Chapter 2

Far are the shades of Arabia,Where the princes ride at noon,'Mid the verdurous vales and thicketsUnder the ghost of the moon;And so dark is that vaulted purple,Flowers in the forest riseAnd toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars,Pale in the noonday skies.Sweet is the music of ArabiaIn my heart, when out of dreamsI still in the thin clear mirk of dawnDescry her gliding streams;Hear her strange lutes on the green banksRing loud with the grief and delightOf the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians,In the brooding silence of night.They haunt me—her lutes and her forests;No beauty on earth I seeBut shadowed with that dream recallsHer loveliness to me:Still eyes look coldly upon me,Cold voices whisper and say—"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,They have stolen his wits away."

Far are the shades of Arabia,

Where the princes ride at noon,

'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets

Under the ghost of the moon;

And so dark is that vaulted purple,

Flowers in the forest rise

And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars,

Pale in the noonday skies.

Sweet is the music of ArabiaIn my heart, when out of dreamsI still in the thin clear mirk of dawnDescry her gliding streams;Hear her strange lutes on the green banksRing loud with the grief and delightOf the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians,In the brooding silence of night.

Sweet is the music of Arabia

In my heart, when out of dreams

I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn

Descry her gliding streams;

Hear her strange lutes on the green banks

Ring loud with the grief and delight

Of the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians,

In the brooding silence of night.

They haunt me—her lutes and her forests;No beauty on earth I seeBut shadowed with that dream recallsHer loveliness to me:Still eyes look coldly upon me,Cold voices whisper and say—"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,They have stolen his wits away."

They haunt me—her lutes and her forests;

No beauty on earth I see

But shadowed with that dream recalls

Her loveliness to me:

Still eyes look coldly upon me,

Cold voices whisper and say—

"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,

They have stolen his wits away."

NOD

Softly along the road of evening,In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age and drenched with dew,Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.His drowsy flock streams on before him,Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the sun's last beam leans lowOn Nod the shepherd's fold.The hedge is quick and green with briar,From their sand the conies creep;And all the birds that fly in heavenFlock singing home to sleep.His lambs outnumber a noon's rosesYet, when night's shadows fall,His blind old sheep dog, Slumber-soon,Misses not one of all.His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,The waters of no more pain,His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,"Rest, rest, and rest again."

Softly along the road of evening,In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age and drenched with dew,Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

Softly along the road of evening,

In a twilight dim with rose,

Wrinkled with age and drenched with dew,

Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the sun's last beam leans lowOn Nod the shepherd's fold.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,

Their fleeces charged with gold,

To where the sun's last beam leans low

On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,From their sand the conies creep;And all the birds that fly in heavenFlock singing home to sleep.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,

From their sand the conies creep;

And all the birds that fly in heaven

Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's rosesYet, when night's shadows fall,His blind old sheep dog, Slumber-soon,Misses not one of all.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses

Yet, when night's shadows fall,

His blind old sheep dog, Slumber-soon,

Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,The waters of no more pain,His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,"Rest, rest, and rest again."

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,

The waters of no more pain,

His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,

"Rest, rest, and rest again."

JOHN GALSWORTHY

THE DOWNS.

Oh! the downs high to the cool sky;And the feel of the sun-warmed moss;And each cardoon, like a full moon,Fairy-spun of the thistle floss;And the beech grove, and a wood dove,And the trail where the shepherds pass;And the lark's song, and the wind-song,And the scent of the parching grass!

Oh! the downs high to the cool sky;

And the feel of the sun-warmed moss;

And each cardoon, like a full moon,

Fairy-spun of the thistle floss;

And the beech grove, and a wood dove,

And the trail where the shepherds pass;

And the lark's song, and the wind-song,

And the scent of the parching grass!

THE PRAYER.

If on a Spring night I went byAnd God were standing there,What is the prayer that I would cryTo Him? This is the prayer:O Lord of Courage grave,O Master of this night of Spring!Make firm in me a heart too braveTo ask Thee anything!

If on a Spring night I went by

And God were standing there,

What is the prayer that I would cry

To Him? This is the prayer:

O Lord of Courage grave,

O Master of this night of Spring!

Make firm in me a heart too brave

To ask Thee anything!

DEVON TO ME.

Where my fathers stood, watching the sea,Gale-spent herring boats hugging the lea;There my Mother lives, moorland and tree.Sight o' the blossoms! Devon to me!Where my fathers walked, driving the plough;Whistled their hearts out—who whistles now?—There my Mother burns fire faggots free.Scent o' the wood-smoke! Devon to me!Where my fathers sat, passing their bowls;—They've no cider now, God rest their souls!There my Mother feeds red cattle three.Sup o' the cream-pan! Devon to me!Where my fathers sleep, turning to dust,This old body throw when die I must!There my Mother calls, wakeful is she!Sound o' the West-wind! Devon to me!Where my fathers lie, when I am gone,Who need pity me, dead? Never one!There my Mother clasps me. Let me be!Feel o' the red earth! Devon to me!

Where my fathers stood, watching the sea,Gale-spent herring boats hugging the lea;There my Mother lives, moorland and tree.Sight o' the blossoms! Devon to me!

Where my fathers stood, watching the sea,

Gale-spent herring boats hugging the lea;

There my Mother lives, moorland and tree.

Sight o' the blossoms! Devon to me!

Where my fathers walked, driving the plough;Whistled their hearts out—who whistles now?—There my Mother burns fire faggots free.Scent o' the wood-smoke! Devon to me!

Where my fathers walked, driving the plough;

Whistled their hearts out—who whistles now?—

There my Mother burns fire faggots free.

Scent o' the wood-smoke! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sat, passing their bowls;—They've no cider now, God rest their souls!There my Mother feeds red cattle three.Sup o' the cream-pan! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sat, passing their bowls;

—They've no cider now, God rest their souls!

There my Mother feeds red cattle three.

Sup o' the cream-pan! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sleep, turning to dust,This old body throw when die I must!There my Mother calls, wakeful is she!Sound o' the West-wind! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sleep, turning to dust,

This old body throw when die I must!

There my Mother calls, wakeful is she!

Sound o' the West-wind! Devon to me!

Where my fathers lie, when I am gone,Who need pity me, dead? Never one!There my Mother clasps me. Let me be!Feel o' the red earth! Devon to me!

Where my fathers lie, when I am gone,

Who need pity me, dead? Never one!

There my Mother clasps me. Let me be!

Feel o' the red earth! Devon to me!

EVA GORE-BOOTH

MAEVE OF THE BATTLES

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill,And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed,And my soul is blown about by the wild wind of her will,For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead—I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace—A dream of light on the mountains, and calm on the restless sea;A dream of the gentle days of the world when battle shall ceaseAnd the things that are in hatred and wrath no longer shall be.I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace.The foamless waves are falling soft on the sands of LissadilAnd the world is wrapped in quiet and a floating dream of grey;But the wild winds of the twilight blow straight from the haunted hillAnd the stars come out of the darkness and shine over Knocknarea—I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve;No rest for the heart once caught in the net of her yellow hair—No quiet for the fallen wind, no peace for the broken wave;Rising and falling, falling and rising with soft sounds everywhere,There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve.I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hillAnd I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed;And my soul is blown about by the wild winds of her will,For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead—I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill,

And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed,

And my soul is blown about by the wild wind of her will,

For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead—

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace—A dream of light on the mountains, and calm on the restless sea;A dream of the gentle days of the world when battle shall ceaseAnd the things that are in hatred and wrath no longer shall be.I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace.

I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace—

A dream of light on the mountains, and calm on the restless sea;

A dream of the gentle days of the world when battle shall cease

And the things that are in hatred and wrath no longer shall be.

I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace.

The foamless waves are falling soft on the sands of LissadilAnd the world is wrapped in quiet and a floating dream of grey;But the wild winds of the twilight blow straight from the haunted hillAnd the stars come out of the darkness and shine over Knocknarea—I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

The foamless waves are falling soft on the sands of Lissadil

And the world is wrapped in quiet and a floating dream of grey;

But the wild winds of the twilight blow straight from the haunted hill

And the stars come out of the darkness and shine over Knocknarea—

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve;No rest for the heart once caught in the net of her yellow hair—No quiet for the fallen wind, no peace for the broken wave;Rising and falling, falling and rising with soft sounds everywhere,There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve.

There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve;

No rest for the heart once caught in the net of her yellow hair—

No quiet for the fallen wind, no peace for the broken wave;

Rising and falling, falling and rising with soft sounds everywhere,

There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve.

