +And had to run from farmers, and learnt the + Lincolnshire song: + "Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the + season of the year." + +I took those walks years after, talking with friend + or dear, +Or solitary musing; but when the moon shone clear +I had no joy or sorrow that could not be expressed +By "'Tis my delight of a shiny night in the + season of the year." + +Since then I've thrown away a chance to fight a + gamekeeper; +And I less often trespass, and what I see or hear +Is mostly from the road or path by day: yet still + I sing: + "Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the + season of the year." + +For if I am contented, at home or anywhere, +Or if I sigh for I know not what, or my heart + beats with some fear, +It is a strange kind of delight to sing or whistle just: + "Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the + season of the year." + +And with this melody on my lips and no one by to + care, +Indoors, or out on shiny nights or dark in open air, +I am for a moment made a man that sings out of + his heart: + "Oh, 'tis my delight of a shiny night in the + season of the year." + + +THERE WAS A TIME + +THERE was a time when this poor frame was whole +And I had youth and never another care, +Or none that should have troubled a strong soul. +Yet, except sometimes in a frosty air +When my heels hammered out a melody +From pavements of a city left behind, +I never would acknowledge my own glee +Because it was less mighty than my mind +Had dreamed of. Since I could not boast of strength +Great as I wished, weakness was all my boast. +I sought yet hated pity till at length +I earned it. Oh, too heavy was the cost. +But now that there is something I could use +My youth and strength for, I deny the age, +The care and weakness that I know--refuse +To admit I am unworthy of the wage +Paid to a man who gives up eyes and breath +For what can neither ask nor heed his death. + + +AMBITION + +UNLESS it was that day I never knew +Ambition. After a night of frost, before +The March sun brightened and the South-west blew, +Jackdaws began to shout and float and soar +Already, and one was racing straight and high +Alone, shouting like a black warrior +Challenges and menaces to the wide sky. +With loud long laughter then a woodpecker +Ridiculed the sadness of the owl's last cry. +And through the valley where all the folk astir +Made only plumes of pearly smoke to tower +Over dark trees and white meadows happier +Than was Elysium in that happy hour, +A train that roared along raised after it +And carried with it a motionless white bower +Of purest cloud, from end to end close-knit, +So fair it touched the roar with silence. Time +Was powerless while that lasted. I could sit +And think I had made the loveliness of prime, +Breathed its life into it and were its lord, +And no mind lived save this 'twixt clouds and rime. +Omnipotent I was, nor even deplored +That I did nothing. But the end fell like a bell: +The bower was scattered; far off the train roared. +But if this was ambition I cannot tell. +What 'twas ambition for I know not well. + + +NO ONE CARES LESS THAN I + +"No one cares less than I, +Nobody knows but God, +Whether I am destined to lie +Under a foreign clod," +Were the words I made to the bugle call in the + morning. + +But laughing, storming, scorning, +Only the bugles know +What the bugles say in the morning, +And they do not care, when they blow +The call that I heard and made words to early this + morning. + + +ROADS + +I LOVE roads: +The goddesses that dwell +Far along invisible +Are my favourite gods. + +Roads go on +While we forget, and are +Forgotten like a star +That shoots and is gone. + +On this earth 'tis sure +We men have not made +Anything that doth fade +So soon, so long endure: + +The hill road wet with rain +In the sun would not gleam +Like a winding stream +If we trod it not again. + +They are lonely +While we sleep, lonelier +For lack of the traveller +Who is now a dream only. + +From dawn's twilight +And all the clouds like sheep +On the mountains of sleep +They wind into the night. + +The next turn may reveal +Heaven: upon the crest +The close pine clump, at rest +And black, may Hell conceal. + +Often footsore, never +Yet of the road I weary, +Though long and steep and dreary +As it winds on for ever. + +Helen of the roads, +The mountain ways of Wales +And the Mabinogion tales, +Is one of the true gods, + +Abiding in the trees, +The threes and fours so wise, +The larger companies, +That by the roadside be, + +And beneath the rafter +Else uninhabited +Excepting by the dead; +And it is her laughter + +At morn and night I hear +When the thrush cock sings +Bright irrelevant things, +And when the chanticleer + +Calls back to their own night +Troops that make loneliness +With their light footsteps' press, +As Helen's own are light. + +Now all roads lead to