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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-05 10:43:46 -0800 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-05 10:43:46 -0800 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8fe6d9f --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51488 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51488) diff --git a/old/51488-0.txt b/old/51488-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 676fd00..0000000 --- a/old/51488-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2867 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51488 *** - -THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING -an anthology of recent poetry - - -[Illustration: "AND I SHALL HAVE SOME PEACE THERE, -FOR PEACE COMES DROPPING SLOW"] - - -THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING -AN ANTHOLOGY OF RECENT POETRY -COMPILED BY L.D'O WALTERS AND -ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY CLARKE -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HAROLD MONRO - - -BRENTANO'S - -FIFTH AVENUE & 27TH STREET NEW YORK - -1920 - - -[Illustration] - - -INTRODUCTION - - -The best poetry is always about the earth itself and all the strange -and lovely things that compose and inhabit it. When a 'great poet' -sets himself the task of some 'big theme' he needs only to hold, as -it were, a magnifying glass to the earth. We who are born and live -here like very much to imagine other worlds, and we have even mentally -constructed such another in which to exist after dying on this one; but -we were careful to make it a glorified version of our own earth, with -everything we most love here intensified and improved to the utmost -stretch of human imagination. - -To each man his 'best poetry' is that which he is able most to enjoy. -The first object of poetry is to give pleasure. Pleasure is various, -but it cannot exist where the emotions or the imagination have not -been powerfully stirred. Whether it be called sensual or intellectual, -pleasure cannot be willed. It is impossible to feel happy because one -wants to feel happy, or sad because one wishes to feel sad. But such -bodily or mental conditions may be induced from outside through a -natural agency such as poetry, or music. - -Now those dreary people who would maintain that poetry should deal -(some say exclusively) with what they call 'big themes,' or 'the -larger life', are merely advocating more use of the magnifying glass -as against intensive cultivation of the natural eye. The poet is -essentially he who examines carefully, and learns to know fully, every -detail of common life. He seeks to name in a variety of manners, and -to define, the objects about him, to compare them with other objects, -near or remote, and to find, for the mere sake of enjoyment, wonderful -varieties of description and comparison. When he imagines better places -than his earth, or invents gods, the impersonation and combination of -the fortunate qualities in man, he is then using the magnifying glass -with talent, occasionally with rare genius. But the poet who seeks, -without genius, to magnify is simply a fool who sees everything too -big, and boasts, in the loudest voice he can raise, of his diseased -eyesight. - -One of the peculiarities, or perhaps rather the essential quality, of -the lyrical poetry of to-day is a minute concentration on the objects -immediately near it and an anxious carefulness to describe these in -the most appropriate and satisfactory terms. Thus it is often accused -of a neglect to sublimate the emotions, and many critics have been at -pains to suggest that this affection for the nearest and that careful -description of natural events denotes a smallness of mental range. Be -it noted, however, that the eye which does not look too far often sees -most. It is remarkable that English lyrical poetry should have learnt -in this period of religious uncertainty to clasp itself at least to a -reality that cannot be questioned or doubted. So far its faith reaches. -It expresses a trustfulness in what it can definitely perceive, it -hardly ventures outside the circles of human daily experience, and -in this capacity it reveals an excellence of many kinds, sincerity -often, and, at worst, a playfulness which, if ephemeral, is amusing -at any rate to those whom it is intended to amuse, and appropriately -irritating to those whom it wants to annoy. - -But the most noticeable characteristic of the verse of our present -moment is its dislike of the aloofness generally associated with -English poetry. About twice a century language consolidates: phrases -which were once soft and new harden with use; words once of a ringing -beauty become dry and hollow through excessive repetition. This state -of language is not much noticed by people who have no special use -for it beyond the expression of daily needs. Moreover, they make new -colloquial words for themselves as required without forethought or -difficulty. Poets, however, must consciously search for new words, and -a tired condition of their language is to them a great difficulty. The -Victorians were absolute spendthrifts of words: no vocabulary could -keep pace with their recklessness; they bequeathed a language almost -ruined for sentimental purposes--words and phrases had acquired either -such an aloofness that for a long time no one any more would trouble -to reach up to them, or had become so thin and common that to use them -would have been something like hack-sawing a piece of cotton. - -Now in the anthology which follows we may notice a characteristic -escape from these difficulties. Words have been brought down from their -high places and compelled into ordinary use. This has been accomplished -not so much through any new familiarity with the words themselves as -by a certain naturalness in the attitude of the people employing them. -Rupert Brooke's "Great Lover" is an example. - -In short, these are the chief reasons why present-day poetry is -readable and entertaining--that it deals with familiar subjects in a -familiar manner; that, in doing so, it uses ordinary words literally -and as often as possible; that it is not aloof or pretentious; that it -refuses to be bullied by tradition: its style, in fact, is itself. - - - -II - - -If an excuse is to be sought for the addition of this one more to the -large number of existent collections of recent poetry, let it be in -the nature of an explanation rather than an apology. Good, or even -representative, poetry requires, in fact, no apology, but where the -poems of some thirty-two different authors have been extracted from -their books and placed side by side in one collection, a discussion -of the apparent aims of the anthologist may be interesting, and will -perhaps lead to a fuller enjoyment of the collection thus produced. - -Some readers approach a volume of poems to criticize it, others with -the object of gaining pleasure. To give pleasure is assuredly the -object of this volume. Moreover, it is adapted to the tastes of almost -any age, from ten to ninety, and may be read aloud by grandchild to -grandparent as suitably as by grandparent to grandchild. It is an -anthology of Poems, not of Names. For instance, though Thomas Hardy -is on the list, the lyric chosen to represent him is actually more -characteristic of the book itself than of the mind of that great -and aged poet. It is, in fact, Christian in atmosphere. It is not a -typical specimen of Mr Hardy's style. It shows him in that occasional -rather sad mood of regret for a lost superstition. It is not the -best of Hardy, but rather a poem admirably suited to the book, which -also happens, as by chance, to be by the author of "The Dynasts" and -"Satires of Circumstance." - - - -III - - -The collection as a whole is modern, and all except eight of its -authors are living and writing. Of those eight, five died as soldiers -in the European War, and are represented mainly by what is known as -'War poetry.' Otherwise such poetry is fortunately absent. This absence -may be justified by the fact that most of the verse written on the -subject of the War turns out, surveyed in cooler blood, to be, as -any sound judge of literature must always have known, definitely and -unmistakably bad. Much of it is by now, or should be, repudiated by -its authors. It was too often "the spontaneous overflow of powerful -feelings"; it too seldom originated from "emotion recollected in -tranquillity." - -Rupert Brooke's sonnets "The Dead" and "The Soldier" were popular -almost from their first publication. They belong undoubtedly to the -best traditions of English poetry. Julian Grenfell's "Into Battle," -and, in a lesser, degree, the "Home Thoughts from Laventie" of Edward -Wyndham Tennant, have acquired popularity among a larger number of folk -than can be included in the general term 'literary circles.' Neither of -the composers of these verses was a professional poet. Both were men of -attractive personality and strong feeling, with education, taste, and -an occasional impulse to write gracefully. Intrinsically either poem -might as easily have been inspired by an Indian frontier raid as by a -European war. They do not affect the traditions of English poetry by -subject or by form. It will be found, as the years pass, that always -fewer 'War poems' can still be read with pleasure, the incidents which -gave rise to them having become dim in human memory. And these will not -be read because of their association with the Great War, but for their -qualities as poems and their power to stir enjoyment or surprise in the -reader. - -Consider those four melancholy lines by which Edward Thomas is here -represented, remarkable for their concentration and for the crowd of -images they can suggest. At present the words "where all that passed -are dead" alone associate this poem with the War. But death comes -through so many causes that twenty years from now a footnote would be -needed if it were desired to emphasize that association. - -J.E. Flecker's "Dying Patriot," one of his three poems in this book, -was written in 1914 in Switzerland, where he was dying of consumption. -It is certainly less a 'War poem' than the same author's "War Song of -the Saracens." - -The verses entitled "A Petition," by R. E. Vernède, are of a different -kind. They are written in conventional Henley-Kiplingese, and contain -too many incidents of a type of poetic expression that has been used -to excess, as "wider than all seas," "to front the world," "quenchless -hope" "All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England!" They are, -nevertheless, useful in the collection as a set-off against the other -'War poems' and an instance of the more ephemeral type of patriotic -verse. - -Thus it would appear that the anthologist has displayed wisdom when -including in this volume only few pieces that may be associated with -the War, and those few (with one exception) on the score of their -literary merit, and for no other reason. - - -IV - - -Poets of to-day write individually less than their pre-decessors, and -most of them are satisfied to publish only a proportion of what they -write. None of the eight referred to above left us any great bulk of -verse. Four at least, however, are becoming daily better known to the -reading public, and of these Rupert Brooke and J. E. Flecker have -already their dozens of conscious or unconscious imitators. The form, -rhythm, or Eastern atmosphere of Fleckers poetry, the cynicism and -wit of Brooke's, recur somewhat diluted in the verse of almost every -young undergraduate. Neither Lionel Johnson nor Mary Coleridge has ever -become so well known or received so much attention from the average -plagiarist, while the reputation of Edward Thomas has been of slow and -uncertain growth. Johnsons poetry is too intellectual for the average -reader. The wonderful, small lyrics of Mary Coleridge are esoteric -rather than general. Nevertheless, this anthology includes, most -advisedly, a good poem by Johnson, one indeed which has had a quiet, -but strong, influence on modern lyrical poetry, namely, the lines -to the statue of King Charles at Charing Cross, and also a charming -impression by Mary Coleridge. - -"Street Lanterns" is a good example of that poetry of close observation -to which reference has already been made. It is a small, careful -description of a London scene. It assumes that the reader has observed -as much, and that he will enjoy to be reminded and brought back for -a moment in imagination to autumn and street-mending. The advocate of -'big themes' will inevitably condemn such verse, for the poet has aimed -at neither size nor grandeur, has indeed sought rather to diminish her -subject than enlarge it. - - - -V - - -This anthology, it has been remarked above, is one rather of particular -poems than of well-known authors. Several names of repute are not to -be found in the index. William Watson is only represented by "April," -a little catch that might come to any man of feeling on a spring walk. -To think in terms of these verses is at once not to mind having left -an umbrella at home. Hilaire Belloc gives a sharp impression of early -rising; he also sings in a great voice all the glories of his favourite -part of England. W. H. Davies brings sheep across the Atlantic, and -he talks to a kingfisher. Mrs Meynell contributes "The Shepherdess," -that well-known description of a fine and serene mind, also two London -poems, of which one is the lovely "November Blue." John Masefield is -not to be read in his best style, but the three poems we find here are -thoroughly English, full of the love of the island soil and of its sea, -and are probably in the book for that reason. So much for some of the -well-known contributors. Side by side with them we find the unknown -name of H. H. Abbott, whose "Black and White" is a sketch of remarkable -clarity and interest. - -Death, so favourite a subject with poets, is seldom allowed to figure -in this book. Betsey-Jane would insist on going to Heaven, but is told, -in the charming verses by Helen Parry Eden, that it simply "would not -do." The whole book is too full of pleasure and the experience of being -alive: Betsey-Jane should read it. She might remember all her life the -advice given on page 117, and be saved hundreds of pounds in lawyers' -bills when she is grown up. - -Let the reader turn to page 114. Here is the style in which good poetry -prefers to teach, and by which it achieves more in eleven lines than a -Martin Tupper in 11,000. Mr Pepler has written down only one sentence, -charmingly improved by a series of most natural rhymes. It is a very -nasty hit at the lawyer. He does not tell him he is not a 'gentleman', -or anything so strong as that. He pays him what might be taken for a -compliment. He assumes that he does understand his own job. Then he -enumerates the things he does not understand. He attaches no blame: he -makes a statement only; one that the lawyer certainly will not think -worth arguing about, but that his client may advisedly take to heart. - -Ralph Hodgson's "Stupidity Street" argues in somewhat the same manner. -It does not suggest that anyone should become vegetarian, or that it is -wrong to kill birds. It names a street and gives a reason for doing so. -It is an angry little Poem, but impersonal. - -"The Bells of Heaven," by the same author, simply chances a hint that -something might happen if something else did. It is a suggestion only, -but made by one who knows what he thinks, and how to think it. Into a -few lines a whole philosophy is concentrated. - -Thus Pepler or Ralph Hodgson nudge peoples arms and draw attention to -traditional stupidities. - -Walter De la Mare puts the children to sleep with "Nod," or bewitches -them with the Mad Prince's Song; or he takes us to an Arabia which -never existed, but is one of those countries more beautiful than any we -know, and therefore we love to imagine it. - -Look at that full moon on page 53, which Dick saw "one night." Here is -the possible experience of man, woman, child, dog, fox, bear--or even -nightingale--all concentrated into the shortest and plainest account -of something that happened to Dick. He and Betsey-Jane, though quite -different in kind, belong to the same world. Betsey-Jane is plainly -more romantic than Dick. - -But, talking of the moon, we may turn back to Mr Chesterton on page -36. Here we find something incongruous in the collection: a poem -that wishes deliberately to strike a note. The donkey is a much -better fellow than Mr Chesterton seems to think: he does not ask for -glorification, nor would he utter that boast of the last two lines. -Would a man not rather "go with the wild asses to Paradise" than have -the case for the donkey pleaded before him in this obtrusive manner? - -Turn back four pages and you will find: - - For the good are always the merry, - Save by an evil chance, - And the merry love the fiddle, - And the merry love to dance. - -This, by W. B. Yeats, represents a much pleasanter type of thought. In -these verses of the Irish poet we have the gaiety of a man who, knowing -all about religion, can afford not to be sentimental. And here is the -spirit of the book. - -The happiness of those who love the earth is so different from the -pleasure by proxy of those that abide it in the idea of going to some -Heaven afterward. Mr Yeats' "Fiddler of Dooney" is that type of fellow -who accepts the symbolism of a national religion only in so far as it -may help him to enjoy the condition of being alive. And in his "Lake -Isle of Innisfree" he imagines a Paradise which is of the earth only. -And he takes you there by reason of his own longing. - - - -VI - - -This anthology, as a whole, is romantic ; its language is simple; its -philosophy is that of everyday life, and is entirely undisturbing. -It contains a large proportion of poems by authors who write more -particularly for children, such as P. R. Chalmers, Rose Fyleman, -Queenie Scott-Hopper, and Marion St John Webb, or of children's poems -by authors who do not actually specialize in that style, such as "The -Ragwort," by Frances Cornford; "Cradle Song," by Sarojini Naidu; -"Check," by James Stephens, and others. Two of its authors remain -necessarily unmentioned here, namely, the compiler of the book and the -writer of this Introduction. - -Some people make it their business to pick anthologies to pieces, -and they seem to enjoy themselves. "Why is this included?" they cry; -"Why is that left out?"--a form of criticism nearly always beside the -point. Inclusion or exclusion is in the taste and discretion of the -anthologist. - -This Introduction may, it is hoped, stimulate the reader of the poems -which follow to think about them carefully in their relation to -each other, and in their relation to English poetry as a whole. For -though it has frequently been emphasized that the object of poetry -(and particularly of lyrical poetry) is to give pleasure, it should -nevertheless be added that intellectual pleasure cannot be gathered at -random, or without certain preparation of the mind to receive it. - -HAROLD MONRO - -[Illustration] - - -[Illustration] - - -ACKNOWLEDGMENT - - -For permission to use copyright poems the Editor is indebted to : - -_The Authors_--H. H. Abbott, Hilaire Belloc, P. R. Chalmers, -G. K. Chesterton, Frances Cornford, W. H. Davies, Walter De la -Mare, John Drinkwater, Rose Fyleman, W. W. Gibson, Robert -Graves, Ralph Hodgson, Teresa Hooley, Margaret Mackenzie, -Irene R. McLeod, John Masefield, Alice Meynell, Harold Monro, -Sarojini Naidu, H. D. C. Pepler, James Stephens, Sir William -Watson, Marion St John Webb, and W. B. Yeats. - -The Literary Executors of Rupert Brooke, Mary E. Coleridge -(Sir Henry Newbolt), James Elroy Flecker (Mrs Flecker), Julian -Grenfell (Lady Desborough), Lionel Johnson (Mr Elkin Mathews), -Edward Wyndham Tennant (Lady Glenconner), Edward Thomas -(Messrs Selwyn and Blount), R. E. Vernède. - -And the following _Publishers_, in respect of the poems selected : - - - Messrs Burns and Oates, Ltd. - Alice Meynell: Collected Poems. - - Messrs Constable and Co., Ltd. - Walter De la Mare: The Listeners, Peacock Pie. - - Messrs J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd. - G. K. Chesterton: The Wild Knight. - - Messrs Duckworth and Co. - Hilaire Belloc: Verses. - - Mr A. C. Fifield - W. H. Davies: Collected Poems. - - Messrs George G. Harrap and Co., Ltd. - E. J. Brady: The House of the Winds. - Queenie Scott-Hopper: Pull the Bobbin! - Marion St John Webb: The Littlest One. - - Mr W. Heinemann, London, and the John Lane Company, New York - Sarojini Naidu: The Golden Threshold. - - Messrs Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston - John Drinkwater: Poems by John Drinkwater. - - Mr John Lane, London, and the John Lane Company, New York - Helen Parry Eden Bread and Circuses. - Edward Wyndham Tennant, by Pamela Glenconner. - - Messrs Macmillan and Co., Ltd., London, and the Macmillan Company, - New York - W. W. Gibson: Whin. - Ralph Hodgson: Poems. - J. Stephens: The Adventures of Seumas Beg, Songs from the Clay. - W. B. Yeats: Poems: Second Series. - - The Macmillan Company, New York - John Masefield: Ballads and Poems. - - Messrs Maunsel and Co. - P. R. Chalmers: Green Days and Blue Days. - - Messrs Methuen and Co., Ltd. - Rose Fyleman: Fairies and Chimneys, The Fairy Green. - - The Poetry Bookshop - H. H. Abbott: Black and White. - Frances Cornford: Spring Morning. - R. Graves: Over the Brazier. - - Messrs Sands and Co. - M. Mackenzie: The Station Platform, and Other Poems. - - Mr Martin Seeker - J. E. Flecker: Collected Poems. - Francis Brett Young: Poems, 1916-1918. - - Messrs Selwyn and Blount, London, and Messrs Henry Holt and - Company, New York - Edward Thomas: Poems. - - Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd. - J. Redwood Anderson: Walls and Hedges. - John Drinkwater: Swords and Ploughshares. - - Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., and the John Lane Company, - New York - Rupert Brooke: 1914, and Other Poems. - - Messrs T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd. - W. B. Yeats: Poems. - - -[Illustration] - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS - - -ARRANGED UNDER NAMES OF AUTHORS - - - ABBOTT, H. H. - Black and White - - ANDERSON, J. REDWOOD - The Bridge - - BELLOC, HILAIRE - The Early Morning - The South Country - - BRADY, E. J. - A Ballad of the Captains - - BROOKE, RUPERT - The Dead - The Great Lover - The Soldier - - CHALMERS, P. R. - If I had a Broomstick - Roundabouts and Swings - - CHESTERTON, G. K. - The Donkey - - COLERIDGE, MARY E. - Street Lanterns - - CORNFORD, FRANCES - In France - The Ragwort - - DAVIES, W. H. - The Kingfisher - Sheep - - DE LA MARE, WALTER - Arabia - Full Moon - Nod - The Song of the Mad Prince - - DRINKWATER, JOHN - A Town Window - - EDEN, HELEN PARRY - To Betsey-Jane, on her Desiring to go - Incontinently to Heaven - - FLECKER, JAMES E. - Brumana 79 - The Dying Patriot - November Eves - - FYLEMAN, ROSE - Alms in Autumn - I Don't Like Beetles - Wishes - - GIBSON, W. W. - Sweet as the Breath of the Whin - - GRAVES, ROBERT - Star-Talk - - GRENFELL, JULIAN - Into Battle - - HARDY, THOMAS - The Oxen - - HODGSON, RALPH - The Bells of Heaven - The Song of Honour - Stupidity Street - - HOOLEY, TERESA - Sea-Foam - - JOHNSON, LIONEL - By the Statue of King Charles at - Charing Cross - - MACKENZIE, MARGARET - To the Coming Spring - - MCLEOD, IRENE R. - Lone Dog - - MASEFIELD, JOHN - Sea Fever - Tewkesbury Road - The West Wind - - MEYNELL, ALICE - A Dead Harvest - November Blue - The Shepherdess - - MONRO, HAROLD - Overheard on a Saltmarsh - A Flower is Looking through the Ground - Man Carrying Bale - - NAIDU, SAROJINI - Cradle-Song - - PEPLER, H. D. C. - The Law the Lawyers Know About - - SCOTT-HOPPER, QUEENIE - Very Nearly! - What the Thrush Says - - STEPHENS, JAMES - Check - When the Leaves Fall - - TENNANT, E. W. - Home Thoughts in Laventie - - THOMAS, E. - The Cherry Trees - - VERNÈDE, R. E. - A Petition - - WALTERS, L. D'O. - All is Spirit and Part of Me - - WATSON, SIR WILLIAM - April - - WEBB, MARION ST JOHN - The Sunset Garden - - YEATS, W. B. - The Fiddler of Dooney - The Lake Isle of Innisfree - - YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT - February - - -[Illustration] - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - -The Lake Isle of Innisfree. -April -The Fiddler of Dooney -Cradle-Song -The Donkey -Sea Fever -A Ballad of the Captains -Arabia -The Song of the Mad Prince -The Shepherdess -The Dead -The Great Lover -If I had a Broomstick -The Dying Patriok -Star-Talk -Overheard on a Saltmarsh -To the Coming Spring -Alms in Autumn -Very Nearly! -All is Spirit and Part of Me -Black and White - -[Illustration] - - -[Illustration "APRIL, APRIL, LAUGH THY GIRLISH LAUGHTER!"] - - - - - APRIL - - - April, April, - Laugh thy girlish laughter; - Then, the moment after, - Weep thy girlish tears! - April, that mine ears - If I tell thee, sweetest, - All my hopes and fears, - April, April, - Laugh thy golden laughter, - But, the moment after, - Weep thy golden tears. - - WILLIAM WATSON - - - - - THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY - - - When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, - Folk dance like a wave of the sea; - My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, - My brother in Moharabuiee. - - I passed my brother and cousin: - They read in their books of prayer; - I read in my book of songs - I bought at the Sligo fair. - - When we come at the end of time, - To Peter sitting in state, - He will smile on the three old spirits, - But call me first through the gate; - - For the good are always the merry, - Save by an evil chance, - And the merry love the fiddle, - And the merry love to dance: - - -[Illustration: WHEN WE COME AT THE END OF TIME, TO PETER SITTING IN STATE] - - - And when the folk there spy me, - They will all come up to me, - With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!" - And dance like a wave of the sea. - - W. B. YEATS - - [Illustration] - - THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE - - I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, - And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; - Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, - And live alone in the bee-loud glade. - - And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, - Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; - There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, - And evening full of the linnet's wings. - - I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, - I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; - While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, - I hear it in the deep heart's core. - - W. B. YEATS - - - [Illustration: I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM.] - - - - - CRADLE-SONG - - - From groves of spice, - O'er fields of rice, - Athwart the lotus-stream, - I bring for you, - Aglint with dew, - A little lovely dream. - - Sweet, shut your eyes, - The wild fire-flies - Dance through the fairy neem;[1] - From the poppy-bole - For you I stole - A little lovely dream. - - Dear eyes, good-night, - In golden light - The stars around you gleam; - On you I press - With soft caress - A little lovely dream. - - SAROJINI NAIDU - - [Footnote 1: A lilac-tree (Hindustani).] - - - - - THE DONKEY - - - When fishes flew and forests walked - And figs grew upon thorn, - Some moment when the moon was blood - Then surely I was born; - - With monstrous head and sickening cry - And ears like errant wings, - The devil's walking parody - On all four-footed things. - - The tattered outlaw of the earth, - Of ancient crooked will; - Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, - I keep my secret still. - - Fools! For I also had my hour; - One far fierce hour and sweet: - There was a shout about my ears, - And palms before my feet. - - G. K. CHESTERTON - - - [Illustration: "WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY - AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS"] - - - - - THE EARLY MORNING - - The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: - The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother. - The moon on my left and the dawn on my right. - My brother, good morning: my sister, good night. - - HILAIRE BELLOC - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SOUTH COUNTRY - - - When I am living in the Midlands - That are sodden and unkind, - I light my lamp in the evening: - My work is left behind; - And the great hills of the South Country - Come back into my mind. - - The great hills of the South Country - They stand along the sea; - And it's there walking in the high woods - That I could wish to be, - And the men that were boys when I was a boy - Walking along with me. - - The men that live in North England - I saw them for a day: - Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, - Their skies are fast and grey; - From their castle-walls a man may see - The mountains far away. - - The men that live in West England - They see the Severn strong, - A-rolling on rough water brown - Light aspen leaves along. - They have the secret of the Rocks, - And the oldest kind of song. - - But the men that live in the South Country - Are the kindest and most wise, - They get their laughter from the loud surf, - And the faith in their happy eyes - Comes surely from our Sister the Spring - When over the sea she flies; - The violets suddenly bloom, at her feet, - She blesses us with surprise. - - I never get between the pines - But I smell the Sussex air; - Nor I never come on a belt of sand - But my home is there. - And along the sky the line of the Downs - So noble and so bare. - - A lost thing could I never find, - Nor a broken thing mend: - And I fear I shall be all alone - When I get towards the end. - Who will be there to comfort me - Or who will be my friend? - - I will gather and carefully make my friends - Of the men of the Sussex Weald, - They watch the stars from silent folds, - They stiffly plough the field. - By them and the God of the South Country - My poor soul shall be healed. - - If I ever become a rich man, - Or if ever I grow to be old, - I will build a house with deep thatch - To shelter me from the cold, - And there shall the Sussex songs be sung - And the story of Sussex told. - - I will hold my house in the high wood - Within a walk of the sea, - And the men that were boys when I was a boy - Shall sit and drink with me. - - HILAIRE BELLOC - - - [Illustration: "ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING"] - - - - - SEA FEVER - - - I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, - And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; - And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, - And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. - - I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide - Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; - And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, - And the flung spray "and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. - - I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life, - To the gull's, way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted - knife; - And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, - And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. - - JOHN MASEFIELD - - [Illustration] - - - - - TEWKESBURY ROAD - - - It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, - Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; - Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush - of the air, - Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. - - And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink - Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and - white; - Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink - When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. - - O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, - Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; - And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth - At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds. - - JOHN MASEFIELD - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE WEST WIND - - - It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; - I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. - For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, - And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. - - It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, - Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine. - There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, - And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest. - - "Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away. - It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: - And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, - Will you not come home, brother, home to us again? - - The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run; - It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. - It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain, - To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. - - Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, - So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? - I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes," - Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries. - - It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread - To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, - To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song - In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong. - - JOHN MASEFIELD - - - [Illustration: "DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE."] - - - - - A BALLAD OF THE CAPTAINS - - - Where are now the Captains - Of the narrow ships of old-- - Who with valiant souls went seeking - For the Fabled Fleece of Gold; - In the clouded Dusk of Ages, - In the Dawn of History; - When the ringing songs of Homer - First re-echoed o'er the Sea? - - Oh, the Captains lie a-sleeping - Where great iron hulls are sweeping - Out of Suez in their pride; - And they hear not, and they heed not, - And they know not, and they need not - In their deep graves far and wide. - - Where are now the Captains - Who went blindly through the Strait, - With a tribute to Poseidon, - A libation poured to Fate? - They were heroes giant-hearted, - That with Terrors, told and sung, - Like blindfolded lions grappled, - When the World was strange and young. - - Oh, the Captains brave and daring, - With their grim old crews are faring - Where our guiding beacons gleam; - And the homeward liners o'er them-- - All the charted seas before them-- - Shall not wake them as they dream. - - Where are now the Captains - From bold Nelson back to Drake, - Who came drumming up the Channel, - Haling prizes in their wake? - Where are England's fighting Captains - Who, with battle-flags unfurled, - Went a-rieving all the rievers - O'er the waves of all the world? - - Oh, these Captains, all confiding - In the strong right hand, are biding - In the margins, on the Main; - They are shining bright in story, - They are sleeping deep in glory, - On the silken lap of Fame. - - - [Illustration: "WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY"] - - Where are now the Captains - Who regarded not the tears - Of the captured Christian maidens - Carried, weeping, to Algiers? - Yes, the swarthy Moorish Captains, - Storming wildly 'cross the Bay, - With a dead hidalgo's daughter. - As a dower for the Dey? - - Oh, those cruel Captains never - Shall sweet lovers more dissever, - On their forays as they roll; - Or the mad Dons curse them vainly, - As their baffled ships, ungainly, - Heel them, jeering, to the Mole. - - Where are now the Captains - Of those racing, roaring days, - Who of knowledge and of courage, - Drove the clippers on their ways-- - To the furthest ounce of pressure, - To the latest stitch of sail, - 'Carried on' before the tempest - Till the waters lapped the rail? - - Oh, the merry, manly skippers - Of the traders and the clippers, - They are sleeping East and West, - And the brave blue seas shall hold them, - And the oceans five enfold them - In the havens where they rest. - - Where are now the Captains - Of the gallant days agone? - They are biding in their places, - And the Great Deep bears no traces - Of their good ships passed and gone. - They are biding in their places, - Where the light of God's own grace is, - And the Great Deep thunders on. - - Yea, with never port to steer for, - And with never storm to fear for, - They are waiting wan and white, - And they hear no more the calling - Of the watches, or the falling - Of the sea rain in the night. - - E. J. BRADY - - - [Illustration: "DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS"] - - - - - ARABIA - - - Far are the shades of Arabia, - Where the Princes ride at noon, - 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, - Under the ghost of the moon; - And so dark is that vaulted purple - Flowers in the forest rise - And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars - Pale in the noonday skies. - - Sweet is the music of Arabia - In my heart, when out of dreams - I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn - Descry her gliding streams; - Hear her strange lutes on the green banks - Ring loud with the grief and delight - Of the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians - In the brooding silence of night. - - They haunt me--her lutes and her forests; - No beauty on earth I see - But shadowed with that dream recalls - Her loveliness to me: - Still eyes look coldly upon me, - Cold voices whisper and say-- - "He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, - They have stolen his wits away." - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - [Illustration] - - - - - FULL MOON - - - One night as Dick lay half asleep, - Into his drowsy eyes - A great still light began to creep - From out the silent skies. - It was the lovely moon's, for when - He raised his dreamy head, - Her rays of silver filled the pane - And streamed across his bed. - So, for awhile, each gazed at each-- - Dick and the solemn moon-- - Till, climbing slowly on her way, - She vanished, and was gone. - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - - - - NOD - - - Softly along the road of evening, - In a twilight dim with rose, - Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew, - Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. - - His drowsy flock streams on before him, - Their fleeces charged with gold, - To where the sun's last beam leans low - On Nod the shepherd's fold. - - The hedge is quick and green with briar, - From their sand the conies creep; - And all the birds that fly in heaven - Flock singing home to sleep. - - His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, - Yet, when night's shadows fall, - His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, - Misses not one of all. - - His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, - The waters of no-more-pain, - His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, - "Rest, rest, and rest again." - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE - - - Who said, "Peacock Pie"? - The old King to the sparrow: - Who said, "Crops are ripe"? - Rust to the harrow: - Who said, "Where sleeps she now? - Where rests she now her head, - Bathed in eve's loveliness"? - That's what I said. - - Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"? - Sexton to willow: - Who said, "Green dusk for dreams, - Moss for a pillow"? - Who said, "All Time's delight - Hath she for narrow bed; - Life's troubled bubble broken"? - That's what I said. - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - - [Illustration: "'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'"] - - - - - A DEAD HARVEST - - - IN KENSINGTON GARDENS - - - Along the graceless grass of town - They rake the rows of red and brown,-- - Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay - Delicate, touched with gold and grey, - Raked long ago and far away. - - A narrow silence in the park, - Between the lights a narrow dark. - One street rolls on the north; and one, - Muffled, upon the south doth run; - Amid the mist the work is done. - - A futile crop! for it the fire - Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. - So go the town's lives on the breeze, - Even as the sheddings of the trees; - Bosom nor barn is filled with these. - - ALICE MEYNELL - - - - - NOVEMBER BLUE - - - /$ - The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary - colour to the air in the early evening. - _Essay on London_ - $/ - - O heavenly colour, London town - Has blurred it from her skies; - And, hooded in an earthly brown, - Unheaven'd the city lies. - No longer standard-like this hue - Above the broad road flies; - Nor does the narrow street the blue - Wear, slender pennon-wise. - - But when the gold and silver lamps - Colour the London dew, - And, misted by the winter damps, - The shops shine bright anew-- - Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, - It dyes the wide air through; - A mimic sky about their feet, - The throng go crowned with blue. - - ALICE MEYNELL - - - [Illustration: "SHE WALKS--THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT--A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP"] - - - - - THE SHEPHERDESS - - - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; - She guards them from the steep; - She feeds them on the fragrant height, - And folds them in for sleep. - - She roams maternal hills and bright, - Dark valleys safe and deep, - Into that tender breast at night - The chastest stars may peep. - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - - She holds her little thoughts in sight, - Though gay they run and leap. - She is so circumspect and right; - She has her soul to keep. - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - - ALICE MEYNELL - - - - - THE DEAD - - - Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! - There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, - But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. - These laid the world away; poured out the red - Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be - Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, - That men call age; and those who would have been, - Their sons, they gave, their immortality. - - Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, - Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. - Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, - And paid his subjects with a royal wage; - And Nobleness walks in our ways again; - And we have come into our heritage. - - RUPERT BROOKE - - - [Illustration: "HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH"] - - - - - THE GREAT LOVER - - - I have been so great a lover: filled my days - So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise, - The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, - Desire illimitable, and still content, - And all dear names men use, to cheat despair, - For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear - Our hearts at random down the dark of life. - Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife - Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, - My night shall be remembered for a star - That outshone all the suns of all men's days. - Shall I not crown them with immortal praise - Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me - High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see - The inenarrable godhead of delight? - Love is a flame;--we have beaconed the world's night. - A city:--and we have built it, these and I. - An emperor:--we have taught the world to die. - So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, - And the high cause of Love's magnificence, - And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names - Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, - And set them as a banner, that men may know, - To dare the generations, burn, and blow - Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming.... - These I have loved: - White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, - Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; - Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust - Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; - Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; - And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; - And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, - Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; - Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon - Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss - Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is - Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen - Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; - The benison of hot water; furs to touch; - The good smell of old clothes; and other such-- - The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, - Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers - About dead leaves and last year's ferns.... - - [Illustration: "OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING"] - - - Dear names, - And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames; - Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; - Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing; - Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, - Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; - Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam - That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; - And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold - Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould; - Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew; - And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;-- - And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;-- - All these have been my loves. And these shall pass. - Whatever passes not, in the great hour, - Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power - To hold them with me through the gate of Death. - They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, - Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust - And sacramented covenant to the dust. - --Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, - And give what's left of love again, and make - New friends, now strangers.... - But the best I've known, - Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown - About the winds of the world, and fades from brains - Of living men, and dies. - Nothing remains. - - O dear my loves, O faithless, once again - This one last gift I give: that after men - Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, - Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved." - - RUPERT BROOKE - - - [Illustration: "MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES; - FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW"] - - - - - THE SOLDIER - - - If I should die, think only this of me: - That there's some corner of a foreign field - That is for ever England. There shall be - In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; - A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, - Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, - A body of England's, breathing English air, - Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. - - And think, this heart, all evil shed away, - A pulse in the eternal mind, no less - Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; - Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; - And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, - In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. - - RUPERT BROOKE - - - - - BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS - - - Sombre and rich, the skies; - Great glooms, and starry plains. - Gently the night wind sighs; - Else a vast silence reigns. - - The splendid silence clings - Around me: and around - The saddest of all kings - Crowned, and again discrowned. - - Comely and calm, he rides - Hard by his own Whitehall: - Only the night wind glides: - No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. - - Gone, too, his Court; and yet, - The stars his courtiers are: - Stars in their stations set; - And every wandering star. - - Alone he rides, alone, - The fair and fatal king: - Dark night is all his own, - That strange and solemn thing. - - Which are more full of fate: - The stars; or those sad eyes? - Which are more still and great: - Those brows; or the dark skies? - - Although his whole heart yearn - In passionate tragedy: - Never was face so stern - With sweet austerity. - - Vanquished in life, his death - By beauty made amends: - The passing of his breath - Won his defeated ends. - - Brief life and hapless? Nay: - Through death, life grew sublime. - _Speak after sentence?