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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:33:02 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:33:02 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9323-h.zip b/9323-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e53fe9 --- /dev/null +++ b/9323-h.zip diff --git a/9323-h/9323-h.htm b/9323-h/9323-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b32ca1 --- /dev/null +++ b/9323-h/9323-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2344 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Foliage, by William H. Davies + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre {font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Foliage, by William H. Davies + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: Foliage + Various Poems + +Author: William H. Davies + + +Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9323] +This file was first posted on September 22, 2003 +Last Updated: May 16, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLIAGE *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tonya Allen, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders; the HTML file added by David Widger. + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FOLIAGE + </h1> + <h3> + VARIOUS POEMS + </h3> + <h4> + BY + </h4> + <h2> + WILLIAM H. DAVIES + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1913 + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THUNDERSTORMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> STRONG MOMENTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> A GREETING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> SWEET STAY-AT-HOME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE STARVED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> A MAY MORNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE LONELY DREAMER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> CHRISTMAS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> LAUGHING ROSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> SEEKING JOY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE OLD OAK TREE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> POOR KINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> LOVE AND THE MUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> MY YOUTH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> SMILES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> MAD POLL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> JOY SUPREME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> FRANCIS THOMPSON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE BIRD-MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> WINTER'S BEAUTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE CHURCH ORGAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> HEIGH HO, THE RAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> LOVE'S INSPIRATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> NIGHT WANDERERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> YOUNG BEAUTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> WHO I KNOW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> SWEET BIRDS, I COME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE TWO LIVES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> HIDDEN LOVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> LIFE IS JOLLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> THE FOG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> A WOMAN'S CHARMS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> DREAMS OF THE SEA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE WONDER MAKER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE HELPLESS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> AN EARLY LOVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> DREAM TRAGEDIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> CHILDREN AT PLAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> WHEN THE CUCKOO SINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> RETURN TO NATURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> A STRANGE CITY </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THUNDERSTORMS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My mind has thunderstorms, + That brood for heavy hours: + Until they rain me words, + My thoughts are drooping flowers + And sulking, silent birds. + + Yet come, dark thunderstorms, + And brood your heavy hours; + For when you rain me words, + My thoughts are dancing flowers + And joyful singing birds. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STRONG MOMENTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sometimes I hear fine ladies sing, + Sometimes I smoke and drink with men; + Sometimes I play at games of cards— + Judge me to be no strong man then. + + The strongest moment of my life + Is when I think about the poor; + When, like a spring that rain has fed, + My pity rises more and more. + + The flower that loves the warmth and light, + Has all its mornings bathed in dew; + My heart has moments wet with tears, + My weakness is they are so few. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A GREETING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good morning, Life—and all + Things glad and beautiful. + My pockets nothing hold, + But he that owns the gold, + The Sun, is my great friend— + His spending has no end. + + Hail to the morning sky, + Which bright clouds measure high; + Hail to you birds whose throats + Would number leaves by notes; + Hail to you shady bowers, + And you green fields of flowers. + + Hail to you women fair, + That make a show so rare + In cloth as white as milk— + Be't calico or silk: + Good morning, Life—and all + Things glad and beautiful. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWEET STAY-AT-HOME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, + Thou knowest of no strange continent: + Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep + A gentle motion with the deep; + Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, + Where scent comes forth in every breeze. + Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow + For miles, as far as eyes can go; + Thou hast not seen a summer's night + When maids could sew by a worm's light; + Nor the North Sea in spring send out + Bright hues that like birds flit about + In solid cages of white ice— + Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place. + Thou hast not seen black fingers pick + White cotton when the bloom is thick, + Nor heard black throats in harmony; + Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie + Flat on the earth, that once did rise + To hide proud kings from common eyes, + Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom + Where green things had such little room + They pleased the eye like fairer flowers— + Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours. + Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place, + Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face; + For thou hast made more homely stuff + Nurture thy gentle self enough; + I love thee for a heart that's kind— + Not for the knowledge in thy mind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STARVED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My little Lamb, what is amiss? + If there was milk in mother's kiss, + You would not look as white as this. + + The wolf of Hunger, it is he + That takes away thy milk from me, + And I have much to do for thee. + + If thou couldst live on love, I know + No babe in all the land could show + More rosy cheeks and louder crow. + + Thy father's dead, Alas for thee: + I cannot keep this wolf from me, + That takes thy milk so bold and free. + + If thy dear father lived, he'd drive + Away this beast with whom I strive, + And thou, my pretty Lamb, wouldst thrive. + + Ah, my poor babe, my love's so great + I'd swallow common rags for meat— + If they could make milk rich and sweet. + + My little Lamb, what is amiss? + Come, I must wake thee with a kiss, + For Death would own a sleep like this. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A MAY MORNING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sky is clear, + The sun is bright; + The cows are red, + The sheep are white; + Trees in the meadows + Make happy shadows. + + Birds in the hedge + Are perched and sing; + Swallows and larks + Are on the wing: + Two merry cuckoos + Are making echoes. + + Bird and the beast + Have the dew yet; + My road shines dry, + Theirs bright and wet: + Death gives no warning, + On this May morning. + + I see no Christ + Nailed on a tree, + Dying for sin; + No sin I see: + No thoughts for sadness, + All thoughts for gladness. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LONELY DREAMER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He lives his lonely life, and when he dies + A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs; + Because they liked his songs, and now their bird + Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard. + + But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring + Those blossoms there, of which he used to sing? + Who'll kiss his mound, and wish the time would come + To lie with him inside that silent tomb? + + And who'll forget the dreamer's skill, and shed + A tear because a loving heart is dead? + Heigh ho for gossip then, and common sighs— + And let his death bring tears in no one's eyes. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHRISTMAS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Christmas has come, let's eat and drink— + This is no time to sit and think; + Farewell to study, books and pen, + And welcome to all kinds of men. + Let all men now get rid of care, + And what one has let others share; + Then 'tis the same, no matter which + Of us is poor, or which is rich. + Let each man have enough this day, + Since those that can are glad to pay; + There's nothing now too rich or good + For poor men, not the King's own food. + Now like a singing bird my feet + Touch earth, and I must drink and eat. + Welcome to all men: I'll not care + What any of my fellows wear; + We'll not let cloth divide our souls, + They'll swim stark naked in the bowls. + Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see + That hand of yours dislodge a flea,— + While you sit at my side and beg, + Or right foot scratching your left leg. + Farewell restraint: we will not now + Measure the ale our brains allow, + But drink as much as we can hold. + We'll count no change when we spend gold; + This is no time to save, but spend, + To give for nothing, not to lend. + Let foes make friends: let them forget + The mischief-making dead that fret + The living with complaint like this— + "He wronged us once, hate him and his." + Christmas has come; let every man + Eat, drink, be merry all he can. + Ale's my best mark, but if port wine + Or whisky's yours—let it be mine; + No matter what lies in the bowls, + We'll make it rich with our own souls. + Farewell to study, books and pen, + And welcome to all kinds of men. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LAUGHING ROSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If I were gusty April now, + How I would blow at laughing Rose; + I'd make her ribbons slip their knots, + And all her hair come loose. + + If I were merry April now, + How I would pelt her cheeks with showers; + I'd make carnations, rich and warm, + Of her vermilion flowers. + + Since she will laugh in April's face, + No matter how he rains or blows— + Then O that I wild April were, + To play with laughing Rose. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SEEKING JOY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Joy, how I sought thee! + Silver I spent and gold, + On the pleasures of this world, + In splendid garments clad; + The wine I drank was sweet, + Rich morsels I did eat— + Oh, but my life was sad! + Joy, how I sought thee! + + Joy, I have found thee! + Far from the halls of Mirth, + Back to the soft green earth, + Where people are not many; + I find thee, Joy, in hours + With clouds, and birds, and flowers— + Thou dost not charge one penny. + Joy, I have found thee! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OLD OAK TREE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I sit beneath your leaves, old oak, + You mighty one of all the trees; + Within whose hollow trunk a man + Could stable his big horse with ease. + + I see your knuckles hard and strong, + But have no fear they'll come to blows; + Your life is long, and mine is short, + But which has known the greater woes? + + Thou has not seen starved women here, + Or man gone mad because ill-fed— + Who stares at stones in city streets, + Mistaking them for hunks of bread. + + Thou hast not felt the shivering backs + Of homeless children lying down + And sleeping in the cold, night air— + Like doors and walls in London town. + + Knowing thou hast not known such shame, + And only storms have come thy way, + Methinks I could in comfort spend + My summer with thee, day by day. + + To lie by day in thy green shade, + And in thy hollow rest at night; + And through the open doorway see + The stars turn over leaves of light. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POOR KINGS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God's pity on poor kings, + They know no gentle rest; + The North and South cry out, + Cries come from East and West— + "Come, open this new Dock, + Building, Bazaar or Fair." + Lord, what a wretched life + Such men must bear. + + They're followed, watched and spied, + No liberty they know; + Some eye will watch them still, + No matter where they go. + When in green lanes I muse, + Alone, and hear birds sing, + God's pity then, say I, + On some poor king. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE AND THE MUSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My back is turned on Spring and all her flowers, + The birds no longer charm from tree to tree; + The cuckoo had his home in this green world + Ten days before his voice was heard by me. + + Had I an answer from a dear one's lips, + My love of life would soon regain its power; + And suckle my sweet dreams, that tug my heart, + And whimper to be nourished every hour. + + Give me that answer now, and then my Muse, + That for my sweet life's sake must never die, + Will rise like that great wave that leaps and hangs + The sea-weed on a vessel's mast-top high. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY YOUTH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My youth was my old age, + Weary and long; + It had too many cares + To think of song; + My moulting days all came + When I was young. + + Now, in life's prime, my soul + Comes out in flower; + Late, as with Robin, comes + My singing power; + I was not born to joy + Till this late hour. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SMILES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw a black girl once, + As black as winter's night; + Till through her parted lips + There came a flood of light; + It was the milky way + Across her face so black: + Her two lips closed again, + And night came back. + + I see a maiden now, + Fair as a summer's day; + Yet through her parted lips + I see the milky way; + It makes the broad daylight + In summer time look black: + Her two lips close again, + And night comes back. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAD POLL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There goes mad Poll, dressed in wild flowers, + Poor, crazy Poll, now old and wan; + Her hair all down, like any child: + She swings her two arms like a man. + + Poor, crazy Poll is never sad, + She never misses one that dies; + When neighbours show their new-born babes, + They seem familiar to her eyes. + + Her bonnet's always in her hand, + Or on the ground, and lying near; + She thinks it is a thing for play, + Or pretty show, and not to wear. + + She gives the sick no sympathy, + She never soothes a child that cries; + She never whimpers, night or day, + She makes no moans, she makes no sighs. + + She talks about some battle old, + Fought many a day from yesterday; + And when that war is done, her love— + "Ha, ha!" Poll laughs, and skips away. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOY SUPREME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The birds are pirates of her notes, + The blossoms steal her face's light; + The stars in ambush lie all day, + To take her glances for the night. + Her voice can shame rain-pelted leaves; + Young robin has no notes as sweet + In autumn, when the air is still, + And all the other birds are mute. + + When I set eyes on ripe, red plums + That seem a sin and shame to bite, + Such are her lips, which I would kiss, + And still would keep before my sight. + When I behold proud gossamer + Make silent billows in the air, + Then think I of her head's fine stuff, + Finer than gossamer's, I swear. + + The miser has his joy, with gold + Beneath his pillow in the night; + My head shall lie on soft warm hair, + And miser's know not that delight. + Captains that own their ships can boast + Their joy to feel the rolling brine— + But I shall lie near her, and feel + Her soft warm bosom swell on mine. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCIS THOMPSON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou hadst no home, and thou couldst see + In every street the windows' light: + Dragging thy limbs about all night, + No window kept a light for thee. + + However much thou wert distressed, + Or tired of moving, and felt sick, + Thy life was on the open deck— + Thou hadst no cabin for thy rest. + + Thy barque was helpless 'neath the sky, + No pilot thought thee worth his pains + To guide for love or money gains— + Like phantom ships the rich sailed by. + + Thy shadow mocked thee night and day, + Thy life's companion, it alone; + It did not sigh, it did not moan, + But mocked thy moves in every way. + + In spite of all, the mind had force, + And, like a stream whose surface flows + The wrong way when a strong wind blows, + It underneath maintained its course. + + Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower + Too late for good, as some bruised tree + That blooms in Autumn, and we see + Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour. + + Some poets <i>feign</i> their wounds and scars. + If they had known real suffering hours, + They'd show, in place of Fancy's flowers, + More of Imagination's stars. + + So, if thy fruits of Poesy + Are rich, it is at this dear cost— + That they were nipt by Sorrow's frost, + In nights of homeless misery. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BIRD-MAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Man is a bird: + He rises on fine wings + Into the Heaven's clear light; + He flies away and sings— + There's music in his flight. + + Man is a bird: + In swiftest speed he burns, + With twist and dive and leap; + A bird whose sudden turns + Can drive the frightened sheep. + + Man is a bird: + Over the mountain high, + Whose head is in the skies, + Cut from its shoulder by + A cloud—the bird-man flies. + + Man is a bird: + Eagles from mountain crag + Swooped down to prove his worth; + But <i>now</i> they <i>rise</i> to drag + Him down from Heaven to earth! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WINTER'S BEAUTY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Is it not fine to walk in spring, + When leaves are born, and hear birds sing? + And when they lose their singing powers, + In summer, watch the bees at flowers? + Is it not fine, when summer's past, + To have the leaves, no longer fast, + Biting my heel where'er I go, + Or dancing lightly on my toe? + Now winter's here and rivers freeze; + As I walk out I see the trees, + Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep, + All standing in the snow so deep: + And every twig, however small, + Is blossomed white and beautiful. + Then welcome, winter, with thy power + To make this tree a big white flower; + To make this tree a lovely sight, + With fifty brown arms draped in white, + While thousands of small fingers show + In soft white gloves of purest snow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CHURCH ORGAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The homeless man has heard thy voice, + Its sound doth move his memory deep; + He stares bewildered, as a man + That's shook by earthquake in his sleep. + + Thy solemn voice doth bring to mind + The days that are forever gone: + Thou bringest to mind our early days, + Ere we made second homes or none. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HEIGH HO, THE RAIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Lark that in heaven dim + Can match a rainy hour + With his own music's shower, + Can make me sing like him— + Heigh ho! The rain! + + Sing—when a Nightingale + Pours forth her own sweet soul + To hear dread thunder roll + Into a tearful tale— + Heigh ho! The rain! + + Sing—when a Sparrow's seen + Trying to lie at rest + By pressing his warm breast + To leaves so wet and green— + Heigh ho! The rain! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE'S INSPIRATION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Give me the chance, and I will make + Thy thoughts of me, like worms this day, + Take wings and change to butterflies + That in the golden light shall play; + Thy cold, clear heart—the quiet pool + That never heard Love's nightingale— + Shall hear his music night and day, + And in no seasons shall it fail. + + I'll make thy happy heart my port, + Where all my thoughts are anchored fast; + Thy meditations, full of praise, + The flags of glory on each mast. + I'll make my Soul thy shepherd soon, + With all thy thoughts my grateful flock; + And thou shalt say, each time I go— + How long, my Love, ere thou'lt come back? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NIGHT WANDERERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They hear the bell of midnight toll, + And shiver in their flesh and soul; + They lie on hard, cold wood or stone, + Iron, and ache in every bone; + They hate the night: they see no eyes + Of loved ones in the starlit skies. + They see the cold, dark water near; + They dare not take long looks for fear + They'll fall like those poor birds that see + A snake's eyes staring at their tree. + Some of them laugh, half-mad; and some + All through the chilly night are dumb; + Like poor, weak infants some converse, + And cough like giants, deep and hoarse. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YOUNG BEAUTY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When at each door the ruffian winds + Have laid a dying man to groan, + And filled the air on winter nights + With cries of infants left alone; + And every thing that has a bed + Will sigh for others that have none: + + On such a night, when bitter cold, + Young Beauty, full of love thoughts sweet, + Can redden in her looking-glass; + With but one gown on, in bare feet, + She from her own reflected charms + Can feel the joy of summer's heat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHO I KNOW + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I do not know his grace the Duke, + Outside whose gilded gate there died + Of want a feeble, poor old man, + With but his shadow at his side. + + I do not know his Lady fair, + Who in a bath of milk doth lie; + More milk than could feed fifty babes, + That for the want of it must die. + + But well I know the mother poor, + Three pounds of flesh wrapped in her shawl: + A puny babe that, stripped at home, + Looks like a rabbit skinned, so small. + + And well I know the homeless waif, + Fed by the poorest of the poor; + Since I have seen that child alone, + Crying against a bolted door. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SWEET BIRDS, I COME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The bird that now + On bush and tree, + Near leaves so green + Looks down to see + Flowers looking up— + He either sings + In ecstasy + Or claps his wings. + + Why should I slave + For finer dress + Or ornaments; + Will flowers smile less + For rags than silk? + Are birds less dumb + For tramp than squire? + Sweet birds, I come. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TWO LIVES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now how could I, with gold to spare, + Who know the harlot's arms, and wine, + Sit in this green field all alone, + If Nature was not truly mine? + + That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn, + From heavy sleep that no rest brings: + This life of quiet joy wakes fresh, + And claps its wings at morn, and sings. + + So here sit I, alone till noon, + In one long dream of quiet bliss; + I hear the lark and share his joy, + With no more winedrops than were his. + + Such, Nature, is thy charm and power— + Since I have made the Muse my wife— + To keep me from the harlot's arms, + And save me from a drunkard's life. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HIDDEN LOVE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The bird of Fortune sings when free, + But captured, soon grows dumb; and we, + To hear his fast declining powers, + Must soon forget that he is ours. + So, when I win that maid, no doubt + Love soon will seem to be half out; + Like blighted leaves drooped to the ground, + Whose roots are still untouched and sound, + So will our love's root still be strong + When others think the leaves go wrong. + Though we may quarrel, 'twill not prove + That she and I are less in love; + The parrot, though he mocked the dove, + Died when she died, and proved his love. + When merry springtime comes, we hear + How all things into love must stir; + How birds would rather sing than eat, + How joyful sheep would rather bleat: + And daffodils nod heads of gold, + And dance in April's sparkling cold. + So in our early love did we + Dance much and skip, and laugh with glee: + But let none think our love is flown + If, when we're married, little's shown: + E'en though our lips be dumb of song, + Our hearts can still be singing strong. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LIFE IS JOLLY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This life is jolly, O! + I envy no man's lot; + My eyes can much admire, + And still my heart crave not; + There's no true joy in gold, + It breeds desire for more; + Whatever wealth man has, + Desire can keep him poor. + + This life is jolly, O! + Power has his fawning slaves, + But if he rests his mind, + Those wretches turn bold knaves. + Fame's field is full of flowers, + It dazzles as we pass, + But men who walk that field + Starve for the common grass. + + This life is jolly, O! + Let others know they die, + Enough to know I live, + And make no question why; + I care not whence I came, + Nor whither I shall go; + Let others think of these— + This life is jolly, O! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FOG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw the fog grow thick, + Which soon made blind my ken; + It made tall men of boys, + And giants of tall men. + + It clutched my throat, I coughed; + Nothing was in my head + Except two heavy eyes + Like balls of burning lead. + + And when it grew so black + That I could know no place, + I lost all judgment then, + Of distance and of space. + + The street lamps, and the lights + Upon the halted cars, + Could either be on earth + Or be the heavenly stars. + + A man passed by me close, + I asked my way, he said, + "Come, follow me, my friend"— + I followed where he led. + + He rapped the stones in front, + "Trust me," he said, "and come"; + I followed like a child— + A blind man led me home. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WOMAN'S CHARMS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My purse is yours, Sweet Heart, for I + Can count no coins with you close by; + I scorn like sailors them, when they + Have drawn on shore their deep-sea pay; + Only my thoughts I value now, + Which, like the simple glowworms, throw + Their beams to greet thee bravely, Love— + Their glorious light in Heaven above. + Since I have felt thy waves of light, + Beating against my soul, the sight + Of gems from Afric's continent + Move me to no great wonderment. + Since I, Sweet Heart, have known thine hair, + The fur of ermine, sable, bear, + Or silver fox, for me can keep + No more to praise than common sheep. + Though ten Isaiahs' souls were mine, + They could not sing such charms as thine. + Two little hands that show with pride, + Two timid, little feet that hide; + Two eyes no dark Senoras show + Their burning like in Mexico; + Two coral gates wherein is shown + Your queen of charms, on a white throne; + Your queen of charms, the lovely smile + That on its white throne could beguile + The mastiff from his gates in hell; + Who by no whine or bark could tell + His masters what thing made him go— + And countless other charms I know. + October's hedge has far less hues + Than thou hast charms from which to choose. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DREAMS OF THE SEA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know not why I yearn for thee again, + To sail once more upon thy fickle flood; + I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, + Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. + + Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel's sides + In fury, with thy many tailed whip; + And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee, + When Jesus walked in peace to Simon's ship + + And I have seen thy gentle breeze as soft + As summer's, when it makes the cornfields run; + And I have seen thy rude and lusty gale + Make ships show half their bellies to the sun. + + Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life, + Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud: + I think of that Armada whose puffed sails, + Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud. + + But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned, + Lying on shore and by thy cruel hand, + A seaweed beard was on his tender chin, + His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand. + + And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again, + To sail once more upon thy fickle flood: + I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, + Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WONDER MAKER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come, if thou'rt cold to Summer's charms, + Her clouds of green, her starry flowers, + And let this bird, this wandering bird, + Make his fine wonder yours; + He, hiding in the leaves so green, + When sampling this fair world of ours, + Cries cuckoo, clear; and like Lot's wife, + I look, though it should cost my life. + + When I can hear that charmed one's voice, + I taste of immortality; + My joy's so great that on my heart + Doth lie eternity, + As light as any little flower— + So strong a wonder works in me; + Cuckoo! he cries, and fills my soul + With all that's rich and beautiful. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HELPLESS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Those poor, heartbroken wretches, doomed + To hear at night the clocks' hard tones; + They have no beds to warm their limbs, + But with those limbs must warm cold stones; + Those poor weak men, whose coughs and ailings + Force them to tear at iron railings. + + Those helpless men that starve, my pity; + Whose waking day is never done; + Who, save for their own shadows, are + Doomed night and day to walk alone: + They know no bright face but the sun's, + So cold and dark are human ones. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EARLY LOVE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah, sweet young blood, that makes the heart + So full of joy, and light, + That dying children dance with it + From early morn till night. + + My dreams were blossoms, hers the fruit, + She was my dearest care; + With gentle hand, and for it, I + Made playthings of her hair. + + I made my fingers rings of gold, + And bangles for my wrist; + You should have felt the soft, warm thing + I made to glove my fist. + + And she should have a crown, I swore, + With only gold enough + To keep together stones more rich + Than that fine metal stuff. + + Her golden hair gave me more joy + Than Jason's heart could hold, + When all his men cried out—Ah, look! + He has the Fleece of Gold! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DREAM TRAGEDIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thou art not always kind, O sleep: + What awful secrets them dost keep + In store, and ofttimes make us know; + What hero has not fallen low + In sleep before a monster grim, + And whined for mercy unto him; + Knights, constables, and men-at-arms + Have quailed and whined in sleep's alarms. + Thou wert not kind last night to make + Me like a very coward shake— + Shake like a thin red-currant bush + Robbed of its fruit by a strong thrush. + I felt this earth did move; more slow, + And slower yet began to go; + And not a bird was heard to sing, + Men and great beasts were shivering; + All living things knew well that when + This earth stood still, destruction then + Would follow with a mighty crash. + 'Twas then I broke that awful hush: + E'en as a mother, who does come + Running in haste back to her home, + And looks at once, and lo, the child + She left asleep is gone; and wild + She shrieks and loud—so did I break + With a mad cry that dream, and wake. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHILDREN AT PLAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I hear a merry noise indeed: + Is it the geese and ducks that take + Their first plunge in a quiet pond + That into scores of ripples break— + Or children make this merry sound? + + I see an oak tree, its strong back + Could not be bent an inch though all + Its leaves were stone, or iron even: + A boy, with many a lusty call, + Rides on a bough bareback through Heaven. + + I see two children dig a hole + And plant in it a cherry-stone: + "We'll come to-morrow," one child said— + "And then the tree will be full grown, + And all its boughs have cherries red." + + Ah, children, what a life to lead: + You love the flowers, but when they're past + No flowers are missed by your bright eyes; + And when cold winter comes at last, + Snowflakes shall be your butterflies. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN THE CUCKOO SINGS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In summer, when the Cuckoo sings, + And clouds like greater moons can shine; + When every leafy tree doth hold + A loving heart that beats with mine: + Now, when the Brook has cresses green, + As well as stones, to check his pace; + And, if the Owl appears, he's forced + By small birds to some hiding-place: + Then, like red Robin in the spring, + I shun those haunts where men are found; + My house holds little joy until + Leaves fall and birds can make no sound; + Let none invade that wilderness + Into whose dark green depths I go— + Save some fine lady, all in white, + Comes like a pillar of pure snow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RETURN TO NATURE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My song is of that city which + Has men too poor and men too rich; + Where some are sick, too richly fed, + While others take the sparrows' bread: + Where some have beds to warm their bones, + While others sleep on hard, cold stones + That suck away their bodies' heat. + Where men are drunk in every street; + Men full of poison, like those flies + That still attack the horses' eyes. + Where some men freeze for want of cloth, + While others show their jewels' worth + And dress in satin, fur or silk; + Where fine rich ladies wash in milk, + While starving mothers have no food + To make them fit in flesh and blood; + So that their watery breasts can give + Their babies milk and make them live. + Where one man does the work of four, + And dies worn out before his hour; + While some seek work in vain, and grief + Doth make their fretful lives as brief. + Where ragged men are seen to wait + For charity that's small and late; + While others haunt in idle leisure, + Theatre doors to pay for pleasure. + No more I'll walk those crowded places + And take hot dreams from harlots' faces; + I'll know no more those passions' dreams, + While musing near these quiet streams; + That biting state of savage lust + Which, true love absent, burns to dust. + Gold's rattle shall not rob my ears + Of this sweet music of the spheres. + I'll walk abroad with fancy free; + Each leafy, summer's morn I'll see + The trees, all legs or bodies, when + They vary in their shapes like men. + I'll walk abroad and see again + How quiet pools are pricked by rain; + And you shall hear a song as sweet + As when green leaves and raindrops meet. + I'll hear the Nightingale's fine mood, + Rattling with thunder in the wood, + Made bolder by each mighty crash; + Who drives her notes with every flash + Of lightning through the summer's night. + No more I'll walk in that pale light + That shows the homeless man awake, + Ragged and cold; harlot and rake, + That have their hearts in rags, and die + Before that poor wretch they pass by. + Nay, I have found a life so fine + That every moment seems divine; + By shunning all those pleasures full, + That bring repentance cold and dull. + Such misery seen in days gone by, + That, made a coward, now I fly + To green things, like a bird. Alas! + In days gone by I could not pass + Ten men but what the eyes of one + Would burn me for no kindness done; + And wretched women I passed by + Sent after me a moan or sigh. + Ah, wretched days: for in that place + My soul's leaves sought the human face, + And not the Sun's for warmth and light— + And so was never free from blight. + But seek me now, and you will find + Me on some soft green bank reclined; + Watching the stately deer close by, + That in a great deep hollow lie + Shaking their tails with all the ease + That lambs can. First, look for the trees, + Then, if you seek me, find me quick. + Seek me no more where men are thick, + But in green lanes where I can walk + A mile, and still no human folk + Tread on my shadow. Seek me where + The strange oak tree is, that can bear + One white-leaved branch among the green— + Which many a woodman has not seen. + If you would find me, go where cows + And sheep stand under shady boughs; + Where furious squirrels shake a tree + As though they'd like to bury me + Under a leaf shower heavy, and + I laugh at them for spite, and stand. + Seek me no more in human ways— + Who am a coward since those days + My mind was burned by poor men's eyes, + And frozen by poor women's sighs. + Then send your pearls across the sea, + Your feathers, scent and ivory, + You distant lands—but let my bales + Be brought by Cuckoos, Nightingales, + That come in spring from your far shores; + Sweet birds that carry richer stores + Than men can dream of, when they prize + Fine silks and pearls for merchandise; + And dream of ships that take the floods + Sunk to their decks with such vain goods; + Bringing that traitor silk, whose soft + Smooth tongue persuades the poor too oft + From sweet content; and pearls, whose fires + Make ashes of our best desires. + For I have heard the sighs and whines + Of rich men that drink costly wines + And eat the best of fish and fowl; + Men that have plenty, and still growl + Because they cannot like kings live— + "Alas!" they whine, "we cannot save." + Since I have heard those rich ones sigh, + Made poor by their desires so high, + I cherish more a simple mind; + That I am well content to find + My pictures in the open air, + And let my walls and floors go bare; + That I with lovely things can fill + My rooms, whene'er sweet Fancy will. + I make a fallen tree my chair, + And soon forget no cushion's there; + I lie upon the grass or straw, + And no soft down do I sigh for; + For with me all the time I keep + Sweet dreams that, do I wake or sleep, + Shed on me still their kindly beams; + Aye, I am richer with my dreams + Than banks where men dull-eyed and cold + Without a tremble shovel gold. + A happy life is this. I walk + And hear more birds than people talk; + I hear the birds that sing unseen, + On boughs now smothered with leaves green; + I sit and watch the swallows there, + Making a circus in the air; + That speed around straight-going crow, + As sharks around a ship can go; + I hear the skylark out of sight, + Hid perfectly in all this light. + The dappled cows in fields I pass, + Up to their bosoms in deep grass; + Old oak trees, with their bowels gone, + I see with spring's green finery on. + I watch the buzzing bees for hours, + To see them rush at laughing flowers— + And butterflies that lie so still. + I see great houses on the hill, + With shining roofs; and there shines one, + It seems that heaven has dropped the sun. + I see yon cloudlet sail the skies, + Racing with clouds ten times its size. + I walk green pathways, where love waits + To talk in whispers at old gates; + Past stiles—on which I lean, alone— + Carved with the names of lovers gone; + I stand on arches whose dark stones + Can turn the wind's soft sighs to groans. + I hear the Cuckoo when first he + Makes this green world's discovery, + And re-creates it in my mind, + Proving my eyes were growing blind. + I see the rainbow come forth clear + And wave her coloured scarf to cheer + The sun long swallowed by a flood— + So do I live in lane and wood. + Let me look forward to each spring + As eager as the birds that sing; + And feed my eyes on spring's young flowers + Before the bees by many hours, + My heart to leap and sing her praise + Before the birds by many days. + Go white my hair and skin go dry— + But let my heart a dewdrop lie + Inside those leaves when they go wrong, + As fresh as when my life was young. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A STRANGE CITY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A wondrous city, that had temples there + More rich than that one built by David's son, + Which called forth Ophir's gold, when Israel + Made Lebanon half naked for her sake. + I saw white towers where so-called traitors died— + True men whose tongues were bells to honest hearts, + And rang out boldly in false monarch's ears. + Saw old black gateways, on whose arches crouched + Stone lions with their bodies gnawed by age. + I looked with awe on iron gates that could + Tell bloody stones if they had our tongues. + I saw tall mounted spires shine in the sun, + That stood amidst their army of low streets. + I saw in buildings pictures, statues rare, + Made in those days when Rome was young, and new + In marble quarried from Carrara's hills; + Statues by sculptors that could almost make + Fine cobwebs out of stone—so light they worked. + Pictures that breathe in us a living soul, + Such as we seldom feel come from that life + The artist copies. Many a lovely sight— + Such as the half sunk barge with bales of hay, + Or sparkling coals—employed my wondering eyes. + I saw old Thames, whose ripples swarmed with stars + Bred by the sun on that fine summer's day; + I saw in fancy fowl and green banks there, + And Liza's barge rowed past a thousand swans. + I walked in parks and heard sweet music cry + In solemn courtyards, midst the men-at-arms; + Which suddenly would leap those stony walls + And spring up with loud laughter into trees. + I walked in busy streets where music oft + Went on the march with men; and ofttimes heard + The organ in cathedral, when the boys + Like nightingales sang in that thunderstorm; + The organ, with its rich and solemn tones— + As near a God's voice as a man conceives; + Nor ever dreamt the silent misery + That solemn organ brought to homeless men. + I heard the drums and soft brass instruments, + Led by the silver cornets clear and high— + Whose sounds turned playing children into stones. + + I saw at night the City's lights shine bright, + A greater milky way; how in its spell + It fascinated with ten thousand eyes; + Like those sweet wiles of an enchantress who + Would still detain her knight gone cold in love; + It was an iceberg with long arms unseen, + That felt the deep for