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diff --git a/37752-8.txt b/37752-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd2b67f --- /dev/null +++ b/37752-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2234 @@ +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 + + + + + + + + + + +POEMS OF LONDON + +AND OTHER VERSES + + + +BY + +JOHN PRESLAND + + + + +MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED + +ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON + +1918 + + + + +COPYRIGHT + + + + +CONTENTS + + +POEMS OF LONDON + + London Dawn + Spring in Oxford Street + Judd Street, St. Pancras + Sparrows + The Moon in January + An August Night, 1914 + Counted out--Olympia + The German Band + Street Music--I + Street Music--II + Piccadilly + In the Tube + London Idyll--I + A London Idyll--II + Finis + + + OTHER VERSES + + In Early Spring + A Ballad of the Fall of Knossos + A Sun-Dial in a Garden + "Two Only" + The Saint's Birthday + Rupert Brooke + "Comfort be with Apples, for I am sick of Love" + Of England + Question + Leonardo to Monna Lisa. + The Eternal Flux + Love is the Ultimate Measure + November 8 + The Lovers + The Gentle Heart + A Ballad for Herman + France + Ilgar's Song + The Inn--I + The Inn--II + "To-Day I miss You" + "How Small the Thread" + "In all Things gracious there is a Thought of You" + "There's Duty, Friend" + "Evening" + Finis + + + + + POEMS OF LONDON + + + + + LONDON DAWN + + Dawn over London; all the pearly light + Trembles and quivers over street and park, + The houses are a strange, unearthly white; + Pavement and roof grow slowly, palely bright; + There is no shadow, neither light nor dark + But everything is steeped in glimmering dawn. + + Oh, purity of dawn; oh, milk-and-pearl + Translucent splendour, spreading far and wide, + As on a yellow beach the small waves curl + --Almost as noiselessly as buds unfurl-- + On windless mornings with the rising tide, + So flows the dawn o'er London, all asleep. + + Indeed, I think that heaven is a sea, + And London is a city of old rhymes + Sunk fathoms deep in its transparency, + That folk of living lands may dream they see + And muse on, and have thoughts about our times, + How we were great and splendid, and now gone. + + For never light the common earth has born, + This crystalline pale wonder that so falls + On streets and squares the daily toil has worn, + On blind-eyed houses, holding lives forlorn, + For the grey roads and wide, blank, grey-brick walls + Shine with a glory that is new and strange. + + And not more wonderful, nor otherwise + Shall dawn come up upon the dewy hills, + Nor in the mountains, where the rivers rise + That water Eden; and no lovelier lies + The dawn on Paradise, than this that fills + The space 'twixt house and house with tremulous light. + + Yet, on the pavement, huddled fast asleep, + A thing of dusty, ragged misery, + Grotesque in wretchedness, from London's deep + Spumed off, a strange, distorted thing to creep + From God knows where, and lie, and let all be + Unheeding, whether of the day or night. + + Such tired, hopeless angles of the knees + And neck and elbows--and the dawning grey + Trembling to sunrise; in the park the trees + Begin to shiver lightly in a breeze, + And turning watchful kindly eyes away + The policeman passes slowly on his beat. + + + + + SPRING IN OXFORD STREET + + A dash of rain on the pavement, + In the air a gleam of sun, + And the clouds are white, and rolling high + From Marble Arch all down the sky + --And that's the spring begun! + + The sky is all a-shining + With sunniest blue and white, + The flags are streaming out full cry + As the crisp North wind comes bustling by, + And all the roofs are bright. + + And all the shops and houses + Of sunlit Oxford Street, + --Pearl behind amber, gold by rose-- + To grey the long perspective goes; + Till all the houses meet. + + And there, in every gutter, + The glory of spring flowers + The whole long street with colour fills, + And across the yellow daffodils + Sharp sunshine and soft showers. + + And among the drabs and greys and browns + Of folk going to and fro + Are trays of violets, darkly bright, + And yellow, like the spring moon's light, + Pale primrose-bunches show. + + There's blue in every puddle, + And every pane of glass + Has a thousand little dancing suns, + --And up and down the glad news runs, + That spring has come to pass. + + + + + JUDD STREET, ST. PANCRAS + + My dwelling has a courtyard wide + Where lord with lady well might pace, + --Such silks and velvets side by side, + And she a fan to shield her face!-- + It's fine as any king's; + For there I see on either hand + The whole great stretch of London lie; + --Just so as any king might stand + Upon his roof, to watch go by + The flashing pigeon wings. + + Just so a king might look abroad: + "And this is all my own," says he, + And then he'd turn to some great lord, + Who'd acquiesce with gravity + --But that I do without, + For all of lord there is up here + Is this impassive chimney-stack, + And cloudy be my view or clear + My courtier will not answer back; + All silent I look out, + + And see the flight of roofs that fade + Towards the West in golden haze, + And all this work men's hands have made + Like jewels in the sun's last rays-- + I have a dwelling wide; + Three rooms are mine, but I can go + Up to this roof in shade or shine, + And watch all London change and glow + Rose, purple, gold; three rooms are mine-- + And all of heaven beside. + + + + + SPARROWS + + Brown little, fat little, cheerful sparrows! + I like to think, when I hear them chatter, + How, when the brazen noise was gone + Of the chariot-wheels, with the sparks a-scatter, + Their chirp was heard in old Babylon. + + In Babylon, and more ancient Memphis, + They chattered and quarrelled, pecked and fumed, + And loved their loves, and flew their ways, + Where the royal Pharaohs lay entombed + Deep from the daylight's vulgar gaze. + + Then, just such little homely fellows + (When the angry monarch, terrible, + Watched his curled Assyrians writhe) + They sat, on a carven granite bull + Unheeding of anguish, feathered and blithe. + + So did they sit, on the roofs of Rome, + And preen themselves in the morning sun; + And Caesar saw them, brown and grey, + Whisk in the dust, when his course was run + And he took to the Forum his fated way. + + Oh, changing time; oh, sun and birds + How little changing. In the Square + This winter morning I have met + Old Egypt's grandson, stopped him there, + And "Sir, you will outlive me yet," + Said I politely, "mark my words." + + + + + THE MOON IN JANUARY + + Sharp and straight are the scaffold poles, + Black on a delicate sky; + Upright they stand, across they lie, + In changeless angles fixed and bound, + The sunset light in mist is drowned, + And the moon has risen high; + + High above houses, high and clear + Above the scaffolding, + So exquisite, so faint a thing, + The young moon's silver curve that shines + Above the fretting, tangled lines, + With the