diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-05 10:43:46 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-05 10:43:46 -0800 |
| commit | 5ea54056fb6478c25499a783442c7ff6563bfe30 (patch) | |
| tree | 424b801c1f4c255179eeb37cee198cb2f4ed6917 /old/51488-0.txt | |
| parent | 1deec95453217f588bfd1b6cae32c1fdc45be3d7 (diff) | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old/51488-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/51488-0.txt | 2867 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 2867 deletions
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 *** |