France +And heavy is the tread +Of the living; but the dead +Returning lightly dance: + +Whatever the road bring +To me or take from me, +They keep me company +With their pattering, + +Crowding the solitude +Of the loops over the downs, +Hushing the roar of towns +And their brief multitude. + + +THIS IS NO CASE OF PETTY RIGHT + OR WRONG + +THIS is no case of petty right or wrong +That politicians or philosophers +Can judge. I hate not Germans, nor grow hot +With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers. +Beside my hate for one fat patriot +My hatred of the Kaiser is love true:-- +A kind of god he is, banging a gong. +But I have not to choose between the two, +Or between justice and injustice. Dinned +With war and argument I read no more +Than in the storm smoking along the wind +Athwart the wood. Two witches' cauldrons roar. +From one the weather shall rise clear and gay; +Out of the other an England beautiful +And like her mother that died yesterday. +Little I know or care if, being dull, +I shall miss something that historians +Can rake out of the ashes when perchance +The phoenix broods serene above their ken. +But with the best and meanest Englishmen +I am one in crying, God save England, lest +We lose what never slaves and cattle blessed. +The ages made her that made us from the dust: +She is all we know and live by, and we trust +She is good and must endure, loving her so: +And as we love ourselves we hate her foe. + + +THE CHALK-PIT + +"Is this the road that climbs above and bends +Round what was once a chalk-pit: now it is +By accident an amphitheatre. +Some ash-trees standing ankle-deep in brier +And bramble act the parts, and neither speak +Nor stir." "But see: they have fallen, every one, +And brier and bramble have grown over them." +"That is the place. As usual no one is here. +Hardly can I imagine the drop of the axe, +And the smack that is like an echo, sounding here." +"I do not understand." "Why, what I mean is +That I have seen the place two or three times +At most, and that its emptiness and silence +And stillness haunt me, as if just before +It was not empty, silent, still, but full +Of life of some kind, perhaps tragical. +Has anything unusual happened here?" +"Not that I know of. It is called the Dell. +They have not dug chalk here for a century. +That was the ash-trees' age. But I will ask." +"No. Do not. I prefer to make a tale, +Or better leave it like the end of a play, +Actors and audience and lights all gone; +For so it looks now. In my memory +Again and again I see it, strangely dark, +And vacant of a life but just withdrawn. +We have not seen the woodman with the axe. +Some ghost has left it now as we two came." +"And yet you doubted if this were the road?" +"Well, sometimes I have thought of it and failed +To place it. No. And I am not quite sure, +Even now, this is it. For another place, +Real or painted, may have combined with it. +Or I myself a long way back in time . . ." +"Why, as to that, I used to meet a man-- +I had forgotten,--searching for birds' nests +Along the road and in the chalk-pit too. +The wren's hole was an eye that looked at him +For recognition. Every nest he knew. +He got a stiff neck, by looking this side or that, +Spring after spring, he told me, with his laugh,-- +A sort of laugh. He was a visitor, +A man of forty,--smoked and strolled about. +At orts and crosses Pleasure and Pain had played +On his brown features;--I think both had lost;-- +Mild and yet wild too. You may know the kind. +And once or twice a woman shared his walks, +A girl of twenty with a brown boy's face, +And hair brown as a thrush or as a nut, +Thick eyebrows, glinting eyes--" "You have + said enough. +A pair,--free thought, free love,--I know the + breed: +I shall not mix my fancies up with them." +"You please yourself. I should prefer the truth +Or nothing. Here, in fact, is nothing at all +Except a silent place that once rang loud, +And trees and us--imperfect friends, we men +And trees since time began; and nevertheless +Between us still we breed a mystery." + + +HEALTH + +FOUR miles at a leap, over the dark hollow land, +To the frosted steep of the down and its junipers + black, +Travels my eye with equal ease and delight: +And scarce could my body leap four yards. + +This is the best and the worst of it-- +Never to know, +Yet to imagine gloriously, pure health. + +To-day, had I suddenly health, +I could not satisfy the desire of my heart +Unless health abated it, +So beautiful is the air in its softness and clearness, + while Spring +Promises all and fails in nothing as yet; +And what blue and what white is I never knew +Before I saw this sky blessing the land. + +For had I health I could not ride or run or fly +So far or so rapidly over the land +As I desire: I should reach Wiltshire tired; +I should have changed my mind before I could be + in Wales. +I could not