vessels far away. + All things seemed strange, I stared like any child + That pores on some old face and sees a world + Which its familiar granddad and his dame + Hid with their love and laughter until then. + My feet had not yet felt the cruel rocks + Beneath the pleasant moss I seemed to tread. + But soon my ears grew weary of that din, + My eyes grew tired of all that flesh and stone; + And, as a snail that crawls on a smooth stalk, + Will reach the end and find a sharpened thorn— + So did I reach the cruel end at last. + I saw the starving mother and her child, + Who feared that Death would surely end its sleep, + And cursed the wolf of Hunger with her moans. + And yet, methought, when first I entered there, + Into that city with my wondering mind, + How marvellous its many sights and sounds; + The traffic with its sound of heavy seas + That have and would again unseat the rocks. + How common then seemed Nature's hills and fields + Compared with these high domes and even streets, + And churches with white towers and bodies black. + The traffic's sound was music to my ears; + A sound of where the white waves, hour by hour, + Attack a reef of coral rising yet; + Or where a mighty warship in a fog, + Steams into a large fleet of little boats. + Aye, and that fog was strange and wonderful, + That made men blind and grope their way at noon. + I saw that City with fierce human surge, + With millions of dark waves that still spread out + To swallow more of their green boundaries. + Then came a day that noise so stirred my soul, + I called them hellish sounds, and thought red war + Was better far than peace in such a town. + + To hear that din all day, sometimes my mind + Went crazed, and it seemed strange, as I were lost + In some vast forest full of chattering apes. + How sick I grew to hear that lasting noise, + And all those people forced across my sight, + Knowing the acres of green fields and woods + That in some country parts outnumbered men; + In half an hour ten thousand men I passed— + More than nine thousand should have been green trees. + There on a summer's day I saw such crowds + That where there was no man man's shadow was; + Millions all cramped together in one hive, + Storing, methought, more bitter stuff than sweet. + The air was foul and stale; from their green homes + Young blood had brought its fresh and rosy cheeks, + Which soon turned colour, like blue streams in flood. + Aye, solitude, black solitude indeed, + To meet a million souls and know not one; + This world must soon grow stale to one compelled + To look all day at faces strange and cold. + Oft full of smoke that town; its summer's day + Was darker than a summer's night at sea; + Poison was there, and still men rushed for it, + Like cows for acorns that have made them sick. + That town was rich and old; man's flesh was cheap, + But common earth was dear to buy one foot. + If I must be fenced in, then let my fence + Be some green hedgerow; under its green sprays, + That shake suspended, let me walk in joy— + As I do now, in these dear months I love. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Foliage, by William H. 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Davies + + +Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9323] +This file was first posted on September 22, 2003 +Last Updated: May 16, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLIAGE *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tonya Allen, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + +FOLIAGE + +VARIOUS POEMS + +BY + +WILLIAM H. DAVIES + +1913 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +THUNDERSTORMS + +STRONG MOMENTS + +A GREETING + +SWEET STAY-AT-HOME + +THE STARVED + +A MAY MORNING + +THE LONELY DREAMER + +CHRISTMAS + +LAUGHING ROSE + +SEEKING JOY + +THE OLD OAK TREE + +POOR KINGS + +LOVE AND THE MUST + +MY YOUTH + +SMILES + +MAD POLL + +JOY SUPREME + +FRANCIS THOMPSON + +THE BIRD-MAN + +WINTER'S BEAUTY + +THE CHURCH ORGAN + +HEIGH HO, THE RAIN + +LOVE'S INSPIRATION + +NIGHT WANDERERS + +YOUNG BEAUTY + +WHO I KNOW + +SWEET BIRDS, I COME + +THE TWO LIVES + +HIDDEN LOVE + +LIFE IS JOLLY + +THE FOG + +A WOMAN'S CHARMS + +DREAMS OF THE SEA + +THE WONDER-MAKER + +THE HELPLESS + +AN EARLY LOVE + +DREAM TRAGEDIES + +CHILDREN AT PLAY + +WHEN THE CUCKOO SINGS + +RETURN TO NATURE + +A STRANGE CITY + + + + + +THUNDERSTORMS + + + My mind has thunderstorms, + That brood for heavy hours: + Until they rain me words, + My thoughts are drooping flowers + And sulking, silent birds. + + Yet come, dark thunderstorms, + And brood your heavy hours; + For when you rain me words, + My thoughts are dancing flowers + And joyful singing birds. + + + + +STRONG MOMENTS + + + Sometimes I hear fine ladies sing, + Sometimes I smoke and drink with men; + Sometimes I play at games of cards-- + Judge me to be no strong man then. + + The strongest moment of my life + Is when I think about the poor; + When, like a spring that rain has fed, + My pity rises more and more. + + The flower that loves the warmth and light, + Has all its mornings bathed in dew; + My heart has moments wet with tears, + My weakness is they are so few. + + + + +A GREETING + + + Good morning, Life--and all + Things glad and beautiful. + My pockets nothing hold, + But he that owns the gold, + The Sun, is my great friend-- + His spending has no end. + + Hail to the morning sky, + Which bright clouds measure high; + Hail to you birds whose throats + Would number leaves by notes; + Hail to you shady bowers, + And you green fields of flowers. + + Hail to you women fair, + That make a show so rare + In cloth as white as milk-- + Be't calico or silk: + Good morning, Life--and all + Things glad and beautiful. + + + + +SWEET STAY-AT-HOME + + + Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, + Thou knowest of no strange continent: + Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep + A gentle motion with the deep; + Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, + Where scent comes forth in every breeze. + Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow + For miles, as far as eyes can go; + Thou hast not seen a summer's night + When maids could sew by a worm's light; + Nor the North Sea in spring send out + Bright hues that like birds flit about + In solid cages of white ice-- + Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place. + Thou hast not seen black fingers pick + White cotton when the bloom is thick, + Nor heard black throats in harmony; + Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie + Flat on the earth, that once did rise + To hide proud kings from common eyes, + Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom + Where green things had such little room + They pleased the eye like fairer flowers-- + Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours. + Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place, + Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face; + For thou hast made more homely stuff + Nurture thy gentle self enough; + I love thee for a heart that's kind-- + Not for the knowledge in thy mind. + + + + +THE STARVED + + + My little Lamb, what is amiss? + If there was milk in mother's kiss, + You would not look as white as this. + + The wolf of Hunger, it is he + That takes away thy milk from me, + And I have much to do for thee. + + If thou couldst live on love, I know + No babe in all the land could show + More rosy cheeks and louder crow. + + Thy father's dead, Alas for thee: + I cannot keep this wolf from me, + That takes thy milk so bold and free. + + If thy dear father lived, he'd drive + Away this beast with whom I strive, + And thou, my pretty Lamb, wouldst thrive. + + Ah, my poor babe, my love's so great + I'd swallow common rags for meat-- + If they could make milk rich and sweet. + + My little Lamb, what is amiss? + Come, I must wake thee with a kiss, + For Death would own a sleep like this. + + + + +A MAY MORNING + + The sky is clear, + The sun is bright; + The cows are red, + The sheep are white; + Trees in the meadows + Make happy shadows. + + Birds in the hedge + Are perched and sing; + Swallows and larks + Are on the wing: + Two merry cuckoos + Are making echoes. + + Bird and the beast + Have the dew yet; + My road shines dry, + Theirs bright and wet: + Death gives no warning, + On this May morning. + + I see no Christ + Nailed on a tree, + Dying for sin; + No sin I see: + No thoughts for sadness, + All thoughts for gladness. + + + + +THE LONELY DREAMER + + + He lives his lonely life, and when he dies + A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs; + Because they liked his songs, and now their bird + Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard. + + But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring + Those blossoms there, of which he used to sing? + Who'll kiss his mound, and wish the time would come + To lie with him inside that silent tomb? + + And who'll forget the dreamer's skill, and shed + A tear because a loving heart is dead? + Heigh ho for gossip then, and common sighs-- + And let his death bring tears in no one's eyes. + + + + +CHRISTMAS + + + Christmas has come, let's eat and drink-- + This is no time to sit and think; + Farewell to study, books and pen, + And welcome to all kinds of men. + Let all men now get rid of care, + And what one has let others share; + Then 'tis the same, no matter which + Of us is poor, or which is rich. + Let each man have enough this day, + Since those that can are glad to pay; + There's nothing now too rich or good + For poor men, not the King's own food. + Now like a singing bird my feet + Touch earth, and I must drink and eat. + Welcome to all men: I'll not care + What any of my fellows wear; + We'll not let cloth divide our souls, + They'll swim stark naked in the bowls. + Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see + That hand of yours dislodge a flea,-- + While you sit at my side and beg, + Or right foot scratching your left leg. + Farewell restraint: we will not now + Measure the ale our brains allow, + But drink as much as we can hold. + We'll count no change when we spend gold; + This is no time to save, but spend, + To give for nothing, not to lend. + Let foes make friends: let them forget + The mischief-making dead that fret + The living with complaint like this-- + "He wronged us once, hate him and his." + Christmas has come; let every man + Eat, drink, be merry all he can. + Ale's my best mark, but if port wine + Or whisky's yours--let it be mine; + No matter what lies in the bowls, + We'll make it rich with our own souls. + Farewell to study, books and pen, + And welcome to all kinds of men. + + + + +LAUGHING ROSE + + + If I were gusty April now, + How I would blow at laughing Rose; + I'd make her ribbons slip their knots, + And all her hair come loose. + + If I were merry April now, + How I would pelt her cheeks with showers; + I'd make carnations, rich and warm, + Of her vermilion flowers. + + Since she will laugh in April's face, + No matter how he rains or blows-- + Then O that I wild April were, + To play with laughing