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diff --git a/old/50378-8.txt b/old/50378-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b1a7267..0000000 --- a/old/50378-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2165 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Oxford Poetry, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Oxford Poetry - 1919 - -Author: Various - -Editor: Thomas Wade Earp - Dorothy Leigh Sayers - Siegfried Sassoon - -Release Date: November 3, 2015 [EBook #50378] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OXFORD POETRY *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Les Galloway and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - OXFORD POETRY - - 1919 - - - - - _Uniform with this Volume_ - - OXFORD POETRY, 1914 (_Out of Print_) - OXFORD POETRY, 1915 - OXFORD POETRY, 1916 - OXFORD POETRY, 1917 - OXFORD POETRY, 1918 - - - - - OXFORD POETRY - 1919 - - - EDITED BY - T. W. E., D. L. S., and S. S. - - - OXFORD - B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET - 1920 - - -The following authors wish to make acknowledgment for permission kindly -given to reprint: Mr. E. Dickinson, to the editor of _Coterie_; Mr. P. -H. B. Lyon, to the editor of the _Spectator_ ("The Song of Strength"); -Mr. W. Force Stead, to the editor of the _Poetry Review_. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - H. M. ANDREWS (NEW COLLEGE) PAGE - - SONG 1 - - T. H. W. ARMSTRONG (KEBLE) - - HERITAGE 2 - WATCHING 3 - LONELINESS 4 - - P. BLOOMFIELD (BALLIOL) - - TWILIGHT 5 - - VERA M. BRITTAIN (SOMERVILLE) - - TO A V.C. 6 - - H. I. BURT (BALLIOL) - - FROM THEIR DUST 7 - - F. W. BUTLER-THWING (NEW COLLEGE) - - THE TRAMP-SHIP 8 - PILOT AND CLOUDS 9 - - E. P. CHASE (MAGDALEN) - - SEVEN MISTS 10 - - "I AM CLOTHED WITH FURTIVE LIGHT" 10 - - W. R. CHILDE (MAGDALEN) - - LES HALLUCINÉS 11 - - E. A. C. CLARKE (KEBLE) - - FLOWERS 12 - - L. M. COOPER (LADY MARGARET HALL) - - LINES FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERODOTUS 13 - CRUSOE WAS A VAGABOND 14 - - ERIC DICKINSON (EXETER) - - THE GARDEN 16 - - B. EDWARDS (LADY MARGARET HALL) - - THE MAN WHO HAS FORGOTTEN TIME 18 - IN A CANOE (OXFORD) 19 - - RALPH W. W. FOX (MAGDALEN) - - LOVE WEEPING AMONG THE CROSSES 20 - ON HEARING THAT THE NAMES CARVED UPON AN OLD - SCHOOL TABLE ARE TO BE REMOVED 22 - THE ENVIOUS POETS 23 - - J. B. S. HALDANE (NEW COLLEGE) - - COMPLAINT OF THE BLASPHEMOUS BOMBERS AT BEIT - AIESSA 24 - - C. R. S. HARRIS (CORPUS) - - SONNET 25 - - B. HIGGINS (B.N.C.) - - GALLIPOLI: AN EPITAPH 26 - EVENTIDE 27 - - H. J. HOPE (CHRIST CHURCH) - - THE PATROL 28 - THE MONK'S FANCY 29 - AN ALPINE PICTURE 30 - - G. H. JOHNSTONE (MERTON) - - OXFORD IN MAY 31 - - C. H. B. KITCHIN (EXETER) - - SOMME FILM, 1916 32 - ESCHATOLOGICAL SONNET 33 - EPILOGUE 34 - RULER OF INFINITE AUSTERITY 35 - - JOHN LANGDON-DAVIES (ST. JOHN'S) - - QUITS! 36 - - P. H. B. LYON (ORIEL) - - THE SECRET PLAYROOM 37 - THE SONG OF STRENGTH 39 - THE DESERTED GARDEN 41 - - G. A. MOSTYN (BALLIOL) - - LES MISERABLES 42 - - A. S. MOTT (MERTON) - - UMBRA 43 - - K. MOUNSEY (HOME STUDENT) - - TO A LITTLE HOUSE IN OXFORD 44 - - R. M. S. PASLEY (UNIVERSITY) - - THE DIVER 45 - - V. DE S. PINTO (CHRIST CHURCH) - - STATION 46 - SWANS 47 - - H. S. REID (SOMERVILLE) - - A DREAM 48 - - E. RENDALL (HOME STUDENT) - - EPITAPH 49 - - D. L. SAYERS (SOMERVILLE) - - FOR PHAON 50 - SYMPATHY 51 - VIALS FULL OF ODOURS 52 - - W. FORCE STEAD (QUEEN'S) - - THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 53 - - L. A. G. STRONG (WADHAM) - - AT PUNNET'S TOWN 55 - DALLINGTON 56 - EENA-MENA-MINA-MO 57 - - D. A. E. WALLACE (SOMERVILLE) - - IMPROMPTU IN MARCH 59 - IN NEW COLLEGE CLOISTERS 60 - THE BEGGAR-MAIDEN 61 - - J. L. WING (MAGDALEN) - - LOUIS ONZE 62 - - - - - _H. M. ANDREWS_ - (_NEW COLLEGE_) - - -SONG - - I met a sage at the break of day, - And he welcomed me with a smile; - He spoke his words of encouragement - And we parted after a while. - - I met a fair lady when all was bright, - And the sun was burning on high; - She turned to me with her deep, dark eyes - And sold herself for a lie. - - I met a child when the world was dark - And I was drear and alone; - The child spoke naught, - But the dark became light; - The day of glory had come. - - The barren ground shone with splendour high, - Bare branches dripped with gold, - And the earth was transformed to heaven, - Just as the sage foretold. - - - - - _T. H. W. ARMSTRONG_ - (_KEBLE_) - - -HERITAGE - - Here in my glass is blood of kings, - The life-blood of a race that lies - Long dead. The jewels burning in your rings - Are an Egyptian woman's eyes. - - Your beads are dead bones; even my breath - Breathes hot words that were others' pain. - Now these fair things are ours awhile, till death - Brings us to quiet sleep again. - - Then we shall put our love aside - For lovers of a later birth, - And leave to them this body's fragrant pride, - For jewels, in the heart of earth. - - -WATCHING - - Midnight at last! And you, I know, - Are sleeping there - Peaceful. Stars keep - Great guard upon you. Calm, and still, and white - You are. One moment all your pale swift hair - Is quiet as the night. - - Here in this mud, this beastliness - Of war, the thought - Of your soft sleep - Soothes a tired mind as a rare ointment may - Comfort a wound, sweet-scented ointment brought - From strange lands, far away. - - -LONELINESS - - I watched the moon behind the trees - Float in a sea of sky. - The aspen whispers in the breeze, - The rest is silence now. And I - Can feel my loneliness around - Me fall. No human face - There is. None speaks. Never a sound - Save whispering leaves in this still place. - - I have two friends, and they are dead, - Perhaps about their graves - Are trees that whisper overhead, - While in the grass the nettle waves. - - - - - _P. BLOOMFIELD_ - (_BALLIOL_) - - -TWILIGHT - - The day grows fainter, moonlit