_ Yea: - And to the end of time. - - Armoured he rides, his head - Bare to the stars of doom: - He triumphs now, the dead, - Beholding London's gloom. - - Our wearier spirit faints, - Vexed in the world's employ: - His soul was of the saints; - And art to him was joy. - - King, tried in fires of woe - Men hunger for thy grace: - And through the night I go, - Loving thy mournful face. - - Yet when the city sleeps; - When all the cries are still: - The stars and heavenly deeps - Work out a perfect will. - - LIONEL JOHNSON - - - - - CHECK - - - The night was creeping on the ground; - She crept and did not make a sound - Until she reached the tree, and then - She covered it, and stole again - Along the grass beside the wall. - - I heard the rustle of her shawl - As she threw blackness everywhere - Upon the sky and ground and air, - And in the room where I was hid: - But no matter what she did - To everything that was without, - She could not put my candle out. - - So I stared at the night, and she - Stared back solemnly at me. - - JAMES STEPHENS - - - - - WHEN THE LEAVES FALL - - - When the leaves fall off the trees - Everybody walks on them: - Once they had a time of ease - High above, and every breeze - Used to stay and talk to them. - - Then they were so debonair - As they fluttered up and down; - Dancing in the sunny air, - Dancing without knowing there - Was a gutter in the town. - - Now they have no place at all! - All the home that they can find - Is a gutter by a wall, - And the wind that waits their fall - Is an apache of a wind. - - JAMES STEPHENS - - - - - IN FRANCE - - - The poplars in the fields of France - Are golden ladies come to dance; - But yet to see them there is none - But I and the September sun. - - The girl who in their shadow sits - Can only see the sock she knits; - Her dog is watching all the day - That not a cow shall go astray. - - The leisurely contented cows - Can only see the earth they browse; - Their piebald bodies through the grass - With busy, munching noses pass. - - Alone the sun and I behold - Processions crowned with shining gold-- - The poplars in the fields of France, - Like glorious ladies come to dance. - - FRANCES CORNFORD - - - - - THE RAGWORT - - - The thistles on the sandy flats - Are courtiers with crimson hats; - The ragworts, growing up so straight, - Are emperors who stand in state, - And march about, so proud and bold, - In crowns of fairy-story gold. - - The people passing home at night - Rejoice to see the shining sight, - They quite forget the sands and sea - Which are as grey as grey can be, - Nor ever heed the gulls who cry - Like peevish children in the sky. - - FRANCES CORNFORD - - - - - LONE DOG - - - I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; - I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; - I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; - I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep. - - I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, - A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, - Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, - But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff, and kick, and hate. - - Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, - Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. - O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, - Wide wind, and wild stars, and the hunger of the quest! - - IRENE R. McLEOD - - - - - IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK - - - If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it, - I'd fly through the windows when Jane goes to tea, - And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide it, - To lands where no children are cripples like me; - I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the sea, - Where soft red anemones close when you touch; - If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it, - If I had a broomstick--instead of a crutch! - - PATRICK R. CHALMERS - - - [Illustration] - - - [Illustration: "IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK"] - - - - - ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS - - - It was early last September nigh to Framlin'amon-Sea, - An''twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea, - An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane, - A Pharaoh with his waggons cornin' jolt an' creak an' strain; - A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up, - An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup, - An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings - Was joggin' in the dust along is roundabouts and swings. - - "Goo'-day," said'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go, - An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?" - "I find," said'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found, - For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round." - Said'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were, - It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a'are; - But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's, - What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings! - - "Goo' luck," said'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt; - An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out"; - 'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again - To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane; - An' the moon she climbed the'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin - That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, is sooth of lose-and-win; - For "up an' down an' round," said'e, "goes all appointed things, - An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!" - - PATRICK R. CHALMERS - - [Illustration] - - - - - A TOWN WINDOW - - - Beyond my window in the night - Is but a drab inglorious street, - Yet there the frost and clean starlight - As over Warwick woods are sweet. - - Under the grey drift of the town - The crocus works among the mould - As eagerly as those that crown - The Warwick spring in flame and gold. - - And when the tramway down the hill - Across the cobbles moans and rings, - There is about my window-sill - The tumult of a thousand wings. - - JOHN DRINKWATER - - - - - BRUMANA - - - Oh shall I never never be home again? - Meadows of England shining in the rain - Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green - With briar fortify, with blossom screen - Till my far morning--and O streams that slow - And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, - For me your love and all your kingcups store, - And--dark militia of the southern shore, - Old fragrant friends--preserve me the last lines - Of that long saga which you sung me, pines, - When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree - I listened, with my eyes upon the sea. - - [Continued] - - JAMES ELROY FLECKER - - - - - THE DYING PATRIOT - - - Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills, - Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, - Day of my dreams, O day! - I saw them march from Dover, long ago, - With a silver cross before them, singing low, - Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam, - Augustine with his feet of snow. - - Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, - --Beauty she was statue cold--there's blood upon her gown: - Noon of my dreams, O noon! - Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago - With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, - With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, - And the streets where the great men go. - - - [Illustration: "AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD - SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW"] - - Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, - When the first star shivers and the last wave pales: - O evening dreams! - There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, - Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, - And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead - Sway when the long winds blow. - - Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar - Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: - Fire in the night, O dreams! - Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, - South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, - West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go - Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow. - - JAMES ELROY FLECKER - - - - - NOVEMBER EVES - - - November Evenings! Damp and still - They used to cloak Leckhampton hill, - And lie down close on the grey plain, - And dim the dripping window-pane, - And send queer winds like Harlequins - That seized our elms for violins - And struck a note so sharp and low - Even a child could feel the woe. - - Now fire chased shadow round the room; - Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom: - We crept about like mice, while Nurse - Sat mending, solemn as a hearse, - And even our unlearned eyes - Half closed with choking memories. - - Is it the mist or the dead leaves, - Or the dead men--November eves? - - JAMES ELROY FLECKER - - - [Illustration: "I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO"] - - - - - STAR-TALK - - - "Are you awake, Gemelli, - This frosty night?" - "We'll be awake till reveille, - Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli, - "It's no good trying to go to sleep: - If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, - But rest is hopeless to-night, - But rest is hopeless to-night." - - 'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, - This frosty night?" - "Yes, and so are the Hyads: - See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, - "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: - We huddle together like birds in a storm: - It's bitter weather to-night, - It's bitter weather to-night." - - "What do you hunt, Orion, - This starry night?" - "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, - And the Great Bear," says Orion, - - "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt - I am trying to find a good thick pelt - To warm my shoulders to-night, - To warm my shoulders to-night." - - "Did you hear that, Great She-bear, - This frosty night?" - "Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare, - Of my own big fur," says the She-bear. - "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: - The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, - And the frost so cruel to-night! - And the frost so cruel to-night!" - - "How is your trade, Aquarius, - This frosty night?" - "Complaints is many and various, - And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, - "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, - And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, - And the pump has frozen to-night, - And the pump has frozen to-night." - - ROBERT GRAVES - - - [Illustration: HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?] - - - - - THE KINGFISHER - - - It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, - And left thee all her lovely hues; - And, as her mother's name was Tears, - So runs it in thy blood to choose - For haunts the lonely pools, and keep - In company with trees that weep. - - Go you and, with such glorious hues, - Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; - On lawns as smooth as shining glass, - Let every feather show its mark; - Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings - Before the windows of proud kings. - - Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; - Thou hast no proud ambitious mind; - I also love a quiet place - That's green, away from all mankind; - A lonely pool, and let a tree - Sigh with her bosom over me. - - WILLIAM H. DAVIES - - - - - SHEEP - - - When I was once in Baltimore - A man came up to me and cried, - "Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep, - And we will sail on Tuesday's tide. - - "If you will sail with me, young man, - I'll pay you fifty shillings down; - These eighteen hundred sheep I take - From Baltimore to Glasgow town." - - He paid me fifty shillings down, - I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep; - We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth, - We soon were in the salt sea deep. - - The first night we were out at sea - Those sheep were quiet in their mind; - The second night they cried with fear-- - They smelt no pastures in the wind. - - They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, - They cried so loud I could not sleep: - For fifty thousand shillings down - I would not sail again with sheep. - - WILLIAM H. DAVIES - - [Illustration] - - - - - HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE - - - Green gardens in Laventie! - Soldiers only know the street - Where the mud is churned and splashed about - By battle-wending feet; - And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass, - Look for it when you pass. - - Beyond the Church whose pitted spire - Seems balanced on a strand - Of swaying stone and tottering brick - Two roofless ruins stand, - And here behind the wreckage where the back-wall should have been - We found a garden green. - - The grass was never trodden on, - The little path of gravel - Was overgrown with celandine, - No other folk did travel - Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse - Running from house to house. - - So all among the vivid blades - Of soft and tender grass - We lay, nor heard the limber wheels - That pass and ever pass, - In noisy continuity, until their stony rattle - Seems in itself a battle. - - At length we rose up from our ease - Of tranquil happy mind, - And searched the garden's little length - A fresh pleasaunce to find; - And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high - Did rest the tired eye. - - The fairest and most fragrant - Of the many sweets we found, - Was a little bush of Daphne flower - Upon a grassy mound, - And so thick were the blossoms set, and so divine the scent, - That we were well content. - - Hungry for Spring I bent my head, - The perfume fanned my face, - And all my soul was dancing - In that lovely little place, - Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and - shattered towns - Away . . . upon the Downs. - - I saw green banks of daffodil, - Slim poplars in the breeze, - Great tan-brown hares in gusty March - A-courting on the leas; - And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver - scurrying dace, - Home--what a perfect place! - - EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT - - - - - INTO BATTLE - - - The naked earth is warm with Spring, - And with green grass and bursting trees - Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, - And quivers in the sunny breeze; - And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, - And a striving evermore for these; - And he is dead who will not fight; - And who dies fighting has increase. - - The fighting man shall from the sun - Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; - Speed with the light-foot winds to run, - And with the trees to newer birth; - And find, when fighting shall be done, - Great rest, and fullness after dearth. - - All the bright company of Heaven - Hold him in their high comradeship, - The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven, - Orion's Belt and sworded hip. - - The woodland trees that stand together, - They stand to him each one a friend, - They gently speak in the windy weather; - They guide to valley and ridges' end. - - The kestrel hovering by day, - And the little owls that call by night, - Bid him be swift and keen as they, - As keen of ear, as swift of sight. - - The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, - If this be the last song you shall sing - Sing well, for you may not sing another; - Brother, sing." - - In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, - Before the brazen frenzy starts, - The horses show him nobler powers; - O patient eyes, courageous hearts! - - And when the burning moment breaks, - And all things else are out of mind, - And only Joy of Battle takes - Him by the throat, and makes him blind-- - - Though joy and blindness he shall know, - Not caring much to know, that still, - Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so - That it be not the Destined Will. - - The thundering line of battle stands, - And in the air Death moans and sings; - But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, - And Night shall fold him in soft wings. - - JULIAN GRENFELL - - [Illustration] - - - - - OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH - - - Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? - Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare - at them? - Give them me. - No. - Give them me. Give them me. - No. - Then I will howl all night in the reeds, - Lie in the mud and howl for them. - - Goblin, why do you love them so? - - They are better than stars or water, - Better than voices of winds that sing, - Better than any man's fair daughter, - Your green glass beads on a silver ring. - - Hush, I stole them out of the moon. - - - [Illustration: "GIVE ME YOUR BEADS. I DESIRE THEM. NO."] - - Give me your beads. I desire them. - - No. - - I will howl in a deep lagoon - For your green glass beads, I love them so. - Give them me. Give them. - - No. - - HAROLD MONRO - - - - - A FLOWER IS LOOKING THROUGH THE GROUND - - - A flower is looking through the ground, - Blinking at the April weather; - Now a child has seen the flower: - Now they go and play together. - - Now it seems the flower will speak, - And will call the child its brother-- - But, oh strange forgetfulness!-- - They don't recognize each other. - - HAROLD MONRO - - [Illustration] - - - - - MAN CARRYING BALE - - - The tough hand closes gently on the load; - Out of the mind, a voice - Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well - their work, - Lengthen and pause for help. - Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot - While all the muscles call to one another: - 'Lift!' and the bulging bale - Floats like a butterfly in June. - - So moved the earliest carrier of bales, - And the same watchful sun - Glowed through his body feeding it with light. - So will the last one move, - And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load - Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble. - Earth, you designed your man - Beautiful both in labour and repose. - - HAROLD MONRO - - - - - THE CHERRY TREES - - - The cherry trees bend over and are shedding - On the old road where all that passed are dead, - Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding - This early May morn when there is none to wed. - - EDWARD THOMAS - - - - - THE BELLS OF HEAVEN - - - 'T Would ring the bells of Heaven - The wildest peal for years, - If Parson lost his senses - And people came to theirs, - And he and they together - Knelt down with angry prayers - For tamed and shabby tigers - And dancing dogs and bears, - And wretched, blind pit ponies, - And little hunted hares. - - RALPH HODGSON - - - - - THE SONG OF HONOUR - - - I climbed a hill as light fell short, - And rooks came home in scramble sort, - And filled the trees and flapped and fought - And sang themselves to sleep; - An owl from nowhere with no sound - Swung by and soon was nowhere found, - I heard him calling half-way round, - Holloing loud and deep; - A pair of stars, faint pins of light, - Then many a star, sailed into sight, - And all the stars, the flower of night, - Were round me at a leap; - To tell how still the valleys lay - I heard a watch-dog miles away, - And bells of distant sheep. - - I heard no more of bird or bell, - The mastiff in a slumber fell, - I stared into the sky, - As wondering men have always done - Since beauty and the stars were one, - Though none so hard as I. - - It seemed, so still the valleys were, - As if the whole world knelt at prayer, - Save me and me alone; - So pure and wide that silence was - I feared to bend a blade of grass, - And there I stood like stone. - - [Continued] - RALPH HODGSON - - - - - STUPIDITY STREET - - - I saw with open eyes - Singing birds sweet - Sold in the shops - For the people to eat, - Sold in the shops of - Stupidity Street. - I saw in vision - The worm in the wheat, - And in the shops nothing - For people to eat; - Nothing for sale in - Stupidity Street. - - RALPH HODGSON - - - [Illustration: "WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES"] - - - - - TO THE COMING SPRING - - - O punctual Spring! - We had forgotten in this winter town - The days of Summer and the long, long eves. - But now you come on airy wing, - With busy fingers spilling baby-leaves - On all the bushes, and a faint green down - On ancient trees, and everywhere - Your warm breath soft with kisses - Stirs the wintry air, - And waking us to unimagined blisses. - Your lightest footprints in the grass - Are marked by painted crocus-flowers - And heavy-headed daffodils, - While little trees blush faintly as you pass. - The morning and the night - You bathe with heavenly showers, - And scatter scentless violets on the rounded hills, - Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose posies. - With magic key, in the new evening light, - You are unlocking buds that keep the roses; - The purple lilac soon will blow above the wall - And bended boughs in orchards whitely bloom-- - We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom . . . - Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call! - - MARGARET MACKENZIE - - - - - ALMS IN AUTUMN - - - Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, - A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way? - The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen, - And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again. - Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light - To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night. - - Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please, - Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys. - I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast - That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past. - I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along - My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song. - - Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, - A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask : - A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands - (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands). - So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, - They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight. - - ROSE FYLEMAN - - - [Illustration: "THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL - DANCING WITH DELIGHT"] - - - - - I DON'T LIKE BEETLES - - - I don't like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good, - I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should; - I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play, - And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away. - I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk, - And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk; - I don't like tigers, not even in a book, - And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook! - - ROSE FYLEMAN - - - - - WISHES - - - I wish I liked rice pudding, - I wish I were a twin, - I wish some day a real live fairy - Would just come walking in. - - I wish when I'm at table - My feet would touch the floor, - I wish our pipes would burst next winter, - Just like they did next door. - - I wish that I could whistle - Real proper grown-up tunes, - I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys - On rainy afternoons. - - I've got such heaps of wishes, - I've only said a few; - I wish that I could wake some morning - And find they'd all come true! - - ROSE FYLEMAN - - - [Illustration: "ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID--ONE NIGHT I VERY - NEARLY DID)!"] - - - - - VERY NEARLY! - - - I never quite saw fairy-folk - A-dancing in the glade, - Where, just beyond the hollow oak, - Their broad green rings are laid: - But, while behind that oak I hid, - _One day I very nearly did!_ - - I never quite saw mermaids rise - Above the twilight sea, - When sands, left wet,'neath sunset skies, - Are blushing rosily: - But--all alone, those rocks amid-- - _One night I very nearly did!_ - - I never quite saw Goblin Grim - Who haunts our lumber room - And pops his head above the rim - Of that oak chest's deep gloom: - But once--when Mother raised the lid-- - _I very, very nearly did!_ - - QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER - - - - - WHAT THE THRUSH SAYS - - - Come and see! Come and see!" - The Thrush pipes out of the hawthorn-tree: - And I and Dicky on tiptoe go - To see what treasures he wants to show. - His call is clear as a call can be-- - And "Come and see!" he says: - - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - His house is there in the hawthorn-tree: - The neatest house that ever you saw, - Built all of mosses and twigs and straw: - The folk who built were his wife and he-- - And "Come and see!" he says: - - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - Within this house there are treasures three: - So warm and snug in its curve they lie-- - Like three bright bits out of Spring's blue sky. - We would not hurt them, he knows; not we! - So "Come and see!" he says: - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - No thrush was ever so proud as he! - His bright-eyed lady has left those eggs - For just five minutes to stretch her legs. - He's keeping guard in the hawthorn-tree, - And "Come and see!" he says: - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - He has no fear of the boys and me. - He came and shared in our meals, you know, - In hungry times of the frost and snow. - So now we share in his Secret Tree - Where "Come and see!" he says: - "Come and see!" - - QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER - - - - - THE SUNSET GARDEN - - - I can see from the window a little brown house, - And the garden goes up to the top of the hill. - And the sun comes each day, - And slips down away - At the end of the garden an' sleeps there ... until - The daylight comes climbing up over the hill. - - I do wish I lived in the little brown house, - Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' creep - Up ... up ... then I'd stop, - An' lean over the top, - At the end of the garden, an' so I could peep, - And see what the sun looks like when it's asleep. - - MARION ST JOHN WEBB - - - - - SWEET AS THE BREATH OF THE WHIN - - - Sweet as the breath of the whin - Is the thought of my love-- - Sweet as the breath of the whin - In the noonday sun-- - Sweet as the breath of the whin - In the sun after rain. - - Glad as the gold of the whin - Is the thought of my love-- - Glad as the gold of the whin - Since wandering's done-- - Glad as the gold of the whin - Is my heart, home again. - - WILFRID WILSON GIBSON - - - - - THE LAW THE LAWYERS KNOW ABOUT - - - The law the lawyers know about - Is property and land; - But why the leaves are on the trees, - And why the winds disturb the seas, - Why honey is the food of bees, - Why horses have such tender knees, - Why winters come and rivers freeze, - Why Faith is more than what one sees, - And Hope survives the worst disease, - And Charity is more than these, - They do not understand. - - H. D. C. PEPLER - - - [Illustration: "I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, - AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS"] - - - - - ALL IS SPIRIT AND PART OF ME. - - - A greater lover none can be, - And all is spirit and part of me. - I am sway of the rolling hills, - And breath from the great wide plains; - I am born of a thousand storms, - And grey with the rushing rains; - I have stood with the age-long rocks, - And flowered with the meadow sweet; - I have fought with the wind-worn firs, - And bent with the ripening wheat; - I have watched with the solemn clouds, - And dreamt with the moorland pools; - I have raced with the water's whirl, - And lain where their anger cools; - I have hovered as strong-winged bird, - And swooped as I saw my prey; - I have risen with cold grey dawn, - And flamed in the dying day; - For all is spirit and part of me, - And greater lover none can be. - - L. D'O. WALTERS - - - - - STREET LANTERNS - - - Country roads are yellow and brown. - We mend the roads in London Town. - - Never a hansom dare come nigh, - Never a cart goes rolling by. - - An unwonted silence steals - In between the turning wheels. - - Quickly ends the autumn day, - And the workman goes his way, - - Leaving, midst the traffic rude, - One small isle of solitude, - - Lit, throughout the lengthy night, - By the little lantern's light. - - Jewels of the dark have we, - Brighter than the rustic's be. - - Over the dull earth are thrown - Topaz, and the ruby stone. - - MARY E. COLERIDGE - - - - - TO BETSEY-JANE, ON HER DESIRING - TO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN - - - My Betsey-Jane, it would not do, - For what would Heaven make of you, - A little, honey-loving bear, - Among the Blessed Babies there? - - Nor do you dwell with us in vain - Who tumble and get up again. - And try, with bruised knees, to smile--. - Sweet, you are blessed all the-while - - And we in you: so wait, they'll come - To take your hand and fetch you home, - In Heavenly leaves to play at tents - With all the Holy Innocents. - - HELEN PARRY EDEN - - - - - THE BRIDGE - - - Here, with one leap, - The bridge that spans the cutting; on its back - The load - Of the main-road, - And under it the railway-track. - - Into the plains they sweep, - Into the solitary plains asleep, - The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel-- - Fringed with their narrow grass, - Into the plains they pass, - The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal. - - A cry - Prolonged across the earth--a call - To the remote horizons and the sky; - The whole east-rushes down them with its light, - And the whole west receives them, with its pall - Of stars and night-- - The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel. - - And with the fall - Of darkness, see! the red, - Bright anger of the signal, where it flares - Like a huge eye that stares - On some hid danger in the dark ahead. - A twang of wire--unseen - The signal drops; and now, instead - Of a red eye, a green. - - Out of the silence grows - An iron thunder--grows, and roars, and sweeps, - Menacing! The plain - Suddenly leaps, - Startled, from its repose-- - Alert and listening. Now, from the gloom - Of the soft distance, loom - Three lights and, over them, a brush - Of tawny flame and flying spark-- - Three pointed lights that rush, - Monstrous, upon the cringing dark. - - And nearer, nearer rolls the sound, - Louder the throb and roar of wheels, - The shout of speed, the shriek of steam; - The sloping bank, - Cut into flashing squares, gives back the clank - - And grind of metal, while the ground - Shudders and the bridge reels-- - As, with a scream, - The train, - A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire, - A lighted anguish of desire, - A dream - Of gold and iron, of sound and flight, - Tumultuous roars across the night. - - The train roars past--and, with a cry, - Drowned in a flying howl of wind, - Half-stifled in the smoke and blind, - The plain, - Shaken, exultant, unconfined, - Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by, - Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the sky. - - J. REDWOOD ANDERSON - - - - - FEBRUARY - - - The robin on my lawn - He was the first to tell - How, in the frozen dawn, - This miracle befell, - Waking the meadows white - With hoar, the iron road - Agleam with splintered light, - And ice where water flowed: - Till, when the low sun drank - Those milky mists that cloak - Hanger and hollied bank, - The winter world awoke - To hear the feeble bleat - Of lambs on downland farms: - A blackbird whistled sweet; - Old beeches moved their arms - Into a mellow haze - Aerial, newly-born: - And I, alone, agaze, - Stood waiting for the thorn - To break in blossom white, - Or burst in a green flame.... - So, in a single night, - Fair February came, - Bidding my lips to sing - Or whisper their surprise, - With all the joy of spring - And morning in her eyes. - - FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - - - - - SEA-FOAM - - - A fleck of foam on the shining sand, - Left by the ebbing sea, - But richer than man may understand - In magic and mystery-- - Transient bubbles rainbow-bright, - Myriad-hued and strange, - Tremble and throb in the noonday light, - Flower and flush and change. - - A million tides have come and gone, - Great gales of autumn and spring, - A million summoning moons have shone - To bring to birth this thing-- - A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sand - By the wave of an outgoing sea, - With all the colour of Faeryland, - Wonder and mystery. - - TERESA HOOLEY - - - - - A PETITION - - - All that a man might ask, thou hast given me, England, - Birth-right and happy childhood's long heart's-ease, - And love whose range is deep beyond all sounding - And wider than all seas. - - A heart to front the world and find God in it, - Eyes blind enow, but not too blind to see - The lovely things behind the dross and darkness, - And lovelier things to be. - - And friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken, - And quenchless hope and laughter's golden store; - All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England, - Yet grant thou one thing more: - - That now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour, - Unversed in arms, a dreamer such as I - May in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy, - England, for thee to die. - - R. E. VERNÈDE - - - - - BLACK AND WHITE - - - I met a man along the road - To Withernsea; - Was ever anything so dark, so pale - As he? - His hat, his clothes, his tie, his boots - Were black as black - Could be, - And midst of all was a cold white face, - And eyes that looked wearily. - - The road was bleak and straight and flat - To Withernsea, - Gaunt poles with shrilling wires their weird - Did dree; - On the sky stood out, on the swollen sky - The black blood veins - Of tree - After tree, as they beat from the face - Of the wind which they could not flee. - - And in the fields along the road - To Withernsea, - - - [Illustration] - - "MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE" - - - Swart crows sat huddled on the ground - Disconsolately, - While overhead the seamews wheeled, and skirled - In glee; - But the black cows stood, and cropped where - they stood, - And never heeded thee, - O dark pale man, with the weary eyes, - On the road to Withernsea. - - H. H. ABBOTT - - - - - THE OXEN - - - Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. - "Now they are all on their knees," - An elder said as we sat in a flock - By the embers in hearthside ease. - - We pictured the meek mild creatures where - They dwelt in their strawy pen, - Nor did it occur to one of us there - To doubt they were kneeling then. - - So fair a fancy few believe - In these years! Yet, I feel, - If someone said on Christmas Eve - "Come; see the oxen kneel - - In the lonely barton by yonder coomb - Our childhood used to know," - I should go with him in the gloom, - Hoping it might be so. - - THOMAS HARDY - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Year's at the Spring, by Various - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51488 *** diff --git a/old/51488-h/51488-h.htm b/old/51488-h/51488-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 431705c..0000000 --- a/old/51488-h/51488-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3241 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Year's at the Spring, by Various. - </title> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} -.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} -.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%} -hr.full {width: 95%;} - -hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} -hr.r65 {width: 65%; margin-top: 3em; margin-bottom: 3em;} - - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - - .tdl {text-align: left;} - .tdr {text-align: right;} - .tdc {text-align: center;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - color: #CCCCCC; -} /* page numbers */ - -.tabline { - position: absolute; - left: 80%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; -} -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.caption {font-weight: bold; - font-size: smaller; -} - -a:link {color: #800000; text-decoration: none; } -v:link {color: #800000; text-decoration: none; } - -.capt {font-size: 0.75em; - text-align: center; -} - -/* Images */ -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.figleft { - float: left; - clear: left; - margin-left: 0; - margin-bottom: 1em; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-right: 1em; - padding: 0; - text-align: center; -} - -.figright { - float: right; - clear: right; - margin-left: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-right: 0; - padding: 0; - text-align: center; -} - -/* Footnotes */ -.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} - -.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} - -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: - none; -} - - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51488 ***</div> - - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<img src="images/img0002.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0009"></a> -<img src="images/img0009.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -<p class="capt">"AND I SHALL HAVE SOME PEACE THERE, -FOR PEACE COMES DROPPING SLOW"</p> -</div> -<hr class="chap" /> -<h1>THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING</h1> - -<h4>AN ANTHOLOGY OF RECENT POETRY<br /> - -COMPILED BY L.D'O. WALTERS<br /> - -ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY CLARKE<br /> - -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HAROLD MONRO</h4> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0010.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h5>BRENTANO'S</h5> - -<h5>FIFTH AVENUE & 27TH STREET NEW YORK</h5> - -<h5>1920</h5> - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0012.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h4>INTRODUCTION</h4> - - -<p>The best poetry is always about the earth itself and all the strange -and lovely things that compose and inhabit it. When a 'great poet' -sets himself the task of some 'big theme' he needs only to hold, as -it were, a magnifying glass to the earth. We who are born and live -here like very much to imagine other worlds, and we have even mentally -constructed such another in which to exist after dying on this one; but -we were careful to make it a glorified version of our own earth, with -everything we most love here intensified and improved to the utmost -stretch of human imagination.</p> - -<p>To each man his 'best poetry' is that which he is able most to enjoy. -The first object of poetry is to give pleasure. Pleasure is various, -but it cannot exist where the emotions or the imagination have not -been powerfully stirred. Whether it be called sensual or intellectual, -pleasure cannot be willed. It is impossible to feel happy because one -wants to feel happy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> or sad because one wishes to feel sad. But such -bodily or mental conditions may be induced from outside through a -natural agency such as poetry, or music.</p> - -<p>Now those dreary people who would maintain that poetry should deal -(some say exclusively) with what they call 'big themes,' or 'the -larger life', are merely advocating more use of the magnifying glass -as against intensive cultivation of the natural eye. The poet is -essentially he who examines carefully, and learns to know fully, every -detail of common life. He seeks to name in a variety of manners, and -to define, the objects about him, to compare them with other objects, -near or remote, and to find, for the mere sake of enjoyment, wonderful -varieties of description and comparison. When he imagines better places -than his earth, or invents gods, the impersonation and combination of -the fortunate qualities in man, he is then using the magnifying glass -with talent, occasionally with rare genius. But the poet who seeks, -without genius, to magnify is simply a fool who sees everything too -big, and boasts, in the loudest voice he can raise, of his diseased -eyesight.</p> - -<p>One of the peculiarities, or perhaps rather the essential quality, of -the lyrical poetry of to-day is a minute concentration on the objects -immediately near it and an anxious carefulness to describe these in -the most appropriate and satisfactory terms. Thus it is often accused -of a neglect to sublimate the emotions, and many critics have been at -pains to suggest that this affection for the nearest and that careful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> -description of natural events denotes a smallness of mental range. Be -it noted, however, that the eye which does not look too far often sees -most. It is remarkable that English lyrical poetry should have learnt -in this period of religious uncertainty to clasp itself at least to a -reality that cannot be questioned or doubted. So far its faith reaches. -It expresses a trustfulness in what it can definitely perceive, it -hardly ventures outside the circles of human daily experience, and -in this capacity it reveals an excellence of many kinds, sincerity -often, and, at worst, a playfulness which, if ephemeral, is amusing -at any rate to those whom it is intended to amuse, and appropriately -irritating to those whom it wants to annoy.</p> - -<p>But the most noticeable characteristic of the verse of our present -moment is its dislike of the aloofness generally associated with -English poetry. About twice a century language consolidates: phrases -which were once soft and new harden with use; words once of a ringing -beauty become dry and hollow through excessive repetition. This state -of language is not much noticed by people who have no special use -for it beyond the expression of daily needs. Moreover, they make new -colloquial words for themselves as required without forethought or -difficulty. Poets, however, must consciously search for new words, and -a tired condition of their language is to them a great difficulty. The -Victorians were absolute spendthrifts of words: no vocabulary could -keep pace with their recklessness; they bequeathed a language<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> almost -ruined for sentimental purposes—words and phrases had acquired either -such an aloofness that for a long time no one any more would trouble -to reach up to them, or had become so thin and common that to use them -would have been something like hack-sawing a piece of cotton.</p> - -<p>Now in the anthology which follows we may notice a characteristic -escape from these difficulties. Words have been brought down from their -high places and compelled into ordinary use. This has been accomplished -not so much through any new familiarity with the words themselves as -by a certain naturalness in the attitude of the people employing them. -Rupert Brooke's "Great Lover" is an example.</p> - -<p>In short, these are the chief reasons why present-day poetry is -readable and entertaining—that it deals with familiar subjects in a -familiar manner; that, in doing so, it uses ordinary words literally -and as often as possible; that it is not aloof or pretentious; that it -refuses to be bullied by tradition: its style, in fact, is itself.</p> - - - -<h4>II</h4> - - -<p>If an excuse is to be sought for the addition of this one more to the -large number of existent collections of recent poetry, let it be in -the nature of an explanation rather than an apology. Good, or even -representative, poetry requires, in fact, no apology, but where the -poems of some thirty-two different<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> authors have been extracted from -their books and placed side by side in one collection, a discussion -of the apparent aims of the anthologist may be interesting, and will -perhaps lead to a fuller enjoyment of the collection thus produced.</p> - -<p>Some readers approach a volume of poems to criticize it, others with -the object of gaining pleasure. To give pleasure is assuredly the -object of this volume. Moreover, it is adapted to the tastes of almost -any age, from ten to ninety, and may be read aloud by grandchild to -grandparent as suitably as by grandparent to grandchild. It is an -anthology of Poems, not of Names. For instance, though Thomas Hardy -is on the list, the lyric chosen to represent him is actually more -characteristic of the book itself than of the mind of that great -and aged poet. It is, in fact, Christian in atmosphere. It is not a -typical specimen of Mr Hardy's style. It shows him in that occasional -rather sad mood of regret for a lost superstition. It is not the -best of Hardy, but rather a poem admirably suited to the book, which -also happens, as by chance, to be by the author of "The Dynasts" and -"Satires of Circumstance."</p> - - - -<h4>III</h4> - - -<p>The collection as a whole is modern, and all except eight of its -authors are living and writing. Of those eight, five died as soldiers -in the European War, and are represented mainly by what is known as -'War poetry.' Otherwise such poetry is fortunately absent. This absence -may be justified<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> by the fact that most of the verse written on the -subject of the War turns out, surveyed in cooler blood, to be, as -any sound judge of literature must always have known, definitely and -unmistakably bad. Much of it is by now, or should be, repudiated by -its authors. It was too often "the spontaneous overflow of powerful -feelings"; it too seldom originated from "emotion recollected in -tranquillity."</p> - -<p>Rupert Brooke's sonnets "The Dead" and "The Soldier" were popular -almost from their first publication. They belong undoubtedly to the -best traditions of English poetry. Julian Grenfell's "Into Battle," -and, in a lesser, degree, the "Home Thoughts from Laventie" of Edward -Wyndham Tennant, have acquired popularity among a larger number of folk -than can be included in the general term 'literary circles.' Neither of -the composers of these verses was a professional poet. Both were men of -attractive personality and strong feeling, with education, taste, and -an occasional impulse to write gracefully. Intrinsically either poem -might as easily have been inspired by an Indian frontier raid as by a -European war. They do not affect the traditions of English poetry by -subject or by form. It will be found, as the years pass, that always -fewer 'War poems' can still be read with pleasure, the incidents which -gave rise to them having become dim in human memory. And these will not -be read because of their association with the Great War, but for their -qualities as poems and their power to stir enjoyment or surprise in the -reader.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> - -<p>Consider those four melancholy lines by which Edward Thomas is here -represented, remarkable for their concentration and for the crowd of -images they can suggest. At present the words "where all that passed -are dead" alone associate this poem with the War. But death comes -through so many causes that twenty years from now a footnote would be -needed if it were desired to emphasize that association.</p> - -<p>J.E. Flecker's "Dying Patriot," one of his three poems in this book, -was written in 1914 in Switzerland, where he was dying of consumption. -It is certainly less a 'War poem' than the same author's "War Song of -the Saracens."</p> - -<p>The verses entitled "A Petition," by R. E. Vernède, are of a different -kind. They are written in conventional Henley-Kiplingese, and contain -too many incidents of a type of poetic expression that has been used -to excess, as "wider than all seas," "to front the world," "quenchless -hope" "All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England!" They are, -nevertheless, useful in the collection as a set-off against the other -'War poems' and an instance of the more ephemeral type of patriotic -verse.</p> - -<p>Thus it would appear that the anthologist has displayed wisdom when -including in this volume only few pieces that may be associated with -the War, and those few (with one exception) on the score of their -literary merit, and for no other reason.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> - - - -<h4>IV</h4> - - -<p>Poets of to-day write individually less than their pre-decessors, and -most of them are satisfied to publish only a proportion of what they -write. None of the eight referred to above left us any great bulk of -verse. Four at least, however, are becoming daily better known to the -reading public, and of these Rupert Brooke and J. E. Flecker have -already their dozens of conscious or unconscious imitators. The form, -rhythm, or Eastern atmosphere of Fleckers poetry, the cynicism and -wit of Brooke's, recur somewhat diluted in the verse of almost every -young undergraduate. Neither Lionel Johnson nor Mary Coleridge has ever -become so well known or received so much attention from the average -plagiarist, while the reputation of Edward Thomas has been of slow and -uncertain growth. Johnsons poetry is too intellectual for the average -reader. The wonderful, small lyrics of Mary Coleridge are esoteric -rather than general. Nevertheless, this anthology includes, most -advisedly, a good poem by Johnson, one indeed which has had a quiet, -but strong, influence on modern lyrical poetry, namely, the lines -to the statue of King Charles at Charing Cross, and also a charming -impression by Mary Coleridge.</p> - -<p>"Street Lanterns" is a good example of that poetry of close observation -to which reference has already been made. It is a small, careful -description of a London scene. It assumes that the reader has observed -as much, and that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> will enjoy to be reminded and brought back for -a moment in imagination to autumn and street-mending. The advocate of -'big themes' will inevitably condemn such verse, for the poet has aimed -at neither size nor grandeur, has indeed sought rather to diminish her -subject than enlarge it.</p> - - - -<h4>V</h4> - - -<p>This anthology, it has been remarked above, is one rather of particular -poems than of well-known authors. Several names of repute are not to -be found in the index. William Watson is only represented by "April," -a little catch that might come to any man of feeling on a spring walk. -To think in terms of these verses is at once not to mind having left -an umbrella at home. Hilaire Belloc gives a sharp impression of early -rising; he also sings in a great voice all the glories of his favourite -part of England. W. H. Davies brings sheep across the Atlantic, and -he talks to a kingfisher. Mrs Meynell contributes "The Shepherdess," -that well-known description of a fine and serene mind, also two London -poems, of which one is the lovely "November Blue." John Masefield is -not to be read in his best style, but the three poems we find here are -thoroughly English, full of the love of the island soil and of its sea, -and are probably in the book for that reason. So much for some of the -well-known contributors. Side by side with them we find the unknown -name of H. H. Abbott, whose "Black and White" is a sketch of remarkable -clarity and interest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> - -<p>Death, so favourite a subject with poets, is seldom allowed to figure -in this book. Betsey-Jane would insist on going to Heaven, but is told, -in the charming verses by Helen Parry Eden, that it simply "would not -do." The whole book is too full of pleasure and the experience of being -alive: Betsey-Jane should read it. She might remember all her life the -advice given on page <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, and be saved hundreds of pounds in lawyers' -bills when she is grown up.</p> - -<p>Let the reader turn to page <a href="#Page_114">114</a>. Here is the style in which good poetry -prefers to teach, and by which it achieves more in eleven lines than a -Martin Tupper in 11,000. Mr Pepler has written down only one sentence, -charmingly improved by a series of most natural rhymes. It is a very -nasty hit at the lawyer. He does not tell him he is not a 'gentleman', -or anything so strong as that. He pays him what might be taken for a -compliment. He assumes that he does understand his own job. Then he -enumerates the things he does not understand. He attaches no blame: he -makes a statement only; one that the lawyer certainly will not think -worth arguing about, but that his client may advisedly take to heart.</p> - -<p>Ralph Hodgson's "Stupidity Street" argues in somewhat the same manner. -It does not suggest that anyone should become vegetarian, or that it is -wrong to kill birds. It names a street and gives a reason for doing so. -It is an angry little Poem, but impersonal.</p> - -<p>"The Bells of Heaven," by the same author, simply chances<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> a hint that -something might happen if something else did. It is a suggestion only, -but made by one who knows what he thinks, and how to think it. Into a -few lines a whole philosophy is concentrated.</p> - -<p>Thus Pepler or Ralph Hodgson nudge peoples arms and draw attention to -traditional stupidities.</p> - -<p>Walter De la Mare puts the children to sleep with "Nod," or bewitches -them with the Mad Prince's Song; or he takes us to an Arabia which -never existed, but is one of those countries more beautiful than any we -know, and therefore we love to imagine it.</p> - -<p>Look at that full moon on page <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, which Dick saw "one night." Here is -the possible experience of man, woman, child, dog, fox, bear—or even -nightingale—all concentrated into the shortest and plainest account -of something that happened to Dick. He and Betsey-Jane, though quite -different in kind, belong to the same world. Betsey-Jane is plainly -more romantic than Dick.</p> - -<p>But, talking of the moon, we may turn back to Mr Chesterton on page -<a href="#Page_36">36</a>. Here we find something incongruous in the collection: a poem -that wishes deliberately to strike a note. The donkey is a much -better fellow than Mr Chesterton seems to think: he does not ask for -glorification, nor would he utter that boast of the last two lines. -Would a man not rather "go with the wild asses to Paradise" than have -the case for the donkey pleaded before him in this obtrusive manner?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> - -<p>Turn back four pages and you will find:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%;"> -For the good are always the merry,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save by an evil chance,</span><br /> -And the merry love the fiddle,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the merry love to dance.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>This, by W. B. Yeats, represents a much pleasanter type of thought. In -these verses of the Irish poet we have the gaiety of a man who, knowing -all about religion, can afford not to be sentimental. And here is the -spirit of the book.</p> - -<p>The happiness of those who love the earth is so different from the -pleasure by proxy of those that abide it in the idea of going to some -Heaven afterward. Mr Yeats' "Fiddler of Dooney" is that type of fellow -who accepts the symbolism of a national religion only in so far as it -may help him to enjoy the condition of being alive. And in his "Lake -Isle of Innisfree" he imagines a Paradise which is of the earth only. -And he takes you there by reason of his own longing.</p> - - - -<h4>VI</h4> - - -<p>This anthology, as a whole, is romantic ; its language is simple; its -philosophy is that of everyday life, and is entirely undisturbing. -It contains a large proportion of poems by authors who write more -particularly for children, such as P. R. Chalmers, Rose Fyleman, -Queenie Scott-Hopper, and Marion St John Webb, or of children's poems -by authors who do not actually specialize in that style, such as "The -Ragwort,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> by Frances Cornford; "Cradle Song," by Sarojini Naidu; -"Check," by James Stephens, and others. Two of its authors remain -necessarily unmentioned here, namely, the compiler of the book and the -writer of this Introduction.</p> - -<p>Some people make it their business to pick anthologies to pieces, -and they seem to enjoy themselves. "Why is this included?" they cry; -"Why is that left out?"—a form of criticism nearly always beside the -point. Inclusion or exclusion is in the taste and discretion of the -anthologist.