GOD RETURNS
Dear God, before Thee many weepAnd bow the solemn knee;But I who have thy joy to keepWill sing and dance for Thee.Come, lilt ye, lilt ye, lightsome birds,For ye are glad as I;Come frisk, ye sunlit flocks and herdsAnd cherubs of the sky;Sweet elfin mischief of the hill,We'll share a laugh together—Oh half the world is hoyden still,And waits for whistling weather!The God of age is staid and old,And asks a sober tongue;But till the heart of youth is coldThe God of youth is young!Then kiss, blithe lass and happy lad!The rainbow passes over,And love and life, the leal and glad,Must step with time the rover.Trip buds and bells in spangled ways!Leap, leaves in every tree!Ye winds and waters, nights and days,Dance, dance for Deity.On every hand is elfin land,And faery gifts are falling;Across the world, a twinkling band,The elves are calling—calling.In welcome smile the witching skies,And with a jocund train,With dancing joy-light in His eyes,God, God comes home again!
Dear God, before Thee many weepAnd bow the solemn knee;But I who have thy joy to keepWill sing and dance for Thee.
Dear God, before Thee many weep
And bow the solemn knee;
But I who have thy joy to keep
Will sing and dance for Thee.
Come, lilt ye, lilt ye, lightsome birds,For ye are glad as I;Come frisk, ye sunlit flocks and herdsAnd cherubs of the sky;
Come, lilt ye, lilt ye, lightsome birds,
For ye are glad as I;
Come frisk, ye sunlit flocks and herds
And cherubs of the sky;
Sweet elfin mischief of the hill,We'll share a laugh together—Oh half the world is hoyden still,And waits for whistling weather!
Sweet elfin mischief of the hill,
We'll share a laugh together—
Oh half the world is hoyden still,
And waits for whistling weather!
The God of age is staid and old,And asks a sober tongue;But till the heart of youth is coldThe God of youth is young!
The God of age is staid and old,
And asks a sober tongue;
But till the heart of youth is cold
The God of youth is young!
Then kiss, blithe lass and happy lad!The rainbow passes over,And love and life, the leal and glad,Must step with time the rover.
Then kiss, blithe lass and happy lad!
The rainbow passes over,
And love and life, the leal and glad,
Must step with time the rover.
Trip buds and bells in spangled ways!Leap, leaves in every tree!Ye winds and waters, nights and days,Dance, dance for Deity.
Trip buds and bells in spangled ways!
Leap, leaves in every tree!
Ye winds and waters, nights and days,
Dance, dance for Deity.
On every hand is elfin land,And faery gifts are falling;Across the world, a twinkling band,The elves are calling—calling.
On every hand is elfin land,
And faery gifts are falling;
Across the world, a twinkling band,
The elves are calling—calling.
In welcome smile the witching skies,And with a jocund train,With dancing joy-light in His eyes,God, God comes home again!
In welcome smile the witching skies,
And with a jocund train,
With dancing joy-light in His eyes,
God, God comes home again!
ALICE MEYNELL
TO THE BODY
Thou inmost, ultimateCouncil of judgment, palace of decrees,Where the high senses hold their spiritual state,Sued by earth's embassies,And sign, approve, accept, conceive, create;Create—thy senses closeWith the world's pleas. The random odours reachTheir sweetness in the place of thy repose,Upon thy tongue the peach,And in thy nostrils breathes the breathing rose.To thee, secluded one,The dark vibrations of the sightless skies,The lovely inexplicit colours run;The light gropes for those eyes.O thou august! thou dost command the sun.Music, all dumb, hath trodInto thine ear her one effectual way;And fire and cold approach to gain thy nod,Where thou call'st up the day,Where thou await'st the appeal of God.
Thou inmost, ultimateCouncil of judgment, palace of decrees,Where the high senses hold their spiritual state,Sued by earth's embassies,And sign, approve, accept, conceive, create;
Thou inmost, ultimate
Council of judgment, palace of decrees,
Where the high senses hold their spiritual state,
Sued by earth's embassies,
And sign, approve, accept, conceive, create;
Create—thy senses closeWith the world's pleas. The random odours reachTheir sweetness in the place of thy repose,Upon thy tongue the peach,And in thy nostrils breathes the breathing rose.
Create—thy senses close
With the world's pleas. The random odours reach
Their sweetness in the place of thy repose,
Upon thy tongue the peach,
And in thy nostrils breathes the breathing rose.
To thee, secluded one,The dark vibrations of the sightless skies,The lovely inexplicit colours run;The light gropes for those eyes.O thou august! thou dost command the sun.
To thee, secluded one,
The dark vibrations of the sightless skies,
The lovely inexplicit colours run;
The light gropes for those eyes.
O thou august! thou dost command the sun.
Music, all dumb, hath trodInto thine ear her one effectual way;And fire and cold approach to gain thy nod,Where thou call'st up the day,Where thou await'st the appeal of God.
Music, all dumb, hath trod
Into thine ear her one effectual way;
And fire and cold approach to gain thy nod,
Where thou call'st up the day,
Where thou await'st the appeal of God.
CHRIST IN THE UNIVERSE
With this ambiguous earthHis dealings have been told us. These abide:The signal to a maid, the human birth,The lesson, and the young Man crucified.But not a star of allThe innumerable host of stars has heardHow He administered this terrestrial ball.Our race have kept their Lord's entrusted Word.Of His earth-visiting feetNone knows the secret, cherished, perilous,The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet,Heart-shattering secret of His way with us.No planet knows that thisOur wayside planet, carrying land and wave,Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss,Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave.Nor, in our little day,May His devices with the heavens be guessed,His pilgrimage to thread the Milky WayOr His bestowals there be manifest.But in the eternities,Doubtless we shall compare together, hearA million alien Gospels, in what guiseHe trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear.O, be prepared, my soul!To read the inconceivable, to scanThe million forms of God those stars unrollWhen, in our turn, we show to them a Man.
With this ambiguous earthHis dealings have been told us. These abide:The signal to a maid, the human birth,The lesson, and the young Man crucified.
With this ambiguous earth
His dealings have been told us. These abide:
The signal to a maid, the human birth,
The lesson, and the young Man crucified.
But not a star of allThe innumerable host of stars has heardHow He administered this terrestrial ball.Our race have kept their Lord's entrusted Word.
But not a star of all
The innumerable host of stars has heard
How He administered this terrestrial ball.
Our race have kept their Lord's entrusted Word.
Of His earth-visiting feetNone knows the secret, cherished, perilous,The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet,Heart-shattering secret of His way with us.
Of His earth-visiting feet
None knows the secret, cherished, perilous,
The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet,
Heart-shattering secret of His way with us.
No planet knows that thisOur wayside planet, carrying land and wave,Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss,Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave.
No planet knows that this
Our wayside planet, carrying land and wave,
Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss,
Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave.
Nor, in our little day,May His devices with the heavens be guessed,His pilgrimage to thread the Milky WayOr His bestowals there be manifest.
Nor, in our little day,
May His devices with the heavens be guessed,
His pilgrimage to thread the Milky Way
Or His bestowals there be manifest.
But in the eternities,Doubtless we shall compare together, hearA million alien Gospels, in what guiseHe trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear.
But in the eternities,
Doubtless we shall compare together, hear
A million alien Gospels, in what guise
He trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear.
O, be prepared, my soul!To read the inconceivable, to scanThe million forms of God those stars unrollWhen, in our turn, we show to them a Man.
O, be prepared, my soul!