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hillAnd I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed;And my soul is blown about by the wild winds of her will,For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead—I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill

And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed;

And my soul is blown about by the wild winds of her will,

For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead—

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

RE-INCARNATION

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weepForlorn beyond receding rings of light,The torrents of the earth's desires sweepMy soul through twilight downward into night.Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades,Myself seems to myself a distant goal,I grope among the bodies' drowsy shades,Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.Once more the Manifold in shadowy streamsOf falling waters murmurs in my ears,The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreamsThat crowd the narrow pathway of the years.I go to seek the starshine on the waves,To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill,I go to gather flowers that grow on graves,The worlds' wall closes round my prisoned will.Yea, for the sake of the wild western windThe sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne,Because of primroses, time out of mind,The Lonely turns away from the Alone.Who once has loved the cornfield's rustling sheaves,Who once has heard the gentle Irish rainMurmur low music in the growing leaves,Though he were god, comes back to earth again.Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would breakThe tower of my soul's initiate prideFor a grey field and a star-haunted lake,And those wet winds that roam the country side.I who have seen am glad to close my eyes,I who have soared am weary of my wings,I seek no more the secret of the wise,Safe among shadowy, unreal human things.Blind to the gleam of those wild violet raysThat burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim,Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days,The sightless slave of Time's imperious whim;Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divineThat surge outside the closed gates of birth,The rhythms of eternity, too fineTo touch with music the dull ears of earth—I go to seek with humble care and toilThe dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone,To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil,Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun.Content in winter if the fire burns clearAnd cottage walls keep out the creeping damp,Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear,The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weepForlorn beyond receding rings of light,The torrents of the earth's desires sweepMy soul through twilight downward into night.

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep

Forlorn beyond receding rings of light,

The torrents of the earth's desires sweep

My soul through twilight downward into night.

Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades,Myself seems to myself a distant goal,I grope among the bodies' drowsy shades,Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.

Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades,

Myself seems to myself a distant goal,

I grope among the bodies' drowsy shades,

Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.

Once more the Manifold in shadowy streamsOf falling waters murmurs in my ears,The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreamsThat crowd the narrow pathway of the years.

Once more the Manifold in shadowy streams

Of falling waters murmurs in my ears,

The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreams

That crowd the narrow pathway of the years.

I go to seek the starshine on the waves,To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill,I go to gather flowers that grow on graves,The worlds' wall closes round my prisoned will.

I go to seek the starshine on the waves,

To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill,

I go to gather flowers that grow on graves,

The worlds' wall closes round my prisoned will.

Yea, for the sake of the wild western windThe sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne,Because of primroses, time out of mind,The Lonely turns away from the Alone.

Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind

The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne,

Because of primroses, time out of mind,

The Lonely turns away from the Alone.

Who once has loved the cornfield's rustling sheaves,Who once has heard the gentle Irish rainMurmur low music in the growing leaves,Though he were god, comes back to earth again.

Who once has loved the cornfield's rustling sheaves,

Who once has heard the gentle Irish rain

Murmur low music in the growing leaves,

Though he were god, comes back to earth again.

Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would breakThe tower of my soul's initiate prideFor a grey field and a star-haunted lake,And those wet winds that roam the country side.

Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would break

The tower of my soul's initiate pride

For a grey field and a star-haunted lake,

And those wet winds that roam the country side.

I who have seen am glad to close my eyes,I who have soared am weary of my wings,I seek no more the secret of the wise,Safe among shadowy, unreal human things.

I who have seen am glad to close my eyes,

I who have soared am weary of my wings,

I seek no more the secret of the wise,

Safe among shadowy, unreal human things.

Blind to the gleam of those wild violet raysThat burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim,Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days,The sightless slave of Time's imperious whim;

Blind to the gleam of those wild violet rays

That burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim,

Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days,

The sightless slave of Time's imperious whim;

Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divineThat surge outside the closed gates of birth,The rhythms of eternity, too fineTo touch with music the dull ears of earth—

Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divine

That surge outside the closed gates of birth,

The rhythms of eternity, too fine

To touch with music the dull ears of earth—

I go to seek with humble care and toilThe dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone,To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil,Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun.

I go to seek with humble care and toil

The dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone,

To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil,

Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun.

Content in winter if the fire burns clearAnd cottage walls keep out the creeping damp,Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear,The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

Content in winter if the fire burns clear

And cottage walls keep out the creeping damp,

Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear,

The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

LEONARDO DA VINCI

He in his deepest mindThat inner harmony divinedThat lit the soul of JohnAnd in the glad eyes shoneOf Dionysos, and dweltWhere Angel Gabriel kneltUnder the dark cypress spires;And thrilled with flameless firesOf Secret Wisdom's raysThe Giaconda's smiling gaze;Curving with delicate careThe pearls in Beatrice d'Este's hair;Hiding behind the veilOf eyelids long and pale,In the strange gentle vision dimOf the unknown Christ who smiled on him.His was no vain dreamOf the things that seem,Of date and name.He overcameThe Outer False with the Inner True,And overthrewThe empty show and thin deceits of sex,Pale nightmares of this barren world that vexThe soul of man, shaken by every breezeToo faint to stir the silver olive treesOr lift the Dryad's smallest straying tressFrozen in her clear marble loveliness.He, in curved lips and smiling eyes,Hid the last secret's faint surpriseOf one who dies in fear and painAnd lives and knows herself again.He, in his dreaming under the sun,Saw change and the unchanging One,And built in grottoes blue a shrineTo hold Reality Divine.

He in his deepest mind

That inner harmony divined

That lit the soul of John

And in the glad eyes shone

Of Dionysos, and dwelt

Where Angel Gabriel knelt

Under the dark cypress spires;

And thrilled with flameless fires

Of Secret Wisdom's rays

The Giaconda's smiling gaze;

Curving with delicate care

The pearls in Beatrice d'Este's hair;

Hiding behind the veil

Of eyelids long and pale,

In the strange gentle vision dim

Of the unknown Christ who smiled on him.

His was no vain dream

Of the things that seem,

Of date and name.

He overcame

The Outer False with the Inner True,

And overthrew

The empty show and thin deceits of sex,

Pale nightmares of this barren world that vex

The soul of man, shaken by every breeze

Too faint to stir the silver olive trees

Or lift the Dryad's smallest straying tress

Frozen in her clear marble loveliness.

He, in curved lips and smiling eyes,Hid the last secret's faint surpriseOf one who dies in fear and painAnd lives and knows herself again.He, in his dreaming under the sun,Saw change and the unchanging One,And built in grottoes blue a shrineTo hold Reality Divine.

He, in curved lips and smiling eyes,

Hid the last secret's faint surprise

Of one who dies in fear and pain

And lives and knows herself again.

He, in his dreaming under the sun,

Saw change and the unchanging One,

And built in grottoes blue a shrine

To hold Reality Divine.

JOHN GURDON

SURRENDER

Like the diamond spark of the morning starWhen night grows paleLove gleams in the depths of thine eyes afarThrough the rifted veilOf thy cloudy dreams.I saw in the glint of thy wavy hairHis splendour shineA moment, and now thy cheeks declareThe fire divineIn their rosy streams.It leaps from thy face to mine, and flushesFrom brow to chin.The hot blood sings in my ears and gushesWith surge and spinThrough my tingling veins.I lift up my heart for thy fervent lipsTo kiss, my sweet.I would lift up my soul, but she swooning slipsDown at thy feet,And the rainbow stains.Brighten and cloud on her wings that closeAnd open slow,As a butterfly's move, on the breast of a roseRocked to and froBy a crooning wind.O star! O blossom! I faint for bliss.I faint for thee;For the kiss on my closed eyes, thy kissIn ecstasyThat leaves me blind.Me has love molten for thee to mould.Ah, shape me fairAs the crown of thy life, as a crown of goldIn thy flame-like hairWorn for a sign!Nay, rather my life be a wind-flowerSlow kissed to death,Petal by petal, on lips that stirWith love's own breath.Dear life, take mine!

Like the diamond spark of the morning starWhen night grows paleLove gleams in the depths of thine eyes afarThrough the rifted veilOf thy cloudy dreams.

Like the diamond spark of the morning star

When night grows pale

Love gleams in the depths of thine eyes afar

Through the rifted veil

Of thy cloudy dreams.

I saw in the glint of thy wavy hairHis splendour shineA moment, and now thy cheeks declareThe fire divineIn their rosy streams.

I saw in the glint of thy wavy hair

His splendour shine

A moment, and now thy cheeks declare

The fire divine

In their rosy streams.

It leaps from thy face to mine, and flushesFrom brow to chin.The hot blood sings in my ears and gushesWith surge and spinThrough my tingling veins.

It leaps from thy face to mine, and flushes

From brow to chin.

The hot blood sings in my ears and gushes

With surge and spin

Through my tingling veins.

I lift up my heart for thy fervent lipsTo kiss, my sweet.I would lift up my soul, but she swooning slipsDown at thy feet,And the rainbow stains.