old moon in her ring. + + The young moon holds the old black moon + In a sky all grey with frost, + By cable wires barred and crossed, + And below, the haze of purplish-brown + Smokes upward from the lamp-lit town + Where outlines all are lost. + + The pure pale arch of windless sky, + The pure bright young moon's thread, + These wide and still are overhead; + And in the dusky glare below + The lamps go dotting, row on row, + And there is movement, to and fro, + Where far the pavements spread. + + + + + AN AUGUST NIGHT, 1914 + + The light has gone from the West; the wind has gone + From the quiet trees in the Park; + From the houses the open windows yellowly shine, + The streets are softly dark; + + Row upon row the twisted chimneys stand, + Each angle sharply lined, + And the mass of the Institute rises, tower and dome, + Black on the sky behind; + + Green is the sky, like some strange precious stone, + Dark, it yet holds the light + In its depths, like a bright thing shrouded over or veiled + By the creeping shadow of night; + + And whiter than any whiteness there is upon earth + A faint star throbs and beats-- + And the hurrying voices cry the news of the war, + Below, in the quiet street. + + + + + COUNTED OUT--OLYMPIA + + The small white space roped off; the hard blue light + Burning intensely on the narrow ring, + And every muscle's movement sculpturing + Harshly, of those two naked men who fight; + Beyond, the yellow lights that seem to swing + Across abysmal darkness; and below, + Tier upon tier, all silent, row on row + The dense black-coated throng, and all a-strain + White faces, turned towards the narrow stage, + Watching intently; watching, nerves and brain, + As those two men, cut off in that blue glare + From all reality of place and age + Wherein our common being has a share, + Together isolated, watch and creep + --Sunk head, hunched shoulders, light of foot and swift, + Deadly of purpose--in that ancient game, + Which was not otherwise in forests deep + Of earth primeval: that light tread the same, + The same those watchful eyes, and those quick springs + Of a snake uncoiling; underneath the skin, + Glistening with sweat in that unearthly blaze, + The muscles run and check, like living things. + And then, the hot air tremulous with the din, + And all the great crowd surging to its feet, + Yet like a wave arrested, while the hands + Of the referee allot the moments' beat; + The seconds, strung like greyhounds on a leash + Await the signal; and there's one who stands + Still guarding, watchful, tense, while all around + Lamp-light and darkness seem to rock and spin + In one wild clamour; and upon the ground, + Beneath the stark blue light, the beaten man! + + + + + THE GERMAN BAND + + When I was a little child + And lived very near the sky, + A German band was wonderful music + That could almost make me cry. + + It was to me of a beauty + That I could not understand, + Though I dimly guessed at sorrow and joy + In a grown-up distant land. + + All that I know with the years, + Much that I never shall know, + Was in my heart when the music came + In such guise, years ago. + + And now when on Friday mornings + I hear my own child run, + When the German band in the street starts playing, + The wonder is never done; + + The wonder at ways that our spirit + May take for itself to rise, + How a puddle may be a silver lake, + And a chimney touch the skies. + + All the forms through which spirit + Yearns and strives to be known + Are only a little greater or less, + For great is the Spirit alone. + + + + + STREET MUSIC + + I + + There comes an old man to our street, + Dragging his knobby, lame old feet, + Once a week he comes and stands, + A concertina in his hands, + There in the gutter stops and plays, + No matter fine or rainy days + --Very humble and very old-- + Pavement's for them who make so bold! + Prim, starched nurses, and ladies fair + With taffeta dresses and shining hair, + And gay little children, who break and run + To give him a penny--he seems to feel + (Out-at-elbows and out-at-heel) + That they've a right to the morning sun; + And so with gnarled old hands he'll play + For an hour, perhaps, then take his way, + Dragging his knobby, lame old feet + In the gutter of this quiet street. + + There is no grudging in his eyes, + Nor anger, nor the least surprise + At the uneven scales of fate: + Glad of the sun, against the rain + Hunching his shoulders, age and pain + He takes as his appointed state, + And stands, like Lazarus, at the door + With the dread humility of the poor. + + + + + STREET MUSIC + + II + + I've heard a mad old fiddler play + Harsh, discordant, broken strains, + Down the wet street on a winter's day + When the rain was speckling the window-panes, + + And though it was middle afternoon + And none of the lamps were lighted yet, + The night had settled down too soon + And the sky was low and dark and wet. + + In a cracked old voice I've heard him sing, + Strangely capering to and fro, + Sawing his fiddle on one worn string, + A grotesque and desolate thing of woe, + + Wagging his head and stamping his feet + (Unwitting of the passers-by + Hurrying through the gloomy street) + His shoulders hunched and his head awry. + + The children would laugh when they saw him pass, + And "Look," they'd say, "at Crazy Joe!" + And press their faces against the glass + To watch him--leering and lurching--go. + + Where he comes from, nobody knows, + But he, being mad, is in God's hand, + And sacred upon his way he goes; + And his music--God will understand. + + + + + PICCADILLY + + Above, the quiet stars and the night wind; + Below, the lamp-lit streets, and up and down + The tired, stealthy steps of those who walk + When the just sleep, at night, in London town. + + Poor garish ghosts that haunt the yellow glare, + Wan spectres, lurking in the alleys dark + Among the tainted night-smells, while the wind + Is whispering to the trees across the Park; + + For it is summer, may be, and the scent + Of new-mown hay is sweet across the fields, + But neither summer, nor the gleaming spring + One breath of healing to this dark life yields; + + No morning sunshine greets these sidelong eyes + With blessings, daughters as they are of gloom, + Ghosts only, such as seem to have a shape + At night in some old evil, haunted room. + + Would that they were indeed to be dissolved + At every sunrise!