To read the inconceivable, to scan
The million forms of God those stars unroll
When, in our turn, we show to them a Man.
MATERNITY
One wept whose only child was dead,New-born, ten years ago."Weep not; he is in bliss," they said.She answered, "Even so."Ten years ago was born in painA child, not now forlorn.But oh, ten years ago, in vain,A mother, a mother was born."
One wept whose only child was dead,New-born, ten years ago."Weep not; he is in bliss," they said.She answered, "Even so.
One wept whose only child was dead,
New-born, ten years ago.
"Weep not; he is in bliss," they said.
She answered, "Even so.
"Ten years ago was born in painA child, not now forlorn.But oh, ten years ago, in vain,A mother, a mother was born."
"Ten years ago was born in pain
A child, not now forlorn.
But oh, ten years ago, in vain,
A mother, a mother was born."
WILL H. OGILVIE
THERE'S A CLEAN WIND BLOWING
There's a clean wind blowingOver hill-flower and peat,Where the bell heather's growing,And the brown burn flowing,And the ghost-shadows goingDown the glen on stealthy feet.There's a clean wind blowing,And the breath of it is sweet.There's a clean wind blowing,And the world holds but three:The purple peak against the sky,The master wind, and me.The moor birds are tossingLike ships upon the sea;There's a clean wind blowingFree.There's a clean wind blowing,Untainted of the town,A fair-hitting foemanWith his glove flung down.Will ye take his lordly challengeAnd the gauntlet that he throws,And come forth among the heatherWhere the clean wind blows!
There's a clean wind blowingOver hill-flower and peat,Where the bell heather's growing,And the brown burn flowing,And the ghost-shadows goingDown the glen on stealthy feet.There's a clean wind blowing,And the breath of it is sweet.
There's a clean wind blowing
Over hill-flower and peat,
Where the bell heather's growing,
And the brown burn flowing,
And the ghost-shadows going
Down the glen on stealthy feet.
There's a clean wind blowing,
And the breath of it is sweet.
There's a clean wind blowing,And the world holds but three:The purple peak against the sky,The master wind, and me.The moor birds are tossingLike ships upon the sea;There's a clean wind blowingFree.
There's a clean wind blowing,
And the world holds but three:
The purple peak against the sky,
The master wind, and me.
The moor birds are tossing
Like ships upon the sea;
There's a clean wind blowing
Free.
There's a clean wind blowing,Untainted of the town,A fair-hitting foemanWith his glove flung down.Will ye take his lordly challengeAnd the gauntlet that he throws,And come forth among the heatherWhere the clean wind blows!
There's a clean wind blowing,
Untainted of the town,
A fair-hitting foeman
With his glove flung down.
Will ye take his lordly challenge
And the gauntlet that he throws,
And come forth among the heather
Where the clean wind blows!
THE GARDEN OF THE NIGHT
The Night is a far-spreading garden, and all through the hoursGlisten and glitter and sparkle her wonderful flowers.First the great moon-rose full blooming; the great bed of starsTouching with restful gold petals the woodland's dark bars;Then arc-lights like asters that blossom in street and in square,And lamps like primroses beyond them in planted parterre;Great tulips of crimson that rise from the factory towers;White lilies that drop from deep windows: all flowers, the Night's flowers!Blooms on the highway that twinkle and fade like the stars,Golden and red on the vans and the carts and the cars;Clusters of bloom in the village; lone homesteads a-light,Decking the lawns of the darkness, the plots of the Night.Then the bright blossoms of platform and signal that shineBy the iron-paved path of the garden—the lights of the Line;The gold flowers of comfort and caution; the buds of dull red,Sombre with warning; the green leaves that say "Right ahead!"Then the flowers in the harbour that low to the tide of it lean;The lights on the port and the starboard, the red and the green,Mixing and mingling with mast lights that move in the air,And deck lights and wharf lights and lights upon pier-head and stair;An edging of gold where a liner steals by like a thief;The giant grey gleam of a searchlight that swings like a leaf;And far out to seaward faint petals that flutter and fallAgainst the white flower of the Lighthouse that gathers them all.Then flower lights all golden with welcome—the lights of the inn;And poisonous hell-flowers, lit doorways that beckon to sin;Soft vesper flowers of the Churches with dark stems above;Gold flowers of court and of cottage made one flower by love;Beacons of windows on hillside and cliff to recallSome wanderer lost for a season—Night's flowers one and all!In the street, in the lane, on the Line, on the ships and the towers,In the windows of cottage and palace—all flowers, the Night's flowers!
The Night is a far-spreading garden, and all through the hoursGlisten and glitter and sparkle her wonderful flowers.First the great moon-rose full blooming; the great bed of starsTouching with restful gold petals the woodland's dark bars;Then arc-lights like asters that blossom in street and in square,And lamps like primroses beyond them in planted parterre;Great tulips of crimson that rise from the factory towers;White lilies that drop from deep windows: all flowers, the Night's flowers!
The Night is a far-spreading garden, and all through the hours
Glisten and glitter and sparkle her wonderful flowers.
First the great moon-rose full blooming; the great bed of stars
Touching with restful gold petals the woodland's dark bars;
Then arc-lights like asters that blossom in street and in square,
And lamps like primroses beyond them in planted parterre;
Great tulips of crimson that rise from the factory towers;
White lilies that drop from deep windows: all flowers, the Night's flowers!
Blooms on the highway that twinkle and fade like the stars,Golden and red on the vans and the carts and the cars;Clusters of bloom in the village; lone homesteads a-light,Decking the lawns of the darkness, the plots of the Night.Then the bright blossoms of platform and signal that shineBy the iron-paved path of the garden—the lights of the Line;The gold flowers of comfort and caution; the buds of dull red,Sombre with warning; the green leaves that say "Right ahead!"
Blooms on the highway that twinkle and fade like the stars,
Golden and red on the vans and the carts and the cars;
Clusters of bloom in the village; lone homesteads a-light,
Decking the lawns of the darkness, the plots of the Night.
Then the bright blossoms of platform and signal that shine
By the iron-paved path of the garden—the lights of the Line;
The gold flowers of comfort and caution; the buds of dull red,
Sombre with warning; the green leaves that say "Right ahead!"
Then the flowers in the harbour that low to the tide of it lean;The lights on the port and the starboard, the red and the green,Mixing and mingling with mast lights that move in the air,And deck lights and wharf lights and lights upon pier-head and stair;An edging of gold where a liner steals by like a thief;The giant grey gleam of a searchlight that swings like a leaf;And far out to seaward faint petals that flutter and fallAgainst the white flower of the Lighthouse that gathers them all.
Then the flowers in the harbour that low to the tide of it lean;
The lights on the port and the starboard, the red and the green,
Mixing and mingling with mast lights that move in the air,
And deck lights and wharf lights and lights upon pier-head and stair;
An edging of gold where a liner steals by like a thief;
The giant grey gleam of a searchlight that swings like a leaf;
And far out to seaward faint petals that flutter and fall
Against the white flower of the Lighthouse that gathers them all.
Then flower lights all golden with welcome—the lights of the inn;And poisonous hell-flowers, lit doorways that beckon to sin;Soft vesper flowers of the Churches with dark stems above;Gold flowers of court and of cottage made one flower by love;Beacons of windows on hillside and cliff to recallSome wanderer lost for a season—Night's flowers one and all!In the street, in the lane, on the Line, on the ships and the towers,In the windows of cottage and palace—all flowers, the Night's flowers!