</p> - -<p>This Introduction may, it is hoped, stimulate the reader of the poems -which follow to think about them carefully in their relation to -each other, and in their relation to English poetry as a whole. For -though it has frequently been emphasized that the object of poetry -(and particularly of lyrical poetry) is to give pleasure, it should -nevertheless be added that intellectual pleasure cannot be gathered at -random, or without certain preparation of the mind to receive it.</p> - -<p style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 60%;">HAROLD MONRO</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0018.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0019.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> - -<h4>ACKNOWLEDGMENT</h4> -</div> - -<p>For permission to use copyright poems the Editor is indebted to :</p> - -<p><i>The Authors</i>—H. H. Abbott, Hilaire Belloc, P. R. Chalmers, -G. K. Chesterton, Frances Cornford, W. H. Davies, Walter De la -Mare, John Drinkwater, Rose Fyleman, W. W. Gibson, Robert -Graves, Ralph Hodgson, Teresa Hooley, Margaret Mackenzie, -Irene R. McLeod, John Masefield, Alice Meynell, Harold Monro, -Sarojini Naidu, H. D. C. Pepler, James Stephens, Sir William -Watson, Marion St John Webb, and W. B. Yeats.</p> - -<p>The Literary Executors of Rupert Brooke, Mary E. Coleridge -(Sir Henry Newbolt), James Elroy Flecker (Mrs Flecker), Julian -Grenfell (Lady Desborough), Lionel Johnson (Mr Elkin Mathews), -Edward Wyndham Tennant (Lady Glenconner), Edward Thomas -(Messrs Selwyn and Blount), R. E. Vernède.</p> - -<p>And the following <i>Publishers</i>, in respect of the poems selected :</p> - - -<p> -Messrs Burns and Oates, Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Alice Meynell: Collected Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Constable and Co., Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Walter De la Mare: The Listeners, Peacock Pie.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">G. K. Chesterton: The Wild Knight.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Duckworth and Co.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hilaire Belloc: Verses.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr A. C. Fifield<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. H. Davies: Collected Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs George G. Harrap and Co., Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">E. J. Brady: The House of the Winds.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Queenie Scott-Hopper: Pull the Bobbin!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Marion St John Webb: The Littlest One.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr W. Heinemann, London, and the John Lane Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sarojini Naidu: The Golden Threshold.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Drinkwater: Poems by John Drinkwater.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr John Lane, London, and the John Lane Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Helen Parry Eden Bread and Circuses.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Edward Wyndham Tennant, by Pamela Glenconner.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Macmillan and Co., Ltd., London, and the Macmillan Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. W. Gibson: Whin.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ralph Hodgson: Poems.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">J. Stephens: The Adventures of Seumas Beg, Songs from the Clay.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. B. Yeats: Poems: Second Series.</span><br /> -<br /> -The Macmillan Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Masefield: Ballads and Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Maunsel and Co.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">P. R. Chalmers: Green Days and Blue Days.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Methuen and Co., Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rose Fyleman: Fairies and Chimneys, The Fairy Green.</span><br /> -<br /> -The Poetry Bookshop<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">H. H. Abbott: Black and White.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Frances Cornford: Spring Morning.</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">R. Graves: Over the Brazier.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Sands and Co.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">M. Mackenzie: The Station Platform, and Other Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr Martin Seeker<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">J. E. Flecker: Collected Poems.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Francis Brett Young: Poems, 1916-1918.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Selwyn and Blount, London, and Messrs Henry Holt and Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Edward Thomas: Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">J. Redwood Anderson: Walls and Hedges.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Drinkwater: Swords and Ploughshares.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., and the John Lane Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rupert Brooke: 1914, and Other Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. B. Yeats: Poems.</span><br /> -</p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0021.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0023.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h4><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></h4> - -<p class="center">ARRANGED UNDER NAMES OF AUTHORS</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 15%;"> -ABBOTT, H. H.<br /> -Black and White <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></span><br /> -<br /> -ANDERSON, J. REDWOOD<br /> -The Bridge <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></span><br /> -<br /> -BELLOC, HILAIRE<br /> -The Early Morning <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_37"> 37</a></span><br /> -The South Country <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_38"> 38</a></span><br /> -<br /> -BRADY, E. J.<br /> -A Ballad of the Captains <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_47"> 47</a></span><br /> -<br /> -BROOKE, RUPERT<br /> -The Dead <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_60"> 60</a></span><br /> -The Great Lover <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_61"> 61</a></span><br /> -The Soldier <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_65"> 65</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> -CHALMERS, P. R.<br /> -If I had a Broomstick <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_74"> 74</a></span><br /> -Roundabouts and Swings <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_75"> 75</a></span><br /> -<br /> -CHESTERTON, G. K.<br /> -The Donkey <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_36"> 36</a></span><br /> -<br /> -COLERIDGE, MARY E.<br /> -Street Lanterns <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></span><br /> -<br /> -CORNFORD, FRANCES<br /> -In France <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_71"> 71</a></span><br /> -The Ragwort <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_72"> 72</a></span><br /> -<br /> -DAVIES, W. H.<br /> -The Kingfisher <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_85"> 85</a></span><br /> -Sheep <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_86"> 86</a></span><br /> -<br /> -DE LA MARE, WALTER<br /> -Arabia <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_51"> 51</a></span><br /> -Full Moon <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_53"> 53</a></span><br /> -Nod <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_54"> 54</a></span><br /> -The Song of the Mad Prince <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_56"> 56</a></span><br /> -<br /> -DRINKWATER, JOHN<br /> -A Town Window <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_78"> 78</a></span><br /> -<br /> -EDEN, HELEN PARRY<br /> -To Betsey-Jane, on her Desiring to go<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Incontinently to Heaven <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></span></span><br /> -<br /> -FLECKER, JAMES E.<br /> -Brumana <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_79"> 79</a></span><br /> -The Dying Patriot <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_80"> 80</a></span><br /> -November Eves <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_82"> 82</a></span><br /> -<br /> -FYLEMAN, ROSE<br /> -Alms in Autumn <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></span><br /> -I Don't Like Beetles <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></span><br /> -Wishes <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></span><br /> -<br /> -GIBSON, W. W.<br /> -Sweet as the Breath of the Whin <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></span><br /> -<br /> -GRAVES, ROBERT<br /> -Star-Talk <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_83"> 83</a></span><br /> -<br /> -GRENFELL, JULIAN<br /> -Into Battle <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_91"> 91</a></span><br /> -<br /> -HARDY, THOMAS<br /> -The Oxen <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></span><br /> -<br /> -HODGSON, RALPH<br /> -The Bells of Heaven <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_99"> 99</a></span><br /> -The Song of Honour <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></span><br /> -Stupidity Street <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></span><br /> -<br /> -HOOLEY, TERESA<br /> -Sea-Foam <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></span><br /> -<br /> -JOHNSON, LIONEL<br /> -By the Statue of King Charles at<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Charing Cross <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_66"> 66</a></span></span><br /> -<br /> -MACKENZIE, MARGARET<br /> -To the Coming Spring <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MCLEOD, IRENE R.<br /> -Lone Dog <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_73"> 73</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MASEFIELD, JOHN<br /> -Sea Fever <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_41"> 41</a></span><br /> -Tewkesbury Road <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_43"> 43</a></span><br /> -The West Wind <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_45"> 45</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MEYNELL, ALICE<br /> -A Dead Harvest <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_57"> 57</a></span><br /> -November Blue <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_58"> 58</a></span><br /> -The Shepherdess <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_59"> 59</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MONRO, HAROLD<br /> -Overheard on a Saltmarsh <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_94"> 94</a></span><br /> -A Flower is Looking through the Ground <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_96"> 96</a></span><br /> -Man Carrying Bale <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_97"> 97</a></span><br /> -<br /> -NAIDU, SAROJINI<br /> -Cradle-Song <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_35"> 35</a></span><br /> -<br /> -PEPLER, H. D. C.<br /> -The Law the Lawyers Know About <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></span><br /> -<br /> -SCOTT-HOPPER, QUEENIE<br /> -Very Nearly! <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> -What the Thrush Says <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></span><br /> -<br /> -STEPHENS, JAMES<br /> -Check <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_69"> 69</a></span><br /> -When the Leaves Fall <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_70"> 70</a></span><br /> -<br /> -TENNANT, E. W.<br /> -Home Thoughts in Laventie <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_88"> 88</a></span><br /> -<br /> -THOMAS, E.<br /> -The Cherry Trees <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_98"> 98</a></span><br /> -<br /> -VERNÈDE, R. E.<br /> -A Petition <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></span><br /> -<br /> -WALTERS, L. D'O.<br /> -All is Spirit and Part of Me <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></span><br /> -<br /> -WATSON, SIR WILLIAM<br /> -April <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_31"> 31</a></span><br /> -<br /> -WEBB, MARION ST JOHN<br /> -The Sunset Garden <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></span><br /> -<br /> -YEATS, W. B.<br /> -The Fiddler of Dooney <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_32"> 32</a></span><br /> -The Lake Isle of Innisfree <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_34"> 34</a></span><br /> -<br /> -YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT<br /> -February <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></span><br /> -</p> - - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0029.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h4><a name="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</a></h4> - -<p style="margin-left: 15%;"> -The Lake Isle of Innisfree. <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0009">Frontispiece</a></span><br /> -April <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0031">31</a></span><br /> -The Fiddler of Dooney <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0032">32</a></span><br /> -Cradle-Song <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0035">35</a></span><br /> -The Donkey <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0036">36</a></span><br /> -Sea Fever <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0041">41</a></span><br /> -A Ballad of the Captains <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0047">47</a>,<a href="#img0048">48</a></span><br /> -Arabia <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0051">51</a></span><br /> -The Song of the Mad Prince <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0056">56</a></span><br /> -The Shepherdess <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0059">59</a></span><br /> -The Dead <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0060">60</a><br /></span><br /> -The Great Lover<span class="tabline"> <a href="#img0062">62</a>, <a href="#img0064">64</a></span><br /> -If I had a Broomstick <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0074b">74</a></span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> -The Dying Patriot<span class="tabline"><a href="#img0080">80</a>, <a href="#img0082">82</a></span><br /> -Star-Talk <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0084">84</a></span><br /> -Overheard on a Saltmarsh <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0094">94</a></span><br /> -To the Coming Spring <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0103">103</a></span><br /> -Alms in Autumn <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0106">106</a></span><br /> -Very Nearly! <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0109">109</a></span><br /> -All is Spirit and Part of Me <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0115">115</a></span><br /> -Black and White <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0126">126</a></span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0030.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0031"></a> -<img src="images/img0031.jpg" width="600" alt="APRIL, APRIL, LAUGH THY GIRLISH LAUGHTER!" /> -<p class="capt">"APRIL, APRIL, LAUGH THY GIRLISH LAUGHTER!"</p> -</div> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">APRIL</span><br /> -<br /> -April, April,<br /> -Laugh thy girlish laughter;<br /> -Then, the moment after,<br /> -Weep thy girlish tears!<br /> -April, that mine ears<br /> -If I tell thee, sweetest,<br /> -All my hopes and fears,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">April, April,</span><br /> -Laugh thy golden laughter,<br /> -But, the moment after,<br /> -Weep thy golden tears.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILLIAM WATSON</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> -</p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY</span><br /> -<br /> -When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Folk dance like a wave of the sea;</span><br /> -My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My brother in Moharabuiee.</span><br /> -<br /> -I passed my brother and cousin:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They read in their books of prayer;</span><br /> -I read in my book of songs<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I bought at the Sligo fair.</span><br /> -<br /> -When we come at the end of time,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To Peter sitting in state,</span><br /> -He will smile on the three old spirits,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But call me first through the gate;</span><br /> -<br /> -For the good are always the merry,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save by an evil chance,</span><br /> -And the merry love the fiddle,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the merry love to dance:</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0032"></a> -<img src="images/img0032.jpg" width="600" alt="WHEN WE COME AT THE END OF TIME, TO PETER SITTING IN STATE"/> -<p class="capt">WHEN WE COME AT THE END OF TIME, TO PETER SITTING IN STATE</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -And when the folk there spy me,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They will all come up to me,</span><br /> -With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dance like a wave of the sea.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">W. B. YEATS</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0033.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE</span><br /> -<br /> -I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,<br /> -And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;<br /> -Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And live alone in the bee-loud glade.</span><br /> -<br /> -And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br /> -Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br /> -There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And evening full of the linnet's wings.</span><br /> -<br /> -I will arise and go now, for always, night and day,<br /> -I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br /> -While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I hear it in the deep heart's core.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">W. B. YEATS</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0035"></a> -<img src="images/img0035.jpg" width="600" alt="I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM."/> -<p class="capt">"I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM."</p> -</div> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">CRADLE-SONG</span><br /> -<br /> -From groves of spice,<br /> -O'er fields of rice,<br /> -Athwart the lotus-stream,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I bring for you,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Aglint with dew,</span><br /> -A little lovely dream.<br /> -<br /> -Sweet, shut your eyes,<br /> -The wild fire-flies<br /> -Dance through the fairy neem;<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">From the poppy-bole</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For you I stole</span><br /> -A little lovely dream.<br /> -<br /> -Dear eyes, good-night,<br /> -In golden light<br /> -The stars around you gleam;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On you I press</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With soft caress</span><br /> -A little lovely dream.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">SAROJINI NAIDU</span><br /> -</p> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> A lilac-tree (Hindustani).</p> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE DONKEY</span><br /> -<br /> -When fishes flew and forests walked<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And figs grew upon thorn,</span><br /> -Some moment when the moon was blood<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then surely I was born;</span><br /> -<br /> -With monstrous head and sickening cry<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And ears like errant wings,</span><br /> -The devil's walking parody<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On all four-footed things.</span><br /> -<br /> -The tattered outlaw of the earth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of ancient crooked will;</span><br /> -Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I keep my secret still.</span><br /> -<br /> -Fools! For I also had my hour;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One far fierce hour and sweet:</span><br /> -There was a shout about my ears,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And palms before my feet.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">G. K. CHESTERTON</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0036"></a> -<img src="images/img0036.jpg" width="600" alt="WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS."/> -<p class="capt">"WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS."</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE EARLY MORNING</span><br /> -<br /> -The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:<br /> -The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.<br /> -The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.<br /> -My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HILAIRE BELLOC</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0037.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SOUTH COUNTRY</span> -<br /> -<br /> -When I am living in the Midlands<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That are sodden and unkind,</span><br /> -I light my lamp in the evening:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My work is left behind;</span><br /> -And the great hills of the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come back into my mind.</span><br /> -<br /> -The great hills of the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They stand along the sea;</span><br /> -And it's there walking in the high woods<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That I could wish to be,</span><br /> -And the men that were boys when I was a boy<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Walking along with me.</span><br /> -<br /> -The men that live in North England<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I saw them for a day:</span><br /> -Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their skies are fast and grey;</span><br /> -From their castle-walls a man may see<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">The mountains far away.</span><br /> -<br /> -The men that live in West England<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They see the Severn strong,</span><br /> -A-rolling on rough water brown<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Light aspen leaves along.</span><br /> -They have the secret of the Rocks,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the oldest kind of song.</span><br /> -<br /> -But the men that live in the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are the kindest and most wise,</span><br /> -They get their laughter from the loud surf,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the faith in their happy eyes</span><br /> -Comes surely from our Sister the Spring<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When over the sea she flies;</span><br /> -The violets suddenly bloom, at her feet,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She blesses us with surprise.</span><br /> -<br /> -I never get between the pines<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I smell the Sussex air;</span><br /> -Nor I never come on a belt of sand<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But my home is there.</span><br /> -And along the sky the line of the Downs<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So noble and so bare.</span><br /> -<br /> -A lost thing could I never find,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor a broken thing mend:</span><br /> -And I fear I shall be all alone<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When I get towards the end.</span><br /> -Who will be there to comfort me<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or who will be my friend?</span><br /> -<br /> -I will gather and carefully make my friends<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the men of the Sussex Weald,</span><br /> -They watch the stars from silent folds,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They stiffly plough the field.</span><br /> -By them and the God of the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My poor soul shall be healed.</span><br /> -<br /> -If I ever become a rich man,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or if ever I grow to be old,</span><br /> -I will build a house with deep thatch<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To shelter me from the cold,</span><br /> -And there shall the Sussex songs be sung<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the story of Sussex told.</span><br /> -<br /> -I will hold my house in the high wood<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Within a walk of the sea,</span><br /> -And the men that were boys when I was a boy<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall sit and drink with me.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HILAIRE BELLOC</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0041"></a> -<img src="images/img0041.jpg" width="600" alt="ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING" /> -<p class="capt">"ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SEA FEVER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,<br /> -And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;<br /> -And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,<br /> -And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.<br /> -<br /> -I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide<br /> -Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;<br /> -And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,<br /> -And the flung spray "and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.<br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life,<br /> -To the gull's, way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">knife;</span><br /> -And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,<br /> -And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN MASEFIELD</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0042.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">TEWKESBURY ROAD</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,<br /> -Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;<br /> -Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">of the air,</span><br /> -Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.<br /> -<br /> -And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink<br /> -Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">white;</span><br /> -Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink<br /> -When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.<br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,<br /> -Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;<br /> -And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth<br /> -At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN MASEFIELD</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0044.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE WEST WIND</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;<br /> -I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.<br /> -For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,<br /> -And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.<br /> -<br /> -It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,<br /> -Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.<br /> -There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,<br /> -And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.<br /> -<br /> -"Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away.<br /> -It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray:<br /> -And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?<br /> -<br /> -The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run;<br /> -It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.<br /> -It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,<br /> -To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.<br /> -<br /> -Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,<br /> -So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?<br /> -I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"<br /> -Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.<br /> -<br /> -It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread<br /> -To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,<br /> -To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song<br /> -In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN MASEFIELD</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0047"></a> -<img src="images/img0047.jpg" width="600" alt="DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE." /> -<p class="capt">"DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE."</p> -</div> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A BALLAD OF THE CAPTAINS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the narrow ships of old—</span><br /> -Who with valiant souls went seeking<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the Fabled Fleece of Gold;</span><br /> -In the clouded Dusk of Ages,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Dawn of History;</span><br /> -When the ringing songs of Homer<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">First re-echoed o'er the Sea?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, the Captains lie a-sleeping</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where great iron hulls are sweeping</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Out of Suez in their pride;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And they hear not, and they heed not,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And they know not, and they need not</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In their deep graves far and wide.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who went blindly through the Strait,</span><br /> -With a tribute to Poseidon,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">A libation poured to Fate?</span><br /> -They were heroes giant-hearted,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That with Terrors, told and sung,</span><br /> -Like blindfolded lions grappled,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the World was strange and young.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, the Captains brave and daring,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With their grim old crews are faring</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where our guiding beacons gleam;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the homeward liners o'er them—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">All the charted seas before them—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Shall not wake them as they dream.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From bold Nelson back to Drake,</span><br /> -Who came drumming up the Channel,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Haling prizes in their wake?</span><br /> -Where are England's fighting Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who, with battle-flags unfurled,</span><br /> -Went a-rieving all the rievers<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'er the waves of all the world?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, these Captains, all confiding</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In the strong right hand, are biding</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In the margins, on the Main;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They are shining bright in story,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They are sleeping deep in glory,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On the silken lap of Fame.</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0048"></a> -<img src="images/img0048.jpg" width="600" alt="WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY" /> -<p class="capt">"WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -Here are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who regarded not the tears</span><br /> -Of the captured Christian maidens<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Carried, weeping, to Algiers?</span><br /> -Yes, the swarthy Moorish Captains,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Storming wildly 'cross the Bay,</span><br /> -With a dead hidalgo's daughter.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As a dower for the Dey?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, those cruel Captains never</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shall sweet lovers more dissever,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On their forays as they roll;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or the mad Dons curse them vainly,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As their baffled ships, ungainly,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Heel them, jeering, to the Mole.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of those racing, roaring days,</span><br /> -Who of knowledge and of courage,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Drove the clippers on their ways—</span><br /> -To the furthest ounce of pressure,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the latest stitch of sail,</span><br /> -'Carried on' before the tempest<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till the waters lapped the rail?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, the merry, manly skippers</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the traders and the clippers,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">They are sleeping East and West,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the brave blue seas shall hold them,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the oceans five enfold them</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In the havens where they rest.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the gallant days agone?</span><br /> -They are biding in their places,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Great Deep bears no traces</span><br /> -Of their good ships passed and gone.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They are biding in their places,</span><br /> -Where the light of God's own grace is,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Great Deep thunders on.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yea, with never port to steer for,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And with never storm to fear for,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">They are waiting wan and white,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And they hear no more the calling</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the watches, or the falling</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of the sea rain in the night.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">E. J. BRADY</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0051"></a> -<img src="images/img0051.jpg" width="600" alt="DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS" /> -<p class="capt">"DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS"</p> -</div> - - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ARABIA</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Far are the shades of Arabia,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the Princes ride at noon,</span><br /> -'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Under the ghost of the moon;</span><br /> -And so dark is that vaulted purple<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flowers in the forest rise</span><br /> -And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pale in the noonday skies.</span><br /> -<br /> -Sweet is the music of Arabia<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In my heart, when out of dreams</span><br /> -I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Descry her gliding streams;</span><br /> -Hear her strange lutes on the green banks<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ring loud with the grief and delight</span><br /> -Of the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the brooding silence of night.</span><br /> -<br /> -They haunt me—her lutes and her forests;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No beauty on earth I see</span><br /> -But shadowed with that dream recalls<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her loveliness to me:</span><br /> -Still eyes look coldly upon me,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cold voices whisper and say—</span><br /> -"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They have stolen his wits away."</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0052.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">FULL MOON</span><br /> -<br /> -One night as Dick lay half asleep,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into his drowsy eyes</span><br /> -A great still light began to creep<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From out the silent skies.</span><br /> -It was the lovely moon's, for when<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He raised his dreamy head,</span><br /> -Her rays of silver filled the pane<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And streamed across his bed.</span><br /> -So, for awhile, each gazed at each—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dick and the solemn moon—</span><br /> -Till, climbing slowly on her way,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She vanished, and was gone.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">NOD</span><br /> -<br /> -Softly along the road of evening,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In a twilight dim with rose,</span><br /> -Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.</span><br /> -<br /> -His drowsy flock streams on before him,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their fleeces charged with gold,</span><br /> -To where the sun's last beam leans low<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On Nod the shepherd's fold.</span><br /> -<br /> -The hedge is quick and green with briar,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From their sand the conies creep;</span><br /> -And all the birds that fly in heaven<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flock singing home to sleep.</span><br /> -<br /> -His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, when night's shadows fall,</span><br /> -His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Misses not one of all.</span><br /> -<br /> -His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The waters of no-more-pain,</span><br /> -His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Rest, rest, and rest again."</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0055.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Who said, "Peacock Pie"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The old King to the sparrow:</span><br /> -Who said, "Crops are ripe"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rust to the harrow:</span><br /> -Who said, "Where sleeps she now?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where rests she now her head,</span><br /> -Bathed in eve's loveliness"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That's what I said.</span><br /> -<br /> -Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sexton to willow:</span><br /> -Who said, "Green dusk for dreams,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Moss for a pillow"?</span><br /> -Who said, "All Time's delight<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hath she for narrow bed;</span><br /> -Life's troubled bubble broken"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That's what I said.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0056"></a> -<img src="images/img0056.jpg" width="600" alt="'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'" /> -<p class="capt">"'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A DEAD HARVEST</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">IN KENSINGTON GARDENS</span><br /> -<br /> -Along the graceless grass of town<br /> -They rake the rows of red and brown,—<br /> -Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay<br /> -Delicate, touched with gold and grey,<br /> -Raked long ago and far away.<br /> -<br /> -A narrow silence in the park,<br /> -Between the lights a narrow dark.<br /> -One street rolls on the north; and one,<br /> -Muffled, upon the south doth run;<br /> -Amid the mist the work is done.<br /> -<br /> -A futile crop! for it the fire<br /> -Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre.<br /> -So go the town's lives on the breeze,<br /> -Even as the sheddings of the trees;<br /> -Bosom nor barn is filled with these.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ALICE MEYNELL</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">NOVEMBER BLUE</span><br /></p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; font-size: 0.85em; margin-top: 2em;"> -The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary<br /> -colour to the air in the early evening.<br /> -<br /> -<i>Essay on London</i><br /> -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -O heavenly colour, London town<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has blurred it from her skies;</span><br /> -And, hooded in an earthly brown,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unheaven'd the city lies.</span><br /> -No longer standard-like this hue<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Above the broad road flies;</span><br /> -Nor does the narrow street the blue<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wear, slender pennon-wise.</span><br /> -<br /> -But when the gold and silver lamps<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Colour the London dew,</span><br /> -And, misted by the winter damps,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The shops shine bright anew—</span><br /> -Blue comes to earth, it walks the street,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It dyes the wide air through;</span><br /> -A mimic sky about their feet,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The throng go crowned with blue.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ALICE MEYNELL</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0059"></a> -<img src="images/img0059.jpg" width="600" alt="SHE WALKS—THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT—A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP" /> -<p class="capt">"SHE WALKS—THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT—A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SHEPHERDESS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -She walks—the lady of my delight—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A shepherdess of sheep.</span><br /> -Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She guards them from the steep;</span><br /> -She feeds them on the fragrant height,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And folds them in for sleep.</span><br /> -<br /> -She roams maternal hills and bright,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dark valleys safe and deep,</span><br /> -Into that tender breast at night<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The chastest stars may peep.</span><br /> -She walks—the lady of my delight—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A shepherdess of sheep.</span><br /> -<br /> -She holds her little thoughts in sight,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though gay they run and leap.</span><br /> -She is so circumspect and right;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She has her soul to keep.</span><br /> -She walks—the lady of my delight—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A shepherdess of sheep.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ALICE MEYNELL</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE DEAD</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.</span><br /> -These laid the world away; poured out the red<br /> -Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That men call age; and those who would have been,</span><br /> -Their sons, they gave, their immortality.<br /> -<br /> -Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.</span><br /> -Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And paid his subjects with a royal wage;</span><br /> -And Nobleness walks in our ways again;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we have come into our heritage.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RUPERT BROOKE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0060"></a> -<img src="images/img0060.jpg" width="600" alt="HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH" /> -<p class="capt">"HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE GREAT LOVER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I have been so great a lover: filled my days<br /> -So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,<br /> -The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,<br /> -Desire illimitable, and still content,<br /> -And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,<br /> -For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear<br /> -Our hearts at random down the dark of life.<br /> -Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife<br /> -Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,<br /> -My night shall be remembered for a star<br /> -That outshone all the suns of all men's days.<br /> -Shall I not crown them with immortal praise<br /> -Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me<br /> -High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see<br /> -The inenarrable godhead of delight?<br /> -Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.<br /> -A city:—and we have built it, these and I.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.<br /> -So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,<br /> -And the high cause of Love's magnificence,<br /> -And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names<br /> -Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,<br /> -And set them as a banner, that men may know,<br /> -To dare the generations, burn, and blow<br /> -Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming....<br /> -These I have loved:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,</span><br /> -Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;<br /> -Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust<br /> -Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;<br /> -Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;<br /> -And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;<br /> -And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,<br /> -Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;<br /> -Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon<br /> -Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss<br /> -Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is<br /> -Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen<br /> -Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;<br /> -The benison of hot water; furs to touch;<br /> -The good smell of old clothes; and other such—<br /> -The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,<br /> -Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers<br /> -About dead leaves and last year's ferns....<br /> -</p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0062"></a> -<img src="images/img0062.jpg" width="600" alt="OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING" /> -<p class="capt">"OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -<span style="margin-left: 19.5em;">Dear names,</span><br /> -And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;<br /> -Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;<br /> -Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;<br /> -Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,<br /> -Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;<br /> -Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam<br /> -That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;<br /> -And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold<br /> -Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;<br /> -Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;<br /> -And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;—<br /> -And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—<br /> -All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.<br /> -Whatever passes not, in the great hour,<br /> -Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power<br /> -To hold them with me through the gate of Death.<br /> -They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,<br /> -Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust<br /> -And sacramented covenant to the dust.<br /> -—Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> -And give what's left of love again, and make<br /> -New friends, now strangers....<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">But the best I've known,</span><br /> -Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown<br /> -About the winds of the world, and fades from brains<br /> -Of living men, and dies.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 12em;">Nothing remains.</span><br /> -<br /> -O dear my loves, O faithless, once again<br /> -This one last gift I give: that after men<br /> -Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,<br /> -Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RUPERT BROOKE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0064"></a> -<img src="images/img0064.jpg" width="600" alt="MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW" /> -<p class="capt">"MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SOLDIER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -If I should die, think only this of me:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That there's some corner of a foreign field</span><br /> -That is for ever England. There shall be<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;</span><br /> -A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,</span><br /> -A body of England's, breathing English air,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.</span><br /> -<br /> -And think, this heart, all evil shed away,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A pulse in the eternal mind, no less</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;</span><br /> -Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RUPERT BROOKE</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Sombre and rich, the skies;<br /> -Great glooms, and starry plains.<br /> -Gently the night wind sighs;<br /> -Else a vast silence reigns.<br /> -<br /> -The splendid silence clings<br /> -Around me: and around<br /> -The saddest of all kings<br /> -Crowned, and again discrowned.<br /> -<br /> -Comely and calm, he rides<br /> -Hard by his own Whitehall:<br /> -Only the night wind glides:<br /> -No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.<br /> -<br /> -Gone, too, his Court; and yet,<br /> -The stars his courtiers are:<br /> -Stars in their stations set;<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>And every wandering star.<br /> -<br /> -Alone he rides, alone,<br /> -The fair and fatal king:<br /> -Dark night is all his own,<br /> -That strange and solemn thing.<br /> -<br /> -Which are more full of fate:<br /> -The stars; or those sad eyes?<br /> -Which are more still and great:<br /> -Those brows; or the dark skies?<br /> -<br /> -Although his whole heart yearn<br /> -In passionate tragedy:<br /> -Never was face so stern<br /> -With sweet austerity.