evening fills - With calm and cool the lilac-scented land, - And I feel--were I on the western hills, - At last, at last, now might I understand - These mysteries of Life; how things began, - And why I love my darling as I do, - And how came longing to the soul of Man, - And whether Death must sever me from you. - Ah, hush! A spirit moves abroad, whose veil - The poets would give all the world to raise, - But, failing, tell some wistful fairy-tale, - And laugh, and weep, and go their several ways. - The birds are sleeping: nay, I do not know - What's in the twilight, makes my heart beat so! - - - - - _VERA M. BRITTAIN_ - - (_SOMERVILLE_) - - -TO A V.C. - - Because your feet were stayed upon that road - Whereon the others swiftly came and passed, - Because the harvest you and they had sowed - You only reaped at last. - - Tis not your valour's meed alone you bear - Who stand the object of a nation's pride, - For on that humble Cross you live to wear - Your friends were crucified. - - They shared with you the conquest over fear, - Sublime self-disregard, decision's power, - But Death, relentless, left you lonely here - In recognition's hour. - - Their sign is yours to carry to the end; - The lost reward of gallant hearts as true - As yours they called their leader and their friend - Is worn for them by you. - - - - - _H. T. BURT_ - (_BALLIOL_) - - -FROM THEIR DUST - - Not in their immortality alone - Live those bright spirits who for honour spent - Their rich inheritance of years, and went - Gay-heartedly to meet the wide unknown. - - Not though the fields where their young limbs were strown - Once more be chartered by the foeman's tent, - And all the achieving of their tournament - Be scattered to the winds or overthrown. - - For from their memory and quickening dust - Shall spring the flashing squadrons of the dawn; - And they shall set their spears and ride afar - To seek and battle, thrust and counterthrust, - For grails from our beclouded eyes withdrawn, - The champion warriors of a holier war. - - -ERRATUM. - -_For_ H. I. Burt _read_ H. T. Burt, to whom also should be attributed -"Pilot and Clouds" (page 9). - - - - - _F. W. BUTLER-THWING_ - (_NEW COLLEGE_) - - -THE TRAMP-SHIP - - Sailing over summer seas, - Seeking ports of rest, - Dancing with the dancing breeze, - Host and guest. - - Calmed beside the setting sun, - Lifeless on the deep, - Waiting till the halt be done - And the sleep. - - Driving 'gainst the sullen storm, - Striking hard the foe, - Gallant heart and gallant form - Breast the snow. - - Homeward, homeward in the years, - All thy pennons fly; - Bravely onward, smiles and tears, - Home to die. - -_July, 1911._ - - - - -PILOT AND CLOUDS - - Clouds, little clouds, tell me whither are you going to, - Spun by the sun of the shearing of the sea? - "Thither we are bound, where the West Wind is blowing to, - Off on a holiday, merrymakers we." - - Clouds, merry clouds, will you wait till I may fly to you, - Share in the frolic of your gay company? - "Nay, for the West Wind bids us say good-bye to you, - Save if your chariot be speedier than he." - - Swift are my steeds: at the thunderous career of them - The high, lone silences that cradle you will flee. - "Think you our hilarity will tremble at the fear of them, - We who laugh in thunder and lighten in our glee?" - - Then will I fly to you, dance with you, play with you, - Hover on your breast where the shadow cannot be. - "Hurry, brother, hurry, for we may not delay with you, - Off on a holiday, merrymakers we." - - - - - _E. P. CHASE_ - (_MAGDALEN_) - - -SEVEN MISTS - - The beauty of the High is not in brilliance - Nor in a florid sculpturing of stone, - Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones, - But the wide curve and placid flow,--and that - St. Mary's spire and seven twilight mists - Are hanging over Oxford towers to-night. - - - I am clothed with furtive light - Reflected from that pallid sun - When it sets, hardly bright, - Behind Merton tower, daylight done. - - When the moon, silver-hued, - Through Cowley generated mist - Tears its way and glimmers nude - Above Magdalen tower, it keeps tryst - - With that spirit of my soul - Which would glide through Oxford streets, - Still, unseen, without control, - With wide eyes scanning whom it meets. - - - - - _W. R. CHILDE_ - (_MAGDALEN_) - - -LES HALLUCINÉS - - This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, - As they stand at their booth-doors when brazen eve - Covers the city of Chrysopolis - Like the vast cup of an inverted flower, - And into the pale blue cope of marble twilight - Steal up men's souls like incense strange and pure. - - "This is the singing of the sons of Hâli, - To you, O seraphs, where you lean your breasts - Upon the perfumed clouds of sunsetting, - And your huge wings, enormous, like a swan's, - Alone cover with silver plumes of fire - Your long sides, strange as pictures in Toledo-- - - "O seraphs, with your melting eyes like girls', - And rosy breasts embosomed in the eve, - Vouchsafe to us a little rain of coins, - Of golden sequins tumbling through our sleep; - Give us of heavenly gold, we have none earthly, - And stab our souls with seeds of sworded fire."