Then flower lights all golden with welcome—the lights of the inn;
And poisonous hell-flowers, lit doorways that beckon to sin;
Soft vesper flowers of the Churches with dark stems above;
Gold flowers of court and of cottage made one flower by love;
Beacons of windows on hillside and cliff to recall
Some wanderer lost for a season—Night's flowers one and all!
In the street, in the lane, on the Line, on the ships and the towers,
In the windows of cottage and palace—all flowers, the Night's flowers!
THE CROSSING SWORDS
As I lay dreaming in the grassI saw a Knight of Tourney pass—All conquering Summer. Twilit hoursMade soft light round him, rainbow flowersHung on his harness.Down the dellsThe fairy heralds rang blue-bells,And even as they rocked and rangInto the lists, full-armed, there sprangAutumn, his helm the harvest moon,His sword a sickle, the gleaner's tuneHis hymn of battle.Each bowed full low,Knight to knight as to worthy foe,Then Autumn tossed as his gauntlet down—A leaf of the lime tree, golden brown—And Summer bound it above the greenOf his shining breast-plate's verdant sheen.—They closed. Above them the driving mistsStooped and feathered—and hid the lists.Later the cloud mist rolled awayBut dead in his harness the Green Knight lay.
As I lay dreaming in the grassI saw a Knight of Tourney pass—All conquering Summer. Twilit hoursMade soft light round him, rainbow flowersHung on his harness.
As I lay dreaming in the grass
I saw a Knight of Tourney pass—
All conquering Summer. Twilit hours
Made soft light round him, rainbow flowers
Hung on his harness.
Down the dellsThe fairy heralds rang blue-bells,And even as they rocked and rangInto the lists, full-armed, there sprangAutumn, his helm the harvest moon,His sword a sickle, the gleaner's tuneHis hymn of battle.
Down the dells
The fairy heralds rang blue-bells,
And even as they rocked and rang
Into the lists, full-armed, there sprang
Autumn, his helm the harvest moon,
His sword a sickle, the gleaner's tune
His hymn of battle.
Each bowed full low,Knight to knight as to worthy foe,Then Autumn tossed as his gauntlet down—A leaf of the lime tree, golden brown—And Summer bound it above the greenOf his shining breast-plate's verdant sheen.
Each bowed full low,
Knight to knight as to worthy foe,
Then Autumn tossed as his gauntlet down—
A leaf of the lime tree, golden brown—
And Summer bound it above the green
Of his shining breast-plate's verdant sheen.
—They closed. Above them the driving mistsStooped and feathered—and hid the lists.Later the cloud mist rolled awayBut dead in his harness the Green Knight lay.
—They closed. Above them the driving mists
Stooped and feathered—and hid the lists.
Later the cloud mist rolled away
But dead in his harness the Green Knight lay.
STEPHEN PHILLIPS
LURES IMMORTAL
Sadly, apparently frustrate, life hangs above us,Cruel, dark unexplained;Yet still the immortal through mortal incessantly piercesWith calls, with appeals, and with lures.Lure of the sinking sun, into undreamed islands,Fortunate, far in the West;Lure of the star, with speechless news o'er brimming,With language of darted light;Of the sea-glory of opening lids of Aurora,Ushering eyes of the dawn;Of the callow bird in the matin darkness calling,Chorus of drowsy charm;Of the wind, south-west, with whispering leaves illumined,Solemn gold of the woods;Of the intimate breeze of noon, deep-charged with a message,How near, at times, unto speech!Of the sea, that soul of a poet a-yearn for expression,For ever yearning in vain!Hoarse o'er the shingle with loud, unuttered meanings,Hurling on caverns his heart.Of the summer night, what to communicate, eager?Perchance the secret of peace.The lure of the silver to gold, of the pale unto colour,Of the seen to the real unseen;Of voices away to the voiceless, of sound unto silence,Of words to a wordless calm;Of music doomed unto wandering, still returning,Ever to heaven and home.The lure of the beautiful woman through flesh unto spirit,Through a smile unto endless light;Of the flight of a bird thro' evening over the marsh-land,Lingering in Heaven alone;Of the vessel disappearing over the sea-marge,With him or with her that we love;Of the sudden touch in the hand of a friend or a maiden,Thrilling up to the stars.The appealing death of a soldier, the moon just rising,Kindling the battle-field;Of the cup of water, refused by the thirsting Sidney,Parched with the final pang:Of the crucified Christ, yet lo, those arms extended,Wide, as a world to embrace;And last, and grandest, the lure, the invitation,And sacred wooing of death;Unto what regions, or heavens, or solemn spaces,Who, but by dying, can tell?
Sadly, apparently frustrate, life hangs above us,Cruel, dark unexplained;Yet still the immortal through mortal incessantly piercesWith calls, with appeals, and with lures.Lure of the sinking sun, into undreamed islands,Fortunate, far in the West;Lure of the star, with speechless news o'er brimming,With language of darted light;Of the sea-glory of opening lids of Aurora,Ushering eyes of the dawn;Of the callow bird in the matin darkness calling,Chorus of drowsy charm;Of the wind, south-west, with whispering leaves illumined,Solemn gold of the woods;Of the intimate breeze of noon, deep-charged with a message,How near, at times, unto speech!Of the sea, that soul of a poet a-yearn for expression,For ever yearning in vain!Hoarse o'er the shingle with loud, unuttered meanings,Hurling on caverns his heart.Of the summer night, what to communicate, eager?Perchance the secret of peace.The lure of the silver to gold, of the pale unto colour,Of the seen to the real unseen;Of voices away to the voiceless, of sound unto silence,Of words to a wordless calm;Of music doomed unto wandering, still returning,Ever to heaven and home.The lure of the beautiful woman through flesh unto spirit,Through a smile unto endless light;Of the flight of a bird thro' evening over the marsh-land,Lingering in Heaven alone;Of the vessel disappearing over the sea-marge,With him or with her that we love;Of the sudden touch in the hand of a friend or a maiden,Thrilling up to the stars.The appealing death of a soldier, the moon just rising,Kindling the battle-field;Of the cup of water, refused by the thirsting Sidney,Parched with the final pang:Of the crucified Christ, yet lo, those arms extended,Wide, as a world to embrace;And last, and grandest, the lure, the invitation,And sacred wooing of death;Unto what regions, or heavens, or solemn spaces,Who, but by dying, can tell?
Sadly, apparently frustrate, life hangs above us,
Cruel, dark unexplained;
Yet still the immortal through mortal incessantly pierces
With calls, with appeals, and with lures.
Lure of the sinking sun, into undreamed islands,
Fortunate, far in the West;
Lure of the star, with speechless news o'er brimming,
With language of darted light;
Of the sea-glory of opening lids of Aurora,
Ushering eyes of the dawn;
Of the callow bird in the matin darkness calling,
Chorus of drowsy charm;
Of the wind, south-west, with whispering leaves illumined,
Solemn gold of the woods;
Of the intimate breeze of noon, deep-charged with a message,
How near, at times, unto speech!
Of the sea, that soul of a poet a-yearn for expression,
For ever yearning in vain!
Hoarse o'er the shingle with loud, unuttered meanings,
Hurling on caverns his heart.
Of the summer night, what to communicate, eager?
Perchance the secret of peace.
The lure of the silver to gold, of the pale unto colour,
Of the seen to the real unseen;
Of voices away to the voiceless, of sound unto silence,
Of words to a wordless calm;
Of music doomed unto wandering, still returning,
Ever to heaven and home.
