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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Shanks
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Poems
+
+Author: Edward Shanks
+
+Release Date: October 12, 2011 [EBook #37556]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+By EDWARD SHANKS
+
+
+
+
+LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
+
+3 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.
+
+1916
+
+
+
+
+_By the Same Author_
+
+SONGS.  6s. net.
+
+(The Poetry Bookshop)
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+J. C. STOBART
+
+
+
+
+NOTE
+
+Certain of these pieces have appeared already in the following
+periodicals:--_The English Review, The Saturday Review, The
+Eye-Witness, The Westminster Gazette_, and _The Pall Mall Gazette_.
+One of the Songs was printed for the first time in an anthology called
+_Cambridge Poets_.  I am indebted to the editors of these for
+permission to reprint them here.
+
+E. S.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+SONGS--
+
+  Song for an Unwritten Play
+  The Cup
+  A Rhymeless Song
+  Meadow and Orchard
+  Who thinks that he possesses
+  Love in the Open Air
+  Fear in the Night
+  An Old Song
+  Love's Close
+  The Weed
+  Recollection
+  The Holiday
+  Walking at Night
+  Half Hope
+  A New Song about the Sea
+
+
+THE WINTER SOLDIER--
+
+  The Winter Soldier, i.-ix.
+  The Pool
+  The Dead Poet
+
+
+PASTORAL PIECES--
+
+  The Vision in the Wood
+  The Idyll
+  The Pursuit of Daphne
+
+
+MISCELLANEOUS POEMS--
+
+  Ode on Beauty
+  Song in Time of Waiting
+  Sonnets on Separation, i.-vii.
+  The Morning Sun
+  Persuasion
+  Apology
+  The Golden Moment
+  Bramber
+  Now would I be
+  Midwinter Madness
+  At a Lecture
+
+
+
+
+  SONGS
+
+
+
+  _Song for an Unwritten Play._
+
+  The moon's a drowsy fool to-night,
+  Wrapped in fleecy clouds and white;
+  And all the while Endymion
+  Sleeps on Latmos top alone.
+
+  Not a single star is seen:
+  They are gathered round their queen,
+  Keeping vigil by her bed,
+  Patient and unwearièd.
+
+  Now the poet drops his pen
+  And moves about like other men:
+  Tom o' Bedlam now is still
+  And sleeps beneath the hawthorn'd hill.
+
+  Only the Latmian shepherd deems
+  Something missing from his dreams
+  And tosses as he sleeps alone.
+  Alas, alas, Endymion!
+
+
+
+
+  _The Cup._
+
+  As a hot traveller
+  Going through stones and sands,
+  Who sees clear water stir
+  Amid the weary lands,
+  Takes in his hollowed hands
+  The clean and lively water,
+  That trickles down his throat
+  Like laughter, like laughter,
+
+  So when you come to me
+  Across these parchèd places
+  And all the waste I see
+  Flowered with your graces,
+  I take between my hands
+  Your face like a rare cup,
+  Where kisses mix with laughter,
+  And drink and drink them up
+  Like water, like water.
+
+
+
+
+  _A Rhymeless Song._
+
+  Rhyme with its jingle still betrays
+  The song that's meant for one alone.
+  Dearest, I dedicate to you
+  A little song without a rhyme.
+
+  The most unpractised schoolboy knows
+  That quiet kisses are the sweetest.
+  Safe locked within my arms you lie,
+  Let not a single sound betray us.
+
+  Suppose your jealous mother came
+  By chance this way and found us here...
+  Be still, be still, and not a sound
+  Shall give her warning that we love.
+
+
+
+
+  _Meadow and Orchard._
+
+  My heart is like a meadow,
+  Where clouds go over,
+  Dappling the mingled grass and clover
+  With mingled sun and shadow,
+  With light that will not stay
+  And shade that sails away.
+
+  Your heart is like an orchard,
+  That has the sun for ever in its leaves,
+  Where, on the grass beneath the trees,
+  There falls the shadow of the fruit
+  That ripen there for me.
+
+
+
+
+  _Who thinks that he possesses._
+
+  Who thinks that he possesses
+  His mistress with his kisses
+    Knows neither love nor her.
+  Nor beauty is not his
+  Who seeks it in a kiss:
+  If you would seek for this
+    O seek it otherwhere!
+
+  Love is a flame, a spirit
+  Beyond all earthly merit
+    And all we dream of here;
+  Strive as you may but still
+  Love is intangible,
+  No servant to your will
+    But sovereign otherwhere.
+
+
+
+
+  _Love in the Open Air._
+
+  I'll love you in the open air
+    But stuffy rooms and blazing fires
+  And mirrors with familiar stare
+    Cloak and befoul my high desires.
+
+  The dearest day that I have known
+    Was in the fields, when driving rain
+  Was like a veil around us thrown,
+    A grey close veil without a stain.
+
+  The young oak-tree was stripped and bare
+    But naked twigs a shelter made,
+  Where curious cows came round to stare
+    And stood astonished and dismayed.
+
+  Let it be rain or summer sun,
+    Smell of wet earth or scent of flowers,
+  Love, once more give me, give me one
+    Of these enchanted lover's hours.
+
+
+
+
+  _Fear in the Night._
+
+  I am afraid to-night,
+    We are too glad, too gay,
+  Our life too sweet, too bright
+    To last another day.
+
+  What hap, what chance can fall,
+    What sorrow come, what schism,
+  What loss, what cataclysm
+    To part us two at all?
+
+  The stars with ageless fire
+    In skies serene the same
+  Observe our young desire
+    And watch our loves aflame.
+
+  A whisper soft, a sound
+    Unfollowed, unattended,
+  Shakes all the branches round:
+    They sleep and it is ended.
+
+  You sleep and I alone
+    Torment myself with fear
+  For new joys coming near
+    And gracious actions done.
+
+  I am afraid to-night,
+    We are too glad, too gay,
+  Our life too sweet, too bright
+    To last another day.
+
+
+
+
+  _An Old Song._
+
+  The wild duck fly over
+    From river to river
+  And so the young lover
+    Goes roving for ever.
+
+  They fly together,
+    He walks alone:
+  No maiden can tether
+    Him with her moan.
+
+  At the bursting of blossom
+    On her breast his head;
+  He has left her bosom
+    Ere the apples are red.
+
+  Across the valley,
+    Singing he goes.
+  In highway and alley
+    He seeks a new rose.
+
+  Tell me, O maidens,
+    You who all day
+  In lyrical cadence
+    Dance and play,
+
+  Why do you proffer
+    Your sweets to one,
+  Who takes all you offer
+    And leaves you to moan?
+
+
+
+
+  _Love's Close._
+
+  Now spring comes round again
+  With blossom on the tree,
+  Dark blossom of the peach,
+  Light blossom of the pear
+  And amorous birds complain
+  And nesting birds prepare
+  And love's keen fingers reach
+  After the heart of me.
+
+  But now the blackthorn blows
+  About the dusty lane
+  And new buds peep and peer,
+  I have no joy at all,
+  For love draws near its close
+  And love's white blossoms fall
+  And in the springing year
+  Love's fingers bring me pain.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Weed._
+
+  My mother told me this for true
+    That there behind the mountains,
+  That wear the mists about their feet
+    And clouds about their summits,
+  There grows the weed Forgetfulness,
+    It grows there in the gullies.
+
+  If I but knew the way thereto,
+    Three days long would I wander
+  And pick a handful of the weed
+    And drink it steeped in honey,
+  That so I might forget your mouth
+    A thousand times that kissed me.
+
+
+
+
+  _Recollection._
+
+  Hawthorn above, as pale as frost,
+  Against the paling sky is lost:
+  On the pool's dark sheet below,
+  The candid water-daisies glow.
+
+  As I came up and saw from far
+  The water littered, star on star,
+  I thought the may had left its hedge
+  To float upon the pool's dark edge.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Holiday._
+
+  The world's great ways unclose
+  Through little wooded hills:
+    An air that stirs and stills,
+  Dies sighing where it rose
+  Or flies to sigh again
+    In elms, whose stately rows
+  Receive the summer rain,
+  And clouds, clouds, clouds go by,
+  A drifting cavalry,
+  In squadrons that disperse
+    And troops that reassemble
+  And now they pass and now
+  Their glittering wealth disburse
+    On tufted grass a-tremble
+  And lately leafing bough.
+
+  Thus through the shining day
+  We'll love or pass away
+  Light hours in golden sleep,
+    With clos'd half-sentient eyes
+  And lids the light comes through,
+  As sheep and flowers do
+    Who no new toils devise,
+  While shining insects creep
+  About us where we lie
+  Beneath a pleasant sky,
+  In fields no trouble fills,
+    Whence, as the traveller goes,
+    The world's great ways unclose
+  Through little wooded hills.
+
+
+
+
+  _Walking at Night._
+
+  _To A. G._
+
+  The moon poured down on tree and field,
+    The leaf was silvered on the hedge,
+  The sleeping kine were half revealed,
+    Half shadowed at the pasture's edge.
+
+  By steep inclines and long descents,
+    Amid the inattentive trees,
+  You spoke of the four elements,
+    The four eternal mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+  _Half Hope._
+
+  August is gone and now this is September,
+    Softer the sun in a cloudier sky;
+  Yellow the leaves grow and apples grow golden,
+    Blackberries ripen and hedges undress.
+  Watch and you'll see the departure of summer,
+    Here is the end, this the last month of all:
+  Pause and look back and remember its promise,
+    All that looked open and easy in May.
+
+  Nothing will stay them, the seasons go onward,
+    Lightly the bright months fly out of my hand,
+  Softly the leading note calls a new octave;
+    Autumn is coming and what have I done?
+  Even as summer my young days go over,
+    No day to pause on and nowhere to rest:
+  Slowly they go but implacably onwards,
+    Ah! and my dreams, alas, still they are dreams.
+
+  How shall I force all my flowers to fruition,
+    Use up the season of ripening sun?
+  Softly the years go but going have vanished,
+    Soon I shall find myself empty and old.
+  Yet I feel in myself bright buds and blossoms,
+    Promise of mellowest bearing to be.
+  Still I have time beside what I have wasted:
+    Life shall be good to me, work shall be sweet.
+
+
+
+
+  _A New Song about the Sea._
+
+  From Amberley to Storrington,
+  From Storrington to Amberley,
+  From Amberley to Washington
+  You cannot see or smell the sea.
+    But why the devil should you wish
+    To see the home of silly fish?
+
+  Since I prefer the earth and air,
+  The fish may wallow in the sea
+  And live the life that they prefer,
+  If they will leave the land to me,
+    So wish for each what he may wish,
+    The earth for me, the sea for fish.
+
+
+
+
+  THE WINTER SOLDIER
+
+  _September_ 1914--_April_ 1915
+
+
+
+
+  _The Winter Soldier._
+
+  I.  TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF HIGH GERMANY
+
+  No more the English girls may go
+    To follow with the drum
+  But still they flock together
+    To see the soldiers come;
+  For horse and foot are marching by
+    And the bold artillery:
+  They're going to the cruel wars
+    In Low Germany.
+
+  They're marching down by lane and town
+    And they are hot and dry
+  But as they marched together
+    I heard the soldiers cry:
+  "O all of us, both horse and foot
+    And the proud artillery,
+  We're going to the merry wars
+    In Low Germany."
+
+  _August_, 1914
+
+
+
+
+  II.  THE COMRADES
+
+  The men that marched and sang with me
+  Are most of them in Flanders now:
+  I lie abed and hear the wind
+  Blow softly through the budding bough.
+
+  And they are scattered far and wide
+  In this or that brave regiment;
+  From trench to trench across the mud
+  They go the way that others went.
+
+  They run with shining bayonet
+  Or lie and take a careful aim
+  And theirs it is to learn of death
+  And theirs the joy and theirs the fame.
+
+
+
+
+  III.  IN TRAINING
+
+  The wind is cold and heavy
+    And storms are in the sky:
+  Our path across the heather
+    Goes higher and more high.
+
+  To right, the town we came from,
+    To left, blue hills and sea:
+  The wind is growing colder
+    And shivering are we.
+
+  We drag with stiffening fingers
+    Our rifles up the hill.
+  The path is steep and tangled
+    But leads to Flanders still.
+
+
+
+
+  IV.  THE OLD SOLDIERS
+
+  We come from dock and shipyard, we come from car and train,
+  We come from foreign countries to slope our arms again
+  And, forming fours by numbers or turning to the right,
+  We're learning all our drill again and 'tis a pretty sight.
+
+  Our names are all unspoken, our regiments forgotten,
+  For some of us were pretty bad and some of us were rotten
+  And some will misremember what once they learnt with pain
+  And hit a bloody Serjeant and go to clink again.
+
+
+
+
+  V.  GOING IN TO DINNER
+
+  Beat the knife on the plate and the fork on the can,
+  For we're going in to dinner, so make all the noise you can,
+  Up and down the officer wanders, looking blue,
+  Sing a song to cheer him up, he wants his dinner too.
+
+  March into the dining-hall, make the tables rattle
+  Like a dozen dam' machine guns in the bloody battle,
+  Use your forks for drum-sticks, use your plates for drums,
+  Make a most infernal clatter, here the dinner comes!
+
+
+
+
+  VI.  ON TREK
+
+  Under a grey dawn, timidly breaking,
+  Through the little village the men are waking,
+  Easing their stiff limbs and rubbing their eyes;
+  From my misted window I watch the sun rise.
+  In the middle of the village a fountain stands,
+  Round it the men sit, washing their red hands.
+  Slowly the light grows, we call the roll over,
+  Bring the laggards stumbling from their warm cover,
+  Slowly the company gathers all together
+  And the men and the officer look shyly at the weather.
+  By the left, quick march!  Off the column goes.
+  All through the village all the windows unclose:
+  At every window stands a child, early waking,
+  To see what road the company is taking.
+
+
+
+
+  VII.  LEAVING THE BILLET
+
+  Good luck, good health, good temper, these,
+  A very hive of honey-bees
+  To make and store up happiness,
+  Should wait upon you without cease,
+  If I'd the power to call them down
+  Into this stuffy little town,
+  Where the dull air in sticky wreaths
+  Afflicts a man each time he breathes.
+  But since I have no power to call
+  Benevolent spirits down at all,
+  I'll wish you all the good I know
+  And close the chapter up and go.
+
+
+
+
+  VIII.  THE FAREWELL
+
+  Farewell to rising early, now comes the lying late,
+  And long on the parade-ground my company shall wait
+  Before I come to join it on mornings cold and dark
+  And no more shall I lead it across the rimy park.
+
+  The men shall still manoeuvre in sunshine and in rain
+  And still they'll make the blunders I shall not check again;
+  They'll march upon the highway in weather foul and fair
+  And talk and sing with laughter and I shall not be there.
+
+
+
+
+  IX.  ON ACCOUNT OF ILL HEALTH
+
+  You go, brave friends, and I am cast to stay behind,
+  To read with frowning eyes and discontented mind
+  The shining history that you are gone to make,
+  To sleep with working brain, to dream and to awake
+  Into another day of most ignoble peace,
+  To drowse, to read, to smoke, to pray that war may cease.
+  The spring is coming on, and with the spring you go
+  In countries where strange scents on the April breezes blow;
+  You'll see the primroses marched down into the mud,
+  You'll see the hawthorn-tree wear crimson flowers of blood
+  And I shall walk about, as I did walk of old,
+  Where the laburnum trails its chains of useless gold,
+  I'll break a branch of may, I'll pick a violet
+  And see the new-born flowers that soldiers must forget,
+  I'll love, I'll laugh, I'll dream and write undying songs
+  But with your regiment my marching soul belongs.
+  Men that have marched with me and men that I have led
+  Shall know and feel the things that I have only read,
+  Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skies
+  And to expect their death what time the sun shall rise.
+  Men that have marched with me shall march to peace again,
+  Bringing for plunder home glad memories of pain,
+  Of toils endured and done, of terrors quite brought under,
+  And all the world shall be their plaything and their wonder.
+  Then in that new-born world, unfriendly and estranged,
+  I shall be quite alone, I shall be left unchanged.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Pool._
+
+  Out of that noise and hurry of large life
+    The river flings me in an idle pool:
+  The waters still go on with stir and strife
+    And sunlit eddies, and the beautiful
+  Tall trees lean down upon the mighty flow,
+    Reflected in that movement.  Beauty there
+  Waxes more beautiful, the moments grow
+    Thicker and keener in that lovely air
+  Above the river.  Here small sticks and straws
+    Come now to harbour, gather, lie and rot,
+  Out of cross-currents and the water's flaws
+    In this unmoving death, where joy is not,
+  Where war's a shade again, ambition rotten
+  And bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Dead Poet._
+
+  When I grow old they'll come to me and say:
+  Did you then know him in that distant day?
+  Did you speak with him, touch his hand, observe
+  The proud eyes' fire, soft voice and light lips' curve?
+  And I shall answer: This man was my friend;
+  Call to my memory, add, improve, amend
+  And count up all the meetings that we had
+  And note his good and touch upon his bad.
+
+  When I grow older and more garrulous,
+  I shall discourse on the dead poet thus:
+  I said to him ... he answered unto me...
+  He dined with me one night in Trinity...
+  I supped with him in King's ... Ah, pitiful
+  The twisted memories of an ancient fool
+  And sweet the silence of a young man dead!
+  Now far in Lemnos sleeps that golden head,
+  Unchanged, serene, for ever young and strong,
+  Lifted above the chances that belong
+  To us who live, for he shall not grow old
+  And only of his youth there shall be told
+  Magical stories, true and wondrous tales,
+  As of a god whose virtue never fails,
+  Whose limbs shall never waste, eyes never fall,
+  And whose clear brain shall not be dimmed at all.
+
+
+
+
+  PASTORAL PIECES
+
+
+
+  _The Vision in the Wood._
+
+  The husht September afternoon was sweet
+    With rich and peaceful light.  I could not hear
+  On either side the sound of moving feet
+    Although the hidden road was very near.
+  The laden wood had powdered sun in it,
+    Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messenger
+  To tell me of the golden world outside
+  Where fields of stubble stretched through counties wide.
+
+  And yet I did not move.  My head reposed
+    Upon a tuft of dry and scented grass
+  And, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed,
+    I watched the languid chain of shadows pass,
+  Light as the slowly moving shade imposed
+    By summer clouds upon a sea of glass,
+  And strove to banish or to make more clear
+  The elusive and persistent dream of her.
+
+  And then I saw her, very dim at first,
+    Peering for nuts amid the twisted boughs,
+  Thought her some warm-haired dryad, lately burst
+    Out of the chambers of her leafy house,
+  Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirst
+    Such water as the woodland stream allows,
+  After the greedy summer has drunk up
+  All but a drain within the mossy cup.
+
+  Then I, beholding her, was still a space
+    And marked each posture as she moved or stood,
+  Watching the sunlight on her hair and face.
+    Thus with calm folded hands and quiet blood
+  I gazed until her counterfeited grace
+    Faded and left me lonely in the wood,
+  Glad that the gods had given so much as this,
+  To see her, if I might not have her kiss.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Idyll._
+
+  This is the valley where we sojourn now,
+    Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green
+  And shaded sweetly by the waving bough
+    About the trench where floats the soft serene
+  Arun with waters running low and low
+    Through banks where lately still the tide has been;
+  Here is our resting-place, you walk with me
+  And watch the light die out in Amberley.