-- - _This_ is the singing of the sons of Hâli. - - - - - _E. A. C. CLARKE_ - (_KEBLE_) - - -FLOWERS - - Shining, never-thirsty flowers, - That by the water-side - Do never plaintive cry for showers - To damp their local pride. - - Lazy they wag their lovely heads, - Nodding that way and this, - Lithe bodies upon mossy beds - With lips bedewed that kiss. - - The kindly and generous stream - That gently ripples by, - An idle, silvery dream, - Where sleeping fishes lie. - - These delicate flowers of Mary - Lie long and overgrown, - While Martha's parched and weary - Stand in the sun and groan - - - - - _L. M. COOPER_ - (_LADY MARGARET HALL_) - - -LINES FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERODOTUS - - No lover and no kinsmen pass - To honour the deep-buried dead. - The roads are covered up with grass - That burned beneath th' Immortals' tread. - No tramp of armed foe is heard, - Nor bowstrings' twang, nor arrows' hiss, - Nor sound to scare the nesting bird - On rocky Salamis. - - Yet runs the Royal Road to-day, - From Sardis up to Suza town, - And still above the Rhamnian Way - The heights of Marathon look down: - Still from the blue, Ægean wave - The sea-wind sweeps with keen salt breath - The hills that saw the Spartan brave - Comb their long hair for death. - - -CRUSOE WAS A VAGABOND - - Wise men pray for hearth and home, a comely wife to tend them, - And dread to feed the little folks that clamber on their knee; - Their fathers' fields to plough and sow--their old friends to - befriend them, - But Crusoe was a vagabond, and ran away to sea. - - He strayed upon the docks of Hull, and smelt the tar and cordage, - He saw the bales of foreign ware piled high upon the quay, - He heard the seamen singing, and the outbound ship-bells ringing - Across the fog and darkness;--and he ran away to sea. - - He might have dwelt by barn and dyke our fathers made before us, - And dipped his fat sheep yearly in the burn that turns the mill; - He might have heard the harvest home go up in lusty chorus, - When the last wain comes lumbering across the moonlit hill. - - But he heard the loud surf thundering against the harbour wall, - The brown be-earringed sailor-men all swearing on the quay; - The salt was in his nostrils, and he cared no more at all - For barn or byre or cattle; but he ran away to sea. - - The boys he knew are grey, old men, and soon their sons shall lay - them - To rest beside the little church upon the spur of hill: - The distant hum of chant and prayers, the feet of them that pray them, - The sunlight and the blackbirds' song shall be about them still. - - But he's a homeless wanderer from Rio Grande to Malabar, - And God knows who shall stand by him, or what his end shall be. - The wheeling gulls shall cry his dirge, the great waves drum his - burial, - When his poor old battered body slips into the greedy sea. - - - - - _ERIC DICKINSON_ - (_EXETER_) - - -THE GARDEN - - Blessed with the green of rains, charged sweet with scent of May, - The garden paths caressed her as she walked with slow foot-fall; - Slight was her frame, but took no pressure of decay, - And age had found age beautiful as when youth gave youth all. - Far over dreamy meadows bells toll the dying sun, - And a quiet is on her spirit for the tender drooping balm - Of the evening filled with perfume the spring has swiftly won, - And the rising moon that greets her in the garden of her calm. - - The ebony stick has brought her by the phlox and marigold, - And a dream of one is with her who loved this place the best of all, - Who was straight and clean of stature as Bayard was of old-- - Who when the drummers beat the fields obeyed the drummers' call. - His letters breathed a brighter hope than any she had heard, - Nor any hint he gave to her that for his fairest youth - Death leapt and chattered daily, and daily was deterred - From staying all the transient joys that chased across his mouth. - - The mother thrilled with sense of beauty infinite: - For here it was the lithe, strong arms had pressed her to his breast, - And his proud mouth had sealed on hers the proudest right - That lovely tenderness may plan in gardens of the West. - And so the moon grew white to silver all the lawns, - While the garden wicket grows more white because a shadow near - Has come to steal the wakened joy of any further dawns. - The hand upon the wicket trembles, the vision is not clear - - Of the one woman in the garden who is so quiet and still. - At last the shadow enters and knows a form has sudden fled, - And now is lonely weeping upon a haunted hill-- - For with it entered a company of France's hidden dead. - At the sound of feet she turns, while her heart has made such stir - That makes her grip her stick more close and head grow more erect: - She sees a priest's worn cassock, and priests are sore to her, - For as a child she knew they moved where life's best ships were - wrecked. - - "Madame, your son is dead," said he, with lowered glance: - "But he bade them say the lilies yet are strong within the gale, - He died a hero's death for honour and for France!" - Then the mother faced and fixed his eyes, but the cheeks were - drawn and pale. - "I thank you for these words, for I see God spared him speech - Before he died, and there are mothers for whom no words atone - For speech of those they love, and whom no tidings reach. - I thank you. And now leave me, for I would be alone." - - And there she sits so quiet in the light of the young moon, - While the flowers are dead, and the fruits are dead along with the - young life - That someone sped to the depth of the last dim lagoon. - But only the priest in the fields of youth hears the requiem guns - of strife. - And he knows that strife goes on and on, for ever on and on, - While the harps of the world shall play no more, nor any more - shall bring - The maids and youths to laughter until that the end be won, - And the eyes of men grow young again, and the heart of the world - can sing. - - - - - _B. EDWARDS_ - (_LADY MARGARET HALL_) - - -THE MAN WHO HAS FORGOTTEN TIME - - The ancient man who has forgotten time - Walks seldom in the hurried city street, - Where is the man who has forgotten time? - For we so seldom meet-- - - Only sometimes on mornings after rain, - When feathers from the passing wings of night - Linger in wide sky spaces after rain, - I see the strangest sight-- - - The houses by the river melt away, - And there are paths between the silent trees, - And all the city's uproar melts away - Into the hum of bees. - - And by the water walks an ancient man, - Who watches how the swift-tailed squirrels