The lure of the beautiful woman through flesh unto spirit,
Through a smile unto endless light;
Of the flight of a bird thro' evening over the marsh-land,
Lingering in Heaven alone;
Of the vessel disappearing over the sea-marge,
With him or with her that we love;
Of the sudden touch in the hand of a friend or a maiden,
Thrilling up to the stars.
The appealing death of a soldier, the moon just rising,
Kindling the battle-field;
Of the cup of water, refused by the thirsting Sidney,
Parched with the final pang:
Of the crucified Christ, yet lo, those arms extended,
Wide, as a world to embrace;
And last, and grandest, the lure, the invitation,
And sacred wooing of death;
Unto what regions, or heavens, or solemn spaces,
Who, but by dying, can tell?
BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD
Beautiful lie the dead;Clear comes each feature;Satisfied not to be,Strangely contented.Like ships, the anchor dropped,Furled every sail isMirrored with all their mastsIn a deep water.
Beautiful lie the dead;Clear comes each feature;Satisfied not to be,Strangely contented.
Beautiful lie the dead;
Clear comes each feature;
Satisfied not to be,
Strangely contented.
Like ships, the anchor dropped,Furled every sail isMirrored with all their mastsIn a deep water.
Like ships, the anchor dropped,
Furled every sail is
Mirrored with all their masts
In a deep water.
A LYRIC FROM "THE SIN OF DAVID"
IRed skies above a level landAnd thoughts of thee;Sinking Sun on reedy strand,And alder tree.IIOnly the heron sailing homeWith heavy flight!Ocean afar in silent foam,And coming night!IIIDwindling day and drowsing birds,O my child!Dimness and returning herds,Memory wild.
I
I
Red skies above a level landAnd thoughts of thee;Sinking Sun on reedy strand,And alder tree.
Red skies above a level land
And thoughts of thee;
Sinking Sun on reedy strand,
And alder tree.
II
II
Only the heron sailing homeWith heavy flight!Ocean afar in silent foam,And coming night!
Only the heron sailing home
With heavy flight!
Ocean afar in silent foam,
And coming night!
III
III
Dwindling day and drowsing birds,O my child!Dimness and returning herds,Memory wild.
Dwindling day and drowsing birds,
O my child!
Dimness and returning herds,
Memory wild.
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
A DEVON COURTING
Birds gived over singin'Flitter-mice was wingin'Mist lay on the meadows—A purty sight to see.Downling in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy—Downling in the dimpsyTheer went a maid wi' me.Two gude mile o' walkin'Not wan word o' talkin',Then I axed a questionAn' put the same to she.Uplong in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light—Uplong in the owl-lightTheer come my maid wi' me.
Birds gived over singin'Flitter-mice was wingin'Mist lay on the meadows—A purty sight to see.Downling in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy—Downling in the dimpsyTheer went a maid wi' me.
Birds gived over singin'
Flitter-mice was wingin'
Mist lay on the meadows—
A purty sight to see.
Downling in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy—
Downling in the dimpsy
Theer went a maid wi' me.
Two gude mile o' walkin'Not wan word o' talkin',Then I axed a questionAn' put the same to she.Uplong in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light—Uplong in the owl-lightTheer come my maid wi' me.
Two gude mile o' walkin'
Not wan word o' talkin',
Then I axed a question
An' put the same to she.
Uplong in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light—
Uplong in the owl-light
Theer come my maid wi' me.
A LITANY TO PAN
By the abortions of the teeming Spring,By Summer's starved and withered offering,By Autumn's stricken hope and Winter's sting,Oh, hear!By the ichneumon on the writhing worm,By the swift, far-flung poison of the germ,By soft and foul brought out of hard and firm,Oh, hear!By the fierce battle under every blade,By the etiolation of the shade,By drouth and thirst and things undone half made,Oh, hear!By all the horrors of re-quickened dust,By the eternal waste of baffled lust,By mildews and by cankers and by rust,Oh, hear!By the fierce scythe of Spring upon the wold,By the dead eaning mother in the fold,By stillborn, stricken young and tortured old,Oh, hear!By fading eyes pecked from a dying head,By the hot mouthful of a thing not dead,By all thy bleeding, struggling, shrieking red,Oh, hear!By madness caged and madness running free,Through this our conscious race that heeds not thee,In its concept insane of Liberty,Oh, hear!By all the agonies of all the past,By earth's cold dust and ashes at the last,By her return to the unconscious vast,Oh, hear!
By the abortions of the teeming Spring,By Summer's starved and withered offering,By Autumn's stricken hope and Winter's sting,Oh, hear!
By the abortions of the teeming Spring,
By Summer's starved and withered offering,
By Autumn's stricken hope and Winter's sting,
Oh, hear!
By the ichneumon on the writhing worm,By the swift, far-flung poison of the germ,By soft and foul brought out of hard and firm,Oh, hear!
By the ichneumon on the writhing worm,
By the swift, far-flung poison of the germ,
By soft and foul brought out of hard and firm,
Oh, hear!
By the fierce battle under every blade,By the etiolation of the shade,By drouth and thirst and things undone half made,Oh, hear!
By the fierce battle under every blade,
By the etiolation of the shade,
By drouth and thirst and things undone half made,
Oh, hear!
By all the horrors of re-quickened dust,By the eternal waste of baffled lust,By mildews and by cankers and by rust,Oh, hear!
By all the horrors of re-quickened dust,
By the eternal waste of baffled lust,
By mildews and by cankers and by rust,
Oh, hear!
By the fierce scythe of Spring upon the wold,By the dead eaning mother in the fold,By stillborn, stricken young and tortured old,Oh, hear!
By the fierce scythe of Spring upon the wold,
By the dead eaning mother in the fold,
By stillborn, stricken young and tortured old,
Oh, hear!
By fading eyes pecked from a dying head,By the hot mouthful of a thing not dead,By all thy bleeding, struggling, shrieking red,Oh, hear!
By fading eyes pecked from a dying head,
By the hot mouthful of a thing not dead,
By all thy bleeding, struggling, shrieking red,
Oh, hear!
By madness caged and madness running free,Through this our conscious race that heeds not thee,In its concept insane of Liberty,Oh, hear!
By madness caged and madness running free,
Through this our conscious race that heeds not thee,
In its concept insane of Liberty,
Oh, hear!
By all the agonies of all the past,By earth's cold dust and ashes at the last,By her return to the unconscious vast,Oh, hear!
By all the agonies of all the past,
By earth's cold dust and ashes at the last,
By her return to the unconscious vast,
Oh, hear!
SWINBURNE
Children and lovers and the cloud-robed seaShall mourn him first; and then the mother landWeeping in silence by his empty handAnd fallen sword that flashed for Liberty.Song-bringer of a glad new minstrelsy,He came and found joy sleeping and swift fannedOld pagan fires, then snatched an altar brandAnd wrote, "The fearless only shall be free!"Oh, by the flame that made thine heart a home,By the wild surges of thy silver song,Seer before the sunrise, may there comeSpirits of dawn to light this aching wrongCalled Earth! Thou saw'st them in the foreglow roam;But we still wait and watch, still thirst and long.
Children and lovers and the cloud-robed seaShall mourn him first; and then the mother landWeeping in silence by his empty handAnd fallen sword that flashed for Liberty.Song-bringer of a glad new minstrelsy,He came and found joy sleeping and swift fannedOld pagan fires, then snatched an altar brandAnd wrote, "The fearless only shall be free!"Oh, by the flame that made thine heart a home,By the wild surges of thy silver song,Seer before the sunrise, may there comeSpirits of dawn to light this aching wrongCalled Earth! Thou saw'st them in the foreglow roam;But we still wait and watch, still thirst and long.