+
+  The light that dies is soft and flooding still,
+    Shed from the broad expanse of all the skies
+  And brimming up the space from hill to hill,
+    Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise,
+  Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fill
+    And to each other speak with moaning cries;
+  We on the hill-side standing rest and see
+  The light die out in brook and grass and tree.
+
+  Lately we walked upon the lonely downs
+    And through the still heat of the heavy day
+  We heard the medley of low drifting sounds
+    And through the matted brambles found a way
+  Or lightly trod upon enchanted grounds
+    Musing, or with rich blackberries made delay,
+  Where feed such fruit on the rich air, until
+  We struck like falling stars from Bignor Hill.
+
+  Down the vast slope, by chalky roads and steep,
+    With trees and bushes hidden here and there,
+  By circling turns into the valley deep
+    We came and left behind the hill-top air
+  For this cool village where to-night we sleep,
+    A country meal, a country bed to share,
+  With sleepy kisses and contented dreams
+  Over a land of still and narrow streams.
+
+  The light is ebbing in the dusky sky,
+    The valley floor is in the shadow.  Hark!
+  With rushing and mysterious noises fly
+    The bats already, looking for the dark
+  With blinking still and unaccustomed eye.
+    Now over Rackham Mount a steady spark
+  Burns, rising slowly in the rising night,
+  And pledges peace and promises delight.
+
+  Now from the east the wheeling shade appears
+    And softly night into the valley falls,
+  Soft on the meadows drop her dewy tears,
+    Softly a darkness on the crumbled walls.
+  Now in the dusk the village disappears,
+    Men's songs are hushed there and the children's calls,
+  While night in passage swallows up the land
+  And in the shadow your hand seeks my hand.
+
+  Only the glimmering stars in heaven lie
+    And unseen trees with rustling still betray
+  How all the valley lives invisibly,
+    Where dim sweet odours, remnants of the day,
+  Float from the sleeping fields to please and die,
+    Borne up by roaming airs, that drift away
+  Beyond our hearing, vagabond and light,
+  To visit the cool meadows of the night.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Pursuit of Daphne._
+
+  Daphne is running, running through the grass,
+    The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes.
+  I saw the nymph, the god, I saw them pass
+    And how a mounting flush of tender rose
+  Invaded the white bosom of the lass
+    And reached her shoulders, conquering their snows.
+  He wasted all his breath, imploring still:
+  They passed behind the shadow of the hill.
+
+  The mad course goes across the silent plain,
+    Their flying footsteps make a path of sound
+  Through all the sleeping country.  Now with pain
+    She runs across a stretch of stony ground
+  That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again
+    She hastens through a wood where flowers abound,
+  Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads
+  And for her healing give their trodden heads.
+
+  Her sisters, from their coverts unbetrayed,
+    Look out in fright and see the two go by,
+  Each unrelenting, and reflect dismayed
+    How fear and anguish glisten in her eye.
+  By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maid
+    Whose breath is coming short in agony:
+  Hard at her heels pursues the golden boy,
+  She flies in fear of him, she flies from joy.
+
+  His arrows scattered on the countryside,
+    His shining bow deserted, he pursues
+  Through hindering woodlands, over meadows wide
+    And now no longer as he runs he sues
+  But breathing deep and set and eager-eyed.
+    His flashing feet disperse the morning dews,
+  His hands most roughly put the boughs away,
+  That cross and cling and join and make delay.
+
+  Across small shining brooks and rills they leap
+    And now she fords the waters of a stream;
+  Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deep
+    And cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream;
+  The silver minnows, wakened from their sleep
+    In sunny shallows, round her ankles gleam;
+  She scrambles up the grassy bank and on,
+  Though courage and quick breath are nearly done.
+
+  Now in the dusky spinneys round the field,
+    The fauns set up a joyous mimicry,
+  Pursuing of light nymphs, who lightly yield,
+    Or startle the young dryad from her tree
+  And shout with joy to see her limbs revealed
+    And give her grace and bid her swiftly flee:
+  The hunt is up, pursuer and pursued
+  Run, double, twist, evade, turn, grasp, elude.
+
+  The woodlands are alive with chase and cry,
+    Escape and triumph.  Still the nymph in vain,
+  With heaving breast in lovely agony
+    And wide and shining eyes that show her pain,
+  Leads on the god and now she knows him nigh
+    And sees before her the unsheltered plain.
+  His hot hand touches her white side and she
+  Thrusts up her hands and turns into a tree.
+
+  There is an end of dance and mocking tune,
+    Of laughter and bright love among the leaves.
+  The sky is overcast, the afternoon
+    Is dull and heavy for a god who grieves.
+  The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soon
+    The ruffled dryad in her trunk receives.
+  Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white:
+  The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night.
+
+
+
+
+  MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
+
+
+
+  _Ode on Beauty._
+
+  Infinite peace is hanging in the air,
+    Infinite peace is resting on mine eyes,
+  That just an hour ago learnt how to bear
+    Seeing your body's flaming harmonies.
+  The grey clouds flecked with orange are and gold,
+    Birds unto rest are falling, falling, falling,
+      And all the earth goes slowly into night,
+      Steadily turning from the harshly bright
+  Sunset.  And now the wind is growing cold
+    And in my heart a hidden voice is calling.
+
+  Say, is our sense of beauty mixed with earth
+    When lip on lip and breast on breast we cling,
+  When ecstasy brings short bright sobs to birth
+    And all our pulses, both our bodies sing?
+  When through the haze that gathers on my sight
+    I see your eyelids, know the eyes behind
+      See me and half not see me, when our blood
+      Goes roaring like a deep tremendous flood,
+  Calm and terrific in unhasty might,
+    Is then our inner sight sealed up and blind?
+
+  Or could it be that when our blood was colder
+    And side by side we sat with lips disparted
+  I saw the perfect line of your resting shoulder,
+    Your mouth, your peaceful throat with fuller-hearted,
+  More splendid joy?  Ah poignant joys all these!
+    And rest can stab the heart as well as passion.
+      Yea, I have known sobs choke my heart to see
+      Your honey-coloured hair move languorously,
+  Ruffled, not by my hands, but by the breeze,
+    And I have prayed the rough air for compassion.
+
+  Yea, I have knelt to the unpiteous air
+    And knelt to gods I knew not, to remove
+  The viewless hands whose sight I could not bear
+    Out of the wind-blown head of her I love.
+  Ecstasy enters me and cannot speak,
+    Seizes my hands and smites my fainting eyes
+      And sends through all my veins a dim despair
+      Of never apprehending all so fair
+  And I have stood, unnerved and numb and weak,
+    Watching your breathing bosom fall and rise.
+
+  Ah no!  This joy is empty, incomplete,
+    And sullied with a sense of too much longing,
+  Where thoughts and fancies, sweet and bitter-sweet,
+    And old regrets and new-born hopes come thronging.
+  Man can see beauty for a moment's space
+    And live, having seen her with an unfilmed eye,
+      If all his body and all his soul in one
+      Instant are tuned by passion to unison
+  And I can image in your kissing face
+    The eternal meaning of the earth and sky.
+
+
+
+
+  _Song in Time of Waiting._
+
+  Because the days are long for you and me,
+    I make this song to lighten their slow time,
+  So that the weary waiting fruitful be
+    Or blossomed only by my limping rhyme.
+        The days are very long
+    And may not shortened be by any chime
+    Of measured words or any fleeting song.
+  Yet let us gather blossoms while we wait
+  And sing brave tunes against the face of fate.
+
+  Day after day goes by: the exquisite
+    Procession of the variable year,
+  Summer, a sheaf with flowers bound up in it,
+    And autumn, tender till the frosts appear
+        And dry the humid skies;
+    And winter following on, aloof, austere,
+    Clad in the garments of a frore sunrise;
+  And spring again.  May not too many a spring
+  Make both our voices tremble as we sing!
+
+  The days are empty, empty, and the nights
+    Are cold and void; there is no single gleam
+  Across the space unpeopled of delights,
+    Save only now and then some thin-blood dream,
+        Some stray of summer weather;
+    The tedious hours like slow-foot laggarts seem,
+    When you and I, my love, are not together
+  And when I hold you in my arms at last
+  The minutes go like April cloudlets past.
+
+  And yet no hidden charm, no desperate spell
+    Can make these minutes longer, those less long:
+  No force there is that yearning can impel
+    Against the callous years which do us wrong.
+        No words, no whispered rune,
+    No witchery and no Thessalian song
+    Can make that far-off, misty day more soon.
+  The bravest tune, the most courageous rhyme
+  Fall broken from the bastions of time.
+
+  A long and dusty road it is to tread;
+    Few are the wayside flowers and far apart
+  And are no sooner plucked than withered,
+    When yearning heart is torn from yearning heart.
+        A weary road it is
+    And yet far off I see clear waters start
+    And clean sweet grass and tangled traceries
+  Of whispering leaves, that laugh to see us come,
+  And there one day ... one day shall be our home.
+
+  The day will come.  O dearest, do not doubt!
+    It is not born as yet but I shall see
+  Some day the fearless sunrise flashing out
+    And know the night will give you up to me.
+        O heart, my heart, be glad,
+    Because the time will come at last when we
+    Shall leave all grief and unlearn all things sad
+  And know the joy than which none sweeter is
+  And I shall sing a happier song than this.
+
+
+
+
+  _Sonnets on Separation._
+
+  I.
+
+  The  time shall be, old Wisdom says, when you
+    Shall grow awrinkled and I, indifferent,
+  Shall no more follow the light steps I knew
+    Or trace you, finding out the way you went,
+  By swinging branches and the displaced flowers
+    Among the thickets.  I no more shall stand,
+  With careful pencil through the adoring hours
+    Scratching your grace on paper.  My still hand
+  No more shall tremble at the touch of yours
+    And I'll write no more songs and you'll not sing.
+  But this is all a lie, for love endures
+    And we shall closer kiss, remembering
+  How budding trees turned barren in the sun
+  Through this long week, whereof one day's now done.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  The time is all so short.  One week is much
+    To be without your deep and peaceful eyes,
+  Your soft and all-contenting cheek, the touch
+    Of well-caressing hands.  O were we wise
+  We would not love too strongly, would not bind
+    Life into life so inextricably,
+  That the dumb body suffers with the mind
+    In a sad partnership this agony.
+  For death will come and swallow up us two,
+    You there, I here, and we shall lie apart,
+  Out of the houses and the woods we knew.
+    Then in the lonely grave, my dust-choked heart
+  Out of the dust will raise, if it can speak,
+  A threnody for this lost, lovely week.
+
+
+  III.
+
+  Is there no prophylactic against love?
+    Can I with drugs not dull the ache one night?
+  The rain is heavy and the low clouds move
+    Over the empty home of our delight
+  And find me in it weeping.  You are far
+    And you are now asleep.  The night's so thick,
+  Not even one stooping and compassionate star
+    Shines on us both disparted.  O be quick,
+  Torturing days and heavy, turn your hours
+    To minutes, melt yourselves into one day!
+  ... The cold rain falls in swift assailing showers,
+    Darkness is round me and light far away.
+  I'm in our well-known room and you're shut in
+  By strange unfriendly walls I've never seen.
+
+
+  IV.
+
+  Lovers that drug themselves for ecstasy
+    Seek love too closely in an overdose,
+  When the sweet spasm turns to agony
+    And the quick limbs are still and the eyes close.
+  I too, a fool, desired--to make love strong--
+    Absence and parting but the measure's brimmed,
+  The dose is over-poured, the time's too long
+    Already, though two nights have hardly dimmed
+  My lonely eyes with the elusive sleep.
+    O I'll remember, I'll not wish again
+  To go with ardent limbs into this deep
+    Sea of dejection, this dull mere of pain:
+  We'll love our safer loves upon the shore
+  And quest for inexperienced joys no more.
+
+
+  V.
+
+  Through the closed curtains comes the early sun,
+    First a pale finger, preluding the hand.
+  Outside more certainly the day's begun,
+    Where bright and brighter still the chestnuts stand,
+  Broad candles lighting up at the first fire.
+    I stir and turn in my uneasy sleep
+  But in my sorrow sleep's my whole desire.
+    About the still room small lights move and creep
+  Silently, stealthily on wall and chair,
+    Till to strong rays and shining lights they grow,
+  Which with their magic change the waiting air
+    And all its sleeping motes to gold and throw
+  A golden radiance on your empty bed,
+  Which wakes me with vain likeness to your head.
+
+
+  VI.
+
+  To-morrow I shall see you come again
+    Between the pale trees, through the sullen gate,
+  Out of the dark and secret house of pain
+    Where lie the unhappy and unfortunate.
+  To-morrow you will live with me and love me,
+    Spring will go on again, I'll see the flowers
+  And little things, ridiculous things, shall move me
+    To smiles or tears or verse.  The world is ours
+  To-morrow.  Open heaths, tall trees, great skies,
+    With massive clouds that fly and come again,
+  Sweet fields, delicious rivers and the rise
+    And fall of swelling land from the swift train
+  We'll see together, knowing that all this
+  Is one great room wherein we two may kiss.
+
+
+  VII.
+
+  We're at the world's top now.  The hills around
+    Stand proud in order with the valleys deep,
+  The hills with pastures drest, with tall trees crowned,
+    And the low valleys dipt in sunny sleep.
+  A sound brims all the country up, a noise
+    Of wheels upon the road and labouring bees
+  And trodden heather, mixing with the voice
+    Of small lost winds that die among the trees.
+  And we are prone beneath the flooding sun,
+    So drenched, so soaked in the unceasing light,
+  That colours, sounds and your close presence are one,
+    A texture woven up of all delight,
+  Whose shining threads my hands may not undo,
+  Yet one thread runs the whole bright garment through.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Morning Sun._
+
+  Perhaps you sleep now, fifty miles to the south,
+  While I sit here and dream of you by night.
+  The thick soft blankets drawn about your mouth
+  Have made for you a nest of warm delight;
+  Your short crisp hair is thrown abroad and spilled
+  Upon the pillow's whiteness and your eyes
+  Are quiet and the round soft lids are filled
+  With sleep.
+
+              But I shall watch until sunrise
+  Creeps into chilly clouds and heavy air,
+  Across the lands where you sleep and I wake,
+  And I shall know the sun has seen you there,
+  Unmoving though the winter morning break.
+  Next, you will lift your hands and rub your eyes
+  And turn to sleep again but wake and start
+  And feel, half dreaming, with a dear surprise,
+  My hand in the sunbeam touching at your heart.
+
+
+
+
+  Persuasion.
+
+  Still must your hands withhold your loveliness?
+    Is your soul jealous of your body still?
+  The fair white limbs beneath the clouding dress
+    Are such hard forms as you alone could fill
+  With life and sweetness.  Such a harmony
+    Is yours as music and the thought expressed
+  By the musician: have no rivalry
+    Between your soul and the shape in which it's drest.
+  Kisses or words, both sensual, which shall be
+    The burning symbol of the love we bear?
+  My art is words, yours song, but still must we
+    Be mute and songless, seeing how love is fair.
+  Both our known arts being useless, we must turn
+  To love himself and his old practice learn.
+
+
+
+
+  _Apology._
+
+  Have I slept and failed to hear you calling?
+  Cry again, belov'd; for sleep is heavy,
+  Curtaining away the golden sunlight,
+  Shutting out the blue sky and the breezes,
+  Sealing up my ears to all you tell me.
+  Cry again! your voice shall pierce the clumsy
+  Leaden folds that sleep has wrapt about me,
+  Cry again! accomplish what the singing,
+  Hours old now on all the trees and bushes,
+  And the wind and sun could not accomplish.
+  Lo!  I waste good hours of love and kisses
+  While the sun and you have spilt your glory
+  Freely on me lying unregarding.
+  In the happy islands, where no sunset
+  Stains the waters with a morbid splendour,
+  Where the open skies are blue for ever,
+  I might stay for years and years unsleeping,
+  Living for divinest conversation,
+  Music, colour, scent and sense unceasing,
+  Entering by eye and ear and nostril.
+  Ah, but flesh is flesh and I am mortal!
+  Cry again and do not leave me sleeping.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Golden Moment._
+
+  Along the branches of the laden tree
+    The ripe fruit smiling hang.  The afternoon
+  Is emptied of all things done and things to be.
+    Low in the sky the inconspicuous moon
+  Stares enviously upon the mellow earth,
+  That mocks her barren girth.
+
+  Ripe blackberries and long green trailing grass
+    Are motionless beneath the heavy light:
+  The happy birds and creeping things that pass
+    Go fitfully and stir as if in fright,
+  That they have broken on some mystery
+  In bramble or in tree.
+
+  This is no hour for beings that are maiden;
+    The spring is virgin, lightly afraid and cold,
+  But now the whole round earth is ripe and laden
+    And stirs beneath her coverlet of gold
+  And in her agony a moment calls...
+  A heavy apple falls.
+
+
+
+
+  _Bramber._
+
+  Before the downs in their great horse-shoes rise,
+    I know a village where the Adur runs,
+    Blown by sweet winds and by beneficent suns
+  Visited and made ripe beneath kind skies.
+  Light and delight are in the children's eyes
+    And there the mothers sit, the fortunate ones,
+    Blest in their daughters, happy in their sons,
+  And the old men are beautiful and wise.
+
+  There stand the downs, great, close, tall, friendly, still,
+  Linked up by grassy saddles, hill on hill,
+    And steep the village in unending peace
+  And to the north the plains in order lie,
+  Heavy with crops and woods alternately
+    And lively with low sounds that never cease.
+
+
+
+
+  _Now would I be._
+
+    Now would I be in that removèd place
+    Where the dim sunlight hardly comes at all
+    And branches of the young trees interlace
+    And long swathes of the brambles twine and fall;
+    A space between the hedgerow and a road
+    Not trod by foot of any known to me,
+    Where now and then a cart with scented load
+  Goes sleepy down the lane with creaking axle-tree.
+
+    And there I'd lie upon the tumbled leaves,
+    Watching a square of the all else hidden sky,
+    And made such songs a drowsy mind believes
+    To be most perfect music.  So would I
+  Keep my face heavenwards and bless eternity,
+    Wherein my heart could be as glad as this
+    And lazily I'd bid all men come hither
+    And in my dreams I'd tell them what they miss,
+    Living in hate and work and all foul weather.
+
+      And still my happy dreams would go,
+        Like children in a cowslip field
+      Chasing rich-winged insects to and fro
+        To see what rare delights they yield....
+
+    ... O I am tired of working to be cheated
+    And sick of barriers that will not fall,
+    Of ancient prudent words too much repeated
+    And worn-out dreams that come not true at all.
+    I know too well what things they are that ail me;
+        To fight is nothing but to see
+    Thus at the last my own hand fail me
+        Is agony.
+
+    O for that corner by the hummocked marshes,
+    Visited hardly by the cynic sun,
+    Where nothing clear and nothing bright or harsh is,
+    Where labour and the ache of it are done,
+    Where naught is ended and where naught begun!
+
+
+
+
+  _Midwinter Madness._
+
+  A month or twain to live on honeycomb
+  Is pleasant--but to eat it for a year
+  Is simply beastly.  Thus the poet spake,
+  Feeling how sticky all his stomach was
+  With hivings of ten thousand cheated bees.
+  O wisdom that could shape immortal words
+  And frame a diet for dyspeptic man!
