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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tides, by John Drinkwater
-
-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: Tides
-       A Book of Poems
-
-Author: John Drinkwater
-
-Release Date: July 16, 2016 [EBook #52584]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIDES ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Bryan Ness, Carolyn Jablonski and the Online
-Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
-file was produced from images generously made available
-by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
-
-
-
-
-
-
-[Illustration: bookcover]
-
-
-
-
-          This is the first book issued by The Beaumont Press
-          20 copies have been printed on Japanese vellum
-          signed by the author and numbered 1 to 20 and
-          250 copies on hand-made paper numbered 21 to 270
-          This is No. 232
-
-
-
-
-                                 TIDES
-
-                           A BOOK OF POEMS BY
-
-
-                            JOHN DRINKWATER
-
-
-
-
-                               DEDICATION
-
-                      TO GENERAL SIR IAN HAMILTON
-
-
-                  Because the darling chivalries,
-                  That light your battle-line, belong
-                  To music’s heart no less than these,
-                  I bring you my campaigns of song.
-
-
-
-
-                                CONTENTS
-
-
-                                                            Page
-
-        DEDICATION                                             5
-
-        A MAN’S DAUGHTER
-          There is an old woman who looks each night           9
-
-        VENUS IN ARDEN
-          Now Love, her mantle thrown,                        11
-
-        COTSWOLD LOVE
-          Blue skies are over Cotswold                        12
-
-        THE MIDLANDS
-          Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill          13
-
-        MAY GARDEN
-          A shower of green gems on my apple tree             15
-
-        PLOUGH
-          The snows are come in early state,                  16
-
-        POLITICS
-          You say a thousand things,                          17
-
-        BIRMINGHAM—1916
-          Once Athens worked and went to see the play,        19
-
-        INSCRIPTION FOR A WAR MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN
-          They nothing feared whose names I celebrate.        20
-
-        TREASON
-          What time I write my roundelays,                    21
-
-        MY ESTATE
-          I have four loves, four loves are mine,             22
-
-        WITH DAFFODILS
-          I send you daffodils, my dear,                      23
-
-        FOR A GUEST ROOM
-          All words are said,                                 24
-
-        ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS
-          To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book,             25
-
-        THE OLD WARRIOR
-          Sorrow has come to me,                              26
-
-        THE GUEST
-          Sometimes I feel that death is very near,           27
-
-        REVERIE
-          Here in the unfrequented noon,                      28
-
-        PENANCES
-          These are my happy penances. To make                36
-
-        COLOPHON                                              37
-
-
-
-
-A MAN’S DAUGHTER
-
-
- There is an old woman who looks each night
-           Out of the wood.
- She has one tooth, that isn’t too white.
-           She isn’t too good.
-
- She came from the north looking for me,
-           About my jewel.
- Her son, she says, is tall as can be;
-           But, men say, cruel.
-
- My girl went northward, holiday making,
-           And a queer man spoke
- At the woodside once when night was breaking,
-           And her heart broke.
-
- For ever since she has pined and pined,
-           A sorry maid;
- Her fingers are slack as the wool they wind,
-           Or her girdle-braid.
-
- So now shall I send her north to wed,
-           Who here may know
- Only the little house of the dead
-           To ease her woe?
-
- Or keep her for fear of that old woman,
-           As a bird quick-eyed,
- And her tall son who is hardly human,
-           At the woodside?
-
- She is my babe and my daughter dear,
-           How well, how well.
- Her grief to me is a fourfold fear,
-           Tongue cannot tell.
-
- And yet I know that far in that wood
-           Are crumbling bones,
- And a mumble mumble of nothing that’s good,
-           In heathen tones.
-
- And I know that frail ghosts flutter and sigh
-           In brambles there,
- And never a bird or beast to cry—
-           Beware, beware,—
-
- While threading the silent thickets go
-           Mother and son,
- Where scrupulous berries never grow,
-           And airs are none.
-
- And her deep eyes peer at eventide
-           Out of the wood,
- And her tall son waits by the dark woodside,
-           For maidenhood.
-
- And the little eyes peer, and peer, and peer;
-           And a word is said.
- And some house knows, for many a year,
-           But years of dread.
-
-
-
-
-VENUS IN ARDEN
-
-
- Now love, her mantle thrown,
-     Goes naked by,
- Threading the woods alone,
-     Her royal eye
- Happy because the primroses again
- Break on the winter continence of men.
-
- I saw her pass to-day
-     In Warwickshire,
- With the old imperial way,
-     The old desire,
- Fresh as among those other flowers they went,
- More beautiful for Adon’s discontent.