--they are living souls + Dragging mortality about foul streets + While overhead the star-lit heaven rolls. + + Living souls are they, and they have their share + In seed and harvest, and the round world's boon + Of changing seasons, and the miracle + Of each month's waxing and waning of the moon. + + Living souls are they, prisoned in a net + Of stealthy streets--age after age they've gone + Bearing the burden of a city's sin, + In London, and old Rome, and Babylon. + + + + + IN THE TUBE + + A tired, working woman, draggle-tailed, + Came in, harsh-featured in the yellow glare + Of electricity; an urchin trailed + Clumsily after her, with towsled hair, + And sharp, pale features, and a vacant stare, + And in her arms she bore another child. + + A sick child, doubtless, where all three looked sick; + The poor legs hanging limply, lean and blue, + Dangled grotesquely, for the boots, too thick + For such frail bones a touch could snap in two, + Like clock-weights seemed to swing, as staggered through + The burdened mother, till she found a seat. + + Through dark unnatural to unnatural blaze + Of stations rocked the train; it tore the air + To shreds and tatters in the tunnelled ways + With such a noise as when hell's trumpets blare; + We, swaying, faced our fellow-creatures there + Each mercilessly pilloried in light. + + The sick child lay against the woman's breast + Asleep, and she looked down on it and smiled, + And with her gaunt arms made her bird a nest + Against her poor worn bosom--sad and mild + In such wise looked Madonna at her Child + Where old saints worshipped, round the altar set. + + Such glory of the spirit shone and streamed + In that brief moment, that her form and face + Were rags of vesture only, through which gleamed + The splendour; something of wonder and of grace + Making the poor flesh lovely--all the place + Grew holy with the Mother and the Child. + + + + + A LONDON IDYLL + + I + + A heavy sky, and a drizzling rain + And the lamps in rigid rows; + Long smears of light all down the street + Where a lean cat stalking goes; + + Blank, save a glimmer here and there + The gaunt dark houses stand-- + And a man and a girl against the gate + Whispering, hand in hand. + + There is a little dripping sound + Of rain from off the roof; + And gleaming like black armour goes + The policeman's waterproof. + + He crosses the road to give them room + As he takes his evening beat; + He also knows that heaven may look + Like a rainy London street. + + + + + A LONDON IDYLL + + II + + Just to all of us once there comes + This splendour and wonder of love, + When the earth is transmuted to silver and gold, + And heaven opens above; + + When all we have ever seen with our eyes, + Daily, under the sun, + Seems like a miracle, happening again + To us two, instead of to one. + + When there is nothing so ugly or mean, + But somehow shimmers and glows + In that light, whose spring is within our hearts + And whose stream o'er the wide earth flows. + + When the spirit of us that is prisoned within + Seems at last to have wings, + And, soaring, looks with no common eyes + On no other than common things; + + When we may freely enter and share + Heaven's splendour and mirth-- + Just for a moment to all of us comes + This glory of love upon earth. + + + + + FINIS + + S.C.K.S. + + A book's end is the end of many hopes; + Much good endeavour; certain hours of stress + When brain and spirit fail, and laziness + Thralls the poor body--yet the purpose gropes + Athwart it all, and as the horseman cheers + His tired beast with chirrup, spur, and goad + Towards his home along the heavy road, + So drives us purpose till the end appears. + Read it who may! Find more or less of good + Within its covers, but at least find this: + Glad service to a great and noble aim + That may be striven for, and understood, + And fallen short of--so not quite we miss + In our small lamp of clay Truth's very flame. + + + + + OTHER VERSES + + + + IN EARLY SPRING + + There's a secret, have you guessed it, you with human eyes + and hearing-- + Which the birds know, which the trees know, and by which + the earth is stirred, + Stirred through all her deep foundations, where the water-springs + are fastened, + Where the seed is, and the growth is, and the still blind life is heard? + + There's a miracle, a miracle--oh mortal, have you seen it? + When the springs rise, and the saps rise, and the gallant cut-and-thrust + Of the spear-head bright battalions of the little green things growing + (Crocus-blade or grass-blade) pierce the brown earth's sullen crust? + + Oh, wonder beyond speaking in the daily common happening; + But the little birds have known it, and the evening-singing thrush, + In the cold and pearly twilights that are February's token + Speaks of revelation through the falling day-time's hush. + + + + + A BALLAD OF THE FALL OF KNOSSOS + + (_Circa_ 1400 B.C.) + + Is it a whisper that runs through the galleries? + Is it a rustle that stirs in the halls? + Is it of mortals, or things that are otherwise + This sound that so haltingly, dreadfully falls, + Pauses, and hurries, and falls? + + No moon, and no torches; not even a glimmer + To pin-prick the darkness that weighs like a sin, + And nothing is breathing, and nothing is stirring, + And hushed are the small owls without, and within + The mice to their holes have run in. + + It is not the step of a foot on the pavement; + It is not the brush of a wing through the air; + It is not a passing, it is not a presence, + But the ghost of the fate that this palace must bear, + Of the ruin of Knossos goes there. + + * * * * * + + For on such a night, when the moon is dark, + And all of the stars are dumb, + With a sudden flare by the sea-ward gate + Shall the doom of Knossos come; + For a cry will shatter the brooding hush, + And the crickets and mice shall wake + To clatter and clash and shout and cry, + And the stumble of frenzied feet going by + Death's stride will overtake. + + For into the glare of a new-lit torch + That shakes in a shaking grasp, + Sweat-streaked, wild-eyed, and dark with blood + Shall a runner break, and gasp + Of a burning harbour, of silent ships, + Of men sprung out of the night-- + Is it men or devils?--He moans, and reels + Shoulder to wall, and a red stain steals + Down the frescoes gay and bright. + + And hard on the word they hear approach + The surge of the battle near, + And to whistle of arrows, and clang of bronze + The palace awakes in fear. + Light! Light! and torches, like waking eyes + Leap from each darkened door; + And the guard at the sea-ward gate go down + In the vast black sea of men, and drown, + While sweeps the torrent o'er. + + What door shall hold, or what walls withstand + The roll of a full spring-tide, + With an on-shore wind? And the gates of bronze + Ring, rock, and are flung aside; + And a myriad unknown raiders burst + Into the hall of the King, + Where Minos on his carved, stone seat + Beheld the nations at his feet, + Watched each its tribute bring. + + Minos is slain; his guards are slain; + Which of his sons shall live + In this pillared Hall of the Double Axe + The word of the Kings to give? + Which of his sons? Shall they know his sons + In this sudden terror sprung + On sleeping men? Half-armed they stand, + Foot pressed to foot, hand tense to hand, + And muscles iron-strung. + + The flame of the torches in the wind + Of their struggle blackens the wall, + And the floor is sticky with blood, and heaped + With the bodies of those that fall. + What if a son of Minos live? + In that horror of blood and gloom, + What of the noble, what of the brave? + Better to die, than endure as a slave + The days