climb, - And him I know to be the ancient man - Who has forgotten time. - - I often meet him pacing on the hills, - Or near flat marshy wastes where no one goes, - But very seldom will he leave the hills - Or sea-cliffs that he knows. - - And so I meet him rarely in the town, - But I can always tell his face again, - And sometimes I have seen him in the town - At daybreak after rain. - - -IN A CANOE (OXFORD) - - So many things you thought you knew - Are different seen from a canoe: - On either bank the grass is far - Higher than other grasses are, - And all the willows make a roof - Fretted with branches--not aloof - Like trees in gardens and in squares - Which never hit you unawares. - - - - - _RALPH W. W. FOX_ - (_MAGDALEN_) - - -LOVE WEEPING AMONG THE CROSSES - - Cupid has broken his bow, - His arrows are shattered and lost. - Oh, look at him, look at him now, - His pinions trailing the dust! - - The beautiful boy is sad, - The glory has left his glance, - You would say he had never been glad, - That his limbs did not know how to dance. - Oh, look at him, look at him now, - Hugging his broken bow, - Forlornly he wanders about - Dreaming forgotten things... - Nobody heeds him now, - Nobody hears if he sings. - - Once at his wanton play - Everyone railed and laughed, - But nobody laughs to-day - For love is so far away. - - Beautiful sorrowing child, - Hugging your broken bow, - Your eyes grow suddenly wild, - Anguish is twisting your face... - So changed from the Cupid's we know, - The Cupid of dimples and grace. - Cupid is down on his knees, - Down in the midst of the crosses; - His glorious, childish head - Is bowed on his lovely arms... - But the young of the world are dead - And heedless of Cupid's charms. - Oh, look at him, look at him now, - The delicate shoulders shake. - Hugging his broken bow - Cupid is weeping now. - Cupid is weeping as though - His wonderful heart would break. - - -ON HEARING THAT THE NAMES CARVED UPON AN OLD SCHOOL TABLE ARE TO BE -REMOVED - - Gaze long upon this length of lifeless deal, - Carved with rude cipher or with ill-cut name. - Here youthful hands have wrought to set their seal - Of immortality. No idle fame - For those too-soon-forgotten names they sought, - Only that others, seeing them, might say, - These too were young and here have something brought - Of youth's high heart, ere going each his way. - - These names, that thus have sung the joyous song - Of youth's endeavour, now must fade and die - 'Neath the cold malice that doth e'er belong - To small minds wielding blind authority. - So youth by age is ever vanquishèd - And beauty smirched and soiled when youth is dead. - - -THE ENVIOUS POETS - - You say we are happy, being poets, - In our poor songs and tawdry tales. - I tell you it is not true. - There are those we envy above the gods, - And they are the painters and carvers. - With bright colour and cunning line - They have the power to conjure up before them - Great visions of all the loveliness they have known. - A tree, the sea at night, - A friend, - The dear face of their belovèd, - All these they can make live before them - In colour, in marble. - But what satisfaction do you think there is - In a black printed word? - I tell you we envy the painters and carvers. - - - - - _J. B. S. HALDANE_ - (_NEW COLLEGE_) - - -COMPLAINT OF THE BLASPHEMOUS BOMBERS AT BEIT AIESSA - - It was not our hand or our fathers' hand, - Nor mortal malice and the hate of men, - That drew us to this far disastrous land - Where the old primal night comes on again. - Thy hand, O God of battles, and Thy voice - Drew friend and foe into one net of hell, - Wherefore Thine angels glory and rejoice, - Thine enemies shall perish. It is well. - - We who had hoped in vain that for a season - We might hold back Thy darkness from mankind, - We who had trusted and obeyed our reason, - We now are helpless and amazed and blind. - Thou hast grudged the rich his little hours of pleasure, - The little things of life that he held dear, - The worker his fireside and evening leisure: - Thou hast Thy will. One doom has drawn us here. - - Therefore from this unhallowed desolation, - Where these, the victims of Thy monstrous lust, - Half-buried in the mud of their damnation, - Crumble--how slowly!--into loathsome dust, - We curse Thee, God, nor shall our sons and daughters - Fall at Thy footstool as their fathers fell, - But, tired of tears and loyalties and slaughters, - Lie down in peace and laugh at heaven and hell. - - - - - _C. R. S. HARRIS_ - (_CORPUS_) - - -SONNET - -"Cum tacet omnis ager."--VIRGIL. - - Oh for the stillness of the midnight hours, - When all the earth is silent, and the breeze - Rustles no more the branches of the trees, - And makes no music in the leafy bowers, - When Nature sleeps, and all earth's myriad flowers - Folded in slumber take their dewy ease, - And hushed is all the moaning of the seas, - Lulled by the magic of enchanting powers. - For then the green earth sleeps, and for a while - Forgets her sorrow, and her heaving breast - Is sunk in a deep calm and liquid rest. - And the still waters of the silver sea, - Bathed in the glory of the moon's cold smile, - Reflect the splendour of eternity. - - - - - _B. HIGGINS_ - (_B. N. C._) - - -GALLIPOLI: AN EPITAPH - - The moan of centuries breaks around these shores, - Whispers of sultry ages, and of woes - Low-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven.... - - A land that bows beneath the crescent moon - And shrinks within its glinting gaze--is this - The mausoleum of our nation's dead? - Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand! - Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hills - Are touched with sanctity: the Voice of God - Thrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fields - And lingers where these warriors lie entombed-- - 'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies, - Where sleep they