<br /> -<br /> -Vanquished in life, his death<br /> -By beauty made amends:<br /> -The passing of his breath<br /> -Won his defeated ends.<br /> -<br /> -Brief life and hapless? Nay:<br /> -Through death, life grew sublime.<br /> -<i>Speak after sentence?</i> Yea:<br /> -And to the end of time.<br /> -<br /> -Armoured he rides, his head<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>Bare to the stars of doom:<br /> -He triumphs now, the dead,<br /> -Beholding London's gloom.<br /> -<br /> -Our wearier spirit faints,<br /> -Vexed in the world's employ:<br /> -His soul was of the saints;<br /> -And art to him was joy.<br /> -<br /> -King, tried in fires of woe<br /> -Men hunger for thy grace:<br /> -And through the night I go,<br /> -Loving thy mournful face.<br /> -<br /> -Yet when the city sleeps;<br /> -When all the cries are still:<br /> -The stars and heavenly deeps<br /> -Work out a perfect will.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">LIONEL JOHNSON</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">CHECK</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The night was creeping on the ground;<br /> -She crept and did not make a sound<br /> -Until she reached the tree, and then<br /> -She covered it, and stole again<br /> -Along the grass beside the wall.<br /> -<br /> -I heard the rustle of her shawl<br /> -As she threw blackness everywhere<br /> -Upon the sky and ground and air,<br /> -And in the room where I was hid:<br /> -But no matter what she did<br /> -To everything that was without,<br /> -She could not put my candle out.<br /> -<br /> -So I stared at the night, and she<br /> -Stared back solemnly at me.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES STEPHENS</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">WHEN THE LEAVES FALL</span> -<br /> -<br /> -When the leaves fall off the trees<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Everybody walks on them:</span><br /> -Once they had a time of ease<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">High above, and every breeze</span><br /> -Used to stay and talk to them.<br /> -<br /> -Then they were so debonair<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As they fluttered up and down;</span><br /> -Dancing in the sunny air,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dancing without knowing there</span><br /> -Was a gutter in the town.<br /> -<br /> -Now they have no place at all!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All the home that they can find</span><br /> -Is a gutter by a wall,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the wind that waits their fall</span><br /> -Is an apache of a wind.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES STEPHENS</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">IN FRANCE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The poplars in the fields of France<br /> -Are golden ladies come to dance;<br /> -But yet to see them there is none<br /> -But I and the September sun.<br /> -<br /> -The girl who in their shadow sits<br /> -Can only see the sock she knits;<br /> -Her dog is watching all the day<br /> -That not a cow shall go astray.<br /> -<br /> -The leisurely contented cows<br /> -Can only see the earth they browse;<br /> -Their piebald bodies through the grass<br /> -With busy, munching noses pass.<br /> -<br /> -Alone the sun and I behold<br /> -Processions crowned with shining gold—<br /> -The poplars in the fields of France,<br /> -Like glorious ladies come to dance.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">FRANCES CORNFORD</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE RAGWORT</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The thistles on the sandy flats<br /> -Are courtiers with crimson hats;<br /> -The ragworts, growing up so straight,<br /> -Are emperors who stand in state,<br /> -And march about, so proud and bold,<br /> -In crowns of fairy-story gold.<br /> -<br /> -The people passing home at night<br /> -Rejoice to see the shining sight,<br /> -They quite forget the sands and sea<br /> -Which are as grey as grey can be,<br /> -Nor ever heed the gulls who cry<br /> -Like peevish children in the sky.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">FRANCES CORNFORD</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">LONE DOG</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;<br /> -I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;<br /> -I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;<br /> -I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.<br /> -<br /> -I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,<br /> -A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,<br /> -Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,<br /> -But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff, and kick, and hate.<br /> -<br /> -Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,<br /> -Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.<br /> -O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,<br /> -Wide wind, and wild stars, and the hunger of the quest!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">IRENE R. McLEOD</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK</span> -<br /> -<br /> -If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it,<br /> -I'd fly through the windows when Jane goes to tea,<br /> -And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide it,<br /> -To lands where no children are cripples like me;<br /> -I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the sea,<br /> -Where soft red anemones close when you touch;<br /> -If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it,<br /> -If I had a broomstick—instead of a crutch!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">PATRICK R. CHALMERS</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0074.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0074b"></a> -<img src="images/img0074b.jpg" width="600" alt="IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK" /> -<p class="capt">"IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It was early last September nigh to Framlin'amon-Sea,<br /> -An''twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea,<br /> -An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane,<br /> -A Pharaoh with his waggons cornin' jolt an' creak an' strain;<br /> -A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up,<br /> -An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup,<br /> -An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings<br /> -Was joggin' in the dust along is roundabouts and swings.<br /> -<br /> -"Goo'-day," said'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?"<br /> -"I find," said'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found,<br /> -For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round."<br /> -Said'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were,<br /> -It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a'are;<br /> -But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's,<br /> -What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!<br /> -<br /> -"Goo' luck," said'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt;<br /> -An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out";<br /> -'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again<br /> -To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane;<br /> -An' the moon she climbed the'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, is sooth of lose-and-win;<br /> -For "up an' down an' round," said'e, "goes all appointed things,<br /> -An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!"<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">PATRICK R. CHALMERS</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0077.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A TOWN WINDOW</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Beyond my window in the night<br /> -Is but a drab inglorious street,<br /> -Yet there the frost and clean starlight<br /> -As over Warwick woods are sweet.<br /> -<br /> -Under the grey drift of the town<br /> -The crocus works among the mould<br /> -As eagerly as those that crown<br /> -The Warwick spring in flame and gold.<br /> -<br /> -And when the tramway down the hill<br /> -Across the cobbles moans and rings,<br /> -There is about my window-sill<br /> -The tumult of a thousand wings.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN DRINKWATER</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">BRUMANA</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Oh shall I never never be home again?<br /> -Meadows of England shining in the rain<br /> -Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green<br /> -With briar fortify, with blossom screen<br /> -Till my far morning—and O streams that slow<br /> -And pure and deep through plains and playlands go,<br /> -For me your love and all your kingcups store,<br /> -And—dark militia of the southern shore,<br /> -Old fragrant friends—preserve me the last lines<br /> -Of that long saga which you sung me, pines,<br /> -When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree<br /> -I listened, with my eyes upon the sea.<br /> -<br /> -[Continued]<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES ELROY FLECKER</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE DYING PATRIOT</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Day of my dreams, O day!</span><br /> -I saw them march from Dover, long ago,<br /> -With a silver cross before them, singing low,<br /> -Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Augustine with his feet of snow.</span><br /> -<br /> -Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,<br /> -—Beauty she was statue cold—there's blood upon her gown:<br /> -Noon of my dreams, O noon!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With her towers and tombs and statues all arow,</span><br /> -With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the streets where the great men go.</span><br /> -<br /> -</p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0080"></a> -<img src="images/img0080.jpg" width="600" alt="AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW" /> -<p class="capt">"AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW"</p> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales,<br /> -When the first star shivers and the last wave pales:<br /> -O evening dreams!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow,</span><br /> -And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sway when the long winds blow.</span><br /> -<br /> -Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar<br /> -Your children of the morning are clamorous for war:<br /> -Fire in the night, O dreams!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though she send you as she sent you, long ago,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow,</span><br /> -West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go<br /> -Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES ELROY FLECKER</span> -<br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">NOVEMBER EVES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -November Evenings! Damp and still<br /> -They used to cloak Leckhampton hill,<br /> -And lie down close on the grey plain,<br /> -And dim the dripping window-pane,<br /> -And send queer winds like Harlequins<br /> -That seized our elms for violins<br /> -And struck a note so sharp and low<br /> -Even a child could feel the woe.<br /> -<br /> -Now fire chased shadow round the room;<br /> -Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom:<br /> -We crept about like mice, while Nurse<br /> -Sat mending, solemn as a hearse,<br /> -And even our unlearned eyes<br /> -Half closed with choking memories.<br /> -<br /> -Is it the mist or the dead leaves,<br /> -Or the dead men—November eves?<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES ELROY FLECKER</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0082"></a> -<img src="images/img0082.jpg" width="600" alt="I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO" /> -<p class="capt">"I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">STAR-TALK</span> -<br /> -<br /> -"Are you awake, Gemelli,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"We'll be awake till reveille,<br /> -Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli,<br /> -"It's no good trying to go to sleep:<br /> -If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But rest is hopeless to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But rest is hopeless to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"Yes, and so are the Hyads:<br /> -See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,<br /> -"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:<br /> -We huddle together like birds in a storm:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It's bitter weather to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It's bitter weather to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -"What do you hunt, Orion,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This starry night?"</span><br /> -"The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>And the Great Bear," says Orion,<br /> -<br /> -"With my starry quiver and beautiful belt<br /> -I am trying to find a good thick pelt<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To warm my shoulders to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To warm my shoulders to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -"Did you hear that, Great She-bear,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare,<br /> -Of my own big fur," says the She-bear.<br /> -"I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:<br /> -The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,<br /> -And the frost so cruel to-night!<br /> -And the frost so cruel to-night!"<br /> -<br /> -"How is your trade, Aquarius,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"Complaints is many and various,<br /> -And my feet are cold," says Aquarius,<br /> -"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,<br /> -And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the pump has frozen to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the pump has frozen to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROBERT GRAVES</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0084"></a> -<img src="images/img0084.jpg" width="600" alt="HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?" /> -<p class="capt">"HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE KINGFISHER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It was the Rainbow gave thee birth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And left thee all her lovely hues;</span><br /> -And, as her mother's name was Tears,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So runs it in thy blood to choose</span><br /> -For haunts the lonely pools, and keep<br /> -In company with trees that weep.<br /> -<br /> -Go you and, with such glorious hues,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Live with proud Peacocks in green parks;</span><br /> -On lawns as smooth as shining glass,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let every feather show its mark;</span><br /> -Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings<br /> -Before the windows of proud kings.<br /> -<br /> -Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou hast no proud ambitious mind;</span><br /> -I also love a quiet place<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That's green, away from all mankind;</span><br /> -A lonely pool, and let a tree<br /> -Sigh with her bosom over me.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILLIAM H. DAVIES</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SHEEP</span> -<br /> -<br /> -When I was once in Baltimore<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A man came up to me and cried,</span><br /> -"Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we will sail on Tuesday's tide.</span><br /> -<br /> -"If you will sail with me, young man,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'll pay you fifty shillings down;</span><br /> -These eighteen hundred sheep I take<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From Baltimore to Glasgow town."</span><br /> -<br /> -He paid me fifty shillings down,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep;</span><br /> -We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We soon were in the salt sea deep.</span><br /> -<br /> -The first night we were out at sea<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those sheep were quiet in their mind;</span><br /> -The second night they cried with fear—<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">They smelt no pastures in the wind.</span><br /> -<br /> -They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They cried so loud I could not sleep:</span><br /> -For fifty thousand shillings down<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I would not sail again with sheep.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILLIAM H. DAVIES</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0087.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Green gardens in Laventie!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Soldiers only know the street</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where the mud is churned and splashed about</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">By battle-wending feet;</span><br /> -And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Look for it when you pass.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Beyond the Church whose pitted spire</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Seems balanced on a strand</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of swaying stone and tottering brick</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Two roofless ruins stand,</span><br /> -And here behind the wreckage where the back-wall should have been<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">We found a garden green.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">The grass was never trodden on,</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">The little path of gravel</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Was overgrown with celandine,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">No other folk did travel</span><br /> -Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">Running from house to house.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">So all among the vivid blades</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">Of soft and tender grass</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">We lay, nor heard the limber wheels</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">That pass and ever pass,</span><br /> -In noisy continuity, until their stony rattle<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">Seems in itself a battle.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">At length we rose up from our ease</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Of tranquil happy mind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And searched the garden's little length</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">A fresh pleasaunce to find;</span><br /> -And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Did rest the tired eye.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">The fairest and most fragrant</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Of the many sweets we found,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Was a little bush of Daphne flower</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Upon a grassy mound,</span><br /> -And so thick were the blossoms set, and so divine the scent,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">That we were well content.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Hungry for Spring I bent my head,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The perfume fanned my face,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And all my soul was dancing</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">In that lovely little place,</span><br /> -Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">shattered towns</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">Away . . . upon the Downs.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">I saw green banks of daffodil,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">Slim poplars in the breeze,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Great tan-brown hares in gusty March</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">A-courting on the leas;</span><br /> -And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">scurrying dace,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Home—what a perfect place!</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">INTO BATTLE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The naked earth is warm with Spring,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And with green grass and bursting trees</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And quivers in the sunny breeze;</span><br /> -And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">And a striving evermore for these;</span><br /> -And he is dead who will not fight;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And who dies fighting has increase.</span><br /> -<br /> -The fighting man shall from the sun<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;</span><br /> -Speed with the light-foot winds to run,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And with the trees to newer birth;</span><br /> -And find, when fighting shall be done,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Great rest, and fullness after dearth.</span><br /> -<br /> -All the bright company of Heaven<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hold him in their high comradeship,</span><br /> -The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Orion's Belt and sworded hip.</span><br /> -<br /> -The woodland trees that stand together,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They stand to him each one a friend,</span><br /> -They gently speak in the windy weather;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They guide to valley and ridges' end.</span><br /> -<br /> -The kestrel hovering by day,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And the little owls that call by night,</span><br /> -Bid him be swift and keen as they,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">As keen of ear, as swift of sight.</span><br /> -<br /> -The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">If this be the last song you shall sing</span><br /> -Sing well, for you may not sing another;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Brother, sing."</span><br /> -<br /> -In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Before the brazen frenzy starts,</span><br /> -The horses show him nobler powers;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O patient eyes, courageous hearts!</span><br /> -<br /> -And when the burning moment breaks,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And all things else are out of mind,</span><br /> -And only Joy of Battle takes<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Him by the throat, and makes him blind—</span><br /> -<br /> -Though joy and blindness he shall know,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Not caring much to know, that still,</span><br /> -Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That it be not the Destined Will.</span><br /> -<br /> -The thundering line of battle stands,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And in the air Death moans and sings;</span><br /> -But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And Night shall fold him in soft wings.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JULIAN GRENFELL</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0093.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">at them?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Give them me.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10em;">No.</span><br /> -Give them me. Give them me.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10em;">No.</span><br /> -Then I will howl all night in the reeds,<br /> -Lie in the mud and howl for them.<br /> -<br /> -Goblin, why do you love them so?<br /> -<br /> -They are better than stars or water,<br /> -Better than voices of winds that sing,<br /> -Better than any man's fair daughter,<br /> -Your green glass beads on a silver ring.<br /> -<br /> -Hush, I stole them out of the moon.<br /> -</p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0094"></a> -<img src="images/img0094.jpg" width="600" alt="GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO." /> -<p class="capt">"GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO."</p> -</div> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>[Illustration: "GIVE ME YOUR BEADS. I DESIRE THEM. NO."]<br /> -<br /> -Give me your beads. I desire them.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">No.</span><br /> -<br /> -I will howl in a deep lagoon<br /> -For your green glass beads, I love them so.<br /> -Give them me. Give them.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">No.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HAROLD MONRO</span></p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0095.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A FLOWER IS LOOKING</span><br /> -<span class="caption">THROUGH THE GROUND</span> -<br /> -<br /> -A flower is looking through the ground,<br /> -Blinking at the April weather;<br /> -Now a child has seen the flower:<br /> -Now they go and play together.<br /> -<br /> -Now it seems the flower will speak,<br /> -And will call the child its brother—<br /> -But, oh strange forgetfulness!—<br /> -They don't recognize each other.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HAROLD MONRO</span><br /> -</p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0096.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">MAN CARRYING BALE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The tough hand closes gently on the load;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Out of the mind, a voice</span><br /> -Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">their work,</span><br /> -Lengthen and pause for help.<br /> -Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">While all the muscles call to one another:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">'Lift!' and the bulging bale</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Floats like a butterfly in June.</span><br /> -<br /> -So moved the earliest carrier of bales,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And the same watchful sun</span><br /> -Glowed through his body feeding it with light.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">So will the last one move,</span><br /> -And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load<br /> -Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Earth, you designed your man</span><br /> -Beautiful both in labour and repose.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HAROLD MONRO</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE CHERRY TREES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The cherry trees bend over and are shedding<br /> -On the old road where all that passed are dead,<br /> -Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding<br /> -This early May morn when there is none to wed.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">EDWARD THOMAS</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE BELLS OF HEAVEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -'T Would ring the bells of Heaven<br /> -The wildest peal for years,<br /> -If Parson lost his senses<br /> -And people came to theirs,<br /> -And he and they together<br /> -Knelt down with angry prayers<br /> -For tamed and shabby tigers<br /> -And dancing dogs and bears,<br /> -And wretched, blind pit ponies,<br /> -And little hunted hares.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RALPH HODGSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SONG OF HONOUR</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I climbed a hill as light fell short,<br /> -And rooks came home in scramble sort,<br /> -And filled the trees and flapped and fought<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sang themselves to sleep;</span><br /> -An owl from nowhere with no sound<br /> -Swung by and soon was nowhere found,<br /> -I heard him calling half-way round,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Holloing loud and deep;</span><br /> -A pair of stars, faint pins of light,<br /> -Then many a star, sailed into sight,<br /> -And all the stars, the flower of night,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were round me at a leap;</span><br /> -To tell how still the valleys lay<br /> -I heard a watch-dog miles away,<br /> -And bells of distant sheep.<br /> -<br /> -I heard no more of bird or bell,<br /> -The mastiff in a slumber fell,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I stared into the sky,</span><br /> -As wondering men have always done<br /> -Since beauty and the stars were one,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though none so hard as I.</span><br /> -<br /> -It seemed, so still the valleys were,<br /> -As if the whole world knelt at prayer,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save me and me alone;</span><br /> -So pure and wide that silence was<br /> -I feared to bend a blade of grass,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there I stood like stone.</span><br /> -<br /> -[Continued]<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RALPH HODGSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">STUPIDITY STREET></span> -<br /> -<br /> -I saw with open eyes<br /> -Singing birds sweet<br /> -Sold in the shops<br /> -For the people to eat,<br /> -Sold in the shops of<br /> -Stupidity Street.<br /> -I saw in vision<br /> -The worm in the wheat,<br /> -And in the shops nothing<br /> -For people to eat;<br /> -Nothing for sale in<br /> -Stupidity Street.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RALPH HODGSON</span> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0103"></a> -<img src="images/img0103.jpg" width="600" alt="WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES" /> -<p class="capt">"WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES"</p> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">TO THE COMING SPRING</span> -<br /> -<br /> -O punctual Spring!<br /> -We had forgotten in this winter town<br /> -The days of Summer and the long, long eves.<br /> -But now you come on airy wing,<br /> -With busy fingers spilling baby-leaves<br /> -On all the bushes, and a faint green down<br /> -On ancient trees, and everywhere<br /> -Your warm breath soft with kisses<br /> -Stirs the wintry air,<br /> -And waking us to unimagined blisses.<br /> -Your lightest footprints in the grass<br /> -Are marked by painted crocus-flowers<br /> -And heavy-headed daffodils,<br /> -While little trees blush faintly as you pass.<br /> -The morning and the night<br /> -You bathe with heavenly showers,<br /> -And scatter scentless violets on the rounded hills,<br /> -Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose posies.<br /> -With magic key, in the new evening light,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> -You are unlocking buds that keep the roses;<br /> -The purple lilac soon will blow above the wall<br /> -And bended boughs in orchards whitely bloom—<br /> -We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom ...<br /> -Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">MARGARET MACKENZIE</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ALMS IN AUTUMN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray,<br /> -A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way?<br /> -The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen,<br /> -And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again.<br /> -Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light<br /> -To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.<br /> -<br /> -Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please,<br /> -Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys.<br /> -I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast<br /> -That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past.<br /> -I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.<br /> -<br /> -Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task,<br /> -A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask :<br /> -A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands<br /> -(I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands).<br /> -So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright,<br /> -They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE FYLEMAN</span> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0106"></a> -<img src="images/img0106.jpg" width="600" alt="THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT" /> -<p class="capt">"THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">I DON'T LIKE BEETLES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I don't like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good,<br /> -I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should;<br /> -I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play,<br /> -And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away.<br /> -I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk,<br /> -And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk;<br /> -I don't like tigers, not even in a book,<br /> -And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE FYLEMAN</span></p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">WISHES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I wish I liked rice pudding,<br /> -I wish I were a twin,<br /> -I wish some day a real live fairy<br /> -Would just come walking in.<br /> -<br /> -I wish when I'm at table<br /> -My feet would touch the floor,<br /> -I wish our pipes would burst next winter,<br /> -Just like they did next door.<br /> -<br /> -I wish that I could whistle<br /> -Real proper grown-up tunes,<br /> -I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys<br /> -On rainy afternoons.<br /> -<br /> -I've got such heaps of wishes,<br /> -I've only said a few;<br /> -I wish that I could wake some morning<br /> -And find they'd all come true!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE FYLEMAN</span> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0109"></a> -<img src="images/img0109.jpg" width="600" alt="ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!" /> -<p class="capt">"ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">VERY NEARLY!</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I never quite saw fairy-folk<br /> -A-dancing in the glade,<br /> -Where, just beyond the hollow oak,<br /> -Their broad green rings are laid:<br /> -But, while behind that oak I hid,<br /> -<i>One day I very nearly did!</i><br /> -<br /> -I never quite saw mermaids rise<br /> -Above the twilight sea,<br /> -When sands, left wet,'neath sunset skies,<br /> -Are blushing rosily:<br /> -But—all alone, those rocks amid—<br /> -<i>One night I very nearly did!</i><br /> -<br /> -I never quite saw Goblin Grim<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who haunts our lumber room</span><br /> -And pops his head above the rim<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of that oak chest's deep gloom:</span><br /> -But once—when Mother raised the lid—<br /> -<i>I very, very nearly did!</i><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER</span> -</p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">WHAT THE THRUSH SAYS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Come and see! Come and see!"<br /> -The Thrush pipes out of the hawthorn-tree:<br /> -And I and Dicky on tiptoe go<br /> -To see what treasures he wants to show.<br /> -His call is clear as a call can be—<br /> -And "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<br /> -"Come and see!"<br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -His house is there in the hawthorn-tree:<br /> -The neatest house that ever you saw,<br /> -Built all of mosses and twigs and straw:<br /> -The folk who built were his wife and he—<br /> -And "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<br /> -"Come and see!"<br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -Within this house there are treasures three:<br /> -So warm and snug in its curve they lie—<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>Like three bright bits out of Spring's blue sky.<br /> -We would not hurt them, he knows; not we!<br /> -So "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">"Come and see!"</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -No thrush was ever so proud as he!<br /> -His bright-eyed lady has left those eggs<br /> -For just five minutes to stretch her legs.<br /> -He's keeping guard in the hawthorn-tree,<br /> -And "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">"Come and see!"</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -He has no fear of the boys and me.<br /> -He came and shared in our meals, you know,<br /> -In hungry times of the frost and snow.<br /> -So now we share in his Secret Tree<br /> -Where "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">"Come and see!"</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER</span> -</p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SUNSET GARDEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I can see from the window a little brown house,<br /> -And the garden goes up to the top of the hill.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the sun comes each day,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And slips down away</span><br /> -At the end of the garden an' sleeps there ... until<br /> -The daylight comes climbing up over the hill.<br /> -<br /> -I do wish I lived in the little brown house,<br /> -Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' creep<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Up ... up ... then I'd stop,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">An' lean over the top,</span><br /> -At the end of the garden, an' so I could peep,<br /> -And see what the sun looks like when it's asleep.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">MARION ST JOHN WEBB</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SWEET AS THE BREATH OF THE WHIN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Sweet as the breath of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the thought of my love—</span><br /> -Sweet as the breath of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the noonday sun—</span><br /> -Sweet as the breath of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the sun after rain.</span><br /> -<br /> -Glad as the gold of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the thought of my love—</span><br /> -Glad as the gold of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since wandering's done—</span><br /> -Glad as the gold of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is my heart, home again.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILFRID WILSON GIBSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE LAW THE LAWYERS KNOW ABOUT</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The law the lawyers know about<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Is property and land;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">But why the leaves are on the trees,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And why the winds disturb the seas,</span><br /> -Why honey is the food of bees,<br /> -Why horses have such tender knees,<br /> -Why winters come and rivers freeze,<br /> -Why Faith is more than what one sees,<br /> -And Hope survives the worst disease,<br /> -And Charity is more than these,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">They do not understand.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">H. D. C. PEPLER</span> -</p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0115"></a> -<img src="images/img0115.jpg" width="600" alt="I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS" /> -<p class="capt">"I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS"</p> -</div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ALL IS SPIRIT AND PART OF ME.</span> -<br /> -<br /> -A greater lover none can be,<br /> -And all is spirit and part of me.<br /> -I am sway of the rolling hills,<br /> -And breath from the great wide plains;<br /> -I am born of a thousand storms,<br /> -And grey with the rushing rains;<br /> -I have stood with the age-long rocks,<br /> -And flowered with the meadow sweet;<br /> -I have fought with the wind-worn firs,<br /> -And bent with the ripening wheat;<br /> -I have watched with the solemn clouds,<br /> -And dreamt with the moorland pools;<br /> -I have raced with the water's whirl,<br /> -And lain where their anger cools;<br /> -I have hovered as strong-winged bird,<br /> -And swooped as I saw my prey;<br /> -I have risen with cold grey dawn,<br /> -And flamed in the dying day;<br /> -For all is spirit and part of me,<br /> -And greater lover none can be.<br /> -<br /> -L. D'O. WALTERS<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span><br /> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">STREET LANTERNS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Country roads are yellow and brown.<br /> -We mend the roads in London Town.<br /> -<br /> -Never a hansom dare come nigh,<br /> -Never a cart goes rolling by.<br /> -<br /> -An unwonted silence steals<br /> -In between the turning wheels.<br /> -<br /> -Quickly ends the autumn day,<br /> -And the workman goes his way,<br /> -<br /> -Leaving, midst the traffic rude,<br /> -One small isle of solitude,<br /> -<br /> -Lit, throughout the lengthy night,<br /> -By the little lantern's light.<br /> -<br /> -Jewels of the dark have we,<br /> -Brighter than the rustic's be.<br /> -<br /> -Over the dull earth are thrown<br /> -Topaz, and the ruby stone.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">MARY E. COLERIDGE</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">TO BETSEY-JANE, ON HER DESIRING</span><br /> -<span class="caption">TO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -My Betsey-Jane, it would not do,<br /> -For what would Heaven make of you,<br /> -A little, honey-loving bear,<br /> -Among the Blessed Babies there?<br /> -<br /> -Nor do you dwell with us in vain<br /> -Who tumble and get up again.<br /> -And try, with bruised knees, to smile—.<br /> -Sweet, you are blessed all the-while<br /> -<br /> -And we in you: so wait, they'll come<br /> -To take your hand and fetch you home,<br /> -In Heavenly leaves to play at tents<br /> -With all the Holy Innocents.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HELEN PARRY EDEN</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE BRIDGE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Here, with one leap,<br /> -The bridge that spans the cutting; on its back<br /> -The load<br /> -Of the main-road,<br /> -And under it the railway-track.<br /> -<br /> -Into the plains they sweep,<br /> -Into the solitary plains asleep,<br /> -The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel—<br /> -Fringed with their narrow grass,<br /> -Into the plains they pass,<br /> -The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal.<br /> -<br /> -A cry<br /> -Prolonged across the earth—a call<br /> -To the remote horizons and the sky;<br /> -The whole east-rushes down them with its light,<br /> -And the whole west receives them, with its pall<br /> -Of stars and night—<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel.<br /> -<br /> -And with the fall<br /> -Of darkness, see! the red,<br /> -Bright anger of the signal, where it flares<br /> -Like a huge eye that stares<br /> -On some hid danger in the dark ahead.<br /> -A twang of wire—unseen<br /> -The signal drops; and now, instead<br /> -Of a red eye, a green.<br /> -<br /> -Out of the silence grows<br /> -An iron thunder—grows, and roars, and sweeps,<br /> -Menacing! The plain<br /> -Suddenly leaps,<br /> -Startled, from its repose—<br /> -Alert and listening. Now, from the gloom<br /> -Of the soft distance, loom<br /> -Three lights and, over them, a brush<br /> -Of tawny flame and flying spark—<br /> -Three pointed lights that rush,<br /> -Monstrous, upon the cringing dark.<br /> -<br /> -And nearer, nearer rolls the sound,<br /> -Louder the throb and roar of wheels,<br /> -The shout of speed, the shriek of steam;<br /> -The sloping bank,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>Cut into flashing squares, gives back the clank<br /> -<br /> -And grind of metal, while the ground<br /> -Shudders and the bridge reels—<br /> -As, with a scream,<br /> -The train,<br /> -A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire,<br /> -A lighted anguish of desire,<br /> -A dream<br /> -Of gold and iron, of sound and flight,<br /> -Tumultuous roars across the night.<br /> -<br /> -The train roars past—and, with a cry,<br /> -Drowned in a flying howl of wind,<br /> -Half-stifled in the smoke and blind,<br /> -The plain,<br /> -Shaken, exultant, unconfined,<br /> -Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by,<br /> -Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the sky.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">J. REDWOOD ANDERSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">FEBRUARY</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The robin on my lawn<br /> -He was the first to tell<br /> -How, in the frozen dawn,<br /> -This miracle befell,<br /> -Waking the meadows white<br /> -With hoar, the iron road<br /> -Agleam with splintered light,<br /> -And ice where water flowed:<br /> -Till, when the low sun drank<br /> -Those milky mists that cloak<br /> -Hanger and hollied bank,<br /> -The winter world awoke<br /> -To hear the feeble bleat<br /> -Of lambs on downland farms:<br /> -A blackbird whistled sweet;<br /> -Old beeches moved their arms<br /> -Into a mellow haze<br /> -Aerial, newly-born:<br /> -And I, alone, agaze,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>Stood waiting for the thorn<br /> -To break in blossom white,<br /> -Or burst in a green flame....<br /> -So, in a single night,<br /> -Fair February came,<br /> -Bidding my lips to sing<br /> -Or whisper their surprise,<br /> -With all the joy of spring<br /> -And morning in her eyes.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SEA-FOAM</span> -<br /> -<br /> -A fleck of foam on the shining sand,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Left by the ebbing sea,</span><br /> -But richer than man may understand<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In magic and mystery—</span><br /> -Transient bubbles rainbow-bright,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Myriad-hued and strange,</span><br /> -Tremble and throb in the noonday light,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flower and flush and change.</span><br /> -<br /> -A million tides have come and gone,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great gales of autumn and spring,</span><br /> -A million summoning moons have shone<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To bring to birth this thing—</span><br /> -A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sand<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the wave of an outgoing sea,</span><br /> -With all the colour of Faeryland,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wonder and mystery.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">TERESA HOOLEY</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A PETITION</span> -<br /> -<br /> -All that a man might ask, thou hast given me, England,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Birth-right and happy childhood's long heart's-ease,</span><br /> -And love whose range is deep beyond all sounding<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wider than all seas.</span><br /> -<br /> -A heart to front the world and find God in it,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eyes blind enow, but not too blind to see</span><br /> -The lovely things behind the dross and darkness,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And lovelier things to be.</span><br /> -<br /> -And friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And quenchless hope and laughter's golden store;</span><br /> -All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet grant thou one thing more:</span><br /> -<br /> -That now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unversed in arms, a dreamer such as I</span><br /> -May in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">England, for thee to die.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">R. E. VERNÈDE</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">BLACK AND WHITE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I met a man along the road<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To Withernsea;</span><br /> -Was ever anything so dark, so pale<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">As he?</span><br /> -His hat, his clothes, his tie, his boots<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Were black as black</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Could be,</span><br /> -And midst of all was a cold white face,<br /> -And eyes that looked wearily.<br /> -<br /> -The road was bleak and straight and flat<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To Withernsea,</span><br /> -Gaunt poles with shrilling wires their weird<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Did dree;</span><br /> -On the sky stood out, on the swollen sky<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The black blood veins</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Of tree</span><br /> -After tree, as they beat from the face<br /> -Of the wind which they could not flee.<br /> -<br /> -And in the fields along the road<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To Withernsea,</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<a id="img0126"></a> -<img src="images/img0126.jpg" width="500" alt="MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE" /> -<p class="capt">"MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -Swart crows sat huddled on the ground<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Disconsolately,</span><br /> -While overhead the seamews wheeled, and skirled<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">In glee;</span><br /> -But the black cows stood, and cropped where<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">they stood,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">And never heeded thee,</span><br /> -O dark pale man, with the weary eyes,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">On the road to Withernsea.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">H. H. ABBOTT</span><br /> -</p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE OXEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Now they are all on their knees,"</span><br /> -An elder said as we sat in a flock<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the embers in hearthside ease.</span><br /> -<br /> -We pictured the meek mild creatures where<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They dwelt in their strawy pen,</span><br /> -Nor did it occur to one of us there<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To doubt they were kneeling then.</span><br /> -<br /> -So fair a fancy few believe<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In these years! Yet, I feel,</span><br /> -If someone said on Christmas Eve<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Come; see the oxen kneel</span><br /> -<br /> -In the lonely barton by yonder coomb<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our childhood used to know,"</span><br /> -I should go with him in the gloom,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hoping it might be so.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">THOMAS HARDY</span> -</p> - - - - - - - - -<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 51488 ***</div> - -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/51488-h/images/img0002.jpg b/old/51488-h/images/img0002.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d7f0935..0000000 --- a/old/51488-h/images/img0002.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51488-h/images/img0006.jpg b/old/51488-h/images/img0006.