The Pacific, 1914
SONNET (Suggested by some of the Proceedingsof the Society for Psychical Research)
Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor treadThose dusty high-roads of the aimless deadPlaintive for Earth; but rather turn and runDown some close-covered by-way of the air,Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, findSome whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and thereSpend in pure converse our eternal day;Think each in each, immediately wise;Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and sayWhat this tumultuous body now denies;And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.
Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor treadThose dusty high-roads of the aimless deadPlaintive for Earth; but rather turn and runDown some close-covered by-way of the air,Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, findSome whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there
Spend in pure converse our eternal day;Think each in each, immediately wise;Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and sayWhat this tumultuous body now denies;And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.
CLOUDS
Down the blue night the unending columns pressIn noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snowUp to the white moon's hidden loveliness.Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,As who would pray good for the world, but knowTheir benediction empty as they bless.They say that the Dead die not, but remainNear to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,In wise majestic melancholy train,And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,And men, coming and going on the earth.
Down the blue night the unending columns pressIn noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snowUp to the white moon's hidden loveliness.Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,As who would pray good for the world, but knowTheir benediction empty as they bless.
They say that the Dead die not, but remainNear to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,In wise majestic melancholy train,And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,And men, coming and going on the earth.
The Pacific,October1913
MUTABILITY
They say there's a high windless world and strange,Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,Æterna corpora, subject to no change.There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,And perishing hearts, imperishable Love....Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;Love has no habitation but the heart.Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,Cling, and are borne into the night apart.The laugh dies with the lips, 'Love' with the lover.
They say there's a high windless world and strange,Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,Æterna corpora, subject to no change.There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,And perishing hearts, imperishable Love....
Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;Love has no habitation but the heart.Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,Cling, and are borne into the night apart.The laugh dies with the lips, 'Love' with the lover.
South Kensington—Makaweli, 1913
THE BUSY HEART
Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;And evening hush, broken by homing wings;And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,One after one, like tasting a sweet food.I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;And evening hush, broken by homing wings;And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,One after one, like tasting a sweet food.I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
LOVE
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,Where that comes in that shall not go again;Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,And agony's forgot, and hushed the cryingOf credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but takingTheir own poor dreams within their arms, and lyingEach in his lonely night, each with a ghost.Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.All this is love; and all love is but this.
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,Where that comes in that shall not go again;Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,And agony's forgot, and hushed the cryingOf credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but takingTheir own poor dreams within their arms, and lyingEach in his lonely night, each with a ghost.Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.All this is love; and all love is but this.
UNFORTUNATE
Heart, you are restless as a paper scrapThat's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind.Between the small hands folded in her lapSurely a shamed head may bow down at length,And find forgiveness where the shadows stirAbout her lips, and wisdom in her strength,Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!"...She will not care. She'll smile to see me come,So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,And open wide upon that holy airThe gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.
Heart, you are restless as a paper scrapThat's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind.Between the small hands folded in her lapSurely a shamed head may bow down at length,And find forgiveness where the shadows stirAbout her lips, and wisdom in her strength,Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!"...
She will not care. She'll smile to see me come,So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,And open wide upon that holy airThe gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.
THE CHILTERNS
Your hands, my dear, adorable,Your lips of tenderness—Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,Three years, or a bit less.It wasn't a success.Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,Quit of my youth and you,The Roman road to WendoverBy Tring and Lilley Hoo,As a free man may do.For youth goes over, the joys that fly,The tears that follow fast;And the dirtiest things we do must lieForgotten at the last;Even Love goes past.What's left behind I shall not find,The splendour and the pain;The splash of sun, the shouting wind,And the brave sting of rain,I may not meet again.But the years, that take the best away,Give something in the end;And a better friend than love have they,For none to mar or mend,That have themselves to friend.I shall desire and I shall findThe best of my desires;The autumn road, the mellow windThat soothes the darkening shires.And laughter, and inn-fires.White mist about the black hedgerows,The slumbering Midland plain,The silence where the clover grows,And the dead leaves in the lane,Certainly, these remain.And I shall find some girl perhaps,And a better one than you,With eyes as wise, but kindlier,And lips as soft, but true.And I daresay she will do.
