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diff --git a/37752-h/37752-h.htm b/37752-h/37752-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b171409 --- /dev/null +++ b/37752-h/37752-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2920 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of Poems of London and Other Verses, by John Presland +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +P.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +P.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +P.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +P.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +P.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +P.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Poems of London and Other Verses, by John Presland + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems of London and Other Verses + +Author: John Presland + +Release Date: October 13, 2011 [EBook #37752] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF LONDON AND OTHER VERSES *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t1"> +POEMS OF LONDON +</P> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +AND OTHER VERSES +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +BY +</P> + +<P CLASS="t3"> +JOHN PRESLAND +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED +<BR> +ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON +<BR> +1918 +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +COPYRIGHT +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +CONTENTS +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +POEMS OF LONDON +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +<A HREF="#p3">London Dawn</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p7">Spring in Oxford Street</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p9">Judd Street, St. Pancras</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p11">Sparrows</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p13">The Moon in January</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p15">An August Night, 1914</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p17">Counted out—Olympia</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p20">The German Band</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p22">Street Music—I</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p24">Street Music—II</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p26">Piccadilly</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p29">In the Tube</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p32">London Idyll—I</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p34">A London Idyll—II</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p36">Finis</A><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +OTHER VERSES<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +<A HREF="#p41">In Early Spring</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p43">A Ballad of the Fall of Knossos</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p52">A Sun-Dial in a Garden</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p54">"Two Only"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p58">The Saint's Birthday</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p65">Rupert Brooke</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p68">"Comfort be with Apples, for I am sick of Love"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p70">Of England</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p73">Question</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p77">Leonardo to Monna Lisa.</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p80">The Eternal Flux</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p84">Love is the Ultimate Measure</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p87">November 8</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p88">The Lovers</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p90">The Gentle Heart</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p92">A Ballad for Herman</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p95">France</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p98">Ilgar's Song</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p103">The Inn—I</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p105">The Inn—II</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p107">"To-Day I miss You"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p111">"How Small the Thread"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p113">"In all Things gracious there is a Thought of You"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p116">"There's Duty, Friend"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p118">"Evening"</A><BR> +<A HREF="#p121">Finis</A><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p3"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> + POEMS OF LONDON +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LONDON DAWN<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Dawn over London; all the pearly light<BR> +Trembles and quivers over street and park,<BR> +The houses are a strange, unearthly white;<BR> +Pavement and roof grow slowly, palely bright;<BR> +There is no shadow, neither light nor dark<BR> +But everything is steeped in glimmering dawn.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, purity of dawn; oh, milk-and-pearl<BR> +Translucent splendour, spreading far and wide,<BR> +As on a yellow beach the small waves curl<BR> +—Almost as noiselessly as buds unfurl—<BR> +On windless mornings with the rising tide,<BR> +So flows the dawn o'er London, all asleep.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Indeed, I think that heaven is a sea,<BR> +And London is a city of old rhymes<BR> +Sunk fathoms deep in its transparency,<BR> +That folk of living lands may dream they see<BR> +And muse on, and have thoughts about our times,<BR> +How we were great and splendid, and now gone.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For never light the common earth has born,<BR> +This crystalline pale wonder that so falls<BR> +On streets and squares the daily toil has worn,<BR> +On blind-eyed houses, holding lives forlorn,<BR> +For the grey roads and wide, blank, grey-brick walls<BR> +Shine with a glory that is new and strange.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And not more wonderful, nor otherwise<BR> +Shall dawn come up upon the dewy hills,<BR> +Nor in the mountains, where the rivers rise<BR> +That water Eden; and no lovelier lies<BR> +The dawn on Paradise, than this that fills<BR> +The space 'twixt house and house with tremulous light.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Yet, on the pavement, huddled fast asleep,<BR> +A thing of dusty, ragged misery,<BR> +Grotesque in wretchedness, from London's deep<BR> +Spumed off, a strange, distorted thing to creep<BR> +From God knows where, and lie, and let all be<BR> +Unheeding, whether of the day or night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Such tired, hopeless angles of the knees<BR> +And neck and elbows—and the dawning grey<BR> +Trembling to sunrise; in the park the trees<BR> +Begin to shiver lightly in a breeze,<BR> +And turning watchful kindly eyes away<BR> +The policeman passes slowly on his beat.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p7"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SPRING IN OXFORD STREET<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A dash of rain on the pavement,<BR> +In the air a gleam of sun,<BR> +And the clouds are white, and rolling high<BR> +From Marble Arch all down the sky<BR> +—And that's the spring begun!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sky is all a-shining<BR> +With sunniest blue and white,<BR> +The flags are streaming out full cry<BR> +As the crisp North wind comes bustling by,<BR> +And all the roofs are bright.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And all the shops and houses<BR> +Of sunlit Oxford Street,<BR> +—Pearl behind amber, gold by rose—<BR> +To grey the long perspective goes;<BR> +Till all the houses meet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And there, in every gutter,<BR> +The glory of spring flowers<BR> +The whole long street with colour fills,<BR> +And across the yellow daffodils<BR> +Sharp sunshine and soft showers.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And among the drabs and greys and browns<BR> +Of folk going to and fro<BR> +Are trays of violets, darkly bright,<BR> +And yellow, like the spring moon's light,<BR> +Pale primrose-bunches show.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's blue in every puddle,<BR> +And every pane of glass<BR> +Has a thousand little dancing suns,<BR> +—And up and down the glad news runs,<BR> +That spring has come to pass.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p9"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +JUDD STREET, ST. PANCRAS<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +My dwelling has a courtyard wide<BR> +Where lord with lady well might pace,<BR> +—Such silks and velvets side by side,<BR> +And she a fan to shield her face!—<BR> +It's fine as any king's;<BR> +For there I see on either hand<BR> +The whole great stretch of London lie;<BR> +—Just so as any king might stand<BR> +Upon his roof, to watch go by<BR> +The flashing pigeon wings.