-
- Those other years she made
-     Her festival
- When the blue eggs were laid
-     And lambs were tall,
- By the Athenian rivers while the reeds
- Made love melodious for the Ganymedes.
-
- And now through Cantlow brakes,
-     By Wilmcote hill,
- To Avon-side, she makes
-     Her garlands still,
- And I who watch her flashing limbs am one
- With youth whose days three thousand years are done.
-
-
-
-
-COTSWOLD LOVE
-
-
- Blue skies are over Cotswold
-   And April snows go by,
- The lasses turn their ribbons
-   For April’s in the sky,
- And April is the season
-   When Sabbath girls are dressed,
- From Rodboro’ to Campden,
-   In all their silken best.
-
- An ankle is a marvel
-   When first the buds are brown,
- And not a lass but knows it
-   From Stow to Gloucester town.
- And not a girl goes walking
-   Along the Cotswold lanes
- But knows men’s eyes in April
-   Are quicker than their brains.
-
- It’s little that it matters,
-   So long as you’re alive,
- If you’re eighteen in April,
-   Or rising sixty-five,
- When April comes to Amberley
-   With skies of April blue,
- And Cotswold girls are briding
-   With slyly tilted shoe.
-
-
-
-
-THE MIDLANDS
-
-
- Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill
-   Aslant my window sleeps, beneath a sky
- Deep as the bedded violets that fill
-   March woods with dusky passion. As I lie
- Abed between cool walls I watch the host
-   Of the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,
- And drowsily the habit of these most
-   Beloved of English lands moves in my brain,
- While silence holds dominion of the dark,
- Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.
-
- I see the valleys in their morning mist
-   Wreathed under limpid hills in moving light,
- Happy with many a yeoman melodist:
-   I see the little roads of twinkling white
- Busy with fieldward teams and market gear
-   Of rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tell
- The many-minded changes of the year,
-   Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well;
- I see the sun persuade the mist away,
- Till town and stead are shining to the day.
-
- I see the wagons move along the rows
-   Of ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower,
- I see the lissom husbandman who knows
-   Deep in his heart the beauty of his power,
- As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids on
-   The harvest home. I hear the rickyard fill
- With gossip as in generations gone,
-   While wagon follows wagon from the hill.
- I think how, when our seasons all are sealed,
- Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field.
-
- I see the barns and comely manors planned
-   By men who somehow moved in comely thought,
- Who, with a simple shippon to their hand,
-   As men upon some godlike business wrought;
- I see the little cottages that keep
-   Their beauty still where since Plantaganet
- Have come the shepherds happily to sleep,
-   Finding the loaves and cups of cider set;
- I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old,
- Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold.
-
- And now the valleys that upon the sun
-   Broke from their opal veils, are veiled again,
- And the last light upon the wolds is done,
-   And silence falls on flocks and fields and men;
- And black upon the night I watch my hill,
-   And the stars shine, and there an owly wing
- Brushes the night, and all again is still,
-   And, from this land of worship that I sing,
- I turn to sleep, content that from my sires
- I draw the blood of England’s midmost shires.
-
-
-
-
-MAY GARDEN
-
-
- A shower of green gems on my apple tree
-   This first morning of May
- Has fallen out of the night, to be
-   Herald of holiday—
- Bright gems of green that, fallen there,
- Seem fixed and glowing on the air.
-
- Until a flutter of blackbird wings
-   Shakes and makes the boughs alive,
- And the gems are now no frozen things,
-   But apple-green buds to thrive
- On sap of my May garden, how well
- The green September globes will tell.
-
- Also my pear tree has its buds,
-   But they are silver yellow,
- Like autumn meadows when the floods
-   Are silver under willow,
- And here shall long and shapely pears
- Be gathered while the autumn wears.
-
- And there are sixty daffodils
-   Beneath my wall....
- And jealousy it is that kills
-   This world when all
- The spring’s behaviour here is spent
- To make the world magnificent.
-
-
-
-
-PLOUGH
-
-
- The snows are come in early state,
- And love shall now go desolate
- If we should keep too close a gate.
-
- Over the woods a splendour falls
- Of death, and grey are the Gloucester walls,
- And grey the skies for burials.
-
- But secret in the falling snow
- I see the patient ploughman go,
- And watch the quiet furrows grow.
-
-
-
-
-POLITICS
-
-
- You say a thousand things,
- Persuasively,
- And with strange passion hotly I agree,
- And praise your zest,
- And then
- A blackbird sings
- On April lilac, or fieldfaring men,
- Ghostlike, with loaded wain,
- Come down the twilit lane
- To rest,
- And what is all your argument to me?