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 85e9768..0000000 --- a/old/51488-h/images/img0006.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/51488-h/images/img0009.jpg 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/dev/null diff --git a/old/51488-h/images/yearsatspringant_tp.jpg b/old/51488-h/images/yearsatspringant_tp.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b88c888..0000000 --- a/old/51488-h/images/yearsatspringant_tp.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old/51488-8.txt b/old/old/51488-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8f55762..0000000 --- a/old/old/51488-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3264 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Year's at the Spring, 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: The Year's at the Spring - An Anthology of Recent Poetry - -Author: Various - -Contributor: Harold Monro - -Illustrator: Harry Clarke - -Release Date: March 17, 2016 [EBook #51488] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING *** - - - - -Produced by Annemie Arnst and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Internet Archive) - - - - - - -THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING -an anthology of recent poetry - - -[Illustration: "AND I SHALL HAVE SOME PEACE THERE, -FOR PEACE COMES DROPPING SLOW"] - - -THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING -AN ANTHOLOGY OF RECENT POETRY -COMPILED BY L.D'O WALTERS AND -ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY CLARKE -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HAROLD MONRO - - -BRENTANO'S - -FIFTH AVENUE & 27TH STREET NEW YORK - -1920 - - -[Illustration] - - -INTRODUCTION - - -The best poetry is always about the earth itself and all the strange -and lovely things that compose and inhabit it. When a 'great poet' -sets himself the task of some 'big theme' he needs only to hold, as -it were, a magnifying glass to the earth. We who are born and live -here like very much to imagine other worlds, and we have even mentally -constructed such another in which to exist after dying on this one; but -we were careful to make it a glorified version of our own earth, with -everything we most love here intensified and improved to the utmost -stretch of human imagination. - -To each man his 'best poetry' is that which he is able most to enjoy. -The first object of poetry is to give pleasure. Pleasure is various, -but it cannot exist where the emotions or the imagination have not -been powerfully stirred. Whether it be called sensual or intellectual, -pleasure cannot be willed. It is impossible to feel happy because one -wants to feel happy, or sad because one wishes to feel sad. But such -bodily or mental conditions may be induced from outside through a -natural agency such as poetry, or music. - -Now those dreary people who would maintain that poetry should deal -(some say exclusively) with what they call 'big themes,' or 'the -larger life', are merely advocating more use of the magnifying glass -as against intensive cultivation of the natural eye. The poet is -essentially he who examines carefully, and learns to know fully, every -detail of common life. He seeks to name in a variety of manners, and -to define, the objects about him, to compare them with other objects, -near or remote, and to find, for the mere sake of enjoyment, wonderful -varieties of description and comparison. When he imagines better places -than his earth, or invents gods, the impersonation and combination of -the fortunate qualities in man, he is then using the magnifying glass -with talent, occasionally with rare genius. But the poet who seeks, -without genius, to magnify is simply a fool who sees everything too -big, and boasts, in the loudest voice he can raise, of his diseased -eyesight. - -One of the peculiarities, or perhaps rather the essential quality, of -the lyrical poetry of to-day is a minute concentration on the objects -immediately near it and an anxious carefulness to describe these in -the most appropriate and satisfactory terms. Thus it is often accused -of a neglect to sublimate the emotions, and many critics have been at -pains to suggest that this affection for the nearest and that careful -description of natural events denotes a smallness of mental range. Be -it noted, however, that the eye which does not look too far often sees -most. It is remarkable that English lyrical poetry should have learnt -in this period of religious uncertainty to clasp itself at least to a -reality that cannot be questioned or doubted. So far its faith reaches. -It expresses a trustfulness in what it can definitely perceive, it -hardly ventures outside the circles of human daily experience, and -in this capacity it reveals an excellence of many kinds, sincerity -often, and, at worst, a playfulness which, if ephemeral, is amusing -at any rate to those whom it is intended to amuse, and appropriately -irritating to those whom it wants to annoy. - -But the most noticeable characteristic of the verse of our present -moment is its dislike of the aloofness generally associated with -English poetry. About twice a century language consolidates: phrases -which were once soft and new harden with use; words once of a ringing -beauty become dry and hollow through excessive repetition. This state -of language is not much noticed by people who have no special use -for it beyond the expression of daily needs. Moreover, they make new -colloquial words for themselves as required without forethought or -difficulty. Poets, however, must consciously search for new words, and -a tired condition of their language is to them a great difficulty. The -Victorians were absolute spendthrifts of words: no vocabulary could -keep pace with their recklessness; they bequeathed a language almost -ruined for sentimental purposes--words and phrases had acquired either -such an aloofness that for a long time no one any more would trouble -to reach up to them, or had become so thin and common that to use them -would have been something like hack-sawing a piece of cotton. - -Now in the anthology which follows we may notice a characteristic -escape from these difficulties. Words have been brought down from their -high places and compelled into ordinary use. This has been accomplished -not so much through any new familiarity with the words themselves as -by a certain naturalness in the attitude of the people employing them. -Rupert Brooke's "Great Lover" is an example. - -In short, these are the chief reasons why present-day poetry is -readable and entertaining--that it deals with familiar subjects in a -familiar manner; that, in doing so, it uses ordinary words literally -and as often as possible; that it is not aloof or pretentious; that it -refuses to be bullied by tradition: its style, in fact, is itself. - - - -II - - -If an excuse is to be sought for the addition of this one more to the -large number of existent collections of recent poetry, let it be in -the nature of an explanation rather than an apology. Good, or even -representative, poetry requires, in fact, no apology, but where the -poems of some thirty-two different authors have been extracted from -their books and placed side by side in one collection, a discussion -of the apparent aims of the anthologist may be interesting, and will -perhaps lead to a fuller enjoyment of the collection thus produced. - -Some readers approach a volume of poems to criticize it, others with -the object of gaining pleasure. To give pleasure is assuredly the -object of this volume. Moreover, it is adapted to the tastes of almost -any age, from ten to ninety, and may be read aloud by grandchild to -grandparent as suitably as by grandparent to grandchild. It is an -anthology of Poems, not of Names. For instance, though Thomas Hardy -is on the list, the lyric chosen to represent him is actually more -characteristic of the book itself than of the mind of that great -and aged poet. It is, in fact, Christian in atmosphere. It is not a -typical specimen of Mr Hardy's style. It shows him in that occasional -rather sad mood of regret for a lost superstition. It is not the -best of Hardy, but rather a poem admirably suited to the book, which -also happens, as by chance, to be by the author of "The Dynasts" and -"Satires of Circumstance." - - - -III - - -The collection as a whole is modern, and all except eight of its -authors are living and writing. Of those eight, five died as soldiers -in the European War, and are represented mainly by what is known as -'War poetry.' Otherwise such poetry is fortunately absent. This absence -may be justified by the fact that most of the verse written on the -subject of the War turns out, surveyed in cooler blood, to be, as -any sound judge of literature must always have known, definitely and -unmistakably bad. Much of it is by now, or should be, repudiated by -its authors. It was too often "the spontaneous overflow of powerful -feelings"; it too seldom originated from "emotion recollected in -tranquillity." - -Rupert Brooke's sonnets "The Dead" and "The Soldier" were popular -almost from their first publication. They belong undoubtedly to the -best traditions of English poetry. Julian Grenfell's "Into Battle," -and, in a lesser, degree, the "Home Thoughts from Laventie" of Edward -Wyndham Tennant, have acquired popularity among a larger number of folk -than can be included in the general term 'literary circles.' Neither of -the composers of these verses was a professional poet. Both were men of -attractive personality and strong feeling, with education, taste, and -an occasional impulse to write gracefully. Intrinsically either poem -might as easily have been inspired by an Indian frontier raid as by a -European war. They do not affect the traditions of English poetry by -subject or by form. It will be found, as the years pass, that always -fewer 'War poems' can still be read with pleasure, the incidents which -gave rise to them having become dim in human memory. And these will not -be read because of their association with the Great War, but for their -qualities as poems and their power to stir enjoyment or surprise in the -reader. - -Consider those four melancholy lines by which Edward Thomas is here -represented, remarkable for their concentration and for the crowd of -images they can suggest. At present the words "where all that passed -are dead" alone associate this poem with the War. But death comes -through so many causes that twenty years from now a footnote would be -needed if it were desired to emphasize that association. - -J.E. Flecker's "Dying Patriot," one of his three poems in this book, -was written in 1914 in Switzerland, where he was dying of consumption. -It is certainly less a 'War poem' than the same author's "War Song of -the Saracens." - -The verses entitled "A Petition," by R. E. Vernède, are of a different -kind. They are written in conventional Henley-Kiplingese, and contain -too many incidents of a type of poetic expression that has been used -to excess, as "wider than all seas," "to front the world," "quenchless -hope" "All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England!" They are, -nevertheless, useful in the collection as a set-off against the other -'War poems' and an instance of the more ephemeral type of patriotic -verse. - -Thus it would appear that the anthologist has displayed wisdom when -including in this volume only few pieces that may be associated with -the War, and those few (with one exception) on the score of their -literary merit, and for no other reason. - - -IV - - -Poets of to-day write individually less than their pre-decessors, and -most of them are satisfied to publish only a proportion of what they -write. None of the eight referred to above left us any great bulk of -verse. Four at least, however, are becoming daily better known to the -reading public, and of these Rupert Brooke and J. E. Flecker have -already their dozens of conscious or unconscious imitators. The form, -rhythm, or Eastern atmosphere of Fleckers poetry, the cynicism and -wit of Brooke's, recur somewhat diluted in the verse of almost every -young undergraduate. Neither Lionel Johnson nor Mary Coleridge has ever -become so well known or received so much attention from the average -plagiarist, while the reputation of Edward Thomas has been of slow and -uncertain growth. Johnsons poetry is too intellectual for the average -reader. The wonderful, small lyrics of Mary Coleridge are esoteric -rather than general. Nevertheless, this anthology includes, most -advisedly, a good poem by Johnson, one indeed which has had a quiet, -but strong, influence on modern lyrical poetry, namely, the lines -to the statue of King Charles at Charing Cross, and also a charming -impression by Mary Coleridge. - -"Street Lanterns" is a good example of that poetry of close observation -to which reference has already been made. It is a small, careful -description of a London scene. It assumes that the reader has observed -as much, and that he will enjoy to be reminded and brought back for -a moment in imagination to autumn and street-mending. The advocate of -'big themes' will inevitably condemn such verse, for the poet has aimed -at neither size nor grandeur, has indeed sought rather to diminish her -subject than enlarge it. - - - -V - - -This anthology, it has been remarked above, is one rather of particular -poems than of well-known authors. Several names of repute are not to -be found in the index. William Watson is only represented by "April," -a little catch that might come to any man of feeling on a spring walk. -To think in terms of these verses is at once not to mind having left -an umbrella at home. Hilaire Belloc gives a sharp impression of early -rising; he also sings in a great voice all the glories of his favourite -part of England. W. H. Davies brings sheep across the Atlantic, and -he talks to a kingfisher. Mrs Meynell contributes "The Shepherdess," -that well-known description of a fine and serene mind, also two London -poems, of which one is the lovely "November Blue." John Masefield is -not to be read in his best style, but the three poems we find here are -thoroughly English, full of the love of the island soil and of its sea, -and are probably in the book for that reason. So much for some of the -well-known contributors. Side by side with them we find the unknown -name of H. H. Abbott, whose "Black and White" is a sketch of remarkable -clarity and interest. - -Death, so favourite a subject with poets, is seldom allowed to figure -in this book. Betsey-Jane would insist on going to Heaven, but is told, -in the charming verses by Helen Parry Eden, that it simply "would not -do." The whole book is too full of pleasure and the experience of being -alive: Betsey-Jane should read it. She might remember all her life the -advice given on page 117, and be saved hundreds of pounds in lawyers' -bills when she is grown up. - -Let the reader turn to page 114. Here is the style in which good poetry -prefers to teach, and by which it achieves more in eleven lines than a -Martin Tupper in 11,000. Mr Pepler has written down only one sentence, -charmingly improved by a series of most natural rhymes. It is a very -nasty hit at the lawyer. He does not tell him he is not a 'gentleman', -or anything so strong as that. He pays him what might be taken for a -compliment. He assumes that he does understand his own job. Then he -enumerates the things he does not understand. He attaches no blame: he -makes a statement only; one that the lawyer certainly will not think -worth arguing about, but that his client may advisedly take to heart. - -Ralph Hodgson's "Stupidity Street" argues in somewhat the same manner. -It does not suggest that anyone should become vegetarian, or that it is -wrong to kill birds. It names a street and gives a reason for doing so. -It is an angry little Poem, but impersonal. - -"The Bells of Heaven," by the same author, simply chances a hint that -something might happen if something else did. It is a suggestion only, -but made by one who knows what he thinks, and how to think it. Into a -few lines a whole philosophy is concentrated. - -Thus Pepler or Ralph Hodgson nudge peoples arms and draw attention to -traditional stupidities. - -Walter De la Mare puts the children to sleep with "Nod," or bewitches -them with the Mad Prince's Song; or he takes us to an Arabia which -never existed, but is one of those countries more beautiful than any we -know, and therefore we love to imagine it. - -Look at that full moon on page 53, which Dick saw "one night." Here is -the possible experience of man, woman, child, dog, fox, bear--or even -nightingale--all concentrated into the shortest and plainest account -of something that happened to Dick. He and Betsey-Jane, though quite -different in kind, belong to the same world. Betsey-Jane is plainly -more romantic than Dick. - -But, talking of the moon, we may turn back to Mr Chesterton on page -36. Here we find something incongruous in the collection: a poem -that wishes deliberately to strike a note. The donkey is a much -better fellow than Mr Chesterton seems to think: he does not ask for -glorification, nor would he utter that boast of the last two lines. -Would a man not rather "go with the wild asses to Paradise" than have -the case for the donkey pleaded before him in this obtrusive manner? - -Turn back four pages and you will find: - - For the good are always the merry, - Save by an evil chance, - And the merry love the fiddle, - And the merry love to dance. - -This, by W. B. Yeats, represents a much pleasanter type of thought. In -these verses of the Irish poet we have the gaiety of a man who, knowing -all about religion, can afford not to be sentimental. And here is the -spirit of the book. - -The happiness of those who love the earth is so different from the -pleasure by proxy of those that abide it in the idea of going to some -Heaven afterward. Mr Yeats' "Fiddler of Dooney" is that type of fellow -who accepts the symbolism of a national religion only in so far as it -may help him to enjoy the condition of being alive. And in his "Lake -Isle of Innisfree" he imagines a Paradise which is of the earth only. -And he takes you there by reason of his own longing. - - - -VI - - -This anthology, as a whole, is romantic ; its language is simple; its -philosophy is that of everyday life, and is entirely undisturbing. -It contains a large proportion of poems by authors who write more -particularly for children, such as P. R. Chalmers, Rose Fyleman, -Queenie Scott-Hopper, and Marion St John Webb, or of children's poems -by authors who do not actually specialize in that style, such as "The -Ragwort," by Frances Cornford; "Cradle Song," by Sarojini Naidu; -"Check," by James Stephens, and others. Two of its authors remain -necessarily unmentioned here, namely, the compiler of the book and the -writer of this Introduction. - -Some people make it their business to pick anthologies to pieces, -and they seem to enjoy themselves. "Why is this included?" they cry; -"Why is that left out?"--a form of criticism nearly always beside the -point. Inclusion or exclusion is in the taste and discretion of the -anthologist. - -This Introduction may, it is hoped, stimulate the reader of the poems -which follow to think about them carefully in their relation to -each other, and in their relation to English poetry as a whole. For -though it has frequently been emphasized that the object of poetry -(and particularly of lyrical poetry) is to give pleasure, it should -nevertheless be added that intellectual pleasure cannot be gathered at -random, or without certain preparation of the mind to receive it. - -HAROLD MONRO - -[Illustration] - - -[Illustration] - - -ACKNOWLEDGMENT - - -For permission to use copyright poems the Editor is indebted to : - -_The Authors_--H. H. Abbott, Hilaire Belloc, P. R. Chalmers, -G. K. Chesterton, Frances Cornford, W. H. Davies, Walter De la -Mare, John Drinkwater, Rose Fyleman, W. W. Gibson, Robert -Graves, Ralph Hodgson, Teresa Hooley, Margaret Mackenzie, -Irene R. McLeod, John Masefield, Alice Meynell, Harold Monro, -Sarojini Naidu, H. D. C. Pepler, James Stephens, Sir William -Watson, Marion St John Webb, and W. B. Yeats. - -The Literary Executors of Rupert Brooke, Mary E. Coleridge -(Sir Henry Newbolt), James Elroy Flecker (Mrs Flecker), Julian -Grenfell (Lady Desborough), Lionel Johnson (Mr Elkin Mathews), -Edward Wyndham Tennant (Lady Glenconner), Edward Thomas -(Messrs Selwyn and Blount), R. E. Vernède. - -And the following _Publishers_, in respect of the poems selected : - - - Messrs Burns and Oates, Ltd. - Alice Meynell: Collected Poems. - - Messrs Constable and Co., Ltd. - Walter De la Mare: The Listeners, Peacock Pie. - - Messrs J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd. - G. K. Chesterton: The Wild Knight. - - Messrs Duckworth and Co. - Hilaire Belloc: Verses. - - Mr A. C. Fifield - W. H. Davies: Collected Poems. - - Messrs George G. Harrap and Co., Ltd. - E. J. Brady: The House of the Winds. - Queenie Scott-Hopper: Pull the Bobbin! - Marion St John Webb: The Littlest One. - - Mr W. Heinemann, London, and the John Lane Company, New York - Sarojini Naidu: The Golden Threshold. - - Messrs Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston - John Drinkwater: Poems by John Drinkwater. - - Mr John Lane, London, and the John Lane Company, New York - Helen Parry Eden Bread and Circuses. - Edward Wyndham Tennant, by Pamela Glenconner. - - Messrs Macmillan and Co., Ltd., London, and the Macmillan Company, - New York - W. W. Gibson: Whin. - Ralph Hodgson: Poems. - J. Stephens: The Adventures of Seumas Beg, Songs from the Clay. - W. B. Yeats: Poems: Second Series. - - The Macmillan Company, New York - John Masefield: Ballads and Poems. - - Messrs Maunsel and Co. - P. R. Chalmers: Green Days and Blue Days. - - Messrs Methuen and Co., Ltd. - Rose Fyleman: Fairies and Chimneys, The Fairy Green. - - The Poetry Bookshop - H. H. Abbott: Black and White. - Frances Cornford: Spring Morning. - R. Graves: Over the Brazier. - - Messrs Sands and Co. - M. Mackenzie: The Station Platform, and Other Poems. - - Mr Martin Seeker - J. E. Flecker: Collected Poems. - Francis Brett Young: Poems, 1916-1918. - - Messrs Selwyn and Blount, London, and Messrs Henry Holt and - Company, New York - Edward Thomas: Poems. - - Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd. - J. Redwood Anderson: Walls and Hedges. - John Drinkwater: Swords and Ploughshares. - - Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., and the John Lane Company, - New York - Rupert Brooke: 1914, and Other Poems. - - Messrs T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd. - W. B. Yeats: Poems. - - -[Illustration] - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS - - -ARRANGED UNDER NAMES OF AUTHORS - - - ABBOTT, H. H. - Black and White - - ANDERSON, J. REDWOOD - The Bridge - - BELLOC, HILAIRE - The Early Morning - The South Country - - BRADY, E. J. - A Ballad of the Captains - - BROOKE, RUPERT - The Dead - The Great Lover - The Soldier - - CHALMERS, P. R. - If I had a Broomstick - Roundabouts and Swings - - CHESTERTON, G. K. - The Donkey - - COLERIDGE, MARY E. - Street Lanterns - - CORNFORD, FRANCES - In France - The Ragwort - - DAVIES, W. H. - The Kingfisher - Sheep - - DE LA MARE, WALTER - Arabia - Full Moon - Nod - The Song of the Mad Prince - - DRINKWATER, JOHN - A Town Window - - EDEN, HELEN PARRY - To Betsey-Jane, on her Desiring to go - Incontinently to Heaven - - FLECKER, JAMES E. - Brumana 79 - The Dying Patriot - November Eves - - FYLEMAN, ROSE - Alms in Autumn - I Don't Like Beetles - Wishes - - GIBSON, W. W. - Sweet as the Breath of the Whin - - GRAVES, ROBERT - Star-Talk - - GRENFELL, JULIAN - Into Battle - - HARDY, THOMAS - The Oxen - - HODGSON, RALPH - The Bells of Heaven - The Song of Honour - Stupidity Street - - HOOLEY, TERESA - Sea-Foam - - JOHNSON, LIONEL - By the Statue of King Charles at - Charing Cross - - MACKENZIE, MARGARET - To the Coming Spring - - MCLEOD, IRENE R. - Lone Dog - - MASEFIELD, JOHN - Sea Fever - Tewkesbury Road - The West Wind - - MEYNELL, ALICE - A Dead Harvest - November Blue - The Shepherdess - - MONRO, HAROLD - Overheard on a Saltmarsh - A Flower is Looking through the Ground - Man Carrying Bale - - NAIDU, SAROJINI - Cradle-Song - - PEPLER, H. D. C. - The Law the Lawyers Know About - - SCOTT-HOPPER, QUEENIE - Very Nearly! - What the Thrush Says - - STEPHENS, JAMES - Check - When the Leaves Fall - - TENNANT, E. W. - Home Thoughts in Laventie - - THOMAS, E. - The Cherry Trees - - VERNÈDE, R. E. - A Petition - - WALTERS, L. D'O. - All is Spirit and Part of Me - - WATSON, SIR WILLIAM - April - - WEBB, MARION ST JOHN - The Sunset Garden - - YEATS, W. B. - The Fiddler of Dooney - The Lake Isle of Innisfree - - YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT - February - - -[Illustration] - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - -The Lake Isle of Innisfree. -April -The Fiddler of Dooney -Cradle-Song -The Donkey -Sea Fever -A Ballad of the Captains -Arabia -The Song of the Mad Prince -The Shepherdess -The Dead -The Great Lover -If I had a Broomstick -The Dying Patriok -Star-Talk -Overheard on a Saltmarsh -To the Coming Spring -Alms in Autumn -Very Nearly! -All is Spirit and Part of Me -Black and White - -[Illustration] - - -[Illustration "APRIL, APRIL, LAUGH THY GIRLISH LAUGHTER!"] - - - - - APRIL - - - April, April, - Laugh thy girlish laughter; - Then, the moment after, - Weep thy girlish tears! - April, that mine ears - If I tell thee, sweetest, - All my hopes and fears, - April, April, - Laugh thy golden laughter, - But, the moment after, - Weep thy golden tears. - - WILLIAM WATSON - - - - - THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY - - - When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, - Folk dance like a wave of the sea; - My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, - My brother in Moharabuiee. - - I passed my brother and cousin: - They read in their books of prayer; - I read in my book of songs - I bought at the Sligo fair. - - When we come at the end of time, - To Peter sitting in state, - He will smile on the three old spirits, - But call me first through the gate; - - For the good are always the merry, - Save by an evil chance, - And the merry love the fiddle, - And the merry love to dance: - - -[Illustration: WHEN WE COME AT THE END OF TIME, TO PETER SITTING IN STATE] - - - And when the folk there spy me, - They will all come up to me, - With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!" - And dance like a wave of the sea. - - W. B. YEATS - - [Illustration] - - THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE - - I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, - And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; - Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, - And live alone in the bee-loud glade. - - And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, - Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; - There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, - And evening full of the linnet's wings. - - I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, - I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; - While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, - I hear it in the deep heart's core. - - W. B. YEATS - - - [Illustration: I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM.] - - - - - CRADLE-SONG - - - From groves of spice, - O'er fields of rice, - Athwart the lotus-stream, - I bring for you, - Aglint with dew, - A little lovely dream. - - Sweet, shut your eyes, - The wild fire-flies - Dance through the fairy neem;[1] - From the poppy-bole - For you I stole - A little lovely dream. - - Dear eyes, good-night, - In golden light - The stars around you gleam; - On you I press - With soft caress - A little lovely dream. - - SAROJINI NAIDU - - [Footnote 1: A lilac-tree (Hindustani).] - - - - - THE DONKEY - - - When fishes flew and forests walked - And figs grew upon thorn, - Some moment when the moon was blood - Then surely I was born; - - With monstrous head and sickening cry - And ears like errant wings, - The devil's walking parody - On all four-footed things. - - The tattered outlaw of the earth, - Of ancient crooked will; - Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, - I keep my secret still. - - Fools! For I also had my hour; - One far fierce hour and sweet: - There was a shout about my ears, - And palms before my feet. - - G. K. CHESTERTON - - - [Illustration: "WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY - AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS"] - - - - - THE EARLY MORNING - - The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: - The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother. - The moon on my left and the dawn on my right. - My brother, good morning: my sister, good night. - - HILAIRE BELLOC - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SOUTH COUNTRY - - - When I am living in the Midlands - That are sodden and unkind, - I light my lamp in the evening: - My work is left behind; - And the great hills of the South Country - Come back into my mind. - - The great hills of the South Country - They stand along the sea; - And it's there walking in the high woods - That I could wish to be, - And the men that were boys when I was a boy - Walking along with me. - - The men that live in North England - I saw them for a day: - Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, - Their skies are fast and grey; - From their castle-walls a man may see - The mountains far away. - - The men that live in West England - They see the Severn strong, - A-rolling on rough water brown - Light aspen leaves along. - They have the secret of the Rocks, - And the oldest kind of song. - - But the men that live in the South Country - Are the kindest and most wise, - They get their laughter from the loud surf, - And the faith in their happy eyes - Comes surely from our Sister the Spring - When over the sea she flies; - The violets suddenly bloom, at her feet, - She blesses us with surprise. - - I never get between the pines - But I smell the Sussex air; - Nor I never come on a belt of sand - But my home is there. - And along the sky the line of the Downs - So noble and so bare. - - A lost thing could I never find, - Nor a broken thing mend: - And I fear I shall be all alone - When I get towards the end. - Who will be there to comfort me - Or who will be my friend? - - I will gather and carefully make my friends - Of the men of the Sussex Weald, - They watch the stars from silent folds, - They stiffly plough the field. - By them and the God of the South Country - My poor soul shall be healed. - - If I ever become a rich man, - Or if ever I grow to be old, - I will build a house with deep thatch - To shelter me from the cold, - And there shall the Sussex songs be sung - And the story of Sussex told. - - I will hold my house in the high wood - Within a walk of the sea, - And the men that were boys when I was a boy - Shall sit and drink with me. - - HILAIRE BELLOC - - - [Illustration: "ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING"] - - - - - SEA FEVER - - - I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, - And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; - And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, - And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. - - I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide - Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; - And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, - And the flung spray "and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. - - I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life, - To the gull's, way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted - knife; - And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, - And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. - - JOHN MASEFIELD - - [Illustration] - - - - - TEWKESBURY ROAD - - - It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, - Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; - Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush - of the air, - Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. - - And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink - Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and - white; - Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink - When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. - - O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, - Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; - And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth - At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds. - - JOHN MASEFIELD - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE WEST WIND - - - It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; - I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. - For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, - And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. - - It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, - Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine. - There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, - And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest. - - "Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away. - It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: - And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, - Will you not come home, brother, home to us again? - - The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run; - It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. - It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain, - To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. - - Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, - So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? - I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes," - Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries. - - It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread - To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, - To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song - In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong. - - JOHN MASEFIELD - - - [Illustration: "DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE."] - - - - - A BALLAD OF THE CAPTAINS - - - Where are now the Captains - Of the narrow ships of old-- - Who with valiant souls went seeking - For the Fabled Fleece of Gold; - In the clouded Dusk of Ages, - In the Dawn of History; - When the ringing songs of Homer - First re-echoed o'er the Sea? - - Oh, the Captains lie a-sleeping - Where great iron hulls are sweeping - Out of Suez in their pride; - And they hear not, and they heed not, - And they know not, and they need not - In their deep graves far and wide. - - Where are now the Captains - Who went blindly through the Strait, - With a tribute to Poseidon, - A libation poured to Fate? - They were heroes giant-hearted, - That with Terrors, told and sung, - Like blindfolded lions grappled, - When the World was strange and young. - - Oh, the Captains brave and daring, - With their grim old crews are faring - Where our guiding beacons gleam; - And the homeward liners o'er them-- - All the charted seas before them-- - Shall not wake them as they dream. - - Where are now the Captains - From bold Nelson back to Drake, - Who came drumming up the Channel, - Haling prizes in their wake? - Where are England's fighting Captains - Who, with battle-flags unfurled, - Went a-rieving all the rievers - O'er the waves of all the world? - - Oh, these Captains, all confiding - In the strong right hand, are biding - In the margins, on the Main; - They are shining bright in story, - They are sleeping deep in glory, - On the silken lap of Fame. - - - [Illustration: "WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY"] - - Where are now the Captains - Who regarded not the tears - Of the captured Christian maidens - Carried, weeping, to Algiers? - Yes, the swarthy Moorish Captains, - Storming wildly 'cross the Bay, - With a dead hidalgo's daughter. - As a dower for the Dey? - - Oh, those cruel Captains never - Shall sweet lovers more dissever, - On their forays as they roll; - Or the mad Dons curse them vainly, - As their baffled ships, ungainly, - Heel them, jeering, to the Mole. - - Where are now the Captains - Of those racing, roaring days, - Who of knowledge and of courage, - Drove the clippers on their ways-- - To the furthest ounce of pressure, - To the latest stitch of sail, - 'Carried on' before the tempest - Till the waters lapped the rail? - - Oh, the merry, manly skippers - Of the traders and the clippers, - They are sleeping East and West, - And the brave blue seas shall hold them, - And the oceans five enfold them - In the havens where they rest. - - Where are now the Captains - Of the gallant days agone? - They are biding in their places, - And the Great Deep bears no traces - Of their good ships passed and gone. - They are biding in their places, - Where the light of God's own grace is, - And the Great Deep thunders on. - - Yea, with never port to steer for, - And with never storm to fear for, - They are waiting wan and white, - And they hear no more the calling - Of the watches, or the falling - Of the sea rain in the night. - - E. J. BRADY - - - [Illustration: "DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS"] - - - - - ARABIA - - - Far are the shades of Arabia, - Where the Princes ride at noon, - 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, - Under the ghost of the moon; - And so dark is that vaulted purple - Flowers in the forest rise - And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars - Pale in the noonday skies. - - Sweet is the music of Arabia - In my heart, when out of dreams - I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn - Descry her gliding streams; - Hear her strange lutes on the green banks - Ring loud with the grief and delight - Of the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians - In the brooding silence of night. - - They haunt me--her lutes and her forests; - No beauty on earth I see - But shadowed with that dream recalls - Her loveliness to me: - Still eyes look coldly upon me, - Cold voices whisper and say-- - "He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, - They have stolen his wits away." - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - [Illustration] - - - - - FULL MOON - - - One night as Dick lay half asleep, - Into his drowsy eyes - A great still light began to creep - From out the silent skies. - It was the lovely moon's, for when - He raised his dreamy head, - Her rays of silver filled the pane - And streamed across his bed. - So, for awhile, each gazed at each-- - Dick and the solemn moon-- - Till, climbing slowly on her way, - She vanished, and was gone. - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - - - - NOD - - - Softly along the road of evening, - In a twilight dim with rose, - Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew, - Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. - - His drowsy flock streams on before him, - Their fleeces charged with gold, - To where the sun's last beam leans low - On Nod the shepherd's fold. - - The hedge is quick and green with briar, - From their sand the conies creep; - And all the birds that fly in heaven - Flock singing home to sleep. - - His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, - Yet, when night's shadows fall, - His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, - Misses not one of all. - - His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, - The waters of no-more-pain, - His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, - "Rest, rest, and rest again." - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE - - - Who said, "Peacock Pie"? - The old King to the sparrow: - Who said, "Crops are ripe"? - Rust to the harrow: - Who said, "Where sleeps she now? - Where rests she now her head, - Bathed in eve's loveliness"? - That's what I said. - - Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"? - Sexton to willow: - Who said, "Green dusk for dreams, - Moss for a pillow"? - Who said, "All Time's delight - Hath she for narrow bed; - Life's troubled bubble broken"? - That's what I said. - - WALTER DE LA MARE - - - [Illustration: "'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'"] - - - - - A DEAD HARVEST - - - IN KENSINGTON GARDENS - - - Along the graceless grass of town - They rake the rows of red and brown,-- - Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay - Delicate, touched with gold and grey, - Raked long ago and far away. - - A narrow silence in the park, - Between the lights a narrow dark. - One street rolls on the north; and one, - Muffled, upon the south doth run; - Amid the mist the work is done. - - A futile crop! for it the fire - Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. - So go the town's lives on the breeze, - Even as the sheddings of the trees; - Bosom nor barn is filled with these. - - ALICE MEYNELL - - - - - NOVEMBER BLUE - - - /$ - The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary - colour to the air in the early evening. - _Essay on London_ - $/ - - O heavenly colour, London town - Has blurred it from her skies; - And, hooded in an earthly brown, - Unheaven'd the city lies. - No longer standard-like this hue - Above the broad road flies; - Nor does the narrow street the blue - Wear, slender pennon-wise. - - But when the gold and silver lamps - Colour the London dew, - And, misted by the winter damps, - The shops shine bright anew-- - Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, - It dyes the wide air through; - A mimic sky about their feet, - The throng go crowned with blue. - - ALICE MEYNELL - - - [Illustration: "SHE WALKS--THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT--A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP"] - - - - - THE SHEPHERDESS - - - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; - She guards them from the steep; - She feeds them on the fragrant height, - And folds them in for sleep. - - She roams maternal hills and bright, - Dark valleys safe and deep, - Into that tender breast at night - The chastest stars may peep. - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - - She holds her little thoughts in sight, - Though gay they run and leap. - She is so circumspect and right; - She has her soul to keep. - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - - ALICE MEYNELL - - - - - THE DEAD - - - Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! - There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, - But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. - These laid the world away; poured out the red - Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be - Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, - That men call age; and those who would have been, - Their sons, they gave, their immortality. - - Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, - Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. - Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, - And paid his subjects with a royal wage; - And Nobleness walks in our ways again; - And we have come into our heritage. - - RUPERT BROOKE - - - [Illustration: "HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH"] - - - - - THE GREAT LOVER - - - I have been so great a lover: filled my days - So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise, - The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, - Desire illimitable, and still content, - And all dear names men use, to cheat despair, - For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear - Our hearts at random down the dark of life. - Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife - Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, - My night shall be remembered for a star - That outshone all the suns of all men's days. - Shall I not crown them with immortal praise - Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me - High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see - The inenarrable godhead of delight? - Love is a flame;--we have beaconed the world's night. - A city:--and we have built it, these and I. - An emperor:--we have taught the world to die. - So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, - And the high cause of Love's magnificence, - And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names - Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, - And set them as a banner, that men may know, - To dare the generations, burn, and blow - Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming.... - These I have loved: - White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, - Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; - Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust - Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; - Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; - And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; - And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, - Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; - Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon - Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss - Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is - Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen - Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; - The benison of hot water; furs to touch; - The good smell of old clothes; and other such-- - The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, - Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers - About dead leaves and last year's ferns.... - - [Illustration: "OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING"] - - - Dear names, - And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames; - Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; - Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing; - Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, - Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; - Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam - That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; - And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold - Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould; - Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew; - And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;-- - And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;-- - All these have been my loves. And these shall pass. - Whatever passes not, in the great hour, - Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power - To hold them with me through the gate of Death. - They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, - Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust - And sacramented covenant to the dust. - --Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, - And give what's left of love again, and make - New friends, now strangers.... - But the best I've known, - Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown - About the winds of the world, and fades from brains - Of living men, and dies. - Nothing remains. - - O dear my loves, O faithless, once again - This one last gift I give: that after men - Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, - Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved." - - RUPERT BROOKE - - - [Illustration: "MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES; - FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW"] - - - - - THE SOLDIER - - - If I should die, think only this of me: - That there's some corner of a foreign field - That is for ever England. There shall be - In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; - A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, - Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, - A body of England's, breathing English air, - Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. - - And think, this heart, all evil shed away, - A pulse in the eternal mind, no less - Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; - Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; - And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, - In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. - - RUPERT BROOKE - - - - - BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS - - - Sombre and rich, the skies; - Great glooms, and starry plains. - Gently the night wind sighs; - Else a vast silence reigns. - - The splendid silence clings - Around me: and around - The saddest of all kings - Crowned, and again discrowned. - - Comely and calm, he rides - Hard by his own Whitehall: - Only the night wind glides: - No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. - - Gone, too, his Court; and yet, - The stars his courtiers are: - Stars in their stations set; - And every wandering star. - - Alone he rides, alone, - The fair and fatal king: - Dark night is all his own, - That strange and solemn thing. - - Which are more full of fate: - The stars; or those sad eyes? - Which are more still and great: - Those brows; or the dark skies? - - Although his whole heart yearn - In passionate tragedy: - Never was face so stern - With sweet austerity. - - Vanquished in life, his death - By beauty made amends: - The passing of his breath - Won his defeated ends. - - Brief life and hapless? Nay: - Through death, life grew sublime. - _Speak after sentence?