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diff --git a/old/52584-0.txt b/old/52584-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 84305de..0000000 --- a/old/52584-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1307 +0,0 @@ -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 - - -The author’s spelling and punctuation has been maintained. - -Repeating titles in the front of the book have been reduced. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tides, by John Drinkwater - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIDES *** - -***** This file should be named 52584-0.txt or 52584-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/5/8/52584/ - -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.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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