Your hands, my dear, adorable,Your lips of tenderness—Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,Three years, or a bit less.It wasn't a success.
Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,Quit of my youth and you,The Roman road to WendoverBy Tring and Lilley Hoo,As a free man may do.
For youth goes over, the joys that fly,The tears that follow fast;And the dirtiest things we do must lieForgotten at the last;Even Love goes past.
What's left behind I shall not find,The splendour and the pain;The splash of sun, the shouting wind,And the brave sting of rain,I may not meet again.
But the years, that take the best away,Give something in the end;And a better friend than love have they,For none to mar or mend,That have themselves to friend.
I shall desire and I shall findThe best of my desires;The autumn road, the mellow windThat soothes the darkening shires.And laughter, and inn-fires.
White mist about the black hedgerows,The slumbering Midland plain,The silence where the clover grows,And the dead leaves in the lane,Certainly, these remain.
And I shall find some girl perhaps,And a better one than you,With eyes as wise, but kindlier,And lips as soft, but true.And I daresay she will do.
HOME
I came back late and tired last nightInto my little room,To the long chair and the firelightAnd comfortable gloom.But as I entered softly inI saw a woman there,The line of neck and cheek and chin,The darkness of her hair,The form of one I did not knowSitting in my chair.I stood a moment fierce and still,Watching her neck and hair.I made a step to her; and sawThat there was no one there.It was some trick of the firelightThat made me see her there.It was a chance of shade and lightAnd the cushion in the chair.Oh, all you happy over the earth,That night, how could I sleep?I lay and watched the lonely gloom;And watched the moonlight creepFrom wall to basin, round the room.All night I could not sleep.
I came back late and tired last nightInto my little room,To the long chair and the firelightAnd comfortable gloom.
But as I entered softly inI saw a woman there,The line of neck and cheek and chin,The darkness of her hair,The form of one I did not knowSitting in my chair.
I stood a moment fierce and still,Watching her neck and hair.I made a step to her; and sawThat there was no one there.
It was some trick of the firelightThat made me see her there.It was a chance of shade and lightAnd the cushion in the chair.
Oh, all you happy over the earth,That night, how could I sleep?I lay and watched the lonely gloom;And watched the moonlight creepFrom wall to basin, round the room.All night I could not sleep.
THE NIGHT JOURNEY
Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyesGlares the imperious mystery of the way.Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed trainThrob, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again....As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,Hands out, head back, agape and silent, moveSure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,Out of the fire, out of the little room....—There is an end appointed, O my soul!Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloomIs hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.And lips and laughter are forgotten things.Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.
Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes
Glares the imperious mystery of the way.Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed trainThrob, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again....
As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move
Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,
Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,Out of the fire, out of the little room....—There is an end appointed, O my soul!Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom
Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.
And lips and laughter are forgotten things.Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.
SONG
All suddenly the wind comes soft,And Spring is here again;And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,And my heart with buds of pain.My heart all Winter lay so numb,The earth so dead and frore,That I never thought the Spring would come,Or my heart wake any more.But Winter's broken and earth has woken,And the small birds cry again;And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,And my heart puts forth its pain.
All suddenly the wind comes soft,And Spring is here again;And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,And my heart with buds of pain.
My heart all Winter lay so numb,The earth so dead and frore,That I never thought the Spring would come,Or my heart wake any more.
But Winter's broken and earth has woken,And the small birds cry again;And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,And my heart puts forth its pain.
