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diff --git a/79065-0.txt b/79065-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..399d644 --- /dev/null +++ b/79065-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2929 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79065 *** + + + + + THE ESPALIER + + + + + SYLVIA TOWNSEND WARNER + + + THE + ESPALIER + + + LONDON + CHATTO & WINDUS + 1925 + + + + + Printed at the Curwen Press + Plaistow, London, E.13 + + + + + TO + + P. C. Buck + + + + +CONTENTS + + + QUIET NEIGHBOURS 1 + LONDON CHURCHYARD 3 + COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 5 + IN THE PARLOUR (i) 7 + IN THE PARLOUR (ii) 8 + TUDOR CHURCH MUSIC 10 + AN AFTERNOON CALL 12 + WISH IN SPRING 13 + THE VIRGIN AND THE SCALES 14 + I BRING HER A FLOWER 21 + THE LENTEN OFFERING 22 + CAVES OF HARMONY 23 + OLD MAN 24 + SONG FROM THE BRIDE OF SMITHFIELD 25 + LET ME GO! 26 + COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN (i) 27 + COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN (ii) 28 + THE GREEN VALLEY 29 + GHOSTS AT CHALDON HERRING 30 + THE TRAVELLER ENCOUNTERED 32 + THE REPOSE 35 + THE TRAVELLER BENIGHTED 36 + THE HAPPY DAY 37 + NELLY TRIM 38 + EPITAPHS 43 + THE SAILOR 44 + THE IMAGE 46 + GREEN PASTURES 49 + THE SOLDIER’S RETURN 50 + BLACK EYES 51 + BLUE EYES 53 + FARMER MAW 54 + MRS. SUMMERBEE GROWN OLD 56 + STOCK 59 + THE OLD SQUIRE 60 + MOPING CASTLE 61 + THE SICK MAN’S GARDEN 62 + WHITE MAGIC 65 + AS I WAS A-WALKING 66 + IN THE COTSWOLDS 67 + THE LITTLE DEATH 68 + THE DIVER 70 + UPON A GENTLEMAN FALLING + SERIOUSLY IN LOVE 72 + THE CAPRICIOUS LADY 74 + THEODORIC 75 + HONEY FOR TEA 76 + BODLEY’S LIBRARY 78 + A SONG ABOUT A LAMB 79 + HYMN FOR A CHILD 80 + THE SCAPEGOAT 81 + BYRON 1924 82 + GRACE AND GOOD WORKS 82 + MORNING 82 + FAITHFUL CROSS 83 + THE MAID’S TRAGEDY 85 + COMMON ENTRY 86 + THE ALARUM 87 + MATCH ME O ROSE 88 + THE ONLY CHILD 89 + THE BURNING-GLASS 90 + PEEPING TOM 92 + + + + + THE ESPALIER + + + + +QUIET NEIGHBOURS + + + Sitting alone at night + Careless of time, + From the house next door + I hear the clock chime. + + Ten, eleven, twelve; + One, two, three-- + It is all the same to the clock, + And much the same to me. + + But to-night more than sense heard it: + I opened my eyes wide + To look at the wall and wonder + What lay on the other side. + + They are quiet people + That live next door; + I never hear them scrape + Their chairs along the floor, + + They do not laugh loud, or sing, + Or scratch in the grate, + I have never seen a taxi + Drawn up at their gate; + + And though their back-garden + Is always neat and trim + It has a humbled look, + And no one walks therein. + + So did not their chiming clock + Imply some hand to wind it, + I might doubt if the wall between us + Had any life behind it. + + London neighbours are such + That I may never know more + Than this of the people + Who live next door. + + While they, for their part, + Should they hazard a guess + At me on my side of the wall + Will know as little, or less; + + For my life has grown quiet, + As quiet as theirs; + And the clock has been silent on my chimney-piece + For years and for years. + + + + +LONDON CHURCHYARD + + + As I walked through London + To ease my care, + I snuffed amid the houses + A greener air; + + And behind iron railings + I saw branches wave, + Tossing their wild arms + Over, O! many a grave. + + Such a sight as this + Pleased me very well. + I peered through the railings + That had a rusty smell-- + + All of a sudden + I heard a cry; + And saw a dark something + Crouched a new stone near-by. + + It seemed lorn and witless + As sea-weed on a beach; + But it lamented + With a woman’s speech. + + ‘Woe’s me, my lover! + Cold-hearted you are grown. + The breast where I laid my head + Lies beneath a stone. + + ‘I thought I held you fast + My kind arms between, + But now you are gone from me + As if you’d never been. + + ‘Falsely have you dealt with me, + Falsely have you beguiled. + Dead and buried with you + Lies my child.’ + + Piteously, piteously, + Thus did she rave, + And wrung her hands, + And scratched on the grave. + + + + +COUNTRY CHURCHYARD + + + ‘Awake, good neighbours all, + That wake not for the day. + The churchyard yews won’t spread the news-- + No tales tell they. + Awake, good neighbours, scramble out of your sepulchres, + Cold lying is clay:’ + ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. + Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ + + ‘You loved a merry life-- + For one more jaunt uprouse. + The moonlit stones above your bones + Show where you house: + Benjamin Harris, John French late of this parish, + Mary his spouse:’ + ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. + Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ + + ‘Awake, for time is short, + Your hour will soon be told. + Link bony hands, and dance in bands, + Nor dint the mould. + You’ll caper limberly with no flesh to cumber ye-- + Better than of old:’ + ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. + Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ + + ‘Let friends and neighbours meet + With curtsey, beck, and bow. + When back in bed, if a maidenhead + Or a marriage vow + Doesn’t tally exactly with who’s under which blanket, + ’Twon’t matter now:’ + ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. + Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ + + ‘Faint-hearted you are grown, + Neighbours, by lying dead. + This cock, your bane, is a weather-vane + With gilt overspread; + A trumpery figure, put up by the new vicar-- + Nothing to dread:’ + ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. + Suppose the golden cock should +crow+.’ + + + + +IN THE PARLOUR + +(i) + + + Come away from the door. + It has grown late; + The air is chill and frore, + And those whom you await + Will not pass by any more. + + Close the shutters aright + And make all fast. + We shall have rain belike, + The sky is overcast: + No one will come here to-night. + + Sit you down by my side, + Sing an old song. + Since you have been my bride + How well I like these long + Quiet evenings in Advent-tide. + + + + +IN THE PARLOUR + +(ii) + + + _He_ How unobtrusively the snow + Comes down beyond the crimson blind! + I see it not, but through my mind + Sieve the large flakes, both soft and slow, + Warding us in from humankind. + + _She_ My nimble needle forth and back + Goes twanging through the tambour-frame + To stitch a bird without a name. + If an indifferent heart should crack + ’Twould sound, I fancy, much the same. + + _He_ A cruel night for beast or man + To be abroad. But we might doubt + By this warm hearth the snow shut out, + Save for a denser silence than + Is wont to compass us about. + + _She_ The needle and the web, how fine! + The silks no thicker than a hair! + Each choice of tint calls forth my care, + And slowly goes the great design. + No matter. I have time to spare. + + _He_ ’Twill soon be time to go to bed-- + Sweet bed, but cold! Drowsed though I be + I’ll sit it out until I see + The wooden bird put forth his head, + And beck, and cry Cuckoo! to me. + + _She_ With every length of gliding floss + Wrought in to make my sampler gay + So much life’s thread I stitch away. + But this bright wing will flaunt the gloss + Of life when I am dull as clay. + + _He_ Cuckoo! Cuckoo! My dear, you heard + The clock? Another evening gone! + _She_ Asleep? + _He_ Not quite. + _She_ You’ve scarcely stirred. + _He_ In grave consideration + My thoughts upon that silly bird + Were fixed. + _She_ And mine on this. + _He_ Absurd! + We even think in unison. + + + + +TUDOR CHURCH MUSIC + + + Here in the minster tower + I sit alone, + While to mind’s ear old books + Mumble and drone; + And the warm sun slants in + Over the cold stone. + + Through the long afternoon + I hear the clock + Preach to the empty church: + Tick-tock. Tick-tock. + O, a rare text to expound + To a sleeping flock! + + The patient organist + Who scrolled this clef; + The boy who drew him horned + On Gibbons in F; + Singers and hearers all + Are dumb and deaf-- + + ‘Dumb and deaf, dead and dust,’ + Confirms the clock. + And life seems so far off + That at the shock + I see my calm hand start, + When footsteps knock + + Upon stair. Holiday-makers + Out on a trip + To whom the verger propounds + Each trusty quip, + While, mute, they fidget together + In uneasy fellowship. + + And only when they are gone + Do I doff the mask + Of the scholar deep in his book: + ‘Did they see me?’ I ask, + ‘Or am I, too, a ghost?’ and so + Turn once more to my task. + + + + +AN AFTERNOON CALL + + + To shelter from the thunder-drench + A scorched and sorefoot tramping wench + Came to my door and proffered me + Lilac, that I had viewed her wrench + Out of my neighbour’s tree. + + I bade her in. With glances keen + She eyed my well-found kitchen, scene + Of kind domestic arts; + Like one who curious and serene + Looks round on foreign parts. + + She talked of winds and wayside fruits, + Seas, cities, fair-times, landmarks, routes + Of journeys past and gone. + I gave her an old pair of boots + That she might wander on. + + + + +WISH IN SPRING + + + To-day I wish that I were a tree, + And not myself, + Confronting spring with a neat little row of poems + Like cups and saucers on a shelf. + + For then I should have poems innumerable, + One kissing the other; + Authentic, perfect in shape and lovely variety, + And all of the same tireless green colour. + + No one would think it unnatural + Or question my right; + All day I would wave them above the heads of people, + And sing them to myself all night. + + But as I am only a woman + And not a tree, + With piteous human care I have made this poem, + And set it now on the shelf with the rest to be. + + + + +THE VIRGIN AND THE SCALES + + + This is a public park; + You may not pick the flowers, + Or loiter after hours, + Or kiss too deep in the dark. + Yet here is green, and sweet + Forgetfulness of the street; + Deep walks of chestnut and lime + Where the old may pass away time, + Pleasant picnicing places + For children with shabby faces, + Lawns blowing in the sun + Where dogs may roll and run, + And the patient grass + For lover and lass. + Is this then not enough? + No, not enough for one + I met there. + Who? + A nun. + (And yet, God knows, so old, + So battered with untold + Heavenly housewifery, + So vowed to poverty, + You would not think to find + Ambition in her mind.) + In wintry woollen stuff + Of abstinence was she dressed, + And winter was on her breast; + But midsummer’s most complete + Honey-coloured, honey-sweet + Plenteousness was her plunder, + Standing the lime-tree under. + + No housewife shelling peas, + No Saint upon her knees + Telling God’s praises over, + Slip-finger, nor bees in clover, + Nor girl-child gathering + Cowslips in the spring + Showed with more innocence + Delight in diligence + Than she, cramming her bag + With golden handfuls of swag. + Love knit my heart to her: + I approached; but at the stir + Of footfall she glanced round, + Loosed her rich branch, and frowned + With such an air of doubt + As children show found out + In fault, till seeing that I + Smiled, she in turn looked sly + And faster than before + Plucked on. Said I: ‘Here’s more + Than you can lessen, though you + Should gather the whole day through + For your lime-blossom tea.’ + ‘It is God’s gift,’ said she, + ‘And pleasant for the sick. + It grows so clean and thick + ’Twere shame to let it waste. + Aye, gathered it _should_ be. + But I must work in haste + Lest the Keeper come along + And tell me I do wrong.’ + + I looked up overhead + And saw the lime-tree spread + Above us like a tent; + Like a green and golden pavilion + Of some Arabian Night, + Murmuring as with consent, + And gleaming as though alight + With a million, with a million + Loops and tassels of scent. + + I thought then: Who could grudge + Blooms to this holy drudge, + Or stay her wrinkled, deft + Old hands from their kind theft? + She thief, lawbreaker? She? + As well accuse the tree, + That day-long with sweet skill + Steals sap, steals chlorophyl; + That from earth, from dew, from air + Thieves that it may be fair + And show its works to men, + Who beholding it then + May glorify their Father + In heaven. + No, but look farther. + I touch not blossom nor leaf, + And I, I am the Thief! + Thief so cunning and fell + That I am Keeper as well. + Good cause had she to frown + At my shadow blackening down; + For every joy I take + Becomes an iron grate, + And my innocent delights + Plant rows of iron spikes; + Worst, self-denying, this trick + Of integrity--not to pick + Blossom, bruise leaf, destroy + Aught from the common joy-- + Binds in an iron band + My heart and prompts my hand, + Now lifted up to bless + In scrupulous emptiness, + To write these words of hate + +Thou shalt not+ on every gate. + + Yet here is solace, and sweet + Redemption from the street; + A pause, a look of pity + For the begrimed city, + Green almsgiving, a lake + Of green where men may slake + Parched senses, wash off care. + Ah, if it only were + Not so precious, so deadly dear, + So dearly defrayed a delight + That whosoever comes here + Must come as Thief outright, + Or cloaking his envious mind + With love of humankind, + And with caution and mistrust + Walking among the just + Grow Thief so cunning and fell + That perforce he’s Keeper as well. + Poor drudge, you had reason to start, + When with love in my heart + I approached you, as though you saw + In me the offended law. + Truly, to-day I must be + Offended because of thee. + For every blossom you pick + Must wound me to the quick, + And by that bag you’ve crammed + With mercies I am damned; + Worst, worst, your innocence, + Your happy, happy love, + Your hand, so hand in glove + With the tree’s consenting, + Is a sword to drive me hence, + Lamenting, lamenting; + Is a flame brandished to fright + Me from a forfeited delight, + Repenting, repenting; + Is a key in the unrelenting + Hand of the uncreate, + Locking the garden gate. + + O why must my spirit pine + For a few handfuls of lime + Plucked by a poor old nun, + Whose cares are all in one + Concern so summed up and shriven + That were I to tell her but half + Of the coil through which she’s driven + My thoughts, she must either laugh + As a nurse laughs at a child, + Or with a sigh, maybe a frown + For one so devil-wiled, + Brush all my vain-wit down? + And yet I linger, I delay, + Hankering, as though some clue + She had hold of, answer knew. + As though, should I say: + ‘No, dear, you may not pick + Lime-blossom for the sick; + For know you not, since the Fall + Not one tree, but all, all + Must bear forbidden fruit, + And are poisoned at the root + By man’s repentant tears?’-- + She might reply: ‘Yet here’s + Good warrant for what I do. + When he was walking through + The harvest he plucked the ears + Of corn and shared them among + Those with him, for they were an hungered, and so was he. + Thus his disciples he taught + How to steal as they ought, + In joy and peace of heart; + Thus he took the sinner’s part; + So much to thieves a friend + That he had them with him till the end; + Thus, thus, he would set us free. + But till everyone believes + In him we must all be thieves.’ + + + + +I BRING HER A FLOWER + + + Sweet faith + Such looks of quiet hath + That those on whom she’s smiled + Lie down to sleep as easy as a child. + + No night, + However dark, can fright + Them, no, nor day + To come, however bleak and fell, dismay. + + But sound + Sleep they in prison-bound + As when at liberty. + And if they wake, they wake in charity; + + Like her, + Who rousing at the jar + Of weary foot in the rain + Pitied the wakeful sentry for his pain. + + _Like her_: Rosa Luxemburg. + + + + +THE LENTEN OFFERING + + + Christ, here’s a thorn + More poison-fanged than any that you knew: + On the north side of our churchyard it grew, + Where lie the suicides and babes chance-born. + + Christ, here are nails, + Once driven in, will never lose their hold: + Forged at Krupp’s, Creusot’s, Vickers’, and tipped with gold + Pen-nibs that signed the Treaty of Versailles. + + Christ, here’s a sharp + Spear, can wound deeper than all other spears: + In baths of human blood and human tears + Tempered, and whetted on the human heart. + + + + +CAVES OF HARMONY + + + Play, dark musician, play-- + How almost human sounds your saxophone! + (Somewhere in Africa + An angry lion tosses up a bone.) + + Sambo’s a ready scholar + And hides his black skin under a black coat. + Although he wears a collar + Adam’s own apple yet sticks in his throat. + + Play, dark musician, play-- + I see your imitation diamond flash. + (Once in America + Your fathers howled and writhed beneath the lash.) + + How leers the blackamoor, + Exhaling his melodious delight! + Music’s his paramour; + And yours, and mine, since we dance here to-night. + + Play, dark musician, play-- + Outdo the beast’s roar and the scourged slave’s moan. + Ambassador from U.S.A., + How almost human sounds your saxophone! + + + + +OLD MAN + + + Reading in bawdy books + The old man sits. + De Sade plays Abishag + To his cold wits. + + Under his bushy brows + His eyes are mild-- + There’s no more harm in him + Than in a child. + + + + +SONG FROM THE BRIDE OF SMITHFIELD + + + A thousand guileless sheep have bled, + A thousand bullocks knelt in fear, + To daub my Henry’s cheek with red + And round the curl above his ear. + + And wounded calves hung up to drip + Have in slow sweats distilled for him + The dew that polishes his lip, + The inward balm that oils each limb. + + In vain I spread my maiden arts, + In vain for Henry’s love I pine. + He is too skilled in bleeding hearts + To turn this way and pity mine. + + + + +LET ME GO! + + + Any wind but this-- + That with remembrance of rain + Grown soft and pitiful, embraced me + As I walked homeward. + + And any other look + Than the full-moon sheds to-night-- + As though she bent like a mother + Above her sleeping children. + + Not to be denied + The wind gropes over the house; + And now it has brushed aside the curtains + And walks about the room. + + Too well, too well I know + Whence you have journeyed, O Wind! + And what the landscape of nestling hill and valley + That the moon eyes so lovingly. + + + + +COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN + +(i) + + + Averted from myself + I walk up and down-- + I see how in the light of the arc-lamps + The trees look stricken and brown. + Autumn is an unkindly thing + In a town. + + The leaves fall aimlessly; + Frustrated in their decay, + With scraps of paper and bus-tickets + They will be swept away. + + All the mortality in me + Yearns to go + Somewhere alone into the country, + Where elms stand in the hedgerow; + Through fields completed and contented + To walk to and fro-- + + To hear leaves falling + Like a quiet breath; + To be a partaker + In their death. + + + + +COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN + +(ii) + + + Cold, is it cold? + Blows there a wind + All night through? + Does a frozen dew + Lie on the wold? + + Dark, is it dark? + Blotted from being + Cottage and garth? + Has the last hearth + Quenched its spark? + + Still, is it still? + Wakes the wind only? + Sunk in a deep + Midwinter sleep + Valley and hill? + + No, not all cold, + Nor yet all dark, + Nor yet quite still. + Such is not God’s will. + In the sheepfold, + + Warm in the ewe’s fleece, + Lies the lamb newborn. + To and fro all night + The shepherd bears a light, + Telling his flock’s increase. + + + + +THE GREEN VALLEY + + + Here in the green scooped valley I walk to and fro. + In all my journeyings I have not seen + A place so tranquil, so green; + And yet I think I have seen it long ago, + The grassy slopes, and the cart-track winding, so. + + O now I remember it well, now all is plain, + Why twitched my memory like a dowser’s rod + At waters hidden under sod. + When I was a child they told me of Charlemagne, + Of Gan the traitor, and Roland outmatched and slain. + + Weeping for Roland then, I scooped in my spirit + A scant green Roncesvalles, a holy ground, + Which here in Dorset I’ve found: + But finding, I knew it not. The years disinherit + Their children. The horn is blown, but I do not hear it. + + + + +GHOSTS AT CHALDON HERRING + + + Hush, my dear, hush! + Who are these that pass + Up Shady Lane? + Their feet don’t brush + Any dew from the grass + And they are silent, too. + + Hand in kind hand + Go some, and closelier linked + Another twain; + And others stand + As a-drouse, indistinct + Beneath the darkening boughs. + + Ghosts, ghosts are these!-- + Long-dead lasses, each + Beside her swain-- + Between the trees + Pacing slow, without speech, + As they were wont to go. + + Strange, some should choose + Thus their mouldered dears + To meet again, + Whom long misuse + Of marriage, taunts and tears, + And the slow grudge of age + + Warped and estranged; + Sure, this place above + All others fain + They’d leave unranged, + Lest a gaunt dead love + Them, like a dead child, haunt. + + Ah, but not so + These who in true-love-knot + Their arms enchain. + Dead long ago + Are they all, and forgot + The life that held them thrall. + + Nought now exists + Save fancies nursed apart. + And of all this train + Scarce one that trysts + With a seeming sweetheart + But walks beside a dream. + + + + +THE TRAVELLER ENCOUNTERED + + + The highroad runs plain + Between Thaxted and Dunmow, + But I had chosen to go + By bridle-path and lane; + To see the champaign, + And the stooks a-row-- + There I met an old fellow + Standing in the rain. + + He was bowed and lean; + But clear was his eye + As a rift of March sky, + His face like a quarrendine. + ‘You must have seen + Many changes,’ said I. + ‘Changes, lady? Aye! + Four times I have been + + ‘Forced to lie abed; + Once I had the ague, + And thrice did I spew + Up my blood so red. + ’Twas my lungs, Doctor said, + And the most I could do + To last a week or two-- + Ten years he’s been dead. + + ‘My wife died. + And then after her + My eldest daughter. + Eight years come Whitsuntide + The house where we did bide + Was pulled down. It stood yonder, + Just by that tall fir + With the rick alongside.’ + + Thus did he talk, + Twisting the while + A sprig of camomile + Or a corn-stalk. + ‘Follow the grassy baulk + Till you come to a stile.’ + So, mile by mile, + He told over my walk. + + Musing on country folk + I bade him good-day. + And going on my way + To myself I spoke: + As well might I invoke + These hedges to say + Who passed by yesterday; + Or question yonder oak, + + Bidding it declare + What changes it had seen, + ‘In summer I was green, + Acorns did I bear. + Come winter, I was bare. + For years full eighteen + This meadow has not been + Under the ploughshare.’ + + But Labour-in-Vain + Was the epitome + Of changes sighed to me + By the doomed champaign. + And turning once again, + Far off did I see + The man and the tree + Standing in the rain. + + + + +THE REPOSE + + + At Bradwell in the marshes + There is an inn. + Few are the travellers + Have rested therein. + + The folk that sit there + Have but little to say; + They sit looking out of the window + At the churchyard across the way. + + Growing among the graves + Is a green weeping willow. + The graves are all green + And peaceful as a pillow. + + The bar-parlour is shaded + With a green gloom, + As if the willow-branches + Were waving in the room. + + Churchyard and church and inn-- + They are all very old. + Even the beer they draw there + Seems to taste of the mould. + + + + +THE TRAVELLER BENIGHTED + + + On through the quiet country-side + The road runs small and white, + The trees stand still on either side + As if to watch me there-- + But stilled, stilled is the air + At the oncome of night. + + And see, behind my back the moon + Eyes me with steadfast gaze; + I did not think she’d spill so soon + Her silver in the brook-- + But calm, calm is her look + As she mounts through the haze. + + As though I’d shed it like a husk, + My body casts no shade; + I walk suspended in the dusk + Just as a spirit might, + For yet, yet there is light + In the west--but ’twill fade + + Yes, fade it will, and I shall trace + My bobbing shadow spread + Before me on the whitened face + Of the road where I must go. + And then, then I shall know + What it is that I dread. + + + + +THE HAPPY DAY + + + All day long + I purpose in yonder + Green meadows to wander + And think of a song. + + I shall take + Provision of berries, + Black treacle cherries, + And possibly cake. + + Where the boughs + Of gliding willows + Freckle green pillows + I shall drowse, + + Or wander blithe + Through scented acres + Where haymakers + Sharpen the scythe. + + I shall not lack, + I shall not trouble; + Through fields of stubble + I shall come back-- + + While dusk is spread, + While twilight lingers-- + With purple fingers, + A song in my head. + + + + +NELLY TRIM + + + ‘Like men riding, + The mist from the sea + Drives down the valley + And baffles me.’ + ‘Enter, traveller, + Whoever you be.’ + + By lamplight confronted + He staggered and peered; + Like a wet bramble + Was his beard. + ‘Sit down, stranger, + You look a-feared.’ + + Shudders rent him + To the bone, + The wet ran off him + And speckled the stone. + ‘Dost bide here alone, maid?’ + ‘Yes, alone.’ + + As he sat down + In the chimney-nook + Over his shoulder + He cast a look, + As if the night + Were pursuing; she took + + A handful of brash + To mend the fire, + He eyed her close + As the flame shot higher; + He spoke--and the cattle + Moved in the byre. + + ‘Though you should heap + Your fire with wood, + ’Twouldn’t warm me, + Nor do no good, + Unless you first warm me + As a maiden should.’ + + With looks unwavering, + With breath unstirred, + She took off her clothes + Without a word; + And stood up naked + And white as a curd. + + He breathed her to him + With famished sighs, + Against her bosom + He sheltered his eyes, + And warmed his hands + Between her thighs. + + Strangely assembled + In the quiet room, + Alone alight + Amidst leagues of gloom, + So brave a bride, + So sad a groom; + + And strange love-traffic + Between these two; + Nor mean, nor shamefaced-- + As though they’d do + Something more solemn + Than they knew: + + As though by this greeting + Which chance had willed + ’Twixt him so silent + And her so stilled, + Some pledge or compact + Were fulfilled, + + Made for all time + In times unknown, + ’Twixt man and woman + Standing alone + In mirk night + By a tall stone. + + His wayfaring terrors + All cast aside, + Brave now the bridegroom + Quitted the bride; + As he came, departing-- + Undenied. + + But once from darkness + Turned back his sight + To where in the doorway + She held a light: + ‘Goodbye to you, maiden.’ + ‘Stranger, good night.’ + + Long time has this woman + Been bedded alone. + The house where she dwelt + Lies stone on stone: + She’d not know her ash-tree, + So warped has it grown. + + But yet this story + Is told of her + As a memorial; + And some aver + She’d comfort thus any + Poor traveller. + + A wanton, you say-- + Yet where’s the spouse, + However true + To her marriage-vows, + To whom the lot + Of the earth-born allows + + More than this?-- + To comfort the care + Of a stranger, bound + She knows not where, + And afraid of the dark, + As his fathers were. + + + + +EPITAPHS + + + (i) + + Here lies Melissa Mary Thorn + Together with her son, still-born; + Whose loss her husband doth lament. + He has a large estate in Kent. + + + (ii) + + After long thirty years re-met + I, William Clarke, and I, Jeanette + His wife, lie side by side once more; + But quieter than we lay before. + + + (iii) + + A widowed mother reared this stone + To Annott Clare, aged twenty-one. + Seven live sons have I, but she + Was dearer than them all to me. + + + (iv) + + Here lies the body of Tom Fool, + Who died, a little boy, at school + Oft did he bleed and oft did weep, + And whimpering, now has fallen asleep. + + + (v) + + John Bird, a labourer, lies here, + Who served the earth for sixty years + With spade and mattock, drill and plough; + But never found it kind till now. + + + + +THE SAILOR + + + I have a young love-- + A landward lass is she-- + And thus she entreated: + ‘O tell me of the sea, + That on thy next voyage + My thoughts may follow thee.’ + + I took her up a hill + And showed her hills green, + One after other + With valleys between: + So green and gentle, I said, + Are the waves I’ve seen. + + I led her by the hand + Down the grassy way, + And showed her the hedgerows + That were white with may: + So white and fleeting, I said, + Is the salt sea-spray. + + I bade her lean her head + Down against my side, + Rising and falling + On my breath to ride: + Thus rode the vessel, I said, + On the rocking tide. + + For she so young is, and tender, + I would not have her know + What it is that I go to + When to sea I must go, + Lest she should lie awake and tremble + When the great storm-winds blow. + + + + +THE IMAGE + + + ‘Why do you look so pale, my son William? + Where have you been so long?’ + ‘I’ve been to my sweetheart, Mother, + As it says in the song.’ + + ‘Though you be pledged and cried to the parish + ’Tis not fitting or right + To visit a young maiden + At this hour of night.’ + + ‘I went not for her sweet company, + I meant not any sin, + But only to walk round her house + And think she was within. + + ‘Unbeknown I looked in at the window; + And there I saw my bride + Sitting lonesome in the chimney-nook, + With the cat alongside. + + ‘Slowly she drew out from under her apron + An image made of wax, + Shaped like a man, and all stuck over + With pins and with tacks. + + ‘Hair it had, hanging down to its shoulders, + Straight as any tow-- + Just such a lock she begged of me + But three days ago. + + ‘She set it down to stand in the embers-- + The wax began to run. + Mother! Mother! That waxen image, + I think it was your son!’ + + ‘’Twas but a piece of maiden’s foolishness, + Never think more of it. + I warrant that when she’s a wife + She’ll have a better wit.’ + + ‘Maybe, maybe, Mother. + I pray you, mend the fire. + For I am cold to the knees + With walking through the mire. + + ‘The snow is melting under the rain, + The ways are full of mud; + The cold has crept into my bones, + And glides along my blood. + + ‘Take out, take out my winding-sheet + From the press where it lies, + And borrow two pennies from my money-box + To put upon my eyes; + + ‘For now the cold creeps up to my heart, + My ears go Ding, go Dong: + I shall be dead long before day, + For winter nights are long.’ + + ‘Cursèd, cursèd be that Devil’s vixen + To rob you of your life! + And cursèd be the day you left me + To go after a wife!’ + + ‘Why do you speak so loud, Mother? + I was almost asleep. + I thought the churchbells were ringing + And the snow lay deep. + + ‘Over the white fields we trod to our wedding, + She leant upon my arm-- + What have I done to her that she + Should do me this harm?’ + + + + +GREEN PASTURES + + + ‘O, I could lean + And look for ever + At such a scene!-- + And bless the Giver, + Who beauty gave, and best of all, + Sameness, unwearied and perpetual. + + ‘Let such a sight + Brim up my seeing, + And with delight + Renew my being, + Until the prospect calm and kind + Seem the reflection of my mind!’ + + Said t’other: ‘At most + This field you’re praising + Has but the boast + Of being good grazing. + You’re easy pleased if what you like + Best be a green field and a stone dyke.’ + + + + +THE SOLDIER’S RETURN + + + Jump through the hedge, lass! + Run down the lane! + Here’s your soldier-laddie + Come back again. + + Coming over the hill + With the sunset at his back-- + Never be feared, lass, + Though he look black; + + Coming through the meadow + And leaping the watercourse-- + Never be feared, lass, + Though his voice be hoarse; + + Belike he’s out of breath + With walking from the town. + He will speak better + When the sun’s gone down. + + + + +BLACK EYES + + + Long Molly Samways + Went by just then. + Strange, how that girl + Gets off with the men! + + With her head wig-waggling + On her long neck, + And her hair straggling + Down her back. + + Past ten of the clock + She’ll get up in a daze, + And spend the morning + Lacing her stays. + + She wouldn’t go + To the Whitsun Fair + Because of the trouble + Of getting there; + + And if she be common + To half the town, + ’Tis to please her back + That she lies her down. + + Such a long, lazy + Slug-a-bed + Won’t have her sleep out + Until she’s dead. + + And the Judgement Trump + May split the skies-- + Though it should wake her + I doubt if she’ll rise. + + + + +BLUE EYES + + + Barbara Cushion + Weeps in the lane, + And vows she will never + Go brambling again. + + Down her fat face + Fat teardrops run, + And splash on her bosom, + One by one; + + With sobs and cries + She shakes like a shape-- + What is the matter, + Is it a rape? + + Oh no! It’s her feelings, + Poor girl, that smart; + And Jem’s unkindness + Has broken her heart. + + For months she has had + A mind to Jem, + So when she set out + She smiled at him; + + Down the green lane + She watched him come-- + But all he did + Was to pinch her bum. + + + + +FARMER MAW + + + Who’s he you saw, + Stranger, among the stooks?-- + ’Tis Farmer Maw + Scaring away the rooks. + + Once, stout and tall, + He had no peer to plough; + But this is all + Poor Farmer’s fit for now. + + On Lammas Eve + He hoed the Seven Acre, + And taking leave + Looked round like God the Maker: + + His hay well ricked-- + His fields secure and small-- + With a most strict + Eye he surveyed them all; + + And finding less + Than usual to offend + His carefulness, + Went home, and made an end. + + After she saw + Hired bailiff reap and bind, + Poor Widow Maw + Sat down and called to mind + + How oft her Dear + Exclaimed with scornful oaths + At waste of gear + Unthrift. His working clothes + + She fetched, and laid + Them out upon a table; + Though patched and frayed + They yet were serviceable-- + + Aye, in such worn + Apparel, and bemired, + As men might scorn, + Scarecrow were well-attired. + + Thus, stuffed with straw, + As large as life he stands-- + A shape of awe-- + And overlooks his lands, + + His flocks and herds: + But sore, poor soul! beshit; + For those bold birds + Don’t honour him a whit. + + + + +MRS. SUMMERBEE GROWN OLD + + + As tall as the church tower, + And as stark, + The churchyard elm + Rears into the dark. + + And many’s the evening + I’ve walked in dread + To think that its boughs + Were overhead; + + And many’s the midnight + I’ve waked in fear + To think that its branches + Were drawing near. + + For we live here alone-- + The Rector and I, + Both of us grown old, + And unwilling to die; + + And the churchyard elm + Has arms like a fiend: + Many’s the dark night + I’ve thought they leaned + + Downward, downward-- + As though they’d claw + Us into the churchyard + Like things of straw. + + But thanks to the rulers + Of the realm + We are delivered + From the elm. + + For the Inspector + Chanced this way. + He wrote in his book, + And had his say + + Of regulations + And bye-laws-- + Then came the woodman + And cut its claws. + + Harmless and glum + The monster stands + And holds to heaven + Its baffled hands. + + The Rector and I + Can walk beneath, + Untroubled by + The fear of death. + + And on still nights + When no one’s about + I dance round the elm, + And thus do I flout: + + Coffin-tree, coffin-tree, + You shall get neither him nor me! + Your branches are lopped, + Your games are all stopped. + + + + +STOCK + + + Farmer Hood’s wife + Was brought to bed. + ‘Look at the baby!’ + The midwife said. + + Scantly he glanced + At the babe she bore. + He had seen plenty + Like it before; + + And ‘Troubles,’ quoth he, + ‘Never come by half, + For the Guernsey heifer + Has slipped her calf.’ + + + + +THE OLD SQUIRE + + + Squire England has grown old: + Too stiff to ride to hounds, + Too blind to shoot his coverts, + He takes up his great stick + And potters about the grounds. + + The meadows and the pond, + The fig-tree on the south wall, + The plantation of young spruces, + The yew hedge twelve foot thick-- + He stares at them all; + + And grumbling as he goes, + He stops here and there + To spud up a dandelion. + His mind is full of doubt, + For a stranger is his heir. + + House, meadows, walks and trees, + Although his sight be dim + He sees them very plainly; + He prays that none may flout + The things so dear to him. + + + + +MOPING CASTLE + + + ‘Why have you planted firs + About your dwelling, + Of trees created + Choosing the most adverse + To mortal cheer? + Whose breasts uncouth, both song + And spring repelling, + With endless sighs are freighted; + Foreboding every year + A deeper wrong. + + ‘Or have you planted firs + About your dwelling + That they in proxy + Might all your sighs rehearse? + Ill-starred one! doomed + To mourn your frustrate prime, + Your sons rebelling, + Your Dear another’s doxy, + Your mouldered heart entombed + In waste of time.’ + + ‘No, Friend. I planted firs + About my dwelling; + But, I protest, meant + No clue so apt for verse + As you conceive + These sombre groves to give. + Soon ripe for felling, + Firs are a good investment; + And though I live to grieve, + Yet I must live.’ + + + + +THE SICK MAN’S GARDEN + + + He has been ill so long + On whom it depended, + That the garden untended + Is beginning to go wrong. + + The gate has fallen awry, + The tools are half rusted-- + They will be encrusted + All over, by and by. + + The rose has broken loose + From the arch where he trained it; + Dead petal on petal has stained it + With its own juice. + + Walks and plots are unkempt-- + It is all dishevelled; + Like a skein unravelled, + Like a forgotten thing dream’d. + + And peering through the gate, + And closing in around it, + The thickets that bound it + Seem to be lying in wait. + + My heart foretells the day + Toward which it moulders, + When men with bowed shoulders + Shall carry him away. + + Herb-border and flower-bed + Underfoot they shall trample, + And briar and bramble + Make slower their slow tread. + + The mourners as they pass + Will stumble and shuffle, + Their steps shall be muffled + With the swishing of long grass. + + Departed the last black form + And the last black shadow, + From thicket and meadow + Shall clamber in a swarm + + Of wildings and weeds out-cast, + By exile eagered + For the garden beleaguered + Which has fallen to them at last. + + By these remorseless, dumb + Spoilers invaded, + The flowers unaided + Shall all be overcome; + + Save only those at need’s + Touch who turn traitors, + Changing their natures + And reverting again to weeds. + + Thus shall wild earth be paid + The debt so long owing; + Whilst he, unknowing, + Deep in wild earth is laid. + + + + +WHITE MAGIC + + + Young man, be warned by me, + And shun the hour + When the full moon has power + To sway men like the sea. + + I with my love kept tryst + One moonlight night. + Something did us affright-- + And she went home unkissed. + + We saw as clear as day + The things we knew; + Only the sky more blue + Seemed, and the grass grown grey. + + Round us the orchard trees + Like spirits stood-- + When she threw back her hood, + She looked like one of these; + + So blanched the face I knew + It seemed estranged: + Its moonlight aspect changed + My eager blood to dew. + + Disheartened, we returned; + Nor met again. + I have grown old since then, + But I have never learned + + By what mysterious art + The moonlight thieves + Colour from the young leaves, + And passion from the heart. + + + + +AS I WAS A-WALKING + + + Sweetly fell the rain on the springing grass, + The birds sang all with voices as clear as glass; + To greet the blackthorn I turned aside-- + A presence too lovely to pass-- + But as with worship I neared it, a man I espied + Asleep in the rain beneath the blossoming tree. + + I forgot to look at the tree, I looked instead + At the man who lay so still with averted head. + Because I could not see his face + I wondered if he were dead. + My mind was full of doubt as I left the place-- + But dead or alive he was a stranger to me. + + + + +IN THE COTSWOLDS + + + All day the rain + Fell on the wheat + And dripped from the gable + On to the stone; + And all day long + I sat alone + Save for the dog + Who slept at my feet. + + Slept--till a-sudden + He roused in fear, + And snuffed at the door, + And would not be quelled. + I opened--and there + An old crone I beheld, + And round about her + The dusk drawn near. + + Something she said-- + But her voice was hollow, + And chill was the hand + She laid on mine. + Her words were a riddle + I could not untwine; + And when she turned onward + I knew I must follow. + + I felt the watery + Stubble souse + My ankles, and round me + Saw corn-shocks blurred. + And faint and fainter + Yet I heard + The dog bark on + In the empty house. + + + + +THE LITTLE DEATH + + + What voice is this + Sings so, rings so + Within my head? + Not mine, for I am dead, + + And a deep peace + Wraps me, haps me + From head to feet + Like a smooth winding-sheet. + + Before my eyes + Reeling, wheeling, + Leaf-green stars + Have changed to purple bars + + And flickered out; + Spinning, thinning, + Up the wall, + That has grown very tall. + + Only that voice-- + Distant, insistent; + Like the high + Stroked glass’s airy cry; + + Echoing on, + Winds me, binds me + As with a thread + Spun from my own head. + + O speak not yet! + Forget me, let me + Lie here as calm + As saints that nurse their palm; + + Whilst like a tide + Turning, returning, + Silence and gloom + Flow in and fill the room. + + + + +THE DIVER + + + Self-loving I strayed + Through leagues of fir-wood-- + Dream-like as woods + In water suspended, + So hushed was the shade, + So cool the silence; + + Nor stayed, till I saw + My watery woodlands + In a deep tarn + Hanging head-downward, + As though they would draw + The soul down after them. + + I thought: How sweet + To bathe in those waters! + I stripped myself bare; + On the pine-needles + I settled my feet, + And dived in fearless + + To greet with the glow + Of an ardent lover + That limpid depth, + That bride-bed of stillness + Which far below + Awaited my coming. + + O, but beneath + The rocky cornice, + Ready to pounce + There lurked a Nixy! + With ice-cold teeth + She bit and tore me, + + And wreathed her fierce + Embraces about me + In coil on coil + Of anguish unspeakable, + And snarled in my ears + With a voice of darkness. + + In fear of my life + I fought the Nixy + Till back to her den + At last I drove her; + To whet her knife + And await the next-comer. + + Dry-footed on shore + I scrunched the pine-needles, + And watched the tarn + And its basking tree-tops + Resume once more + Their lovely stillness: + + All, all like a charm + Inveigled the spirit; + Prompted: How sweet + To bathe in these waters + Here is no harm-- + + But I knew better. + + + + +UPON A GENTLEMAN FALLING SERIOUSLY IN LOVE + + + Who loves his kind, loves bone, + Flesh, play of sinew, shoot + Of sense, the turn of a head, + A voice answering his own: + Who loves a house, loves stone, + Iron, plaster, brick, glass, lead, + Timber hewn off and mute-- + And these alone. + + Who wins his kind, wins store + Of joys, griefs, memories, brain’s + Diligence, heart’s ease, a share + Of life not his before: + Who gains a house, a core + Of blank and senseless air + Cased up in matter gains-- + And nothing more. + + Sun may warm stone, awaken + Casement, with farewell kiss + Flush thatch--’tis all a show. + Though man a more unshaken + Diurnal love bestow-- + He gains not even this. + + And blest are they whose thrall + Hearts can endure this passion, + Hopeless, uncompromised + By aught reciprocal; + Yea, saints emparadised + May love God after this fashion. + + + + +THE CAPRICIOUS LADY + + + No, no, I do not choose + Commonplace flowers like these! + Such artless pinks and blues-- + Forget-me-not, maiden’s-blush-- + Are tedious to my sight. + But give me, if you’d please, + Blossoms more recondite: + Cocks-combs of crimson plush, + Large, spider-speckled, rare + Orchids, or tulips whose + Smooth flesh has learnt to wear + The colour of a bruise. + + + + +THEODORIC + + + Praise the great Goth, Theodoric! + Who, a true patriot, led + His northern hordes into Italy, + Where he’d be better fed. + + Sturgeon, peacock, assafœtida-- + Nought came amiss to him + (Though Peter Vischer of Nuremberg + Makes him out to be slim). + + Once only did his appetite + Quail at a new dish; + When they served up an aged senator + In the shape of a large fish. + + The dead eyes glared reproachfully-- + Fear spawned in his blood + Agueish pangs innumerable + As fishes in the flood. + + Not furs of marmot and zibeline, + Nor a great fire near-by, + Could warm the wretched Theodoric + As he lay waiting to die; + + Chattering about old Symmachus, + And Boëthius his friend, + Who with no consolation but philosophy + Made a far braver end. + + + + +HONEY FOR TEA + + + I’ve sat in the sun + From three to five + Watching the bees + About the hive. + They are horribly alive! + + From white to red, + From red to white, + They weave Euclidean + Tangles of flight, + And nowhere find delight: + + But them a maniac + Industry eggs + Onward; they grapple + With hairy legs, + Methodical to the dregs. + + The blossom rifled, + With laden thighs + Further each willing + Eunuch plies: + A dull way to fertilize. + + And back to their cells + They come at last; + Armed, incurious, + Sailing past + Me where I sit aghast. + + Oh, horrible + That aught can be + So sufficient, yet + So unlike me! + I shall go in to tea. + + There in the parlour + I shall find + Things to restore + My peace of mind; + By man for man designed. + + The rat-tail spoons, + The china dishes, + Smooth as the sequined + Sides of fishes, + Obedient to my wishes; + + The sturdy table + So plain and whole, + The meek sweet + Of the sugar-bowl; + These shall confirm my soul + + Till I, emboldened, + Lift down from the shelf + The hoarded treasure, + Taken by stealth + From that inimical Commonwealth. + + + + +BODLEY’S LIBRARY + + + Chained to their shelves + Sit Origen, + Aquinas, Gregory + Nazianzen, + Bede, Alcuin, Scotus-- + All the wise men + Of golden mouth + And faithful pen. + + Falcons once + Of piercing flight, + Chained they must needs be + Or out of sight + They’d soar. But now + They blink at the light, + Like old brown owls + Awaiting the night. + + + + +A SONG ABOUT A LAMB + + + ‘O God, the Sure Defence + Of Jacob’s race, + Lover of innocence + And a smooth face, + Accept my sacrifice-- + A little lamb, bought at the market price. + + ‘With fleece so soft and clean + And horns not yet + A-bud, the creature’s been + The children’s pet. + And sore they wept to see + Their snub-nosed friend come trotting after me.’ + + God heard: the lightnings brake + Forth in his honour; + But by some slight mistake + Consumed the donor. + The lamb fell in a muse-- + But soon took heart, and leaped among the pews. + + + + +HYMN FOR A CHILD + + + Flocking to the Temple + See the priests assemble + Where a child expounds + What the wise confounds. + + All the scribes and sages + Quit their dog’s-eared pages; + Spell-bound by his sense + And his eloquence. + + Speaking without bias, + He reviewed Elias; + Said the dogs did well, + Eating Jezebel. + + Just as he disposes + Of the Law and Moses, + Mary came in haste-- + Caught him to her breast: + + ‘We have sought thee’ saying-- + Chid him for delaying. + Then without demur + He went back with her. + + Those he was amazing + Straightway broke out praising; + Calling him a mild, + Nicely brought-up child. + + Teach me, gentle Saviour, + Such discreet behaviour + That my elders be + Always pleased with me. + + + + +THE SCAPEGOAT + + + See the scapegoat, happy beast, + From every personal sin released, + And in the desert hidden apart, + Dancing with a careless heart. + + ‘Lightly weigh the sins of others.’ + See him skip! ‘Am I my brother’s + Keeper? O never, no, no, no! + Lightly come and lightly go!’ + + In the town, from sin made free, + Righteous men hold jubilee. + In the desert all alone + The scapegoat dances on and on. + + + + +BYRON 1924 + + + Much as they all deplored his morals + Our fathers left the bard his laurels. + But in these more precisian days + We shake our young heads over the lays. + + + + +GRACE AND GOOD WORKS + + + Blest are the poor, whose needs enable + The rich but timely charitable + To take the Kingdom of Heaven by force. + The poor are also saved, of course. + + + + +MORNING + + + The long, long-looked-for night has sped. + ’Tis time we should arise + Out of this tossed and blood-stained bed + Where a dead woman lies. + + + + +FAITHFUL CROSS + + + Strange, that his sorrow should + Only be understood + By two rough pieces of wood. + + The friends that lingered there, + However true they were, + Had grief of their own to bear. + + They stood and mourned apart: + With but half a heart + For his sorrow and smart; + + They mourned, and went their way + Into Heaven to be gay. + The Cross is faithful to this day. + + O Tree of Life, that root + Hast not, nor hope of shoot, + Nor but this one sad fruit-- + + Thou, not Mary or John-- + Thou, that he died upon + He chose for his eidòlon. + + Though he by a word or two + Or a look, men’s hearts could woo + And knit, as none else could do; + + Not one of the brotherhood + To whom he did good, + But two rough pieces of wood, + + Hewn-off, exanimate, + Could carry and constate + His and his sorrow’s weight. + + + + +THE MAID’S TRAGEDY + + + I kept two singing birds + In a cage of bone-- + Hatched-out on the same day; + But since one flew away, + T’other’s alone. + + I spoke him gentle words + And bade him sing. + But he hung down his head + As if discomforted, + And drooped his wing. + + My mood was turned to rage; + I stinted his seed, + Opened the cage-door wide-- + Starve, or begone! I cried. + He did not heed. + + Silent within his cage + I see him mope + Like any turtle-dove. + The dumb bird I called Love, + The flown bird, Hope. + + + + +COMMON ENTRY + + + I hate my neighbour with bitter hate-- + Night and morning, early and late, + Her and her works to the Fiend I commend; + For she’s had it mended--the garden gate. + + For every comer ’twould grind and squeak; + But when One came here who had most to seek + It would cry aloud at his hasty shove, + ‘Here, here’s your lover!’ and redden my cheek. + + Oh yes, he still comes, though the gate doesn’t tell-- + But I wish my neighbour were deep in Hell. + How dare she the least of my joys estrange, + Or threat me with changes when all’s so well? + + + + +THE ALARUM + + + With its rat’s tooth the clock + Gnaws away delight. + Piece by piece, piece by piece + It will gnaw away to-night, + + Till the coiled spring released + Rouses me with a hiss + To a day, to another night + Less happy than this. + + And yet my own hands wound it + To keep watch while I slept; + For though they be with sorrow, + Appointments must be kept. + + + + +MATCH ME O ROSE! + + + A red rose shining in the sun + Told me of summer new-begun. + I smoothed each petal, and kissed each petal, + And counted them one by one. + + Eighteen--and I had two years more. + ‘Match me, O rose!’ I said; and tore + In half two petals, two crimson petals, + To bring them to a score. + + Just at that moment the wind blew-- + Petal by petal away I threw, + And turned to the rose-bush, the lovely rose-bush, + Where other roses grew. + + + + +THE ONLY CHILD + + + When I was small + My mother had an Indian shawl, + Spun from the friendliest kind of goat + And dyed a comfortable red. + And when I had a pain in my throat + I used to take the shawl to bed. + + So soft it was + That through her wedding-ring ’twould pass; + So warm, it nursed all care aside; + So wide, a covey of babes might be + Happed up in it--soft, warm and wide + As sleep, that shawl was lent to me. + + + + +THE BURNING-GLASS + + + All day the Sun looked down + On England; heath and town, + Cornland and woodland, mountain and champaign, + And the bright tangled skein + + Of Thames, Avon, Severn, Trent-- + Everywhere his beams went. + They lightened upon ships far out to sea, + And sifted every tree. + + And few, and dull, were they + Abroad in England that day, + But looking up at the blue heavens overhead, + ‘Fine harvest weather,’ said. + + Turning him to his rest + Within the patient West-- + As though he kept the primal law in mind + To multiply his kind-- + + Throughout the land his rays + Set windows in a blaze; + But nowhere, save at Wells in Somerset, + Did a live Sun beget. + + There, under cottage brows, + Glittered intact the spouse + Whose steadfast welcome the steadfast greeting could match, + And fired a neighbour’s thatch. + + Strange chance! (Enough to undo + Man’s wit, might he look through + Seeing, and know the Sun an enormous spark + In caves of endless dark; + + And, like ourselves, condemned + His little light to expend + By rote. But our imaginations deck + The heaven’s hideous black.) + + Strange chance! meeting well-met! + Chance more wild-faring yet + I woo, that with long hope and true intent + My burning-glass present + + To that unmeasured, un- + surmiseable incendiary of suns-- + Life--that some beam of it, matched by my art, + May fire a stranger’s heart. + + + + +PEEPING TOM + ++to T. F. Powys+ + + + Out of the land + He grew as grows the weed, + But had no land + For his own need. + + He to a farmer + His crafty sinews hired, + Rising up early + And going home tired + + For six days of the week-- + Poor Tom!--and said on Sunday, + Leaning over a gate: + ‘To-morrow be Monday.’ + + Few were his thoughts, + Devious, and unexpressed; + Yet one strong yearning + Swelled in his breast + + Through rain and shine, + Through months of earthly labour; + Till at last he spoke + His thought to a neighbour. + + ‘I should like well + To have some land of my own, + To be my land + And mine alone: + + ‘Say, half an acre-- + More would outdo my means-- + To grow potatoes + And a few beans.’ + + Up at the Inn + His neighbour made it known + How Tom wished + For land of his own. + + About the village + To all men’s ears it ran; + The farmer heard it, + Who was a rich man. + + Green water-meadows, + Large barns, deep fields he had; + His servant’s wish + Made his heart glad, + + For he in plenty + Was rooted like an oak; + And Tom’s half-acre + Seemed a good joke. + + He gave the ground. + And all men said of him + He could well afford + To have his whim. + + The plot of ground which the farmer gave + Did not cost him dear. + All unfenced and untilled it lay, + And far away + From cottage and inland tree; + Where the rolling down rears up like a great slow wave + And then falls sheer + Four hundred feet to the sea. + + + Thither poor Tom, + His day’s toil over, would walk; + And marked, and swaled, + And scratched on the chalk-- + + Too much intent + To note the oncome of night + Till to ease his back + He stood upright. + + And plodding homeward + Through nurtured fields, his mind + Still delved in the patch + He had left behind. + + + Sea-winds blew there, + Sea-birds flew there, + Nothing grew there + + Save the inherent tares of barren ground; + Grasses shrivelled and stiff, + And frantic thistles scattering their seed. + Claw-rooted was each necessitous weed + And salt to the taste, + For the blown rack groped over the waste, + And evermore the sea with a trampling sound + Beleaguered the cliff. + + + A row of beans + Was the first thing Tom set. + Most died: the rest + The rabbits ate. + + He gave up beer + And saved to buy a fence. + His wife blamed him + For having no sense; + + And all his friends + That saw him study and grieve-- + Landless themselves-- + Laughed in their sleeve. + + Tom heard them out; + He did not say them Nay, + But still to his patch + Went day by day, + + Disheartened, perhaps, + But redeless to forgo + The dogged dream + He had cherished so. + + And little thought + His straitened brain-pan knew + Save only that + There was much to do. + + From the beginning + The weeds had been his bane, + And tilling the ground + Made them as bad again. + + He groaned aloud + To see how they would thrive + Where nothing he planted + Could keep alive; + + And fresh weeds grew + That had not grown before; + For each he spudded + There sprang ten more, + + That bloomed in his face + As if from very spite. + It chanced, such a blossom + Caught his sight + + Just as he struck work. + His back was aching so + That he was half-minded + To let it go, + + But from long habit, + With look indifferent, + Above the invader + Wearily he bent + + To root it up: + His face by slow degrees + Awakened, + He went on his knees-- + + + There is no beauty like the beauty of the wild, + That blossoms suddenly out of the bare hillside. + It is the barren woman that goes with child, + It is the clenched knot of necessity untied, + Eternity waylaid, and labouring creation + Into forgetfulness and laughter beguiled: + A relenting, a reconciliation, a glimpse of the bride, + Nature, hidden under her dark veils of Time and Space and Causation. + Out of the hillside a word: + ‘Lo, here I am! Quick, gather my secret, cried-- + Had you not come--to the waste, from pole to pole + To echo forever unheard. Had I died, had I died, + Perished had with me, unguessed, the clue of the whole. + But now are the heavens opened, and Salvation + Is sprung up like a flower cut of the earth. + Look! I am newly-made, the dew of my birth + Is of the womb of the morning; I hold in my wide- + open petals the epitome of that blue + In seas drowned, in distance secluded, in air enskied: + And all, all is for you. + Come! Kneel beside me and unlearn your soul.’ + + Ah, not for man the message, the revelation! + On hillsides desolate and bare, by paths untravelled, + In swamps, and skyey wastes the tokens are spilled. + Wild beauty like a bird flits here and there, + Homes not to hand nor snare, and nowhere settles. + Who’s he shall augur from her flight? And who shall dare + Unravel the plain speech of five blue petals? + Not man’s mind, that chooseth a good + Obsequious to the God his proud heart hath chosen, + That parteth light from darkness and right from wrong, + Nor brooketh the unfulfilled. + Let him tread out the blossom and ignore the song + And go upon his way. + + But some there are who hearken, who stay, + Who kneel and worship before the undesigned, + And all their strength relinquish to obey + A voice that seeks not to be understood-- + No, nor yet purpose has enough to be a mock. + Awhile they feed on brightness; but ere long + They find their hearts astray, and their blood frozen, + And know themselves averted from their kind. + Extremity of light has made them blind. + With look so vacant as to seem serene, + They wander towards darkness, and as they go + Idly a few belated berries glean, + Or darnel and the clammy nightshade wreathe, + Or to themselves speak low; + And in the end lie down upon the rock, + And to the heedless air their last loud groan bequeath. + + + Darkness rose up out of the deep; + Headland by headland along the coast + Lost colour, shape, identity, stole from sight, + Folded in darkness like a flock of sheep. + Up on the height + The flower ebbed from his vision like a ghost, + And Tom went home to sleep. + + Changed henceforward was his mood. + All he’d endeavoured, all he’d planned + Forgetting, his mind at ease, he would sit awhile + To watch the gulls, or stretched full-length would brood; + And camomile, + Chance-plucked, chafed for its savour in his hand, + And thyme or fennel chewed. + + Mildly now he could behold + Thistle and coney flourish unchecked. + The unequal combat relinquishing he let fall + His spade, or only dug to smell the mould; + But joys past all + Former surmise he harvested from neglect, + That joyed nor reaped of old. + + Sweetness had pierced him like a dart. + Careless of duty, afield he ranged, + And spared with fostering hand the weeds amid + The farmer’s crops, such wonder was in his heart. + The farmer chid-- + And swore the politicians were deranged + To take the labourer’s part. + + Christmas came, and quarter-day; + ‘Goodwill to all men’ chanted the choir, + ‘And on earth, peace.’ The earth in a riveted black + Frost fast bound like a cataleptic lay. + The times were slack. + The farmer said to Tom: ‘I don’t require + Servants not worth their pay.’ + + Household shipwreck disposing as best + He could, since none near by would employ + Such a half-wit, on a tramp for work he set out; + Of more than land and livelihood dispossessed, + For care and doubt + Sat plotting deep in his heart that his secret joy + Might vade with all the rest. + + Everywhere rejected, he turned + Onward by darkening ways and grim + Gaunt woodlands where yet would kindle from bough to bough + The irresistible wildfire of spring for which he had yearned. + Small difference now + ’Twixt leaves unborn or dead underfoot to him + Whom spring no more concerned. + + Lengthening days would but strengthen his care, + Nor spring be even what once it had been-- + A dazzle in dull eyes, chance heart-thrust of a bird’s song, + Hint of a covenanted joy all creatures share; + For he too long + Had watched a wildflower’s visage, and had seen + No hope, no purpose there. + + + Whither he went, + And what the welcome he found, + Or if he yet + Were above ground, + + Came never word. + His name was clean forgot; + Unless folk said + Tom was a bad lot. + + Many years after, + His tale was told to me. + I for a whim + Went off to see + + Tom’s patch, but might + Have sought in vain for it + Had not my foot + Caught in a bit + + Of galvanised netting-- + Good heartless shop-stuff, wrought + To outlast man + And man’s thought. + + I gave it a kick; + And after one more look, + Moved off to find + Some sheltered nook + + Where I might sit + And watch the seagulls fly. + All that afternoon + No one came by, + + Save one old man + Scarcely more human than they-- + And he, I think, + Had lost his way. + + For as he went + He’d stop and look about, + And shake his head, + As if in doubt + + Of where he was; + And once, as though he’d read + The answer there, + Pulled up a weed + + And peered at it + Full steadfastly--and then + Throwing it down, + Limped on again. + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes + + +In the .txt version, surrounding characters have been used to indicate + _Italics_ and +Smallcaps+ +No corrections have been made to the original text. +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79065 *** |