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diff --git a/37556.txt b/37556.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0802318 --- /dev/null +++ b/37556.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2075 @@ +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. 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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." 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