after Knossos' doom. + + But above the scuffle of sandalled feet, + And the breath of men hard-pressed, + And the clash of bronze, and the gasp and thud + As the point goes through the breast, + And above the startled hoot of owls, + And the rattle of shield and spear, + The wailing voices of women rise + As their men are stricken before their eyes + And they huddle together in fear. + + Slow comes the dawning in the East; + Pale light on the earth is shed, + And cool and dewy blows the wind + Over the writhen dead; + Pale light, which fades in the growing glare + Of the flames that swirl and leap + Through corridor, and bower, and hall, + On carven pillar and painted wall; + The flames that like sickles reap + + A barren harvest of kingly things, + To be bound in ashy sheaves, + While driven forth by the work of his hands, + Stumbles the last of the thieves. + Behind him is fire, ruin, and death, + Before him the kine-sweet morn, + But vases of silver and cups of gold + And hoarded treasures fashioned of old + On his blood-stained back are borne. + + * * * * * + + Is it the night-wind alone that blows shuddering + Down the dim corridors, tangled with weeds; + Is it a bat's wing, or is it an owl's wing + That silently passes, as thistledown seeds, + In the Hall, where the small owlet breeds? + + Here do the moonbeams come, slithering, wandering + Over the faded, pale frescoes that stand + Faint and remote on the walls that are mouldering, + Crowned with a King's crown, or flowers in hand, + --Pale ghosts of a gaily-dressed band. + + Faintly they gaze on the wide desolation; + Faintly they smile when the white moonbeams play + Over the dust of the throne-room of Minos, + Over the pavements where small creatures stray, + The humble small things of a day. + + But there are other nights, moonless and starless, + When no moth flutters, no bat flits, owl calls, + Something is stirring, something is rustling, + Something that is not of mortals befalls + In galleries, cellars, and halls. + + Soundless and viewless, a strange ghostly happening, + Life, long since ashes, and flames, long since dead; + For the Angel of Time goes relentlessly, steadily + Over dark places that mankind has fled; + And the dust is not stirred by that tread. + + + + + A SUN-DIAL IN A GARDEN + + Across the quiet garden sunlight flows + In wave on wave like water, heavy bees + Hang drowsily upon the drowsy flowers, + For it is very still, and all the trees + Are pyramided high in green and gold. + There is a sun-dial there to mark the hours + Where time is not, where time has grown so old + It does not move now; yet the shadow goes + Across the dial that's so warm to feel + Like a cold, stealthy, creeping, living thing. + You cannot see it steal + Minute from minute of the golden day + Till all are eaten away, + You cannot press it back with both your hands, + And, on the shadowed stone + Laying your cheek, you never warmth can bring + To what beneath the sad triangle stands, + Solitary in sunlight: for we know, + It takes the whole great swinging earth to throw + The little shadow on the little stone. + + + + + "TWO ONLY" + + Only two hearts shall understand the sea + That speaks at nightfall, in the wash and lap + Of windless evenings under flaming skies; + Only two hearts shall hear the rising sap + In wet spring woods; and two alone, grown wise + In union, shall make discovery + Of what lies hidden, though before our eyes. + + Oh, core of wonder in familiar things: + Magic of evening, and of early morn + But just created, with the dew of birth + All fresh upon it, heaven itself new-born + O'er the green splendour of the quiet earth + And like a just-awakened bird that sings + Because of sunlight, is the spirit's mirth. + + All forms of beauty but express the soul + As in a looking-glass; the wind that goes + Low-talking to the trees beneath the stars, + Or the small sound of water, as it flows + Under old bridges, where the ivy mars + The sharp stone outline--these are in the whole + Of the World-Symphony small, tuneful bars. + + And human beings in the span of years + Some part of all the world-wealth may receive, + More, less, but never all; and with dismay + We see slow Time his net of hours weave + To catch from us dear mortal night and day, + Ere we have taken in our eyes and ears + Beauty that lies around, beyond, away. + + We, singly, feel a sudden sharp regret + Behind all beauty, but we--two in one, + As white and blue are separate in a flame + Yet mingled--we shall watch the hours run + Seeing with surer knowledge how the same + Eternal splendour for the soul is set, + And the day comes again from whence day came. + + + + + THE SAINT'S BIRTHDAY + + One of God's blessed pitying saints one day, + Reaching out hands to touch the azure throne: + "Because it is my birthday, Lord," he said, + "That I was born in heaven, when I was known + By an earthly name, and stoned and left for dead, + + "Because it is the custom, Lord, of men + To keep their birthdays gladly, and with gifts + Grant me a blessing from your blesséd stores." + And from the cloudy rose and amber drifts + About the Throne, God answered: "It is yours." + + Then sprang the glad Saint earthwards; at his feet + Were little golden flames, and all his hair + Was blown about his head like tongues of fire, + And like a star he burned through the dark air, + And came, and stood by farm and shed and byre + + Before the earliest grey was in the East, + Or the first smoke above the chimney-stack + From earliest-rising housewife, yet the cheep + And twitter of birds did gladly welcome back + Him who such love for earth in heaven could keep, + + And who on earth such love had had for men + And bird and beast, and all that lived and grew: + The sparrows in the eaves remembered him + And chirrupped in the gables, while the dew + Was dark still, and the day below the rim. + + He stood there, in the village of his life + Ere he won heaven, and the breath of cows + Came as a benediction, and the smell + Of rain-sweet copses, and, where cattle browse, + Long grass, and running water in the dell. + + And his heart opened with the love he had + For the dear toil-worn dwelling-place of men; + To hear the sheep crop, see the glimmering grey + Lighten the waiting windows once again, + And garden roses opening to the day. + + Not otherwise was Eden once--he thought-- + And by God's blessing it may be anew: + And so put forth the power God had lent + And took away all labour, and he drew + Heaven to earth, till earth and heaven were blent. + + Time ceased to be; and yet the sun and shade + Shifted to make new beauty with the hours, + And the ripe earth, unlaboured, gave her yields, + No pain there was, no age, and all the flowers + Unwitheringly lovely filled the fields. + + And all day long the birds in ecstasy + Sang without shadow of hawk or thought of death, + And the saint happily went about the ways + Filling each home with plenty--his very breath + Was like a little thrilling note of praise. + + When all was done he