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Just so a king might look abroad:<BR> +"And this is all my own," says he,<BR> +And then he'd turn to some great lord,<BR> +Who'd acquiesce with gravity<BR> +—But that I do without,<BR> +For all of lord there is up here<BR> +Is this impassive chimney-stack,<BR> +And cloudy be my view or clear<BR> +My courtier will not answer back;<BR> +All silent I look out,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And see the flight of roofs that fade<BR> +Towards the West in golden haze,<BR> +And all this work men's hands have made<BR> +Like jewels in the sun's last rays—<BR> +I have a dwelling wide;<BR> +Three rooms are mine, but I can go<BR> +Up to this roof in shade or shine,<BR> +And watch all London change and glow<BR> +Rose, purple, gold; three rooms are mine—<BR> +And all of heaven beside.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p11"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SPARROWS<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Brown little, fat little, cheerful sparrows!<BR> +I like to think, when I hear them chatter,<BR> +How, when the brazen noise was gone<BR> +Of the chariot-wheels, with the sparks a-scatter,<BR> +Their chirp was heard in old Babylon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In Babylon, and more ancient Memphis,<BR> +They chattered and quarrelled, pecked and fumed,<BR> +And loved their loves, and flew their ways,<BR> +Where the royal Pharaohs lay entombed<BR> +Deep from the daylight's vulgar gaze.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then, just such little homely fellows<BR> +(When the angry monarch, terrible,<BR> +Watched his curled Assyrians writhe)<BR> +They sat, on a carven granite bull<BR> +Unheeding of anguish, feathered and blithe.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So did they sit, on the roofs of Rome,<BR> +And preen themselves in the morning sun;<BR> +And Caesar saw them, brown and grey,<BR> +Whisk in the dust, when his course was run<BR> +And he took to the Forum his fated way.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, changing time; oh, sun and birds<BR> +How little changing. In the Square<BR> +This winter morning I have met<BR> +Old Egypt's grandson, stopped him there,<BR> +And "Sir, you will outlive me yet,"<BR> +Said I politely, "mark my words."<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p13"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE MOON IN JANUARY<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Sharp and straight are the scaffold poles,<BR> +Black on a delicate sky;<BR> +Upright they stand, across they lie,<BR> +In changeless angles fixed and bound,<BR> +The sunset light in mist is drowned,<BR> +And the moon has risen high;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +High above houses, high and clear<BR> +Above the scaffolding,<BR> +So exquisite, so faint a thing,<BR> +The young moon's silver curve that shines<BR> +Above the fretting, tangled lines,<BR> +With the old moon in her ring.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The young moon holds the old black moon<BR> +In a sky all grey with frost,<BR> +By cable wires barred and crossed,<BR> +And below, the haze of purplish-brown<BR> +Smokes upward from the lamp-lit town<BR> +Where outlines all are lost.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The pure pale arch of windless sky,<BR> +The pure bright young moon's thread,<BR> +These wide and still are overhead;<BR> +And in the dusky glare below<BR> +The lamps go dotting, row on row,<BR> +And there is movement, to and fro,<BR> +Where far the pavements spread.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p15"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AN AUGUST NIGHT, 1914<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The light has gone from the West; the wind has gone<BR> +From the quiet trees in the Park;<BR> +From the houses the open windows yellowly shine,<BR> +The streets are softly dark;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Row upon row the twisted chimneys stand,<BR> +Each angle sharply lined,<BR> +And the mass of the Institute rises, tower and dome,<BR> +Black on the sky behind;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Green is the sky, like some strange precious stone,<BR> +Dark, it yet holds the light<BR> +In its depths, like a bright thing shrouded over or veiled<BR> +By the creeping shadow of night;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And whiter than any whiteness there is upon earth<BR> +A faint star throbs and beats—<BR> +And the hurrying voices cry the news of the war,<BR> +Below, in the quiet street.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p17"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +COUNTED OUT—OLYMPIA<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The small white space roped off; the hard blue light<BR> +Burning intensely on the narrow ring,<BR> +And every muscle's movement sculpturing<BR> +Harshly, of those two naked men who fight;<BR> +Beyond, the yellow lights that seem to swing<BR> +Across abysmal darkness; and below,<BR> +Tier upon tier, all silent, row on row<BR> +The dense black-coated throng, and all a-strain<BR> +White faces, turned towards the narrow stage,<BR> +Watching intently; watching, nerves and brain,<BR> +As those two men, cut off in that blue glare<BR> +From all reality of place and age<BR> +Wherein our common being has a share,<BR> +Together isolated, watch and creep<BR> +—Sunk head, hunched shoulders, light of foot and swift,<BR> +Deadly of purpose—in that ancient game,<BR> +Which was not otherwise in forests deep<BR> +Of earth primeval: that light tread the same,<BR> +The same those watchful eyes, and those quick springs<BR> +Of a snake uncoiling; underneath the skin,<BR> +Glistening with sweat in that unearthly blaze,<BR> +The muscles run and check, like living things.<BR> +And then, the hot air tremulous with the din,<BR> +And all the great crowd surging to its feet,<BR> +Yet like a wave arrested, while the hands<BR> +Of the referee allot the moments' beat;<BR> +The seconds, strung like greyhounds on a leash<BR> +Await the signal; and there's one who stands<BR> +Still guarding, watchful, tense, while all around<BR> +Lamp-light and darkness seem to rock and spin<BR> +In one wild clamour; and upon the ground,<BR> +Beneath the stark blue light, the beaten man!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p20"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + THE GERMAN BAND +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When I was a little child<BR> +And lived very near the sky,<BR> +A German band was wonderful music<BR> +That could almost make me cry.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It was to me of a beauty<BR> +That I could not understand,<BR> +Though I dimly guessed at sorrow and joy<BR> +In a grown-up distant land.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All that I know with the years,<BR> +Much that I never shall know,<BR> +Was in my heart when the music came<BR> +In such guise, years ago.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And now when on Friday mornings<BR> +I hear my own child run,<BR> +When the German band in the street starts playing,<BR> +The wonder is never done;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The wonder at ways that our spirit<BR> +May take for itself to rise,<BR> +How a puddle may be a silver lake,<BR> +And a chimney touch the skies.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the forms through which spirit<BR> +Yearns and strives to be known<BR> +Are only a little greater or less,<BR> +For great is the Spirit alone.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p22"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +STREET MUSIC<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +I<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There comes an old man to our street,<BR> +Dragging his knobby, lame old feet,<BR> +Once a week he comes and stands,<BR> +A concertina in his hands,<BR> +There in the gutter stops and plays,<BR> +No matter fine or rainy days<BR> +—Very humble and very old—<BR> +Pavement's for them who make so bold!<BR> +Prim, starched nurses, and ladies fair<BR> +With taffeta dresses and shining hair,<BR> +And gay little children, who break and run<BR> +To give him a penny—he seems to feel<BR> +(Out-at-elbows and out-at-heel)<BR> +That they've a right to the morning sun;<BR> +And so with gnarled old hands he'll play<BR> +For an hour, perhaps, then take his way,<BR> +Dragging his knobby, lame old feet<BR> +In the gutter of this quiet street.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There is no grudging in his eyes,<BR> +Nor anger, nor the least surprise<BR> +At the uneven scales of fate:<BR> +Glad of the sun, against the rain<BR> +Hunching his shoulders, age and pain<BR> +He takes as his appointed state,<BR> +And stands, like Lazarus, at the door<BR> +With the dread humility of the poor.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p24"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +STREET MUSIC<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +II<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I've heard a mad old fiddler play<BR> +Harsh, discordant, broken strains,<BR> +Down the wet street on a winter's day<BR> +When the rain was speckling the window-panes,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And though it was middle afternoon<BR> +And none of the lamps were lighted yet,<BR> +The night had settled down too soon<BR> +And the sky was low and dark and wet.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In a cracked old voice I've heard him sing,<BR> +Strangely capering to and fro,<BR> +Sawing his fiddle on one worn string,<BR> +A grotesque and desolate thing of woe,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Wagging his head and stamping his feet<BR> +(Unwitting of the passers-by<BR> +Hurrying through the gloomy street)<BR> +His shoulders hunched and his head awry.