-
- Oh yes—I know, I know,
- It must be so—
- You must devise
- Your myriad policies,
- For we are little wise,
- And must be led and marshalled, lest we keep
- Too fast a sleep
- Far from the central world’s realities.
- Yes, we must heed—
- For surely you reveal
- Life’s very heart; surely with flaming zeal
- You search our folly and our secret need;
- And surely it is wrong
- To count my blackbird’s song,
- My cones of lilac, and my wagon team,
- More than a world of dream.
- But still
- A voice calls from the hill—
- I must away—
- I cannot hear your argument to-day.
-
-
-
-
-BIRMINGHAM—1916
-
-
- Once Athens worked and went to see the play,
- And Thomas Atkins kissed the girls of Rome,
- In council in Victoria Square to-day
- Are grey-beard Nazarenes, with shop and home
- And counting-house and all the friendly cares
- That Joseph knew; in Bull Ring markets meet
- Gossips as once at Babylonian fairs,
- And Helen walks in Corporation Street.
-
- Now Troy is Homer; and of Nazareth
- Grave histories are of one love that was strong;
- Athens is beauty; Rome an immortal death;
- And Babylon immortal in a song....
- Perplexed as ours these cities were of old;
- And shall our name greatly as these be told?
-
-
-
-
-INSCRIPTION FOR A WAR MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN
-
-
- They nothing feared whose names I celebrate.
- Greater than death they died; and their estate
- Is here on Cotswold comradely to live
- Upon your lips in every draught I give.
-
-
-
-
-TREASON
-
-
- What time I write my roundelays,
- I am as proud as princes gone,
- Who built their empires in old days,
- As Tamburlaine or Solomon;
- And wisely though companions then
- Say well it is and well I sing,
- Assured above the praise of men
- I am a solitary king.
-
- But when I leave that straiter mood,
- That lonely hour, and put aside
- The continence of solitude,
- I fall in treason to my pride,
- And if a witling’s word be spent
- Upon my song in jealousy,
- In anger and in argument
- I am as derelict as he.
-
-
-
-
-MY ESTATE
-
-
- I have four loves, four loves are mine,
-   My wife who makes all beauty be,
- Tom Squire and Master Candleshine,
-   And then my grey dog Timothy.
-
- My wife makes bramble-berry pies,
-   And she is bright as bramble dew,
- She knows the way the weather flies,
-   And tells me every thing to do.
-
- Tom Squire he is my neighbour man,
-   His apples fall upon my grass,
- And in the morning, when we can,
-   We say good-morning as we pass.
-
- And Master Candleshine the True,
-   Considering some fault of mine,
- Says—“Had it been for me to do,
-   It had been hard for Candleshine.”
-
- When I have thought all things that be,
-   And drop the latch and climb the stair,
- And want an eye for company,
-   My grey dog Timothy is there.
-
- My loves are one and two and three
-   And four they are, good loves of mine,
- Tom Squire, my grey dog Timothy,
-   My wife and Master Candleshine.
-
-
-
-
-WITH DAFFODILS
-
-
- I send you daffodils, my dear,
- For these are emperors of spring,
- And in my heart you keep so clear
- So delicate an empery,
- That none but emperors could be
- Ambassadors endowed to bring
- My messages of honesty.
-
- My mind makes faring to and fro,
- Deft or bewildered, dark or kind,
- That not the eye of God may know
- Which motion is of true estate
- And which a twisted runagate
- Of all the farings of my mind,
- And which has honesty for mate.
-
- Only my hope for you is clean
- Of scandal’s use, and though, may be,
- Far rangers have my passions been,—
- Since thus the word of Eden went,—
- Yet of the springs of my content,
- My very wells of honesty,
- Are you the only firmament.
-
-
-
-
-FOR A GUEST ROOM
-
-
- All words are said,
- And may it fall
- That, crowning these,
- You here shall find
- A friendly bed,
- A sheltering wall,
- Your body’s ease,
- A quiet mind.
-
- May you forget
- In happy sleep
- The world that still
- You hold as friend,
- And may it yet
- Be ours to keep
- Your friendly will
- To the world’s end.
-
- For he is blest
- Who, fixed to shun
- All evil, when
- The worst is known,
- Counts, east and west,
- When life is done,
- His debts to men
- In love alone.
-
-
-
-
-ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY
-WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS
-
-
- To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book,
- She who so comforted those Grasmere days
- When song was at the flood, and thence I took
- A larger note of fortitude and praise.
-
- And in her ancient fastness beauty stirred,
- And happy faith was in my heart again,
- Because the virtue of a simple word
- Was durable above the lives of men.