Children and lovers and the cloud-robed sea
Shall mourn him first; and then the mother land
Weeping in silence by his empty hand
And fallen sword that flashed for Liberty.
Song-bringer of a glad new minstrelsy,
He came and found joy sleeping and swift fanned
Old pagan fires, then snatched an altar brand
And wrote, "The fearless only shall be free!"
Oh, by the flame that made thine heart a home,
By the wild surges of thy silver song,
Seer before the sunrise, may there come
Spirits of dawn to light this aching wrong
Called Earth! Thou saw'st them in the foreglow roam;
But we still wait and watch, still thirst and long.
DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
THE WATCHER IN THE WOOD
Deep in the wood's recesses coolI see the fairy dancers glide,In cloth of gold, in gown of green,My lord and lady side by side.But who has hung from leaf to leaf,From flower to flower, a silken twine—A cloud of grey that holds the dewIn globes of clear enchanted wine.Or stretches far from branch to branch,From thorn to thorn, in diamond rain,Who caught the cup of crystal pineAnd hung so fair the shining chain?'Tis Death, the spider, in his netWho lures the dancers as they glideIn cloth of gold, in gown of green,My lord and lady side by side.
Deep in the wood's recesses coolI see the fairy dancers glide,In cloth of gold, in gown of green,My lord and lady side by side.
Deep in the wood's recesses cool
I see the fairy dancers glide,
In cloth of gold, in gown of green,
My lord and lady side by side.
But who has hung from leaf to leaf,From flower to flower, a silken twine—A cloud of grey that holds the dewIn globes of clear enchanted wine.
But who has hung from leaf to leaf,
From flower to flower, a silken twine—
A cloud of grey that holds the dew
In globes of clear enchanted wine.
Or stretches far from branch to branch,From thorn to thorn, in diamond rain,Who caught the cup of crystal pineAnd hung so fair the shining chain?
Or stretches far from branch to branch,
From thorn to thorn, in diamond rain,
Who caught the cup of crystal pine
And hung so fair the shining chain?
'Tis Death, the spider, in his netWho lures the dancers as they glideIn cloth of gold, in gown of green,My lord and lady side by side.
'Tis Death, the spider, in his net
Who lures the dancers as they glide
In cloth of gold, in gown of green,
My lord and lady side by side.
THE NAMELESS ONE
Last night a hand pushed on the doorAnd tirled at the pin.I turned my face unto the wall,And could not cry, "Come in!"I dared not cry "Come in!"Last night a voice wailed round the houseAnd called my name upon,And bitter, bitter did it mourn:"Where is my mother gone?Where is my mother gone?"From saintly arms I slipped and flewAdown the moon-lit skies,I weary of the paths of Heav'nAnd flowers of Paradise—Sweet scents of Paradise!"For little children prattle there,And whisper all the dayOf lovely mothers on the earth,Where once they used to play,Who used with them to play."They linger laughing by the door,And wait the threshold on;I have no memory so fair,Where is my mother gone?Where is my mother gone?"Thrice pushed the hand upon the doorAnd tirled at the pin.I turned my face unto the wall,And could not cry, "Come in!"I dared not cry, "Come in!"
Last night a hand pushed on the doorAnd tirled at the pin.I turned my face unto the wall,And could not cry, "Come in!"I dared not cry "Come in!"
Last night a hand pushed on the door
And tirled at the pin.
I turned my face unto the wall,
And could not cry, "Come in!"
I dared not cry "Come in!"
Last night a voice wailed round the houseAnd called my name upon,And bitter, bitter did it mourn:"Where is my mother gone?Where is my mother gone?"
Last night a voice wailed round the house
And called my name upon,
And bitter, bitter did it mourn:
"Where is my mother gone?
Where is my mother gone?"
From saintly arms I slipped and flewAdown the moon-lit skies,I weary of the paths of Heav'nAnd flowers of Paradise—Sweet scents of Paradise!
From saintly arms I slipped and flew
Adown the moon-lit skies,
I weary of the paths of Heav'n
And flowers of Paradise—
Sweet scents of Paradise!
"For little children prattle there,And whisper all the dayOf lovely mothers on the earth,Where once they used to play,Who used with them to play.
"For little children prattle there,
And whisper all the day
Of lovely mothers on the earth,
Where once they used to play,
Who used with them to play.
"They linger laughing by the door,And wait the threshold on;I have no memory so fair,Where is my mother gone?Where is my mother gone?"
"They linger laughing by the door,
And wait the threshold on;
I have no memory so fair,
Where is my mother gone?
Where is my mother gone?"
Thrice pushed the hand upon the doorAnd tirled at the pin.I turned my face unto the wall,And could not cry, "Come in!"I dared not cry, "Come in!"
Thrice pushed the hand upon the door
And tirled at the pin.
I turned my face unto the wall,
And could not cry, "Come in!"
I dared not cry, "Come in!"
WHEN I SHALL RISE
When I shall rise, and full of many fears,Set forth upon my last long journey lone,And leave behind the circling earth to goAmongst the countless stars to seek God's throne.When in the vapourish blue, I wander, lost,Let some fair paradise reward my eyes—Hill after hill, and green and sunny vale,As I have known beneath the Irish skies.So on the far horizon I shall seeNo alien land but this I hold so dear—Killiney's silver sands, and Wicklow hills,Dawn on my frightened eyes as I draw near.And if it be no evil prayer to breathe,Oh, let no stranger saint or seraphimWait there to lead up to the judgment seat,My timid soul with weeping eyes and dim.But let them come, those dear and lovely ghosts,In all their human guise and lustihood,To stand upon that shore and call me home,Waving their joyful hands as once they stood—As once they stood!
When I shall rise, and full of many fears,Set forth upon my last long journey lone,And leave behind the circling earth to goAmongst the countless stars to seek God's throne.
When I shall rise, and full of many fears,
Set forth upon my last long journey lone,
And leave behind the circling earth to go
Amongst the countless stars to seek God's throne.
When in the vapourish blue, I wander, lost,Let some fair paradise reward my eyes—Hill after hill, and green and sunny vale,As I have known beneath the Irish skies.
When in the vapourish blue, I wander, lost,
Let some fair paradise reward my eyes—
Hill after hill, and green and sunny vale,
As I have known beneath the Irish skies.
So on the far horizon I shall seeNo alien land but this I hold so dear—Killiney's silver sands, and Wicklow hills,Dawn on my frightened eyes as I draw near.
So on the far horizon I shall see
No alien land but this I hold so dear—
Killiney's silver sands, and Wicklow hills,
Dawn on my frightened eyes as I draw near.
And if it be no evil prayer to breathe,Oh, let no stranger saint or seraphimWait there to lead up to the judgment seat,My timid soul with weeping eyes and dim.
And if it be no evil prayer to breathe,
Oh, let no stranger saint or seraphim
Wait there to lead up to the judgment seat,
My timid soul with weeping eyes and dim.
But let them come, those dear and lovely ghosts,In all their human guise and lustihood,To stand upon that shore and call me home,Waving their joyful hands as once they stood—As once they stood!
But let them come, those dear and lovely ghosts,
In all their human guise and lustihood,
To stand upon that shore and call me home,
Waving their joyful hands as once they stood—
As once they stood!
ARTHUR SYMONS
TANAGRATo Cavalieri dancing
Tell me, Tanagra, who madeOut of clay so sweet a thing?Are you the immortal shadeOf a man's imagining?In your incarnation meetAll things fair and all things fleet.Arrow from Diana's bow, Atalanta's feet of fire,Some one made you long ago,Made you out of his desire.Waken from the sleep of clayAnd rise and dance the world away.