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The children would laugh when they saw him pass,<BR> +And "Look," they'd say, "at Crazy Joe!"<BR> +And press their faces against the glass<BR> +To watch him—leering and lurching—go.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Where he comes from, nobody knows,<BR> +But he, being mad, is in God's hand,<BR> +And sacred upon his way he goes;<BR> +And his music—God will understand.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p26"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PICCADILLY<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Above, the quiet stars and the night wind;<BR> +Below, the lamp-lit streets, and up and down<BR> +The tired, stealthy steps of those who walk<BR> +When the just sleep, at night, in London town.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Poor garish ghosts that haunt the yellow glare,<BR> +Wan spectres, lurking in the alleys dark<BR> +Among the tainted night-smells, while the wind<BR> +Is whispering to the trees across the Park;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For it is summer, may be, and the scent<BR> +Of new-mown hay is sweet across the fields,<BR> +But neither summer, nor the gleaming spring<BR> +One breath of healing to this dark life yields;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +No morning sunshine greets these sidelong eyes<BR> +With blessings, daughters as they are of gloom,<BR> +Ghosts only, such as seem to have a shape<BR> +At night in some old evil, haunted room.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Would that they were indeed to be dissolved<BR> +At every sunrise!—they are living souls<BR> +Dragging mortality about foul streets<BR> +While overhead the star-lit heaven rolls.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Living souls are they, and they have their share<BR> +In seed and harvest, and the round world's boon<BR> +Of changing seasons, and the miracle<BR> +Of each month's waxing and waning of the moon.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Living souls are they, prisoned in a net<BR> +Of stealthy streets—age after age they've gone<BR> +Bearing the burden of a city's sin,<BR> +In London, and old Rome, and Babylon.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p29"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IN THE TUBE<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A tired, working woman, draggle-tailed,<BR> +Came in, harsh-featured in the yellow glare<BR> +Of electricity; an urchin trailed<BR> +Clumsily after her, with towsled hair,<BR> +And sharp, pale features, and a vacant stare,<BR> +And in her arms she bore another child.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A sick child, doubtless, where all three looked sick;<BR> +The poor legs hanging limply, lean and blue,<BR> +Dangled grotesquely, for the boots, too thick<BR> +For such frail bones a touch could snap in two,<BR> +Like clock-weights seemed to swing, as staggered through<BR> +The burdened mother, till she found a seat.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Through dark unnatural to unnatural blaze<BR> +Of stations rocked the train; it tore the air<BR> +To shreds and tatters in the tunnelled ways<BR> +With such a noise as when hell's trumpets blare;<BR> +We, swaying, faced our fellow-creatures there<BR> +Each mercilessly pilloried in light.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sick child lay against the woman's breast<BR> +Asleep, and she looked down on it and smiled,<BR> +And with her gaunt arms made her bird a nest<BR> +Against her poor worn bosom—sad and mild<BR> +In such wise looked Madonna at her Child<BR> +Where old saints worshipped, round the altar set.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Such glory of the spirit shone and streamed<BR> +In that brief moment, that her form and face<BR> +Were rags of vesture only, through which gleamed<BR> +The splendour; something of wonder and of grace<BR> +Making the poor flesh lovely—all the place<BR> +Grew holy with the Mother and the Child.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p32"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A LONDON IDYLL<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +I<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A heavy sky, and a drizzling rain<BR> +And the lamps in rigid rows;<BR> +Long smears of light all down the street<BR> +Where a lean cat stalking goes;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Blank, save a glimmer here and there<BR> +The gaunt dark houses stand—<BR> +And a man and a girl against the gate<BR> +Whispering, hand in hand.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There is a little dripping sound<BR> +Of rain from off the roof;<BR> +And gleaming like black armour goes<BR> +The policeman's waterproof.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He crosses the road to give them room<BR> +As he takes his evening beat;<BR> +He also knows that heaven may look<BR> +Like a rainy London street.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p34"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A LONDON IDYLL<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +II<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Just to all of us once there comes<BR> + This splendour and wonder of love,<BR> +When the earth is transmuted to silver and gold,<BR> + And heaven opens above;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When all we have ever seen with our eyes,<BR> + Daily, under the sun,<BR> +Seems like a miracle, happening again<BR> + To us two, instead of to one.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When there is nothing so ugly or mean,<BR> + But somehow shimmers and glows<BR> +In that light, whose spring is within our hearts<BR> + And whose stream o'er the wide earth flows.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When the spirit of us that is prisoned within<BR> + Seems at last to have wings,<BR> +And, soaring, looks with no common eyes<BR> + On no other than common things;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When we may freely enter and share<BR> + Heaven's splendour and mirth—<BR> +Just for a moment to all of us comes<BR> + This glory of love upon earth.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p36"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FINIS<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +S.C.K.S.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A book's end is the end of many hopes;<BR> +Much good endeavour; certain hours of stress<BR> +When brain and spirit fail, and laziness<BR> +Thralls the poor body—yet the purpose gropes<BR> +Athwart it all, and as the horseman cheers<BR> +His tired beast with chirrup, spur, and goad<BR> +Towards his home along the heavy road,<BR> +So drives us purpose till the end appears.<BR> +Read it who may! Find more or less of good<BR> +Within its covers, but at least find this:<BR> +Glad service to a great and noble aim<BR> +That may be striven for, and understood,<BR> +And fallen short of—so not quite we miss<BR> +In our small lamp of clay Truth's very flame.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p41"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> + OTHER VERSES +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IN EARLY SPRING<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's a secret, have you guessed it, you with human eyes and hearing—<BR> +Which the birds know, which the trees know, and by which the earth is stirred,<BR> +Stirred through all her deep foundations, where the water-springs are fastened,<BR> +Where the seed is, and the growth is, and the still blind life is heard?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's a miracle, a miracle—oh mortal, have you seen it?<BR> +When the springs rise, and the saps rise, and the gallant cut-and-thrust<BR> +Of the spear-head bright battalions of the little green things growing<BR> +(Crocus-blade or grass-blade) pierce the brown earth's sullen crust?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, wonder beyond speaking in the daily common happening;<BR> +But the little birds have known it, and the evening-singing thrush,<BR> +In the cold and pearly twilights that are February's token<BR> +Speaks of revelation through the falling day-time's hush.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p43"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A BALLAD OF THE FALL OF KNOSSOS<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +(<I>Circa</I> 1400 B.C.)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is it a whisper that runs through the galleries?<BR> +Is it a rustle that stirs in the halls?<BR> +Is it of mortals, or things that are otherwise<BR> +This sound that so haltingly, dreadfully falls,<BR> +Pauses, and hurries, and falls?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +No moon, and no torches; not even a glimmer<BR> +To pin-prick the darkness that weighs like a sin,<BR> +And nothing is breathing, and nothing is stirring,<BR> +And hushed are the small owls without, and within<BR> +The mice to their holes have run in.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +It is not the step of a foot on the pavement;<BR> +It is not the brush of a wing through the air;<BR> +It is not a passing, it is not a presence,<BR> +But the ghost of the fate that this palace must bear,<BR> +Of the ruin of Knossos goes there.