_ Yea: - And to the end of time. - - Armoured he rides, his head - Bare to the stars of doom: - He triumphs now, the dead, - Beholding London's gloom. - - Our wearier spirit faints, - Vexed in the world's employ: - His soul was of the saints; - And art to him was joy. - - King, tried in fires of woe - Men hunger for thy grace: - And through the night I go, - Loving thy mournful face. - - Yet when the city sleeps; - When all the cries are still: - The stars and heavenly deeps - Work out a perfect will. - - LIONEL JOHNSON - - - - - CHECK - - - The night was creeping on the ground; - She crept and did not make a sound - Until she reached the tree, and then - She covered it, and stole again - Along the grass beside the wall. - - I heard the rustle of her shawl - As she threw blackness everywhere - Upon the sky and ground and air, - And in the room where I was hid: - But no matter what she did - To everything that was without, - She could not put my candle out. - - So I stared at the night, and she - Stared back solemnly at me. - - JAMES STEPHENS - - - - - WHEN THE LEAVES FALL - - - When the leaves fall off the trees - Everybody walks on them: - Once they had a time of ease - High above, and every breeze - Used to stay and talk to them. - - Then they were so debonair - As they fluttered up and down; - Dancing in the sunny air, - Dancing without knowing there - Was a gutter in the town. - - Now they have no place at all! - All the home that they can find - Is a gutter by a wall, - And the wind that waits their fall - Is an apache of a wind. - - JAMES STEPHENS - - - - - IN FRANCE - - - The poplars in the fields of France - Are golden ladies come to dance; - But yet to see them there is none - But I and the September sun. - - The girl who in their shadow sits - Can only see the sock she knits; - Her dog is watching all the day - That not a cow shall go astray. - - The leisurely contented cows - Can only see the earth they browse; - Their piebald bodies through the grass - With busy, munching noses pass. - - Alone the sun and I behold - Processions crowned with shining gold-- - The poplars in the fields of France, - Like glorious ladies come to dance. - - FRANCES CORNFORD - - - - - THE RAGWORT - - - The thistles on the sandy flats - Are courtiers with crimson hats; - The ragworts, growing up so straight, - Are emperors who stand in state, - And march about, so proud and bold, - In crowns of fairy-story gold. - - The people passing home at night - Rejoice to see the shining sight, - They quite forget the sands and sea - Which are as grey as grey can be, - Nor ever heed the gulls who cry - Like peevish children in the sky. - - FRANCES CORNFORD - - - - - LONE DOG - - - I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; - I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; - I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; - I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep. - - I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, - A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, - Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, - But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff, and kick, and hate. - - Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, - Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. - O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, - Wide wind, and wild stars, and the hunger of the quest! - - IRENE R. McLEOD - - - - - IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK - - - If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it, - I'd fly through the windows when Jane goes to tea, - And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide it, - To lands where no children are cripples like me; - I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the sea, - Where soft red anemones close when you touch; - If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it, - If I had a broomstick--instead of a crutch! - - PATRICK R. CHALMERS - - - [Illustration] - - - [Illustration: "IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK"] - - - - - ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS - - - It was early last September nigh to Framlin'amon-Sea, - An''twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea, - An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane, - A Pharaoh with his waggons cornin' jolt an' creak an' strain; - A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up, - An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup, - An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings - Was joggin' in the dust along is roundabouts and swings. - - "Goo'-day," said'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go, - An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?" - "I find," said'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found, - For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round." - Said'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were, - It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a'are; - But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's, - What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings! - - "Goo' luck," said'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt; - An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out"; - 'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again - To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane; - An' the moon she climbed the'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin - That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, is sooth of lose-and-win; - For "up an' down an' round," said'e, "goes all appointed things, - An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!" - - PATRICK R. CHALMERS - - [Illustration] - - - - - A TOWN WINDOW - - - Beyond my window in the night - Is but a drab inglorious street, - Yet there the frost and clean starlight - As over Warwick woods are sweet. - - Under the grey drift of the town - The crocus works among the mould - As eagerly as those that crown - The Warwick spring in flame and gold. - - And when the tramway down the hill - Across the cobbles moans and rings, - There is about my window-sill - The tumult of a thousand wings. - - JOHN DRINKWATER - - - - - BRUMANA - - - Oh shall I never never be home again? - Meadows of England shining in the rain - Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green - With briar fortify, with blossom screen - Till my far morning--and O streams that slow - And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, - For me your love and all your kingcups store, - And--dark militia of the southern shore, - Old fragrant friends--preserve me the last lines - Of that long saga which you sung me, pines, - When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree - I listened, with my eyes upon the sea. - - [Continued] - - JAMES ELROY FLECKER - - - - - THE DYING PATRIOT - - - Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills, - Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, - Day of my dreams, O day! - I saw them march from Dover, long ago, - With a silver cross before them, singing low, - Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam, - Augustine with his feet of snow. - - Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, - --Beauty she was statue cold--there's blood upon her gown: - Noon of my dreams, O noon! - Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago - With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, - With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, - And the streets where the great men go. - - - [Illustration: "AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD - SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW"] - - Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, - When the first star shivers and the last wave pales: - O evening dreams! - There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, - Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, - And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead - Sway when the long winds blow. - - Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar - Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: - Fire in the night, O dreams! - Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, - South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, - West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go - Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow. - - JAMES ELROY FLECKER - - - - - NOVEMBER EVES - - - November Evenings! Damp and still - They used to cloak Leckhampton hill, - And lie down close on the grey plain, - And dim the dripping window-pane, - And send queer winds like Harlequins - That seized our elms for violins - And struck a note so sharp and low - Even a child could feel the woe. - - Now fire chased shadow round the room; - Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom: - We crept about like mice, while Nurse - Sat mending, solemn as a hearse, - And even our unlearned eyes - Half closed with choking memories. - - Is it the mist or the dead leaves, - Or the dead men--November eves? - - JAMES ELROY FLECKER - - - [Illustration: "I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO"] - - - - - STAR-TALK - - - "Are you awake, Gemelli, - This frosty night?" - "We'll be awake till reveille, - Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli, - "It's no good trying to go to sleep: - If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, - But rest is hopeless to-night, - But rest is hopeless to-night." - - 'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, - This frosty night?" - "Yes, and so are the Hyads: - See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, - "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: - We huddle together like birds in a storm: - It's bitter weather to-night, - It's bitter weather to-night." - - "What do you hunt, Orion, - This starry night?" - "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, - And the Great Bear," says Orion, - - "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt - I am trying to find a good thick pelt - To warm my shoulders to-night, - To warm my shoulders to-night." - - "Did you hear that, Great She-bear, - This frosty night?" - "Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare, - Of my own big fur," says the She-bear. - "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: - The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, - And the frost so cruel to-night! - And the frost so cruel to-night!" - - "How is your trade, Aquarius, - This frosty night?" - "Complaints is many and various, - And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, - "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, - And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, - And the pump has frozen to-night, - And the pump has frozen to-night." - - ROBERT GRAVES - - - [Illustration: HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?] - - - - - THE KINGFISHER - - - It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, - And left thee all her lovely hues; - And, as her mother's name was Tears, - So runs it in thy blood to choose - For haunts the lonely pools, and keep - In company with trees that weep. - - Go you and, with such glorious hues, - Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; - On lawns as smooth as shining glass, - Let every feather show its mark; - Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings - Before the windows of proud kings. - - Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; - Thou hast no proud ambitious mind; - I also love a quiet place - That's green, away from all mankind; - A lonely pool, and let a tree - Sigh with her bosom over me. - - WILLIAM H. DAVIES - - - - - SHEEP - - - When I was once in Baltimore - A man came up to me and cried, - "Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep, - And we will sail on Tuesday's tide. - - "If you will sail with me, young man, - I'll pay you fifty shillings down; - These eighteen hundred sheep I take - From Baltimore to Glasgow town." - - He paid me fifty shillings down, - I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep; - We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth, - We soon were in the salt sea deep. - - The first night we were out at sea - Those sheep were quiet in their mind; - The second night they cried with fear-- - They smelt no pastures in the wind. - - They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, - They cried so loud I could not sleep: - For fifty thousand shillings down - I would not sail again with sheep. - - WILLIAM H. DAVIES - - [Illustration] - - - - - HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE - - - Green gardens in Laventie! - Soldiers only know the street - Where the mud is churned and splashed about - By battle-wending feet; - And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass, - Look for it when you pass. - - Beyond the Church whose pitted spire - Seems balanced on a strand - Of swaying stone and tottering brick - Two roofless ruins stand, - And here behind the wreckage where the back-wall should have been - We found a garden green. - - The grass was never trodden on, - The little path of gravel - Was overgrown with celandine, - No other folk did travel - Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse - Running from house to house. - - So all among the vivid blades - Of soft and tender grass - We lay, nor heard the limber wheels - That pass and ever pass, - In noisy continuity, until their stony rattle - Seems in itself a battle. - - At length we rose up from our ease - Of tranquil happy mind, - And searched the garden's little length - A fresh pleasaunce to find; - And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high - Did rest the tired eye. - - The fairest and most fragrant - Of the many sweets we found, - Was a little bush of Daphne flower - Upon a grassy mound, - And so thick were the blossoms set, and so divine the scent, - That we were well content. - - Hungry for Spring I bent my head, - The perfume fanned my face, - And all my soul was dancing - In that lovely little place, - Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and - shattered towns - Away . . . upon the Downs. - - I saw green banks of daffodil, - Slim poplars in the breeze, - Great tan-brown hares in gusty March - A-courting on the leas; - And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver - scurrying dace, - Home--what a perfect place! - - EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT - - - - - INTO BATTLE - - - The naked earth is warm with Spring, - And with green grass and bursting trees - Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, - And quivers in the sunny breeze; - And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, - And a striving evermore for these; - And he is dead who will not fight; - And who dies fighting has increase. - - The fighting man shall from the sun - Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; - Speed with the light-foot winds to run, - And with the trees to newer birth; - And find, when fighting shall be done, - Great rest, and fullness after dearth. - - All the bright company of Heaven - Hold him in their high comradeship, - The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven, - Orion's Belt and sworded hip. - - The woodland trees that stand together, - They stand to him each one a friend, - They gently speak in the windy weather; - They guide to valley and ridges' end. - - The kestrel hovering by day, - And the little owls that call by night, - Bid him be swift and keen as they, - As keen of ear, as swift of sight. - - The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, - If this be the last song you shall sing - Sing well, for you may not sing another; - Brother, sing." - - In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, - Before the brazen frenzy starts, - The horses show him nobler powers; - O patient eyes, courageous hearts! - - And when the burning moment breaks, - And all things else are out of mind, - And only Joy of Battle takes - Him by the throat, and makes him blind-- - - Though joy and blindness he shall know, - Not caring much to know, that still, - Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so - That it be not the Destined Will. - - The thundering line of battle stands, - And in the air Death moans and sings; - But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, - And Night shall fold him in soft wings. - - JULIAN GRENFELL - - [Illustration] - - - - - OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH - - - Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? - Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare - at them? - Give them me. - No. - Give them me. Give them me. - No. - Then I will howl all night in the reeds, - Lie in the mud and howl for them. - - Goblin, why do you love them so? - - They are better than stars or water, - Better than voices of winds that sing, - Better than any man's fair daughter, - Your green glass beads on a silver ring. - - Hush, I stole them out of the moon. - - - [Illustration: "GIVE ME YOUR BEADS. I DESIRE THEM. NO."] - - Give me your beads. I desire them. - - No. - - I will howl in a deep lagoon - For your green glass beads, I love them so. - Give them me. Give them. - - No. - - HAROLD MONRO - - - - - A FLOWER IS LOOKING THROUGH THE GROUND - - - A flower is looking through the ground, - Blinking at the April weather; - Now a child has seen the flower: - Now they go and play together. - - Now it seems the flower will speak, - And will call the child its brother-- - But, oh strange forgetfulness!-- - They don't recognize each other. - - HAROLD MONRO - - [Illustration] - - - - - MAN CARRYING BALE - - - The tough hand closes gently on the load; - Out of the mind, a voice - Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well - their work, - Lengthen and pause for help. - Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot - While all the muscles call to one another: - 'Lift!' and the bulging bale - Floats like a butterfly in June. - - So moved the earliest carrier of bales, - And the same watchful sun - Glowed through his body feeding it with light. - So will the last one move, - And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load - Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble. - Earth, you designed your man - Beautiful both in labour and repose. - - HAROLD MONRO - - - - - THE CHERRY TREES - - - The cherry trees bend over and are shedding - On the old road where all that passed are dead, - Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding - This early May morn when there is none to wed. - - EDWARD THOMAS - - - - - THE BELLS OF HEAVEN - - - 'T Would ring the bells of Heaven - The wildest peal for years, - If Parson lost his senses - And people came to theirs, - And he and they together - Knelt down with angry prayers - For tamed and shabby tigers - And dancing dogs and bears, - And wretched, blind pit ponies, - And little hunted hares. - - RALPH HODGSON - - - - - THE SONG OF HONOUR - - - I climbed a hill as light fell short, - And rooks came home in scramble sort, - And filled the trees and flapped and fought - And sang themselves to sleep; - An owl from nowhere with no sound - Swung by and soon was nowhere found, - I heard him calling half-way round, - Holloing loud and deep; - A pair of stars, faint pins of light, - Then many a star, sailed into sight, - And all the stars, the flower of night, - Were round me at a leap; - To tell how still the valleys lay - I heard a watch-dog miles away, - And bells of distant sheep. - - I heard no more of bird or bell, - The mastiff in a slumber fell, - I stared into the sky, - As wondering men have always done - Since beauty and the stars were one, - Though none so hard as I. - - It seemed, so still the valleys were, - As if the whole world knelt at prayer, - Save me and me alone; - So pure and wide that silence was - I feared to bend a blade of grass, - And there I stood like stone. - - [Continued] - RALPH HODGSON - - - - - STUPIDITY STREET - - - I saw with open eyes - Singing birds sweet - Sold in the shops - For the people to eat, - Sold in the shops of - Stupidity Street. - I saw in vision - The worm in the wheat, - And in the shops nothing - For people to eat; - Nothing for sale in - Stupidity Street. - - RALPH HODGSON - - - [Illustration: "WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES"] - - - - - TO THE COMING SPRING - - - O punctual Spring! - We had forgotten in this winter town - The days of Summer and the long, long eves. - But now you come on airy wing, - With busy fingers spilling baby-leaves - On all the bushes, and a faint green down - On ancient trees, and everywhere - Your warm breath soft with kisses - Stirs the wintry air, - And waking us to unimagined blisses. - Your lightest footprints in the grass - Are marked by painted crocus-flowers - And heavy-headed daffodils, - While little trees blush faintly as you pass. - The morning and the night - You bathe with heavenly showers, - And scatter scentless violets on the rounded hills, - Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose posies. - With magic key, in the new evening light, - You are unlocking buds that keep the roses; - The purple lilac soon will blow above the wall - And bended boughs in orchards whitely bloom-- - We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom . . . - Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call! - - MARGARET MACKENZIE - - - - - ALMS IN AUTUMN - - - Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, - A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way? - The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen, - And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again. - Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light - To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night. - - Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please, - Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys. - I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast - That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past. - I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along - My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song. - - Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, - A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask : - A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands - (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands). - So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, - They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight. - - ROSE FYLEMAN - - - [Illustration: "THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL - DANCING WITH DELIGHT"] - - - - - I DON'T LIKE BEETLES - - - I don't like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good, - I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should; - I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play, - And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away. - I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk, - And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk; - I don't like tigers, not even in a book, - And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook! - - ROSE FYLEMAN - - - - - WISHES - - - I wish I liked rice pudding, - I wish I were a twin, - I wish some day a real live fairy - Would just come walking in. - - I wish when I'm at table - My feet would touch the floor, - I wish our pipes would burst next winter, - Just like they did next door. - - I wish that I could whistle - Real proper grown-up tunes, - I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys - On rainy afternoons. - - I've got such heaps of wishes, - I've only said a few; - I wish that I could wake some morning - And find they'd all come true! - - ROSE FYLEMAN - - - [Illustration: "ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID--ONE NIGHT I VERY - NEARLY DID)!"] - - - - - VERY NEARLY! - - - I never quite saw fairy-folk - A-dancing in the glade, - Where, just beyond the hollow oak, - Their broad green rings are laid: - But, while behind that oak I hid, - _One day I very nearly did!_ - - I never quite saw mermaids rise - Above the twilight sea, - When sands, left wet,'neath sunset skies, - Are blushing rosily: - But--all alone, those rocks amid-- - _One night I very nearly did!_ - - I never quite saw Goblin Grim - Who haunts our lumber room - And pops his head above the rim - Of that oak chest's deep gloom: - But once--when Mother raised the lid-- - _I very, very nearly did!_ - - QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER - - - - - WHAT THE THRUSH SAYS - - - Come and see! Come and see!" - The Thrush pipes out of the hawthorn-tree: - And I and Dicky on tiptoe go - To see what treasures he wants to show. - His call is clear as a call can be-- - And "Come and see!" he says: - - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - His house is there in the hawthorn-tree: - The neatest house that ever you saw, - Built all of mosses and twigs and straw: - The folk who built were his wife and he-- - And "Come and see!" he says: - - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - Within this house there are treasures three: - So warm and snug in its curve they lie-- - Like three bright bits out of Spring's blue sky. - We would not hurt them, he knows; not we! - So "Come and see!" he says: - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - No thrush was ever so proud as he! - His bright-eyed lady has left those eggs - For just five minutes to stretch her legs. - He's keeping guard in the hawthorn-tree, - And "Come and see!" he says: - "Come and see!" - - _"Come and see! Come and see!"_ - He has no fear of the boys and me. - He came and shared in our meals, you know, - In hungry times of the frost and snow. - So now we share in his Secret Tree - Where "Come and see!" he says: - "Come and see!" - - QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER - - - - - THE SUNSET GARDEN - - - I can see from the window a little brown house, - And the garden goes up to the top of the hill. - And the sun comes each day, - And slips down away - At the end of the garden an' sleeps there ... until - The daylight comes climbing up over the hill. - - I do wish I lived in the little brown house, - Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' creep - Up ... up ... then I'd stop, - An' lean over the top, - At the end of the garden, an' so I could peep, - And see what the sun looks like when it's asleep. - - MARION ST JOHN WEBB - - - - - SWEET AS THE BREATH OF THE WHIN - - - Sweet as the breath of the whin - Is the thought of my love-- - Sweet as the breath of the whin - In the noonday sun-- - Sweet as the breath of the whin - In the sun after rain. - - Glad as the gold of the whin - Is the thought of my love-- - Glad as the gold of the whin - Since wandering's done-- - Glad as the gold of the whin - Is my heart, home again. - - WILFRID WILSON GIBSON - - - - - THE LAW THE LAWYERS KNOW ABOUT - - - The law the lawyers know about - Is property and land; - But why the leaves are on the trees, - And why the winds disturb the seas, - Why honey is the food of bees, - Why horses have such tender knees, - Why winters come and rivers freeze, - Why Faith is more than what one sees, - And Hope survives the worst disease, - And Charity is more than these, - They do not understand. - - H. D. C. PEPLER - - - [Illustration: "I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, - AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS"] - - - - - ALL IS SPIRIT AND PART OF ME. - - - A greater lover none can be, - And all is spirit and part of me. - I am sway of the rolling hills, - And breath from the great wide plains; - I am born of a thousand storms, - And grey with the rushing rains; - I have stood with the age-long rocks, - And flowered with the meadow sweet; - I have fought with the wind-worn firs, - And bent with the ripening wheat; - I have watched with the solemn clouds, - And dreamt with the moorland pools; - I have raced with the water's whirl, - And lain where their anger cools; - I have hovered as strong-winged bird, - And swooped as I saw my prey; - I have risen with cold grey dawn, - And flamed in the dying day; - For all is spirit and part of me, - And greater lover none can be. - - L. D'O. WALTERS - - - - - STREET LANTERNS - - - Country roads are yellow and brown. - We mend the roads in London Town. - - Never a hansom dare come nigh, - Never a cart goes rolling by. - - An unwonted silence steals - In between the turning wheels. - - Quickly ends the autumn day, - And the workman goes his way, - - Leaving, midst the traffic rude, - One small isle of solitude, - - Lit, throughout the lengthy night, - By the little lantern's light. - - Jewels of the dark have we, - Brighter than the rustic's be. - - Over the dull earth are thrown - Topaz, and the ruby stone. - - MARY E. COLERIDGE - - - - - TO BETSEY-JANE, ON HER DESIRING - TO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN - - - My Betsey-Jane, it would not do, - For what would Heaven make of you, - A little, honey-loving bear, - Among the Blessed Babies there? - - Nor do you dwell with us in vain - Who tumble and get up again. - And try, with bruised knees, to smile--. - Sweet, you are blessed all the-while - - And we in you: so wait, they'll come - To take your hand and fetch you home, - In Heavenly leaves to play at tents - With all the Holy Innocents. - - HELEN PARRY EDEN - - - - - THE BRIDGE - - - Here, with one leap, - The bridge that spans the cutting; on its back - The load - Of the main-road, - And under it the railway-track. - - Into the plains they sweep, - Into the solitary plains asleep, - The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel-- - Fringed with their narrow grass, - Into the plains they pass, - The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal. - - A cry - Prolonged across the earth--a call - To the remote horizons and the sky; - The whole east-rushes down them with its light, - And the whole west receives them, with its pall - Of stars and night-- - The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel. - - And with the fall - Of darkness, see! the red, - Bright anger of the signal, where it flares - Like a huge eye that stares - On some hid danger in the dark ahead. - A twang of wire--unseen - The signal drops; and now, instead - Of a red eye, a green. - - Out of the silence grows - An iron thunder--grows, and roars, and sweeps, - Menacing! The plain - Suddenly leaps, - Startled, from its repose-- - Alert and listening. Now, from the gloom - Of the soft distance, loom - Three lights and, over them, a brush - Of tawny flame and flying spark-- - Three pointed lights that rush, - Monstrous, upon the cringing dark. - - And nearer, nearer rolls the sound, - Louder the throb and roar of wheels, - The shout of speed, the shriek of steam; - The sloping bank, - Cut into flashing squares, gives back the clank - - And grind of metal, while the ground - Shudders and the bridge reels-- - As, with a scream, - The train, - A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire, - A lighted anguish of desire, - A dream - Of gold and iron, of sound and flight, - Tumultuous roars across the night. - - The train roars past--and, with a cry, - Drowned in a flying howl of wind, - Half-stifled in the smoke and blind, - The plain, - Shaken, exultant, unconfined, - Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by, - Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the sky. - - J. REDWOOD ANDERSON - - - - - FEBRUARY - - - The robin on my lawn - He was the first to tell - How, in the frozen dawn, - This miracle befell, - Waking the meadows white - With hoar, the iron road - Agleam with splintered light, - And ice where water flowed: - Till, when the low sun drank - Those milky mists that cloak - Hanger and hollied bank, - The winter world awoke - To hear the feeble bleat - Of lambs on downland farms: - A blackbird whistled sweet; - Old beeches moved their arms - Into a mellow haze - Aerial, newly-born: - And I, alone, agaze, - Stood waiting for the thorn - To break in blossom white, - Or burst in a green flame.... - So, in a single night, - Fair February came, - Bidding my lips to sing - Or whisper their surprise, - With all the joy of spring - And morning in her eyes. - - FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG - - - - - SEA-FOAM - - - A fleck of foam on the shining sand, - Left by the ebbing sea, - But richer than man may understand - In magic and mystery-- - Transient bubbles rainbow-bright, - Myriad-hued and strange, - Tremble and throb in the noonday light, - Flower and flush and change. - - A million tides have come and gone, - Great gales of autumn and spring, - A million summoning moons have shone - To bring to birth this thing-- - A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sand - By the wave of an outgoing sea, - With all the colour of Faeryland, - Wonder and mystery. - - TERESA HOOLEY - - - - - A PETITION - - - All that a man might ask, thou hast given me, England, - Birth-right and happy childhood's long heart's-ease, - And love whose range is deep beyond all sounding - And wider than all seas. - - A heart to front the world and find God in it, - Eyes blind enow, but not too blind to see - The lovely things behind the dross and darkness, - And lovelier things to be. - - And friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken, - And quenchless hope and laughter's golden store; - All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England, - Yet grant thou one thing more: - - That now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour, - Unversed in arms, a dreamer such as I - May in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy, - England, for thee to die. - - R. E. VERNÈDE - - - - - BLACK AND WHITE - - - I met a man along the road - To Withernsea; - Was ever anything so dark, so pale - As he? - His hat, his clothes, his tie, his boots - Were black as black - Could be, - And midst of all was a cold white face, - And eyes that looked wearily. - - The road was bleak and straight and flat - To Withernsea, - Gaunt poles with shrilling wires their weird - Did dree; - On the sky stood out, on the swollen sky - The black blood veins - Of tree - After tree, as they beat from the face - Of the wind which they could not flee. - - And in the fields along the road - To Withernsea, - - - [Illustration] - - "MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE" - - - Swart crows sat huddled on the ground - Disconsolately, - While overhead the seamews wheeled, and skirled - In glee; - But the black cows stood, and cropped where - they stood, - And never heeded thee, - O dark pale man, with the weary eyes, - On the road to Withernsea. - - H. H. ABBOTT - - - - - THE OXEN - - - Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. - "Now they are all on their knees," - An elder said as we sat in a flock - By the embers in hearthside ease. - - We pictured the meek mild creatures where - They dwelt in their strawy pen, - Nor did it occur to one of us there - To doubt they were kneeling then. - - So fair a fancy few believe - In these years! Yet, I feel, - If someone said on Christmas Eve - "Come; see the oxen kneel - - In the lonely barton by yonder coomb - Our childhood used to know," - I should go with him in the gloom, - Hoping it might be so. - - THOMAS HARDY - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Year's at the Spring, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING *** - -***** This file should be named 51488-8.txt or 51488-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/4/8/51488/ - -Produced by Annemie Arnst and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Internet Archive) - -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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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: The Year's at the Spring - An Anthology of Recent Poetry - -Author: Various - -Contributor: Harold Monro - -Illustrator: Harry Clarke - -Release Date: March 17, 2016 [EBook #51488] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING *** - - - - -Produced by Annemie Arnst and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<img src="images/img0002.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0009"></a> -<img src="images/img0009.jpg" width="600" alt="" /> -<p class="capt">"AND I SHALL HAVE SOME PEACE THERE, -FOR PEACE COMES DROPPING SLOW"</p> -</div> -<hr class="chap" /> -<h1>THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING</h1> - -<h4>AN ANTHOLOGY OF RECENT POETRY<br /> - -COMPILED BY L.D'O. WALTERS<br /> - -ILLUSTRATED BY HARRY CLARKE<br /> - -WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HAROLD MONRO</h4> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0010.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h5>BRENTANO'S</h5> - -<h5>FIFTH AVENUE & 27TH STREET NEW YORK</h5> - -<h5>1920</h5> - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0012.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h4>INTRODUCTION</h4> - - -<p>The best poetry is always about the earth itself and all the strange -and lovely things that compose and inhabit it. When a 'great poet' -sets himself the task of some 'big theme' he needs only to hold, as -it were, a magnifying glass to the earth. We who are born and live -here like very much to imagine other worlds, and we have even mentally -constructed such another in which to exist after dying on this one; but -we were careful to make it a glorified version of our own earth, with -everything we most love here intensified and improved to the utmost -stretch of human imagination.</p> - -<p>To each man his 'best poetry' is that which he is able most to enjoy. -The first object of poetry is to give pleasure. Pleasure is various, -but it cannot exist where the emotions or the imagination have not -been powerfully stirred. Whether it be called sensual or intellectual, -pleasure cannot be willed. It is impossible to feel happy because one -wants to feel happy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> or sad because one wishes to feel sad. But such -bodily or mental conditions may be induced from outside through a -natural agency such as poetry, or music.</p> - -<p>Now those dreary people who would maintain that poetry should deal -(some say exclusively) with what they call 'big themes,' or 'the -larger life', are merely advocating more use of the magnifying glass -as against intensive cultivation of the natural eye. The poet is -essentially he who examines carefully, and learns to know fully, every -detail of common life. He seeks to name in a variety of manners, and -to define, the objects about him, to compare them with other objects, -near or remote, and to find, for the mere sake of enjoyment, wonderful -varieties of description and comparison. When he imagines better places -than his earth, or invents gods, the impersonation and combination of -the fortunate qualities in man, he is then using the magnifying glass -with talent, occasionally with rare genius. But the poet who seeks, -without genius, to magnify is simply a fool who sees everything too -big, and boasts, in the loudest voice he can raise, of his diseased -eyesight.</p> - -<p>One of the peculiarities, or perhaps rather the essential quality, of -the lyrical poetry of to-day is a minute concentration on the objects -immediately near it and an anxious carefulness to describe these in -the most appropriate and satisfactory terms. Thus it is often accused -of a neglect to sublimate the emotions, and many critics have been at -pains to suggest that this affection for the nearest and that careful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> -description of natural events denotes a smallness of mental range. Be -it noted, however, that the eye which does not look too far often sees -most. It is remarkable that English lyrical poetry should have learnt -in this period of religious uncertainty to clasp itself at least to a -reality that cannot be questioned or doubted. So far its faith reaches. -It expresses a trustfulness in what it can definitely perceive, it -hardly ventures outside the circles of human daily experience, and -in this capacity it reveals an excellence of many kinds, sincerity -often, and, at worst, a playfulness which, if ephemeral, is amusing -at any rate to those whom it is intended to amuse, and appropriately -irritating to those whom it wants to annoy.</p> - -<p>But the most noticeable characteristic of the verse of our present -moment is its dislike of the aloofness generally associated with -English poetry. About twice a century language consolidates: phrases -which were once soft and new harden with use; words once of a ringing -beauty become dry and hollow through excessive repetition. This state -of language is not much noticed by people who have no special use -for it beyond the expression of daily needs. Moreover, they make new -colloquial words for themselves as required without forethought or -difficulty. Poets, however, must consciously search for new words, and -a tired condition of their language is to them a great difficulty. The -Victorians were absolute spendthrifts of words: no vocabulary could -keep pace with their recklessness; they bequeathed a language<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> almost -ruined for sentimental purposes—words and phrases had acquired either -such an aloofness that for a long time no one any more would trouble -to reach up to them, or had become so thin and common that to use them -would have been something like hack-sawing a piece of cotton.</p> - -<p>Now in the anthology which follows we may notice a characteristic -escape from these difficulties. Words have been brought down from their -high places and compelled into ordinary use. This has been accomplished -not so much through any new familiarity with the words themselves as -by a certain naturalness in the attitude of the people employing them. -Rupert Brooke's "Great Lover" is an example.</p> - -<p>In short, these are the chief reasons why present-day poetry is -readable and entertaining—that it deals with familiar subjects in a -familiar manner; that, in doing so, it uses ordinary words literally -and as often as possible; that it is not aloof or pretentious; that it -refuses to be bullied by tradition: its style, in fact, is itself.</p> - - - -<h4>II</h4> - - -<p>If an excuse is to be sought for the addition of this one more to the -large number of existent collections of recent poetry, let it be in -the nature of an explanation rather than an apology. Good, or even -representative, poetry requires, in fact, no apology, but where the -poems of some thirty-two different<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> authors have been extracted from -their books and placed side by side in one collection, a discussion -of the apparent aims of the anthologist may be interesting, and will -perhaps lead to a fuller enjoyment of the collection thus produced.</p> - -<p>Some readers approach a volume of poems to criticize it, others with -the object of gaining pleasure. To give pleasure is assuredly the -object of this volume. Moreover, it is adapted to the tastes of almost -any age, from ten to ninety, and may be read aloud by grandchild to -grandparent as suitably as by grandparent to grandchild. It is an -anthology of Poems, not of Names. For instance, though Thomas Hardy -is on the list, the lyric chosen to represent him is actually more -characteristic of the book itself than of the mind of that great -and aged poet. It is, in fact, Christian in atmosphere. It is not a -typical specimen of Mr Hardy's style. It shows him in that occasional -rather sad mood of regret for a lost superstition. It is not the -best of Hardy, but rather a poem admirably suited to the book, which -also happens, as by chance, to be by the author of "The Dynasts" and -"Satires of Circumstance."</p> - - - -<h4>III</h4> - - -<p>The collection as a whole is modern, and all except eight of its -authors are living and writing. Of those eight, five died as soldiers -in the European War, and are represented mainly by what is known as -'War poetry.' Otherwise such poetry is fortunately absent. This absence -may be justified<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> by the fact that most of the verse written on the -subject of the War turns out, surveyed in cooler blood, to be, as -any sound judge of literature must always have known, definitely and -unmistakably bad. Much of it is by now, or should be, repudiated by -its authors. It was too often "the spontaneous overflow of powerful -feelings"; it too seldom originated from "emotion recollected in -tranquillity."</p> - -<p>Rupert Brooke's sonnets "The Dead" and "The Soldier" were popular -almost from their first publication. They belong undoubtedly to the -best traditions of English poetry. Julian Grenfell's "Into Battle," -and, in a lesser, degree, the "Home Thoughts from Laventie" of Edward -Wyndham Tennant, have acquired popularity among a larger number of folk -than can be included in the general term 'literary circles.' Neither of -the composers of these verses was a professional poet. Both were men of -attractive personality and strong feeling, with education, taste, and -an occasional impulse to write gracefully. Intrinsically either poem -might as easily have been inspired by an Indian frontier raid as by a -European war. They do not affect the traditions of English poetry by -subject or by form. It will be found, as the years pass, that always -fewer 'War poems' can still be read with pleasure, the incidents which -gave rise to them having become dim in human memory. And these will not -be read because of their association with the Great War, but for their -qualities as poems and their power to stir enjoyment or surprise in the -reader.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> - -<p>Consider those four melancholy lines by which Edward Thomas is here -represented, remarkable for their concentration and for the crowd of -images they can suggest. At present the words "where all that passed -are dead" alone associate this poem with the War. But death comes -through so many causes that twenty years from now a footnote would be -needed if it were desired to emphasize that association.</p> - -<p>J.E. Flecker's "Dying Patriot," one of his three poems in this book, -was written in 1914 in Switzerland, where he was dying of consumption. -It is certainly less a 'War poem' than the same author's "War Song of -the Saracens."</p> - -<p>The verses entitled "A Petition," by R. E. Vernède, are of a different -kind. They are written in conventional Henley-Kiplingese, and contain -too many incidents of a type of poetic expression that has been used -to excess, as "wider than all seas," "to front the world," "quenchless -hope" "All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England!" They are, -nevertheless, useful in the collection as a set-off against the other -'War poems' and an instance of the more ephemeral type of patriotic -verse.</p> - -<p>Thus it would appear that the anthologist has displayed wisdom when -including in this volume only few pieces that may be associated with -the War, and those few (with one exception) on the score of their -literary merit, and for no other reason.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> - - - -<h4>IV</h4> - - -<p>Poets of to-day write individually less than their pre-decessors, and -most of them are satisfied to publish only a proportion of what they -write. None of the eight referred to above left us any great bulk of -verse. Four at least, however, are becoming daily better known to the -reading public, and of these Rupert Brooke and J. E. Flecker have -already their dozens of conscious or unconscious imitators. The form, -rhythm, or Eastern atmosphere of Fleckers poetry, the cynicism and -wit of Brooke's, recur somewhat diluted in the verse of almost every -young undergraduate. Neither Lionel Johnson nor Mary Coleridge has ever -become so well known or received so much attention from the average -plagiarist, while the reputation of Edward Thomas has been of slow and -uncertain growth. Johnsons poetry is too intellectual for the average -reader. The wonderful, small lyrics of Mary Coleridge are esoteric -rather than general. Nevertheless, this anthology includes, most -advisedly, a good poem by Johnson, one indeed which has had a quiet, -but strong, influence on modern lyrical poetry, namely, the lines -to the statue of King Charles at Charing Cross, and also a charming -impression by Mary Coleridge.</p> - -<p>"Street Lanterns" is a good example of that poetry of close observation -to which reference has already been made. It is a small, careful -description of a London scene. It assumes that the reader has observed -as much, and that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> will enjoy to be reminded and brought back for -a moment in imagination to autumn and street-mending. The advocate of -'big themes' will inevitably condemn such verse, for the poet has aimed -at neither size nor grandeur, has indeed sought rather to diminish her -subject than enlarge it.</p> - - - -<h4>V</h4> - - -<p>This anthology, it has been remarked above, is one rather of particular -poems than of well-known authors. Several names of repute are not to -be found in the index. William Watson is only represented by "April," -a little catch that might come to any man of feeling on a spring walk. -To think in terms of these verses is at once not to mind having left -an umbrella at home. Hilaire Belloc gives a sharp impression of early -rising; he also sings in a great voice all the glories of his favourite -part of England. W. H. Davies brings sheep across the Atlantic, and -he talks to a kingfisher. Mrs Meynell contributes "The Shepherdess," -that well-known description of a fine and serene mind, also two London -poems, of which one is the lovely "November Blue." John Masefield is -not to be read in his best style, but the three poems we find here are -thoroughly English, full of the love of the island soil and of its sea, -and are probably in the book for that reason. So much for some of the -well-known contributors. Side by side with them we find the unknown -name of H. H. Abbott, whose "Black and White" is a sketch of remarkable -clarity and interest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> - -<p>Death, so favourite a subject with poets, is seldom allowed to figure -in this book. Betsey-Jane would insist on going to Heaven, but is told, -in the charming verses by Helen Parry Eden, that it simply "would not -do." The whole book is too full of pleasure and the experience of being -alive: Betsey-Jane should read it. She might remember all her life the -advice given on page <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, and be saved hundreds of pounds in lawyers' -bills when she is grown up.</p> - -<p>Let the reader turn to page <a href="#Page_114">114</a>. Here is the style in which good poetry -prefers to teach, and by which it achieves more in eleven lines than a -Martin Tupper in 11,000. Mr Pepler has written down only one sentence, -charmingly improved by a series of most natural rhymes. It is a very -nasty hit at the lawyer. He does not tell him he is not a 'gentleman', -or anything so strong as that. He pays him what might be taken for a -compliment. He assumes that he does understand his own job. Then he -enumerates the things he does not understand. He attaches no blame: he -makes a statement only; one that the lawyer certainly will not think -worth arguing about, but that his client may advisedly take to heart.</p> - -<p>Ralph Hodgson's "Stupidity Street" argues in somewhat the same manner. -It does not suggest that anyone should become vegetarian, or that it is -wrong to kill birds. It names a street and gives a reason for doing so. -It is an angry little Poem, but impersonal.</p> - -<p>"The Bells of Heaven," by the same author, simply chances<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> a hint that -something might happen if something else did. It is a suggestion only, -but made by one who knows what he thinks, and how to think it. Into a -few lines a whole philosophy is concentrated.</p> - -<p>Thus Pepler or Ralph Hodgson nudge peoples arms and draw attention to -traditional stupidities.</p> - -<p>Walter De la Mare puts the children to sleep with "Nod," or bewitches -them with the Mad Prince's Song; or he takes us to an Arabia which -never existed, but is one of those countries more beautiful than any we -know, and therefore we love to imagine it.</p> - -<p>Look at that full moon on page <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, which Dick saw "one night." Here is -the possible experience of man, woman, child, dog, fox, bear—or even -nightingale—all concentrated into the shortest and plainest account -of something that happened to Dick. He and Betsey-Jane, though quite -different in kind, belong to the same world. Betsey-Jane is plainly -more romantic than Dick.</p> - -<p>But, talking of the moon, we may turn back to Mr Chesterton on page -<a href="#Page_36">36</a>. Here we find something incongruous in the collection: a poem -that wishes deliberately to strike a note. The donkey is a much -better fellow than Mr Chesterton seems to think: he does not ask for -glorification, nor would he utter that boast of the last two lines. -Would a man not rather "go with the wild asses to Paradise" than have -the case for the donkey pleaded before him in this obtrusive manner?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> - -<p>Turn back four pages and you will find:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%;"> -For the good are always the merry,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save by an evil chance,</span><br /> -And the merry love the fiddle,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the merry love to dance.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>This, by W. B. Yeats, represents a much pleasanter type of thought. In -these verses of the Irish poet we have the gaiety of a man who, knowing -all about religion, can afford not to be sentimental. And here is the -spirit of the book.</p> - -<p>The happiness of those who love the earth is so different from the -pleasure by proxy of those that abide it in the idea of going to some -Heaven afterward. Mr Yeats' "Fiddler of Dooney" is that type of fellow -who accepts the symbolism of a national religion only in so far as it -may help him to enjoy the condition of being alive. And in his "Lake -Isle of Innisfree" he imagines a Paradise which is of the earth only. -And he takes you there by reason of his own longing.</p> - - - -<h4>VI</h4> - - -<p>This anthology, as a whole, is romantic ; its language is simple; its -philosophy is that of everyday life, and is entirely undisturbing. -It contains a large proportion of poems by authors who write more -particularly for children, such as P. R. Chalmers, Rose Fyleman, -Queenie Scott-Hopper, and Marion St John Webb, or of children's poems -by authors who do not actually specialize in that style, such as "The -Ragwort,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> by Frances Cornford; "Cradle Song," by Sarojini Naidu; -"Check," by James Stephens, and others. Two of its authors remain -necessarily unmentioned here, namely, the compiler of the book and the -writer of this Introduction.</p> - -<p>Some people make it their business to pick anthologies to pieces, -and they seem to enjoy themselves. "Why is this included?" they cry; -"Why is that left out?"—a form of criticism nearly always beside the -point. Inclusion or exclusion is in the taste and discretion of the -anthologist.</p> - -<p>This Introduction may, it is hoped, stimulate the reader of the poems -which follow to think about them carefully in their relation to -each other, and in their relation to English poetry as a whole. For -though it has frequently been emphasized that the object of poetry -(and particularly of lyrical poetry) is to give pleasure, it should -nevertheless be added that intellectual pleasure cannot be gathered at -random, or without certain preparation of the mind to receive it.</p> - -<p style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 60%;">HAROLD MONRO</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0018.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> - - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0019.