stepped back, childish-wise, + To see and love his handiwork, and then + Came a sharp pain, and pierced him through and through; + He had wrought lovingly for the days of men, + But the heart of men his love could not renew: + + The weary heart, the ever-questioning, + The loving, lacking, lonely, incomplete + For ever longing to be merged in one + With something other than itself; to beat + To another's pulse; to be for ever done + + With its sad weight of personality. + Then God leaned down to his poor saint, and said: + "Dear soul, would you make heaven upon the earth: + Nor know indeed My purpose in all birth, + Nor that My blessing is upon the dead?" + + + + + RUPERT BROOKE + + _April_ 1915 + + You that are gone into the dark + Of unknowing and unbeing; + You that have heard the song of the lark, + You that have seen the joy of the spring; + You have I seen, you have I known + --The word you have written, your pictured head-- + And they say you are laid at Lemnos among the English dead. + + Soul that is gone--is gone-- + Whether into the dark, + Or into knowledge complete and the blinding light; + Soul that was swift and free, + Passionate, eager, bright, + Armed with a weapon for shams, + And set with wings for flight; + Soul that was questioning, restless, and all at odds with life, + Greedy for it, yet satiate, and sick with the shows of things + --And all laid down at Lemnos, the hunger, the love, the strife, + And the youthful grace of body, and the body's ministerings. + + Darkness, darkness, or light! + You have leapt from the circle of sense, + And only your dust remains and the word you said: + "If I should die," ... and we name you among the dead. + Yet have I a hope at heart + That somewhere away, apart, + Knowledge is yours and joy of the act fulfilled + To still your fever of soul as your fever of blood is stilled; + So shall you soar and run + In water and wind and air, + With your old clean joy of the sun, + And your gladness in all things fair, + Untouched by mortality's sadness, simple, perfect, at one. + + + + + "COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, FOR I AM SICK OF LOVE" + + Red lilies under the sun, + Red apples hanging above, + And red is the wine that is spilled + On your bare white feet, O Love. + + The poppies sullenly glow + In the smouldering red from the West, + And black are the dregs of the wine, + O Love, on your bare, white breast. + + Aie! aie! when the wild swan flies + Lonely and dark is the place + That the white wings lightened, and death + Will cover your glowing face. + + O thief that is night, O thieves! + Cold years that devour us all; + The lilies blossom and wilt, + The apples ripen and fall, + + The apples, the apples of Love! + --Lo, where we have spilled the wine, + This quenchless earth is agape, + O Love, for your body and mine. + + + + + OF ENGLAND + + White is for purity, blue for heaven's grace, + Purple is for Emperors, sitting in their place, + Yellow is for happiness, rose for Love's embrace, + But green--oh green, the green of England--that's for Paradise! + + From seashore to seashore races the green tide; + With the pricking green of hedges by the wet roadside + --Or ever March triumphant comes with great, glad stride-- + There is green, there's green in England, and a tale of Paradise. + + Then the hawthorns flush and tremble in their early wondrous green, + And the willows are resplendent in a green-and-golden sheen, + Like the golden tents of princes, Babylonish, Damascene, + Or enchanted silent fountains of a Persian Paradise. + + There are beech and birch and elm-tree--evening-still or + morning-tossed-- + And the splendid generous chestnuts with their flame-like + blooms embossed, + There are oak and ash and elder, till the very sun is lost + In the green, delicious gloaming that's the light of Paradise. + + Deeper, wider, steadier this beauty ever grows, + And from field-side up to tree-top the endless colour flows, + Till road and house and wayside, in the first days of the rose, + Are fathoms deep in waves of green, submerged in Paradise. + + Oh dim and lovely hollows of all the woods that be; + Oh sunlight on the uplands, like a calm, great sea; + I think indeed the souls of those from circumstance set free + Look down, look down on England, saying: "Ah, dear Paradise!" + + + + + QUESTION + + What of this gift of Life? + Passionate, swift, and rife + With pleasure or pain in the hand of the hurrying hours? + Oh little moment of space, + Oh Death's averted face, + How shall we grasp, shall we grasp what still is ours? + + Chill, chill on either hand + Eternities must stand, + And pants between them, passionate and brief, + The moment's self, to make + Or unmake, but to take + Just here, just now, before death turns the leaf. + + Ah, if the leaf but turn, + And if the soul discern + Another message on another page! + But if death shuts the book? + We may not know nor look; + We are fenced in upon a narrow stage; + + While, splendid and intense, + Quick-strung in every sense + Life burns in us, and earth lies all around-- + Far blue of summer seas, + Young green of age-old trees-- + Bound by the season, by the horizon bound. + + Oh colour, sound, and light, + Oh wondrous day and night, + Pale dawns, and evenings' splendid stretch of gold; + Keen beauty like a spear, + Half pleasure and half fear, + Goes through us for the things we may not hold. + + Hot blood, hot noons, hot youth-- + When Life seems all the truth, + And Death a mumbled far old fairy-tale; + When just the splendid days + Suffice our eager gaze, + The wondrous present that will never fail. + + Then one day, with a fierce + Clamour of heart, we pierce + The light and see the shadows all behind, + And then, and not till then, + By the brief graves of men + The utter loveliness of flowers we find. + + So little stretch of days, + And earth, with all her ways + Lovely enough, I think, for Paradise; + And body, mind, and heart, + Each separate complex part, + Wondrously made, and never quite made twice. + + What of this gift of Life? + Shall it be worn in strife? + Shall it be idly spent, or idly stored? + Each for himself must dare + If the answer is here--or there, + Here for regret--or there for hope, O Lord? + + + + + LEONARDO TO MONNA LISA + + I wish you were a beaker of Venetian glass + That I might fill you with most precious wine + And drink it, breathless--lo! the moments pass + Of that subliminal communion. + I take you from my lips, and crush you--so!