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For on such a night, when the moon is dark,<BR> +And all of the stars are dumb,<BR> +With a sudden flare by the sea-ward gate<BR> +Shall the doom of Knossos come;<BR> +For a cry will shatter the brooding hush,<BR> +And the crickets and mice shall wake<BR> +To clatter and clash and shout and cry,<BR> +And the stumble of frenzied feet going by<BR> +Death's stride will overtake.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For into the glare of a new-lit torch<BR> +That shakes in a shaking grasp,<BR> +Sweat-streaked, wild-eyed, and dark with blood<BR> +Shall a runner break, and gasp<BR> +Of a burning harbour, of silent ships,<BR> +Of men sprung out of the night—<BR> +Is it men or devils?—He moans, and reels<BR> +Shoulder to wall, and a red stain steals<BR> +Down the frescoes gay and bright.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And hard on the word they hear approach<BR> +The surge of the battle near,<BR> +And to whistle of arrows, and clang of bronze<BR> +The palace awakes in fear.<BR> +Light! Light! and torches, like waking eyes<BR> +Leap from each darkened door;<BR> +And the guard at the sea-ward gate go down<BR> +In the vast black sea of men, and drown,<BR> +While sweeps the torrent o'er.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What door shall hold, or what walls withstand<BR> +The roll of a full spring-tide,<BR> +With an on-shore wind? And the gates of bronze<BR> +Ring, rock, and are flung aside;<BR> +And a myriad unknown raiders burst<BR> +Into the hall of the King,<BR> +Where Minos on his carved, stone seat<BR> +Beheld the nations at his feet,<BR> +Watched each its tribute bring.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Minos is slain; his guards are slain;<BR> +Which of his sons shall live<BR> +In this pillared Hall of the Double Axe<BR> +The word of the Kings to give?<BR> +Which of his sons? Shall they know his sons<BR> +In this sudden terror sprung<BR> +On sleeping men? Half-armed they stand,<BR> +Foot pressed to foot, hand tense to hand,<BR> +And muscles iron-strung.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The flame of the torches in the wind<BR> +Of their struggle blackens the wall,<BR> +And the floor is sticky with blood, and heaped<BR> +With the bodies of those that fall.<BR> +What if a son of Minos live?<BR> +In that horror of blood and gloom,<BR> +What of the noble, what of the brave?<BR> +Better to die, than endure as a slave<BR> +The days after Knossos' doom.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But above the scuffle of sandalled feet,<BR> +And the breath of men hard-pressed,<BR> +And the clash of bronze, and the gasp and thud<BR> +As the point goes through the breast,<BR> +And above the startled hoot of owls,<BR> +And the rattle of shield and spear,<BR> +The wailing voices of women rise<BR> +As their men are stricken before their eyes<BR> +And they huddle together in fear.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Slow comes the dawning in the East;<BR> +Pale light on the earth is shed,<BR> +And cool and dewy blows the wind<BR> +Over the writhen dead;<BR> +Pale light, which fades in the growing glare<BR> +Of the flames that swirl and leap<BR> +Through corridor, and bower, and hall,<BR> +On carven pillar and painted wall;<BR> +The flames that like sickles reap<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A barren harvest of kingly things,<BR> +To be bound in ashy sheaves,<BR> +While driven forth by the work of his hands,<BR> +Stumbles the last of the thieves.<BR> +Behind him is fire, ruin, and death,<BR> +Before him the kine-sweet morn,<BR> +But vases of silver and cups of gold<BR> +And hoarded treasures fashioned of old<BR> +On his blood-stained back are borne.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is it the night-wind alone that blows shuddering<BR> +Down the dim corridors, tangled with weeds;<BR> +Is it a bat's wing, or is it an owl's wing<BR> +That silently passes, as thistledown seeds,<BR> +In the Hall, where the small owlet breeds?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Here do the moonbeams come, slithering, wandering<BR> +Over the faded, pale frescoes that stand<BR> +Faint and remote on the walls that are mouldering,<BR> +Crowned with a King's crown, or flowers in hand,<BR> +—Pale ghosts of a gaily-dressed band.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Faintly they gaze on the wide desolation;<BR> +Faintly they smile when the white moonbeams play<BR> +Over the dust of the throne-room of Minos,<BR> +Over the pavements where small creatures stray,<BR> +The humble small things of a day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But there are other nights, moonless and starless,<BR> +When no moth flutters, no bat flits, owl calls,<BR> +Something is stirring, something is rustling,<BR> +Something that is not of mortals befalls<BR> +In galleries, cellars, and halls.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Soundless and viewless, a strange ghostly happening,<BR> +Life, long since ashes, and flames, long since dead;<BR> +For the Angel of Time goes relentlessly, steadily<BR> +Over dark places that mankind has fled;<BR> +And the dust is not stirred by that tread.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p52"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A SUN-DIAL IN A GARDEN<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Across the quiet garden sunlight flows<BR> +In wave on wave like water, heavy bees<BR> +Hang drowsily upon the drowsy flowers,<BR> +For it is very still, and all the trees<BR> +Are pyramided high in green and gold.<BR> +There is a sun-dial there to mark the hours<BR> +Where time is not, where time has grown so old<BR> +It does not move now; yet the shadow goes<BR> +Across the dial that's so warm to feel<BR> +Like a cold, stealthy, creeping, living thing.<BR> +You cannot see it steal<BR> +Minute from minute of the golden day<BR> +Till all are eaten away,<BR> +You cannot press it back with both your hands,<BR> +And, on the shadowed stone<BR> +Laying your cheek, you never warmth can bring<BR> +To what beneath the sad triangle stands,<BR> +Solitary in sunlight: for we know,<BR> +It takes the whole great swinging earth to throw<BR> +The little shadow on the little stone.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p54"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + "TWO ONLY" +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Only two hearts shall understand the sea<BR> +That speaks at nightfall, in the wash and lap<BR> +Of windless evenings under flaming skies;<BR> +Only two hearts shall hear the rising sap<BR> +In wet spring woods; and two alone, grown wise<BR> +In union, shall make discovery<BR> +Of what lies hidden, though before our eyes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh, core of wonder in familiar things:<BR> +Magic of evening, and of early morn<BR> +But just created, with the dew of birth<BR> +All fresh upon it, heaven itself new-born<BR> +O'er the green splendour of the quiet earth<BR> +And like a just-awakened bird that sings<BR> +Because of sunlight, is the spirit's mirth.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All forms of beauty but express the soul<BR> +As in a looking-glass; the wind that goes<BR> +Low-talking to the trees beneath the stars,<BR> +Or the small sound of water, as it flows<BR> +Under old bridges, where the ivy mars<BR> +The sharp stone outline—these are in the whole<BR> +Of the World-Symphony small, tuneful bars.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And human beings in the span of years<BR> +Some part of all the world-wealth may receive,<BR> +More, less, but never all; and with dismay<BR> +We see slow Time his net of hours weave<BR> +To catch from us dear mortal night and day,<BR> +Ere we have taken in our eyes and ears<BR> +Beauty that lies around, beyond, away.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We, singly, feel a sudden sharp regret<BR> +Behind all beauty, but we—two in one,<BR> +As white and blue are separate in a flame<BR> +Yet mingled—we shall watch the hours run<BR> +Seeing with surer knowledge how the same<BR> +Eternal splendour for the soul is set,<BR> +And the day comes again from whence day came.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p58"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE SAINT'S BIRTHDAY<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +One of God's blessed pitying saints one day,<BR> +Reaching out hands to touch the azure throne:<BR> +"Because it is my birthday, Lord," he said,<BR> +"That I was born in heaven, when I was known<BR> +By an earthly name, and stoned and left for dead,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Because it is the custom, Lord, of men<BR> +To keep their birthdays gladly, and with gifts<BR> +Grant me a blessing from your blesséd stores."<BR> +And from the cloudy rose and amber drifts<BR> +About the Throne, God answered: "It is yours."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then sprang the glad Saint earthwards; at his feet<BR> +Were little golden flames, and all his hair<BR> +Was blown about his head like tongues of fire,<BR> +And like a star he burned through the dark air,<BR> +And came, and stood by farm and shed and byre<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Before the earliest grey was in the East,<BR> +Or the first smoke above the chimney-stack<BR> +From earliest-rising housewife, yet the cheep<BR> +And twitter of birds did gladly welcome back<BR> +Him who such love for earth in heaven could keep,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And who on earth such love had had for men<BR> +And bird and beast, and all that lived and grew:<BR> +The sparrows in the eaves remembered him<BR> +And chirrupped in the gables, while the dew<BR> +Was dark still, and the day below the rim.