Rose. + + + + +SEEKING JOY + + + Joy, how I sought thee! + Silver I spent and gold, + On the pleasures of this world, + In splendid garments clad; + The wine I drank was sweet, + Rich morsels I did eat-- + Oh, but my life was sad! + Joy, how I sought thee! + + Joy, I have found thee! + Far from the halls of Mirth, + Back to the soft green earth, + Where people are not many; + I find thee, Joy, in hours + With clouds, and birds, and flowers-- + Thou dost not charge one penny. + Joy, I have found thee! + + + + +THE OLD OAK TREE + + + I sit beneath your leaves, old oak, + You mighty one of all the trees; + Within whose hollow trunk a man + Could stable his big horse with ease. + + I see your knuckles hard and strong, + But have no fear they'll come to blows; + Your life is long, and mine is short, + But which has known the greater woes? + + Thou has not seen starved women here, + Or man gone mad because ill-fed-- + Who stares at stones in city streets, + Mistaking them for hunks of bread. + + Thou hast not felt the shivering backs + Of homeless children lying down + And sleeping in the cold, night air-- + Like doors and walls in London town. + + Knowing thou hast not known such shame, + And only storms have come thy way, + Methinks I could in comfort spend + My summer with thee, day by day. + + To lie by day in thy green shade, + And in thy hollow rest at night; + And through the open doorway see + The stars turn over leaves of light. + + + + +POOR KINGS + + + God's pity on poor kings, + They know no gentle rest; + The North and South cry out, + Cries come from East and West-- + "Come, open this new Dock, + Building, Bazaar or Fair." + Lord, what a wretched life + Such men must bear. + + They're followed, watched and spied, + No liberty they know; + Some eye will watch them still, + No matter where they go. + When in green lanes I muse, + Alone, and hear birds sing, + God's pity then, say I, + On some poor king. + + + + +LOVE AND THE MUSE + + + My back is turned on Spring and all her flowers, + The birds no longer charm from tree to tree; + The cuckoo had his home in this green world + Ten days before his voice was heard by me. + + Had I an answer from a dear one's lips, + My love of life would soon regain its power; + And suckle my sweet dreams, that tug my heart, + And whimper to be nourished every hour. + + Give me that answer now, and then my Muse, + That for my sweet life's sake must never die, + Will rise like that great wave that leaps and hangs + The sea-weed on a vessel's mast-top high. + + + + +MY YOUTH + + + My youth was my old age, + Weary and long; + It had too many cares + To think of song; + My moulting days all came + When I was young. + + Now, in life's prime, my soul + Comes out in flower; + Late, as with Robin, comes + My singing power; + I was not born to joy + Till this late hour. + + + + +SMILES + + + I saw a black girl once, + As black as winter's night; + Till through her parted lips + There came a flood of light; + It was the milky way + Across her face so black: + Her two lips closed again, + And night came back. + + I see a maiden now, + Fair as a summer's day; + Yet through her parted lips + I see the milky way; + It makes the broad daylight + In summer time look black: + Her two lips close again, + And night comes back. + + + + +MAD POLL + + + There goes mad Poll, dressed in wild flowers, + Poor, crazy Poll, now old and wan; + Her hair all down, like any child: + She swings her two arms like a man. + + Poor, crazy Poll is never sad, + She never misses one that dies; + When neighbours show their new-born babes, + They seem familiar to her eyes. + + Her bonnet's always in her hand, + Or on the ground, and lying near; + She thinks it is a thing for play, + Or pretty show, and not to wear. + + She gives the sick no sympathy, + She never soothes a child that cries; + She never whimpers, night or day, + She makes no moans, she makes no sighs. + + She talks about some battle old, + Fought many a day from yesterday; + And when that war is done, her love-- + "Ha, ha!" Poll laughs, and skips away. + + + + +JOY SUPREME + + + The birds are pirates of her notes, + The blossoms steal her face's light; + The stars in ambush lie all day, + To take her glances for the night. + Her voice can shame rain-pelted leaves; + Young robin has no notes as sweet + In autumn, when the air is still, + And all the other birds are mute. + + When I set eyes on ripe, red plums + That seem a sin and shame to bite, + Such are her lips, which I would kiss, + And still would keep before my sight. + When I behold proud gossamer + Make silent billows in the air, + Then think I of her head's fine stuff, + Finer than gossamer's, I swear. + + The miser has his joy, with gold + Beneath his pillow in the night; + My head shall lie on soft warm hair, + And miser's know not that delight. + Captains that own their ships can boast + Their joy to feel the rolling brine-- + But I shall lie near her, and feel + Her soft warm bosom swell on mine. + + + + +FRANCIS THOMPSON + + + Thou hadst no home, and thou couldst see + In every street the windows' light: + Dragging thy limbs about all night, + No window kept a light for thee. + + However much thou wert distressed, + Or tired of moving, and felt sick, + Thy life was on the open deck-- + Thou hadst no cabin for thy rest. + + Thy barque was helpless 'neath the sky, + No pilot thought thee worth his pains + To guide for love or money gains-- + Like phantom ships the rich sailed by. + + Thy shadow mocked thee night and day, + Thy life's companion, it alone; + It did not sigh, it did not moan, + But mocked thy moves in every way. + + In spite of all, the mind had force, + And, like a stream whose surface flows + The wrong way when a strong wind blows, + It underneath maintained its course. + + Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower + Too late for good, as some bruised tree + That blooms in Autumn, and we see + Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour. + + Some poets _feign_ their wounds and scars. + If they had known real suffering hours, + They'd show, in place of Fancy's flowers, + More of Imagination's stars. + + So, if thy fruits of Poesy + Are rich, it is at this dear cost-- + That they were nipt by Sorrow's frost, + In nights of homeless misery. + + + + +THE BIRD-MAN + + + Man is a bird: + He rises on fine wings + Into the Heaven's clear light; + He flies away and sings-- + There's music in his flight. + + Man is a bird: + In swiftest speed he burns, + With twist and dive and leap; + A bird whose sudden turns + Can drive the frightened sheep. + + Man is a bird: + Over the mountain high, + Whose head is in the skies, + Cut from its shoulder by + A cloud--the bird-man flies. + + Man is a bird: + Eagles from mountain crag + Swooped down to prove his worth; + But _now_ they _rise_ to drag + Him down from Heaven to earth! + + + + +WINTER'S BEAUTY + + + Is it not fine to walk in spring, + When leaves are born, and hear birds sing? + And when they lose their singing powers, + In summer, watch the bees at flowers? + Is it not fine, when summer's past, + To have the leaves, no longer fast, + Biting my heel where'er I go, + Or dancing lightly on my toe? + Now winter's here and rivers freeze; + As I walk out I see the trees, + Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep, + All standing in the snow so deep: + And every twig, however small, + Is blossomed white and beautiful. + Then welcome, winter, with thy power + To make this tree a big white flower; + To make this tree a lovely sight, + With fifty brown arms draped in white, + While thousands of small fingers show + In soft white gloves of purest snow. + + + + +THE CHURCH ORGAN + + + The homeless man has heard thy voice, + Its sound doth move his memory deep; + He stares bewildered, as a man + That's shook by earthquake in his sleep. + + Thy solemn voice doth bring to mind + The days that are forever gone: + Thou bringest to mind our early days, + Ere we made second homes or none. + + + + +HEIGH HO, THE RAIN + + + The Lark that in heaven dim + Can match a rainy hour + With his own music's shower, + Can make me sing like him-- + Heigh ho! The rain! + + Sing--when a Nightingale + Pours forth her own sweet soul + To hear dread thunder roll + Into a tearful tale-- + Heigh ho! The rain! + + Sing--when a Sparrow's seen + Trying to lie at rest + By pressing his warm breast + To leaves so wet and green-- + Heigh ho! The rain! + + + + +LOVE'S INSPIRATION + + + Give me the chance, and I will make + Thy thoughts of me, like worms this day, + Take wings and change to butterflies + That in the golden light shall play; + Thy cold, clear heart--the quiet pool + That never heard Love's nightingale-- + Shall hear his music night and day, + And in no seasons shall it fail. + + I'll make thy happy heart my port, + Where all my thoughts are anchored fast; + Thy meditations, full of praise, + The flags of glory on each mast. + I'll make my Soul thy shepherd soon, + With all thy thoughts my grateful flock; + And thou shalt say, each time I go-- + How long, my Love, ere thou'lt come back? + + + + +NIGHT WANDERERS + + + They hear the bell of midnight toll, + And shiver in their flesh and soul; + They lie on hard, cold wood or stone, + Iron, and ache in every bone; + They hate the night: they see no eyes + Of loved ones in the starlit skies. + They see the cold, dark water near; + They dare not take long looks for fear + They'll fall like those poor birds that see + A snake's eyes staring at their tree. + Some of them laugh, half-mad; and some + All through the chilly night are dumb; + Like poor, weak infants some converse, + And cough like giants, deep and hoarse. + + + + +YOUNG BEAUTY + + + When at each door the ruffian winds + Have laid a dying man to groan, + And filled the air on winter nights + With cries of infants left alone; + And every thing that has a bed + Will sigh for others that have none: + + On such a night, when bitter cold, + Young Beauty, full of love thoughts sweet, + Can redden in her looking-glass; + With but one gown on, in bare feet, + She from her own reflected charms + Can feel the joy of summer's heat. + + + + +WHO I KNOW + + + I do not know his grace the Duke, + Outside whose gilded gate there died + Of want a feeble, poor old man, + With but his shadow at his side. + + I do not know his Lady fair, + Who in a bath of milk doth lie; + More milk than could feed fifty babes, + That for the want of it must die. + + But well I know the mother poor, + Three pounds of flesh wrapped in her shawl: + A puny babe that, stripped at home, + Looks like a rabbit skinned, so small. + + And well I know the homeless waif, + Fed by the poorest of the poor; + Since I have seen that child alone, + Crying against a bolted door. + + + + +SWEET BIRDS, I COME + + + The bird that now + On bush and tree, + Near leaves so green + Looks down to see + Flowers looking up-- + He either sings + In ecstasy + Or claps his wings. + + Why should I slave + For finer dress + Or ornaments; + Will flowers smile less + For rags than silk? + Are birds less dumb + For tramp than squire? + Sweet birds, I come. + + + + +THE TWO LIVES + + + Now how could I, with gold to spare, + Who know the harlot's arms, and wine, + Sit in this green field all alone, + If Nature was not truly mine? + + That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn, + From heavy sleep that no rest brings: + This life of quiet joy wakes fresh, + And claps its wings at morn, and sings. + + So here sit I, alone till noon, + In one long dream of quiet bliss; + I hear the lark and share his joy, + With no more winedrops than were his. + + Such, Nature, is thy charm and power-- + Since I have made the Muse my wife-- + To keep me from the harlot's arms, + And save me from a drunkard's life. + + + + +HIDDEN LOVE + + + The bird of Fortune sings when free, + But captured, soon grows dumb; and we, + To hear his fast declining powers, + Must soon forget that he is ours. + So, when I win that maid, no doubt + Love soon will seem to be half out; + Like blighted leaves drooped to the ground, + Whose roots are still untouched and sound, + So will our love's root still be strong + When others think the leaves go wrong. + Though we may quarrel, 'twill not prove + That she and I are less in love; + The parrot, though he mocked the dove, + Died when she died, and proved his love. + When merry springtime comes, we hear + How all things into love must stir; + How birds would rather sing than eat, + How joyful sheep would rather bleat: + And daffodils nod heads of gold, + And dance in April's sparkling cold. + So in our early love did we + Dance much and skip, and laugh with glee: + But let none think our love is flown + If, when we're married, little's shown: + E'en though our lips be dumb of song, + Our hearts can still be singing strong. + + + + +LIFE IS JOLLY + + + This life is jolly, O! + I envy no man's lot; + My eyes can much admire, + And still my heart crave not; + There's no true joy in gold, + It breeds desire for more; + Whatever wealth man has, + Desire can keep him poor. + + This life is jolly, O! + Power has his fawning slaves, + But if he rests his mind, + Those wretches turn bold knaves. + Fame's field is full of flowers, + It dazzles as we pass, + But men who walk that field + Starve for the common grass. + + This life is jolly, O! + Let others know they die, + Enough to know I live, + And make no question why; + I care not whence I came, + Nor whither I shall go; + Let others think of these-- + This life is jolly, O! + + + + +THE FOG + + + I saw the fog grow thick, + Which soon made blind my ken; + It made tall men of boys, + And giants of tall men. + + It clutched my throat, I coughed; + Nothing was in my head + Except two heavy eyes + Like balls of burning lead. + + And when it grew so black + That I could know no place, + I lost all judgment then, + Of distance and of space. + + The street lamps, and the lights + Upon the halted cars, + Could either be on earth + Or be the heavenly stars. + + A man passed by me close, + I asked my way, he said, + "Come, follow me, my friend"-- + I followed where he led. + + He rapped the stones in front, + "Trust me," he said, "and come"; + I followed like a child-- + A blind man led me home. + + + + +A WOMAN'S CHARMS + + + My purse is yours, Sweet Heart, for I + Can count no coins with you close by; + I scorn like sailors them, when they + Have drawn on shore their deep-sea pay; + Only my thoughts I value now, + Which, like the simple glowworms, throw + Their beams to greet thee bravely, Love-- + Their glorious light in Heaven above. + Since I have felt thy waves of light, + Beating against my soul, the sight + Of gems from Afric's continent + Move me to no great wonderment. + Since I, Sweet Heart, have known thine hair, + The fur of ermine, sable, bear, + Or silver fox, for me can keep + No more to praise than common sheep. + Though ten Isaiahs' souls were mine, + They could not sing such charms as thine. + Two little hands that show with pride, + Two timid, little feet that hide; + Two eyes no dark Senoras show + Their burning like in Mexico; + Two coral gates wherein is shown + Your queen of charms, on a white throne; + Your queen of charms, the lovely smile + That on its white throne could beguile + The mastiff from his gates in hell; + Who by no whine or bark could tell + His masters what thing made him go-- + And countless other charms I know. + October's hedge has far less hues + Than thou hast charms from which to choose. + + + + +DREAMS OF THE SEA + + + I know not why I yearn for thee again, + To sail once more upon thy fickle flood; + I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, + Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. + + Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel's sides + In fury, with thy many tailed whip; + And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee, + When Jesus walked in peace to Simon's ship + + And I have seen thy gentle breeze as soft + As summer's, when it makes the cornfields run; + And I have seen thy rude and lusty gale + Make ships show half their bellies to the sun. + + Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life, + Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud: + I think of that Armada whose puffed sails, + Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud. + + But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned, + Lying on shore and by thy cruel hand, + A seaweed beard was on his tender chin, + His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand. + + And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again, + To sail once more upon thy fickle flood: + I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed, + Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood. + + + + + +THE WONDER MAKER + + + Come, if thou'rt cold to Summer's charms, + Her clouds of green, her starry flowers, + And let this bird, this wandering bird, + Make his fine wonder yours; + He, hiding in the leaves so green, + When sampling this fair world of ours, + Cries cuckoo, clear; and like Lot's wife, + I look, though it should cost my life. + + When I can hear that charmed one's voice, + I taste of immortality; + My joy's so great that on my heart + Doth lie eternity, + As light as any little flower-- + So strong a wonder works in me; + Cuckoo! he cries, and fills my soul + With all that's rich and beautiful. + + + + +THE HELPLESS + + + Those poor, heartbroken wretches, doomed + To hear at night the clocks' hard tones; + They have no beds to warm their limbs, + But with those limbs must warm cold stones; + Those poor weak men, whose coughs and ailings + Force them to tear at iron railings. + + Those helpless men that starve, my pity; + Whose waking day is never done; + Who, save for their own shadows, are + Doomed night and day to walk alone: + They know no bright face but the sun's, + So cold and dark are human ones. + + + + +AN EARLY LOVE + + + Ah, sweet young blood, that makes the heart + So full of joy, and light, + That dying children dance with it + From early morn till night. + + My dreams were blossoms, hers the fruit, + She was my dearest care; + With gentle hand, and for it, I + Made playthings of her hair. + + I made my fingers rings of gold, + And bangles for my wrist; + You should have felt the soft, warm thing + I made to glove my fist. + + And she should have a crown, I swore, + With only gold enough + To keep together stones more rich + Than that fine metal stuff. + + Her golden hair gave me more joy + Than Jason's heart could hold, + When all his men cried out--Ah, look! + He has the Fleece of Gold! + + + + +DREAM TRAGEDIES + + + Thou art not always kind, O sleep: + What awful secrets them dost keep + In store, and ofttimes make us know; + What hero has not fallen low + In sleep before a monster grim, + And whined for mercy unto him; + Knights, constables, and men-at-arms + Have quailed and whined in sleep's alarms. + Thou wert not kind last night to make + Me like a very coward shake-- + Shake like a thin red-currant bush + Robbed of its fruit by a strong thrush. + I felt this earth did move; more slow, + And slower yet began to go; + And not a bird was heard to sing, + Men and great beasts were shivering; + All living things knew well that when + This earth stood still, destruction then + Would follow with a mighty crash. + 'Twas then I broke that awful hush: + E'en as a mother, who does come + Running in haste back to her home, + And looks at once, and lo, the child + She left asleep is gone; and wild + She shrieks and loud--so did I break + With a mad cry that dream, and wake. + + + + +CHILDREN AT PLAY + + + I hear a merry noise indeed: + Is it the geese and ducks that take + Their first plunge in a quiet pond + That into scores of ripples break-- + Or children make this merry sound? + + I see an oak tree, its strong back + Could not be bent an inch though all + Its leaves were stone, or iron even: + A boy, with many a lusty call, + Rides on a bough bareback through Heaven. + + I see two children dig a hole + And plant in it a cherry-stone: + "We'll come to-morrow," one child said-- + "And then the tree will be full grown, + And all its boughs have cherries red." + + Ah, children, what a life to lead: + You love the flowers, but when they're past + No flowers are missed by your bright eyes; + And when cold winter comes at last, + Snowflakes shall be your butterflies. + + + + +WHEN THE CUCKOO SINGS + + + In summer, when the Cuckoo sings, + And clouds like greater moons can shine; + When every leafy tree doth hold + A loving heart that beats with mine: + Now, when the Brook has cresses green, + As well as stones, to check his pace; + And, if the Owl appears, he's forced + By small birds to some hiding-place: + Then, like red Robin in the spring, + I shun those haunts where men are found; + My house holds little joy until + Leaves fall and birds can make no sound; + Let none invade that wilderness + Into whose dark green depths I go-- + Save some fine lady, all in white, + Comes like a pillar of pure snow. + + + + +RETURN TO NATURE + + + My song is of that city which + Has men too poor and men too rich; + Where some are sick, too richly fed, + While others take the sparrows' bread: + Where some have beds to warm their bones, + While others sleep on hard, cold stones + That suck away their bodies' heat. + Where men are drunk in every street; + Men full of poison, like those flies + That still attack the horses' eyes. + Where some men freeze for want of cloth, + While others show their jewels' worth + And dress in satin, fur or silk; + Where fine rich ladies wash in milk, + While starving mothers have no food + To make them fit in flesh and blood; + So that their watery breasts can give + Their babies milk and make them live. + Where one man does the work of four, + And dies worn out before his hour; + While some seek work in vain, and grief + Doth make their fretful lives as brief. + Where ragged men are seen to wait + For charity that's small and late; + While others haunt in idle leisure, + Theatre doors to pay for pleasure. + No more I'll walk those crowded places + And take hot dreams from harlots' faces; + I'll know no more those passions' dreams, + While musing near these quiet streams; + That biting state of savage lust + Which, true love absent, burns to dust. + Gold's rattle shall not rob my ears + Of this sweet music of the spheres. + I'll walk abroad with fancy free; + Each leafy, summer's morn I'll see + The trees, all legs or bodies, when + They vary in their shapes like men. + I'll walk abroad and see again + How quiet pools are pricked by rain; + And you shall hear a song as sweet + As when green leaves and raindrops meet. + I'll hear the Nightingale's fine mood, + Rattling with thunder in the wood, + Made bolder by each mighty crash; + Who drives her notes with every flash + Of lightning through the summer's night. + No more I'll walk in that pale light + That shows the homeless man awake, + Ragged and cold; harlot and rake, + That have their hearts in rags, and die + Before that poor wretch they pass by. + Nay, I have found a life so fine + That every moment seems divine; + By shunning all those pleasures full, + That bring repentance cold and dull. + Such misery seen in days gone by, + That, made a coward, now I fly + To green things, like a bird. Alas! + In days gone by I could not pass + Ten men but what the eyes of one + Would burn me for no kindness done; + And wretched women I passed by + Sent after me a moan or sigh. + Ah, wretched days: for in that place + My soul's leaves sought the human face, + And not the Sun's for warmth and light-- + And so was never free from blight. + But seek me now, and you will find + Me on some soft green bank reclined; + Watching the stately deer close by, + That in a great deep hollow lie + Shaking their tails with all the ease + That lambs can. First, look for the trees, + Then, if you seek me, find me quick. + Seek me no more where men are thick, + But in green lanes where I can walk + A mile, and still no human folk + Tread on my shadow. Seek me where + The strange oak tree is, that can bear + One white-leaved branch among the green-- + Which many a woodman has not seen. + If you would find me, go where cows + And sheep stand under shady boughs; + Where furious squirrels shake a tree + As though they'd like to bury me + Under a leaf shower heavy, and + I laugh at them for spite, and stand. + Seek me no more in human ways-- + Who am a coward since those days + My mind was burned by poor men's eyes, + And frozen by poor women's sighs. + Then send your pearls across the sea, + Your feathers, scent and ivory, + You distant lands--but let my bales + Be brought by Cuckoos, Nightingales, + That come in spring from your far shores; + Sweet birds that carry richer stores + Than men can dream of, when they prize + Fine silks and pearls for merchandise; + And dream of ships that take the floods + Sunk to their decks with such vain goods; + Bringing that traitor silk, whose soft + Smooth tongue persuades the poor too oft + From sweet content; and pearls, whose fires + Make ashes of our best desires. + For I have heard the sighs and whines + Of rich men that drink costly wines + And eat the best of fish and fowl; + Men that have plenty, and still growl + Because they cannot like kings live-- + "Alas!" they whine, "we cannot save." + Since I have heard those rich ones sigh, + Made poor by their desires so high, + I cherish more a simple mind; + That I am well content to find + My pictures in the open air, + And let my walls and floors go bare; + That I with lovely things can fill + My rooms, whene'er sweet Fancy will. + I make a fallen tree my chair, + And soon forget no cushion's there; + I lie upon the grass or straw, + And no soft down do I sigh for; + For with me all the time I keep + Sweet dreams that, do I wake or sleep, + Shed on me still their kindly beams; + Aye, I am richer with my dreams + Than banks where men dull-eyed and cold + Without a tremble shovel gold. + A happy life is this. I walk + And hear more birds than people talk; + I hear the birds that sing unseen, + On boughs now smothered with leaves green; + I sit and watch the swallows there, + Making a circus in the air; + That speed around straight-going crow, + As sharks around a ship can go; + I hear the skylark out of sight, + Hid perfectly in all this light. + The dappled cows in fields I pass, + Up to their bosoms in deep grass; + Old oak trees, with their bowels gone, + I see with spring's green finery on. + I watch the buzzing bees for hours, + To see them rush at laughing flowers-- + And butterflies that lie so still. + I see great houses on the hill, + With shining roofs; and there shines one, + It seems that heaven has dropped the sun. + I see yon cloudlet sail the skies, + Racing with clouds ten times its size. + I walk green pathways, where love waits + To talk in whispers at old gates; + Past stiles--on which I lean, alone-- + Carved with the names of lovers gone; + I stand on arches whose dark stones + Can turn the wind's soft sighs to groans. + I hear the Cuckoo when first he + Makes this green world's discovery, + And re-creates it in my mind, + Proving my eyes were growing blind. + I see the rainbow come forth clear + And wave her coloured scarf to cheer + The sun long swallowed by a flood-- + So do I live in lane and wood. + Let me look forward to each spring + As eager as the birds that sing; + And feed my eyes on spring's young flowers + Before the bees by many hours, + My heart to leap and sing her praise + Before the birds by many days. + Go white my hair and skin go dry-- + But let my heart a dewdrop lie + Inside those leaves when they go wrong, + As fresh as when my life was young. + + + + +A STRANGE CITY + + + A wondrous city, that had temples there + More rich than that one built by David's son, + Which called forth Ophir's gold, when Israel + Made Lebanon half naked for her sake. + I saw white towers where so-called traitors died-- + True men whose tongues were bells to honest hearts, + And rang out boldly in false monarch's ears. + Saw old black gateways, on whose arches crouched + Stone lions with their bodies gnawed by age. + I looked with awe on iron gates that could + Tell bloody stones if they had our tongues. + I saw tall mounted spires shine in the sun, + That stood amidst their army of low streets. + I saw in buildings pictures, statues rare, + Made in those days when Rome was young, and new + In marble quarried from Carrara's hills; + Statues by sculptors that could almost make + Fine cobwebs out of stone--so light they worked. + Pictures that breathe in us a living soul, + Such as we seldom feel come from that life + The artist copies. Many a lovely sight-- + Such as the half sunk barge with bales of hay, + Or sparkling coals--employed my wondering eyes. + I saw old Thames, whose ripples swarmed with stars + Bred by the sun on that fine summer's day; + I saw in fancy fowl and green banks there, + And Liza's barge rowed past a thousand swans. + I walked in parks and heard sweet music cry + In solemn courtyards, midst the men-at-arms; + Which suddenly would leap those stony walls + And spring up with loud laughter into trees. + I walked in busy streets where music oft + Went on the march with men; and ofttimes heard + The organ in cathedral, when the boys + Like nightingales sang in that thunderstorm; + The organ, with its rich and solemn tones-- + As near a God's voice as a man conceives; + Nor ever dreamt the silent misery + That solemn organ brought to homeless men. + I heard the drums and soft brass instruments, + Led by the silver cornets clear and high-- + Whose sounds turned playing children into stones. + + I saw at night the City's lights shine bright, + A greater milky way; how in its spell + It fascinated with ten thousand eyes; + Like those sweet wiles of an enchantress who + Would still detain her knight gone cold in love; + It was an iceberg with long arms unseen, + That felt the deep for vessels far away. + All things seemed strange, I stared like any child + That pores on some old face and sees a world + Which its familiar granddad and his dame + Hid with their love and laughter until then. + My feet had not yet felt the cruel rocks + Beneath the pleasant moss I seemed to tread. + But soon my ears grew weary of that din, + My eyes grew tired of all that flesh and stone; + And, as a snail that crawls on a smooth stalk, + Will reach the end and find a sharpened thorn-- + So did I reach the cruel end at last. + I saw the starving mother and her child, + Who feared that Death would surely end its sleep, + And cursed the wolf of Hunger with her moans. + And yet, methought, when first I entered there, + Into that city with my wondering mind, + How marvellous its many sights and sounds; + The traffic with its sound of heavy seas + That have and would again unseat the rocks. + How common then seemed Nature's hills and fields + Compared with these high domes and even streets, + And churches with white towers and bodies black. + The traffic's sound was music to my ears; + A sound of where the white waves, hour by hour, + Attack a reef of coral rising yet; + Or where a mighty warship in a fog, + Steams into a large fleet of little boats. + Aye, and that fog was strange and wonderful, + That made men blind and grope their way at noon. + I saw that City with fierce human surge, + With millions of dark waves that still spread out + To swallow more of their green boundaries. + Then came a day that noise so stirred my soul, + I called them hellish sounds, and thought red war + Was better far than peace in such a town. + + To hear that din all day, sometimes my mind + Went crazed, and it seemed strange, as I were lost + In some vast forest full of chattering apes. + How sick I grew to hear that lasting noise, + And all those people forced across my sight, + Knowing the acres of green fields and woods + That in some country parts outnumbered men; + In half an hour ten thousand men I passed-- + More than nine thousand should have been green trees. + There on a summer's day I saw such crowds + That where there was no man man's shadow was; + Millions all cramped together in one hive, + Storing, methought, more bitter stuff than sweet. + The air was foul and stale; from their green homes + Young blood had brought its fresh and rosy cheeks, + Which soon turned colour, like blue streams in flood. + Aye, solitude, black solitude indeed, + To meet a million souls and know not one; + This world must soon grow stale to one compelled + To look all day at faces strange and cold. + Oft full of smoke that town; its summer's day + Was darker than a summer's night at sea; + Poison was there, and still men rushed for it, + Like cows for acorns that have made them sick. + That town was rich and old; man's flesh was cheap, + But common earth was dear to buy one foot. + If I must be fenced in, then let my fence + Be some green hedgerow; under its green sprays, + That shake suspended, let me walk in joy-- + As I do now, in these dear months I love. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Foliage, by William H. 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