love; I could not command love. +Beauty would still be far off +However many hills I climbed over; +Peace would still be farther. + +Maybe I should not count it anything +To leap these four miles with the eye; +And either I should not be filled almost to bursting + with desire, +Or with my power desire would still keep pace. + +Yet I am not satisfied +Even with knowing I never could be satisfied. +With health and all the power that lies +In maiden beauty, poet and warrior, +In Caesar, Shakespeare, Alcibiades, +Mazeppa, Leonardo, Michelangelo, +In any maiden whose smile is lovelier +Than sunlight upon dew, +I could not be as the wagtail running up and down +The warm tiles of the roof slope, twittering +Happily and sweetly as if the sun itself +Extracted the song +As the hand makes sparks from the fur of a cat: + +I could not be as the sun. +Nor should I be content to be +As little as the bird or as mighty as the sun. +For the bird knows not of the sun, +And the sun regards not the bird. +But I am almost proud to love both bird and sun, +Though scarce this Spring could my body leap + four yards. + + +BEAUTY + +WHAT does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease, +No man, woman, or child alive could please +Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh +Because I sit and frame an epitaph-- +"Here lies all that no one loved of him +And that loved no one." Then in a trice that + whim +Has wearied. But, though I am like a river +At fall of evening while it seems that never +Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while +Cross breezes cut the surface to a file, +This heart, some fraction of me, happily +Floats through the window even now to a tree +Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale, +Not like a pewit that returns to wail +For something it has lost, but like a dove +That slants unswerving to its home and love. +There I find my rest, and through the dusk air +Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there. + + + +SNOW + +IN the gloom of whiteness, +In the great silence of snow, +A child was sighing +And bitterly saying: "Oh, +They have killed a white bird up there on her nest, +The down is fluttering from her breast." +And still it fell through that dusky brightness +On the child crying for the bird of the snow. + + +THE NEW YEAR + +HE was the one man I met up in the woods +That stormy New Year's morning; and at first + sight, +Fifty yards off, I could not tell how much +Of the strange tripod was a man. His body, +Bowed horizontal, was supported equally +By legs at one end, by a rake at the other: +Thus he rested, far less like a man than +His wheel-barrow in profile was like a pig. +But when I saw it was an old man bent, +At the same moment came into my mind +The games at which boys bend thus, _High- + Cockalorum_, +Or _Fly-the-garter_, and _Leap-frog_. At the sound +Of footsteps he began to straighten himself; +His head rolled under his cape like a tortoise's; +He took an unlit pipe out of his mouth +Politely ere I wished him "A Happy New Year," +And with his head cast upward sideways + Muttered-- +So far as I could hear through the trees' roar-- +"Happy New Year, and may it come fastish, too," +While I strode by and he turned to raking leaves. + + +THE BROOK + +SEATED once by a brook, watching a child +Chiefly that paddled, I was thus beguiled. +Mellow the blackbird sang and sharp the thrush +Not far off in the oak and hazel brush, +Unseen. There was a scent like honeycomb +From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome +Of the stone the cart-horse kicks against so oft +A butterfly alighted. From aloft +He took the heat of the sun, and from below. +On the hot stone he perched contented so, +As if never a cart would pass again +That way; as if I were the last of men +And he the first of insects to have earth +And sun together and to know their worth. +I was divided between him and the gleam, +The motion, and the voices, of the stream, +The waters running frizzled over gravel, +That never vanish and for ever travel. +A grey flycatcher silent on a fence +And I sat as if we had been there since +The horseman and the horse lying beneath +The fir-tree-covered barrow on the heath, +The horseman and the horse with silver shoes, +Galloped the downs last. All that I could lose +I lost. And then the child's voice raised the dead. +"No one's been here before" was what she said +And what I felt, yet never should have found +A word for, while I gathered sight and sound. + + +THE OTHER + +THE forest ended. Glad I was +To feel the light, and hear the hum +Of bees, and smell the drying grass +And the sweet mint, because I had come +To an end of forest, and because +Here was both road and inn, the sum +Of what's not forest. But 'twas here +They asked me if I did not pass +Yesterday this way? "Not you? Queer." +"Who then? and slept here?" I felt fear. + +I