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +He stood there, in the village of his life<BR> +Ere he won heaven, and the breath of cows<BR> +Came as a benediction, and the smell<BR> +Of rain-sweet copses, and, where cattle browse,<BR> +Long grass, and running water in the dell.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And his heart opened with the love he had<BR> +For the dear toil-worn dwelling-place of men;<BR> +To hear the sheep crop, see the glimmering grey<BR> +Lighten the waiting windows once again,<BR> +And garden roses opening to the day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not otherwise was Eden once—he thought—<BR> +And by God's blessing it may be anew:<BR> +And so put forth the power God had lent<BR> +And took away all labour, and he drew<BR> +Heaven to earth, till earth and heaven were blent.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Time ceased to be; and yet the sun and shade<BR> +Shifted to make new beauty with the hours,<BR> +And the ripe earth, unlaboured, gave her yields,<BR> +No pain there was, no age, and all the flowers<BR> +Unwitheringly lovely filled the fields.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +And all day long the birds in ecstasy<BR> +Sang without shadow of hawk or thought of death,<BR> +And the saint happily went about the ways<BR> +Filling each home with plenty—his very breath<BR> +Was like a little thrilling note of praise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +When all was done he stepped back, childish-wise,<BR> +To see and love his handiwork, and then<BR> +Came a sharp pain, and pierced him through and through;<BR> +He had wrought lovingly for the days of men,<BR> +But the heart of men his love could not renew:<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The weary heart, the ever-questioning,<BR> +The loving, lacking, lonely, incomplete<BR> +For ever longing to be merged in one<BR> +With something other than itself; to beat<BR> +To another's pulse; to be for ever done<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +With its sad weight of personality.<BR> +Then God leaned down to his poor saint, and said:<BR> +"Dear soul, would you make heaven upon the earth:<BR> +Nor know indeed My purpose in all birth,<BR> +Nor that My blessing is upon the dead?"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p65"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +RUPERT BROOKE<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +<I>April</I> 1915<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +You that are gone into the dark<BR> +Of unknowing and unbeing;<BR> +You that have heard the song of the lark,<BR> +You that have seen the joy of the spring;<BR> +You have I seen, you have I known<BR> +—The word you have written, your pictured head—<BR> +And they say you are laid at Lemnos among the English dead.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Soul that is gone—is gone—<BR> +Whether into the dark,<BR> +Or into knowledge complete and the blinding light;<BR> +Soul that was swift and free,<BR> +Passionate, eager, bright,<BR> +Armed with a weapon for shams,<BR> +And set with wings for flight;<BR> +Soul that was questioning, restless, and all at odds with life,<BR> +Greedy for it, yet satiate, and sick with the shows of things<BR> +—And all laid down at Lemnos, the hunger, the love, the strife,<BR> +And the youthful grace of body, and the body's ministerings.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Darkness, darkness, or light!<BR> +You have leapt from the circle of sense,<BR> +And only your dust remains and the word you said:<BR> +"If I should die," ... and we name you among the dead.<BR> +Yet have I a hope at heart<BR> +That somewhere away, apart,<BR> +Knowledge is yours and joy of the act fulfilled<BR> +To still your fever of soul as your fever of blood is stilled;<BR> +So shall you soar and run<BR> +In water and wind and air,<BR> +With your old clean joy of the sun,<BR> +And your gladness in all things fair,<BR> +Untouched by mortality's sadness, simple, perfect, at one.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p68"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, FOR I AM SICK OF LOVE"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Red lilies under the sun,<BR> +Red apples hanging above,<BR> +And red is the wine that is spilled<BR> +On your bare white feet, O Love.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The poppies sullenly glow<BR> +In the smouldering red from the West,<BR> +And black are the dregs of the wine,<BR> +O Love, on your bare, white breast.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Aie! aie! when the wild swan flies<BR> +Lonely and dark is the place<BR> +That the white wings lightened, and death<BR> +Will cover your glowing face.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O thief that is night, O thieves!<BR> +Cold years that devour us all;<BR> +The lilies blossom and wilt,<BR> +The apples ripen and fall,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The apples, the apples of Love!<BR> +—Lo, where we have spilled the wine,<BR> +This quenchless earth is agape,<BR> +O Love, for your body and mine.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p70"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + OF ENGLAND +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +White is for purity, blue for heaven's grace,<BR> +Purple is for Emperors, sitting in their place,<BR> +Yellow is for happiness, rose for Love's embrace,<BR> +But green—oh green, the green of England—that's for Paradise!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From seashore to seashore races the green tide;<BR> +With the pricking green of hedges by the wet roadside<BR> +—Or ever March triumphant comes with great, glad stride—<BR> +There is green, there's green in England, and a tale of Paradise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then the hawthorns flush and tremble in their early wondrous green,<BR> +And the willows are resplendent in a green-and-golden sheen,<BR> +Like the golden tents of princes, Babylonish, Damascene,<BR> +Or enchanted silent fountains of a Persian Paradise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There are beech and birch and elm-tree—evening-still or<BR> + morning-tossed—<BR> +And the splendid generous chestnuts with their flame-like<BR> + blooms embossed,<BR> +There are oak and ash and elder, till the very sun is lost<BR> +In the green, delicious gloaming that's the light of Paradise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Deeper, wider, steadier this beauty ever grows,<BR> +And from field-side up to tree-top the endless colour flows,<BR> +Till road and house and wayside, in the first days of the rose,<BR> +Are fathoms deep in waves of green, submerged in Paradise.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh dim and lovely hollows of all the woods that be;<BR> +Oh sunlight on the uplands, like a calm, great sea;<BR> +I think indeed the souls of those from circumstance set free<BR> +Look down, look down on England, saying: "Ah, dear Paradise!"<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p73"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +QUESTION<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What of this gift of Life?<BR> +Passionate, swift, and rife<BR> +With pleasure or pain in the hand of the hurrying hours?<BR> +Oh little moment of space,<BR> +Oh Death's averted face,<BR> +How shall we grasp, shall we grasp what still is ours?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Chill, chill on either hand<BR> +Eternities must stand,<BR> +And pants between them, passionate and brief,<BR> +The moment's self, to make<BR> +Or unmake, but to take<BR> +Just here, just now, before death turns the leaf.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Ah, if the leaf but turn,<BR> +And if the soul discern<BR> +Another message on another page!<BR> +But if death shuts the book?<BR> +We may not know nor look;<BR> +We are fenced in upon a narrow stage;<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +While, splendid and intense,<BR> +Quick-strung in every sense<BR> +Life burns in us, and earth lies all around—<BR> +Far blue of summer seas,<BR> +Young green of age-old trees—<BR> +Bound by the season, by the horizon bound.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Oh colour, sound, and light,<BR> +Oh wondrous day and night,<BR> +Pale dawns, and evenings' splendid stretch of gold;<BR> +Keen beauty like a spear,<BR> +Half pleasure and half fear,<BR> +Goes through us for the things we may not hold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Hot blood, hot noons, hot youth—<BR> +When Life seems all the truth,<BR> +And Death a mumbled far old fairy-tale;<BR> +When just the splendid days<BR> +Suffice our eager gaze,<BR> +The wondrous present that will never fail.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then one day, with a fierce<BR> +Clamour of heart, we pierce<BR> +The light and see the shadows all behind,<BR> +And then, and not till then,<BR> +By the brief graves of men<BR> +The utter loveliness of flowers we find.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So little stretch of days,<BR> +And earth, with all her ways<BR> +Lovely enough, I think, for Paradise;<BR> +And body, mind, and heart,<BR> +Each separate complex part,<BR> +Wondrously made, and never quite made twice.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What of this gift of Life?<BR> +Shall it be worn in strife?<BR> +Shall it be idly spent, or idly stored?