in a hush of eventide, - The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments! - -MELBOURNE, 1917. - - -EVENTIDE - - A thrush throbs out his mournful melody, - And shadowy fingers of approaching Dusk - Clutch vaguely at the trees - And shroud the purple hills: - - And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir, - Bedewing tearful kisses on the buds - That freeze in filmy fold: - The waters, icy-chill, - - Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birds - Stand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd, - To join the woeful chant, - The dirge of waning day. - -GIPPSLAND HILLS, 1917. - - - - - _H. J. HOPE_ - (_CHRIST CHURCH_) - - -THE PATROL - - All night we prowled the stricken No Man's Land, - And the high stars looked down dispassionate. - I wondered if they could but understand - That we poor grovelling things were fighters yet. - Fighters, O God! Begrimed, intent to kill, - But starting at all the secret noises near. - We'd sent our hearts to sleep; but mind and will - Fought the cold duel with children's night-born fear. - The haunted silence quenched the stir of fight, - The tainted wind no word of courage spoke. - We turned at last: sudden the grass dew-white - Smelt as it does at home: my heart awoke. - God sent one bird to sing: the old sun came - And lit the Eastern skies with orange flame. - - -THE MONK'S FANCY - - The old monk down by the sea-beach listening, - Thought that the waves were singing a song, - And the wheeling gulls in the sea-spray glistening - Wheeled with the music that bore them along. - - Day after day by the sea-beach dreaming, - The old monk heard what the sea-song told, - And he set the tale in the great book gleaming - With beautiful colours and letters of gold. - - But one word only he set to flame there, - And naught of the tale but that golden word, - And sadly said all the men that came there - That none could know what the old monk heard. - - -AN ALPINE PICTURE - - The earth beneath this awful snow - No feet have ever trod, - These icy peaks could never know - The smile of any God. - And as I watch I know again - Cruel tales I dare not tell, - Of legions of forsaken men - Who freeze in Dante's hell. - - - - - _G. H. JOHNSTONE_ - (_MERTON_) - - -OXFORD IN MAY - - When we have snapped the chain of tranquil youth, - And run to revel in the loud World's Fair, - And straddled on the painted roundabouts, - Clapping our hands at clowns, and horns that blare; - - O heart of mine, when it grows late, and all - The noisy tents flap dully on the grey - Shivers of evening, and the Showman locks - The clamorous booths, and sends the crowd away; - - When we have found how terrible is age, - And how men piped for us to dance, and we - Danced, till we caught them laughing through the tune, - And turned away, sick at their mockery: - - Then in the silent room, with the lamp lit, - We shall remember the still summer nights, - The gold moon rising over Magdalen Bridge, - And how the curving High was gemmed with lights. - - - - - _C. H. B. KITCHIN_ - (_EXETER_) - - -SOMME FILM, 1916 - - For you at least, sweet wanderers in the dark, - There is no cause to cry from cypress-trees - To a forgetful world; since you are seen - Of all twice nightly at the cinema, - While the munition-makers clap their hands. - - -ESCHATOLOGICAL SONNET - - Before the final darkness, side by side - We watched the huge red sun glow in the sky - Malevolently dim, longing to die, - As though his dull and sullen face would chide - Slow-footed time that forced him to abide - Unnumbered ages in death-agony, - While at our feet the sea bore sluggishly - The burden of a salt-encumbered tide. - No word we spoke, but gazed with solemn eyes - Where the last sunset slowly passed away - And left the sky a sheet of endless grey, - Seeing the world, God's careful sacrifice, - The victim of an infinite decay, - And thinking of the worm that never dies. - - -EPILOGUE - - We are the silk which other limbs have worn, - Those passive folds admired and kept with care, - Till fashion changes, and, no longer rare, - The garment is dishonoured, swept with scorn - Into the massive wardrobe of the night, - Where neither hands shall fondle preciously - Nor eyes shall gaze on us in charity-- - The wasted fabric of an old delight. - - * * * * * - - The night is huge and rich with hidden song - Of its eternal victims grandly singing - A threnody, whose fragrance ever clinging - To night's embroidery still hands along - The endless chain of unrepentant years, - Rejoicing in the gift of human tears. - - - Ruler of infinite austerity - From whom, long listening through ecstatic hours, - Men seek a spiritual mutilation - And guidance to the unperturbed serene, - Yours was the voice at which our grasping hands - Refrained from clutching at iniquity - Still warm with flame that licks the roof of hell, - But having will of us you are transfigured - With an attractive aureole whose glare - Is colder than a mist around the moon; - Wherefore in wisdom meditate on this - That when outworn incessantly with kneeling - On penitential stone, the flesh of man, - Delirious with fasting and sweet wounds - Self-loved and self-inflicted, cries for peace, - It is for you the spirit sings with joy - The chant ineffable of hidden spheres; - For you it finds delight voluptuous - In weakness through the curtains of the night, - --Not for the abstract law which you devise. - - - - - _JOHN LANGDON-DAVIES_ - (_ST. JOHN'S_) - - -QUITS! - - Beyond the last hill stands a row - Of poplars sighing, - Amid the dwellings where dreams go. - When they are dying. - - One side the stream, a pleasure ground - Where they carouse; - On the far side, with yew-trees bound, - The lazar-house. - - And when the night has riven with stars - The veil of day, - I see their drunken half-shapes pass - By the stream way. - - "O dreams, O guests, who poisoned night - With