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> - -<h4>ACKNOWLEDGMENT</h4> -</div> - -<p>For permission to use copyright poems the Editor is indebted to :</p> - -<p><i>The Authors</i>—H. H. Abbott, Hilaire Belloc, P. R. Chalmers, -G. K. Chesterton, Frances Cornford, W. H. Davies, Walter De la -Mare, John Drinkwater, Rose Fyleman, W. W. Gibson, Robert -Graves, Ralph Hodgson, Teresa Hooley, Margaret Mackenzie, -Irene R. McLeod, John Masefield, Alice Meynell, Harold Monro, -Sarojini Naidu, H. D. C. Pepler, James Stephens, Sir William -Watson, Marion St John Webb, and W. B. Yeats.</p> - -<p>The Literary Executors of Rupert Brooke, Mary E. Coleridge -(Sir Henry Newbolt), James Elroy Flecker (Mrs Flecker), Julian -Grenfell (Lady Desborough), Lionel Johnson (Mr Elkin Mathews), -Edward Wyndham Tennant (Lady Glenconner), Edward Thomas -(Messrs Selwyn and Blount), R. E. Vernède.</p> - -<p>And the following <i>Publishers</i>, in respect of the poems selected :</p> - - -<p> -Messrs Burns and Oates, Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Alice Meynell: Collected Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Constable and Co., Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Walter De la Mare: The Listeners, Peacock Pie.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs J. M. Dent and Sons, Ltd.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">G. K. Chesterton: The Wild Knight.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Duckworth and Co.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hilaire Belloc: Verses.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr A. C. Fifield<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. H. Davies: Collected Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs George G. Harrap and Co., Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">E. J. Brady: The House of the Winds.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Queenie Scott-Hopper: Pull the Bobbin!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Marion St John Webb: The Littlest One.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr W. Heinemann, London, and the John Lane Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sarojini Naidu: The Golden Threshold.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Drinkwater: Poems by John Drinkwater.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr John Lane, London, and the John Lane Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Helen Parry Eden Bread and Circuses.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Edward Wyndham Tennant, by Pamela Glenconner.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Macmillan and Co., Ltd., London, and the Macmillan Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. W. Gibson: Whin.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ralph Hodgson: Poems.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">J. Stephens: The Adventures of Seumas Beg, Songs from the Clay.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. B. Yeats: Poems: Second Series.</span><br /> -<br /> -The Macmillan Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Masefield: Ballads and Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Maunsel and Co.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">P. R. Chalmers: Green Days and Blue Days.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Methuen and Co., Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rose Fyleman: Fairies and Chimneys, The Fairy Green.</span><br /> -<br /> -The Poetry Bookshop<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">H. H. Abbott: Black and White.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Frances Cornford: Spring Morning.</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">R. Graves: Over the Brazier.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Sands and Co.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">M. Mackenzie: The Station Platform, and Other Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Mr Martin Seeker<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">J. E. Flecker: Collected Poems.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Francis Brett Young: Poems, 1916-1918.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Selwyn and Blount, London, and Messrs Henry Holt and Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Edward Thomas: Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">J. Redwood Anderson: Walls and Hedges.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">John Drinkwater: Swords and Ploughshares.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., and the John Lane Company, New York<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rupert Brooke: 1914, and Other Poems.</span><br /> -<br /> -Messrs T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">W. B. Yeats: Poems.</span><br /> -</p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0021.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0023.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h4><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></h4> - -<p class="center">ARRANGED UNDER NAMES OF AUTHORS</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 15%;"> -ABBOTT, H. H.<br /> -Black and White <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></span><br /> -<br /> -ANDERSON, J. REDWOOD<br /> -The Bridge <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></span><br /> -<br /> -BELLOC, HILAIRE<br /> -The Early Morning <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_37"> 37</a></span><br /> -The South Country <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_38"> 38</a></span><br /> -<br /> -BRADY, E. J.<br /> -A Ballad of the Captains <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_47"> 47</a></span><br /> -<br /> -BROOKE, RUPERT<br /> -The Dead <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_60"> 60</a></span><br /> -The Great Lover <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_61"> 61</a></span><br /> -The Soldier <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_65"> 65</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> -CHALMERS, P. R.<br /> -If I had a Broomstick <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_74"> 74</a></span><br /> -Roundabouts and Swings <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_75"> 75</a></span><br /> -<br /> -CHESTERTON, G. K.<br /> -The Donkey <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_36"> 36</a></span><br /> -<br /> -COLERIDGE, MARY E.<br /> -Street Lanterns <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></span><br /> -<br /> -CORNFORD, FRANCES<br /> -In France <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_71"> 71</a></span><br /> -The Ragwort <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_72"> 72</a></span><br /> -<br /> -DAVIES, W. H.<br /> -The Kingfisher <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_85"> 85</a></span><br /> -Sheep <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_86"> 86</a></span><br /> -<br /> -DE LA MARE, WALTER<br /> -Arabia <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_51"> 51</a></span><br /> -Full Moon <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_53"> 53</a></span><br /> -Nod <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_54"> 54</a></span><br /> -The Song of the Mad Prince <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_56"> 56</a></span><br /> -<br /> -DRINKWATER, JOHN<br /> -A Town Window <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_78"> 78</a></span><br /> -<br /> -EDEN, HELEN PARRY<br /> -To Betsey-Jane, on her Desiring to go<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Incontinently to Heaven <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></span></span><br /> -<br /> -FLECKER, JAMES E.<br /> -Brumana <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_79"> 79</a></span><br /> -The Dying Patriot <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_80"> 80</a></span><br /> -November Eves <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_82"> 82</a></span><br /> -<br /> -FYLEMAN, ROSE<br /> -Alms in Autumn <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></span><br /> -I Don't Like Beetles <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></span><br /> -Wishes <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></span><br /> -<br /> -GIBSON, W. W.<br /> -Sweet as the Breath of the Whin <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></span><br /> -<br /> -GRAVES, ROBERT<br /> -Star-Talk <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_83"> 83</a></span><br /> -<br /> -GRENFELL, JULIAN<br /> -Into Battle <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_91"> 91</a></span><br /> -<br /> -HARDY, THOMAS<br /> -The Oxen <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></span><br /> -<br /> -HODGSON, RALPH<br /> -The Bells of Heaven <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_99"> 99</a></span><br /> -The Song of Honour <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></span><br /> -Stupidity Street <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></span><br /> -<br /> -HOOLEY, TERESA<br /> -Sea-Foam <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></span><br /> -<br /> -JOHNSON, LIONEL<br /> -By the Statue of King Charles at<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Charing Cross <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_66"> 66</a></span></span><br /> -<br /> -MACKENZIE, MARGARET<br /> -To the Coming Spring <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MCLEOD, IRENE R.<br /> -Lone Dog <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_73"> 73</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MASEFIELD, JOHN<br /> -Sea Fever <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_41"> 41</a></span><br /> -Tewkesbury Road <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_43"> 43</a></span><br /> -The West Wind <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_45"> 45</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MEYNELL, ALICE<br /> -A Dead Harvest <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_57"> 57</a></span><br /> -November Blue <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_58"> 58</a></span><br /> -The Shepherdess <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_59"> 59</a></span><br /> -<br /> -MONRO, HAROLD<br /> -Overheard on a Saltmarsh <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_94"> 94</a></span><br /> -A Flower is Looking through the Ground <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_96"> 96</a></span><br /> -Man Carrying Bale <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_97"> 97</a></span><br /> -<br /> -NAIDU, SAROJINI<br /> -Cradle-Song <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_35"> 35</a></span><br /> -<br /> -PEPLER, H. D. C.<br /> -The Law the Lawyers Know About <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></span><br /> -<br /> -SCOTT-HOPPER, QUEENIE<br /> -Very Nearly! <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> -What the Thrush Says <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></span><br /> -<br /> -STEPHENS, JAMES<br /> -Check <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_69"> 69</a></span><br /> -When the Leaves Fall <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_70"> 70</a></span><br /> -<br /> -TENNANT, E. W.<br /> -Home Thoughts in Laventie <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_88"> 88</a></span><br /> -<br /> -THOMAS, E.<br /> -The Cherry Trees <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_98"> 98</a></span><br /> -<br /> -VERNÈDE, R. E.<br /> -A Petition <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></span><br /> -<br /> -WALTERS, L. D'O.<br /> -All is Spirit and Part of Me <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></span><br /> -<br /> -WATSON, SIR WILLIAM<br /> -April <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_31"> 31</a></span><br /> -<br /> -WEBB, MARION ST JOHN<br /> -The Sunset Garden <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></span><br /> -<br /> -YEATS, W. B.<br /> -The Fiddler of Dooney <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_32"> 32</a></span><br /> -The Lake Isle of Innisfree <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_34"> 34</a></span><br /> -<br /> -YOUNG, FRANCIS BRETT<br /> -February <span class="tabline"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></span><br /> -</p> - - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0029.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h4><a name="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</a></h4> - -<p style="margin-left: 15%;"> -The Lake Isle of Innisfree. <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0009">Frontispiece</a></span><br /> -April <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0031">31</a></span><br /> -The Fiddler of Dooney <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0032">32</a></span><br /> -Cradle-Song <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0035">35</a></span><br /> -The Donkey <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0036">36</a></span><br /> -Sea Fever <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0041">41</a></span><br /> -A Ballad of the Captains <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0047">47</a>,<a href="#img0048">48</a></span><br /> -Arabia <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0051">51</a></span><br /> -The Song of the Mad Prince <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0056">56</a></span><br /> -The Shepherdess <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0059">59</a></span><br /> -The Dead <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0060">60</a><br /></span><br /> -The Great Lover<span class="tabline"> <a href="#img0062">62</a>, <a href="#img0064">64</a></span><br /> -If I had a Broomstick <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0074b">74</a></span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> -The Dying Patriot<span class="tabline"><a href="#img0080">80</a>, <a href="#img0082">82</a></span><br /> -Star-Talk <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0084">84</a></span><br /> -Overheard on a Saltmarsh <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0094">94</a></span><br /> -To the Coming Spring <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0103">103</a></span><br /> -Alms in Autumn <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0106">106</a></span><br /> -Very Nearly! <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0109">109</a></span><br /> -All is Spirit and Part of Me <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0115">115</a></span><br /> -Black and White <span class="tabline"><a href="#img0126">126</a></span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0030.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0031"></a> -<img src="images/img0031.jpg" width="600" alt="APRIL, APRIL, LAUGH THY GIRLISH LAUGHTER!" /> -<p class="capt">"APRIL, APRIL, LAUGH THY GIRLISH LAUGHTER!"</p> -</div> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">APRIL</span><br /> -<br /> -April, April,<br /> -Laugh thy girlish laughter;<br /> -Then, the moment after,<br /> -Weep thy girlish tears!<br /> -April, that mine ears<br /> -If I tell thee, sweetest,<br /> -All my hopes and fears,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">April, April,</span><br /> -Laugh thy golden laughter,<br /> -But, the moment after,<br /> -Weep thy golden tears.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILLIAM WATSON</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> -</p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY</span><br /> -<br /> -When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Folk dance like a wave of the sea;</span><br /> -My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My brother in Moharabuiee.</span><br /> -<br /> -I passed my brother and cousin:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They read in their books of prayer;</span><br /> -I read in my book of songs<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I bought at the Sligo fair.</span><br /> -<br /> -When we come at the end of time,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To Peter sitting in state,</span><br /> -He will smile on the three old spirits,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But call me first through the gate;</span><br /> -<br /> -For the good are always the merry,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save by an evil chance,</span><br /> -And the merry love the fiddle,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the merry love to dance:</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0032"></a> -<img src="images/img0032.jpg" width="600" alt="WHEN WE COME AT THE END OF TIME, TO PETER SITTING IN STATE"/> -<p class="capt">WHEN WE COME AT THE END OF TIME, TO PETER SITTING IN STATE</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -And when the folk there spy me,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They will all come up to me,</span><br /> -With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dance like a wave of the sea.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">W. B. YEATS</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0033.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE</span><br /> -<br /> -I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,<br /> -And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;<br /> -Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And live alone in the bee-loud glade.</span><br /> -<br /> -And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br /> -Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br /> -There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And evening full of the linnet's wings.</span><br /> -<br /> -I will arise and go now, for always, night and day,<br /> -I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br /> -While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I hear it in the deep heart's core.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">W. B. YEATS</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0035"></a> -<img src="images/img0035.jpg" width="600" alt="I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM."/> -<p class="capt">"I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM."</p> -</div> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">CRADLE-SONG</span><br /> -<br /> -From groves of spice,<br /> -O'er fields of rice,<br /> -Athwart the lotus-stream,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I bring for you,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Aglint with dew,</span><br /> -A little lovely dream.<br /> -<br /> -Sweet, shut your eyes,<br /> -The wild fire-flies<br /> -Dance through the fairy neem;<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">From the poppy-bole</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For you I stole</span><br /> -A little lovely dream.<br /> -<br /> -Dear eyes, good-night,<br /> -In golden light<br /> -The stars around you gleam;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On you I press</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With soft caress</span><br /> -A little lovely dream.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">SAROJINI NAIDU</span><br /> -</p> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> A lilac-tree (Hindustani).</p> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE DONKEY</span><br /> -<br /> -When fishes flew and forests walked<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And figs grew upon thorn,</span><br /> -Some moment when the moon was blood<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then surely I was born;</span><br /> -<br /> -With monstrous head and sickening cry<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And ears like errant wings,</span><br /> -The devil's walking parody<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On all four-footed things.</span><br /> -<br /> -The tattered outlaw of the earth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of ancient crooked will;</span><br /> -Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I keep my secret still.</span><br /> -<br /> -Fools! For I also had my hour;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One far fierce hour and sweet:</span><br /> -There was a shout about my ears,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And palms before my feet.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">G. K. CHESTERTON</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0036"></a> -<img src="images/img0036.jpg" width="600" alt="WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS."/> -<p class="capt">"WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS."</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE EARLY MORNING</span><br /> -<br /> -The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:<br /> -The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.<br /> -The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.<br /> -My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HILAIRE BELLOC</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0037.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SOUTH COUNTRY</span> -<br /> -<br /> -When I am living in the Midlands<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That are sodden and unkind,</span><br /> -I light my lamp in the evening:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My work is left behind;</span><br /> -And the great hills of the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come back into my mind.</span><br /> -<br /> -The great hills of the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They stand along the sea;</span><br /> -And it's there walking in the high woods<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That I could wish to be,</span><br /> -And the men that were boys when I was a boy<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Walking along with me.</span><br /> -<br /> -The men that live in North England<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I saw them for a day:</span><br /> -Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their skies are fast and grey;</span><br /> -From their castle-walls a man may see<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">The mountains far away.</span><br /> -<br /> -The men that live in West England<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They see the Severn strong,</span><br /> -A-rolling on rough water brown<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Light aspen leaves along.</span><br /> -They have the secret of the Rocks,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the oldest kind of song.</span><br /> -<br /> -But the men that live in the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are the kindest and most wise,</span><br /> -They get their laughter from the loud surf,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the faith in their happy eyes</span><br /> -Comes surely from our Sister the Spring<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When over the sea she flies;</span><br /> -The violets suddenly bloom, at her feet,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She blesses us with surprise.</span><br /> -<br /> -I never get between the pines<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I smell the Sussex air;</span><br /> -Nor I never come on a belt of sand<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But my home is there.</span><br /> -And along the sky the line of the Downs<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So noble and so bare.</span><br /> -<br /> -A lost thing could I never find,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor a broken thing mend:</span><br /> -And I fear I shall be all alone<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When I get towards the end.</span><br /> -Who will be there to comfort me<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or who will be my friend?</span><br /> -<br /> -I will gather and carefully make my friends<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the men of the Sussex Weald,</span><br /> -They watch the stars from silent folds,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They stiffly plough the field.</span><br /> -By them and the God of the South Country<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My poor soul shall be healed.</span><br /> -<br /> -If I ever become a rich man,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or if ever I grow to be old,</span><br /> -I will build a house with deep thatch<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To shelter me from the cold,</span><br /> -And there shall the Sussex songs be sung<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the story of Sussex told.</span><br /> -<br /> -I will hold my house in the high wood<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Within a walk of the sea,</span><br /> -And the men that were boys when I was a boy<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall sit and drink with me.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HILAIRE BELLOC</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0041"></a> -<img src="images/img0041.jpg" width="600" alt="ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING" /> -<p class="capt">"ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SEA FEVER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,<br /> -And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;<br /> -And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,<br /> -And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.<br /> -<br /> -I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide<br /> -Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;<br /> -And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,<br /> -And the flung spray "and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.<br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life,<br /> -To the gull's, way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">knife;</span><br /> -And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,<br /> -And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN MASEFIELD</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0042.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">TEWKESBURY ROAD</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,<br /> -Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;<br /> -Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">of the air,</span><br /> -Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.<br /> -<br /> -And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink<br /> -Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">white;</span><br /> -Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink<br /> -When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.<br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,<br /> -Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;<br /> -And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth<br /> -At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN MASEFIELD</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0044.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE WEST WIND</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;<br /> -I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.<br /> -For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,<br /> -And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.<br /> -<br /> -It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,<br /> -Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.<br /> -There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,<br /> -And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.<br /> -<br /> -"Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away.<br /> -It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray:<br /> -And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?<br /> -<br /> -The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run;<br /> -It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.<br /> -It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,<br /> -To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.<br /> -<br /> -Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,<br /> -So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?<br /> -I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"<br /> -Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.<br /> -<br /> -It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread<br /> -To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,<br /> -To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song<br /> -In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN MASEFIELD</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0047"></a> -<img src="images/img0047.jpg" width="600" alt="DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE." /> -<p class="capt">"DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE."</p> -</div> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A BALLAD OF THE CAPTAINS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the narrow ships of old—</span><br /> -Who with valiant souls went seeking<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the Fabled Fleece of Gold;</span><br /> -In the clouded Dusk of Ages,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Dawn of History;</span><br /> -When the ringing songs of Homer<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">First re-echoed o'er the Sea?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, the Captains lie a-sleeping</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where great iron hulls are sweeping</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Out of Suez in their pride;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And they hear not, and they heed not,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And they know not, and they need not</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In their deep graves far and wide.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who went blindly through the Strait,</span><br /> -With a tribute to Poseidon,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">A libation poured to Fate?</span><br /> -They were heroes giant-hearted,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That with Terrors, told and sung,</span><br /> -Like blindfolded lions grappled,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the World was strange and young.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, the Captains brave and daring,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With their grim old crews are faring</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where our guiding beacons gleam;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the homeward liners o'er them—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">All the charted seas before them—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Shall not wake them as they dream.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From bold Nelson back to Drake,</span><br /> -Who came drumming up the Channel,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Haling prizes in their wake?</span><br /> -Where are England's fighting Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who, with battle-flags unfurled,</span><br /> -Went a-rieving all the rievers<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'er the waves of all the world?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, these Captains, all confiding</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In the strong right hand, are biding</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In the margins, on the Main;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They are shining bright in story,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They are sleeping deep in glory,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On the silken lap of Fame.</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0048"></a> -<img src="images/img0048.jpg" width="600" alt="WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY" /> -<p class="capt">"WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -Here are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who regarded not the tears</span><br /> -Of the captured Christian maidens<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Carried, weeping, to Algiers?</span><br /> -Yes, the swarthy Moorish Captains,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Storming wildly 'cross the Bay,</span><br /> -With a dead hidalgo's daughter.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As a dower for the Dey?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, those cruel Captains never</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shall sweet lovers more dissever,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">On their forays as they roll;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or the mad Dons curse them vainly,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As their baffled ships, ungainly,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Heel them, jeering, to the Mole.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of those racing, roaring days,</span><br /> -Who of knowledge and of courage,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Drove the clippers on their ways—</span><br /> -To the furthest ounce of pressure,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the latest stitch of sail,</span><br /> -'Carried on' before the tempest<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till the waters lapped the rail?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, the merry, manly skippers</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the traders and the clippers,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">They are sleeping East and West,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the brave blue seas shall hold them,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the oceans five enfold them</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In the havens where they rest.</span><br /> -<br /> -Where are now the Captains<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the gallant days agone?</span><br /> -They are biding in their places,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Great Deep bears no traces</span><br /> -Of their good ships passed and gone.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They are biding in their places,</span><br /> -Where the light of God's own grace is,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Great Deep thunders on.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yea, with never port to steer for,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And with never storm to fear for,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">They are waiting wan and white,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And they hear no more the calling</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of the watches, or the falling</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of the sea rain in the night.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">E. J. BRADY</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0051"></a> -<img src="images/img0051.jpg" width="600" alt="DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS" /> -<p class="capt">"DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS"</p> -</div> - - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ARABIA</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Far are the shades of Arabia,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the Princes ride at noon,</span><br /> -'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Under the ghost of the moon;</span><br /> -And so dark is that vaulted purple<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flowers in the forest rise</span><br /> -And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pale in the noonday skies.</span><br /> -<br /> -Sweet is the music of Arabia<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In my heart, when out of dreams</span><br /> -I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Descry her gliding streams;</span><br /> -Hear her strange lutes on the green banks<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ring loud with the grief and delight</span><br /> -Of the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the brooding silence of night.</span><br /> -<br /> -They haunt me—her lutes and her forests;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No beauty on earth I see</span><br /> -But shadowed with that dream recalls<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her loveliness to me:</span><br /> -Still eyes look coldly upon me,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cold voices whisper and say—</span><br /> -"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They have stolen his wits away."</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0052.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">FULL MOON</span><br /> -<br /> -One night as Dick lay half asleep,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into his drowsy eyes</span><br /> -A great still light began to creep<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From out the silent skies.</span><br /> -It was the lovely moon's, for when<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He raised his dreamy head,</span><br /> -Her rays of silver filled the pane<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And streamed across his bed.</span><br /> -So, for awhile, each gazed at each—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dick and the solemn moon—</span><br /> -Till, climbing slowly on her way,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She vanished, and was gone.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">NOD</span><br /> -<br /> -Softly along the road of evening,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In a twilight dim with rose,</span><br /> -Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.</span><br /> -<br /> -His drowsy flock streams on before him,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their fleeces charged with gold,</span><br /> -To where the sun's last beam leans low<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On Nod the shepherd's fold.</span><br /> -<br /> -The hedge is quick and green with briar,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From their sand the conies creep;</span><br /> -And all the birds that fly in heaven<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flock singing home to sleep.</span><br /> -<br /> -His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, when night's shadows fall,</span><br /> -His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Misses not one of all.</span><br /> -<br /> -His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The waters of no-more-pain,</span><br /> -His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Rest, rest, and rest again."</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0055.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Who said, "Peacock Pie"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The old King to the sparrow:</span><br /> -Who said, "Crops are ripe"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rust to the harrow:</span><br /> -Who said, "Where sleeps she now?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where rests she now her head,</span><br /> -Bathed in eve's loveliness"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That's what I said.</span><br /> -<br /> -Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sexton to willow:</span><br /> -Who said, "Green dusk for dreams,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Moss for a pillow"?</span><br /> -Who said, "All Time's delight<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hath she for narrow bed;</span><br /> -Life's troubled bubble broken"?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That's what I said.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WALTER DE LA MARE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0056"></a> -<img src="images/img0056.jpg" width="600" alt="'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'" /> -<p class="capt">"'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A DEAD HARVEST</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">IN KENSINGTON GARDENS</span><br /> -<br /> -Along the graceless grass of town<br /> -They rake the rows of red and brown,—<br /> -Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay<br /> -Delicate, touched with gold and grey,<br /> -Raked long ago and far away.<br /> -<br /> -A narrow silence in the park,<br /> -Between the lights a narrow dark.<br /> -One street rolls on the north; and one,<br /> -Muffled, upon the south doth run;<br /> -Amid the mist the work is done.<br /> -<br /> -A futile crop! for it the fire<br /> -Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre.<br /> -So go the town's lives on the breeze,<br /> -Even as the sheddings of the trees;<br /> -Bosom nor barn is filled with these.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ALICE MEYNELL</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">NOVEMBER BLUE</span><br /></p> -<p style="margin-left: 10%; font-size: 0.85em; margin-top: 2em;"> -The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary<br /> -colour to the air in the early evening.<br /> -<br /> -<i>Essay on London</i><br /> -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -O heavenly colour, London town<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has blurred it from her skies;</span><br /> -And, hooded in an earthly brown,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unheaven'd the city lies.</span><br /> -No longer standard-like this hue<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Above the broad road flies;</span><br /> -Nor does the narrow street the blue<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wear, slender pennon-wise.</span><br /> -<br /> -But when the gold and silver lamps<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Colour the London dew,</span><br /> -And, misted by the winter damps,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The shops shine bright anew—</span><br /> -Blue comes to earth, it walks the street,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It dyes the wide air through;</span><br /> -A mimic sky about their feet,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The throng go crowned with blue.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ALICE MEYNELL</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0059"></a> -<img src="images/img0059.jpg" width="600" alt="SHE WALKS—THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT—A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP" /> -<p class="capt">"SHE WALKS—THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT—A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SHEPHERDESS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -She walks—the lady of my delight—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A shepherdess of sheep.</span><br /> -Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She guards them from the steep;</span><br /> -She feeds them on the fragrant height,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And folds them in for sleep.</span><br /> -<br /> -She roams maternal hills and bright,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dark valleys safe and deep,</span><br /> -Into that tender breast at night<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The chastest stars may peep.</span><br /> -She walks—the lady of my delight—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A shepherdess of sheep.</span><br /> -<br /> -She holds her little thoughts in sight,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though gay they run and leap.</span><br /> -She is so circumspect and right;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She has her soul to keep.</span><br /> -She walks—the lady of my delight—<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A shepherdess of sheep.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ALICE MEYNELL</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE DEAD</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.</span><br /> -These laid the world away; poured out the red<br /> -Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That men call age; and those who would have been,</span><br /> -Their sons, they gave, their immortality.<br /> -<br /> -Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.</span><br /> -Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And paid his subjects with a royal wage;</span><br /> -And Nobleness walks in our ways again;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we have come into our heritage.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RUPERT BROOKE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0060"></a> -<img src="images/img0060.jpg" width="600" alt="HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH" /> -<p class="capt">"HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE GREAT LOVER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I have been so great a lover: filled my days<br /> -So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,<br /> -The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,<br /> -Desire illimitable, and still content,<br /> -And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,<br /> -For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear<br /> -Our hearts at random down the dark of life.<br /> -Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife<br /> -Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,<br /> -My night shall be remembered for a star<br /> -That outshone all the suns of all men's days.<br /> -Shall I not crown them with immortal praise<br /> -Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me<br /> -High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see<br /> -The inenarrable godhead of delight?<br /> -Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.<br /> -A city:—and we have built it, these and I.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.<br /> -So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,<br /> -And the high cause of Love's magnificence,<br /> -And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names<br /> -Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,<br /> -And set them as a banner, that men may know,<br /> -To dare the generations, burn, and blow<br /> -Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming....<br /> -These I have loved:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,</span><br /> -Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;<br /> -Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust<br /> -Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;<br /> -Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;<br /> -And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;<br /> -And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,<br /> -Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;<br /> -Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon<br /> -Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss<br /> -Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is<br /> -Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen<br /> -Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;<br /> -The benison of hot water; furs to touch;<br /> -The good smell of old clothes; and other such—<br /> -The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,<br /> -Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers<br /> -About dead leaves and last year's ferns....<br /> -</p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0062"></a> -<img src="images/img0062.jpg" width="600" alt="OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING" /> -<p class="capt">"OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -<span style="margin-left: 19.5em;">Dear names,</span><br /> -And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;<br /> -Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;<br /> -Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;<br /> -Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,<br /> -Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;<br /> -Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam<br /> -That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;<br /> -And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold<br /> -Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;<br /> -Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;<br /> -And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;—<br /> -And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—<br /> -All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.<br /> -Whatever passes not, in the great hour,<br /> -Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power<br /> -To hold them with me through the gate of Death.<br /> -They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,<br /> -Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust<br /> -And sacramented covenant to the dust.<br /> -—Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> -And give what's left of love again, and make<br /> -New friends, now strangers....<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">But the best I've known,</span><br /> -Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown<br /> -About the winds of the world, and fades from brains<br /> -Of living men, and dies.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 12em;">Nothing remains.</span><br /> -<br /> -O dear my loves, O faithless, once again<br /> -This one last gift I give: that after men<br /> -Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,<br /> -Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RUPERT BROOKE</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0064"></a> -<img src="images/img0064.jpg" width="600" alt="MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW" /> -<p class="capt">"MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SOLDIER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -If I should die, think only this of me:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That there's some corner of a foreign field</span><br /> -That is for ever England. There shall be<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;</span><br /> -A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,</span><br /> -A body of England's, breathing English air,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.</span><br /> -<br /> -And think, this heart, all evil shed away,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A pulse in the eternal mind, no less</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;</span><br /> -Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RUPERT BROOKE</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Sombre and rich, the skies;<br /> -Great glooms, and starry plains.<br /> -Gently the night wind sighs;<br /> -Else a vast silence reigns.<br /> -<br /> -The splendid silence clings<br /> -Around me: and around<br /> -The saddest of all kings<br /> -Crowned, and again discrowned.<br /> -<br /> -Comely and calm, he rides<br /> -Hard by his own Whitehall:<br /> -Only the night wind glides:<br /> -No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.<br /> -<br /> -Gone, too, his Court; and yet,<br /> -The stars his courtiers are:<br /> -Stars in their stations set;<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>And every wandering star.<br /> -<br /> -Alone he rides, alone,<br /> -The fair and fatal king:<br /> -Dark night is all his own,<br /> -That strange and solemn thing.<br /> -<br /> -Which are more full of fate:<br /> -The stars; or those sad eyes?<br /> -Which are more still and great:<br /> -Those brows; or the dark skies?<br /> -<br /> -Although his whole heart yearn<br /> -In passionate tragedy:<br /> -Never was face so stern<br /> -With sweet austerity.<br /> -<br /> -Vanquished in life, his death<br /> -By beauty made amends:<br /> -The passing of his breath<br /> -Won his defeated ends.<br /> -<br /> -Brief life and hapless? Nay:<br /> -Through death, life grew sublime.<br /> -<i>Speak after sentence?</i> Yea:<br /> -And to the end of time.<br /> -<br /> -Armoured he rides, his head<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>Bare to the stars of doom:<br /> -He triumphs now, the dead,<br /> -Beholding London's gloom.<br /> -<br /> -Our wearier spirit faints,<br /> -Vexed in the world's employ:<br /> -His soul was of the saints;<br /> -And art to him was joy.