+  But what of turnips?  Come, a lyric now
+  Upon the luscious roots unsung as yet,
+  (Not roots I know but stalks; still, never mind,
+  Metre and sauce will suit them just as well)
+  Or shall we speak of omelettes?  Muse, begin!
+  To feed a fortnight on transmuted eggs
+  Would doubtless be both comforting and cheap
+  But oh, the nausea on the fourteenth day!
+  I'd rather read a book by Ezra Pound
+  Then choke the seven hundredth omelette down,
+  Just as I'd rather read some F. S. Flint
+  Than live a month or twain on honeycomb.
+
+  O Ezra Pound!  O omelette of the world!
+  Concocted with strange herbs from dead Provence,
+  Garlic from Italy and spice from Greece,
+  Having suffered a rare Pound-change on the way,
+  How rarely shouldst thou taste, were not the eggs
+  Laid in America and hither brought
+  Too late.  I don't like omelettes made with fowls.
+  Take hence this Pound and put him to the test,
+  Try him with acid, see if he turn black
+  As will the best old silver, when enraged
+  At touching fungi of the baser sort.
+  (Forgive digression.  These similitudes
+  Entrance me and I lose myself in them,
+  As schoolboys, picking flowers by the way,
+  Escape the angry usher's vigilance
+  And then, concealed behind a hedge or shed,
+  Produce the awesome pipe or thrice-lit fag
+  And make themselves incredibly unwell.)
+  My brain is bubbling and the thoughts will out,
+  But, Ezra Pound! they turn again to thee,
+  As surely as the lode-stone to the Pole
+  Or as the dog to what he hath cast up
+  (A simile of Solomon's, not mine)
+  And your shock head of damp, unwholesome hay,
+  Such as, the cunning farmer oft declares,
+  When stacked, will perish by spontaneous fire,
+  Frequents my dreams and makes them ludicrous.
+  Thou most ridiculous sprite!  Thou ponderous fairy!
+  Bourgeois Bohemian!  Innocent Verlaine!
+  I read in _The Booksellers' Circular_
+  That, in the University of Pa.
+  (Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont.
+  --A line of normal pattern, Saintsbury)
+  You hold a fellowship in (O merciful gods!)
+  Romanics, which strange word interpreted
+  Means, I suppose, the Romance languages.
+  Doubtless they read Italian in Pa.
+  And some may speak French fluently in Ont.
+  But German, Ezra!  There's the bloody rub,
+  It's not Romance and it is hard to learn
+  And Heine, though an easy-going chap,
+  Would doubtless trounce you soundly if he knew
+  The sorry hash that you have made of him.
+  But no! you're not for immortality,
+  Not even such as that of Freiligrath,
+  Enshrined, together with his _Mohrenfurst_,
+  In unrelenting amber.  I hold you here,
+  In a soap-bubble's iridescent walls,
+  The whimsy of a long midwinter night,
+  And give you immortality enough.
+  Thou sorry brat!  Thou transatlantic clown!
+  That seek'st to ape the treadless Ariel
+  And out-top Shelley in an aeroplane,
+  Take the all-obvious padding from your pants
+  And cut your hair and go to Pa. again
+  (Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont.
+  Or even Oomp. if such a place exist)
+  And take with you the poets you admire,
+  Both Yeats and Flint to charm the folk of Oomp.
+  And write again for _Munsey's Magazine_
+  Of your good brother Everyone.  (Just God!
+  Am even I of his relationship?)
+  So end as you began or even worse:
+  No matter, so 'tis in America.
+
+
+
+
+  _At a Lecture._
+
+  The lecturer took his place and looked
+    At the eager women's faces,
+  Then he cleared his throat and he jetted out
+    A stream of commonplaces.
+
+  He fondled Wordsworth and patted Shelley
+    And said with his hand on his heart
+  He would brook no interference from morals
+    In any matter of art.
+
+  He finished at last and strode away
+    Over the naked boards,
+  Erect in his conscious majesty
+    Back to the House of Lords.
+
+
+
+
+THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
+
+
+
+
+FROM SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S LIST
+
+
+JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+THE EVERLASTING MERCY.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; also Fcap. 8vo, in leather bindings, 5s.
+net and 6s. net.  _Seventeenth Impression_
+
+"Here, beyond question, in _The Everlasting Mercy_, is a great poem, as
+true to the essentials of its ancient art as it is astoundingly modern
+in its method; a poem, too, which 'every clergyman in the country ought
+to read as a revelation of the heathenism still left in the land.' ...
+Its technical force is on a level with its high, inspiring thought.  It
+makes the reader think; it goads him to emotion; and it leaves him
+alive with a fresh appreciation of the wonderful capacity of human
+nature to receive new influences and atone for old and apparently
+ineradicable wrongs."--ARTHUR WAUGH in _The Daily Chronicle_.
+
+
+THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.  _Fourth Thousand_
+
+"Mr Masefield is no common realist, but universalises his tragedy in
+the grand manner....  We are convinced that he is writing truly of
+human nature, which is the vital thing....  The last few stanzas show
+us pastoral poetry in the very perfection of simplicity."--_Spectator_.
+
+"In 'The Widow in the Bye Street' all Mr Masefield's passionate love of
+loveliness is utterly fused with the violent and unlovely story, which
+glows with an inner harmony.  The poem, it is true, ends on a note of
+idyllism which recalls Theocritus; but this is no touch of eternal
+decoration.  Inevitably the story has worked towards this
+culmination."--_Bookman_.
+
+
+THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT.
+
+A Play in Three Acts.  Second Edition, revised and reset.  _Fourth
+Impression_.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.
+
+"In this Roman tragedy, while we admire its closely knit structure,
+dramatic effectiveness, and atmosphere of reality ... the warmth and
+colour of the diction are the most notable things.... He knows the art
+of phrasing; he has the instinct for and by them."--_Athenæum_.
+
+
+
+
+RUPERT BROOKE
+
+POEMS.
+
+(First issued in 1911.)  Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.  _Ninth Impression_
+
+"Unlike most youthful work it shows a curious absence of imitation and
+a strenuous originality ... there is much that is uncommonly good.  He
+has both imagination and intellect--so much of the latter sometimes
+that the verse is crabbed and heavy with its weight of it.  It is a
+book of rare and remarkable promise."--_Spectator_.
+
+
+1914 AND OTHER POEMS.
+
+Crown 8vo.  With a Photogravure Portrait.  2s. 6d. net.  _Twelfth
+Impression_
+
+"It is impossible to shred up this beauty for the purpose of criticism.
+These sonnets are personal--never were sonnets more personal since
+Sidney died--and yet the very blood and youth of England seem to find
+expression in them.  They speak not for one heart only, but for all to
+whom her call has come in the hour of need and found instantly
+ready."--_Times_.
+
+
+LETTERS FROM AMERICA.
+
+With a Preface by HENRY JAMES, O. M., and a new Portrait.  Extra crown
+8vo, buckram, 7s. 6d. net.
+
+This volume contains the series of descriptive articles contributed in
+1913 by Rupert Brooke to _The Westminster Gazette_, four written from
+the United States, and nine from Canada.  To these are here added an
+article on Samoa, and a study called "An Unusual Young Man," both of
+which appeared in The New Statesman after the outbreak of war.
+
+
+POEMS OF TO-DAY: an Anthology.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net.  _Third Impression_
+
+A selection of contemporary poetry made by the English Association and
+intended for the use of higher forms in secondary schools.  It contains
+nearly 150 poems, representative of the chief tendencies of English
+poetry during the last quarter of a century, written by 47 authors,
+including Meredith, Stevenson, Kipling, Newbolt, Masefield, Bridges,
+Yeats, Thompson, Davidson, Watson, Belloc, Chesterton, Gosse, "A.E.,"
+Binyon, Noyes, Flecker, and Rupert Brooke.
+
+"The great merit of the selection is that the pieces are all genuine;
+whatever their ultimate value, they are at least free from the fetters
+of past tradition, and they therefore mark ... the beginning of a new
+lease of inspiration."--_Times Educational Supplement_.
+
+"It is a book which any student of English literature will prize for
+its own sake."--_Scotsman_.
+
+
+SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES.  By JOHN DRINKWATER.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net.
+
+"These lyrics, many of them inspired by the war, come from one of the
+most accomplished poets of the day."--_Times_.
+
+
+POEMS.  By ELINOR JENKINS.  Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.
+
+"A new poet, whose poetry is all made out of pain and the beautiful
+religion of loss."--Mr JAMES DOUGLAS in _The Star_.
+
+
+THE VOLUNTEER, and Other Poems.  By HERBERT ASQUITH.  Crown 8vo, 1s.
+net.  _Second Impression_
+
+"Lieutenant Asquith has undoubtedly a true feeling for poetry....  It
+is impossible to miss the beauty of its phrases and the fineness of its
+emotion."--_Standard_.
+
+
+
+
+KATHARINE TYNAN
+
+
+INNOCENCIES.  A Book of Verse.
+
+NEW POEMS.
+
+IRISH POEMS.  _Second Impression_
+
+FLOWER OF YOUTH: Poems in War Time.  _Second Impression_
+
+_Each, Super-royal 16mo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net_
+
+
+THE WILD HARP.  A Selection from Irish Poetry.  By KATHARINE TYNAN.
+Decorated by Miss C. M. WATTS.  Medium 8vo, designed, cloth gilt, 7s.
+6d. net.
+
+
+THE TWO BLIND COUNTRIES.  By ROSE MACAULAY.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
+net.
+
+"Out of familiar things she contrives to draw a magic which sets all
+our definitions tottering....  This specific gift is so rare in modern
+poetry that we may well hail it with enthusiasm."--_Spectator_.
+
+
+SELECTED POEMS.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN.  F'cap.  8vo, 3s. 6d. net.
+
+"The selections have been made from four previous volumes now out of
+print: Mendicant Rhymes, The Little Land, Rue, and Spikenard.  There is
+hardly a stanza that is not felicitous in some way, and not one
+selection that could be spared."--_Morning Post_.
+
+
+SOME VERSE.  By F. S.  F'cap. 8vo, 2s. net.
+
+"Some of these pieces ... might almost have borne the signature C. S.
+C.  Others ... have the mellow wit of the school of J. K. Stephen and
+the Cantabrigians on whom his mantle has fallen."--_Times_.
+
+
+
+
+SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S MODERN DRAMA
+
+"Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are choosing their plays
+excellently."--_Saturday Review_.
+
+
+THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER:
+
+"The Marrying of Ann Leete," "The Voysey Inheritance," and "Waste."  In
+one Vol., 5s. net; singly, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.
+_Fourth Impression_
+
+
+THE MADRAS HOUSE.  A Comedy in Four Acts.  By GRANVILLE BARKER.  Crown
+8vo, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.  _Fourth Impression_
+
+
+ANATOL.  A Sequence of Dialogues.  By ARTHUR SCHNITZLER.  Paraphrased
+for the English Stage by GRANVILLE BARKER.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net;
+paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.  _Third Impression_
+
+
+PRUNELLA; or Love in a Dutch Garden.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN and GRANVILLE
+BARKER.  With a Frontispiece and Music to "Pierrot's Serenade," by
+JOSEPH MOORAT.  F'cap. 4to, 5s. net.  Theatre Edition, crown 8vo,
+wrappers, 1s. net.  _Ninth Impression_
+
+
+CHAINS.  A Play in Four Acts.  By ELIZABETH BAKER, Crown 8vo, cloth,
+1s. 6d. net; paper wrappers, 1s. net.  _Third Impression_
+
+
+RUTHERFORD & SON.  By GITHA SOWERBY.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net;
+paper, 1s. 6d. net.  _Second Impression_
+
+
+THE NEW SIN.  By B. MACDONALD HASTINGS.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net;
+paper, 1s. net.  _Second Impression_
+
+
+HINDLE WAKES.  A Play in Four Acts.  By STANLEY HOUGHTON.  Cloth, 2s.
+net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.  _Sixth Impression_
+
+
+MARY BROOME.  By ALLAN MONKHOUSE.  Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.
+_Second Impression_
+
+
+THE TRIAL OF JEANNE D'ARC.  A Play in Four Acts.  By EDWARD GARNETT.
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.
+
+
+PAINS AND PENALTIES.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.
+net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.
+
+
+ETC., ETC., ETC.
+
+
+Sidgwick & Jackson Ltd., 3 Adam Street, London, W.C.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Shanks
+
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+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Shanks
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Poems
+
+Author: Edward Shanks
+
+Release Date: October 12, 2011 [EBook #37556]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t1">
+POEMS
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+By EDWARD SHANKS
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3">
+LONDON: SIDGWICK &amp; JACKSON, LTD.
+<BR>
+3 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.
+<BR>
+1916
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+<I>By the Same Author</I>
+<BR>
+SONGS.  6s. net.
+<BR>
+(The Poetry Bookshop)
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+TO
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t3">
+J. C. STOBART
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3">
+NOTE
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%">
+Certain of these pieces have appeared already in the following
+periodicals:&mdash;<I>The English Review, The Saturday Review, The
+Eye-Witness, The Westminster Gazette</I>, and <I>The Pall Mall Gazette</I>.
+One of the Songs was printed for the first time in an anthology called
+<I>Cambridge Poets</I>.  I am indebted to the editors of these for
+permission to reprint them here.
+<BR><BR>
+E. S.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+CONTENTS
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%">
+SONGS&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 15%">
+<A HREF="#p11">Song for an Unwritten Play</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p12">The Cup</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p13">A Rhymeless Song</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p14">Meadow and Orchard</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p15">Who thinks that he possesses</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p16">Love in the Open Air</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p17">Fear in the Night</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p18">An Old Song</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p19">Love's Close</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p20">The Weed</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p21">Recollection</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p22">The Holiday</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p23">Walking at Night</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p24">Half Hope</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p25">A New Song about the Sea</A><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%">
+THE WINTER SOLDIER&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 15%">
+<A HREF="#p29">The Winter Soldier, i.-ix.</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p38">The Pool</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p39">The Dead Poet</A><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%">
+PASTORAL PIECES&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 15%">
+<A HREF="#p43">The Vision in the Wood</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p45">The Idyll</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p47">The Pursuit of Daphne</A><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%">
+MISCELLANEOUS POEMS&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 15%">
+<A HREF="#p53">Ode on Beauty</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p55">Song in Time of Waiting</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p57">Sonnets on Separation, i.-vii.</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p64">The Morning Sun</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p65">Persuasion</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p66">Apology</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p67">The Golden Moment</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p68">Bramber</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p69">Now would I be</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p71">Midwinter Madness</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#p74">At a Lecture</A><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p11"></A>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+  SONGS
+</H2>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Song for an Unwritten Play.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The moon's a drowsy fool to-night,<BR>
+Wrapped in fleecy clouds and white;<BR>
+And all the while Endymion<BR>
+Sleeps on Latmos top alone.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Not a single star is seen:<BR>
+They are gathered round their queen,<BR>
+Keeping vigil by her bed,<BR>
+Patient and unwearièd.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Now the poet drops his pen<BR>
+And moves about like other men:<BR>
+Tom o' Bedlam now is still<BR>
+And sleeps beneath the hawthorn'd hill.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Only the Latmian shepherd deems<BR>
+Something missing from his dreams<BR>
+And tosses as he sleeps alone.<BR>
+Alas, alas, Endymion!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p12"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Cup.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+As a hot traveller<BR>
+Going through stones and sands,<BR>
+Who sees clear water stir<BR>
+Amid the weary lands,<BR>
+Takes in his hollowed hands<BR>
+The clean and lively water,<BR>
+That trickles down his throat<BR>
+Like laughter, like laughter,<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+So when you come to me<BR>
+Across these parchèd places<BR>
+And all the waste I see<BR>
+Flowered with your graces,<BR>
+I take between my hands<BR>
+Your face like a rare cup,<BR>
+Where kisses mix with laughter,<BR>
+And drink and drink them up<BR>
+Like water, like water.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p13"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>A Rhymeless Song.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Rhyme with its jingle still betrays<BR>
+The song that's meant for one alone.<BR>
+Dearest, I dedicate to you<BR>
+A little song without a rhyme.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The most unpractised schoolboy knows<BR>
+That quiet kisses are the sweetest.<BR>
+Safe locked within my arms you lie,<BR>
+Let not a single sound betray us.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Suppose your jealous mother came<BR>
+By chance this way and found us here...<BR>
+Be still, be still, and not a sound<BR>
+Shall give her warning that we love.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p14"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Meadow and Orchard.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+My heart is like a meadow,<BR>
+Where clouds go over,<BR>
+Dappling the mingled grass and clover<BR>
+With mingled sun and shadow,<BR>
+With light that will not stay<BR>
+And shade that sails away.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Your heart is like an orchard,<BR>
+That has the sun for ever in its leaves,<BR>
+Where, on the grass beneath the trees,<BR>
+There falls the shadow of the fruit<BR>
+That ripen there for me.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p15"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Who thinks that he possesses.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Who thinks that he possesses<BR>
+His mistress with his kisses<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Knows neither love nor her.<BR>
+Nor beauty is not his<BR>
+Who seeks it in a kiss:<BR>
+If you would seek for this<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O seek it otherwhere!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Love is a flame, a spirit<BR>
+Beyond all earthly merit<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And all we dream of here;<BR>
+Strive as you may but still<BR>
+Love is intangible,<BR>
+No servant to your will<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But sovereign otherwhere.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p16"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Love in the Open Air.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I'll love you in the open air<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But stuffy rooms and blazing fires<BR>
+And mirrors with familiar stare<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Cloak and befoul my high desires.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The dearest day that I have known<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Was in the fields, when driving rain<BR>
+Was like a veil around us thrown,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A grey close veil without a stain.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The young oak-tree was stripped and bare<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But naked twigs a shelter made,<BR>
+Where curious cows came round to stare<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And stood astonished and dismayed.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Let it be rain or summer sun,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Smell of wet earth or scent of flowers,<BR>
+Love, once more give me, give me one<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of these enchanted lover's hours.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p17"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Fear in the Night.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I am afraid to-night,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We are too glad, too gay,<BR>
+Our life too sweet, too bright<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To last another day.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+What hap, what chance can fall,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What sorrow come, what schism,<BR>
+What loss, what cataclysm<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To part us two at all?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The stars with ageless fire<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In skies serene the same<BR>
+Observe our young desire<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And watch our loves aflame.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A whisper soft, a sound<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Unfollowed, unattended,<BR>
+Shakes all the branches round:<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They sleep and it is ended.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+You sleep and I alone<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Torment myself with fear<BR>
+For new joys coming near<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And gracious actions done.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I am afraid to-night,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We are too glad, too gay,<BR>
+Our life too sweet, too bright<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To last another day.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p18"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>An Old Song.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The wild duck fly over<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From river to river<BR>
+And so the young lover<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Goes roving for ever.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+They fly together,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He walks alone:<BR>
+No maiden can tether<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Him with her moan.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+At the bursting of blossom<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On her breast his head;<BR>
+He has left her bosom<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ere the apples are red.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Across the valley,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Singing he goes.<BR>
+In highway and alley<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He seeks a new rose.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Tell me, O maidens,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You who all day<BR>
+In lyrical cadence<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dance and play,<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Why do you proffer<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your sweets to one,<BR>
+Who takes all you offer<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And leaves you to moan?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p19"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Love's Close.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Now spring comes round again<BR>
+With blossom on the tree,<BR>
+Dark blossom of the peach,<BR>
+Light blossom of the pear<BR>
+And amorous birds complain<BR>
+And nesting birds prepare<BR>
+And love's keen fingers reach<BR>
+After the heart of me.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+But now the blackthorn blows<BR>
+About the dusty lane<BR>
+And new buds peep and peer,<BR>
+I have no joy at all,<BR>
+For love draws near its close<BR>
+And love's white blossoms fall<BR>
+And in the springing year<BR>
+Love's fingers bring me pain.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p20"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Weed.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+My mother told me this for true<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That there behind the mountains,<BR>
+That wear the mists about their feet<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And clouds about their summits,<BR>
+There grows the weed Forgetfulness,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It grows there in the gullies.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+If I but knew the way thereto,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Three days long would I wander<BR>
+And pick a handful of the weed<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And drink it steeped in honey,<BR>
+That so I might forget your mouth<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A thousand times that kissed me.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p21"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Recollection.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Hawthorn above, as pale as frost,<BR>
+Against the paling sky is lost:<BR>
+On the pool's dark sheet below,<BR>
+The candid water-daisies glow.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+As I came up and saw from far<BR>
+The water littered, star on star,<BR>
+I thought the may had left its hedge<BR>
+To float upon the pool's dark edge.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p22"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Holiday.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The world's great ways unclose<BR>
+Through little wooded hills:<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;An air that stirs and stills,<BR>
+Dies sighing where it rose<BR>
+Or flies to sigh again<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In elms, whose stately rows<BR>
+Receive the summer rain,<BR>
+And clouds, clouds, clouds go by,<BR>
+A drifting cavalry,<BR>
+In squadrons that disperse<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And troops that reassemble<BR>
+And now they pass and now<BR>
+Their glittering wealth disburse<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On tufted grass a-tremble<BR>
+And lately leafing bough.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Thus through the shining day<BR>