Tell me, Tanagra, who madeOut of clay so sweet a thing?Are you the immortal shadeOf a man's imagining?In your incarnation meetAll things fair and all things fleet.
Tell me, Tanagra, who made
Out of clay so sweet a thing?
Are you the immortal shade
Of a man's imagining?
In your incarnation meet
All things fair and all things fleet.
Arrow from Diana's bow, Atalanta's feet of fire,Some one made you long ago,Made you out of his desire.Waken from the sleep of clayAnd rise and dance the world away.
Arrow from Diana's bow, Atalanta's feet of fire,
Some one made you long ago,
Made you out of his desire.
Waken from the sleep of clay
And rise and dance the world away.
GIOVANNI MALATESTA AT RIMINI
Giovanni Malatesta, the lame old man,Walking one night, as he was used, being old,Upon the grey seashore at Rimini,And thinking dimly of those two whom loveLed to one death, and his less happy soulFor which Cain waited, heard a seagull scream,Twice, like Francesca; for he struck but twice.At that, rage thrust down pity; for it seemedAs if those windy bodies with the sea'sUnfriended heart within them for a voiceHad turned to mock him, and he called them friends,And he had found a wild peace hearing themCry senseless cries, halloing to the wind.He turned his back upon the sea; he sawThe ragged teeth of the sharp ApenninesShut on the sea; his shadow in the moonPloughed up a furrow with an iron staffIn the hard sand, and thrust a long lean chinOutward and downward, and thrust out a foot,And leaned to follow after. As he sawHis crooked knee go forward under himAnd after it the long straight iron staff,"The staff," he thought, "is Paolo: like that staffAnd like that knee we walked between the sun,And her unmerciful eyes"; and the old man,Thinking of God, and how God ruled the world,And gave to one man beauty for a snareAnd a warped body to another man,Not less than he in soul, not less than heIn hunger and capacity for joy,Forgot Francesca's evil and his wrong,His anger, his revenge, that memory,Wondering at man's forgiveness of the oldDivine injustice, wondering at himself:Giovanni Malatesta judging God.
Giovanni Malatesta, the lame old man,Walking one night, as he was used, being old,Upon the grey seashore at Rimini,And thinking dimly of those two whom loveLed to one death, and his less happy soulFor which Cain waited, heard a seagull scream,Twice, like Francesca; for he struck but twice.At that, rage thrust down pity; for it seemedAs if those windy bodies with the sea'sUnfriended heart within them for a voiceHad turned to mock him, and he called them friends,And he had found a wild peace hearing themCry senseless cries, halloing to the wind.He turned his back upon the sea; he sawThe ragged teeth of the sharp ApenninesShut on the sea; his shadow in the moonPloughed up a furrow with an iron staffIn the hard sand, and thrust a long lean chinOutward and downward, and thrust out a foot,And leaned to follow after. As he sawHis crooked knee go forward under himAnd after it the long straight iron staff,"The staff," he thought, "is Paolo: like that staffAnd like that knee we walked between the sun,And her unmerciful eyes"; and the old man,Thinking of God, and how God ruled the world,And gave to one man beauty for a snareAnd a warped body to another man,Not less than he in soul, not less than heIn hunger and capacity for joy,Forgot Francesca's evil and his wrong,His anger, his revenge, that memory,Wondering at man's forgiveness of the oldDivine injustice, wondering at himself:Giovanni Malatesta judging God.
Giovanni Malatesta, the lame old man,
Walking one night, as he was used, being old,
Upon the grey seashore at Rimini,
And thinking dimly of those two whom love
Led to one death, and his less happy soul
For which Cain waited, heard a seagull scream,
Twice, like Francesca; for he struck but twice.
At that, rage thrust down pity; for it seemed
As if those windy bodies with the sea's
Unfriended heart within them for a voice
Had turned to mock him, and he called them friends,
And he had found a wild peace hearing them
Cry senseless cries, halloing to the wind.
He turned his back upon the sea; he saw
The ragged teeth of the sharp Apennines
Shut on the sea; his shadow in the moon
Ploughed up a furrow with an iron staff
In the hard sand, and thrust a long lean chin
Outward and downward, and thrust out a foot,
And leaned to follow after. As he saw
His crooked knee go forward under him
And after it the long straight iron staff,
"The staff," he thought, "is Paolo: like that staff
And like that knee we walked between the sun,
And her unmerciful eyes"; and the old man,
Thinking of God, and how God ruled the world,
And gave to one man beauty for a snare
And a warped body to another man,
Not less than he in soul, not less than he
In hunger and capacity for joy,
Forgot Francesca's evil and his wrong,
His anger, his revenge, that memory,
Wondering at man's forgiveness of the old
Divine injustice, wondering at himself:
Giovanni Malatesta judging God.
LA MELINITE: MOULIN ROUGE
Olivier Metra's Waltz of RosesSheds in a rhythmic showerThe very petals of the flower;And all is roses,The rouge of petals in a shower.Down the long hall the dance returningRounds the full circle, roundsThe perfect rose of lights and sounds,The rose returningInto the circle of its rounds.Alone, apart, one dancer watchesHer mirrored, morbid grace;Before the mirror, face to face,Alone she watchesHer morbid, vague, ambiguous grace.Before the mirror's dance of shadowsShe dances in a dream,And she and they together seemA dance of shadows,Alike the shadows of a dream.The orange-rosy lamps are tremblingBetween the robes that turn;In ruddy flowers of flame that burnThe lights are trembling:The shadows and the dancers turn.And, enigmatically smiling,In the mysterious night,She dances for her own delight,A shadow smilingBack to a shadow in the night.
Olivier Metra's Waltz of RosesSheds in a rhythmic showerThe very petals of the flower;And all is roses,The rouge of petals in a shower.
Olivier Metra's Waltz of Roses
Sheds in a rhythmic shower
The very petals of the flower;
And all is roses,
The rouge of petals in a shower.
Down the long hall the dance returningRounds the full circle, roundsThe perfect rose of lights and sounds,The rose returningInto the circle of its rounds.
Down the long hall the dance returning
Rounds the full circle, rounds
The perfect rose of lights and sounds,
The rose returning
Into the circle of its rounds.
Alone, apart, one dancer watchesHer mirrored, morbid grace;Before the mirror, face to face,Alone she watchesHer morbid, vague, ambiguous grace.
Alone, apart, one dancer watches
Her mirrored, morbid grace;
Before the mirror, face to face,
Alone she watches
Her morbid, vague, ambiguous grace.
Before the mirror's dance of shadowsShe dances in a dream,And she and they together seemA dance of shadows,Alike the shadows of a dream.
Before the mirror's dance of shadows
She dances in a dream,
And she and they together seem
A dance of shadows,
Alike the shadows of a dream.
The orange-rosy lamps are tremblingBetween the robes that turn;In ruddy flowers of flame that burnThe lights are trembling:The shadows and the dancers turn.
The orange-rosy lamps are trembling
Between the robes that turn;
In ruddy flowers of flame that burn
The lights are trembling:
The shadows and the dancers turn.
And, enigmatically smiling,In the mysterious night,She dances for her own delight,A shadow smilingBack to a shadow in the night.
And, enigmatically smiling,
In the mysterious night,
She dances for her own delight,
A shadow smiling
Back to a shadow in the night.