-- + Into a thousand shining particles; + So, at the last, my passionate greed shall know + That you were wholly mine. + + I wish you were a rare, stringed instrument + Beneath my hand, and from you I would wring + Such unimagined music, as was sent + Never before, along the quivering nerves; + Such strange, sharp discords, out of which I'd mould + Music more sweet than the spring nightingale's; + Then, ere the magic of the sound was old, + Would I not rend each string? + + Possess you? Ah, not with the world's possession, + You still, strange creature; neither force nor will + Could make you serve a man's mere earthly passion. + I would dissolve you, in one blinding flash, + Into a drop of elemental dew, + And let you trickle down the barren rock + Into the black abyss, if so I knew + That you henceforth were powerless to mock + My spirit with your smile. + + + + + THE ETERNAL FLUX + + Let us hold April back + One splendid hour + To bless the passionate earth + With golden shower + Of sunlight from the blue; + Oh April skies, + That earth yearns up to; blue has burned to gold, + Gold pales and dies + In delicate faint rose, + Oh flowing time, oh flux eternal. Hold + The hour back. The April hour goes. + + Then, let it be of May, + When sound and sight + And all that's beauty manifest + Through all the day, + Of deep on deep with green, + Of light on light + Across the waves of blossom, when the white + Is lovelier than the rose, except the rose + Is loveliest of all; + When through the day the cuckoo calls unseen, + And at nightfall + The nightingale, whose music no man knows + The magic heart of, sitting in the dark + Sings still the world-old way; + When all of these, + Flowers and birds, and sunset and pale skies + Seem gathered up in scent, + And all of sound and sight + Dissolved, ethereal, not of ears and eyes + But only the soul-beauty of the brain + Flows, in such waves of perfume, over all + --Or like a song in colour, of such strain + As spirits finer than our own must hear + (The beautiful made clear); + Then, then, when it is May, + Surely our hand must touch eternity. + Day pales to night, stars pale upon the day, + And May's last blossoming hour flows away. + + Not of June either, though the hanging skies + Make but a little span + 'Twixt light and growing light; + And when through that short darkness palely flies + The silent great white moth + --A spirit lost in the night, + A soul, without will or way--; + When the arch of trees + Is duskily green, and close as a builded house + Where love with love might stay, + Guarded and still, from sight; + When the hay is sweet in the fields + And love is as sweet as hay; + When the life-impulse of the wonderful untamed earth + Has reached its fulness and height, + Is broad and steady and wide + As sweeps into splendid bays the flowing tide; + When God might look on the land, + When God might look on the sea, + And say: "For ever be + Perfect, completed, achieved, + As now at this moment you stand." + Neither in June shall we stay the eternal flow + Nor grasp the present with pitiful, mortal hand, + For sliding past like water the June hours go. + + + + + "LOVE IS THE ULTIMATE MEASURE OF THE SOUL" + + Love is the ultimate measure of the soul; + Love is the biting acid, the sure test + To strip the naked gold, discard the rest + Of earthly stuffs; Love is the one thing whole + In a world of broken parts, for Love is all. + + Love is creation; Love is the low call + Of deep to deep; Love is the force that shapes + The thing that it believes, and while there gapes + The black earth-pit, where the poor flesh must fall, + Love builds on hope, and buds eternal life. + + Love is a victory unsoiled by strife; + Who is there that shall adequately name + All that Love is, this thing as swift as flame + And vast as heaven, yet in every life + Tamed to the narrow needs of little men? + + From humble love, that makes the partridge hen + Brave for her chickens, to the Love that shakes + The world from Calvary, all love partakes + Of immortality; one cannot pen + Divinity in words; Love is divine. + + The very essence of God does Love enshrine; + For let the heart, however sorely tried, + Open itself to loving, and the wide + Earth is a home; love-lacking must decline + Where black fears crowd across the starless dark. + + For Love is light; the faith that will embark, + Unpiloted, upon uncharted seas + Is Love alone; the fiery leap to seize + The splendid distant aim, the invisible mark, + What else but Love's? Love is the thing that stands + Unchanged, on changing tides and shifting sands. + + + + + NOVEMBER 8 + + THE LITTLE SUMMER OF ALL SAINTS + + The year stands still, the tearing winter winds + Hold off their claws a moment, that the trees + May keep the glory of their blended gold + A little minute; there's not so much breeze + As summer mornings hold. + + Golden and still the hours; russet gold + The birch-leaves o'er the silver of the bark; + Pale gold the poplars, like a lady's hair, + And thunderous gold along the hollows dark + The sunlit brackens flare. + + + + + THE LOVERS + + There are ghosts we walk with, lady of mine, + Arm in arm, and side by side, + Pallid ghosts, though the sun may shine, + Ghosts that are cold in the warmth of day, + And neither of us may fend them away, + But step by step they go with us, stride by stride. + + There are doors in your heart that are shut to me, + And behind them dwellers I cannot know; + And my soul has windows that open wide + On a ghostly, memoried country-side, + That--lady of mine--you never will see, + Where your voice will never be heard, nor your footsteps go. + + So we walk together, hand in hand, + While dark eyes peer at us, pale forms come, + And speak in my ear--or call your name + With a voice I hear not, for praise or blame, + And you walk alone with that ghostly band, + While I go by the side of you, pitying, powerless, dumb. + + + + + THE GENTLE HEART + + What shall harm the gentle heart + In its purpose undefiled? + Even grief shall lose its smart + In some way becoming part + Of that nature, soothed and gentled, + As a sorrow to a child. + + Through the blackness and the sin + Of the old world's wrongs and woes, + And through the greater dark within, + The gentle heart shall surely win, + As some bright angel, armed with mercy, + Swiftly on his errand goes. + + All the body may have wrought, + All the energies of mind + That for its own purpose sought, + Make at length a little nought + Among the stars--the gentle heart + Death itself will leave behind. + + + + + A BALLAD FOR HERMAN + + This is the ballad for Herman, the ballad of humble things, + The hedge-side thistles that flower, the small brown lark that sings, + And the stumbling flight of a beetle, and the dust + on a butterfly's wings. + The snails are out in the sunshine after the morning rain, + And the wasps are whirring and buzzing round the mulberry tree again, + And the ants are busy of course, working with might and main. + + While the crickets leap, and rustle, and play at being blades of grass, + And humble-bumble the bees go, lurching as they pass, + And the flies are stupidly walking up the window-glass. + + The sun is bright on the hedges, on thistle and bramble and briar, + The columbine leaves are heart-shaped, and shine as bright as fire + --And oh! the smell of the bracken, that's straight as Salisbury spire! + + Life of the woods, life of the rivers, life of the trees, + Life of the rich plain-grasses that seed to the morning breeze, + And the thymy mountain-grasses June makes loud