<BR> +Each for himself must dare<BR> +If the answer is here—or there,<BR> +Here for regret—or there for hope, O Lord?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p77"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +LEONARDO TO MONNA LISA<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I wish you were a beaker of Venetian glass<BR> +That I might fill you with most precious wine<BR> +And drink it, breathless—lo! the moments pass<BR> +Of that subliminal communion.<BR> +I take you from my lips, and crush you—so!—<BR> +Into a thousand shining particles;<BR> +So, at the last, my passionate greed shall know<BR> +That you were wholly mine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I wish you were a rare, stringed instrument<BR> +Beneath my hand, and from you I would wring<BR> +Such unimagined music, as was sent<BR> +Never before, along the quivering nerves;<BR> +Such strange, sharp discords, out of which I'd mould<BR> +Music more sweet than the spring nightingale's;<BR> +Then, ere the magic of the sound was old,<BR> +Would I not rend each string?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Possess you? Ah, not with the world's possession,<BR> +You still, strange creature; neither force nor will<BR> +Could make you serve a man's mere earthly passion.<BR> +I would dissolve you, in one blinding flash,<BR> +Into a drop of elemental dew,<BR> +And let you trickle down the barren rock<BR> +Into the black abyss, if so I knew<BR> +That you henceforth were powerless to mock<BR> +My spirit with your smile.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p80"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + THE ETERNAL FLUX +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Let us hold April back<BR> +One splendid hour<BR> +To bless the passionate earth<BR> +With golden shower<BR> +Of sunlight from the blue;<BR> +Oh April skies,<BR> +That earth yearns up to; blue has burned to gold,<BR> +Gold pales and dies<BR> +In delicate faint rose,<BR> +Oh flowing time, oh flux eternal. Hold<BR> +The hour back. The April hour goes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Then, let it be of May,<BR> +When sound and sight<BR> +And all that's beauty manifest<BR> +Through all the day,<BR> +Of deep on deep with green,<BR> +Of light on light<BR> +Across the waves of blossom, when the white<BR> +Is lovelier than the rose, except the rose<BR> +Is loveliest of all;<BR> +When through the day the cuckoo calls unseen,<BR> +And at nightfall<BR> +The nightingale, whose music no man knows<BR> +The magic heart of, sitting in the dark<BR> +Sings still the world-old way;<BR> +When all of these,<BR> +Flowers and birds, and sunset and pale skies<BR> +Seem gathered up in scent,<BR> +And all of sound and sight<BR> +Dissolved, ethereal, not of ears and eyes<BR> +But only the soul-beauty of the brain<BR> +Flows, in such waves of perfume, over all<BR> +—Or like a song in colour, of such strain<BR> +As spirits finer than our own must hear<BR> +(The beautiful made clear);<BR> +Then, then, when it is May,<BR> +Surely our hand must touch eternity.<BR> +Day pales to night, stars pale upon the day,<BR> +And May's last blossoming hour flows away.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Not of June either, though the hanging skies<BR> +Make but a little span<BR> +'Twixt light and growing light;<BR> +And when through that short darkness palely flies<BR> +The silent great white moth<BR> +—A spirit lost in the night,<BR> +A soul, without will or way—;<BR> +When the arch of trees<BR> +Is duskily green, and close as a builded house<BR> +Where love with love might stay,<BR> +Guarded and still, from sight;<BR> +When the hay is sweet in the fields<BR> +And love is as sweet as hay;<BR> +When the life-impulse of the wonderful untamed earth<BR> +Has reached its fulness and height,<BR> +Is broad and steady and wide<BR> +As sweeps into splendid bays the flowing tide;<BR> +When God might look on the land,<BR> +When God might look on the sea,<BR> +And say: "For ever be<BR> +Perfect, completed, achieved,<BR> +As now at this moment you stand."<BR> +Neither in June shall we stay the eternal flow<BR> +Nor grasp the present with pitiful, mortal hand,<BR> +For sliding past like water the June hours go.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p84"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"LOVE IS THE ULTIMATE MEASURE OF THE SOUL"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Love is the ultimate measure of the soul;<BR> +Love is the biting acid, the sure test<BR> +To strip the naked gold, discard the rest<BR> +Of earthly stuffs; Love is the one thing whole<BR> +In a world of broken parts, for Love is all.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Love is creation; Love is the low call<BR> +Of deep to deep; Love is the force that shapes<BR> +The thing that it believes, and while there gapes<BR> +The black earth-pit, where the poor flesh must fall,<BR> +Love builds on hope, and buds eternal life.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Love is a victory unsoiled by strife;<BR> +Who is there that shall adequately name<BR> +All that Love is, this thing as swift as flame<BR> +And vast as heaven, yet in every life<BR> +Tamed to the narrow needs of little men?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +From humble love, that makes the partridge hen<BR> +Brave for her chickens, to the Love that shakes<BR> +The world from Calvary, all love partakes<BR> +Of immortality; one cannot pen<BR> +Divinity in words; Love is divine.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The very essence of God does Love enshrine;<BR> +For let the heart, however sorely tried,<BR> +Open itself to loving, and the wide<BR> +Earth is a home; love-lacking must decline<BR> +Where black fears crowd across the starless dark.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +For Love is light; the faith that will embark,<BR> +Unpiloted, upon uncharted seas<BR> +Is Love alone; the fiery leap to seize<BR> +The splendid distant aim, the invisible mark,<BR> +What else but Love's? Love is the thing that stands<BR> +Unchanged, on changing tides and shifting sands.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p87"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +NOVEMBER 8<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +THE LITTLE SUMMER OF ALL SAINTS<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The year stands still, the tearing winter winds<BR> +Hold off their claws a moment, that the trees<BR> +May keep the glory of their blended gold<BR> +A little minute; there's not so much breeze<BR> +As summer mornings hold.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Golden and still the hours; russet gold<BR> +The birch-leaves o'er the silver of the bark;<BR> +Pale gold the poplars, like a lady's hair,<BR> +And thunderous gold along the hollows dark<BR> +The sunlit brackens flare.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p88"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE LOVERS<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There are ghosts we walk with, lady of mine,<BR> +Arm in arm, and side by side,<BR> +Pallid ghosts, though the sun may shine,<BR> +Ghosts that are cold in the warmth of day,<BR> +And neither of us may fend them away,<BR> +But step by step they go with us, stride by stride.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There are doors in your heart that are shut to me,<BR> +And behind them dwellers I cannot know;<BR> +And my soul has windows that open wide<BR> +On a ghostly, memoried country-side,<BR> +That—lady of mine—you never will see,<BR> +Where your voice will never be heard, nor your footsteps go.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So we walk together, hand in hand,<BR> +While dark eyes peer at us, pale forms come,<BR> +And speak in my ear—or call your name<BR> +With a voice I hear not, for praise or blame,<BR> +And you walk alone with that ghostly band,<BR> +While I go by the side of you, pitying, powerless, dumb.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p90"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + THE GENTLE HEART +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +What shall harm the gentle heart<BR> +In its purpose undefiled?<BR> +Even grief shall lose its smart<BR> +In some way becoming part<BR> +Of that nature, soothed and gentled,<BR> +As a sorrow to a child.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Through the blackness and the sin<BR> +Of the old world's wrongs and woes,<BR> +And through the greater dark within,<BR> +The gentle heart shall surely win,<BR> +As some bright angel, armed with mercy,<BR> +Swiftly on his errand goes.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All the body may have wrought,<BR> +All the energies of mind<BR> +That for its own purpose sought,<BR> +Make at length a little nought<BR> +Among the stars—the gentle heart<BR> +Death itself will leave behind.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p92"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A BALLAD FOR HERMAN<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is the ballad for Herman, the ballad of humble things,<BR> +The hedge-side thistles that flower, the small brown lark that sings,<BR> +And the stumbling flight of a beetle, and the dust<BR> + on a butterfly's wings.<BR> +The snails are out in the sunshine after the morning rain,<BR> +And the wasps are whirring and buzzing round the mulberry tree again,<BR> +And the ants are busy of course, working with might and main.