EVELYN UNDERHILL
IMMANENCE
I come in the little things,Saith the Lord:Not borne on morning wingsOf majesty, but I have set My FeetAmidst the delicate and bladed wheatThat springs triumphant in the furrowed sod.There do I dwell, in weakness and in power;Not broken or divided, saith our God!In your strait garden plot I come to flower:About your porch My VineMeek, fruitful, doth entwine;Waits, at the threshold, Love's appointed hour.I come in the little things,Saith the Lord:Yea! on the glancing wingsOf eager birds, the softly pattering feetOf furred and gentle beasts, I come to meetYour hard and wayward heart. In brown bright eyesThat peep from out the brake, I stand confest.On every nestWhere feathery Patience is content to broodAnd leaves her pleasure for the high empriseOf motherhood—There doth my Godhead rest.I come in the little things,Saith the Lord:My starry wingsI do forsake,Love's highway of humility to take;Meekly I fit my stature to your need.In beggar's partAbout your gates I shall not cease to plead—As man, to speak with man—Till by such artI shall achieve My Immemorial Plan,Pass the low lintel of the human heart.
I come in the little things,Saith the Lord:Not borne on morning wingsOf majesty, but I have set My FeetAmidst the delicate and bladed wheatThat springs triumphant in the furrowed sod.There do I dwell, in weakness and in power;Not broken or divided, saith our God!In your strait garden plot I come to flower:About your porch My VineMeek, fruitful, doth entwine;Waits, at the threshold, Love's appointed hour.
I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord:
Not borne on morning wings
Of majesty, but I have set My Feet
Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat
That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod.
There do I dwell, in weakness and in power;
Not broken or divided, saith our God!
In your strait garden plot I come to flower:
About your porch My Vine
Meek, fruitful, doth entwine;
Waits, at the threshold, Love's appointed hour.
I come in the little things,Saith the Lord:Yea! on the glancing wingsOf eager birds, the softly pattering feetOf furred and gentle beasts, I come to meetYour hard and wayward heart. In brown bright eyesThat peep from out the brake, I stand confest.On every nestWhere feathery Patience is content to broodAnd leaves her pleasure for the high empriseOf motherhood—There doth my Godhead rest.
I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord:
Yea! on the glancing wings
Of eager birds, the softly pattering feet
Of furred and gentle beasts, I come to meet
Your hard and wayward heart. In brown bright eyes
That peep from out the brake, I stand confest.
On every nest
Where feathery Patience is content to brood
And leaves her pleasure for the high emprise
Of motherhood—
There doth my Godhead rest.
I come in the little things,Saith the Lord:My starry wingsI do forsake,Love's highway of humility to take;Meekly I fit my stature to your need.In beggar's partAbout your gates I shall not cease to plead—As man, to speak with man—Till by such artI shall achieve My Immemorial Plan,Pass the low lintel of the human heart.
I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord:
My starry wings
I do forsake,
Love's highway of humility to take;
Meekly I fit my stature to your need.
In beggar's part
About your gates I shall not cease to plead—
As man, to speak with man—
Till by such art
I shall achieve My Immemorial Plan,
Pass the low lintel of the human heart.
INTROVERSION
What do you seek within, O Soul, my Brother?What do you seek within?I seek a life that shall never die,Some haven to winFrom mortality.What do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?What do you find within?I find great quiet where no noises come.Without, the world's din:Silence in my home.Whom do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?Whom do you find within?I find a friend that in secret came:His scarred hands withinHe shields a faint flame.What would you do within, O Soul, my Brother?What would you do within?Bar door and window that none may see:That alone we may be(Alone! face to face,In that flame-lit place!)When first we beginTo speak one with another.
What do you seek within, O Soul, my Brother?What do you seek within?I seek a life that shall never die,Some haven to winFrom mortality.
What do you seek within, O Soul, my Brother?
What do you seek within?
I seek a life that shall never die,
Some haven to win
From mortality.
What do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?What do you find within?I find great quiet where no noises come.Without, the world's din:Silence in my home.
What do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?
What do you find within?
I find great quiet where no noises come.
Without, the world's din:
Silence in my home.
Whom do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?Whom do you find within?I find a friend that in secret came:His scarred hands withinHe shields a faint flame.
Whom do you find within, O Soul, my Brother?
Whom do you find within?
I find a friend that in secret came:
His scarred hands within
He shields a faint flame.
What would you do within, O Soul, my Brother?What would you do within?Bar door and window that none may see:That alone we may be(Alone! face to face,In that flame-lit place!)When first we beginTo speak one with another.
What would you do within, O Soul, my Brother?
What would you do within?
Bar door and window that none may see:
That alone we may be
(Alone! face to face,
In that flame-lit place!)
When first we begin
To speak one with another.
ICHTHUS
Threatening the sky,Foreign and wild the sea,Yet all the fleet of fishers are afloat;They lieSails furledEach frail and tossing boat,And cast their little nets into an unknown world.The countless, darting splendours that they miss,The rare and vital magic of the main,The which for all their careThey never shall ensnare—All thisPerchance in dreams they know;Yet are contentAnd count the night well spentIf soThe indrawn net containThe matter of their daily nourishment.The unseizable sea,The circumambient grace of Deity,Where live and moveUnnumbered presences of power and love,Slips through our finest net:We draw it up all wet,A-shimmer with the dew-drops of that deep.And yetFor all their toil the fishers may not keepThe instant living freshness of the wave;Its passing benediction cannot giveThe mystic meat they craveThat they may live.But on some stormy nightWe, venturing far from home,And casting our poor trammel to the tide,Perhaps shall feel it comeBack to the vessel's side,So easy and so lightA child might lift,Yet hiding in its mesh the one desired gift;That living foodWhich man for ever seeks to snatch from out the flood.
Threatening the sky,Foreign and wild the sea,Yet all the fleet of fishers are afloat;They lieSails furledEach frail and tossing boat,And cast their little nets into an unknown world.The countless, darting splendours that they miss,The rare and vital magic of the main,The which for all their careThey never shall ensnare—All thisPerchance in dreams they know;Yet are contentAnd count the night well spentIf soThe indrawn net containThe matter of their daily nourishment.
Threatening the sky,
Foreign and wild the sea,
Yet all the fleet of fishers are afloat;
They lie
Sails furled
Each frail and tossing boat,
And cast their little nets into an unknown world.
The countless, darting splendours that they miss,
The rare and vital magic of the main,
The which for all their care
They never shall ensnare—
All this
Perchance in dreams they know;
Yet are content
And count the night well spent
If so
The indrawn net contain
The matter of their daily nourishment.
The unseizable sea,The circumambient grace of Deity,Where live and moveUnnumbered presences of power and love,Slips through our finest net:We draw it up all wet,A-shimmer with the dew-drops of that deep.And yetFor all their toil the fishers may not keepThe instant living freshness of the wave;Its passing benediction cannot giveThe mystic meat they craveThat they may live.
The unseizable sea,
The circumambient grace of Deity,
Where live and move
Unnumbered presences of power and love,
Slips through our finest net:
We draw it up all wet,
A-shimmer with the dew-drops of that deep.
And yet
For all their toil the fishers may not keep
The instant living freshness of the wave;
Its passing benediction cannot give
The mystic meat they crave
That they may live.
But on some stormy nightWe, venturing far from home,And casting our poor trammel to the tide,Perhaps shall feel it comeBack to the vessel's side,So easy and so lightA child might lift,Yet hiding in its mesh the one desired gift;That living foodWhich man for ever seeks to snatch from out the flood.