+We'll love or pass away<BR>
+Light hours in golden sleep,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With clos'd half-sentient eyes<BR>
+And lids the light comes through,<BR>
+As sheep and flowers do<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Who no new toils devise,<BR>
+While shining insects creep<BR>
+About us where we lie<BR>
+Beneath a pleasant sky,<BR>
+In fields no trouble fills,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whence, as the traveller goes,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The world's great ways unclose<BR>
+Through little wooded hills.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p23"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Walking at Night.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="t3">
+<I>To A. G.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The moon poured down on tree and field,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The leaf was silvered on the hedge,<BR>
+The sleeping kine were half revealed,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Half shadowed at the pasture's edge.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+By steep inclines and long descents,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Amid the inattentive trees,<BR>
+You spoke of the four elements,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The four eternal mysteries.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p24"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Half Hope.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+August is gone and now this is September,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Softer the sun in a cloudier sky;<BR>
+Yellow the leaves grow and apples grow golden,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blackberries ripen and hedges undress.<BR>
+Watch and you'll see the departure of summer,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Here is the end, this the last month of all:<BR>
+Pause and look back and remember its promise,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All that looked open and easy in May.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Nothing will stay them, the seasons go onward,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lightly the bright months fly out of my hand,<BR>
+Softly the leading note calls a new octave;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Autumn is coming and what have I done?<BR>
+Even as summer my young days go over,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No day to pause on and nowhere to rest:<BR>
+Slowly they go but implacably onwards,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ah! and my dreams, alas, still they are dreams.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+How shall I force all my flowers to fruition,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Use up the season of ripening sun?<BR>
+Softly the years go but going have vanished,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Soon I shall find myself empty and old.<BR>
+Yet I feel in myself bright buds and blossoms,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Promise of mellowest bearing to be.<BR>
+Still I have time beside what I have wasted:<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Life shall be good to me, work shall be sweet.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p25"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>A New Song about the Sea.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+From Amberley to Storrington,<BR>
+From Storrington to Amberley,<BR>
+From Amberley to Washington<BR>
+You cannot see or smell the sea.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But why the devil should you wish<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To see the home of silly fish?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Since I prefer the earth and air,<BR>
+The fish may wallow in the sea<BR>
+And live the life that they prefer,<BR>
+If they will leave the land to me,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So wish for each what he may wish,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The earth for me, the sea for fish.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p29"></A>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+  THE WINTER SOLDIER
+</H2>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>September</I> 1914&mdash;<I>April</I> 1915
+</H3>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Winter Soldier.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+I.  TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF HIGH GERMANY<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+No more the English girls may go<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To follow with the drum<BR>
+But still they flock together<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To see the soldiers come;<BR>
+For horse and foot are marching by<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the bold artillery:<BR>
+They're going to the cruel wars<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In Low Germany.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+They're marching down by lane and town<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And they are hot and dry<BR>
+But as they marched together<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I heard the soldiers cry:<BR>
+"O all of us, both horse and foot<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the proud artillery,<BR>
+We're going to the merry wars<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In Low Germany."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>August</I>, 1914<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+II.  THE COMRADES<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The men that marched and sang with me<BR>
+Are most of them in Flanders now:<BR>
+I lie abed and hear the wind<BR>
+Blow softly through the budding bough.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And they are scattered far and wide<BR>
+In this or that brave regiment;<BR>
+From trench to trench across the mud<BR>
+They go the way that others went.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+They run with shining bayonet<BR>
+Or lie and take a careful aim<BR>
+And theirs it is to learn of death<BR>
+And theirs the joy and theirs the fame.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+III.  IN TRAINING<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The wind is cold and heavy<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And storms are in the sky:<BR>
+Our path across the heather<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Goes higher and more high.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+To right, the town we came from,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To left, blue hills and sea:<BR>
+The wind is growing colder<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And shivering are we.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+We drag with stiffening fingers<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Our rifles up the hill.<BR>
+The path is steep and tangled<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But leads to Flanders still.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+IV.  THE OLD SOLDIERS<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+We come from dock and shipyard, we come from car and train,<BR>
+We come from foreign countries to slope our arms again<BR>
+And, forming fours by numbers or turning to the right,<BR>
+We're learning all our drill again and 'tis a pretty sight.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Our names are all unspoken, our regiments forgotten,<BR>
+For some of us were pretty bad and some of us were rotten<BR>
+And some will misremember what once they learnt with pain<BR>
+And hit a bloody Serjeant and go to clink again.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+V.  GOING IN TO DINNER<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Beat the knife on the plate and the fork on the can,<BR>
+For we're going in to dinner, so make all the noise you can,<BR>
+Up and down the officer wanders, looking blue,<BR>
+Sing a song to cheer him up, he wants his dinner too.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+March into the dining-hall, make the tables rattle<BR>
+Like a dozen dam' machine guns in the bloody battle,<BR>
+Use your forks for drum-sticks, use your plates for drums,<BR>
+Make a most infernal clatter, here the dinner comes!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+VI.  ON TREK<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Under a grey dawn, timidly breaking,<BR>
+Through the little village the men are waking,<BR>
+Easing their stiff limbs and rubbing their eyes;<BR>
+From my misted window I watch the sun rise.<BR>
+In the middle of the village a fountain stands,<BR>
+Round it the men sit, washing their red hands.<BR>
+Slowly the light grows, we call the roll over,<BR>
+Bring the laggards stumbling from their warm cover,<BR>
+Slowly the company gathers all together<BR>
+And the men and the officer look shyly at the weather.<BR>
+By the left, quick march!  Off the column goes.<BR>
+All through the village all the windows unclose:<BR>
+At every window stands a child, early waking,<BR>
+To see what road the company is taking.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+VII.  LEAVING THE BILLET<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Good luck, good health, good temper, these,<BR>
+A very hive of honey-bees<BR>
+To make and store up happiness,<BR>
+Should wait upon you without cease,<BR>
+If I'd the power to call them down<BR>
+Into this stuffy little town,<BR>
+Where the dull air in sticky wreaths<BR>
+Afflicts a man each time he breathes.<BR>
+But since I have no power to call<BR>
+Benevolent spirits down at all,<BR>
+I'll wish you all the good I know<BR>
+And close the chapter up and go.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+VIII.  THE FAREWELL<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Farewell to rising early, now comes the lying late,<BR>
+And long on the parade-ground my company shall wait<BR>
+Before I come to join it on mornings cold and dark<BR>
+And no more shall I lead it across the rimy park.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The men shall still manoeuvre in sunshine and in rain<BR>
+And still they'll make the blunders I shall not check again;<BR>
+They'll march upon the highway in weather foul and fair<BR>
+And talk and sing with laughter and I shall not be there.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+IX.  ON ACCOUNT OF ILL HEALTH<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+You go, brave friends, and I am cast to stay behind,<BR>
+To read with frowning eyes and discontented mind<BR>
+The shining history that you are gone to make,<BR>
+To sleep with working brain, to dream and to awake<BR>
+Into another day of most ignoble peace,<BR>
+To drowse, to read, to smoke, to pray that war may cease.<BR>
+The spring is coming on, and with the spring you go<BR>
+In countries where strange scents on the April breezes blow;<BR>
+You'll see the primroses marched down into the mud,<BR>
+You'll see the hawthorn-tree wear crimson flowers of blood<BR>
+And I shall walk about, as I did walk of old,<BR>
+Where the laburnum trails its chains of useless gold,<BR>
+I'll break a branch of may, I'll pick a violet<BR>
+And see the new-born flowers that soldiers must forget,<BR>
+I'll love, I'll laugh, I'll dream and write undying songs<BR>
+But with your regiment my marching soul belongs.<BR>
+Men that have marched with me and men that I have led<BR>
+Shall know and feel the things that I have only read,<BR>
+Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skies<BR>
+And to expect their death what time the sun shall rise.<BR>
+Men that have marched with me shall march to peace again,<BR>
+Bringing for plunder home glad memories of pain,<BR>
+Of toils endured and done, of terrors quite brought under,<BR>
+And all the world shall be their plaything and their wonder.<BR>
+Then in that new-born world, unfriendly and estranged,<BR>
+I shall be quite alone, I shall be left unchanged.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p38"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Pool.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Out of that noise and hurry of large life<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The river flings me in an idle pool:<BR>
+The waters still go on with stir and strife<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And sunlit eddies, and the beautiful<BR>
+Tall trees lean down upon the mighty flow,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Reflected in that movement.  Beauty there<BR>
+Waxes more beautiful, the moments grow<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thicker and keener in that lovely air<BR>
+Above the river.  Here small sticks and straws<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Come now to harbour, gather, lie and rot,<BR>
+Out of cross-currents and the water's flaws<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In this unmoving death, where joy is not,<BR>
+Where war's a shade again, ambition rotten<BR>
+And bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p39"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Dead Poet.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+When I grow old they'll come to me and say:<BR>
+Did you then know him in that distant day?<BR>
+Did you speak with him, touch his hand, observe<BR>
+The proud eyes' fire, soft voice and light lips' curve?<BR>
+And I shall answer: This man was my friend;<BR>
+Call to my memory, add, improve, amend<BR>
+And count up all the meetings that we had<BR>
+And note his good and touch upon his bad.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+When I grow older and more garrulous,<BR>
+I shall discourse on the dead poet thus:<BR>
+I said to him ... he answered unto me...<BR>
+He dined with me one night in Trinity...<BR>
+I supped with him in King's ... Ah, pitiful<BR>
+The twisted memories of an ancient fool<BR>
+And sweet the silence of a young man dead!<BR>
+Now far in Lemnos sleeps that golden head,<BR>
+Unchanged, serene, for ever young and strong,<BR>
+Lifted above the chances that belong<BR>
+To us who live, for he shall not grow old<BR>
+And only of his youth there shall be told<BR>
+Magical stories, true and wondrous tales,<BR>
+As of a god whose virtue never fails,<BR>
+Whose limbs shall never waste, eyes never fall,<BR>
+And whose clear brain shall not be dimmed at all.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p43"></A>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+  PASTORAL PIECES
+</H2>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Vision in the Wood.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The husht September afternoon was sweet<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With rich and peaceful light.  I could not hear<BR>
+On either side the sound of moving feet<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Although the hidden road was very near.<BR>
+The laden wood had powdered sun in it,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messenger<BR>
+To tell me of the golden world outside<BR>
+Where fields of stubble stretched through counties wide.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And yet I did not move.  My head reposed<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Upon a tuft of dry and scented grass<BR>
+And, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I watched the languid chain of shadows pass,<BR>
+Light as the slowly moving shade imposed<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;By summer clouds upon a sea of glass,<BR>
+And strove to banish or to make more clear<BR>
+The elusive and persistent dream of her.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And then I saw her, very dim at first,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Peering for nuts amid the twisted boughs,<BR>
+Thought her some warm-haired dryad, lately burst<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Out of the chambers of her leafy house,<BR>
+Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirst<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Such water as the woodland stream allows,<BR>
+After the greedy summer has drunk up<BR>
+All but a drain within the mossy cup.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Then I, beholding her, was still a space<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And marked each posture as she moved or stood,<BR>
+Watching the sunlight on her hair and face.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thus with calm folded hands and quiet blood<BR>
+I gazed until her counterfeited grace<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Faded and left me lonely in the wood,<BR>
+Glad that the gods had given so much as this,<BR>
+To see her, if I might not have her kiss.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p45"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Idyll.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+This is the valley where we sojourn now,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green<BR>
+And shaded sweetly by the waving bough<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;About the trench where floats the soft serene<BR>
+Arun with waters running low and low<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through banks where lately still the tide has been;<BR>
+Here is our resting-place, you walk with me<BR>
+And watch the light die out in Amberley.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The light that dies is soft and flooding still,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shed from the broad expanse of all the skies<BR>
+And brimming up the space from hill to hill,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise,<BR>
+Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fill<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And to each other speak with moaning cries;<BR>
+We on the hill-side standing rest and see<BR>
+The light die out in brook and grass and tree.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Lately we walked upon the lonely downs<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And through the still heat of the heavy day<BR>
+We heard the medley of low drifting sounds<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And through the matted brambles found a way<BR>
+Or lightly trod upon enchanted grounds<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Musing, or with rich blackberries made delay,<BR>
+Where feed such fruit on the rich air, until<BR>
+We struck like falling stars from Bignor Hill.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Down the vast slope, by chalky roads and steep,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With trees and bushes hidden here and there,<BR>
+By circling turns into the valley deep<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We came and left behind the hill-top air<BR>
+For this cool village where to-night we sleep,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A country meal, a country bed to share,<BR>
+With sleepy kisses and contented dreams<BR>
+Over a land of still and narrow streams.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The light is ebbing in the dusky sky,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The valley floor is in the shadow.  Hark!<BR>
+With rushing and mysterious noises fly<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The bats already, looking for the dark<BR>
+With blinking still and unaccustomed eye.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now over Rackham Mount a steady spark<BR>
+Burns, rising slowly in the rising night,<BR>
+And pledges peace and promises delight.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Now from the east the wheeling shade appears<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And softly night into the valley falls,<BR>
+Soft on the meadows drop her dewy tears,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Softly a darkness on the crumbled walls.<BR>
+Now in the dusk the village disappears,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Men's songs are hushed there and the children's calls,<BR>
+While night in passage swallows up the land<BR>
+And in the shadow your hand seeks my hand.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Only the glimmering stars in heaven lie<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And unseen trees with rustling still betray<BR>
+How all the valley lives invisibly,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where dim sweet odours, remnants of the day,<BR>
+Float from the sleeping fields to please and die,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Borne up by roaming airs, that drift away<BR>
+Beyond our hearing, vagabond and light,<BR>
+To visit the cool meadows of the night.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p47"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Pursuit of Daphne.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Daphne is running, running through the grass,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes.<BR>
+I saw the nymph, the god, I saw them pass<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And how a mounting flush of tender rose<BR>
+Invaded the white bosom of the lass<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And reached her shoulders, conquering their snows.<BR>
+He wasted all his breath, imploring still:<BR>
+They passed behind the shadow of the hill.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The mad course goes across the silent plain,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Their flying footsteps make a path of sound<BR>
+Through all the sleeping country.  Now with pain<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She runs across a stretch of stony ground<BR>
+That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She hastens through a wood where flowers abound,<BR>
+Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads<BR>
+And for her healing give their trodden heads.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Her sisters, from their coverts unbetrayed,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Look out in fright and see the two go by,<BR>
+Each unrelenting, and reflect dismayed<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How fear and anguish glisten in her eye.<BR>
+By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maid<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whose breath is coming short in agony:<BR>
+Hard at her heels pursues the golden boy,<BR>
+She flies in fear of him, she flies from joy.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+His arrows scattered on the countryside,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;His shining bow deserted, he pursues<BR>
+Through hindering woodlands, over meadows wide<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And now no longer as he runs he sues<BR>
+But breathing deep and set and eager-eyed.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;His flashing feet disperse the morning dews,<BR>
+His hands most roughly put the boughs away,<BR>
+That cross and cling and join and make delay.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Across small shining brooks and rills they leap<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And now she fords the waters of a stream;<BR>
+Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deep<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream;<BR>
+The silver minnows, wakened from their sleep<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In sunny shallows, round her ankles gleam;<BR>
+She scrambles up the grassy bank and on,<BR>
+Though courage and quick breath are nearly done.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Now in the dusky spinneys round the field,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The fauns set up a joyous mimicry,<BR>
+Pursuing of light nymphs, who lightly yield,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or startle the young dryad from her tree<BR>
+And shout with joy to see her limbs revealed<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And give her grace and bid her swiftly flee:<BR>
+The hunt is up, pursuer and pursued<BR>
+Run, double, twist, evade, turn, grasp, elude.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The woodlands are alive with chase and cry,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Escape and triumph.  Still the nymph in vain,<BR>
+With heaving breast in lovely agony<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And wide and shining eyes that show her pain,<BR>
+Leads on the god and now she knows him nigh<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And sees before her the unsheltered plain.<BR>
+His hot hand touches her white side and she<BR>
+Thrusts up her hands and turns into a tree.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+There is an end of dance and mocking tune,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of laughter and bright love among the leaves.<BR>
+The sky is overcast, the afternoon<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is dull and heavy for a god who grieves.<BR>
+The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soon<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The ruffled dryad in her trunk receives.<BR>
+Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white:<BR>
+The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p53"></A>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+  MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
+</H2>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Ode on Beauty.</I>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Infinite peace is hanging in the air,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Infinite peace is resting on mine eyes,<BR>
+That just an hour ago learnt how to bear<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Seeing your body's flaming harmonies.<BR>
+The grey clouds flecked with orange are and gold,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Birds unto rest are falling, falling, falling,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And all the earth goes slowly into night,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Steadily turning from the harshly bright<BR>
+Sunset.  And now the wind is growing cold<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And in my heart a hidden voice is calling.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Say, is our sense of beauty mixed with earth<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When lip on lip and breast on breast we cling,<BR>
+When ecstasy brings short bright sobs to birth<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And all our pulses, both our bodies sing?<BR>
+When through the haze that gathers on my sight<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I see your eyelids, know the eyes behind<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;See me and half not see me, when our blood<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Goes roaring like a deep tremendous flood,<BR>
+Calm and terrific in unhasty might,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is then our inner sight sealed up and blind?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Or could it be that when our blood was colder<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And side by side we sat with lips disparted<BR>
+I saw the perfect line of your resting shoulder,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your mouth, your peaceful throat with fuller-hearted,<BR>
+More splendid joy?  Ah poignant joys all these!<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And rest can stab the heart as well as passion.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yea, I have known sobs choke my heart to see<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your honey-coloured hair move languorously,<BR>