BEAUTY AND BEAUTY
When Beauty and Beauty meetAll naked, fair to fair,The earth is crying-sweet,And scattering-bright the air,Eddying, dizzying, closing round,With soft and drunken laughter;Veiling all that may befallAfter—after—Where Beauty and Beauty met,Earth's still a-tremble there,And winds are scented yet,And memory-soft the air,Bosoming, folding glints of light,And shreds of shadowy laughter;Not the tears that fill the yearsAfter—after—
When Beauty and Beauty meetAll naked, fair to fair,The earth is crying-sweet,And scattering-bright the air,Eddying, dizzying, closing round,With soft and drunken laughter;Veiling all that may befallAfter—after—
Where Beauty and Beauty met,Earth's still a-tremble there,And winds are scented yet,And memory-soft the air,Bosoming, folding glints of light,And shreds of shadowy laughter;Not the tears that fill the yearsAfter—after—
THE WAY THAT LOVERS USE
The way that lovers use is this;They bow, catch hands, with never a word,And their lips meet, and they do kiss,—So I have heard.They queerly find some healing so,And strange attainment in the touch;There is a secret lovers know,—I have read as much.And theirs no longer joy nor smart,Changing or ending, night or day;But mouth to mouth, and heart on heart,—So lovers say.
The way that lovers use is this;They bow, catch hands, with never a word,And their lips meet, and they do kiss,—So I have heard.
They queerly find some healing so,And strange attainment in the touch;There is a secret lovers know,—I have read as much.
And theirs no longer joy nor smart,Changing or ending, night or day;But mouth to mouth, and heart on heart,—So lovers say.
MARY AND GABRIEL
Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,As wine that blushes water through. And soon,Out of the gold air of the afternoon,One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,Bound back above his ears with golden wire,Baring the eager marble of his face.Not man's nor woman's was the immortal graceRounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,That presence filled the garden.She stood there,Saying, "What would you, Sir?"He told his word,"Blessed art thou of women!" Half she heard,Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,The message of that clear and holy tone,That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart;Such serene tidings moved such human smart.Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow.Her hands crept up her breast. She did but knowIt was not hers. She felt a trembling stirWithin her body, a will too strong for herThat held and filled and mastered all. With eyesClosed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs,She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad....She wished to speak. Under her breasts she hadSuch multitudinous burnings, to and fro,And throbs not understood; she did not knowIf they were hurt or joy for her; but onlyThat she was grown strange to herself, half lonely,All wonderful, filled full of pains to comeAnd thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb,Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far,Divine, dear, terrible, familiar...Her heart was faint for telling; to relateHer limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate,Over and over, whispering, half revealing,Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her,She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyesGazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.How should she, pitiful with mortality,Try the wide peace of that felicityWith ripples of her perplexed shaken heart,And hints of human ecstasy, human smart,And whispers of the lonely weight she bore,And how her womb within was hers no moreAnd at length hers?Being tired, she bowed her head;And said, "So be it!"The great wings were spreadShowering glory on the fields, and fire.The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher,Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shoneA gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.
Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,As wine that blushes water through. And soon,Out of the gold air of the afternoon,One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,Bound back above his ears with golden wire,Baring the eager marble of his face.Not man's nor woman's was the immortal graceRounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,That presence filled the garden.She stood there,Saying, "What would you, Sir?"He told his word,"Blessed art thou of women!" Half she heard,Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,The message of that clear and holy tone,That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart;Such serene tidings moved such human smart.Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow.Her hands crept up her breast. She did but knowIt was not hers. She felt a trembling stirWithin her body, a will too strong for herThat held and filled and mastered all. With eyesClosed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs,She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad....She wished to speak. Under her breasts she hadSuch multitudinous burnings, to and fro,And throbs not understood; she did not knowIf they were hurt or joy for her; but onlyThat she was grown strange to herself, half lonely,All wonderful, filled full of pains to comeAnd thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb,Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far,Divine, dear, terrible, familiar...Her heart was faint for telling; to relateHer limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate,Over and over, whispering, half revealing,Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her,She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyesGazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.How should she, pitiful with mortality,Try the wide peace of that felicityWith ripples of her perplexed shaken heart,And hints of human ecstasy, human smart,And whispers of the lonely weight she bore,And how her womb within was hers no moreAnd at length hers?Being tired, she bowed her head;And said, "So be it!"The great wings were spreadShowering glory on the fields, and fire.The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher,Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shoneA gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.