with bees. + + This does not age nor alter; the low sharp song of the reeds + As the evening wind goes over, and the fishing heron feeds + On the still and shallow waters, salt with the floating weeds. + + This does not change nor vanish; the mating calls of the springs, + When April's green on the copses, and bright on the shining wings + Of birds going backwards and forwards, while the whole green + forest sings. + + All is our sister and brother, as once St. Francis said; + The little stones in the river, the bright sun overhead, + And newts, and the spawn of fishes, and the unnamed mighty dead. + + This is the ballad for Herman. O friend, may good befall! + There is never a star so distant, there is never a creature small, + But living and knowing and loving in our brain we hold them all. + + + + + FRANCE + + _April_ 1915 + + Great ever, with the hope that seeks the stars; + The brain clear-cold, like ice; the soul like flame; + The spirit beating at the physical bars; + The reason guiding all--oh, there we name + France! + + A country that can think, and thinking, acts; + A country that can act, and acting, dreams; + That neither bears the tyranny of facts, + Nor of its own dear hopes, nor of what seems, + + But still, clear-visioned, treats with things that are; + Yet--seer, prophet, priest of life-to-be-- + Leaps to the visionary days afar, + And all the splendour she will never see. + + School of the spirit, chastening, yet a spur + For all that men aspire to: as of old + Athens held up the torch, and did incur + Persia, with her fierce armies manifold, + + So France against the evil strikes and strives + For liberty, and we of island race, + --Humbled a little by our careless lives-- + Glory to stand beside her in our place, + + Glory that we are one in hope and aim + With her from whom in blood and agony + The second gift of human freedom came + Through Terror and the red Gethsemane. + + On her fair, ravaged borders stand her guns, + She has thrown away the scabbards, bared the swords, + And, snatching laughter out of death, her sons + Challenge high Fate to show what life affords-- + France! + + + + + ILGAR'S SONG + + (From _King Monmouth_) + + O love that dwells in the innermost heart of man + Secret and dark and still, + Like a bird in the core of a green mid-summer tree-- + Height upon height and depth upon depth where never the eye can see + The brown bird, hidden and still. + + O Love that is wild and eager, sun-lit and free + Like a seagull that turns in the sunlight above the sea; + Between the sea and the sky it flashes and turns, + And the sun on its wings is white, + While sharply and shrill by the headland the keen wind sings + Where the grass is salt and grey + With the beating winter spray, + And the seagull sweeps and soars on magnificent wings. + + Love that is like a flame, + Held in the hollow hand, + So dear and precious a thing + As a light in a stranger land, + As a flickering candle to him who wanders by night. + + Love that is wide as the dawn + To the eyes of night-bound men; + And the evil ghosts and the goblins it puts to flight, + And stealthy creatures of dark that rustle and creep, + And elfins and witches and all such devil's game + That cannot live in the light, + They squeak and gibber and cheep, + And vanish like shadows before the splendour of day. + + Love that has wide, white wings like a flying swan + --Oh what a noble span, + From tip to tip they are more than the height of a man + And curved like the sails of a boat-- + When over the evening river the wild swan flies + The curve of those wings is like the arch of the skies + Over the shielded earth. + Love is most like a bird, + For birds have least of the dust that gave them birth, + They soar and poise and float, + They wheel and swerve and skim, + And their wings are strong to the wind, and swift to the light, + And their voice is a promise of dawn while yet it is night, + And their song is a pæan of hope before it is spring, + And the song of the bird to his mate is lyrical love. + + Love is secret and holy, a spiritual thing, + Dark and silent and still + In the heart of man, as a treasure is hid in a shrine. + Love is splendid and fierce, as the summer sun + Drenches the sea and the sky with its blaze and shine, + Till every pebble is hot to the touch of the hand, + And the air is a-shimmer with heat o'er the hazy land-- + Yet Love is not any of these things, Love is of one + With the strange, half-guessed at, vast, creative plan + We cannot see with our eyes nor understand-- + Yet is Love pitiful too, for Love is of man. + + + + + THE INN + + I + + Friendship's an inn the roads of life afford + --I'll speak to you in metaphor, my friend-- + And there a tired man his way may wend, + And, coming in, sit down beside the board, + Out of the dust and glare, and boldly send + For drink and victuals; haply cross his knees, + And in the cool dark parlour take his ease, + And gossip of his journey and its end. + + That's friendship; there is neither right of place + Nor landlord duties, just the short hour's stay + From the sun and weariness between those kind + And quiet walls; and when the road's to face + Stony and long again, we take our way + Keeping that respite gratefully in mind. + + + + + THE INN + + II + + We take our pack, and jog our way again + Towards the windy sunset and the night; + The inn is now behind us, out of sight, + Showing no welcome shine of windowpane, + But dark and silent standing by the way + As we go forward, seeing mile on mile + Sink out of sight--just for a little while + We rested, in the middle of the day. + + Is there an end at last, and shall we reach, + By the faint glimmer of new-risen stars, + Our house at last, and find the heart-repose + Which is the ultimate desire of each + Poor traveller--ah! shall they drop the bars, + And the doors open? Dear my friend, who knows? + + + + + "TO-DAY I MISS YOU" + + To-day I miss you ... "Only for to-day, + Some little matter of hours and nothing more." + That at least the worldly-wise folk say, + Who've never waited for the opening door, + The greeting look, the known step on the floor; + Who've never missed a loved one like a lover. + + To-day I miss you. What to-morrow brings + Is the other side of all the stars, God knows! + Only to have you here, now evening swings + Its quiet shadow round the globe again, + And in our talk of old familiar things, + And in familiar gestures, turn of brain, + Looks, tone of voice, I may discern again + That union from which alone love grows. + + We'd close the curtains;--while the world outside, + Noisily autumn, makes a sense of peace + Deeper within,--open the bookcase wide + And take a book out; then another book, + And then another.... "Here's a favourite, look! + We cannot pass him." ... Then from reading cease, + Gossip and laugh, with finger in the page, + And challenge thought with thought, and mind with mind + Each speaking freely, that we might increase + Some knowledge to which, singly, we were blind. + + So goes the evening. Side by side we stand, + Dear friends and brothers, till, a sudden pause, + Or kindly, almost careless touch of hands, + Swings us to face each other, and we feel + Those deepest stirrings of the human heart + Man has no name for yet, those changeless laws + Of more than mating--that eternal part + Our body is aware of, and our brain, + Unchallenging with reason, must receive, + That sense of intimate wonder!