+Ruffled, not by my hands, but by the breeze,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And I have prayed the rough air for compassion.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Yea, I have knelt to the unpiteous air<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And knelt to gods I knew not, to remove<BR>
+The viewless hands whose sight I could not bear<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Out of the wind-blown head of her I love.<BR>
+Ecstasy enters me and cannot speak,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Seizes my hands and smites my fainting eyes<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And sends through all my veins a dim despair<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of never apprehending all so fair<BR>
+And I have stood, unnerved and numb and weak,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Watching your breathing bosom fall and rise.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Ah no!  This joy is empty, incomplete,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And sullied with a sense of too much longing,<BR>
+Where thoughts and fancies, sweet and bitter-sweet,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And old regrets and new-born hopes come thronging.<BR>
+Man can see beauty for a moment's space<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And live, having seen her with an unfilmed eye,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If all his body and all his soul in one<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Instant are tuned by passion to unison<BR>
+And I can image in your kissing face<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The eternal meaning of the earth and sky.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p55"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Song in Time of Waiting.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Because the days are long for you and me,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I make this song to lighten their slow time,<BR>
+So that the weary waiting fruitful be<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or blossomed only by my limping rhyme.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The days are very long<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And may not shortened be by any chime<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of measured words or any fleeting song.<BR>
+Yet let us gather blossoms while we wait<BR>
+And sing brave tunes against the face of fate.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Day after day goes by: the exquisite<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Procession of the variable year,<BR>
+Summer, a sheaf with flowers bound up in it,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And autumn, tender till the frosts appear<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And dry the humid skies;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And winter following on, aloof, austere,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Clad in the garments of a frore sunrise;<BR>
+And spring again.  May not too many a spring<BR>
+Make both our voices tremble as we sing!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The days are empty, empty, and the nights<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are cold and void; there is no single gleam<BR>
+Across the space unpeopled of delights,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Save only now and then some thin-blood dream,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Some stray of summer weather;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The tedious hours like slow-foot laggarts seem,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When you and I, my love, are not together<BR>
+And when I hold you in my arms at last<BR>
+The minutes go like April cloudlets past.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And yet no hidden charm, no desperate spell<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Can make these minutes longer, those less long:<BR>
+No force there is that yearning can impel<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Against the callous years which do us wrong.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No words, no whispered rune,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No witchery and no Thessalian song<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Can make that far-off, misty day more soon.<BR>
+The bravest tune, the most courageous rhyme<BR>
+Fall broken from the bastions of time.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A long and dusty road it is to tread;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Few are the wayside flowers and far apart<BR>
+And are no sooner plucked than withered,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When yearning heart is torn from yearning heart.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A weary road it is<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And yet far off I see clear waters start<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And clean sweet grass and tangled traceries<BR>
+Of whispering leaves, that laugh to see us come,<BR>
+And there one day ... one day shall be our home.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The day will come.  O dearest, do not doubt!<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It is not born as yet but I shall see<BR>
+Some day the fearless sunrise flashing out<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And know the night will give you up to me.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O heart, my heart, be glad,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Because the time will come at last when we<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shall leave all grief and unlearn all things sad<BR>
+And know the joy than which none sweeter is<BR>
+And I shall sing a happier song than this.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p57"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Sonnets on Separation.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+I.<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The  time shall be, old Wisdom says, when you<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shall grow awrinkled and I, indifferent,<BR>
+Shall no more follow the light steps I knew<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or trace you, finding out the way you went,<BR>
+By swinging branches and the displaced flowers<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Among the thickets.  I no more shall stand,<BR>
+With careful pencil through the adoring hours<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Scratching your grace on paper.  My still hand<BR>
+No more shall tremble at the touch of yours<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And I'll write no more songs and you'll not sing.<BR>
+But this is all a lie, for love endures<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And we shall closer kiss, remembering<BR>
+How budding trees turned barren in the sun<BR>
+Through this long week, whereof one day's now done.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+II.<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The time is all so short.  One week is much<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To be without your deep and peaceful eyes,<BR>
+Your soft and all-contenting cheek, the touch<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of well-caressing hands.  O were we wise<BR>
+We would not love too strongly, would not bind<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Life into life so inextricably,<BR>
+That the dumb body suffers with the mind<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In a sad partnership this agony.<BR>
+For death will come and swallow up us two,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You there, I here, and we shall lie apart,<BR>
+Out of the houses and the woods we knew.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then in the lonely grave, my dust-choked heart<BR>
+Out of the dust will raise, if it can speak,<BR>
+A threnody for this lost, lovely week.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+III.<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Is there no prophylactic against love?<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Can I with drugs not dull the ache one night?<BR>
+The rain is heavy and the low clouds move<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Over the empty home of our delight<BR>
+And find me in it weeping.  You are far<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And you are now asleep.  The night's so thick,<BR>
+Not even one stooping and compassionate star<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shines on us both disparted.  O be quick,<BR>
+Torturing days and heavy, turn your hours<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To minutes, melt yourselves into one day!<BR>
+... The cold rain falls in swift assailing showers,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Darkness is round me and light far away.<BR>
+I'm in our well-known room and you're shut in<BR>
+By strange unfriendly walls I've never seen.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+IV.<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Lovers that drug themselves for ecstasy<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Seek love too closely in an overdose,<BR>
+When the sweet spasm turns to agony<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the quick limbs are still and the eyes close.<BR>
+I too, a fool, desired&mdash;to make love strong&mdash;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Absence and parting but the measure's brimmed,<BR>
+The dose is over-poured, the time's too long<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Already, though two nights have hardly dimmed<BR>
+My lonely eyes with the elusive sleep.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O I'll remember, I'll not wish again<BR>
+To go with ardent limbs into this deep<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sea of dejection, this dull mere of pain:<BR>
+We'll love our safer loves upon the shore<BR>
+And quest for inexperienced joys no more.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+V.<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Through the closed curtains comes the early sun,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;First a pale finger, preluding the hand.<BR>
+Outside more certainly the day's begun,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where bright and brighter still the chestnuts stand,<BR>
+Broad candles lighting up at the first fire.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I stir and turn in my uneasy sleep<BR>
+But in my sorrow sleep's my whole desire.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;About the still room small lights move and creep<BR>
+Silently, stealthily on wall and chair,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Till to strong rays and shining lights they grow,<BR>
+Which with their magic change the waiting air<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And all its sleeping motes to gold and throw<BR>
+A golden radiance on your empty bed,<BR>
+Which wakes me with vain likeness to your head.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+VI.<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+To-morrow I shall see you come again<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Between the pale trees, through the sullen gate,<BR>
+Out of the dark and secret house of pain<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where lie the unhappy and unfortunate.<BR>
+To-morrow you will live with me and love me,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Spring will go on again, I'll see the flowers<BR>
+And little things, ridiculous things, shall move me<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To smiles or tears or verse.  The world is ours<BR>
+To-morrow.  Open heaths, tall trees, great skies,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With massive clouds that fly and come again,<BR>
+Sweet fields, delicious rivers and the rise<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And fall of swelling land from the swift train<BR>
+We'll see together, knowing that all this<BR>
+Is one great room wherein we two may kiss.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+VII.<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+We're at the world's top now.  The hills around<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Stand proud in order with the valleys deep,<BR>
+The hills with pastures drest, with tall trees crowned,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the low valleys dipt in sunny sleep.<BR>
+A sound brims all the country up, a noise<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of wheels upon the road and labouring bees<BR>
+And trodden heather, mixing with the voice<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of small lost winds that die among the trees.<BR>
+And we are prone beneath the flooding sun,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So drenched, so soaked in the unceasing light,<BR>
+That colours, sounds and your close presence are one,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A texture woven up of all delight,<BR>
+Whose shining threads my hands may not undo,<BR>
+Yet one thread runs the whole bright garment through.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p64"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Morning Sun.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Perhaps you sleep now, fifty miles to the south,<BR>
+While I sit here and dream of you by night.<BR>
+The thick soft blankets drawn about your mouth<BR>
+Have made for you a nest of warm delight;<BR>
+Your short crisp hair is thrown abroad and spilled<BR>
+Upon the pillow's whiteness and your eyes<BR>
+Are quiet and the round soft lids are filled<BR>
+With sleep.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But I shall watch until sunrise<BR>
+Creeps into chilly clouds and heavy air,<BR>
+Across the lands where you sleep and I wake,<BR>
+And I shall know the sun has seen you there,<BR>
+Unmoving though the winter morning break.<BR>
+Next, you will lift your hands and rub your eyes<BR>
+And turn to sleep again but wake and start<BR>
+And feel, half dreaming, with a dear surprise,<BR>
+My hand in the sunbeam touching at your heart.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p65"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+Persuasion.<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Still must your hands withhold your loveliness?<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is your soul jealous of your body still?<BR>
+The fair white limbs beneath the clouding dress<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are such hard forms as you alone could fill<BR>
+With life and sweetness.  Such a harmony<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is yours as music and the thought expressed<BR>
+By the musician: have no rivalry<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Between your soul and the shape in which it's drest.<BR>
+Kisses or words, both sensual, which shall be<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The burning symbol of the love we bear?<BR>
+My art is words, yours song, but still must we<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Be mute and songless, seeing how love is fair.<BR>
+Both our known arts being useless, we must turn<BR>
+To love himself and his old practice learn.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p66"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Apology.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Have I slept and failed to hear you calling?<BR>
+Cry again, belov'd; for sleep is heavy,<BR>
+Curtaining away the golden sunlight,<BR>
+Shutting out the blue sky and the breezes,<BR>
+Sealing up my ears to all you tell me.<BR>
+Cry again! your voice shall pierce the clumsy<BR>
+Leaden folds that sleep has wrapt about me,<BR>
+Cry again! accomplish what the singing,<BR>
+Hours old now on all the trees and bushes,<BR>
+And the wind and sun could not accomplish.<BR>
+Lo!  I waste good hours of love and kisses<BR>
+While the sun and you have spilt your glory<BR>
+Freely on me lying unregarding.<BR>
+In the happy islands, where no sunset<BR>
+Stains the waters with a morbid splendour,<BR>
+Where the open skies are blue for ever,<BR>
+I might stay for years and years unsleeping,<BR>
+Living for divinest conversation,<BR>
+Music, colour, scent and sense unceasing,<BR>
+Entering by eye and ear and nostril.<BR>
+Ah, but flesh is flesh and I am mortal!<BR>
+Cry again and do not leave me sleeping.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p67"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>The Golden Moment.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Along the branches of the laden tree<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The ripe fruit smiling hang.  The afternoon<BR>
+Is emptied of all things done and things to be.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Low in the sky the inconspicuous moon<BR>
+Stares enviously upon the mellow earth,<BR>
+That mocks her barren girth.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Ripe blackberries and long green trailing grass<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are motionless beneath the heavy light:<BR>
+The happy birds and creeping things that pass<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Go fitfully and stir as if in fright,<BR>
+That they have broken on some mystery<BR>
+In bramble or in tree.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+This is no hour for beings that are maiden;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The spring is virgin, lightly afraid and cold,<BR>
+But now the whole round earth is ripe and laden<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And stirs beneath her coverlet of gold<BR>
+And in her agony a moment calls...<BR>
+A heavy apple falls.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p68"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Bramber.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Before the downs in their great horse-shoes rise,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I know a village where the Adur runs,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blown by sweet winds and by beneficent suns<BR>
+Visited and made ripe beneath kind skies.<BR>
+Light and delight are in the children's eyes<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And there the mothers sit, the fortunate ones,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blest in their daughters, happy in their sons,<BR>
+And the old men are beautiful and wise.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+There stand the downs, great, close, tall, friendly, still,<BR>
+Linked up by grassy saddles, hill on hill,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And steep the village in unending peace<BR>
+And to the north the plains in order lie,<BR>
+Heavy with crops and woods alternately<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And lively with low sounds that never cease.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p69"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Now would I be.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now would I be in that removèd place<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the dim sunlight hardly comes at all<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And branches of the young trees interlace<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And long swathes of the brambles twine and fall;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A space between the hedgerow and a road<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Not trod by foot of any known to me,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where now and then a cart with scented load<BR>
+Goes sleepy down the lane with creaking axle-tree.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And there I'd lie upon the tumbled leaves,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Watching a square of the all else hidden sky,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And made such songs a drowsy mind believes<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To be most perfect music.  So would I<BR>
+Keep my face heavenwards and bless eternity,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Wherein my heart could be as glad as this<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And lazily I'd bid all men come hither<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And in my dreams I'd tell them what they miss,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Living in hate and work and all foul weather.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And still my happy dreams would go,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Like children in a cowslip field<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Chasing rich-winged insects to and fro<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To see what rare delights they yield....<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;... O I am tired of working to be cheated<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And sick of barriers that will not fall,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of ancient prudent words too much repeated<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And worn-out dreams that come not true at all.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I know too well what things they are that ail me;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To fight is nothing but to see<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thus at the last my own hand fail me<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is agony.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O for that corner by the hummocked marshes,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Visited hardly by the cynic sun,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where nothing clear and nothing bright or harsh is,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where labour and the ache of it are done,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where naught is ended and where naught begun!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p71"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>Midwinter Madness.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A month or twain to live on honeycomb<BR>
+Is pleasant&mdash;but to eat it for a year<BR>
+Is simply beastly.  Thus the poet spake,<BR>
+Feeling how sticky all his stomach was<BR>
+With hivings of ten thousand cheated bees.<BR>
+O wisdom that could shape immortal words<BR>
+And frame a diet for dyspeptic man!<BR>
+But what of turnips?  Come, a lyric now<BR>
+Upon the luscious roots unsung as yet,<BR>
+(Not roots I know but stalks; still, never mind,<BR>
+Metre and sauce will suit them just as well)<BR>
+Or shall we speak of omelettes?  Muse, begin!<BR>
+To feed a fortnight on transmuted eggs<BR>
+Would doubtless be both comforting and cheap<BR>
+But oh, the nausea on the fourteenth day!<BR>
+I'd rather read a book by Ezra Pound<BR>
+Then choke the seven hundredth omelette down,<BR>
+Just as I'd rather read some F. S. Flint<BR>
+Than live a month or twain on honeycomb.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O Ezra Pound!  O omelette of the world!<BR>
+Concocted with strange herbs from dead Provence,<BR>
+Garlic from Italy and spice from Greece,<BR>
+Having suffered a rare Pound-change on the way,<BR>
+How rarely shouldst thou taste, were not the eggs<BR>
+Laid in America and hither brought<BR>
+Too late.  I don't like omelettes made with fowls.<BR>
+Take hence this Pound and put him to the test,<BR>
+Try him with acid, see if he turn black<BR>
+As will the best old silver, when enraged<BR>
+At touching fungi of the baser sort.<BR>
+(Forgive digression.  These similitudes<BR>
+Entrance me and I lose myself in them,<BR>
+As schoolboys, picking flowers by the way,<BR>
+Escape the angry usher's vigilance<BR>
+And then, concealed behind a hedge or shed,<BR>
+Produce the awesome pipe or thrice-lit fag<BR>
+And make themselves incredibly unwell.)<BR>
+My brain is bubbling and the thoughts will out,<BR>
+But, Ezra Pound! they turn again to thee,<BR>
+As surely as the lode-stone to the Pole<BR>
+Or as the dog to what he hath cast up<BR>
+(A simile of Solomon's, not mine)<BR>
+And your shock head of damp, unwholesome hay,<BR>
+Such as, the cunning farmer oft declares,<BR>
+When stacked, will perish by spontaneous fire,<BR>
+Frequents my dreams and makes them ludicrous.<BR>
+Thou most ridiculous sprite!  Thou ponderous fairy!<BR>
+Bourgeois Bohemian!  Innocent Verlaine!<BR>
+I read in <I>The Booksellers' Circular</I><BR>
+That, in the University of Pa.<BR>
+(Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont.<BR>
+&mdash;A line of normal pattern, Saintsbury)<BR>
+You hold a fellowship in (O merciful gods!)<BR>
+Romanics, which strange word interpreted<BR>
+Means, I suppose, the Romance languages.<BR>
+Doubtless they read Italian in Pa.<BR>
+And some may speak French fluently in Ont.<BR>
+But German, Ezra!  There's the bloody rub,<BR>
+It's not Romance and it is hard to learn<BR>
+And Heine, though an easy-going chap,<BR>
+Would doubtless trounce you soundly if he knew<BR>
+The sorry hash that you have made of him.<BR>
+But no! you're not for immortality,<BR>
+Not even such as that of Freiligrath,<BR>
+Enshrined, together with his <I>Mohrenfurst</I>,<BR>
+In unrelenting amber.  I hold you here,<BR>
+In a soap-bubble's iridescent walls,<BR>
+The whimsy of a long midwinter night,<BR>
+And give you immortality enough.<BR>
+Thou sorry brat!  Thou transatlantic clown!<BR>
+That seek'st to ape the treadless Ariel<BR>
+And out-top Shelley in an aeroplane,<BR>
+Take the all-obvious padding from your pants<BR>
+And cut your hair and go to Pa. again<BR>
+(Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont.<BR>
+Or even Oomp. if such a place exist)<BR>
+And take with you the poets you admire,<BR>
+Both Yeats and Flint to charm the folk of Oomp.<BR>
+And write again for <I>Munsey's Magazine</I><BR>
+Of your good brother Everyone.  (Just God!<BR>
+Am even I of his relationship?)<BR>
+So end as you began or even worse:<BR>
+No matter, so 'tis in America.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="p74"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>At a Lecture.</I><BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The lecturer took his place and looked<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At the eager women's faces,<BR>
+Then he cleared his throat and he jetted out<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A stream of commonplaces.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+He fondled Wordsworth and patted Shelley<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And said with his hand on his heart<BR>
+He would brook no interference from morals<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In any matter of art.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+He finished at last and strode away<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Over the naked boards,<BR>
+Erect in his conscious majesty<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Back to the House of Lords.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<HR>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap076"></A>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+FROM SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S LIST
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+JOHN MASEFIELD
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+THE EVERLASTING MERCY.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; also Fcap. 8vo, in leather bindings, 5s.
+net and 6s. net.  <I>Seventeenth Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Here, beyond question, in <I>The Everlasting Mercy</I>, is a great poem, as
+true to the essentials of its ancient art as it is astoundingly modern
+in its method; a poem, too, which 'every clergyman in the country ought
+to read as a revelation of the heathenism still left in the land.' ...