leprosy; - Amid the stream and the moonlight - Oh, think on me!" - - - - - _P. H. B. LYON_ - (_ORIEL_) - - -THE SECRET PLAYROOM - -(_Graudenz, 1918._) - - To-day has been a holiday; - From our high room, with dumb desire, - I have been watching through the wire - The German boys and girls at play. - - As music, knitting tongues in one, - To each in his own language sings, - So echo in their laughter rings - Of happy voices I have known. - - O children I have loved so well, - In Hampshire wood or Cornish moor, - On many a littered schoolroom floor, - In Surrey garden, Yorkshire dell, - - The friends of long sea holidays, - Or playmates of an afternoon, - All you whose memories are strewn - Like flowers about my ordered ways, - - Here in my lone heart I have made - A playroom worthy of your love, - With yellow walls, a frieze above, - A tall lamp with a golden shade, - - And old prints hung on picture-hooks, - Red window-curtains, chairs straight-backed, - An acting chest, a cupboard stacked - With ragged treasures, story-books - - Jostling the grammars on the shelves, - A chipped white service set for three, - A broidered cosy for the tea, - All, all is there, save you yourselves. - - But should your hearts recall me yet - By any trick of word or thought, - Some book I read, some game I taught, - Then--in that instant of regret-- - - Your spirit flies across the sea - On starry pinions through the night, - Into my chamber of delight - Your spirit flies to play with me. - - -THE SONG OF STRENGTH - - We have washed our hands of the blood, we have turned at length - From the strait blind alleys of death to the way of peace; - Gladly we labour, singing the song of our strength, - The strength of man long-fettered that finds release: - - The splendid body of man; O hand and eye - Working in trained accord! O flying feet! - The play of muscle in leg and shoulder and thigh, - Strong to endure or to strive, sublime, complete: - - Man, who has bound the waters, enslaved the wind, - Tamed the desolate places, set his span - O'er the abyss, unconquered and unconfined, - Spending his strength in toil for the glory of man: - - The climber setting his foot on the perilous slope, - The hunter driving the wild thing from its lair, - The traveller steering his course by the star of his hope, - Never too faint to believe, too weak to dare: - - The fisherman facing the storm while landsmen sleep, - The swimmer--poised for an instant against the sky, - Filling the eye with beauty, plunging deep, - With wet white shoulders thrusting the billows by: - - The airman hovering, sweeping above the hill, - The engine driving a furrow of flame through the night, - The long ships breasting the waves,--they are with us still, - The strong clean things we have made for our heart's delight. - - Strength of the mind and will despising sloth, - Seeking the task unfinished, the goal unguessed, - Sowing the seed in faith, entrusting the growth - To the strength of their children, after their hands have rest: - - Strength of the maker, serving a distant age, - The poet shaping his dream to a deathless rhyme, - The doctor fighting disease, the chemist, the sage, - Grappling with nature, challenging space and time! - - So shall we sing as we labour, till faint hearts hear - And turn from their sorrow to listen, to cry at length, - "Lo, we have put away doubt, and cast off fear; - Come, let us fashion the world to the song of our strength!" - - -THE DESERTED GARDEN - - Now these are gone, these beautiful playfellows, - Gone from the green lawns under my balcony, - Gone, and the house no more, the orchard - Echoes no more to their happy laughter. - - How oft I watched them playing, the innocent - Boy friend and girl friend under the cedar-tree, - Till through the soft dusk rose the twinkling - Stars, and the lamps in the lane were shining. - - Fair head to dark head leaning and whispering, - Old games and new games, pirates and Indians, - Short skirts and bare knees madly racing, - Climbing aloft on the cedar branches. - - Day comes and night comes, summer and holiday, - Swift, ah! the bright hours, merry adventurers! - Tears now, a first shy kiss at parting, - Tears--and a hand at the corner waving.... - - White through the dawn-mist, careless of yesterday, - Life stretches onward, life the attainable - White road along dim hills of dreamland; - Childhood is dead, and the leaves drift over. - - Yet here in bleak house slumbers the memory, - Here, here in green lawn, orchard and cedar-tree, - Fair head and dark head, laughter, laughter, - Evening, and voices across the starlight. - - - - - _G. A. MOSTYN_ - (_BALLIOL_) - - -LES MISÉRABLES - - Lips burning lips in passionate caress, - Clasped, slightly swaying, pallid as the moon, - Two wretches, cleaving to each other, press - Their aching bodies into semi-swoon. - - All the night through, till the stars droop and fail, - The girdle of their arms is not undone, - And when the night is finished, flaccid, pale, - Two ghosts rise up, and gaze upon the sun, - - And turning from each other go their ways - Drunken with horror, reeling with sick shame, - Calling a curse on God for all their days - Of ravening, all their fierce nights of flame. - - And lo! before the coming of the night - They meet and greet again in shame's despite. - -_September, 1919._ - - - - - _A. S. MOTT_ - (_MERTON_) - - -UMBRA - - I love the shadows of things; - Pale, grey, patternings - In the aqueous wonder of dawn: - Elm branches distort, - Outrageously wrought - On a woven texture of lawn. - Cloud shadows that go - In stateliest pacing - Of nebulous gracing - Down valleys of tumbled loam: - Faint shapes in the snow - Intricately interlacing, - Of moonlight tracing: - The shifting shadow of foam on foam. - - - - - _K. MOUNSEY_ - (_HOME STUDENT_) - - -TO A LITTLE HOUSE IN OXFORD - - Through the half-opened door the light streams out - Across the