I lift up my heart for thy fervent lips

To kiss, my sweet.

I would lift up my soul, but she swooning slips

Down at thy feet,

And the rainbow stains.

Brighten and cloud on her wings that closeAnd open slow,As a butterfly's move, on the breast of a roseRocked to and froBy a crooning wind.

Brighten and cloud on her wings that close

And open slow,

As a butterfly's move, on the breast of a rose

Rocked to and fro

By a crooning wind.

O star! O blossom! I faint for bliss.I faint for thee;For the kiss on my closed eyes, thy kissIn ecstasyThat leaves me blind.

O star! O blossom! I faint for bliss.

I faint for thee;

For the kiss on my closed eyes, thy kiss

In ecstasy

That leaves me blind.

Me has love molten for thee to mould.Ah, shape me fairAs the crown of thy life, as a crown of goldIn thy flame-like hairWorn for a sign!

Me has love molten for thee to mould.

Ah, shape me fair

As the crown of thy life, as a crown of gold

In thy flame-like hair

Worn for a sign!

Nay, rather my life be a wind-flowerSlow kissed to death,Petal by petal, on lips that stirWith love's own breath.Dear life, take mine!

Nay, rather my life be a wind-flower

Slow kissed to death,

Petal by petal, on lips that stir

With love's own breath.

Dear life, take mine!

BEFORE THE FATES

I cannot sing,So weary of life my heart is and so soreAfraid. What harp-playingBack from the land whose name is Never MoreMy lost desire will bring?* * * * *These words she saidBefore the Pheidian Fates. "There comes an endOf love, and mine is fled:But, if you let me, I will be your friend,A better friend, instead."Was it her own,The voice I heard, marmoreal, strange, remote,As though from yonder throneClotho had spoken, and the headless throatHad uttered words of stone?I sought her face;It was a mask inscrutable, a screenBaffling all hope to traceThe woman whose passionate loveliness had beenMine for a little space.Thereat I rose,Smiling, and said—"The dream is past and gone.Surely Love comes and goesEven as he will. And who shall thwart him? None.Only, while water flowsAnd night and dayChase one another round the rolling sphere,Henceforth our destined wayDivides. Fare onward, then, and leave me, dear.There is no more to say."* * * * *Harsh songs and sweetCome to me still, but as a tale twice told.The throb, the quivering beatHarry my blood no longer as of old,Nor stir my wayworn feet.Yet for a threneOnce more I wear the purple robe and makeSad music and sereneFor pity's sake, ah me, and the old time's sake,And all that might have been.For Love lies dead.Love, the immortal, the victorious,Is fallen and vanquished.What charm can raise, what incantation rouseThat lowly, piteous head?Why should I weepMy triumph? 'Twas my life or his. BeholdThe wound, how wide and deepWhich in my side the arrow tipped with goldSmote as I lay asleep!Across thy wayI came not, Love, nor ever sought thy face;But me, who dreaming layPeaceful within my quiet lurking-place,Thy shaft was sped to slay.When hadst thou ruth,That I should sorrow o'er thee and forgive?Why should I grieve, forsooth?Art thou not dead for ever, and I live?And yet—and yet, in truthAlmost I wouldThat I had perished, and beside my bierThou and thy mother stood,And from relenting eyes let fall a tearUpon me, and my bloodChanged to a flowerImperishable, a hyacinthine bloom,In memory of an hourSplendidly lived between Delight and DoomOnce when I wandered from my ivory tower.

I cannot sing,So weary of life my heart is and so soreAfraid. What harp-playingBack from the land whose name is Never MoreMy lost desire will bring?

I cannot sing,

So weary of life my heart is and so sore

Afraid. What harp-playing

Back from the land whose name is Never More

My lost desire will bring?

* * * * *

These words she saidBefore the Pheidian Fates. "There comes an endOf love, and mine is fled:But, if you let me, I will be your friend,A better friend, instead."

These words she said

Before the Pheidian Fates. "There comes an end

Of love, and mine is fled:

But, if you let me, I will be your friend,

A better friend, instead."

Was it her own,The voice I heard, marmoreal, strange, remote,As though from yonder throneClotho had spoken, and the headless throatHad uttered words of stone?

Was it her own,

The voice I heard, marmoreal, strange, remote,

As though from yonder throne

Clotho had spoken, and the headless throat

Had uttered words of stone?

I sought her face;It was a mask inscrutable, a screenBaffling all hope to traceThe woman whose passionate loveliness had beenMine for a little space.

I sought her face;

It was a mask inscrutable, a screen

Baffling all hope to trace

The woman whose passionate loveliness had been

Mine for a little space.

Thereat I rose,Smiling, and said—"The dream is past and gone.Surely Love comes and goesEven as he will. And who shall thwart him? None.Only, while water flows

Thereat I rose,

Smiling, and said—"The dream is past and gone.

Surely Love comes and goes

Even as he will. And who shall thwart him? None.

Only, while water flows

And night and dayChase one another round the rolling sphere,Henceforth our destined wayDivides. Fare onward, then, and leave me, dear.There is no more to say."

And night and day

Chase one another round the rolling sphere,

Henceforth our destined way

Divides. Fare onward, then, and leave me, dear.

There is no more to say."

* * * * *

Harsh songs and sweetCome to me still, but as a tale twice told.The throb, the quivering beatHarry my blood no longer as of old,Nor stir my wayworn feet.

Harsh songs and sweet

Come to me still, but as a tale twice told.

The throb, the quivering beat

Harry my blood no longer as of old,

Nor stir my wayworn feet.

Yet for a threneOnce more I wear the purple robe and makeSad music and sereneFor pity's sake, ah me, and the old time's sake,And all that might have been.

Yet for a threne

Once more I wear the purple robe and make

Sad music and serene

For pity's sake, ah me, and the old time's sake,

And all that might have been.

For Love lies dead.Love, the immortal, the victorious,Is fallen and vanquished.What charm can raise, what incantation rouseThat lowly, piteous head?

For Love lies dead.

Love, the immortal, the victorious,

Is fallen and vanquished.

What charm can raise, what incantation rouse

That lowly, piteous head?

Why should I weepMy triumph? 'Twas my life or his. BeholdThe wound, how wide and deepWhich in my side the arrow tipped with goldSmote as I lay asleep!

Why should I weep

My triumph? 'Twas my life or his. Behold

The wound, how wide and deep

Which in my side the arrow tipped with gold

Smote as I lay asleep!

Across thy wayI came not, Love, nor ever sought thy face;But me, who dreaming layPeaceful within my quiet lurking-place,Thy shaft was sped to slay.

Across thy way

I came not, Love, nor ever sought thy face;

But me, who dreaming lay

Peaceful within my quiet lurking-place,

Thy shaft was sped to slay.

When hadst thou ruth,That I should sorrow o'er thee and forgive?Why should I grieve, forsooth?Art thou not dead for ever, and I live?And yet—and yet, in truth

When hadst thou ruth,

That I should sorrow o'er thee and forgive?

Why should I grieve, forsooth?

Art thou not dead for ever, and I live?

And yet—and yet, in truth

Almost I wouldThat I had perished, and beside my bierThou and thy mother stood,And from relenting eyes let fall a tearUpon me, and my blood

Almost I would

That I had perished, and beside my bier

Thou and thy mother stood,

And from relenting eyes let fall a tear

Upon me, and my blood

Changed to a flowerImperishable, a hyacinthine bloom,In memory of an hourSplendidly lived between Delight and DoomOnce when I wandered from my ivory tower.

Changed to a flower

Imperishable, a hyacinthine bloom,

In memory of an hour

Splendidly lived between Delight and Doom

Once when I wandered from my ivory tower.