+Its technical force is on a level with its high, inspiring thought.  It
+makes the reader think; it goads him to emotion; and it leaves him
+alive with a fresh appreciation of the wonderful capacity of human
+nature to receive new influences and atone for old and apparently
+ineradicable wrongs."&mdash;ARTHUR WAUGH in <I>The Daily Chronicle</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.  <I>Fourth Thousand</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mr Masefield is no common realist, but universalises his tragedy in
+the grand manner....  We are convinced that he is writing truly of
+human nature, which is the vital thing....  The last few stanzas show
+us pastoral poetry in the very perfection of simplicity."&mdash;<I>Spectator</I>.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"In 'The Widow in the Bye Street' all Mr Masefield's passionate love of
+loveliness is utterly fused with the violent and unlovely story, which
+glows with an inner harmony.  The poem, it is true, ends on a note of
+idyllism which recalls Theocritus; but this is no touch of eternal
+decoration.  Inevitably the story has worked towards this
+culmination."&mdash;<I>Bookman</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A Play in Three Acts.  Second Edition, revised and reset.  <I>Fourth
+Impression</I>.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"In this Roman tragedy, while we admire its closely knit structure,
+dramatic effectiveness, and atmosphere of reality ... the warmth and
+colour of the diction are the most notable things.... He knows the art
+of phrasing; he has the instinct for and by them."&mdash;<I>Athenæum</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+RUPERT BROOKE
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+POEMS.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+(First issued in 1911.)  Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.  <I>Ninth Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Unlike most youthful work it shows a curious absence of imitation and
+a strenuous originality ... there is much that is uncommonly good.  He
+has both imagination and intellect&mdash;so much of the latter sometimes
+that the verse is crabbed and heavy with its weight of it.  It is a
+book of rare and remarkable promise."&mdash;<I>Spectator</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+1914 AND OTHER POEMS.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Crown 8vo.  With a Photogravure Portrait.  2s. 6d. net.  <I>Twelfth
+Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is impossible to shred up this beauty for the purpose of criticism.
+These sonnets are personal&mdash;never were sonnets more personal since
+Sidney died&mdash;and yet the very blood and youth of England seem to find
+expression in them.  They speak not for one heart only, but for all to
+whom her call has come in the hour of need and found instantly
+ready."&mdash;<I>Times</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+LETTERS FROM AMERICA.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With a Preface by HENRY JAMES, O. M., and a new Portrait.  Extra crown
+8vo, buckram, 7s. 6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This volume contains the series of descriptive articles contributed in
+1913 by Rupert Brooke to <I>The Westminster Gazette</I>, four written from
+the United States, and nine from Canada.  To these are here added an
+article on Samoa, and a study called "An Unusual Young Man," both of
+which appeared in The New Statesman after the outbreak of war.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+POEMS OF TO-DAY: an Anthology.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net.  <I>Third Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A selection of contemporary poetry made by the English Association and
+intended for the use of higher forms in secondary schools.  It contains
+nearly 150 poems, representative of the chief tendencies of English
+poetry during the last quarter of a century, written by 47 authors,
+including Meredith, Stevenson, Kipling, Newbolt, Masefield, Bridges,
+Yeats, Thompson, Davidson, Watson, Belloc, Chesterton, Gosse, "A.E.,"
+Binyon, Noyes, Flecker, and Rupert Brooke.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The great merit of the selection is that the pieces are all genuine;
+whatever their ultimate value, they are at least free from the fetters
+of past tradition, and they therefore mark ... the beginning of a new
+lease of inspiration."&mdash;<I>Times Educational Supplement</I>.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is a book which any student of English literature will prize for
+its own sake."&mdash;<I>Scotsman</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES.  By JOHN DRINKWATER.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"These lyrics, many of them inspired by the war, come from one of the
+most accomplished poets of the day."&mdash;<I>Times</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+POEMS.  By ELINOR JENKINS.  Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A new poet, whose poetry is all made out of pain and the beautiful
+religion of loss."&mdash;Mr JAMES DOUGLAS in <I>The Star</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+THE VOLUNTEER, and Other Poems.  By HERBERT ASQUITH.  Crown 8vo, 1s.
+net.  <I>Second Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Lieutenant Asquith has undoubtedly a true feeling for poetry....  It
+is impossible to miss the beauty of its phrases and the fineness of its
+emotion."&mdash;<I>Standard</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+KATHARINE TYNAN
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+INNOCENCIES.  A Book of Verse.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+NEW POEMS.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+IRISH POEMS.  <I>Second Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+FLOWER OF YOUTH: Poems in War Time.  <I>Second Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+<I>Each, Super-royal 16mo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+THE WILD HARP.  A Selection from Irish Poetry.  By KATHARINE TYNAN.
+Decorated by Miss C. M. WATTS.  Medium 8vo, designed, cloth gilt, 7s.
+6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+THE TWO BLIND COUNTRIES.  By ROSE MACAULAY.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
+net.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Out of familiar things she contrives to draw a magic which sets all
+our definitions tottering....  This specific gift is so rare in modern
+poetry that we may well hail it with enthusiasm."&mdash;<I>Spectator</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+SELECTED POEMS.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN.  F'cap.  8vo, 3s. 6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The selections have been made from four previous volumes now out of
+print: Mendicant Rhymes, The Little Land, Rue, and Spikenard.  There is
+hardly a stanza that is not felicitous in some way, and not one
+selection that could be spared."&mdash;<I>Morning Post</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+SOME VERSE.  By F. S.  F'cap. 8vo, 2s. net.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Some of these pieces ... might almost have borne the signature C. S.
+C.  Others ... have the mellow wit of the school of J. K. Stephen and
+the Cantabrigians on whom his mantle has fallen."&mdash;<I>Times</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+SIDGWICK &amp; JACKSON'S MODERN DRAMA
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Messrs Sidgwick &amp; Jackson are choosing their plays
+excellently."&mdash;<I>Saturday Review</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The Marrying of Ann Leete," "The Voysey Inheritance," and "Waste."  In
+one Vol., 5s. net; singly, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.
+<I>Fourth Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+THE MADRAS HOUSE.  A Comedy in Four Acts.  By GRANVILLE BARKER.  Crown
+8vo, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.  <I>Fourth Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+ANATOL.  A Sequence of Dialogues.  By ARTHUR SCHNITZLER.  Paraphrased
+for the English Stage by GRANVILLE BARKER.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net;
+paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.  <I>Third Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+PRUNELLA; or Love in a Dutch Garden.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN and GRANVILLE
+BARKER.  With a Frontispiece and Music to "Pierrot's Serenade," by
+JOSEPH MOORAT.  F'cap. 4to, 5s. net.  Theatre Edition, crown 8vo,
+wrappers, 1s. net.  <I>Ninth Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+CHAINS.  A Play in Four Acts.  By ELIZABETH BAKER, Crown 8vo, cloth,
+1s. 6d. net; paper wrappers, 1s. net.  <I>Third Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+RUTHERFORD &amp; SON.  By GITHA SOWERBY.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net;
+paper, 1s. 6d. net.  <I>Second Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+THE NEW SIN.  By B. MACDONALD HASTINGS.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net;
+paper, 1s. net.  <I>Second Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+HINDLE WAKES.  A Play in Four Acts.  By STANLEY HOUGHTON.  Cloth, 2s.
+net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.  <I>Sixth Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+MARY BROOME.  By ALLAN MONKHOUSE.  Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.
+<I>Second Impression</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+THE TRIAL OF JEANNE D'ARC.  A Play in Four Acts.  By EDWARD GARNETT.
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+PAINS AND PENALTIES.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.
+net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+ETC., ETC., ETC.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3b">
+Sidgwick &amp; Jackson Ltd., 3 Adam Street, London, W.C.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR><BR>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Shanks
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
+
+***** This file should be named 37556-h.htm or 37556-h.zip *****
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Shanks
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Poems
+
+Author: Edward Shanks
+
+Release Date: October 12, 2011 [EBook #37556]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+By EDWARD SHANKS
+
+
+
+
+LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
+
+3 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.
+
+1916
+
+
+
+
+_By the Same Author_
+
+SONGS.  6s. net.
+
+(The Poetry Bookshop)
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+J. C. STOBART
+
+
+
+
+NOTE
+
+Certain of these pieces have appeared already in the following
+periodicals:--_The English Review, The Saturday Review, The
+Eye-Witness, The Westminster Gazette_, and _The Pall Mall Gazette_.
+One of the Songs was printed for the first time in an anthology called
+_Cambridge Poets_.  I am indebted to the editors of these for
+permission to reprint them here.
+
+E. S.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+SONGS--
+
+  Song for an Unwritten Play
+  The Cup
+  A Rhymeless Song
+  Meadow and Orchard
+  Who thinks that he possesses
+  Love in the Open Air
+  Fear in the Night
+  An Old Song
+  Love's Close
+  The Weed
+  Recollection
+  The Holiday
+  Walking at Night
+  Half Hope
+  A New Song about the Sea
+
+
+THE WINTER SOLDIER--
+
+  The Winter Soldier, i.-ix.
+  The Pool
+  The Dead Poet
+
+
+PASTORAL PIECES--
+
+  The Vision in the Wood
+  The Idyll
+  The Pursuit of Daphne
+
+
+MISCELLANEOUS POEMS--
+
+  Ode on Beauty
+  Song in Time of Waiting
+  Sonnets on Separation, i.-vii.
+  The Morning Sun
+  Persuasion
+  Apology
+  The Golden Moment
+  Bramber
+  Now would I be
+  Midwinter Madness
+  At a Lecture
+
+
+
+
+  SONGS
+
+
+
+  _Song for an Unwritten Play._
+
+  The moon's a drowsy fool to-night,
+  Wrapped in fleecy clouds and white;
+  And all the while Endymion
+  Sleeps on Latmos top alone.
+
+  Not a single star is seen:
+  They are gathered round their queen,
+  Keeping vigil by her bed,
+  Patient and unwearied.
+
+  Now the poet drops his pen
+  And moves about like other men:
+  Tom o' Bedlam now is still
+  And sleeps beneath the hawthorn'd hill.
+
+  Only the Latmian shepherd deems
+  Something missing from his dreams
+  And tosses as he sleeps alone.
+  Alas, alas, Endymion!
+
+
+
+
+  _The Cup._
+
+  As a hot traveller
+  Going through stones and sands,
+  Who sees clear water stir
+  Amid the weary lands,
+  Takes in his hollowed hands
+  The clean and lively water,
+  That trickles down his throat
+  Like laughter, like laughter,
+
+  So when you come to me
+  Across these parched places
+  And all the waste I see
+  Flowered with your graces,
+  I take between my hands
+  Your face like a rare cup,
+  Where kisses mix with laughter,
+  And drink and drink them up
+  Like water, like water.
+
+
+
+
+  _A Rhymeless Song._
+
+  Rhyme with its jingle still betrays
+  The song that's meant for one alone.
+  Dearest, I dedicate to you
+  A little song without a rhyme.
+
+  The most unpractised schoolboy knows
+  That quiet kisses are the sweetest.
+  Safe locked within my arms you lie,
+  Let not a single sound betray us.
+
+  Suppose your jealous mother came
+  By chance this way and found us here...
+  Be still, be still, and not a sound
+  Shall give her warning that we love.
+
+
+
+
+  _Meadow and Orchard._
+
+  My heart is like a meadow,
+  Where clouds go over,
+  Dappling the mingled grass and clover
+  With mingled sun and shadow,
+  With light that will not stay
+  And shade that sails away.
+
+  Your heart is like an orchard,
+  That has the sun for ever in its leaves,
+  Where, on the grass beneath the trees,
+  There falls the shadow of the fruit
+  That ripen there for me.
+
+
+
+
+  _Who thinks that he possesses._
+
+  Who thinks that he possesses
+  His mistress with his kisses
+    Knows neither love nor her.
+  Nor beauty is not his
+  Who seeks it in a kiss:
+  If you would seek for this
+    O seek it otherwhere!
+
+  Love is a flame, a spirit
+  Beyond all earthly merit
+    And all we dream of here;
+  Strive as you may but still
+  Love is intangible,
+  No servant to your will
+    But sovereign otherwhere.
+
+
+
+
+  _Love in the Open Air._
+
+  I'll love you in the open air
+    But stuffy rooms and blazing fires
+  And mirrors with familiar stare
+    Cloak and befoul my high desires.
+
+  The dearest day that I have known
+    Was in the fields, when driving rain
+  Was like a veil around us thrown,
+    A grey close veil without a stain.
+
+  The young oak-tree was stripped and bare
+    But naked twigs a shelter made,
+  Where curious cows came round to stare
+    And stood astonished and dismayed.
+
+  Let it be rain or summer sun,
+    Smell of wet earth or scent of flowers,
+  Love, once more give me, give me one
+    Of these enchanted lover's hours.
+
+
+
+
+  _Fear in the Night._
+
+  I am afraid to-night,
+    We are too glad, too gay,
+  Our life too sweet, too bright
+    To last another day.
+
+  What hap, what chance can fall,
+    What sorrow come, what schism,
+  What loss, what cataclysm
+    To part us two at all?
+
+  The stars with ageless fire
+    In skies serene the same
+  Observe our young desire
+    And watch our loves aflame.
+
+  A whisper soft, a sound
+    Unfollowed, unattended,
+  Shakes all the branches round:
+    They sleep and it is ended.
+
+  You sleep and I alone
+    Torment myself with fear
+  For new joys coming near
+    And gracious actions done.
+
+  I am afraid to-night,
+    We are too glad, too gay,
+  Our life too sweet, too bright
+    To last another day.
+
+
+
+
+  _An Old Song._
+
+  The wild duck fly over
+    From river to river
+  And so the young lover
+    Goes roving for ever.
+
+  They fly together,
+    He walks alone:
+  No maiden can tether
+    Him with her moan.
+
+  At the bursting of blossom
+    On her breast his head;
+  He has left her bosom
+    Ere the apples are red.
+
+  Across the valley,
+    Singing he goes.
+  In highway and alley
+    He seeks a new rose.
+
+  Tell me, O maidens,
+    You who all day
+  In lyrical cadence
+    Dance and play,
+
+  Why do you proffer
+    Your sweets to one,
+  Who takes all you offer
+    And leaves you to moan?
+
+
+
+
+  _Love's Close._
+
+  Now spring comes round again
+  With blossom on the tree,
+  Dark blossom of the peach,
+  Light blossom of the pear
+  And amorous birds complain
+  And nesting birds prepare
+  And love's keen fingers reach
+  After the heart of me.
+
+  But now the blackthorn blows
+  About the dusty lane
+  And new buds peep and peer,
+  I have no joy at all,
+  For love draws near its close
+  And love's white blossoms fall
+  And in the springing year
+  Love's fingers bring me pain.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Weed._
+
+  My mother told me this for true
+    That there behind the mountains,
+  That wear the mists about their feet
+    And clouds about their summits,
+  There grows the weed Forgetfulness,
+    It grows there in the gullies.
+
+  If I but knew the way thereto,
+    Three days long would I wander
+  And pick a handful of the weed
+    And drink it steeped in honey,
+  That so I might forget your mouth
+    A thousand times that kissed me.
+
+
+
+
+  _Recollection._
+
+  Hawthorn above, as pale as frost,
+  Against the paling sky is lost:
+  On the pool's dark sheet below,
+  The candid water-daisies glow.
+
+  As I came up and saw from far
+  The water littered, star on star,
+  I thought the may had left its hedge
+  To float upon the pool's dark edge.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Holiday._
+
+  The world's great ways unclose
+  Through little wooded hills:
+    An air that stirs and stills,
+  Dies sighing where it rose
+  Or flies to sigh again
+    In elms, whose stately rows
+  Receive the summer rain,
+  And clouds, clouds, clouds go by,
+  A drifting cavalry,
+  In squadrons that disperse
+    And troops that reassemble
+  And now they pass and now
+  Their glittering wealth disburse
+    On tufted grass a-tremble
+  And lately leafing bough.
+
+  Thus through the shining day
+  We'll love or pass away
+  Light hours in golden sleep,
+    With clos'd half-sentient eyes
+  And lids the light comes through,
+  As sheep and flowers do
+    Who no new toils devise,
+  While shining insects creep
+  About us where we lie
+  Beneath a pleasant sky,
+  In fields no trouble fills,
+    Whence, as the traveller goes,
+    The world's great ways unclose
+  Through little wooded hills.
+
+
+
+
+  _Walking at Night._
+
+  _To A. G._
+
+  The moon poured down on tree and field,
+    The leaf was silvered on the hedge,
+  The sleeping kine were half revealed,
+    Half shadowed at the pasture's edge.
+
+  By steep inclines and long descents,
+    Amid the inattentive trees,
+  You spoke of the four elements,
+    The four eternal mysteries.
+
+
+
+
+  _Half Hope._
+
+  August is gone and now this is September,
+    Softer the sun in a cloudier sky;
+  Yellow the leaves grow and apples grow golden,
+    Blackberries ripen and hedges undress.
+  Watch and you'll see the departure of summer,
+    Here is the end, this the last month of all:
+  Pause and look back and remember its promise,
+    All that looked open and easy in May.
+
+  Nothing will stay them, the seasons go onward,
+    Lightly the bright months fly out of my hand,
+  Softly the leading note calls a new octave;
+    Autumn is coming and what have I done?
+  Even as summer my young days go over,
+    No day to pause on and nowhere to rest:
+  Slowly they go but implacably onwards,
+    Ah! and my dreams, alas, still they are dreams.
+
+  How shall I force all my flowers to fruition,
+    Use up the season of ripening sun?
+  Softly the years go but going have vanished,
+    Soon I shall find myself empty and old.
+  Yet I feel in myself bright buds and blossoms,
+    Promise of mellowest bearing to be.
+  Still I have time beside what I have wasted:
+    Life shall be good to me, work shall be sweet.
+
+
+
+
+  _A New Song about the Sea._
+
+  From Amberley to Storrington,
+  From Storrington to Amberley,
+  From Amberley to Washington
+  You cannot see or smell the sea.
+    But why the devil should you wish
+    To see the home of silly fish?
+
+  Since I prefer the earth and air,
+  The fish may wallow in the sea
+  And live the life that they prefer,
+  If they will leave the land to me,
+    So wish for each what he may wish,
+    The earth for me, the sea for fish.
+
+
+
+
+  THE WINTER SOLDIER
+
+  _September_ 1914--_April_ 1915
+
+
+
+
+  _The Winter Soldier._
+
+  I.  TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF HIGH GERMANY
+
+  No more the English girls may go
+    To follow with the drum
+  But still they flock together
+    To see the soldiers come;
+  For horse and foot are marching by
+    And the bold artillery:
+  They're going to the cruel wars
+    In Low Germany.
+
+  They're marching down by lane and town
+    And they are hot and dry
+  But as they marched together
+    I heard the soldiers cry:
+  "O all of us, both horse and foot
+    And the proud artillery,
+  We're going to the merry wars
+    In Low Germany."
+
+  _August_, 1914
+
+
+
+
+  II.  THE COMRADES
+
+  The men that marched and sang with me
+  Are most of them in Flanders now:
+  I lie abed and hear the wind
+  Blow softly through the budding bough.
+
+  And they are scattered far and wide
+  In this or that brave regiment;
+  From trench to trench across the mud
+  They go the way that others went.
+
+  They run with shining bayonet
+  Or lie and take a careful aim
+  And theirs it is to learn of death
+  And theirs the joy and theirs the fame.
+
+
+
+
+  III.  IN TRAINING
+
+  The wind is cold and heavy
+    And storms are in the sky:
+  Our path across the heather
+    Goes higher and more high.
+
+  To right, the town we came from,
+    To left, blue hills and sea:
+  The wind is growing colder
+    And shivering are we.
+
+  We drag with stiffening fingers
+    Our rifles up the hill.
+  The path is steep and tangled
+    But leads to Flanders still.
+
+
+
+
+  IV.  THE OLD SOLDIERS
+
+  We come from dock and shipyard, we come from car and train,
+  We come from foreign countries to slope our arms again
+  And, forming fours by numbers or turning to the right,
+  We're learning all our drill again and 'tis a pretty sight.
+
+  Our names are all unspoken, our regiments forgotten,
+  For some of us were pretty bad and some of us were rotten
+  And some will misremember what once they learnt with pain
+  And hit a bloody Serjeant and go to clink again.