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +While the crickets leap, and rustle, and play at being blades of grass,<BR> +And humble-bumble the bees go, lurching as they pass,<BR> +And the flies are stupidly walking up the window-glass.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The sun is bright on the hedges, on thistle and bramble and briar,<BR> +The columbine leaves are heart-shaped, and shine as bright as fire<BR> +—And oh! the smell of the bracken, that's straight as Salisbury spire!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Life of the woods, life of the rivers, life of the trees,<BR> +Life of the rich plain-grasses that seed to the morning breeze,<BR> +And the thymy mountain-grasses June makes loud with bees.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This does not age nor alter; the low sharp song of the reeds<BR> +As the evening wind goes over, and the fishing heron feeds<BR> +On the still and shallow waters, salt with the floating weeds.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This does not change nor vanish; the mating calls of the springs,<BR> +When April's green on the copses, and bright on the shining wings<BR> +Of birds going backwards and forwards, while the whole green<BR> + forest sings.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +All is our sister and brother, as once St. Francis said;<BR> +The little stones in the river, the bright sun overhead,<BR> +And newts, and the spawn of fishes, and the unnamed mighty dead.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is the ballad for Herman. O friend, may good befall!<BR> +There is never a star so distant, there is never a creature small,<BR> +But living and knowing and loving in our brain we hold them all.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p95"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FRANCE<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>April</I> 1915<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Great ever, with the hope that seeks the stars;<BR> +The brain clear-cold, like ice; the soul like flame;<BR> +The spirit beating at the physical bars;<BR> +The reason guiding all—oh, there we name<BR> +France!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +A country that can think, and thinking, acts;<BR> +A country that can act, and acting, dreams;<BR> +That neither bears the tyranny of facts,<BR> +Nor of its own dear hopes, nor of what seems,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +But still, clear-visioned, treats with things that are;<BR> +Yet—seer, prophet, priest of life-to-be—<BR> +Leaps to the visionary days afar,<BR> +And all the splendour she will never see.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +School of the spirit, chastening, yet a spur<BR> +For all that men aspire to: as of old<BR> +Athens held up the torch, and did incur<BR> +Persia, with her fierce armies manifold,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So France against the evil strikes and strives<BR> +For liberty, and we of island race,<BR> +—Humbled a little by our careless lives—<BR> +Glory to stand beside her in our place,<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Glory that we are one in hope and aim<BR> +With her from whom in blood and agony<BR> +The second gift of human freedom came<BR> +Through Terror and the red Gethsemane.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +On her fair, ravaged borders stand her guns,<BR> +She has thrown away the scabbards, bared the swords,<BR> +And, snatching laughter out of death, her sons<BR> +Challenge high Fate to show what life affords—<BR> +France!<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p98"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + ILGAR'S SONG +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +(From <I>King Monmouth</I>)<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O love that dwells in the innermost heart of man<BR> +Secret and dark and still,<BR> +Like a bird in the core of a green mid-summer tree—<BR> +Height upon height and depth upon depth where never the eye can see<BR> +The brown bird, hidden and still.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +O Love that is wild and eager, sun-lit and free<BR> +Like a seagull that turns in the sunlight above the sea;<BR> +Between the sea and the sky it flashes and turns,<BR> +And the sun on its wings is white,<BR> +While sharply and shrill by the headland the keen wind sings<BR> +Where the grass is salt and grey<BR> +With the beating winter spray,<BR> +And the seagull sweeps and soars on magnificent wings.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Love that is like a flame,<BR> +Held in the hollow hand,<BR> +So dear and precious a thing<BR> +As a light in a stranger land,<BR> +As a flickering candle to him who wanders by night.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Love that is wide as the dawn<BR> +To the eyes of night-bound men;<BR> +And the evil ghosts and the goblins it puts to flight,<BR> +And stealthy creatures of dark that rustle and creep,<BR> +And elfins and witches and all such devil's game<BR> +That cannot live in the light,<BR> +They squeak and gibber and cheep,<BR> +And vanish like shadows before the splendour of day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Love that has wide, white wings like a flying swan<BR> +—Oh what a noble span,<BR> +From tip to tip they are more than the height of a man<BR> +And curved like the sails of a boat—<BR> +When over the evening river the wild swan flies<BR> +The curve of those wings is like the arch of the skies<BR> +Over the shielded earth.<BR> +Love is most like a bird,<BR> +For birds have least of the dust that gave them birth,<BR> +They soar and poise and float,<BR> +They wheel and swerve and skim,<BR> +And their wings are strong to the wind, and swift to the light,<BR> +And their voice is a promise of dawn while yet it is night,<BR> +And their song is a pćan of hope before it is spring,<BR> +And the song of the bird to his mate is lyrical love.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Love is secret and holy, a spiritual thing,<BR> +Dark and silent and still<BR> +In the heart of man, as a treasure is hid in a shrine.<BR> +Love is splendid and fierce, as the summer sun<BR> +Drenches the sea and the sky with its blaze and shine,<BR> +Till every pebble is hot to the touch of the hand,<BR> +And the air is a-shimmer with heat o'er the hazy land—<BR> +Yet Love is not any of these things, Love is of one<BR> +With the strange, half-guessed at, vast, creative plan<BR> +We cannot see with our eyes nor understand—<BR> +Yet is Love pitiful too, for Love is of man.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p103"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE INN<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +I<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Friendship's an inn the roads of life afford<BR> +—I'll speak to you in metaphor, my friend—<BR> +And there a tired man his way may wend,<BR> +And, coming in, sit down beside the board,<BR> +Out of the dust and glare, and boldly send<BR> +For drink and victuals; haply cross his knees,<BR> +And in the cool dark parlour take his ease,<BR> +And gossip of his journey and its end.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +That's friendship; there is neither right of place<BR> +Nor landlord duties, just the short hour's stay<BR> +From the sun and weariness between those kind<BR> +And quiet walls; and when the road's to face<BR> +Stony and long again, we take our way<BR> +Keeping that respite gratefully in mind.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p105"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE INN<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="t3b"> +II<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We take our pack, and jog our way again<BR> +Towards the windy sunset and the night;<BR> +The inn is now behind us, out of sight,<BR> +Showing no welcome shine of windowpane,<BR> +But dark and silent standing by the way<BR> +As we go forward, seeing mile on mile<BR> +Sink out of sight—just for a little while<BR> +We rested, in the middle of the day.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Is there an end at last, and shall we reach,<BR> +By the faint glimmer of new-risen stars,<BR> +Our house at last, and find the heart-repose<BR> +Which is the ultimate desire of each<BR> +Poor traveller—ah! shall they drop the bars,<BR> +And the doors open? Dear my friend, who knows?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p107"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"TO-DAY I MISS YOU"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To-day I miss you ... "Only for to-day,<BR> +Some little matter of hours and nothing more."<BR> +That at least the worldly-wise folk say,<BR> +Who've never waited for the opening door,<BR> +The greeting look, the known step on the floor;<BR> +Who've never missed a loved one like a lover.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +To-day I miss you. What to-morrow brings<BR> +Is the other side of all the stars, God knows!<BR> +Only to have you here, now evening swings<BR> +Its quiet shadow round the globe again,<BR> +And in our talk of old familiar things,<BR> +And in familiar gestures, turn of brain,<BR> +Looks, tone of voice, I may discern again<BR> +That union from which alone love grows.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +We'd close the curtains;—while the world outside,<BR> +Noisily autumn, makes a sense of peace<BR> +Deeper within,—open the bookcase wide<BR> +And take a book out; then another book,<BR> +And then another.... "Here's a favourite, look!