<br /> -<br /> -King, tried in fires of woe<br /> -Men hunger for thy grace:<br /> -And through the night I go,<br /> -Loving thy mournful face.<br /> -<br /> -Yet when the city sleeps;<br /> -When all the cries are still:<br /> -The stars and heavenly deeps<br /> -Work out a perfect will.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">LIONEL JOHNSON</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">CHECK</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The night was creeping on the ground;<br /> -She crept and did not make a sound<br /> -Until she reached the tree, and then<br /> -She covered it, and stole again<br /> -Along the grass beside the wall.<br /> -<br /> -I heard the rustle of her shawl<br /> -As she threw blackness everywhere<br /> -Upon the sky and ground and air,<br /> -And in the room where I was hid:<br /> -But no matter what she did<br /> -To everything that was without,<br /> -She could not put my candle out.<br /> -<br /> -So I stared at the night, and she<br /> -Stared back solemnly at me.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES STEPHENS</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">WHEN THE LEAVES FALL</span> -<br /> -<br /> -When the leaves fall off the trees<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Everybody walks on them:</span><br /> -Once they had a time of ease<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">High above, and every breeze</span><br /> -Used to stay and talk to them.<br /> -<br /> -Then they were so debonair<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As they fluttered up and down;</span><br /> -Dancing in the sunny air,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dancing without knowing there</span><br /> -Was a gutter in the town.<br /> -<br /> -Now they have no place at all!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All the home that they can find</span><br /> -Is a gutter by a wall,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the wind that waits their fall</span><br /> -Is an apache of a wind.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES STEPHENS</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">IN FRANCE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The poplars in the fields of France<br /> -Are golden ladies come to dance;<br /> -But yet to see them there is none<br /> -But I and the September sun.<br /> -<br /> -The girl who in their shadow sits<br /> -Can only see the sock she knits;<br /> -Her dog is watching all the day<br /> -That not a cow shall go astray.<br /> -<br /> -The leisurely contented cows<br /> -Can only see the earth they browse;<br /> -Their piebald bodies through the grass<br /> -With busy, munching noses pass.<br /> -<br /> -Alone the sun and I behold<br /> -Processions crowned with shining gold—<br /> -The poplars in the fields of France,<br /> -Like glorious ladies come to dance.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">FRANCES CORNFORD</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE RAGWORT</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The thistles on the sandy flats<br /> -Are courtiers with crimson hats;<br /> -The ragworts, growing up so straight,<br /> -Are emperors who stand in state,<br /> -And march about, so proud and bold,<br /> -In crowns of fairy-story gold.<br /> -<br /> -The people passing home at night<br /> -Rejoice to see the shining sight,<br /> -They quite forget the sands and sea<br /> -Which are as grey as grey can be,<br /> -Nor ever heed the gulls who cry<br /> -Like peevish children in the sky.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">FRANCES CORNFORD</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">LONE DOG</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;<br /> -I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;<br /> -I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;<br /> -I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.<br /> -<br /> -I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,<br /> -A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,<br /> -Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,<br /> -But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff, and kick, and hate.<br /> -<br /> -Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,<br /> -Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.<br /> -O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,<br /> -Wide wind, and wild stars, and the hunger of the quest!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">IRENE R. McLEOD</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK</span> -<br /> -<br /> -If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it,<br /> -I'd fly through the windows when Jane goes to tea,<br /> -And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide it,<br /> -To lands where no children are cripples like me;<br /> -I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the sea,<br /> -Where soft red anemones close when you touch;<br /> -If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it,<br /> -If I had a broomstick—instead of a crutch!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">PATRICK R. CHALMERS</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0074.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0074b"></a> -<img src="images/img0074b.jpg" width="600" alt="IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK" /> -<p class="capt">"IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It was early last September nigh to Framlin'amon-Sea,<br /> -An''twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea,<br /> -An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane,<br /> -A Pharaoh with his waggons cornin' jolt an' creak an' strain;<br /> -A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up,<br /> -An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup,<br /> -An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings<br /> -Was joggin' in the dust along is roundabouts and swings.<br /> -<br /> -"Goo'-day," said'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?"<br /> -"I find," said'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found,<br /> -For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round."<br /> -Said'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were,<br /> -It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a'are;<br /> -But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's,<br /> -What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!<br /> -<br /> -"Goo' luck," said'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt;<br /> -An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out";<br /> -'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again<br /> -To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane;<br /> -An' the moon she climbed the'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, is sooth of lose-and-win;<br /> -For "up an' down an' round," said'e, "goes all appointed things,<br /> -An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!"<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">PATRICK R. CHALMERS</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0077.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A TOWN WINDOW</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Beyond my window in the night<br /> -Is but a drab inglorious street,<br /> -Yet there the frost and clean starlight<br /> -As over Warwick woods are sweet.<br /> -<br /> -Under the grey drift of the town<br /> -The crocus works among the mould<br /> -As eagerly as those that crown<br /> -The Warwick spring in flame and gold.<br /> -<br /> -And when the tramway down the hill<br /> -Across the cobbles moans and rings,<br /> -There is about my window-sill<br /> -The tumult of a thousand wings.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JOHN DRINKWATER</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">BRUMANA</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Oh shall I never never be home again?<br /> -Meadows of England shining in the rain<br /> -Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green<br /> -With briar fortify, with blossom screen<br /> -Till my far morning—and O streams that slow<br /> -And pure and deep through plains and playlands go,<br /> -For me your love and all your kingcups store,<br /> -And—dark militia of the southern shore,<br /> -Old fragrant friends—preserve me the last lines<br /> -Of that long saga which you sung me, pines,<br /> -When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree<br /> -I listened, with my eyes upon the sea.<br /> -<br /> -[Continued]<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES ELROY FLECKER</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE DYING PATRIOT</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Day of my dreams, O day!</span><br /> -I saw them march from Dover, long ago,<br /> -With a silver cross before them, singing low,<br /> -Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Augustine with his feet of snow.</span><br /> -<br /> -Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,<br /> -—Beauty she was statue cold—there's blood upon her gown:<br /> -Noon of my dreams, O noon!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With her towers and tombs and statues all arow,</span><br /> -With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the streets where the great men go.</span><br /> -<br /> -</p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0080"></a> -<img src="images/img0080.jpg" width="600" alt="AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW" /> -<p class="capt">"AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW"</p> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales,<br /> -When the first star shivers and the last wave pales:<br /> -O evening dreams!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow,</span><br /> -And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sway when the long winds blow.</span><br /> -<br /> -Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar<br /> -Your children of the morning are clamorous for war:<br /> -Fire in the night, O dreams!<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though she send you as she sent you, long ago,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow,</span><br /> -West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go<br /> -Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES ELROY FLECKER</span> -<br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">NOVEMBER EVES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -November Evenings! Damp and still<br /> -They used to cloak Leckhampton hill,<br /> -And lie down close on the grey plain,<br /> -And dim the dripping window-pane,<br /> -And send queer winds like Harlequins<br /> -That seized our elms for violins<br /> -And struck a note so sharp and low<br /> -Even a child could feel the woe.<br /> -<br /> -Now fire chased shadow round the room;<br /> -Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom:<br /> -We crept about like mice, while Nurse<br /> -Sat mending, solemn as a hearse,<br /> -And even our unlearned eyes<br /> -Half closed with choking memories.<br /> -<br /> -Is it the mist or the dead leaves,<br /> -Or the dead men—November eves?<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JAMES ELROY FLECKER</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0082"></a> -<img src="images/img0082.jpg" width="600" alt="I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO" /> -<p class="capt">"I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">STAR-TALK</span> -<br /> -<br /> -"Are you awake, Gemelli,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"We'll be awake till reveille,<br /> -Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli,<br /> -"It's no good trying to go to sleep:<br /> -If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But rest is hopeless to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But rest is hopeless to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"Yes, and so are the Hyads:<br /> -See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,<br /> -"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:<br /> -We huddle together like birds in a storm:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It's bitter weather to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It's bitter weather to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -"What do you hunt, Orion,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This starry night?"</span><br /> -"The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>And the Great Bear," says Orion,<br /> -<br /> -"With my starry quiver and beautiful belt<br /> -I am trying to find a good thick pelt<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To warm my shoulders to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To warm my shoulders to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -"Did you hear that, Great She-bear,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare,<br /> -Of my own big fur," says the She-bear.<br /> -"I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:<br /> -The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,<br /> -And the frost so cruel to-night!<br /> -And the frost so cruel to-night!"<br /> -<br /> -"How is your trade, Aquarius,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This frosty night?"</span><br /> -"Complaints is many and various,<br /> -And my feet are cold," says Aquarius,<br /> -"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,<br /> -And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the pump has frozen to-night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the pump has frozen to-night."</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROBERT GRAVES</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0084"></a> -<img src="images/img0084.jpg" width="600" alt="HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?" /> -<p class="capt">"HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE KINGFISHER</span> -<br /> -<br /> -It was the Rainbow gave thee birth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And left thee all her lovely hues;</span><br /> -And, as her mother's name was Tears,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So runs it in thy blood to choose</span><br /> -For haunts the lonely pools, and keep<br /> -In company with trees that weep.<br /> -<br /> -Go you and, with such glorious hues,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Live with proud Peacocks in green parks;</span><br /> -On lawns as smooth as shining glass,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let every feather show its mark;</span><br /> -Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings<br /> -Before the windows of proud kings.<br /> -<br /> -Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou hast no proud ambitious mind;</span><br /> -I also love a quiet place<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That's green, away from all mankind;</span><br /> -A lonely pool, and let a tree<br /> -Sigh with her bosom over me.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILLIAM H. DAVIES</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SHEEP</span> -<br /> -<br /> -When I was once in Baltimore<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A man came up to me and cried,</span><br /> -"Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we will sail on Tuesday's tide.</span><br /> -<br /> -"If you will sail with me, young man,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I'll pay you fifty shillings down;</span><br /> -These eighteen hundred sheep I take<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From Baltimore to Glasgow town."</span><br /> -<br /> -He paid me fifty shillings down,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep;</span><br /> -We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We soon were in the salt sea deep.</span><br /> -<br /> -The first night we were out at sea<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those sheep were quiet in their mind;</span><br /> -The second night they cried with fear—<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">They smelt no pastures in the wind.</span><br /> -<br /> -They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They cried so loud I could not sleep:</span><br /> -For fifty thousand shillings down<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I would not sail again with sheep.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILLIAM H. DAVIES</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0087.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Green gardens in Laventie!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Soldiers only know the street</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where the mud is churned and splashed about</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">By battle-wending feet;</span><br /> -And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Look for it when you pass.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Beyond the Church whose pitted spire</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Seems balanced on a strand</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of swaying stone and tottering brick</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Two roofless ruins stand,</span><br /> -And here behind the wreckage where the back-wall should have been<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">We found a garden green.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">The grass was never trodden on,</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">The little path of gravel</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Was overgrown with celandine,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">No other folk did travel</span><br /> -Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">Running from house to house.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">So all among the vivid blades</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">Of soft and tender grass</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">We lay, nor heard the limber wheels</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">That pass and ever pass,</span><br /> -In noisy continuity, until their stony rattle<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">Seems in itself a battle.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">At length we rose up from our ease</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Of tranquil happy mind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And searched the garden's little length</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">A fresh pleasaunce to find;</span><br /> -And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Did rest the tired eye.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">The fairest and most fragrant</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Of the many sweets we found,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Was a little bush of Daphne flower</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Upon a grassy mound,</span><br /> -And so thick were the blossoms set, and so divine the scent,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">That we were well content.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Hungry for Spring I bent my head,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The perfume fanned my face,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And all my soul was dancing</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">In that lovely little place,</span><br /> -Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">shattered towns</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">Away . . . upon the Downs.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">I saw green banks of daffodil,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">Slim poplars in the breeze,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Great tan-brown hares in gusty March</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">A-courting on the leas;</span><br /> -And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">scurrying dace,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Home—what a perfect place!</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">INTO BATTLE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The naked earth is warm with Spring,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And with green grass and bursting trees</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And quivers in the sunny breeze;</span><br /> -And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">And a striving evermore for these;</span><br /> -And he is dead who will not fight;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And who dies fighting has increase.</span><br /> -<br /> -The fighting man shall from the sun<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;</span><br /> -Speed with the light-foot winds to run,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And with the trees to newer birth;</span><br /> -And find, when fighting shall be done,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Great rest, and fullness after dearth.</span><br /> -<br /> -All the bright company of Heaven<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hold him in their high comradeship,</span><br /> -The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Orion's Belt and sworded hip.</span><br /> -<br /> -The woodland trees that stand together,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They stand to him each one a friend,</span><br /> -They gently speak in the windy weather;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They guide to valley and ridges' end.</span><br /> -<br /> -The kestrel hovering by day,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And the little owls that call by night,</span><br /> -Bid him be swift and keen as they,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">As keen of ear, as swift of sight.</span><br /> -<br /> -The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">If this be the last song you shall sing</span><br /> -Sing well, for you may not sing another;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Brother, sing."</span><br /> -<br /> -In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Before the brazen frenzy starts,</span><br /> -The horses show him nobler powers;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O patient eyes, courageous hearts!</span><br /> -<br /> -And when the burning moment breaks,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And all things else are out of mind,</span><br /> -And only Joy of Battle takes<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Him by the throat, and makes him blind—</span><br /> -<br /> -Though joy and blindness he shall know,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Not caring much to know, that still,</span><br /> -Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That it be not the Destined Will.</span><br /> -<br /> -The thundering line of battle stands,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And in the air Death moans and sings;</span><br /> -But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And Night shall fold him in soft wings.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">JULIAN GRENFELL</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/img0093.jpg" width="400" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">at them?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Give them me.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10em;">No.</span><br /> -Give them me. Give them me.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10em;">No.</span><br /> -Then I will howl all night in the reeds,<br /> -Lie in the mud and howl for them.<br /> -<br /> -Goblin, why do you love them so?<br /> -<br /> -They are better than stars or water,<br /> -Better than voices of winds that sing,<br /> -Better than any man's fair daughter,<br /> -Your green glass beads on a silver ring.<br /> -<br /> -Hush, I stole them out of the moon.<br /> -</p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0094"></a> -<img src="images/img0094.jpg" width="600" alt="GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO." /> -<p class="capt">"GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO."</p> -</div> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 2em;"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>[Illustration: "GIVE ME YOUR BEADS. I DESIRE THEM. NO."]<br /> -<br /> -Give me your beads. I desire them.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">No.</span><br /> -<br /> -I will howl in a deep lagoon<br /> -For your green glass beads, I love them so.<br /> -Give them me. Give them.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 10.5em;">No.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HAROLD MONRO</span></p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0095.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A FLOWER IS LOOKING</span><br /> -<span class="caption">THROUGH THE GROUND</span> -<br /> -<br /> -A flower is looking through the ground,<br /> -Blinking at the April weather;<br /> -Now a child has seen the flower:<br /> -Now they go and play together.<br /> -<br /> -Now it seems the flower will speak,<br /> -And will call the child its brother—<br /> -But, oh strange forgetfulness!—<br /> -They don't recognize each other.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HAROLD MONRO</span><br /> -</p> -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/img0096.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">MAN CARRYING BALE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The tough hand closes gently on the load;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Out of the mind, a voice</span><br /> -Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">their work,</span><br /> -Lengthen and pause for help.<br /> -Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">While all the muscles call to one another:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">'Lift!' and the bulging bale</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Floats like a butterfly in June.</span><br /> -<br /> -So moved the earliest carrier of bales,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And the same watchful sun</span><br /> -Glowed through his body feeding it with light.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">So will the last one move,</span><br /> -And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load<br /> -Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Earth, you designed your man</span><br /> -Beautiful both in labour and repose.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HAROLD MONRO</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE CHERRY TREES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The cherry trees bend over and are shedding<br /> -On the old road where all that passed are dead,<br /> -Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding<br /> -This early May morn when there is none to wed.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">EDWARD THOMAS</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE BELLS OF HEAVEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -'T Would ring the bells of Heaven<br /> -The wildest peal for years,<br /> -If Parson lost his senses<br /> -And people came to theirs,<br /> -And he and they together<br /> -Knelt down with angry prayers<br /> -For tamed and shabby tigers<br /> -And dancing dogs and bears,<br /> -And wretched, blind pit ponies,<br /> -And little hunted hares.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RALPH HODGSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SONG OF HONOUR</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I climbed a hill as light fell short,<br /> -And rooks came home in scramble sort,<br /> -And filled the trees and flapped and fought<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sang themselves to sleep;</span><br /> -An owl from nowhere with no sound<br /> -Swung by and soon was nowhere found,<br /> -I heard him calling half-way round,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Holloing loud and deep;</span><br /> -A pair of stars, faint pins of light,<br /> -Then many a star, sailed into sight,<br /> -And all the stars, the flower of night,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were round me at a leap;</span><br /> -To tell how still the valleys lay<br /> -I heard a watch-dog miles away,<br /> -And bells of distant sheep.<br /> -<br /> -I heard no more of bird or bell,<br /> -The mastiff in a slumber fell,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I stared into the sky,</span><br /> -As wondering men have always done<br /> -Since beauty and the stars were one,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though none so hard as I.</span><br /> -<br /> -It seemed, so still the valleys were,<br /> -As if the whole world knelt at prayer,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save me and me alone;</span><br /> -So pure and wide that silence was<br /> -I feared to bend a blade of grass,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there I stood like stone.</span><br /> -<br /> -[Continued]<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RALPH HODGSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">STUPIDITY STREET></span> -<br /> -<br /> -I saw with open eyes<br /> -Singing birds sweet<br /> -Sold in the shops<br /> -For the people to eat,<br /> -Sold in the shops of<br /> -Stupidity Street.<br /> -I saw in vision<br /> -The worm in the wheat,<br /> -And in the shops nothing<br /> -For people to eat;<br /> -Nothing for sale in<br /> -Stupidity Street.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RALPH HODGSON</span> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0103"></a> -<img src="images/img0103.jpg" width="600" alt="WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES" /> -<p class="capt">"WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES"</p> -</div> - -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">TO THE COMING SPRING</span> -<br /> -<br /> -O punctual Spring!<br /> -We had forgotten in this winter town<br /> -The days of Summer and the long, long eves.<br /> -But now you come on airy wing,<br /> -With busy fingers spilling baby-leaves<br /> -On all the bushes, and a faint green down<br /> -On ancient trees, and everywhere<br /> -Your warm breath soft with kisses<br /> -Stirs the wintry air,<br /> -And waking us to unimagined blisses.<br /> -Your lightest footprints in the grass<br /> -Are marked by painted crocus-flowers<br /> -And heavy-headed daffodils,<br /> -While little trees blush faintly as you pass.<br /> -The morning and the night<br /> -You bathe with heavenly showers,<br /> -And scatter scentless violets on the rounded hills,<br /> -Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose posies.<br /> -With magic key, in the new evening light,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> -You are unlocking buds that keep the roses;<br /> -The purple lilac soon will blow above the wall<br /> -And bended boughs in orchards whitely bloom—<br /> -We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom ...<br /> -Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">MARGARET MACKENZIE</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ALMS IN AUTUMN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray,<br /> -A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way?<br /> -The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen,<br /> -And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again.<br /> -Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light<br /> -To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.<br /> -<br /> -Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please,<br /> -Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys.<br /> -I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast<br /> -That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past.<br /> -I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.<br /> -<br /> -Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task,<br /> -A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask :<br /> -A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands<br /> -(I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands).<br /> -So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright,<br /> -They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE FYLEMAN</span> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0106"></a> -<img src="images/img0106.jpg" width="600" alt="THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT" /> -<p class="capt">"THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">I DON'T LIKE BEETLES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I don't like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good,<br /> -I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should;<br /> -I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play,<br /> -And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away.<br /> -I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk,<br /> -And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk;<br /> -I don't like tigers, not even in a book,<br /> -And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE FYLEMAN</span></p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">WISHES</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I wish I liked rice pudding,<br /> -I wish I were a twin,<br /> -I wish some day a real live fairy<br /> -Would just come walking in.<br /> -<br /> -I wish when I'm at table<br /> -My feet would touch the floor,<br /> -I wish our pipes would burst next winter,<br /> -Just like they did next door.<br /> -<br /> -I wish that I could whistle<br /> -Real proper grown-up tunes,<br /> -I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys<br /> -On rainy afternoons.<br /> -<br /> -I've got such heaps of wishes,<br /> -I've only said a few;<br /> -I wish that I could wake some morning<br /> -And find they'd all come true!<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">ROSE FYLEMAN</span> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0109"></a> -<img src="images/img0109.jpg" width="600" alt="ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!" /> -<p class="capt">"ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!"</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">VERY NEARLY!</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I never quite saw fairy-folk<br /> -A-dancing in the glade,<br /> -Where, just beyond the hollow oak,<br /> -Their broad green rings are laid:<br /> -But, while behind that oak I hid,<br /> -<i>One day I very nearly did!</i><br /> -<br /> -I never quite saw mermaids rise<br /> -Above the twilight sea,<br /> -When sands, left wet,'neath sunset skies,<br /> -Are blushing rosily:<br /> -But—all alone, those rocks amid—<br /> -<i>One night I very nearly did!</i><br /> -<br /> -I never quite saw Goblin Grim<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who haunts our lumber room</span><br /> -And pops his head above the rim<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of that oak chest's deep gloom:</span><br /> -But once—when Mother raised the lid—<br /> -<i>I very, very nearly did!</i><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER</span> -</p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">WHAT THE THRUSH SAYS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Come and see! Come and see!"<br /> -The Thrush pipes out of the hawthorn-tree:<br /> -And I and Dicky on tiptoe go<br /> -To see what treasures he wants to show.<br /> -His call is clear as a call can be—<br /> -And "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<br /> -"Come and see!"<br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -His house is there in the hawthorn-tree:<br /> -The neatest house that ever you saw,<br /> -Built all of mosses and twigs and straw:<br /> -The folk who built were his wife and he—<br /> -And "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<br /> -"Come and see!"<br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -Within this house there are treasures three:<br /> -So warm and snug in its curve they lie—<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>Like three bright bits out of Spring's blue sky.<br /> -We would not hurt them, he knows; not we!<br /> -So "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">"Come and see!"</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -No thrush was ever so proud as he!<br /> -His bright-eyed lady has left those eggs<br /> -For just five minutes to stretch her legs.<br /> -He's keeping guard in the hawthorn-tree,<br /> -And "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">"Come and see!"</span><br /> -<br /> -<i>"Come and see! Come and see!"</i><br /> -He has no fear of the boys and me.<br /> -He came and shared in our meals, you know,<br /> -In hungry times of the frost and snow.<br /> -So now we share in his Secret Tree<br /> -Where "Come and see!" he says:<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">"Come and see!"</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER</span> -</p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE SUNSET GARDEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I can see from the window a little brown house,<br /> -And the garden goes up to the top of the hill.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the sun comes each day,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And slips down away</span><br /> -At the end of the garden an' sleeps there ... until<br /> -The daylight comes climbing up over the hill.<br /> -<br /> -I do wish I lived in the little brown house,<br /> -Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' creep<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Up ... up ... then I'd stop,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">An' lean over the top,</span><br /> -At the end of the garden, an' so I could peep,<br /> -And see what the sun looks like when it's asleep.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">MARION ST JOHN WEBB</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SWEET AS THE BREATH OF THE WHIN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Sweet as the breath of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the thought of my love—</span><br /> -Sweet as the breath of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the noonday sun—</span><br /> -Sweet as the breath of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the sun after rain.</span><br /> -<br /> -Glad as the gold of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is the thought of my love—</span><br /> -Glad as the gold of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Since wandering's done—</span><br /> -Glad as the gold of the whin<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is my heart, home again.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">WILFRID WILSON GIBSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE LAW THE LAWYERS KNOW ABOUT</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The law the lawyers know about<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Is property and land;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">But why the leaves are on the trees,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And why the winds disturb the seas,</span><br /> -Why honey is the food of bees,<br /> -Why horses have such tender knees,<br /> -Why winters come and rivers freeze,<br /> -Why Faith is more than what one sees,<br /> -And Hope survives the worst disease,<br /> -And Charity is more than these,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">They do not understand.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">H. D. C. PEPLER</span> -</p> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> -<a id="img0115"></a> -<img src="images/img0115.jpg" width="600" alt="I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS" /> -<p class="capt">"I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS"</p> -</div> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">ALL IS SPIRIT AND PART OF ME.</span> -<br /> -<br /> -A greater lover none can be,<br /> -And all is spirit and part of me.<br /> -I am sway of the rolling hills,<br /> -And breath from the great wide plains;<br /> -I am born of a thousand storms,<br /> -And grey with the rushing rains;<br /> -I have stood with the age-long rocks,<br /> -And flowered with the meadow sweet;<br /> -I have fought with the wind-worn firs,<br /> -And bent with the ripening wheat;<br /> -I have watched with the solemn clouds,<br /> -And dreamt with the moorland pools;<br /> -I have raced with the water's whirl,<br /> -And lain where their anger cools;<br /> -I have hovered as strong-winged bird,<br /> -And swooped as I saw my prey;<br /> -I have risen with cold grey dawn,<br /> -And flamed in the dying day;<br /> -For all is spirit and part of me,<br /> -And greater lover none can be.<br /> -<br /> -L. D'O. WALTERS<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span><br /> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">STREET LANTERNS</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Country roads are yellow and brown.<br /> -We mend the roads in London Town.<br /> -<br /> -Never a hansom dare come nigh,<br /> -Never a cart goes rolling by.<br /> -<br /> -An unwonted silence steals<br /> -In between the turning wheels.<br /> -<br /> -Quickly ends the autumn day,<br /> -And the workman goes his way,<br /> -<br /> -Leaving, midst the traffic rude,<br /> -One small isle of solitude,<br /> -<br /> -Lit, throughout the lengthy night,<br /> -By the little lantern's light.<br /> -<br /> -Jewels of the dark have we,<br /> -Brighter than the rustic's be.<br /> -<br /> -Over the dull earth are thrown<br /> -Topaz, and the ruby stone.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">MARY E. COLERIDGE</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">TO BETSEY-JANE, ON HER DESIRING</span><br /> -<span class="caption">TO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -My Betsey-Jane, it would not do,<br /> -For what would Heaven make of you,<br /> -A little, honey-loving bear,<br /> -Among the Blessed Babies there?<br /> -<br /> -Nor do you dwell with us in vain<br /> -Who tumble and get up again.<br /> -And try, with bruised knees, to smile—.<br /> -Sweet, you are blessed all the-while<br /> -<br /> -And we in you: so wait, they'll come<br /> -To take your hand and fetch you home,<br /> -In Heavenly leaves to play at tents<br /> -With all the Holy Innocents.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">HELEN PARRY EDEN</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE BRIDGE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Here, with one leap,<br /> -The bridge that spans the cutting; on its back<br /> -The load<br /> -Of the main-road,<br /> -And under it the railway-track.<br /> -<br /> -Into the plains they sweep,<br /> -Into the solitary plains asleep,<br /> -The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel—<br /> -Fringed with their narrow grass,<br /> -Into the plains they pass,<br /> -The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal.<br /> -<br /> -A cry<br /> -Prolonged across the earth—a call<br /> -To the remote horizons and the sky;<br /> -The whole east-rushes down them with its light,<br /> -And the whole west receives them, with its pall<br /> -Of stars and night—<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel.<br /> -<br /> -And with the fall<br /> -Of darkness, see! the red,<br /> -Bright anger of the signal, where it flares<br /> -Like a huge eye that stares<br /> -On some hid danger in the dark ahead.<br /> -A twang of wire—unseen<br /> -The signal drops; and now, instead<br /> -Of a red eye, a green.<br /> -<br /> -Out of the silence grows<br /> -An iron thunder—grows, and roars, and sweeps,<br /> -Menacing! The plain<br /> -Suddenly leaps,<br /> -Startled, from its repose—<br /> -Alert and listening. Now, from the gloom<br /> -Of the soft distance, loom<br /> -Three lights and, over them, a brush<br /> -Of tawny flame and flying spark—<br /> -Three pointed lights that rush,<br /> -Monstrous, upon the cringing dark.<br /> -<br /> -And nearer, nearer rolls the sound,<br /> -Louder the throb and roar of wheels,<br /> -The shout of speed, the shriek of steam;<br /> -The sloping bank,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>Cut into flashing squares, gives back the clank<br /> -<br /> -And grind of metal, while the ground<br /> -Shudders and the bridge reels—<br /> -As, with a scream,<br /> -The train,<br /> -A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire,<br /> -A lighted anguish of desire,<br /> -A dream<br /> -Of gold and iron, of sound and flight,<br /> -Tumultuous roars across the night.<br /> -<br /> -The train roars past—and, with a cry,<br /> -Drowned in a flying howl of wind,<br /> -Half-stifled in the smoke and blind,<br /> -The plain,<br /> -Shaken, exultant, unconfined,<br /> -Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by,<br /> -Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the sky.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">J. REDWOOD ANDERSON</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">FEBRUARY</span> -<br /> -<br /> -The robin on my lawn<br /> -He was the first to tell<br /> -How, in the frozen dawn,<br /> -This miracle befell,<br /> -Waking the meadows white<br /> -With hoar, the iron road<br /> -Agleam with splintered light,<br /> -And ice where water flowed:<br /> -Till, when the low sun drank<br /> -Those milky mists that cloak<br /> -Hanger and hollied bank,<br /> -The winter world awoke<br /> -To hear the feeble bleat<br /> -Of lambs on downland farms:<br /> -A blackbird whistled sweet;<br /> -Old beeches moved their arms<br /> -Into a mellow haze<br /> -Aerial, newly-born:<br /> -And I, alone, agaze,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>Stood waiting for the thorn<br /> -To break in blossom white,<br /> -Or burst in a green flame....<br /> -So, in a single night,<br /> -Fair February came,<br /> -Bidding my lips to sing<br /> -Or whisper their surprise,<br /> -With all the joy of spring<br /> -And morning in her eyes.<br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">SEA-FOAM</span> -<br /> -<br /> -A fleck of foam on the shining sand,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Left by the ebbing sea,</span><br /> -But richer than man may understand<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In magic and mystery—</span><br /> -Transient bubbles rainbow-bright,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Myriad-hued and strange,</span><br /> -Tremble and throb in the noonday light,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flower and flush and change.</span><br /> -<br /> -A million tides have come and gone,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Great gales of autumn and spring,</span><br /> -A million summoning moons have shone<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To bring to birth this thing—</span><br /> -A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sand<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the wave of an outgoing sea,</span><br /> -With all the colour of Faeryland,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wonder and mystery.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">TERESA HOOLEY</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">A PETITION</span> -<br /> -<br /> -All that a man might ask, thou hast given me, England,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Birth-right and happy childhood's long heart's-ease,</span><br /> -And love whose range is deep beyond all sounding<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And wider than all seas.</span><br /> -<br /> -A heart to front the world and find God in it,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Eyes blind enow, but not too blind to see</span><br /> -The lovely things behind the dross and darkness,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And lovelier things to be.</span><br /> -<br /> -And friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And quenchless hope and laughter's golden store;</span><br /> -All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet grant thou one thing more:</span><br /> -<br /> -That now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unversed in arms, a dreamer such as I</span><br /> -May in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">England, for thee to die.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">R. E. VERNÈDE</span></p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">BLACK AND WHITE</span> -<br /> -<br /> -I met a man along the road<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To Withernsea;</span><br /> -Was ever anything so dark, so pale<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">As he?</span><br /> -His hat, his clothes, his tie, his boots<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Were black as black</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Could be,</span><br /> -And midst of all was a cold white face,<br /> -And eyes that looked wearily.<br /> -<br /> -The road was bleak and straight and flat<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To Withernsea,</span><br /> -Gaunt poles with shrilling wires their weird<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Did dree;</span><br /> -On the sky stood out, on the swollen sky<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The black blood veins</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Of tree</span><br /> -After tree, as they beat from the face<br /> -Of the wind which they could not flee.<br /> -<br /> -And in the fields along the road<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To Withernsea,</span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<a id="img0126"></a> -<img src="images/img0126.jpg" width="500" alt="MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE" /> -<p class="capt">"MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE"</p> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -Swart crows sat huddled on the ground<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">Disconsolately,</span><br /> -While overhead the seamews wheeled, and skirled<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">In glee;</span><br /> -But the black cows stood, and cropped where<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">they stood,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">And never heeded thee,</span><br /> -O dark pale man, with the weary eyes,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">On the road to Withernsea.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">H. H. ABBOTT</span><br /> -</p> -<p class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 3em;"> -<span class="caption">THE OXEN</span> -<br /> -<br /> -Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Now they are all on their knees,"</span><br /> -An elder said as we sat in a flock<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the embers in hearthside ease.</span><br /> -<br /> -We pictured the meek mild creatures where<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They dwelt in their strawy pen,</span><br /> -Nor did it occur to one of us there<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To doubt they were kneeling then.</span><br /> -<br /> -So fair a fancy few believe<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In these years! Yet, I feel,</span><br /> -If someone said on Christmas Eve<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Come; see the oxen kneel</span><br /> -<br /> -In the lonely barton by yonder coomb<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our childhood used to know,"</span><br /> -I should go with him in the gloom,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hoping it might be so.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">THOMAS HARDY</span> -</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Year's at the Spring, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING *** - -***** This file should be named 51488-h.htm or 51488-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/4/8/51488/ - -Produced by Annemie Arnst and Marc D'Hooghe at -http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made -available by the Internet Archive) - -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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