+
+
+
+
+  V.  GOING IN TO DINNER
+
+  Beat the knife on the plate and the fork on the can,
+  For we're going in to dinner, so make all the noise you can,
+  Up and down the officer wanders, looking blue,
+  Sing a song to cheer him up, he wants his dinner too.
+
+  March into the dining-hall, make the tables rattle
+  Like a dozen dam' machine guns in the bloody battle,
+  Use your forks for drum-sticks, use your plates for drums,
+  Make a most infernal clatter, here the dinner comes!
+
+
+
+
+  VI.  ON TREK
+
+  Under a grey dawn, timidly breaking,
+  Through the little village the men are waking,
+  Easing their stiff limbs and rubbing their eyes;
+  From my misted window I watch the sun rise.
+  In the middle of the village a fountain stands,
+  Round it the men sit, washing their red hands.
+  Slowly the light grows, we call the roll over,
+  Bring the laggards stumbling from their warm cover,
+  Slowly the company gathers all together
+  And the men and the officer look shyly at the weather.
+  By the left, quick march!  Off the column goes.
+  All through the village all the windows unclose:
+  At every window stands a child, early waking,
+  To see what road the company is taking.
+
+
+
+
+  VII.  LEAVING THE BILLET
+
+  Good luck, good health, good temper, these,
+  A very hive of honey-bees
+  To make and store up happiness,
+  Should wait upon you without cease,
+  If I'd the power to call them down
+  Into this stuffy little town,
+  Where the dull air in sticky wreaths
+  Afflicts a man each time he breathes.
+  But since I have no power to call
+  Benevolent spirits down at all,
+  I'll wish you all the good I know
+  And close the chapter up and go.
+
+
+
+
+  VIII.  THE FAREWELL
+
+  Farewell to rising early, now comes the lying late,
+  And long on the parade-ground my company shall wait
+  Before I come to join it on mornings cold and dark
+  And no more shall I lead it across the rimy park.
+
+  The men shall still manoeuvre in sunshine and in rain
+  And still they'll make the blunders I shall not check again;
+  They'll march upon the highway in weather foul and fair
+  And talk and sing with laughter and I shall not be there.
+
+
+
+
+  IX.  ON ACCOUNT OF ILL HEALTH
+
+  You go, brave friends, and I am cast to stay behind,
+  To read with frowning eyes and discontented mind
+  The shining history that you are gone to make,
+  To sleep with working brain, to dream and to awake
+  Into another day of most ignoble peace,
+  To drowse, to read, to smoke, to pray that war may cease.
+  The spring is coming on, and with the spring you go
+  In countries where strange scents on the April breezes blow;
+  You'll see the primroses marched down into the mud,
+  You'll see the hawthorn-tree wear crimson flowers of blood
+  And I shall walk about, as I did walk of old,
+  Where the laburnum trails its chains of useless gold,
+  I'll break a branch of may, I'll pick a violet
+  And see the new-born flowers that soldiers must forget,
+  I'll love, I'll laugh, I'll dream and write undying songs
+  But with your regiment my marching soul belongs.
+  Men that have marched with me and men that I have led
+  Shall know and feel the things that I have only read,
+  Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skies
+  And to expect their death what time the sun shall rise.
+  Men that have marched with me shall march to peace again,
+  Bringing for plunder home glad memories of pain,
+  Of toils endured and done, of terrors quite brought under,
+  And all the world shall be their plaything and their wonder.
+  Then in that new-born world, unfriendly and estranged,
+  I shall be quite alone, I shall be left unchanged.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Pool._
+
+  Out of that noise and hurry of large life
+    The river flings me in an idle pool:
+  The waters still go on with stir and strife
+    And sunlit eddies, and the beautiful
+  Tall trees lean down upon the mighty flow,
+    Reflected in that movement.  Beauty there
+  Waxes more beautiful, the moments grow
+    Thicker and keener in that lovely air
+  Above the river.  Here small sticks and straws
+    Come now to harbour, gather, lie and rot,
+  Out of cross-currents and the water's flaws
+    In this unmoving death, where joy is not,
+  Where war's a shade again, ambition rotten
+  And bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Dead Poet._
+
+  When I grow old they'll come to me and say:
+  Did you then know him in that distant day?
+  Did you speak with him, touch his hand, observe
+  The proud eyes' fire, soft voice and light lips' curve?
+  And I shall answer: This man was my friend;
+  Call to my memory, add, improve, amend
+  And count up all the meetings that we had
+  And note his good and touch upon his bad.
+
+  When I grow older and more garrulous,
+  I shall discourse on the dead poet thus:
+  I said to him ... he answered unto me...
+  He dined with me one night in Trinity...
+  I supped with him in King's ... Ah, pitiful
+  The twisted memories of an ancient fool
+  And sweet the silence of a young man dead!
+  Now far in Lemnos sleeps that golden head,
+  Unchanged, serene, for ever young and strong,
+  Lifted above the chances that belong
+  To us who live, for he shall not grow old
+  And only of his youth there shall be told
+  Magical stories, true and wondrous tales,
+  As of a god whose virtue never fails,
+  Whose limbs shall never waste, eyes never fall,
+  And whose clear brain shall not be dimmed at all.
+
+
+
+
+  PASTORAL PIECES
+
+
+
+  _The Vision in the Wood._
+
+  The husht September afternoon was sweet
+    With rich and peaceful light.  I could not hear
+  On either side the sound of moving feet
+    Although the hidden road was very near.
+  The laden wood had powdered sun in it,
+    Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messenger
+  To tell me of the golden world outside
+  Where fields of stubble stretched through counties wide.
+
+  And yet I did not move.  My head reposed
+    Upon a tuft of dry and scented grass
+  And, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed,
+    I watched the languid chain of shadows pass,
+  Light as the slowly moving shade imposed
+    By summer clouds upon a sea of glass,
+  And strove to banish or to make more clear
+  The elusive and persistent dream of her.
+
+  And then I saw her, very dim at first,
+    Peering for nuts amid the twisted boughs,
+  Thought her some warm-haired dryad, lately burst
+    Out of the chambers of her leafy house,
+  Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirst
+    Such water as the woodland stream allows,
+  After the greedy summer has drunk up
+  All but a drain within the mossy cup.
+
+  Then I, beholding her, was still a space
+    And marked each posture as she moved or stood,
+  Watching the sunlight on her hair and face.
+    Thus with calm folded hands and quiet blood
+  I gazed until her counterfeited grace
+    Faded and left me lonely in the wood,
+  Glad that the gods had given so much as this,
+  To see her, if I might not have her kiss.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Idyll._
+
+  This is the valley where we sojourn now,
+    Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green
+  And shaded sweetly by the waving bough
+    About the trench where floats the soft serene
+  Arun with waters running low and low
+    Through banks where lately still the tide has been;
+  Here is our resting-place, you walk with me
+  And watch the light die out in Amberley.
+
+  The light that dies is soft and flooding still,
+    Shed from the broad expanse of all the skies
+  And brimming up the space from hill to hill,
+    Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise,
+  Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fill
+    And to each other speak with moaning cries;
+  We on the hill-side standing rest and see
+  The light die out in brook and grass and tree.
+
+  Lately we walked upon the lonely downs
+    And through the still heat of the heavy day
+  We heard the medley of low drifting sounds
+    And through the matted brambles found a way
+  Or lightly trod upon enchanted grounds
+    Musing, or with rich blackberries made delay,
+  Where feed such fruit on the rich air, until
+  We struck like falling stars from Bignor Hill.
+
+  Down the vast slope, by chalky roads and steep,
+    With trees and bushes hidden here and there,
+  By circling turns into the valley deep
+    We came and left behind the hill-top air
+  For this cool village where to-night we sleep,
+    A country meal, a country bed to share,
+  With sleepy kisses and contented dreams
+  Over a land of still and narrow streams.
+
+  The light is ebbing in the dusky sky,
+    The valley floor is in the shadow.  Hark!
+  With rushing and mysterious noises fly
+    The bats already, looking for the dark
+  With blinking still and unaccustomed eye.
+    Now over Rackham Mount a steady spark
+  Burns, rising slowly in the rising night,
+  And pledges peace and promises delight.
+
+  Now from the east the wheeling shade appears
+    And softly night into the valley falls,
+  Soft on the meadows drop her dewy tears,
+    Softly a darkness on the crumbled walls.
+  Now in the dusk the village disappears,
+    Men's songs are hushed there and the children's calls,
+  While night in passage swallows up the land
+  And in the shadow your hand seeks my hand.
+
+  Only the glimmering stars in heaven lie
+    And unseen trees with rustling still betray
+  How all the valley lives invisibly,
+    Where dim sweet odours, remnants of the day,
+  Float from the sleeping fields to please and die,
+    Borne up by roaming airs, that drift away
+  Beyond our hearing, vagabond and light,
+  To visit the cool meadows of the night.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Pursuit of Daphne._
+
+  Daphne is running, running through the grass,
+    The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes.
+  I saw the nymph, the god, I saw them pass
+    And how a mounting flush of tender rose
+  Invaded the white bosom of the lass
+    And reached her shoulders, conquering their snows.
+  He wasted all his breath, imploring still:
+  They passed behind the shadow of the hill.
+
+  The mad course goes across the silent plain,
+    Their flying footsteps make a path of sound
+  Through all the sleeping country.  Now with pain
+    She runs across a stretch of stony ground
+  That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again
+    She hastens through a wood where flowers abound,
+  Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads
+  And for her healing give their trodden heads.
+
+  Her sisters, from their coverts unbetrayed,
+    Look out in fright and see the two go by,
+  Each unrelenting, and reflect dismayed
+    How fear and anguish glisten in her eye.
+  By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maid
+    Whose breath is coming short in agony:
+  Hard at her heels pursues the golden boy,
+  She flies in fear of him, she flies from joy.
+
+  His arrows scattered on the countryside,
+    His shining bow deserted, he pursues
+  Through hindering woodlands, over meadows wide
+    And now no longer as he runs he sues
+  But breathing deep and set and eager-eyed.
+    His flashing feet disperse the morning dews,
+  His hands most roughly put the boughs away,
+  That cross and cling and join and make delay.
+
+  Across small shining brooks and rills they leap
+    And now she fords the waters of a stream;
+  Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deep
+    And cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream;
+  The silver minnows, wakened from their sleep
+    In sunny shallows, round her ankles gleam;
+  She scrambles up the grassy bank and on,
+  Though courage and quick breath are nearly done.
+
+  Now in the dusky spinneys round the field,
+    The fauns set up a joyous mimicry,
+  Pursuing of light nymphs, who lightly yield,
+    Or startle the young dryad from her tree
+  And shout with joy to see her limbs revealed
+    And give her grace and bid her swiftly flee:
+  The hunt is up, pursuer and pursued
+  Run, double, twist, evade, turn, grasp, elude.
+
+  The woodlands are alive with chase and cry,
+    Escape and triumph.  Still the nymph in vain,
+  With heaving breast in lovely agony
+    And wide and shining eyes that show her pain,
+  Leads on the god and now she knows him nigh
+    And sees before her the unsheltered plain.
+  His hot hand touches her white side and she
+  Thrusts up her hands and turns into a tree.
+
+  There is an end of dance and mocking tune,
+    Of laughter and bright love among the leaves.
+  The sky is overcast, the afternoon
+    Is dull and heavy for a god who grieves.
+  The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soon
+    The ruffled dryad in her trunk receives.
+  Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white:
+  The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night.
+
+
+
+
+  MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
+
+
+
+  _Ode on Beauty._
+
+  Infinite peace is hanging in the air,
+    Infinite peace is resting on mine eyes,
+  That just an hour ago learnt how to bear
+    Seeing your body's flaming harmonies.
+  The grey clouds flecked with orange are and gold,
+    Birds unto rest are falling, falling, falling,
+      And all the earth goes slowly into night,
+      Steadily turning from the harshly bright
+  Sunset.  And now the wind is growing cold
+    And in my heart a hidden voice is calling.
+
+  Say, is our sense of beauty mixed with earth
+    When lip on lip and breast on breast we cling,
+  When ecstasy brings short bright sobs to birth
+    And all our pulses, both our bodies sing?
+  When through the haze that gathers on my sight
+    I see your eyelids, know the eyes behind
+      See me and half not see me, when our blood
+      Goes roaring like a deep tremendous flood,
+  Calm and terrific in unhasty might,
+    Is then our inner sight sealed up and blind?
+
+  Or could it be that when our blood was colder
+    And side by side we sat with lips disparted
+  I saw the perfect line of your resting shoulder,
+    Your mouth, your peaceful throat with fuller-hearted,
+  More splendid joy?  Ah poignant joys all these!
+    And rest can stab the heart as well as passion.
+      Yea, I have known sobs choke my heart to see
+      Your honey-coloured hair move languorously,
+  Ruffled, not by my hands, but by the breeze,
+    And I have prayed the rough air for compassion.
+
+  Yea, I have knelt to the unpiteous air
+    And knelt to gods I knew not, to remove
+  The viewless hands whose sight I could not bear
+    Out of the wind-blown head of her I love.
+  Ecstasy enters me and cannot speak,
+    Seizes my hands and smites my fainting eyes
+      And sends through all my veins a dim despair
+      Of never apprehending all so fair
+  And I have stood, unnerved and numb and weak,
+    Watching your breathing bosom fall and rise.
+
+  Ah no!  This joy is empty, incomplete,
+    And sullied with a sense of too much longing,
+  Where thoughts and fancies, sweet and bitter-sweet,
+    And old regrets and new-born hopes come thronging.
+  Man can see beauty for a moment's space
+    And live, having seen her with an unfilmed eye,
+      If all his body and all his soul in one
+      Instant are tuned by passion to unison
+  And I can image in your kissing face
+    The eternal meaning of the earth and sky.
+
+
+
+
+  _Song in Time of Waiting._
+
+  Because the days are long for you and me,
+    I make this song to lighten their slow time,
+  So that the weary waiting fruitful be
+    Or blossomed only by my limping rhyme.
+        The days are very long
+    And may not shortened be by any chime
+    Of measured words or any fleeting song.
+  Yet let us gather blossoms while we wait
+  And sing brave tunes against the face of fate.
+
+  Day after day goes by: the exquisite
+    Procession of the variable year,
+  Summer, a sheaf with flowers bound up in it,
+    And autumn, tender till the frosts appear
+        And dry the humid skies;
+    And winter following on, aloof, austere,
+    Clad in the garments of a frore sunrise;
+  And spring again.  May not too many a spring
+  Make both our voices tremble as we sing!
+
+  The days are empty, empty, and the nights
+    Are cold and void; there is no single gleam
+  Across the space unpeopled of delights,
+    Save only now and then some thin-blood dream,
+        Some stray of summer weather;
+    The tedious hours like slow-foot laggarts seem,
+    When you and I, my love, are not together
+  And when I hold you in my arms at last
+  The minutes go like April cloudlets past.
+
+  And yet no hidden charm, no desperate spell
+    Can make these minutes longer, those less long:
+  No force there is that yearning can impel
+    Against the callous years which do us wrong.
+        No words, no whispered rune,
+    No witchery and no Thessalian song
+    Can make that far-off, misty day more soon.
+  The bravest tune, the most courageous rhyme
+  Fall broken from the bastions of time.
+
+  A long and dusty road it is to tread;
+    Few are the wayside flowers and far apart
+  And are no sooner plucked than withered,
+    When yearning heart is torn from yearning heart.
+        A weary road it is
+    And yet far off I see clear waters start
+    And clean sweet grass and tangled traceries
+  Of whispering leaves, that laugh to see us come,
+  And there one day ... one day shall be our home.
+
+  The day will come.  O dearest, do not doubt!
+    It is not born as yet but I shall see
+  Some day the fearless sunrise flashing out
+    And know the night will give you up to me.
+        O heart, my heart, be glad,
+    Because the time will come at last when we
+    Shall leave all grief and unlearn all things sad
+  And know the joy than which none sweeter is
+  And I shall sing a happier song than this.
+
+
+
+
+  _Sonnets on Separation._
+
+  I.
+
+  The  time shall be, old Wisdom says, when you
+    Shall grow awrinkled and I, indifferent,
+  Shall no more follow the light steps I knew
+    Or trace you, finding out the way you went,
+  By swinging branches and the displaced flowers
+    Among the thickets.  I no more shall stand,
+  With careful pencil through the adoring hours
+    Scratching your grace on paper.  My still hand
+  No more shall tremble at the touch of yours
+    And I'll write no more songs and you'll not sing.
+  But this is all a lie, for love endures
+    And we shall closer kiss, remembering
+  How budding trees turned barren in the sun
+  Through this long week, whereof one day's now done.
+
+
+  II.
+
+  The time is all so short.  One week is much
+    To be without your deep and peaceful eyes,
+  Your soft and all-contenting cheek, the touch
+    Of well-caressing hands.  O were we wise
+  We would not love too strongly, would not bind
+    Life into life so inextricably,
+  That the dumb body suffers with the mind
+    In a sad partnership this agony.
+  For death will come and swallow up us two,
+    You there, I here, and we shall lie apart,
+  Out of the houses and the woods we knew.
+    Then in the lonely grave, my dust-choked heart
+  Out of the dust will raise, if it can speak,
+  A threnody for this lost, lovely week.
+
+
+  III.
+
+  Is there no prophylactic against love?
+    Can I with drugs not dull the ache one night?
+  The rain is heavy and the low clouds move
+    Over the empty home of our delight
+  And find me in it weeping.  You are far
+    And you are now asleep.  The night's so thick,
+  Not even one stooping and compassionate star
+    Shines on us both disparted.  O be quick,
+  Torturing days and heavy, turn your hours
+    To minutes, melt yourselves into one day!
+  ... The cold rain falls in swift assailing showers,
+    Darkness is round me and light far away.
+  I'm in our well-known room and you're shut in
+  By strange unfriendly walls I've never seen.
+
+
+  IV.
+
+  Lovers that drug themselves for ecstasy
+    Seek love too closely in an overdose,
+  When the sweet spasm turns to agony
+    And the quick limbs are still and the eyes close.
+  I too, a fool, desired--to make love strong--
+    Absence and parting but the measure's brimmed,
+  The dose is over-poured, the time's too long
+    Already, though two nights have hardly dimmed
+  My lonely eyes with the elusive sleep.
+    O I'll remember, I'll not wish again
+  To go with ardent limbs into this deep
+    Sea of dejection, this dull mere of pain:
+  We'll love our safer loves upon the shore
+  And quest for inexperienced joys no more.
+
+
+  V.
+
+  Through the closed curtains comes the early sun,
+    First a pale finger, preluding the hand.
+  Outside more certainly the day's begun,
+    Where bright and brighter still the chestnuts stand,
+  Broad candles lighting up at the first fire.
+    I stir and turn in my uneasy sleep
+  But in my sorrow sleep's my whole desire.
+    About the still room small lights move and creep
+  Silently, stealthily on wall and chair,
+    Till to strong rays and shining lights they grow,
+  Which with their magic change the waiting air
+    And all its sleeping motes to gold and throw
+  A golden radiance on your empty bed,
+  Which wakes me with vain likeness to your head.
+
+
+  VI.
+
+  To-morrow I shall see you come again
+    Between the pale trees, through the sullen gate,
+  Out of the dark and secret house of pain
+    Where lie the unhappy and unfortunate.