THOMAS HARDY

A TRAMPWOMAN'S TRAGEDY (182-)

IFrom Wynyard's Gap the livelong day,The livelong day,We beat afoot the northward wayWe had travelled times before.The sun-blaze burning on our backs,Our shoulders sticking to our packs,By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracksWe skirted sad Sedge Moor.IIFull twenty miles we jaunted on,We jaunted on—My fancy-man, and jeering John,And Mother Lee, and I.And, as the sun drew down to west,We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest,And saw, of landskip sights the best,The inn that beamed thereby.IIIFor months we had padded side by side,Ay, side by sideThrough the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide,And where the Parret ran.We'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge,Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge,Been stung by every Marshwood midge,I and my fancy man.IVLone inns we loved, my man and I,My man and I;"King's Stag," "Windwhistle" high and dry,"The Horse" on Hintock Green,The cosy house at Wynyard's Gap,"The Hut" renowned on Bredy Knap,And many another wayside tapWhere folk might sit unseen.VNow as we trudged—O deadly day,O deadly day!—I teased my fancy-man in playAnd wanton idleness.I walked alongside jeering John,I laid his hand my waist upon;I would not bend my glances onMy lover's dark distress.VIThus Poldon top at last we won,At last we won,And gained the inn at sink of sunFar famed as "Marshall's Elm."Beneath us figured tor and lea,From Mendip to the western sea—I doubt if finer sight there beWithin this royal realm.VIIInside the settle all a-row—All four a-rowWe sat, I next to John, to showThat he had wooed and won.And then he took me on his knee,And swore it was his turn to beMy favoured mate, and Mother LeePassed to my former one.VIIIThen in a voice I had never heard,I had never heard,My only Love to me: "One word,My lady, if you please!Whose is the child you are like to bear?—His?After all my months of care?"God knows 'twas not! But, O despair!I nodded—still to tease.IXThen up he sprung, and with his knife—And with his knifeHe let out jeering Johnny's life,Yes; there, at set of sun.The slant ray through the window nighGilded John's blood and glazing eye,Ere scarcely Mother Lee and IKnew that the deed was done.XThe taverns tell the gloomy tale,The gloomy tale,How that at Ivel-chester jailMy Love, my sweetheart swung;Though stained till now by no misdeedSave one horse ta'en in time o' need;(Blue Jimmy stole right many a steedEre his last fling he flung.)XIThereaft I walked the world alone,Alone, alone!On his death-day I gave my groanAnd dropped his dead-born child.'Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree,None tending me; for Mother LeeHad died at Glaston, leaving meUnfriended on the wild.XIIAnd in the night as I lay weak,As I lay weak,The leaves a-falling on my cheek,The red moon low declined—The ghost of him I'd die to kissRose up and said: "Ah, tell me this!Was the child mine, or was it his?Speak, that I rest may find!"XIIIO doubt not but I told him then,I told him then,That I had kept me from all menSince we joined lips and swore.Whereat he smiled, and thinned awayAs the wind stirred to call up day ...—'Tis past! And here alone I strayHaunting the Western Moor.1902.

From Wynyard's Gap the livelong day,The livelong day,We beat afoot the northward wayWe had travelled times before.The sun-blaze burning on our backs,Our shoulders sticking to our packs,By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracksWe skirted sad Sedge Moor.

From Wynyard's Gap the livelong day,

The livelong day,

We beat afoot the northward way

We had travelled times before.

The sun-blaze burning on our backs,

Our shoulders sticking to our packs,

By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks

We skirted sad Sedge Moor.

Full twenty miles we jaunted on,We jaunted on—My fancy-man, and jeering John,And Mother Lee, and I.And, as the sun drew down to west,We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest,And saw, of landskip sights the best,The inn that beamed thereby.

Full twenty miles we jaunted on,

We jaunted on—

My fancy-man, and jeering John,

And Mother Lee, and I.

And, as the sun drew down to west,

We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest,

And saw, of landskip sights the best,

The inn that beamed thereby.

III

For months we had padded side by side,Ay, side by sideThrough the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide,And where the Parret ran.We'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge,Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge,Been stung by every Marshwood midge,I and my fancy man.

For months we had padded side by side,

Ay, side by side

Through the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide,

And where the Parret ran.

We'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge,

Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge,

Been stung by every Marshwood midge,

I and my fancy man.

Lone inns we loved, my man and I,My man and I;"King's Stag," "Windwhistle" high and dry,"The Horse" on Hintock Green,The cosy house at Wynyard's Gap,"The Hut" renowned on Bredy Knap,And many another wayside tapWhere folk might sit unseen.

Lone inns we loved, my man and I,

My man and I;

"King's Stag," "Windwhistle" high and dry,

"The Horse" on Hintock Green,

The cosy house at Wynyard's Gap,

"The Hut" renowned on Bredy Knap,

And many another wayside tap

Where folk might sit unseen.

Now as we trudged—O deadly day,O deadly day!—I teased my fancy-man in playAnd wanton idleness.I walked alongside jeering John,I laid his hand my waist upon;I would not bend my glances onMy lover's dark distress.

Now as we trudged—O deadly day,

O deadly day!—

I teased my fancy-man in play

And wanton idleness.

I walked alongside jeering John,

I laid his hand my waist upon;

I would not bend my glances on

My lover's dark distress.

Thus Poldon top at last we won,At last we won,And gained the inn at sink of sunFar famed as "Marshall's Elm."Beneath us figured tor and lea,From Mendip to the western sea—I doubt if finer sight there beWithin this royal realm.

Thus Poldon top at last we won,

At last we won,

And gained the inn at sink of sun

Far famed as "Marshall's Elm."

Beneath us figured tor and lea,

From Mendip to the western sea—

I doubt if finer sight there be

Within this royal realm.

VII

Inside the settle all a-row—All four a-rowWe sat, I next to John, to showThat he had wooed and won.And then he took me on his knee,And swore it was his turn to beMy favoured mate, and Mother LeePassed to my former one.

Inside the settle all a-row—

All four a-row

We sat, I next to John, to show

That he had wooed and won.

And then he took me on his knee,

And swore it was his turn to be

My favoured mate, and Mother Lee

Passed to my former one.

VIII

Then in a voice I had never heard,I had never heard,My only Love to me: "One word,My lady, if you please!Whose is the child you are like to bear?—His?After all my months of care?"God knows 'twas not! But, O despair!I nodded—still to tease.

Then in a voice I had never heard,

I had never heard,

My only Love to me: "One word,

My lady, if you please!

Whose is the child you are like to bear?—

His?After all my months of care?"

God knows 'twas not! But, O despair!

I nodded—still to tease.

Then up he sprung, and with his knife—And with his knifeHe let out jeering Johnny's life,Yes; there, at set of sun.The slant ray through the window nighGilded John's blood and glazing eye,Ere scarcely Mother Lee and IKnew that the deed was done.

Then up he sprung, and with his knife—

And with his knife

He let out jeering Johnny's life,

Yes; there, at set of sun.

The slant ray through the window nigh

Gilded John's blood and glazing eye,

Ere scarcely Mother Lee and I

Knew that the deed was done.

The taverns tell the gloomy tale,The gloomy tale,How that at Ivel-chester jailMy Love, my sweetheart swung;Though stained till now by no misdeedSave one horse ta'en in time o' need;(Blue Jimmy stole right many a steedEre his last fling he flung.)

The taverns tell the gloomy tale,

The gloomy tale,

How that at Ivel-chester jail

My Love, my sweetheart swung;

Though stained till now by no misdeed

Save one horse ta'en in time o' need;

(Blue Jimmy stole right many a steed

Ere his last fling he flung.)

Thereaft I walked the world alone,Alone, alone!On his death-day I gave my groanAnd dropped his dead-born child.'Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree,None tending me; for Mother LeeHad died at Glaston, leaving meUnfriended on the wild.

Thereaft I walked the world alone,

Alone, alone!

On his death-day I gave my groan

And dropped his dead-born child.

'Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree,

None tending me; for Mother Lee

Had died at Glaston, leaving me

Unfriended on the wild.

XII

And in the night as I lay weak,As I lay weak,The leaves a-falling on my cheek,The red moon low declined—The ghost of him I'd die to kissRose up and said: "Ah, tell me this!Was the child mine, or was it his?Speak, that I rest may find!"

And in the night as I lay weak,

As I lay weak,

The leaves a-falling on my cheek,

The red moon low declined—

The ghost of him I'd die to kiss

Rose up and said: "Ah, tell me this!

Was the child mine, or was it his?

Speak, that I rest may find!"

XIII

O doubt not but I told him then,I told him then,That I had kept me from all menSince we joined lips and swore.Whereat he smiled, and thinned awayAs the wind stirred to call up day ...—'Tis past! And here alone I strayHaunting the Western Moor.

O doubt not but I told him then,

I told him then,

That I had kept me from all men

Since we joined lips and swore.

Whereat he smiled, and thinned away

As the wind stirred to call up day ...

—'Tis past! And here alone I stray

Haunting the Western Moor.

1902.

CHORUS FROM "THE DYNASTS"

(Part III).

Last as first the question ringsOf the Will's long travailings;Why the All-mover,Why the All-proverEver urges on and measures out the droning tune of Things.Heaving dumblyAs we deem,As in dream,Apprehending not how fare the sentient subjects of Its scheme.Nay;—shall not Its blindness break?Yea, must not Its heart awake,Promptly tendingTo Its mendingIn a genial germing purpose, and for loving-kindness' sake?Should It neverCurb or cureAught whateverThose endureWhom It quickens, let them darkle to extinction swift and sure.But a stirring thrills the air,Like to sounds of joyance thereThat the ragesOf the agesShall be cancelled, and deliverance offered from the darts that were,Consciousness the Will informing, till It fashion all things fair!1907.