learnt his road and, ere they were +Sure I was I, left the dark wood +Behind, kestrel and woodpecker, +The inn in the sun, the happy mood +When first I tasted sunlight there. +I travelled fast, in hopes I should +Outrun that other. What to do +When caught, I planned not. I pursued +To prove the likeness, and, if true, +To watch until myself I knew. + +I tried the inns that evening +Of a long gabled high-street grey, +Of courts and outskirts, travelling +An eager but a weary way, +In vain. He was not there. Nothing +Told me that ever till that day +Had one like me entered those doors, +Save once. That time I dared: "You may +Recall"--but never-foamless shores +Make better friends than those dull boors. + +Many and many a day like this +Aimed at the unseen moving goal +And nothing found but remedies +For all desire. These made not whole; +They sowed a new desire, to kiss +Desire's self beyond control, +Desire of desire. And yet +Life stayed on within my soul. +One night in sheltering from the wet +I quite forgot I could forget. + +A customer, then the landlady +Stared at me. With a kind of smile +They hesitated awkwardly: +Their silence gave me time for guile. +Had anyone called there like me, +I asked. It was quite plain the wile +Succeeded. For they poured out all. +And that was naught. Less than a mile +Beyond the inn, I could recall +He was like me in general. + +He had pleased them, but I less. +I was more eager than before +To find him out and to confess, +To bore him and to let him bore. +I could not wait: children might guess +I had a purpose, something more +That made an answer indiscreet. +One girl's caution made me sore, +Too indignant even to greet +That other had we chanced to meet. + +I sought then in solitude. +The wind had fallen with the night; as still +The roads lay as the ploughland rude, +Dark and naked, on the hill. +Had there been ever any feud +'Twixt earth and sky, a mighty will +Closed it: the crocketed dark trees, +A dark house, dark impossible +Cloud-towers, one star, one lamp, one peace +Held on an everlasting lease: + +And all was earth's, or all was sky's; +No difference endured between +The two. A dog barked on a hidden rise; +A marshbird whistled high unseen; +The latest waking blackbird's cries +Perished upon the silence keen. +The last light filled a narrow firth +Among the clouds. I stood serene, +And with a solemn quiet mirth, +An old inhabitant of earth. + +Once the name I gave to hours +Like this was melancholy, when +It was not happiness and powers +Coming like exiles home again, +And weaknesses quitting their bowers, +Smiled and enjoyed, far off from men, +Moments of everlastingness. +And fortunate my search was then +While what I sought, nevertheless, +That I was seeking, I did not guess. + +That time was brief: once more at inn +And upon road I sought my man +Till once amid a tap-room's din +Loudly he asked for me, began +To speak, as if it had been a sin, +Of how I thought and dreamed and ran +After him thus, day after day: +He lived as one under a ban +For this: what had I got to say? +I said nothing, I slipped away. + +And now I dare not follow after +Too close. I try to keep in sight, +Dreading his frown and worse his laughter. +I steal out of the wood to light; +I see the swift shoot from the rafter +By the inn door: ere I alight +I wait and hear the starlings wheeze +And nibble like ducks: I wait his flight. +He goes: I follow: no release +Until he ceases. Then I also shall cease. + + +HOUSE AND MAN + +ONE hour: as dim he and his house now look +As a reflection in a rippling brook, +While I remember him; but first, his house. +Empty it sounded. It was dark with forest boughs +That brushed the walls and made the mossy tiles +Part of the squirrels' track. In all those miles +Of forest silence and forest murmur, only +One house--"Lonely!" he said, "I wish it were + lonely"-- +Which the trees looked upon from every side, +And that was his. + + He waved good-bye to hide +A sigh that he converted to a laugh. +He seemed to hang rather than stand there, half +Ghost-like, half like a beggar's rag, clean wrung +And useless on the brier where it has hung +Long years a-washing by sun and wind and rain. + +But why I call back man and house again +Is that now on a beech-tree's tip I see +As then I saw--I at the gate, and he +In the house darkness,--a magpie veering about, +A magpie like a weathercock in doubt. + + +THE GYPSY + +A FORTNIGHT before Christmas Gypsies were every- + where: +Vans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to + the fair. +"My gentleman," said one, "You've got a lucky + face." +"And you've a luckier," I thought, "if such a grace +And impudence in rags are lucky." "Give a penny +For the poor baby's sake." "Indeed I have not any +Unless you can give change for a sovereign, my + dear." +"Then just half a pipeful of tobacco can you + spare?" +I gave