+  To-morrow you will live with me and love me,
+    Spring will go on again, I'll see the flowers
+  And little things, ridiculous things, shall move me
+    To smiles or tears or verse.  The world is ours
+  To-morrow.  Open heaths, tall trees, great skies,
+    With massive clouds that fly and come again,
+  Sweet fields, delicious rivers and the rise
+    And fall of swelling land from the swift train
+  We'll see together, knowing that all this
+  Is one great room wherein we two may kiss.
+
+
+  VII.
+
+  We're at the world's top now.  The hills around
+    Stand proud in order with the valleys deep,
+  The hills with pastures drest, with tall trees crowned,
+    And the low valleys dipt in sunny sleep.
+  A sound brims all the country up, a noise
+    Of wheels upon the road and labouring bees
+  And trodden heather, mixing with the voice
+    Of small lost winds that die among the trees.
+  And we are prone beneath the flooding sun,
+    So drenched, so soaked in the unceasing light,
+  That colours, sounds and your close presence are one,
+    A texture woven up of all delight,
+  Whose shining threads my hands may not undo,
+  Yet one thread runs the whole bright garment through.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Morning Sun._
+
+  Perhaps you sleep now, fifty miles to the south,
+  While I sit here and dream of you by night.
+  The thick soft blankets drawn about your mouth
+  Have made for you a nest of warm delight;
+  Your short crisp hair is thrown abroad and spilled
+  Upon the pillow's whiteness and your eyes
+  Are quiet and the round soft lids are filled
+  With sleep.
+
+              But I shall watch until sunrise
+  Creeps into chilly clouds and heavy air,
+  Across the lands where you sleep and I wake,
+  And I shall know the sun has seen you there,
+  Unmoving though the winter morning break.
+  Next, you will lift your hands and rub your eyes
+  And turn to sleep again but wake and start
+  And feel, half dreaming, with a dear surprise,
+  My hand in the sunbeam touching at your heart.
+
+
+
+
+  Persuasion.
+
+  Still must your hands withhold your loveliness?
+    Is your soul jealous of your body still?
+  The fair white limbs beneath the clouding dress
+    Are such hard forms as you alone could fill
+  With life and sweetness.  Such a harmony
+    Is yours as music and the thought expressed
+  By the musician: have no rivalry
+    Between your soul and the shape in which it's drest.
+  Kisses or words, both sensual, which shall be
+    The burning symbol of the love we bear?
+  My art is words, yours song, but still must we
+    Be mute and songless, seeing how love is fair.
+  Both our known arts being useless, we must turn
+  To love himself and his old practice learn.
+
+
+
+
+  _Apology._
+
+  Have I slept and failed to hear you calling?
+  Cry again, belov'd; for sleep is heavy,
+  Curtaining away the golden sunlight,
+  Shutting out the blue sky and the breezes,
+  Sealing up my ears to all you tell me.
+  Cry again! your voice shall pierce the clumsy
+  Leaden folds that sleep has wrapt about me,
+  Cry again! accomplish what the singing,
+  Hours old now on all the trees and bushes,
+  And the wind and sun could not accomplish.
+  Lo!  I waste good hours of love and kisses
+  While the sun and you have spilt your glory
+  Freely on me lying unregarding.
+  In the happy islands, where no sunset
+  Stains the waters with a morbid splendour,
+  Where the open skies are blue for ever,
+  I might stay for years and years unsleeping,
+  Living for divinest conversation,
+  Music, colour, scent and sense unceasing,
+  Entering by eye and ear and nostril.
+  Ah, but flesh is flesh and I am mortal!
+  Cry again and do not leave me sleeping.
+
+
+
+
+  _The Golden Moment._
+
+  Along the branches of the laden tree
+    The ripe fruit smiling hang.  The afternoon
+  Is emptied of all things done and things to be.
+    Low in the sky the inconspicuous moon
+  Stares enviously upon the mellow earth,
+  That mocks her barren girth.
+
+  Ripe blackberries and long green trailing grass
+    Are motionless beneath the heavy light:
+  The happy birds and creeping things that pass
+    Go fitfully and stir as if in fright,
+  That they have broken on some mystery
+  In bramble or in tree.
+
+  This is no hour for beings that are maiden;
+    The spring is virgin, lightly afraid and cold,
+  But now the whole round earth is ripe and laden
+    And stirs beneath her coverlet of gold
+  And in her agony a moment calls...
+  A heavy apple falls.
+
+
+
+
+  _Bramber._
+
+  Before the downs in their great horse-shoes rise,
+    I know a village where the Adur runs,
+    Blown by sweet winds and by beneficent suns
+  Visited and made ripe beneath kind skies.
+  Light and delight are in the children's eyes
+    And there the mothers sit, the fortunate ones,
+    Blest in their daughters, happy in their sons,
+  And the old men are beautiful and wise.
+
+  There stand the downs, great, close, tall, friendly, still,
+  Linked up by grassy saddles, hill on hill,
+    And steep the village in unending peace
+  And to the north the plains in order lie,
+  Heavy with crops and woods alternately
+    And lively with low sounds that never cease.
+
+
+
+
+  _Now would I be._
+
+    Now would I be in that removed place
+    Where the dim sunlight hardly comes at all
+    And branches of the young trees interlace
+    And long swathes of the brambles twine and fall;
+    A space between the hedgerow and a road
+    Not trod by foot of any known to me,
+    Where now and then a cart with scented load
+  Goes sleepy down the lane with creaking axle-tree.
+
+    And there I'd lie upon the tumbled leaves,
+    Watching a square of the all else hidden sky,
+    And made such songs a drowsy mind believes
+    To be most perfect music.  So would I
+  Keep my face heavenwards and bless eternity,
+    Wherein my heart could be as glad as this
+    And lazily I'd bid all men come hither
+    And in my dreams I'd tell them what they miss,
+    Living in hate and work and all foul weather.
+
+      And still my happy dreams would go,
+        Like children in a cowslip field
+      Chasing rich-winged insects to and fro
+        To see what rare delights they yield....
+
+    ... O I am tired of working to be cheated
+    And sick of barriers that will not fall,
+    Of ancient prudent words too much repeated
+    And worn-out dreams that come not true at all.
+    I know too well what things they are that ail me;
+        To fight is nothing but to see
+    Thus at the last my own hand fail me
+        Is agony.
+
+    O for that corner by the hummocked marshes,
+    Visited hardly by the cynic sun,
+    Where nothing clear and nothing bright or harsh is,
+    Where labour and the ache of it are done,
+    Where naught is ended and where naught begun!
+
+
+
+
+  _Midwinter Madness._
+
+  A month or twain to live on honeycomb
+  Is pleasant--but to eat it for a year
+  Is simply beastly.  Thus the poet spake,
+  Feeling how sticky all his stomach was
+  With hivings of ten thousand cheated bees.
+  O wisdom that could shape immortal words
+  And frame a diet for dyspeptic man!
+  But what of turnips?  Come, a lyric now
+  Upon the luscious roots unsung as yet,
+  (Not roots I know but stalks; still, never mind,
+  Metre and sauce will suit them just as well)
+  Or shall we speak of omelettes?  Muse, begin!
+  To feed a fortnight on transmuted eggs
+  Would doubtless be both comforting and cheap
+  But oh, the nausea on the fourteenth day!
+  I'd rather read a book by Ezra Pound
+  Then choke the seven hundredth omelette down,
+  Just as I'd rather read some F. S. Flint
+  Than live a month or twain on honeycomb.
+
+  O Ezra Pound!  O omelette of the world!
+  Concocted with strange herbs from dead Provence,
+  Garlic from Italy and spice from Greece,
+  Having suffered a rare Pound-change on the way,
+  How rarely shouldst thou taste, were not the eggs
+  Laid in America and hither brought
+  Too late.  I don't like omelettes made with fowls.
+  Take hence this Pound and put him to the test,
+  Try him with acid, see if he turn black
+  As will the best old silver, when enraged
+  At touching fungi of the baser sort.
+  (Forgive digression.  These similitudes
+  Entrance me and I lose myself in them,
+  As schoolboys, picking flowers by the way,
+  Escape the angry usher's vigilance
+  And then, concealed behind a hedge or shed,
+  Produce the awesome pipe or thrice-lit fag
+  And make themselves incredibly unwell.)
+  My brain is bubbling and the thoughts will out,
+  But, Ezra Pound! they turn again to thee,
+  As surely as the lode-stone to the Pole
+  Or as the dog to what he hath cast up
+  (A simile of Solomon's, not mine)
+  And your shock head of damp, unwholesome hay,
+  Such as, the cunning farmer oft declares,
+  When stacked, will perish by spontaneous fire,
+  Frequents my dreams and makes them ludicrous.
+  Thou most ridiculous sprite!  Thou ponderous fairy!
+  Bourgeois Bohemian!  Innocent Verlaine!
+  I read in _The Booksellers' Circular_
+  That, in the University of Pa.
+  (Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont.
+  --A line of normal pattern, Saintsbury)
+  You hold a fellowship in (O merciful gods!)
+  Romanics, which strange word interpreted
+  Means, I suppose, the Romance languages.
+  Doubtless they read Italian in Pa.
+  And some may speak French fluently in Ont.
+  But German, Ezra!  There's the bloody rub,
+  It's not Romance and it is hard to learn
+  And Heine, though an easy-going chap,
+  Would doubtless trounce you soundly if he knew
+  The sorry hash that you have made of him.
+  But no! you're not for immortality,
+  Not even such as that of Freiligrath,
+  Enshrined, together with his _Mohrenfurst_,
+  In unrelenting amber.  I hold you here,
+  In a soap-bubble's iridescent walls,
+  The whimsy of a long midwinter night,
+  And give you immortality enough.
+  Thou sorry brat!  Thou transatlantic clown!
+  That seek'st to ape the treadless Ariel
+  And out-top Shelley in an aeroplane,
+  Take the all-obvious padding from your pants
+  And cut your hair and go to Pa. again
+  (Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont.
+  Or even Oomp. if such a place exist)
+  And take with you the poets you admire,
+  Both Yeats and Flint to charm the folk of Oomp.
+  And write again for _Munsey's Magazine_
+  Of your good brother Everyone.  (Just God!
+  Am even I of his relationship?)
+  So end as you began or even worse:
+  No matter, so 'tis in America.
+
+
+
+
+  _At a Lecture._
+
+  The lecturer took his place and looked
+    At the eager women's faces,
+  Then he cleared his throat and he jetted out
+    A stream of commonplaces.
+
+  He fondled Wordsworth and patted Shelley
+    And said with his hand on his heart
+  He would brook no interference from morals
+    In any matter of art.
+
+  He finished at last and strode away
+    Over the naked boards,
+  Erect in his conscious majesty
+    Back to the House of Lords.
+
+
+
+
+THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
+
+
+
+
+FROM SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S LIST
+
+
+JOHN MASEFIELD
+
+THE EVERLASTING MERCY.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; also Fcap. 8vo, in leather bindings, 5s.
+net and 6s. net.  _Seventeenth Impression_
+
+"Here, beyond question, in _The Everlasting Mercy_, is a great poem, as
+true to the essentials of its ancient art as it is astoundingly modern
+in its method; a poem, too, which 'every clergyman in the country ought
+to read as a revelation of the heathenism still left in the land.' ...
+Its technical force is on a level with its high, inspiring thought.  It
+makes the reader think; it goads him to emotion; and it leaves him
+alive with a fresh appreciation of the wonderful capacity of human
+nature to receive new influences and atone for old and apparently
+ineradicable wrongs."--ARTHUR WAUGH in _The Daily Chronicle_.
+
+
+THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.  _Fourth Thousand_
+
+"Mr Masefield is no common realist, but universalises his tragedy in
+the grand manner....  We are convinced that he is writing truly of
+human nature, which is the vital thing....  The last few stanzas show
+us pastoral poetry in the very perfection of simplicity."--_Spectator_.
+
+"In 'The Widow in the Bye Street' all Mr Masefield's passionate love of
+loveliness is utterly fused with the violent and unlovely story, which
+glows with an inner harmony.  The poem, it is true, ends on a note of
+idyllism which recalls Theocritus; but this is no touch of eternal
+decoration.  Inevitably the story has worked towards this
+culmination."--_Bookman_.
+
+
+THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT.
+
+A Play in Three Acts.  Second Edition, revised and reset.  _Fourth
+Impression_.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.
+
+"In this Roman tragedy, while we admire its closely knit structure,
+dramatic effectiveness, and atmosphere of reality ... the warmth and
+colour of the diction are the most notable things.... He knows the art
+of phrasing; he has the instinct for and by them."--_Athenaeum_.
+
+
+
+
+RUPERT BROOKE
+
+POEMS.
+
+(First issued in 1911.)  Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.  _Ninth Impression_
+
+"Unlike most youthful work it shows a curious absence of imitation and
+a strenuous originality ... there is much that is uncommonly good.  He
+has both imagination and intellect--so much of the latter sometimes
+that the verse is crabbed and heavy with its weight of it.  It is a
+book of rare and remarkable promise."--_Spectator_.
+
+
+1914 AND OTHER POEMS.
+
+Crown 8vo.  With a Photogravure Portrait.  2s. 6d. net.  _Twelfth
+Impression_
+
+"It is impossible to shred up this beauty for the purpose of criticism.
+These sonnets are personal--never were sonnets more personal since
+Sidney died--and yet the very blood and youth of England seem to find
+expression in them.  They speak not for one heart only, but for all to
+whom her call has come in the hour of need and found instantly
+ready."--_Times_.
+
+
+LETTERS FROM AMERICA.
+
+With a Preface by HENRY JAMES, O. M., and a new Portrait.  Extra crown
+8vo, buckram, 7s. 6d. net.
+
+This volume contains the series of descriptive articles contributed in
+1913 by Rupert Brooke to _The Westminster Gazette_, four written from
+the United States, and nine from Canada.  To these are here added an
+article on Samoa, and a study called "An Unusual Young Man," both of
+which appeared in The New Statesman after the outbreak of war.
+
+
+POEMS OF TO-DAY: an Anthology.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net.  _Third Impression_
+
+A selection of contemporary poetry made by the English Association and
+intended for the use of higher forms in secondary schools.  It contains
+nearly 150 poems, representative of the chief tendencies of English
+poetry during the last quarter of a century, written by 47 authors,
+including Meredith, Stevenson, Kipling, Newbolt, Masefield, Bridges,
+Yeats, Thompson, Davidson, Watson, Belloc, Chesterton, Gosse, "A.E.,"
+Binyon, Noyes, Flecker, and Rupert Brooke.
+
+"The great merit of the selection is that the pieces are all genuine;
+whatever their ultimate value, they are at least free from the fetters
+of past tradition, and they therefore mark ... the beginning of a new
+lease of inspiration."--_Times Educational Supplement_.
+
+"It is a book which any student of English literature will prize for
+its own sake."--_Scotsman_.
+
+
+SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES.  By JOHN DRINKWATER.
+
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net.
+
+"These lyrics, many of them inspired by the war, come from one of the
+most accomplished poets of the day."--_Times_.
+
+
+POEMS.  By ELINOR JENKINS.  Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net.
+
+"A new poet, whose poetry is all made out of pain and the beautiful
+religion of loss."--Mr JAMES DOUGLAS in _The Star_.
+
+
+THE VOLUNTEER, and Other Poems.  By HERBERT ASQUITH.  Crown 8vo, 1s.
+net.  _Second Impression_
+
+"Lieutenant Asquith has undoubtedly a true feeling for poetry....  It
+is impossible to miss the beauty of its phrases and the fineness of its
+emotion."--_Standard_.
+
+
+
+
+KATHARINE TYNAN
+
+
+INNOCENCIES.  A Book of Verse.
+
+NEW POEMS.
+
+IRISH POEMS.  _Second Impression_
+
+FLOWER OF YOUTH: Poems in War Time.  _Second Impression_
+
+_Each, Super-royal 16mo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net_
+
+
+THE WILD HARP.  A Selection from Irish Poetry.  By KATHARINE TYNAN.
+Decorated by Miss C. M. WATTS.  Medium 8vo, designed, cloth gilt, 7s.
+6d. net.
+
+
+THE TWO BLIND COUNTRIES.  By ROSE MACAULAY.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
+net.
+
+"Out of familiar things she contrives to draw a magic which sets all
+our definitions tottering....  This specific gift is so rare in modern
+poetry that we may well hail it with enthusiasm."--_Spectator_.
+
+
+SELECTED POEMS.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN.  F'cap.  8vo, 3s. 6d. net.
+
+"The selections have been made from four previous volumes now out of
+print: Mendicant Rhymes, The Little Land, Rue, and Spikenard.  There is
+hardly a stanza that is not felicitous in some way, and not one
+selection that could be spared."--_Morning Post_.
+
+
+SOME VERSE.  By F. S.  F'cap. 8vo, 2s. net.
+
+"Some of these pieces ... might almost have borne the signature C. S.
+C.  Others ... have the mellow wit of the school of J. K. Stephen and
+the Cantabrigians on whom his mantle has fallen."--_Times_.
+
+
+
+
+SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S MODERN DRAMA
+
+"Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are choosing their plays
+excellently."--_Saturday Review_.
+
+
+THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER:
+
+"The Marrying of Ann Leete," "The Voysey Inheritance," and "Waste."  In
+one Vol., 5s. net; singly, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.
+_Fourth Impression_
+
+
+THE MADRAS HOUSE.  A Comedy in Four Acts.  By GRANVILLE BARKER.  Crown
+8vo, cloth, 2s. net; paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.  _Fourth Impression_
+
+
+ANATOL.  A Sequence of Dialogues.  By ARTHUR SCHNITZLER.  Paraphrased
+for the English Stage by GRANVILLE BARKER.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net;
+paper wrappers, 1s. 6d. net.  _Third Impression_
+
+
+PRUNELLA; or Love in a Dutch Garden.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN and GRANVILLE
+BARKER.  With a Frontispiece and Music to "Pierrot's Serenade," by
+JOSEPH MOORAT.  F'cap. 4to, 5s. net.  Theatre Edition, crown 8vo,
+wrappers, 1s. net.  _Ninth Impression_
+
+
+CHAINS.  A Play in Four Acts.  By ELIZABETH BAKER, Crown 8vo, cloth,
+1s. 6d. net; paper wrappers, 1s. net.  _Third Impression_
+
+
+RUTHERFORD & SON.  By GITHA SOWERBY.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net;
+paper, 1s. 6d. net.  _Second Impression_
+
+
+THE NEW SIN.  By B. MACDONALD HASTINGS.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net;
+paper, 1s. net.  _Second Impression_
+
+
+HINDLE WAKES.  A Play in Four Acts.  By STANLEY HOUGHTON.  Cloth, 2s.
+net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.  _Sixth Impression_
+
+
+MARY BROOME.  By ALLAN MONKHOUSE.  Cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.
+_Second Impression_
+
+
+THE TRIAL OF JEANNE D'ARC.  A Play in Four Acts.  By EDWARD GARNETT.
+Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net.
+
+
+PAINS AND PENALTIES.  By LAURENCE HOUSMAN.  Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.
+net; paper, 1s. 6d. net.
+
+
+ETC., ETC., ETC.
+
+
+Sidgwick & Jackson Ltd., 3 Adam Street, London, W.C.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Edward Shanks
+
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