The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.
THE FUNERAL OF YOUTH: THRENODY
The day thatYouthhad died,There came to his grave-side,In decent mourning, from the county's ends,Those scatter'd friendsWho had lived the boon companions of his prime,And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,The days and nights and dawnings of the timeWhenYouthkept open house,Nor left untastedAught of his high emprise and ventures dear,No quest of his unshar'd—All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,Followed their old friend's bier.Follywent first,With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;And after trod the bearers, hat in hand—Laughter, most hoarse, and CaptainPridewith tannedAnd martial face all grim, and fussyJoy,Who had to catch a train, andLust, poor, snivelling boy;These bore the dear departed.Behind them, broken-hearted,CameGrief, so noisy a widow, that all said,"Had he but wedHer elder sisterSorrow, in her stead!"And by her, trying to soothe her all the time,The fatherless children,Colour,Tune, andRhyme(The sweet ladRhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.Then, at the way's sad ending,Round the raw grave they stay'd. OldWisdomread,In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.There stoodRomance,The furrowing tears had mark'd her rougèd cheek;Poor oldConceit, his wonder unassuaged;DeadInnocency'sdaughter,Ignorance;And shabby, ill-dress'dGenerosity;AndArgument, too full of woe to speak;Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged;AndFriendship—not a minute older, she;Impatience, ever taking out his watch;Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catchOldWisdom'sendless drone.Beautywas there,Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.Poor maz'dImagination;Fancywild;Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair;Contentment, who had knownYouthas a childAnd never seen him since. AndSpringcame too,Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers—She did not stay for long.AndTruth, andGrace, and all the merry crew,The laughingWindsandRivers, and litheHours;AndHope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowingSong;—Yes, with much woe and mourning general,At deadYouth'sfuneral,Even these were met once more together, all,Who erst the fair and livingYouthdid know;All, except onlyLove.Lovehad died long ago.
The day thatYouthhad died,There came to his grave-side,In decent mourning, from the county's ends,Those scatter'd friendsWho had lived the boon companions of his prime,And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,The days and nights and dawnings of the timeWhenYouthkept open house,Nor left untastedAught of his high emprise and ventures dear,No quest of his unshar'd—All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,Followed their old friend's bier.Follywent first,With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;And after trod the bearers, hat in hand—Laughter, most hoarse, and CaptainPridewith tannedAnd martial face all grim, and fussyJoy,Who had to catch a train, andLust, poor, snivelling boy;These bore the dear departed.Behind them, broken-hearted,CameGrief, so noisy a widow, that all said,"Had he but wedHer elder sisterSorrow, in her stead!"And by her, trying to soothe her all the time,The fatherless children,Colour,Tune, andRhyme(The sweet ladRhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.Then, at the way's sad ending,Round the raw grave they stay'd. OldWisdomread,In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.There stoodRomance,The furrowing tears had mark'd her rougèd cheek;Poor oldConceit, his wonder unassuaged;DeadInnocency'sdaughter,Ignorance;And shabby, ill-dress'dGenerosity;AndArgument, too full of woe to speak;Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged;AndFriendship—not a minute older, she;Impatience, ever taking out his watch;Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catchOldWisdom'sendless drone.Beautywas there,Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.Poor maz'dImagination;Fancywild;Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair;Contentment, who had knownYouthas a childAnd never seen him since. AndSpringcame too,Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers—She did not stay for long.AndTruth, andGrace, and all the merry crew,The laughingWindsandRivers, and litheHours;AndHope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowingSong;—Yes, with much woe and mourning general,At deadYouth'sfuneral,Even these were met once more together, all,Who erst the fair and livingYouthdid know;All, except onlyLove.Lovehad died long ago.
THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER(Café des Westens, Berlin, May1912)
Just now the lilac is in bloom,All before my little room;And in my flower-beds, I think,Smile the carnation and the pink;And down the borders, well I know,The poppy and the pansy blow...Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,Beside the river make for youA tunnel of green gloom, and sleepDeeply above; and green and deepThe stream mysterious glides beneath,Green as a dream and deep as death.—Oh, damn! I know it! and I knowHow the May fields all golden show,And when the day is young and sweet,Gild gloriously the bare feetThat run to bathe...Du lieber Gott!Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,And there the shadowed waters freshLean up to embrace the naked flesh.TemperamentvollGerman JewsDrink beer around;—andtherethe dewsAre soft beneath a morn of gold.Here tulips bloom as they are told;Unkempt about those hedges blowsAn English unofficial rose;And there the unregulated sunSlopes down to rest when day is done,And wakes a vague unpunctual star,A slippered Hesper; and there areMeads towards Haslingfield and CotonWhere dasBetreten'snotverboten.εϊθε γενοίμην... Would I wereIn Grantchester, in Grantchester!—Some, it may be, can get in touchWith Nature there, or Earth, or such.And clever modern men have seenA Faun a-peeping through the green,And felt the Classics were not dead,To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,Or hear the Goat-foot piping low:...But these are things I do not know.I only know that you may lieDay long and watch the Cambridge sky,And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,Until the centuries blend and blurIn Grantchester, in Grantchester....Still in the dawnlit waters coolHis ghostly Lordship swims his pool,And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx.Dan Chaucer hears his river stillChatter beneath a phantom mill.Tennyson notes, with studious eye,How Cambridge waters hurry by...And in that garden, black and white,Creep whispers through the grass all night;And spectral dance, before the dawn,A hundred Vicars down the lawn;Curates, long dust, will come and goOn lissom, clerical, printless toe;And oft between the boughs is seenThe sly shade of a Rural Dean...Till, at a shiver in the skies,Vanishing with Satanic cries,The prim ecclesiastic routLeaves but a startled sleeper-out,Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,The falling house that never falls.God! I will pack, and take a train,And get me to England once again!For England's the one land, I know,Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;And Cambridgeshire, of all England,The shire for Men who Understand;And ofthatdistrict I preferThe lovely hamlet Grantchester.For Cambridge people rarely smile,Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;And Royston men in the far SouthAre black and fierce and strange of mouth;At Over they fling oaths at one,And worse than oaths at Trumpington,And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,And there's none in Harston under thirty,And folks in Shelford and those partsHave twisted lips and twisted hearts,And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,And Coton's full of nameless crimes,And things are done you'd not believeAt Madingley, on Christmas Eve.Strong men have run for miles and miles,When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives,Rather than send them to St. Ives;Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,To hear what happened at Babraham.But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!There's peace and holy quiet there,Great clouds along pacific skies,And men and women with straight eyes,Lithe children lovelier than a dream,A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,And little kindly winds that creepRound twilight corners, half asleep.In Grantchester their skins are white;They bathe by day, they bathe by night;The women there do all they ought;The men observe the Rules of Thought.They love the Good; they worship Truth;They laugh uproariously in youth;(And when they get to feeling old,They up and shoot themselves, I'm told)...Ah God! to see the branches stirAcross the moon at Grantchester!To smell the thrilling-sweet and rottenUnforgettable, unforgottenRiver-smell, and hear the breezeSobbing in the little trees.Say, do the elm-clumps greatly standStill guardians of that holy land?The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,The yet unacademic stream?Is dawn a secret shy and coldAnadyomene, silver-gold?And sunset still a golden seaFrom Haslingfield to Madingley?And after, ere the night is born,Do hares come out about the corn?Oh, is the water sweet and cool,Gentle and brown, above the pool?And laughs the immortal river stillUnder the mill, under the mill?Say, is there Beauty yet to find?And Certainty? and Quiet kind?Deep meadows yet, for to forgetThe lies, and truths, and pain?... oh! yetStands the Church clock at ten to three?And is there honey still for tea?