Last as first the question ringsOf the Will's long travailings;Why the All-mover,Why the All-proverEver urges on and measures out the droning tune of Things.

Last as first the question rings

Of the Will's long travailings;

Why the All-mover,

Why the All-prover

Ever urges on and measures out the droning tune of Things.

Heaving dumblyAs we deem,As in dream,Apprehending not how fare the sentient subjects of Its scheme.

Heaving dumbly

As we deem,

As in dream,

Apprehending not how fare the sentient subjects of Its scheme.

Nay;—shall not Its blindness break?Yea, must not Its heart awake,Promptly tendingTo Its mendingIn a genial germing purpose, and for loving-kindness' sake?

Nay;—shall not Its blindness break?

Yea, must not Its heart awake,

Promptly tending

To Its mending

In a genial germing purpose, and for loving-kindness' sake?

Should It neverCurb or cureAught whateverThose endureWhom It quickens, let them darkle to extinction swift and sure.

Should It never

Curb or cure

Aught whatever

Those endure

Whom It quickens, let them darkle to extinction swift and sure.

But a stirring thrills the air,Like to sounds of joyance thereThat the ragesOf the agesShall be cancelled, and deliverance offered from the darts that were,Consciousness the Will informing, till It fashion all things fair!

But a stirring thrills the air,

Like to sounds of joyance there

That the rages

Of the ages

Shall be cancelled, and deliverance offered from the darts that were,

Consciousness the Will informing, till It fashion all things fair!

1907.

THE BALLAD SINGER

Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune;Make me forget that there was ever a oneI walked with in the meek light of the moonWhen the day's work was done.Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;Make me forget that she whom I loved wellSwore she would love me dearly, love me long,Then—what I cannot tell!Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look—Make me forget her tears.

Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune;Make me forget that there was ever a oneI walked with in the meek light of the moonWhen the day's work was done.

Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune;

Make me forget that there was ever a one

I walked with in the meek light of the moon

When the day's work was done.

Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;Make me forget that she whom I loved wellSwore she would love me dearly, love me long,Then—what I cannot tell!

Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;

Make me forget that she whom I loved well

Swore she would love me dearly, love me long,

Then—what I cannot tell!

Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look—Make me forget her tears.

Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;

Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;

Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look—

Make me forget her tears.

RALPH HODGSON

THE MOOR

The world's gone forward to its latest fairAnd dropt an old man done with by the way,To sit alone among the bats and stareAt miles and miles and miles of moorland bareLit only with last shreds of dying day.Not all the world, not all the world's gone by;Old man, you're like to meet one traveller still,A journeyman well kenned for courtesyTo all that walk at odds with life and limb;If this be he now riding up the hillMaybe he'll stop and take you up with him...."But thou art Death?" "Of Heavenly SeraphimNone else to seek thee out and bid thee come.""I only care that thou art come from Him,Unbody me—I'm tired—and get me home."

The world's gone forward to its latest fair

And dropt an old man done with by the way,

To sit alone among the bats and stare

At miles and miles and miles of moorland bare

Lit only with last shreds of dying day.

Not all the world, not all the world's gone by;Old man, you're like to meet one traveller still,A journeyman well kenned for courtesyTo all that walk at odds with life and limb;If this be he now riding up the hillMaybe he'll stop and take you up with him....

Not all the world, not all the world's gone by;

Old man, you're like to meet one traveller still,

A journeyman well kenned for courtesy

To all that walk at odds with life and limb;

If this be he now riding up the hill

Maybe he'll stop and take you up with him....

"But thou art Death?" "Of Heavenly SeraphimNone else to seek thee out and bid thee come.""I only care that thou art come from Him,Unbody me—I'm tired—and get me home."

"But thou art Death?" "Of Heavenly Seraphim

None else to seek thee out and bid thee come."

"I only care that thou art come from Him,

Unbody me—I'm tired—and get me home."

TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?All things I'll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for your jennetOf silver the best,Goldsmiths shall beat youA great golden ring,Peacocks shall bow to you,Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls willFestoon you with may,Time, you old gipsy,Why hasten away?Last week in Babylon,Last night in Rome,Morning, and in the crushUnder Paul's dome;Under Paul's dialYou tighten your rein,Only a momentAnd off once again;Off to some cityNow blind in the womb,Off to anotherEre that's in the tomb.Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?

Time, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

All things I'll give youWill you be my guest,Bells for your jennetOf silver the best,Goldsmiths shall beat youA great golden ring,Peacocks shall bow to you,Little boys sing,Oh, and sweet girls willFestoon you with may,Time, you old gipsy,Why hasten away?

All things I'll give you

Will you be my guest,

Bells for your jennet

Of silver the best,

Goldsmiths shall beat you

A great golden ring,

Peacocks shall bow to you,

Little boys sing,

Oh, and sweet girls will

Festoon you with may,

Time, you old gipsy,

Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,Last night in Rome,Morning, and in the crushUnder Paul's dome;Under Paul's dialYou tighten your rein,Only a momentAnd off once again;Off to some cityNow blind in the womb,Off to anotherEre that's in the tomb.

Last week in Babylon,

Last night in Rome,

Morning, and in the crush

Under Paul's dome;

Under Paul's dial

You tighten your rein,

Only a moment

And off once again;

Off to some city

Now blind in the womb,

Off to another

Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gipsy man,Will you not stay,Put up your caravanJust for one day?

Time, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

GHOUL CARE

Sour fiend, go home and tell the Pit:For once you met your master,A man who carried in his soulThree charms against disaster,The Devil and disaster.Away, away, and tell the taleAnd start your whelps a-whining,Say "In the greenwood of his soulA lizard's eye was shining,A little eye kept shining."Away, away, and salve your sores,And set your hags a-groaning,Say "In the greenwood of his soulA drowsy bee was droning,A dreamy bee was droning."Prodigious Bat! Go start the wallsOf Hell with horror ringing,Say "In the greenwood of his soulThere was a goldfinch singing,A pretty goldfinch singing."And then come back, come, if you please,A fiercer ghoul and ghaster,With all the glooms and smuts of HellBehind you, I'm your master!You know I'm still your master.

Sour fiend, go home and tell the Pit:For once you met your master,A man who carried in his soulThree charms against disaster,The Devil and disaster.

Sour fiend, go home and tell the Pit:

For once you met your master,

A man who carried in his soul

Three charms against disaster,

The Devil and disaster.

Away, away, and tell the taleAnd start your whelps a-whining,Say "In the greenwood of his soulA lizard's eye was shining,A little eye kept shining."

Away, away, and tell the tale

And start your whelps a-whining,

Say "In the greenwood of his soul

A lizard's eye was shining,

A little eye kept shining."

Away, away, and salve your sores,And set your hags a-groaning,Say "In the greenwood of his soulA drowsy bee was droning,A dreamy bee was droning."

Away, away, and salve your sores,

And set your hags a-groaning,

Say "In the greenwood of his soul

A drowsy bee was droning,

A dreamy bee was droning."

Prodigious Bat! Go start the wallsOf Hell with horror ringing,Say "In the greenwood of his soulThere was a goldfinch singing,A pretty goldfinch singing."

Prodigious Bat! Go start the walls

Of Hell with horror ringing,

Say "In the greenwood of his soul

There was a goldfinch singing,

A pretty goldfinch singing."

And then come back, come, if you please,A fiercer ghoul and ghaster,With all the glooms and smuts of HellBehind you, I'm your master!You know I'm still your master.

And then come back, come, if you please,

A fiercer ghoul and ghaster,

With all the glooms and smuts of Hell

Behind you, I'm your master!

You know I'm still your master.