-
- For reading there that quiet record made
- Of skies and hills, domestic hours, and free
- Traffic of friends, and song, and duty paid,
- I touched the wings of immortality.
-
-
-
-
-THE OLD WARRIOR
-
-
- Sorrow has come to me,
- Making the world to be
-   Of sunken cheek;
- Faded my fields, and of
- Names that were most to love,
-   I dare not speak.
-
- Would that my soul were blind,
- Since duty brings to mind
-   All that is done,
- Saying, ‘How gladly you
- Walked with your chosen few
-   Under my sun.’
-
- I am an alien now;
- Tell me, good stranger, how
-   Best may be borne
- His grief who comes at night
- To his own window-light
-   Friendless, forlorn.
-
- No. I will pass. Again
- Of my delight in men
-   Nothing shall tell.
- Now is my travel where
- My lost companions fare;
-   Onward. Farewell.
-
-
-
-
-THE GUEST
-
-
- Sometimes I feel that death is very near,
- And, with half-lifted hand,
- Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,
- But walk his friendly land,
- Comrade with him, and wise
- As peace is wise.
-
- Then, greatly though my heart with pity moves
- For dear imperilled loves,
- I somehow know
- That death is friendly so,
- A comfortable spirit; one who takes
- Long thought for all our sakes.
-
- I wonder; will he come that friendly way,
- That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?
- And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,
- My soul be torn from me,
- Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,
- Slip quietly to sea?
-
-
-
-
-REVERIE
-
-
- Here in the unfrequented noon,
- In the green hermitage of June,
- While overhead a rustling wing
- Minds me of birds that do not sing
- Until the cooler eve rewakes
- The service of melodious brakes,
- And thoughts are lonely rangers, here,
- In shelter of the primrose year,
- I curiously meditate
- Our brief and variable state.
-
- I think how many are alive
- Who better in the grave would thrive,
- If some so long a sleep might give
- Better instruction how to live;
- I think what splendours had been said
- By darlings now untimely dead
- Had death been wise in choice of these,
- And made exchange of obsequies.
-
- I think what loss to government
- It is that good men are content,
- Well knowing that an evil will
- Is folly-stricken too, and still
- Itself considers only wise
- For all rebukes and surgeries,
- That evil men should raise their pride
- To place and fortune undefied.
- I think how daily we beguile
- Our brains, that yet a little while
- And all our congregated schemes
- And our perplexity of dreams,
- Shall come to whole and perfect state.
- I think, however long the date
- Of life may be, at last the sun
- Shall pass upon campaigns undone.
-
- I look upon the world and see
- A world colonial to me,
- Whereof I am the architect,
- And principal and intellect,
- A world whose shape and savour spring
- Out of my lone imagining,
- A world whose nature is subdued
- For ever to my instant mood,
- And only beautiful can be
- Because of beauty is in me.
- And then I know that every mind
- Among the millions of my kind
- Makes earth his own particular
- And privately created star,
- That earth has thus no single state,
- Being every man articulate.
- Till thought has no horizon then
- I try to think how many men
- There are to make an earth apart
- In symbol of the urgent heart,
- For there are forty in my street,
- And seven hundred more in Greet,
- And families at Luton Hoo,
- And there are men in China, too.
-
- And what immensity is this
- That is but a parenthesis
- Set in a little human thought,
- Before the body comes to naught.
- There at the bottom of the copse
- I see a field of turnip tops,
- I see the cropping cattle pass
- There in another field, of grass,
- And fields and fields, with seven towns,
- A river, and a flight of downs,
- Steeples for all religious men,
- Ten thousand trees, and orchards ten,
- A mighty span that curves away
- Into blue beauty, and I lay
- All this as quartered on a sphere
- Hung huge in space, a thing of fear
- Vast as the circle of the sky
- Completed to the astonished eye;
- And then I think that all I see,
- Whereof I frame immensity
- Globed for amazement, is no more
- Than a shire’s corner, and that four
- Great shires being ten times multiplied
- Are small on the Atlantic tide
- As an emerald on a silver bowl ...
- And the Atlantic to the whole
- Sweep of this tributary star
- That is our earth is but ... and far
- Through dreadful space the outmeasured mind
- Seeks to conceive the unconfined.
-
- I think of Time. How, when his wing
- Composes all our quarrelling
- In some green corner where May leaves
- Are loud with blackbirds on all eves,
- And all the dust that was our bones
- Is underneath memorial stones,
- Then shall old jealousies, while we
- Lie side by side most quietly,
- Be but oblivion’s fools, and still
- When curious pilgrims ask—‘What skill
- Had these that from oblivion saves?’—
- My song shall sing above our graves.