Just now the lilac is in bloom,All before my little room;And in my flower-beds, I think,Smile the carnation and the pink;And down the borders, well I know,The poppy and the pansy blow...Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,Beside the river make for youA tunnel of green gloom, and sleepDeeply above; and green and deepThe stream mysterious glides beneath,Green as a dream and deep as death.—Oh, damn! I know it! and I knowHow the May fields all golden show,And when the day is young and sweet,Gild gloriously the bare feetThat run to bathe...Du lieber Gott!
Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,And there the shadowed waters freshLean up to embrace the naked flesh.TemperamentvollGerman JewsDrink beer around;—andtherethe dewsAre soft beneath a morn of gold.Here tulips bloom as they are told;Unkempt about those hedges blowsAn English unofficial rose;And there the unregulated sunSlopes down to rest when day is done,And wakes a vague unpunctual star,A slippered Hesper; and there areMeads towards Haslingfield and CotonWhere dasBetreten'snotverboten.
εϊθε γενοίμην... Would I wereIn Grantchester, in Grantchester!—Some, it may be, can get in touchWith Nature there, or Earth, or such.And clever modern men have seenA Faun a-peeping through the green,And felt the Classics were not dead,To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,Or hear the Goat-foot piping low:...But these are things I do not know.I only know that you may lieDay long and watch the Cambridge sky,And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,Until the centuries blend and blurIn Grantchester, in Grantchester....Still in the dawnlit waters coolHis ghostly Lordship swims his pool,And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx.Dan Chaucer hears his river stillChatter beneath a phantom mill.Tennyson notes, with studious eye,How Cambridge waters hurry by...And in that garden, black and white,Creep whispers through the grass all night;And spectral dance, before the dawn,A hundred Vicars down the lawn;Curates, long dust, will come and goOn lissom, clerical, printless toe;And oft between the boughs is seenThe sly shade of a Rural Dean...Till, at a shiver in the skies,Vanishing with Satanic cries,The prim ecclesiastic routLeaves but a startled sleeper-out,Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,The falling house that never falls.
God! I will pack, and take a train,And get me to England once again!For England's the one land, I know,Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;And Cambridgeshire, of all England,The shire for Men who Understand;And ofthatdistrict I preferThe lovely hamlet Grantchester.For Cambridge people rarely smile,Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;And Royston men in the far SouthAre black and fierce and strange of mouth;At Over they fling oaths at one,And worse than oaths at Trumpington,And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,And there's none in Harston under thirty,And folks in Shelford and those partsHave twisted lips and twisted hearts,And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,And Coton's full of nameless crimes,And things are done you'd not believeAt Madingley, on Christmas Eve.Strong men have run for miles and miles,When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives,Rather than send them to St. Ives;Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,To hear what happened at Babraham.But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!There's peace and holy quiet there,Great clouds along pacific skies,And men and women with straight eyes,Lithe children lovelier than a dream,A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,And little kindly winds that creepRound twilight corners, half asleep.In Grantchester their skins are white;They bathe by day, they bathe by night;The women there do all they ought;The men observe the Rules of Thought.They love the Good; they worship Truth;They laugh uproariously in youth;(And when they get to feeling old,They up and shoot themselves, I'm told)...
Ah God! to see the branches stirAcross the moon at Grantchester!To smell the thrilling-sweet and rottenUnforgettable, unforgottenRiver-smell, and hear the breezeSobbing in the little trees.Say, do the elm-clumps greatly standStill guardians of that holy land?The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,The yet unacademic stream?Is dawn a secret shy and coldAnadyomene, silver-gold?And sunset still a golden seaFrom Haslingfield to Madingley?And after, ere the night is born,Do hares come out about the corn?Oh, is the water sweet and cool,Gentle and brown, above the pool?And laughs the immortal river stillUnder the mill, under the mill?Say, is there Beauty yet to find?And Certainty? and Quiet kind?Deep meadows yet, for to forgetThe lies, and truths, and pain?... oh! yetStands the Church clock at ten to three?And is there honey still for tea?
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Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, the book is a faithful transcript of the original physical book.