W. G. HOLE

ROOSEVELT-VILLAGE STREET

Nought is there here the eye to strike—Uncurved canals where barges ply;A hundred hamlets all alike;Flat fields that cut an arc of skyWith men and women o'er them bentWho needs must labour lest they die.Would any say that lives so spentMight break, spurred on by love and pride,Their bars of animal content?Nay, here live men unvexed, untried—I mused. Yet pacing Roosevelt streetIn idle humour I espiedA village man and woman meet,And pass with never word or sign—So strange in neighbour-folk whose feetHaunt the same fields in rain and shineThat, curious eyed, in either face,In curve of lip, or graven line,I sought for hints of pain or traceOf harsh resolve, and so grew wareThat hers was as a hiding placeWhere lurked the kinship of despair;While his bore record deeply wroughtThat life for him had but one care,And that—to mesh re-iterant thoughtIn labour, till at last his soulShould find the anodyne it sought.Hence now with dreary face he stoleThrough Roosevelt Street, nor stretched his handTo beg from life its smallest dole.And yet these two had loved and plannedTo happiest end, but for the floodThat wrecks, upreared on rock or sand,The house of hopes. Thus—cold of mood,He, loving wholly, could but chooseTo deem her heart as his subdued;While she, as maidens oft-times use,Denied sweet proofs of love, was fainTo gain them by the world-old ruse;And failing, vexed to find that vainWas all her pretty reticence,She happed upon a worthless swainOn whom, reserved the gold, the penceOf liberal smiles she flung away,Till, snared by her own innocence,She fell—Ah, God! how far that dayShe fell—from hope and promise plumb,To deeps where lips forget to pray.But he, apart, with sorrow dumb,Beheld, scarce conscious of the strife,Himself in her by fate o'ercome;And as she passed to her new life,Righted by still more wrong, divinedHer hate for him who called her wife,And on the hoarded knowledge pinedAnd starved, till he, as she, was dead,And nought remained but to unwindHis coil of days. So with slow treadHe goes his way through Roosevelt StreetAt night and morn, nor turns his headWhen past him comes the sound of feet—Of ghostly feet that long agoIn life had made his pulses beat.For, mark you, both are dead, and soSmall wonder is it nought should passBetwixt them in the street, I trow.Yet still they move with that huge massOf life unpurposeful that reapsThe corn in season, mows the grass,And then by right of labour sleepsWith privilege of dreams that apeFulfilment, whereby each may creepFrom pain through doors of dear escape;Save such, unhappy, as would winSome respite for themselves, and shapeThose passionate, deep appeals that dinThe Powers, ere season due, to stayThe long slow tragedies of sin.

Nought is there here the eye to strike—Uncurved canals where barges ply;A hundred hamlets all alike;

Nought is there here the eye to strike—

Uncurved canals where barges ply;

A hundred hamlets all alike;

Flat fields that cut an arc of skyWith men and women o'er them bentWho needs must labour lest they die.

Flat fields that cut an arc of sky

With men and women o'er them bent

Who needs must labour lest they die.

Would any say that lives so spentMight break, spurred on by love and pride,Their bars of animal content?

Would any say that lives so spent

Might break, spurred on by love and pride,

Their bars of animal content?

Nay, here live men unvexed, untried—I mused. Yet pacing Roosevelt streetIn idle humour I espied

Nay, here live men unvexed, untried—

I mused. Yet pacing Roosevelt street

In idle humour I espied

A village man and woman meet,And pass with never word or sign—So strange in neighbour-folk whose feet

A village man and woman meet,

And pass with never word or sign—

So strange in neighbour-folk whose feet

Haunt the same fields in rain and shineThat, curious eyed, in either face,In curve of lip, or graven line,

Haunt the same fields in rain and shine

That, curious eyed, in either face,

In curve of lip, or graven line,

I sought for hints of pain or traceOf harsh resolve, and so grew wareThat hers was as a hiding place

I sought for hints of pain or trace

Of harsh resolve, and so grew ware

That hers was as a hiding place

Where lurked the kinship of despair;While his bore record deeply wroughtThat life for him had but one care,

Where lurked the kinship of despair;

While his bore record deeply wrought

That life for him had but one care,

And that—to mesh re-iterant thoughtIn labour, till at last his soulShould find the anodyne it sought.

And that—to mesh re-iterant thought

In labour, till at last his soul

Should find the anodyne it sought.

Hence now with dreary face he stoleThrough Roosevelt Street, nor stretched his handTo beg from life its smallest dole.

Hence now with dreary face he stole

Through Roosevelt Street, nor stretched his hand

To beg from life its smallest dole.

And yet these two had loved and plannedTo happiest end, but for the floodThat wrecks, upreared on rock or sand,

And yet these two had loved and planned

To happiest end, but for the flood

That wrecks, upreared on rock or sand,

The house of hopes. Thus—cold of mood,He, loving wholly, could but chooseTo deem her heart as his subdued;

The house of hopes. Thus—cold of mood,

He, loving wholly, could but choose

To deem her heart as his subdued;

While she, as maidens oft-times use,Denied sweet proofs of love, was fainTo gain them by the world-old ruse;

While she, as maidens oft-times use,

Denied sweet proofs of love, was fain

To gain them by the world-old ruse;

And failing, vexed to find that vainWas all her pretty reticence,She happed upon a worthless swain

And failing, vexed to find that vain

Was all her pretty reticence,

She happed upon a worthless swain

On whom, reserved the gold, the penceOf liberal smiles she flung away,Till, snared by her own innocence,

On whom, reserved the gold, the pence

Of liberal smiles she flung away,

Till, snared by her own innocence,

She fell—Ah, God! how far that dayShe fell—from hope and promise plumb,To deeps where lips forget to pray.

She fell—Ah, God! how far that day

She fell—from hope and promise plumb,

To deeps where lips forget to pray.

But he, apart, with sorrow dumb,Beheld, scarce conscious of the strife,Himself in her by fate o'ercome;

But he, apart, with sorrow dumb,

Beheld, scarce conscious of the strife,

Himself in her by fate o'ercome;

And as she passed to her new life,Righted by still more wrong, divinedHer hate for him who called her wife,

And as she passed to her new life,

Righted by still more wrong, divined

Her hate for him who called her wife,

And on the hoarded knowledge pinedAnd starved, till he, as she, was dead,And nought remained but to unwind

And on the hoarded knowledge pined

And starved, till he, as she, was dead,

And nought remained but to unwind

His coil of days. So with slow treadHe goes his way through Roosevelt StreetAt night and morn, nor turns his head

His coil of days. So with slow tread

He goes his way through Roosevelt Street

At night and morn, nor turns his head

When past him comes the sound of feet—Of ghostly feet that long agoIn life had made his pulses beat.

When past him comes the sound of feet—

Of ghostly feet that long ago

In life had made his pulses beat.

For, mark you, both are dead, and soSmall wonder is it nought should passBetwixt them in the street, I trow.

For, mark you, both are dead, and so

Small wonder is it nought should pass

Betwixt them in the street, I trow.

Yet still they move with that huge massOf life unpurposeful that reapsThe corn in season, mows the grass,

Yet still they move with that huge mass

Of life unpurposeful that reaps

The corn in season, mows the grass,

And then by right of labour sleepsWith privilege of dreams that apeFulfilment, whereby each may creep

And then by right of labour sleeps

With privilege of dreams that ape

Fulfilment, whereby each may creep

From pain through doors of dear escape;Save such, unhappy, as would winSome respite for themselves, and shape

From pain through doors of dear escape;

Save such, unhappy, as would win

Some respite for themselves, and shape

Those passionate, deep appeals that dinThe Powers, ere season due, to stayThe long slow tragedies of sin.

Those passionate, deep appeals that din

The Powers, ere season due, to stay

The long slow tragedies of sin.

THE HAUNTED FIELDS

I know of fields by voices haunted stillThat years ago grew hushed;Whose buttercups are brushedBy feet that long have ceased to climb the hill.On whose green slopes the happy children playAs on a mother's lap,Then steal through gate and gap,And by strange hedge-rows make their wondering way.Sometimes great seas of ripening corn they spyAcross whose rippling faceThe shadowy billows raceAnd round the gate, forlornly whispering, die;Or in dark rutted lanes by weeds o'ergrown,Round-eyed they watch a thrushThat breaks the noonday hushDashing with zest a snail against a stone;At others, on an impulse waxing brave,They climb the churchyard wallAnd, marvelling at it all,See strange black people gathered round a grave.Then, without question, hurrying up the lane,They seek once more their own—That world in which is knownNo fear of death, nor thought of change or pain.Where still they call and answer, still they play,And summer is ever there;But I—I never darePass through those fields, retrace the well-known way,Lest I might meet a lad whom once I knew,Whose eyes accusinglyShould make demand of me:"Where are those dreams I left in charge with you?"

I know of fields by voices haunted stillThat years ago grew hushed;Whose buttercups are brushedBy feet that long have ceased to climb the hill.

I know of fields by voices haunted still

That years ago grew hushed;

Whose buttercups are brushed

By feet that long have ceased to climb the hill.

On whose green slopes the happy children playAs on a mother's lap,Then steal through gate and gap,And by strange hedge-rows make their wondering way.

On whose green slopes the happy children play

As on a mother's lap,

Then steal through gate and gap,

And by strange hedge-rows make their wondering way.

Sometimes great seas of ripening corn they spyAcross whose rippling faceThe shadowy billows raceAnd round the gate, forlornly whispering, die;

Sometimes great seas of ripening corn they spy

Across whose rippling face

The shadowy billows race

And round the gate, forlornly whispering, die;

Or in dark rutted lanes by weeds o'ergrown,Round-eyed they watch a thrushThat breaks the noonday hushDashing with zest a snail against a stone;

Or in dark rutted lanes by weeds o'ergrown,

Round-eyed they watch a thrush

That breaks the noonday hush

Dashing with zest a snail against a stone;

At others, on an impulse waxing brave,They climb the churchyard wallAnd, marvelling at it all,See strange black people gathered round a grave.