-
- I think how men of gentle mind,
- And friendly will, and honest kind,
- Deny their nature and appear
- Fellows of jealousy and fear;
- Having single faith, and natural wit
- To measure truth and cherish it,
- Yet, strangely, when they build in thought,
- Twisting the honesty that wrought
- In the straight motion of the heart,
- Into its feigning counterpart
- That is the brain’s betrayal of
- The simple purposes of love;
- And what yet sorrier decline
- Is theirs when, eager to confine
- No more within the silent brain
- Its habit, thought seeks birth again
- In speech, as honesty has done
- In thought; then even what had won
- From heart to brain fades and is lost
- In this pretended pentecost,
- This their forlorn captivity
- To speech, who have not learnt to be
- Lords of the word, nor kept among
- The sterner climates of the tongue ...
- So truth is in their hearts, and then
- Falls to confusion in the brain,
- And, fading through this mid-eclipse,
- It perishes upon the lips.
-
- I think how year by year I still
- Find working in my dauntless will
- Sudden timidities that are
- Merely the echo of some far
- Forgotten tyrannies that came
- To youth’s bewilderment and shame;
- That yet a magisterial gown,
- Being worn by one of no renown
- And half a generation less
- In years than I, can dispossess
- Something my circumspecter mood
- Of excellence and quietude,
- And if a Bishop speaks to me
- I tremble with propriety.
-
- I think how strange it is that he
- Who goes most comradely with me
- In beauty’s worship, takes delight
- In shows that to my eager sight
- Are shadows and unmanifest,
- While beauty’s favour and behest
- To me in motion are revealed
- That is against his vision sealed;
- Yet is our hearts’ necessity
- Not twofold, but a common plea
- That chaos come to continence,
- Whereto the arch-intelligence
- Richly in divers voices makes
- Its answer for our several sakes.
-
- I see the disinherited
- And long procession of the dead,
- Who have in generations gone
- Held fugitive dominion
- Of this same primrose pasturage
- That is my momentary wage.
- I see two lovers move along
- These shadowed silences of song,
- With spring in blossom at their feet
- More incommunicably sweet
- To their hearts’ more magnificence,
- Than to the common courts of sense,
- Till joy his tardy closure tells
- With coming of the curfew bells.
- I see the knights of spur and sword
- Crossing the little woodland ford,
- Riding in ghostly cavalcade
- On some unchronicled crusade.
- I see the silent hunter go
- In cloth of yeoman green, with bow
- Strung, and a quiver of grey wings.
- I see the little herd who brings
- His cattle homeward, while his sire
- Makes bivouac in Warwickshire
- This night, the liege and loyal man
- Of Cavalier or Puritan.
- And as they pass, the nameless dead,
- Unsung, uncelebrate, and sped
- Upon an unremembered hour
- As any twelvemonth fallen flower,
- I think how strangely yet they live
- For all their days were fugitive.
-
- I think how soon we too shall be
- A story with our ancestry.
-
- I think what miracle has been
- That you whose love among this green
- Delightful solitude is still
- The stay and substance of my will,
- The dear custodian of my song,
- My thrifty counsellor and strong,
- Should take the time of all time’s tide
- That was my season, to abide
- On earth also; that we should be
- Charted across eternity
- To one elect and happy day
- Of yellow primroses in May.
-
- The clock is calling five o’clock,
- And Nonesopretty brings her flock
- To fold, and Tom comes back from town
- With hose and ribbons worth a crown,
- And duly at The Old King’s Head
- They gather now to daily bread,
- And I no more may meditate
- Our brief and variable state.
-
-
-
-
-PENANCES
-
-
- These are my happy penances. To make
- Beauty without a Covenant; to take
- Measure of time only because I know
- That in death’s market-place I still shall owe
- Service to beauty that shall not be done;
- To know that beauty’s doctrine is begun
- And makes a close in sacrifice; to find
- In beauty’s courts the unappeasable mind.
-
-
-
-
-                    HERE ENDS TIDES A BOOK OF POEMS
-             by John Drinkwater the Typography and Binding
-               arranged by Cyril William Beaumont Printed
-                on his Press in London and Published by
-                  him at 75 Charing Cross Road in the
-                     City of Westminster Completed
-                     on the first day of September
-                               MDCCCCXVII
-
-[Illustration:
-
-  SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS
-  THE BEAUMONT PRESS]
-
-                          The Binding has been
-               executed by F. Sangorski and G. Sutcliffe
-
-[Illustration: back cover]
-
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
-
-
-
-                           TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
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