<BR> +We cannot pass him." ... Then from reading cease,<BR> +Gossip and laugh, with finger in the page,<BR> +And challenge thought with thought, and mind with mind<BR> +Each speaking freely, that we might increase<BR> +Some knowledge to which, singly, we were blind.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So goes the evening. Side by side we stand,<BR> +Dear friends and brothers, till, a sudden pause,<BR> +Or kindly, almost careless touch of hands,<BR> +Swings us to face each other, and we feel<BR> +Those deepest stirrings of the human heart<BR> +Man has no name for yet, those changeless laws<BR> +Of more than mating—that eternal part<BR> +Our body is aware of, and our brain,<BR> +Unchallenging with reason, must receive,<BR> +That sense of intimate wonder!—Now again,<BR> +The blinds are drawn; lamp, books, chairs, all retain<BR> +Familiar aspects, but, you absent, leave<BR> +The room all empty, empty all the day.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p111"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"HOW SMALL THE THREAD THAT HOLDS UP HAPPINESS"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +How small the thread that holds up happiness;<BR> +But one frail life between the dark and me,<BR> +Your life, dear love—and here I seem to see<BR> +You whimsically smile, that I confess<BR> +The whole round world, with its vast energy,<BR> +Its summers, and its sunshine, and its aims,<BR> +Its splendid hopes, the faith that unquenched, flames<BR> +—All sunk into the compass of you and me.<BR> +Yes, you are right, the single leaves that fall<BR> +Mar not the summer; do I think one leaf<BR> +Denudes a forest?—We are nought at all.<BR> +Yet the bereaved small bird within the tree<BR> +May break its heart above its nest for grief<BR> +—And perhaps this must happen, love, to me.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p113"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"IN ALL THINGS GRACIOUS THERE IS A THOUGHT OF YOU"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +In all things gracious there is a thought of you:<BR> +In the soft fall of April rain, the blue<BR> +Of April skies in the morning, the full moon<BR> +Of windless August nights, perfect and still,<BR> +When the white moonlight lies across the hill<BR> +Of new-cut stubble, where a little mist,<BR> +Flickering, rises. In the song of birds<BR> +My heart turns to you, emptied all of words<BR> +By loveliness, and in the poise and swing<BR> +Of flowering grasses, and in the lingering<BR> +Grave, spacious fall of evening on the earth,<BR> +When the wide, liquid spaces of the sky,<BR> +Above the dewy fields and darkening lanes,<BR> +And windless water lying quietly,<BR> +Yield up the daylight, until none remains.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I could endure—or so it seems to me—<BR> +Without your presence, a life of winter days,<BR> +Stark, grey Novembers stretching endlessly,<BR> +Where I, forgetting laughter and bright things,<BR> +Might set my face to duty; but the stir,<BR> +The loveliness, the poignancy of springs,<BR> +The growth, the rise, the universal press<BR> +Up to sensation—ah, I could not bear<BR> +To live an April through, but must take wings<BR> +Out of a world too fair for loneliness.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p116"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> + "THERE'S DUTY, FRIEND, TO JOG WITH ARM IN ARM" +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +There's duty, friend, to jog with arm in arm<BR> +Through these dark streets; there's kindliness indeed,<BR> +And there's the hope a little more to weed<BR> +Our own small patch of life which the tares harm;<BR> +There's patience for the folly of the earth;<BR> +There's pity for the poor who suffer wrong;<BR> +There's honour for the striving and the strong<BR> +—But ah, dear friend of mine, where is the mirth?<BR> +Where's the old jollity of everyday<BR> +That makes a holiday of common things<BR> +Because they all are shared by us aright,<BR> +The trivial daily work and happenings<BR> +Having a sort of fervour and delight,<BR> +And the sun rising, even, a different way?<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p118"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"EVENING"<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Beloved of my soul, the day is done;<BR> +The busy noises cease, the lights are low;<BR> +Gently the doors shut to behind each one<BR> +Seeking his sleep; the fading embers glow<BR> +On silent hearths; the silent ashes fall—<BR> +Ah, absent spirit, do you hear me call,<BR> +Me, sitting waiting by the fireside?<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +This is the hour of all the night and day,<BR> +—This is the hour when, work put aside,<BR> +And all the talking, whether grave or gay,<BR> +For pleasure or for profit, hushed and dumb,<BR> +We used to, in the days before you died,<BR> +Seek out each other's mind for rest, and say:<BR> +"Now am I home, and all is well with me;<BR> +To-day is gone, to-morrow is to come;<BR> +Here let us be."<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Surely, for all the barriers of sense,<BR> +And the stark grossness of this flesh I wear,<BR> +For all the vacant distance of the skies<BR> +Between me here alone, and you, gone hence,<BR> +There must be some quick knowledge; I must hear<BR> +That dear familiar voice again, must see<BR> +Some semblance of you with my bodily eyes,<BR> +Now, now, when in the solitude I yearn<BR> +Towards your heart, my home; now when I turn<BR> +Humbly and searchingly towards that goal<BR> +That lies beyond the purchase of the world—<BR> +You again, you, dear comrade of my soul.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="p121"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FINIS<BR> +</H3> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Life, in its unimaginable heights,<BR> +When we may seize and apprehend the true<BR> +Soul essence, of one nature with the stars:<BR> +Rare moments when our senses are a mist<BR> +That the truth shines through:—oh, most strange and rare,<BR> +Such ecstasies as unimprisoned souls<BR> +Experience in that thin empyrean<BR> +Beyond the gross world; this we two have known<BR> +We two together. There are memories<BR> +Of such high happiness in a fence of pain<BR> +As martyrs in their fiery heart of death<BR> +Have blessed their God for; passion and holiness,<BR> +When all the body (sinew, bone, and brain)<BR> +Are like a harp, from which the spirit makes<BR> +Marvels of harmony; some sense too rare<BR> +To be called happiness, not to be named indeed<BR> +In human speech—this we have touched and known<BR> +Together, at some thrilling edge of time.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +I fall away from it; the barriers close<BR> +About me; I descend from the clear heights<BR> +Into the plains and valleys of the world.<BR> +The traffic of the market-place is mine,<BR> +The heat and dust, the jostling and the noise,<BR> +The kindly challenge and the neighbour-talk,<BR> +All these may claim me, so that I forget<BR> +To lift my eyes and see the far-off peaks,<BR> +And the eternal splendour of the stars.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So be it; let the tide of men's affairs<BR> +Carry me back and forward; let the rub<BR> +Of greasy ha'pence passed from hand to hand,<BR> +In humble traffic of a bunch of herbs<BR> +Not pass me by; let me jog arm in arm,<BR> +Or cheek by jowl, the shady side o' the street,<BR> +With friends and neighbours, glad to know them there,<BR> +Imperfect, human, kind, and tolerant.<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +So may the years go. Yet, when the call comes,<BR> +And the world's colours fade before the eye<BR> +That turns for spiritual vision on itself;<BR> +When, from the four walls of the silent room,<BR> +The noises of the world fall back and fail<BR> +In that great silence which enrings the last<BR> +Ecstatic moment of experience,<BR> +Here on this earth—ah, then indeed I know<BR> +That I shall find you. All that lies behind<BR> +(The years of trivial experience)<BR> +Shall open and fall back from off my soul,<BR> +As falls the brown sheaf from the opening bud;<BR> +And in that poignant moment, that mere breath<BR> +Of temporal time, that aeon of the soul,<BR> +I shall reach out and know you, mix with you<BR> +As flame with flame, as ray with ray of light,<BR> +Be perfectly yourself, as you are me,<BR> +With all else fallen, gone, dispersed away<BR> +Save the pure drop of spiritual essence—Then<BR> +Let come what may, light or oblivion.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="t4"> +<I>Printed by</I> R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, <I>Edinburgh</I>.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<HR> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap127"></A> + +<P CLASS="t2"> +RECENT POETRY +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Poems. By RALPH HODGSON. Fourth Thousand. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Livelihood: Dramatic Reveries. By WILFRID WILSON GIBSON. Crown 8vo. +3s. 6d. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Whin. Poems by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Poems of London and Occasional Verse. By JOHN PRESLAND, author of +"Mary, Queen of Scots," "Joan of Arc," "Manin and the Defence of +Venice," "The Deluge and other Poems." Crown 8vo. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Twenty. Poems by STELLA BENSON. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The English Poets. Selections with Critical Introductions by various +writers. Edited by THOMAS HUMPHRY WARD, M.A. Vol. V. 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