At others, on an impulse waxing brave,

They climb the churchyard wall

And, marvelling at it all,

See strange black people gathered round a grave.

Then, without question, hurrying up the lane,They seek once more their own—That world in which is knownNo fear of death, nor thought of change or pain.

Then, without question, hurrying up the lane,

They seek once more their own—

That world in which is known

No fear of death, nor thought of change or pain.

Where still they call and answer, still they play,And summer is ever there;But I—I never darePass through those fields, retrace the well-known way,

Where still they call and answer, still they play,

And summer is ever there;

But I—I never dare

Pass through those fields, retrace the well-known way,

Lest I might meet a lad whom once I knew,Whose eyes accusinglyShould make demand of me:"Where are those dreams I left in charge with you?"

Lest I might meet a lad whom once I knew,

Whose eyes accusingly

Should make demand of me:

"Where are those dreams I left in charge with you?"

CAPTIVE IN LONDON TOWN

There comes a ghostly space'Twixt midnight and the dawn,When from the heart of London TownThe tides of life are drawn.What time, when Spring is due,The captives dungeoned deepBeneath the stones of London TownGrow troubled in their sleep,And wake—mint, mallow, dock,Brambles in bondage sore,And grasses shut in London TownA thousand years and more.Yet though beneath the stonesThey starve, and overheadThe countless feet pace London TownOf men who hold them dead,Like Samson, blind and scorned,In pain their time they bideTo seize the roots of London TownAnd tumble down its pride.Now well by proof and sign,By men unheard, unseen,They know that far from London TownThe woods once more are green.But theirs is still to wait,Deaf to the myriad hum,Beneath the stones of London TownA Spring that needs must come.

There comes a ghostly space'Twixt midnight and the dawn,When from the heart of London TownThe tides of life are drawn.

There comes a ghostly space

'Twixt midnight and the dawn,

When from the heart of London Town

The tides of life are drawn.

What time, when Spring is due,The captives dungeoned deepBeneath the stones of London TownGrow troubled in their sleep,

What time, when Spring is due,

The captives dungeoned deep

Beneath the stones of London Town

Grow troubled in their sleep,

And wake—mint, mallow, dock,Brambles in bondage sore,And grasses shut in London TownA thousand years and more.

And wake—mint, mallow, dock,

Brambles in bondage sore,

And grasses shut in London Town

A thousand years and more.

Yet though beneath the stonesThey starve, and overheadThe countless feet pace London TownOf men who hold them dead,

Yet though beneath the stones

They starve, and overhead

The countless feet pace London Town

Of men who hold them dead,

Like Samson, blind and scorned,In pain their time they bideTo seize the roots of London TownAnd tumble down its pride.

Like Samson, blind and scorned,

In pain their time they bide

To seize the roots of London Town

And tumble down its pride.

Now well by proof and sign,By men unheard, unseen,They know that far from London TownThe woods once more are green.

Now well by proof and sign,

By men unheard, unseen,

They know that far from London Town

The woods once more are green.

But theirs is still to wait,Deaf to the myriad hum,Beneath the stones of London TownA Spring that needs must come.

But theirs is still to wait,

Deaf to the myriad hum,

Beneath the stones of London Town

A Spring that needs must come.

LAURENCE HOUSMAN

THE FELLOW-TRAVELLERS

Fellow-travellers here with me,Loose for good each other's loads!Here we come to the cross-roads:Here must parting be.Where will you five be to-night?Where shall I? we little know:Loosed from you, I let you goUtterly from sight.Far away go taste and touch,Far go sight, and sound, and smell.Fellow-Travellers, fare you well,—You I loved so much.

Fellow-travellers here with me,Loose for good each other's loads!Here we come to the cross-roads:Here must parting be.

Fellow-travellers here with me,

Loose for good each other's loads!

Here we come to the cross-roads:

Here must parting be.

Where will you five be to-night?Where shall I? we little know:Loosed from you, I let you goUtterly from sight.

Where will you five be to-night?

Where shall I? we little know:

Loosed from you, I let you go

Utterly from sight.

Far away go taste and touch,Far go sight, and sound, and smell.Fellow-Travellers, fare you well,—You I loved so much.

Far away go taste and touch,

Far go sight, and sound, and smell.

Fellow-Travellers, fare you well,—

You I loved so much.

THE SETTLERS

How green the earth, how blue the sky,How pleasant all the days that pass,Here where the British settlers lieBeneath their cloaks of grass!Here ancient peace resumes her round,And rich from toil stand hill and plain;Men reap and store; but they sleep sound,The men who sowed the grain.Hard to the plough their hands they put,And wheresoe'er the soil had needThe furrow drave, and underfootThey sowed themselves for seed.Ah! not like him whose hand made yieldThe brazen kine with fiery breath,And over all the Colchian fieldStrewed far the seeds of death;Till, as day sank, awoke to warThe seedlings of the dragon's teeth,And death ran multiplied once moreAcross the hideous heath.But rich in flocks be all these farms,And fruitful be the fields which hideBrave eyes that loved the light, and armsThat never clasped a bride!O willing hearts turned quick to clay,Glad lovers holding death in scorn,Out of the lives ye cast awayThe coming race is born.

How green the earth, how blue the sky,How pleasant all the days that pass,Here where the British settlers lieBeneath their cloaks of grass!

How green the earth, how blue the sky,

How pleasant all the days that pass,

Here where the British settlers lie

Beneath their cloaks of grass!

Here ancient peace resumes her round,And rich from toil stand hill and plain;Men reap and store; but they sleep sound,The men who sowed the grain.

Here ancient peace resumes her round,

And rich from toil stand hill and plain;

Men reap and store; but they sleep sound,

The men who sowed the grain.

Hard to the plough their hands they put,And wheresoe'er the soil had needThe furrow drave, and underfootThey sowed themselves for seed.

Hard to the plough their hands they put,

And wheresoe'er the soil had need

The furrow drave, and underfoot

They sowed themselves for seed.

Ah! not like him whose hand made yieldThe brazen kine with fiery breath,And over all the Colchian fieldStrewed far the seeds of death;

Ah! not like him whose hand made yield

The brazen kine with fiery breath,

And over all the Colchian field

Strewed far the seeds of death;

Till, as day sank, awoke to warThe seedlings of the dragon's teeth,And death ran multiplied once moreAcross the hideous heath.

Till, as day sank, awoke to war

The seedlings of the dragon's teeth,

And death ran multiplied once more

Across the hideous heath.

But rich in flocks be all these farms,And fruitful be the fields which hideBrave eyes that loved the light, and armsThat never clasped a bride!

But rich in flocks be all these farms,

And fruitful be the fields which hide

Brave eyes that loved the light, and arms

That never clasped a bride!

O willing hearts turned quick to clay,Glad lovers holding death in scorn,Out of the lives ye cast awayThe coming race is born.

O willing hearts turned quick to clay,

Glad lovers holding death in scorn,

Out of the lives ye cast away

The coming race is born.

SONG

Sleep lies in every cupOf land or flower:Look how the earth drains upHer evening hour!Each face that once so laughed,Now fain would liftLips to Life's sleeping-draught,The goodlier gift.Oh, whence this overflow,This flood of rest?What vale of healing soUnlocks her breast?What land, to give us rightOf refuge, yieldsTo the sharp scythes of lightHer poppied fields?Nay, wait! our turn to makeAmends grows due!Another day will break,We must give too!

Sleep lies in every cupOf land or flower:Look how the earth drains upHer evening hour!

Sleep lies in every cup

Of land or flower:

Look how the earth drains up

Her evening hour!

Each face that once so laughed,Now fain would liftLips to Life's sleeping-draught,The goodlier gift.

Each face that once so laughed,

Now fain would lift

Lips to Life's sleeping-draught,

The goodlier gift.

Oh, whence this overflow,This flood of rest?What vale of healing soUnlocks her breast?

Oh, whence this overflow,

This flood of rest?

What vale of healing so

Unlocks her breast?

What land, to give us rightOf refuge, yieldsTo the sharp scythes of lightHer poppied fields?

What land, to give us right

Of refuge, yields

To the sharp scythes of light

Her poppied fields?

Nay, wait! our turn to makeAmends grows due!Another day will break,We must give too!

Nay, wait! our turn to make

Amends grows due!

Another day will break,

We must give too!

EMILIA STUART LORIMER

LOVE SONGS

IWhite-dreaming face of my dear,Waken; the dawn is here.Ope, oh so misty eyes;Keep ope, and recognize!Mouth, o'er the far sleep-seaSpread now thy smile-wings for me.IITake from me the little flowersAnd the bright-eyed beasts and the birds;And the babies, oh God, take away;Hearken my praying-words;Empty my road of them,Empty my house and my arm,For black is my heart with hate,And I would not these come to harm.