street, - And lays a path of gold on stones worn grey - By passing feet. - I catch a glimpse of flowers in quaint old bowls - Standing in gloom, - And many books on intimate low shelves - Go round the room. - - - - - _R. M. S. PASLEY_ - (_UNIVERSITY_) - - -THE DIVER - - I saw a figure standing in the mist - Dim and alone upon a column's height - Which fell in marble precipice of white - Down to the sea. Sudden the clean sun kissed - His arms wide-stretching to the finger-tips, - And showed his supple body glistening - Clear in the naked heaven, and the ring - Of a gay laugh broke eager from his lips; - - So would I stand upon the dizzy ledge - When I have lived, shake back my tumbled hair, - Deliberately toe the empty edge, - Laugh out my last defiance to the air, - Then raise my arms, and, drinking one deep breath, - Eye-open plunge into the sea of Death. - - - - - _V. DE S. PINTO_ - (_CHRIST CHURCH_) - - -STATION - - Late at night in the station - It is cold: the gas lamps shine, - Down-pointing pyramids of yellow light - In a long, solemn line. - - People are waiting on the platform, - Pacing to the end and back, - Or sitting huddled, drowsy, on the seats, - All dressed in black. - - Their faces look pale and delicate like ivory; - Far off in the night, - Like the sinister eye of a wild beast, - Winks a green light. - - So still, so still: a faint scream in the distance, - Then silence and the train - Crashes in, a golden horse, fiercely triumphant, - Tossing his fiery mane. - - -SWANS - - You too have seen the great white swans, who glide - Upon the lonely waters of the world, - Curving their delicate necks with queenly pride - Above the shining mirror, wherein is whirled - All the wild seething mob of human things, - The riot of men and those strange gods and kings, - They set up on great golden thrones and crown - With garlands of bright stars, then drag them down - Into the mud with fierce tumultuous cries. - Yes, all these wild reflections soon will pass, - The drunken laughter and the vast distress, - And the waters will be clear as polished glass, - Imaging only calm unruffled skies, - And the swans will still sail on in their proud loveliness. - - - - - _H. S. REID_ - (_SOMERVILLE_) - - -A DREAM - - I sailed among the Orcades - In the green encircling seas. - So near the isles our nest did glide - I picked a flower at the waterside; - And just so quickly were we sped - That I bruised the stalk and plucked the head. - - There was no foam upon the waves, - They swelled to glassy hills and caves; - But foam white were the thorns that grew - Among the meadow flowers blue. - Laus tibi Domine, - That gavest such a dream to me. - - - - - _E. RENDALL_ - (_HOME STUDENT_) - - -EPITAPH - -(FOR JULIA) - - Here lies a Costermonger, - Tall was she, - Just the very size you'd wish a - Christmas tree to be. - All life long she stood a-hawking - Small delights, - Merry scornings, gay good-mornings, - Kind good-nights. - Bright balloons of mirth she'd cry you, - Apples of jest, - Laces--but you found them heartstrings-- - Of the best, - Quips and kisses, April laughter, - Had you a mind - There were posies--all she sold you - Paid for in kind. - Scraps of fun and fluffs of fancy, - Trayfuls of toys - For stock-in-trade: for customers - Grown-up girls and boys. - Here lies a Costermonger, - Dark the world to me - As when they've put the candles out - On a Christmas tree. - - - - - _D. L. SAYERS_ - (_SOMERVILLE_) - - -FOR PHAON - -WITH "THAT ETERNITIE PROMISED BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET." - - Why do you come to the poet, to the heart of iron and fire, - Seeking soft raiment and the small things of desire, - Looking for light kisses from lips bowed to sing? - Less than myself I give not, and am _I_ a little thing? - I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell, - And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell, - For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold, - And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told; - When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name, - And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame, - The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and know - What a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so. - - -SYMPATHY - - I sat and talked with you - In the shifting fire and gloom, - Making you answer due - In delicate speech and smooth-- - Nor did I fail to note - The black curve of your head - And the golden skin of your throat - On the cushion's golden-red. - But all the while, behind, - In the workshop of my mind, - The weird weaver of doom - Was walking to and fro, - Drawing thread upon thread - With resolute fingers slow - Of the things you did not say - And thought I did not know, - Of the things you said to-day - And had said long ago, - To weave on a wondrous loom, - In dim colours enough, - A curious, stubborn stuff-- - The web that we call truth. - - -VIALS FULL OF ODOURS - - The hawthorn brave upon the green - She hath a drooping smell and sad, - But God put scent into the bean - To drive each lass unto her lad. - - And woe betide the weary hour, - For my love is in Normandy, - And oh! the scent of the bean-flower - Is like a burning fire in me. - - Fair fall the lusty thorn, - She hath no curses at my hand, - But would the man were never born - That sowed the bean along his land! - - - - - _W. FORCE STEAD_ - (_QUEEN'S_) - - -THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT - -(SONGS FROM A LYRICAL DRAMA, "THE BURDEN OF BABYLON") - - Babylon, the glory of the Kingdoms, - And the Chaldees' excellency, - Is become as Sodom and Gomorrah, - Whom God overthrew by the sea. - - Never again inhabited, - Babylon, O Babylon! - Even the wandering Arabian - From thy weary waste is gone. - Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there, - Nor any green herb be grown: - It cometh in the