--Now again, + The blinds are drawn; lamp, books, chairs, all retain + Familiar aspects, but, you absent, leave + The room all empty, empty all the day. + + + + + "HOW SMALL THE THREAD THAT HOLDS UP HAPPINESS" + + How small the thread that holds up happiness; + But one frail life between the dark and me, + Your life, dear love--and here I seem to see + You whimsically smile, that I confess + The whole round world, with its vast energy, + Its summers, and its sunshine, and its aims, + Its splendid hopes, the faith that unquenched, flames + --All sunk into the compass of you and me. + Yes, you are right, the single leaves that fall + Mar not the summer; do I think one leaf + Denudes a forest?--We are nought at all. + Yet the bereaved small bird within the tree + May break its heart above its nest for grief + --And perhaps this must happen, love, to me. + + + + + "IN ALL THINGS GRACIOUS THERE IS A THOUGHT OF YOU" + + In all things gracious there is a thought of you: + In the soft fall of April rain, the blue + Of April skies in the morning, the full moon + Of windless August nights, perfect and still, + When the white moonlight lies across the hill + Of new-cut stubble, where a little mist, + Flickering, rises. In the song of birds + My heart turns to you, emptied all of words + By loveliness, and in the poise and swing + Of flowering grasses, and in the lingering + Grave, spacious fall of evening on the earth, + When the wide, liquid spaces of the sky, + Above the dewy fields and darkening lanes, + And windless water lying quietly, + Yield up the daylight, until none remains. + + I could endure--or so it seems to me-- + Without your presence, a life of winter days, + Stark, grey Novembers stretching endlessly, + Where I, forgetting laughter and bright things, + Might set my face to duty; but the stir, + The loveliness, the poignancy of springs, + The growth, the rise, the universal press + Up to sensation--ah, I could not bear + To live an April through, but must take wings + Out of a world too fair for loneliness. + + + + + "THERE'S DUTY, FRIEND, TO JOG WITH ARM IN ARM" + + There's duty, friend, to jog with arm in arm + Through these dark streets; there's kindliness indeed, + And there's the hope a little more to weed + Our own small patch of life which the tares harm; + There's patience for the folly of the earth; + There's pity for the poor who suffer wrong; + There's honour for the striving and the strong + --But ah, dear friend of mine, where is the mirth? + Where's the old jollity of everyday + That makes a holiday of common things + Because they all are shared by us aright, + The trivial daily work and happenings + Having a sort of fervour and delight, + And the sun rising, even, a different way? + + + + + "EVENING" + + Beloved of my soul, the day is done; + The busy noises cease, the lights are low; + Gently the doors shut to behind each one + Seeking his sleep; the fading embers glow + On silent hearths; the silent ashes fall-- + Ah, absent spirit, do you hear me call, + Me, sitting waiting by the fireside? + + This is the hour of all the night and day, + --This is the hour when, work put aside, + And all the talking, whether grave or gay, + For pleasure or for profit, hushed and dumb, + We used to, in the days before you died, + Seek out each other's mind for rest, and say: + "Now am I home, and all is well with me; + To-day is gone, to-morrow is to come; + Here let us be." + + Surely, for all the barriers of sense, + And the stark grossness of this flesh I wear, + For all the vacant distance of the skies + Between me here alone, and you, gone hence, + There must be some quick knowledge; I must hear + That dear familiar voice again, must see + Some semblance of you with my bodily eyes, + Now, now, when in the solitude I yearn + Towards your heart, my home; now when I turn + Humbly and searchingly towards that goal + That lies beyond the purchase of the world-- + You again, you, dear comrade of my soul. + + + + + FINIS + + Life, in its unimaginable heights, + When we may seize and apprehend the true + Soul essence, of one nature with the stars: + Rare moments when our senses are a mist + That the truth shines through:--oh, most strange and rare, + Such ecstasies as unimprisoned souls + Experience in that thin empyrean + Beyond the gross world; this we two have known + We two together. There are memories + Of such high happiness in a fence of pain + As martyrs in their fiery heart of death + Have blessed their God for; passion and holiness, + When all the body (sinew, bone, and brain) + Are like a harp, from which the spirit makes + Marvels of harmony; some sense too rare + To be called happiness, not to be named indeed + In human speech--this we have touched and known + Together, at some thrilling edge of time. + + I fall away from it; the barriers close + About me; I descend from the clear heights + Into the plains and valleys of the world. + The traffic of the market-place is mine, + The heat and dust, the jostling and the noise, + The kindly challenge and the neighbour-talk, + All these may claim me, so that I forget + To lift my eyes and see the far-off peaks, + And the eternal splendour of the stars. + + So be it; let the tide of men's affairs + Carry me back and forward; let the rub + Of greasy ha'pence passed from hand to hand, + In humble traffic of a bunch of herbs + Not pass me by; let me jog arm in arm, + Or cheek by jowl, the shady side o' the street, + With friends and neighbours, glad to know them there, + Imperfect, human, kind, and tolerant. + + So may the years go. Yet, when the call comes, + And the world's colours fade before the eye + That turns for spiritual vision on itself; + When, from the four walls of the silent room, + The noises of the world fall back and fail + In that great silence which enrings the last + Ecstatic moment of experience, + Here on this earth--ah, then indeed I know + That I shall find you. All that lies behind + (The years of trivial experience) + Shall open and fall back from off my soul, + As falls the brown sheaf from the opening bud; + And in that poignant moment, that mere breath + Of temporal time, that aeon of the soul, + I shall reach out and know you, mix with you + As flame with flame, as ray with ray of light, + Be perfectly yourself, as you are me, + With all else fallen, gone, dispersed away + Save the pure drop of spiritual essence--Then + Let come what may, light or oblivion. + + + + + _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. + + + + +RECENT POETRY + +Poems. By RALPH HODGSON. Fourth Thousand. 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