White-dreaming face of my dear,Waken; the dawn is here.

White-dreaming face of my dear,

Waken; the dawn is here.

Ope, oh so misty eyes;Keep ope, and recognize!

Ope, oh so misty eyes;

Keep ope, and recognize!

Mouth, o'er the far sleep-seaSpread now thy smile-wings for me.

Mouth, o'er the far sleep-sea

Spread now thy smile-wings for me.

Take from me the little flowersAnd the bright-eyed beasts and the birds;And the babies, oh God, take away;Hearken my praying-words;Empty my road of them,Empty my house and my arm,For black is my heart with hate,And I would not these come to harm.

Take from me the little flowers

And the bright-eyed beasts and the birds;

And the babies, oh God, take away;

Hearken my praying-words;

Empty my road of them,

Empty my house and my arm,

For black is my heart with hate,

And I would not these come to harm.

STORM

Twigs of despair on the high trees uplifted,Torn cloud flying behind;Whistling wind through the dead leaves drifted;Oho! my mindWith you is racked and ruined and rifted.Waves of the angry firth high-flying,Rainstorm striping the sea,Sleet-mist shrouding the hills; day dying;Now around meCloses the darkness of night in, wild crying.God of the storm, in thy storm's heart unmetedMy shallop-soul rideth where roarsThe swirling water-spout—rides undefeated;No rudder, no oars;Only within, thy small image seated.

Twigs of despair on the high trees uplifted,Torn cloud flying behind;Whistling wind through the dead leaves drifted;Oho! my mindWith you is racked and ruined and rifted.

Twigs of despair on the high trees uplifted,

Torn cloud flying behind;

Whistling wind through the dead leaves drifted;

Oho! my mind

With you is racked and ruined and rifted.

Waves of the angry firth high-flying,Rainstorm striping the sea,Sleet-mist shrouding the hills; day dying;Now around meCloses the darkness of night in, wild crying.

Waves of the angry firth high-flying,

Rainstorm striping the sea,

Sleet-mist shrouding the hills; day dying;

Now around me

Closes the darkness of night in, wild crying.

God of the storm, in thy storm's heart unmetedMy shallop-soul rideth where roarsThe swirling water-spout—rides undefeated;No rudder, no oars;Only within, thy small image seated.

God of the storm, in thy storm's heart unmeted

My shallop-soul rideth where roars

The swirling water-spout—rides undefeated;

No rudder, no oars;

Only within, thy small image seated.

JAMES A. MACKERETH

TO A BLACKBIRD ON NEW YEAR'S DAY

Hail, truant with song-troubled breast—Thou welcome and bewildering guest!Blithe troubadour, whose laughing noteBrings Spring into a poet's throat,—Flute, feathered joy! thy painted billForetells the daffodil.Enchanter, 'gainst the evening starSinging to worlds where dreamers are,That makes upon the leafless boughA solitary vernal vow—Sing, lyric soul! within thy songThe love that lures the rose along!The snowdrop, hearing, in the dellDoth tremble for its virgin bell;The crocus feels within its frameThe magic of its folded flame;And many a listening patience liesAnd pushes toward its paradise.Young love again on golden galesScents hawthorn blown down happy dales;The phantom cuckoo calls forlornFrom limits of the haunted morn;—Sing, elfin heart! thy notes to meAre bells that ring in Faery!Again the world is young, is young,And silence takes a silver tongue;The echoes catch the lyric moodOf laughing children in the wood:Blithe April trips in winter's wayAnd nature, wondering, dreams of May.Sing on, thou dusky fount of life!God love thee for a merry sprite!Sing on! for though the sun be coyI sense with thee a budding joy,And all my heart with ranging rhymeIs poet for the prime!

Hail, truant with song-troubled breast—

Thou welcome and bewildering guest!

Blithe troubadour, whose laughing note

Brings Spring into a poet's throat,—

Flute, feathered joy! thy painted bill

Foretells the daffodil.

Enchanter, 'gainst the evening starSinging to worlds where dreamers are,That makes upon the leafless boughA solitary vernal vow—Sing, lyric soul! within thy songThe love that lures the rose along!

Enchanter, 'gainst the evening star

Singing to worlds where dreamers are,

That makes upon the leafless bough

A solitary vernal vow—

Sing, lyric soul! within thy song

The love that lures the rose along!

The snowdrop, hearing, in the dellDoth tremble for its virgin bell;The crocus feels within its frameThe magic of its folded flame;And many a listening patience liesAnd pushes toward its paradise.

The snowdrop, hearing, in the dell

Doth tremble for its virgin bell;

The crocus feels within its frame

The magic of its folded flame;

And many a listening patience lies

And pushes toward its paradise.

Young love again on golden galesScents hawthorn blown down happy dales;The phantom cuckoo calls forlornFrom limits of the haunted morn;—Sing, elfin heart! thy notes to meAre bells that ring in Faery!

Young love again on golden gales

Scents hawthorn blown down happy dales;

The phantom cuckoo calls forlorn

From limits of the haunted morn;—

Sing, elfin heart! thy notes to me

Are bells that ring in Faery!

Again the world is young, is young,And silence takes a silver tongue;The echoes catch the lyric moodOf laughing children in the wood:Blithe April trips in winter's wayAnd nature, wondering, dreams of May.

Again the world is young, is young,

And silence takes a silver tongue;

The echoes catch the lyric mood

Of laughing children in the wood:

Blithe April trips in winter's way

And nature, wondering, dreams of May.

Sing on, thou dusky fount of life!God love thee for a merry sprite!Sing on! for though the sun be coyI sense with thee a budding joy,And all my heart with ranging rhymeIs poet for the prime!

Sing on, thou dusky fount of life!

God love thee for a merry sprite!

Sing on! for though the sun be coy

I sense with thee a budding joy,

And all my heart with ranging rhyme

Is poet for the prime!

LA DANSEUSE

She moved like silence swathed in light,Like mists at morning clear;A music that enamoured sightYet did elude the ear.A rapture and a spirit cladIn motion soft as sleep;The epitome of all things glad,The sum of all that weep;Her form was like a poet's mind—By all sensations sought;She seemed the substance of the wind,The shape of lyric thought,—A being 'mid terrestrial thingsTranscendently forlorn,From time bound far on filmy wingsFor some diviner bourne.The rhythms of the raptured heartSwayed to her sweet control;Life in her keeping all was art,And all of body soul.Lone-shimmering in the roseate airShe seemed to ebb and flow,A memory, perilously fair,And pale from long ago.She stooped to time's remembered tears,Yearned to undawned delight.Ah beauty, passionate from the years!Oh body wise and white!She vanished like an evening cloud,A sunset's radiant gleam.She vanished ... Life awhile endowedThe darkness with a dream.

She moved like silence swathed in light,Like mists at morning clear;A music that enamoured sightYet did elude the ear.

She moved like silence swathed in light,

Like mists at morning clear;

A music that enamoured sight

Yet did elude the ear.

A rapture and a spirit cladIn motion soft as sleep;The epitome of all things glad,The sum of all that weep;

A rapture and a spirit clad

In motion soft as sleep;

The epitome of all things glad,

The sum of all that weep;

Her form was like a poet's mind—By all sensations sought;She seemed the substance of the wind,The shape of lyric thought,—

Her form was like a poet's mind—

By all sensations sought;

She seemed the substance of the wind,

The shape of lyric thought,—

A being 'mid terrestrial thingsTranscendently forlorn,From time bound far on filmy wingsFor some diviner bourne.

A being 'mid terrestrial things

Transcendently forlorn,

From time bound far on filmy wings

For some diviner bourne.

The rhythms of the raptured heartSwayed to her sweet control;Life in her keeping all was art,And all of body soul.

The rhythms of the raptured heart

Swayed to her sweet control;

Life in her keeping all was art,

And all of body soul.

Lone-shimmering in the roseate airShe seemed to ebb and flow,A memory, perilously fair,And pale from long ago.

Lone-shimmering in the roseate air

She seemed to ebb and flow,

A memory, perilously fair,

And pale from long ago.

She stooped to time's remembered tears,Yearned to undawned delight.Ah beauty, passionate from the years!Oh body wise and white!

She stooped to time's remembered tears,

Yearned to undawned delight.

Ah beauty, passionate from the years!

Oh body wise and white!

She vanished like an evening cloud,A sunset's radiant gleam.She vanished ... Life awhile endowedThe darkness with a dream.

She vanished like an evening cloud,

A sunset's radiant gleam.

She vanished ... Life awhile endowed

The darkness with a dream.

Back to Index Next