night-time suddenly, - And Babylon is overthrown. - - Woeful are thy desolate palaces, - Where doleful creatures cry, - And wild beasts out of the islands - In thy fallen chambers cry. - Where now are the viol and the tabret? - But owls hoot in moonlight: - And over the ruins of Babylon - The satyr leaps by night. - - Babylon is fallen, is fallen! - And never shall be known again: - Drunken with the blood of my Beloved, - And trampling on the sons of men. - But God is awake and aware of thee, - And sharply shines His sword, - Where over the earth spring suddenly - The hidden hosts of the Lord: - Armies of right and of righteousness, - Huge hosts, unseen, unknown: - And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory, - Where the wind goes, they are gone. - - - - - _L. A. G. STRONG_ - (_WADHAM_) - - -AT PUNNET'S TOWN - - A swell within her billowed skirts, - Like a great ship with sails unfurled, - The madwoman goes gallantly - Upon the ridges of her world. - - With eagle nose and wisps of grey - She strides upon the Westward Hills, - Swings her umbrella joyously, - And waves it to the waving mills, - - Talking and chuckling as she goes, - Indifferent to sun or rain, - With all that merry company - The singing children of her brain. - - -DALLINGTON - - Clouds all tumbled and white, - Frowning clouds and grey; - Dallington high on the hilltop, - Dallington hears what they say. - - "Oh, I have come from the Channel." - "And I from the Westward Hill - Where Punnet's Town blinks at the sunset - Between a mill and a mill." - - "I have showered on field and fallow - Till I'm empty and dry," says one. - "I scowled at the people in Cross-in-Hands, - And was driven away by the sun." - - "Oh, I am primed for a fight, - And if I can find one more - To challenge my path in the heavens - There'll be rumblings and flashes galore." - - "Oh, I have a hatful of hail." - "And I have a share of sleet." - "So shall we go cruising to battle - And rattle it down on their street?" - - Clouds all tumbled and white, - Frowning clouds and grey; - Dallington high on the hilltop, - Dallington hears what they say. - - -EENA-MENA-MINA-MO - - Eena-mena-mina-mo, - Catch a nigger by ees toe, - If 'e olleys, let'n go. - O-U-T spells out - And out you must go. - You'm of it O! - - Children playing on the green: - Joe Treguddick, deathly ill, - Hears them very clearly still. - - Silently, with blinking eyes, - Two great sons have dragged his bed - To the window, till he dies. - - Now his mind is in his fields - Where all things lose their certain shape. - - The cows in munching quiet lie, - And on the orange of the sky - The trees stand out like scissored crape. - - With deep cool breaths he drinks the night: - Then, in a sudden sweat of pain, - He twists upon his bed again. - - The children's voices die away, - And seldom now the footsteps pass. - A hobnailed tread upon the road - Falls sudden silent on the grass. - - Still with throb and throb of pain - He hears the children at their play - Chanting insistent in his brain. - - Coughs: and with a whistling breath, - Though he knows how the count will fall, - Turns to play a game with Death, - - Turns to the last game of all. - - Eena-mena-mina-mo, - Catch a nigger by ees toe. - If 'e olleys, let'n go. - O-U-T spells out - And out you must go. - You'm of it, Joe! - - - - - _D. A. E. WALLACE_ - (_SOMERVILLE_) - - -IMPROMPTU IN MARCH - - I will cut you wands of willow, - I will fetch you catkins yellow - For a sign of March.... - I've a snowy silken pillow - For my head, you foolish fellow-- - I've no love for March! - - Get me buckles, bring me laces, - Amber beads and chrysoprases, - Fans and castanets!... - Lady, in the sunny places - I can find you early daisies - And sweet violets. - - -IN NEW COLLEGE CLOISTERS - - Time sleeps-- - Hush ye: go light-- - Time sleeps - By day and by night. - Be your tread - Softer than feet of the dead, - Lest he wake - And his heart break. - - Stern bells, - Muffle your chime; - He dreams-- - Suffer the dreams of Time! - To the patter of ilex leaves, - To the sound of birds in the eaves, - To the sibilant wings of a dove - Time dreams--of his love. - - -THE BEGGAR-MAIDEN - - There has come to me a lover, - O ye winds and waters, - With a house for my abiding - Full of looking-glass and silk, - And a palfrey for my riding - White as milk, - And the tresses of kings' daughters - Spun with pearls, my head to cover! - There has come to me a lover, - O ye winds and waters! - - And I kissed him for his kindness - To a beggar-maiden.... - I, with strong white feet for going - At my fancy everywhere; - With the wind of heaven blowing - Through my hair: - With my dwelling star-beladen-- - Verily I mocked his blindness! - But I kissed him for his kindness - To a beggar-maiden. - - - - - _J. L. WING_ - (_MAGDALEN_) - - -LOUIS ONZE - - Who is this I see? A King! - Leaden saints all in a ring - Round his hat! His gait is slow! - And his back is bending low! - This a King? His quivering frame - Shakes! Pray tell me now his name. - Louis Onze, it is you say, - Greatest King of all his day! - - * * * * * - -Transcriber's Notes - -Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, other -variations in spelling, accents and punctuation are as in the original. - -Several poems do not have titles, but are referenced by first line. -These have been left as printed. - -The erratum on page 7 has not been corrected to avoid changing the -structure of the book. - -Italics are indicated thus _italic_. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Oxford Poetry, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OXFORD POETRY *** - -***** This file should be named 50378-8.txt or 50378-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/3/7/50378/ - -Produced by MWS, Les Galloway and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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