it. With that much victory she laughed + content. +I should have given more, but off and away she + went +With her baby and her pink sham flowers to rejoin +The rest before I could translate to its proper coin +Gratitude for her grace. And I paid nothing then, +As I pay nothing now with the dipping of my pen +For her brother's music when he drummed the + tambourine +And stamped his feet, which made the workmen + passing grin, +While his mouth-organ changed to a rascally + Bacchanal dance +"Over the hills and far away." This and his glance +Outlasted all the fair, farmer and auctioneer, +Cheap-jack, balloon-man, drover with crooked + stick, and steer, +Pig, turkey, goose, and duck, Christmas Corpses + to be. +Not even the kneeling ox had eyes like the Romany. +That night he peopled for me the hollow wooded + land, +More dark and wild than stormiest heavens, that I + searched and scanned +Like a ghost new-arrived. The gradations of the + dark +Were like an underworld of death, but for the spark +In the Gypsy boy's black eyes as he played and + stamped his tune, +"Over the hills and far away," and a crescent moon. + + +MAN AND DOG + +"'TWILL take some getting." "Sir, I think 'twill + so." +The old man stared up at the mistletoe +That hung too high in the poplar's crest for plunder +Of any climber, though not for kissing under: +Then he went on against the north-east wind-- +Straight but lame, leaning on a staff new-skinned, +Carrying a brolly, flag-basket, and old coat,-- +Towards Alton, ten miles off. And he had not +Done less from Chilgrove where he pulled up docks. +'Twere best, if he had had "a money-box," +To have waited there till the sheep cleared a field +For what a half-week's flint-picking would yield. +His mind was running on the work he had done +Since he left Christchurch in the New Forest, one +Spring in the 'seventies,--navvying on dock and + line +From Southampton to Newcastle-on-Tyne,-- +In 'seventy-four a year of soldiering +With the Berkshires,--hoeing and harvesting +In half the shires where corn and couch will grow. +His sons, three sons, were fighting, but the hoe +And reap-hook he liked, or anything to do with + trees. +He fell once from a poplar tall as these: +The Flying Man they called him in hospital. +"If I flew now, to another world I'd fall." +He laughed and whistled to the small brown bitch +With spots of blue that hunted in the ditch. +Her foxy Welsh grandfather must have paired +Beneath him. He kept sheep in Wales and scared +Strangers, I will warrant, with his pearl eye +And trick of shrinking off as he were shy, +Then following close in silence for--for what? +"No rabbit, never fear, she ever got, +Yet always hunts. To-day she nearly had one: +She would and she wouldn't. 'Twas like that. The + bad one! +She's not much use, but still she's company, +Though I'm not. She goes everywhere with me. +So Alton I must reach to-night somehow: +I'll get no shakedown with that bedfellow +From farmers. Many a man sleeps worse to-night +Than I shall." "In the trenches." "Yes, that's + right. +But they'll be out of that--I hope they be-- +This weather, marching after the enemy." +"And so I hope. Good luck." And there I nodded +"Good-night. You keep straight on." Stiffly he + plodded; +And at his heels the crisp leaves scurried fast, +And the leaf-coloured robin watched. They + passed, +The robin till next day, the man for good, +Together in the twilight of the wood. + + +A PRIVATE + +THIS ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors +Many a frozen night, and merrily +Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all + bores: +"At Mrs. Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he, +"I slept." None knew which bush. Above the + town, +Beyond "The Drover," a hundred spot the down +In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps +More sound in France--that, too, he secret keeps. + + +OUT IN THE DARK + +OUT in the dark over the snow +The fallow fawns invisible go +With the fallow doe; +And the winds blow +Fast as the stars are slow. + +Stealthily the dark haunts round +And, when a lamp goes, without sound +At a swifter bound +Than the swiftest hound, +Arrives, and all else is drowned; + +And I and star and wind and deer, +Are in the dark together,--near, +Yet far,--and fear +Drums on my ear +In that sage company drear. + +How weak and little is the light, +All the universe of sight, +Love and delight, +Before the might, +If you love it not, of night. + + + +Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Last Poems, by Edward Thomas + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAST POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 22732.txt or 22732.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/7/3/22732/ + +Produced by Lewis Jones + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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