But on some stormy night
We, venturing far from home,
And casting our poor trammel to the tide,
Perhaps shall feel it come
Back to the vessel's side,
So easy and so light
A child might lift,
Yet hiding in its mesh the one desired gift;
That living food
Which man for ever seeks to snatch from out the flood.
MRS MARGARET L. WOODS
SONGS
I've heard, I've heardThe long low note of a bird,The nightingale fluting her heart's one word.I know, I knowPink carnations heaped with snow.Summer and winter alike they blow.I've lain, I've lainUnder roses' delicate rain,That fall and whisper and fall again.Come woe, come whiteShroud o' the world, black night!I have had love and the sun's light.
I've heard, I've heardThe long low note of a bird,The nightingale fluting her heart's one word.
I've heard, I've heard
The long low note of a bird,
The nightingale fluting her heart's one word.
I know, I knowPink carnations heaped with snow.Summer and winter alike they blow.
I know, I know
Pink carnations heaped with snow.
Summer and winter alike they blow.
I've lain, I've lainUnder roses' delicate rain,That fall and whisper and fall again.
I've lain, I've lain
Under roses' delicate rain,
That fall and whisper and fall again.
Come woe, come whiteShroud o' the world, black night!I have had love and the sun's light.
Come woe, come white
Shroud o' the world, black night!
I have had love and the sun's light.
THE CHANGELING
When did the Changeling enter in?How did the Devil set him a ginWhere the little soul lay like a rabbitFaint and still for a fiend to grab it?I know not.Where was the fount of our dishonour?Was it a father's buried sin?Brought his mother a curse upon her?I trow not.So prettyBody and soul, the child began.He carolled and kissed and laughed and ran,A glad creature of Earth and Heaven,And the knowledge of love and the secret of pity,That need our learning,God to him at his birth had given.One remembersTrifles indeed—the backward-turningWay he would smile from the field at play.Sometimes the Thing that sits by the embersSmiles at me—devil!—the selfsame way.If only early enough one had guessed,Known, suspected, watched him at rest,Noted the Master's sign and fashion,And unbefooled by the heart's compassion,Undeterred by form and feature,Caught the creature,Tried by the test of water and fire,Pierced and pinioned with silver wire,Circled with signs that could control,Battered with spells that tame and tortureThe demon nature,Till he writhed in his shape, a fiend confest,And vanished—Then had come back, the poor soul banished,Then had come back the little soul.But now there is nothing to do or to say.Will no one grip him and tear him away,The Thing of Blood that gnaws at my breast?Perhaps he called me and I was dumb.Unconcerned I sat and heardLittle things,Ivy tendrils, a bird's wings,A frightened bird—Or faint hands at the window-pane?And now he will never come again,The little soul. He is quite lost.I have summoned him back with incantationsOf heart-deep sobs and whispering cries,Of anguished love and travail of prayer,Nothing has answered my despairBut long sighsOf pitiful wind in the fir-plantations.Poor little soul! He cannot come.Perchance on a night when trees were tost,The Changeling rode with his cavalcadeAmong the clouds, that were tossing too,And made the little soul afraid.They hunted him madly, the howling crew,Into the Limbo of the lost,Into the Limbo of the othersWho wander crying and calling their mothers.Now I knowThe creatures that come to harry and raidHow they ride in the airy regions,Dance their rounds on meadow and moor,Gallop under the earth in legions,Hunt and holloa and run their racesOver tombs in burial-places.In the common roads where people go,Masked and mingled with human traces,I have marked, I who know,In the common dust a devil's spoor.To somebody's gateA Thing is footing it, cares not muchWhether he creep through an Emperor's portalAnd steal the fateOf a Prince, or into a poor man's hutch—For the grief will be everywhere as greatAnd he'll everywhere spread the smirch of sin—So long as a taste of our blood he may win,So long as he may become a mortal.I beseech you,Prince and poor man, to watch the gate.The heart is poisoned where he has fed,The house is ruined that lets him in.Yet I know I shall never teach you.With the voice of the dear and the eyes of the deadHe will come to the door, and you'll let him in.If I could forgetOnly that ever I had a child,If only upon some mirk midnight,When he stands at the door, all wet and wild,With his owl's feather and dripping hair,I could lie warm and not care,I should rid myself of this Changeling yet.I carried my woe to the Wise Man yonder,"You sell forgetfulness, they say.How much to payTo forget a son who is my sorrow?"The Wise Man began to ponder."Charms have I, many a one,To make a woman forget her lover,A man his wife or a fortune fled,To make the day forget the morrow,The doer forget the deed he has done,But a mighty spell must I borrowTo make a woman forget her son,For this I will take a royal fee.Your house," said he,"The storied hangings richly cover,On your banquet table there were sixGolden branched candlesticks,And of noble dishes you had a score.The crown you woreI remember, the sparkling crown.All of these,Madam, you shall pay me down.Also the day I give you easeOf golden guineas you pay a hundred."Laughing I left the Wise Man's door.Has he found such things where a Changeling sits?The home is darkened from roof to floor,The house is naked and ravaged and plunderedWhere a Changling sitsOn the hearthstone, warming his shivering fits.He sits at his ease, for he knows wellHe can keep his post.He has left me nothing to pay the costOf snatching my heart from his private Hell.Yet when all is done and toldI am glad the Wise Man in the CityHad no pityFor me, and for him I had no gold.Because if I did not remember him,My little child—Ah! What should we have,He and I? Not even a graveWith a name of his own by the river's brim.Because if among the poppies gay,On the hill-side, now my eyes are dim,I could not fancy a child at play,And if I should pass by the pool in the quarryAnd never see him, a darling ghost,Sailing a boat there, I should be sorry—If in the firelit, lone DecemberI never heard him come scampering postHaste down the stair—if the soul that is lostCame back, and I did not remember.
When did the Changeling enter in?How did the Devil set him a ginWhere the little soul lay like a rabbitFaint and still for a fiend to grab it?I know not.
When did the Changeling enter in?
How did the Devil set him a gin
Where the little soul lay like a rabbit
Faint and still for a fiend to grab it?
I know not.
Where was the fount of our dishonour?Was it a father's buried sin?Brought his mother a curse upon her?I trow not.
Where was the fount of our dishonour?
Was it a father's buried sin?
Brought his mother a curse upon her?
I trow not.
So prettyBody and soul, the child began.He carolled and kissed and laughed and ran,A glad creature of Earth and Heaven,And the knowledge of love and the secret of pity,That need our learning,God to him at his birth had given.
So pretty
Body and soul, the child began.
He carolled and kissed and laughed and ran,
A glad creature of Earth and Heaven,
And the knowledge of love and the secret of pity,
That need our learning,
God to him at his birth had given.
One remembersTrifles indeed—the backward-turningWay he would smile from the field at play.Sometimes the Thing that sits by the embersSmiles at me—devil!—the selfsame way.If only early enough one had guessed,Known, suspected, watched him at rest,Noted the Master's sign and fashion,And unbefooled by the heart's compassion,Undeterred by form and feature,Caught the creature,Tried by the test of water and fire,Pierced and pinioned with silver wire,Circled with signs that could control,Battered with spells that tame and tortureThe demon nature,Till he writhed in his shape, a fiend confest,And vanished—Then had come back, the poor soul banished,Then had come back the little soul.But now there is nothing to do or to say.Will no one grip him and tear him away,The Thing of Blood that gnaws at my breast?
One remembers
Trifles indeed—the backward-turning
Way he would smile from the field at play.
Sometimes the Thing that sits by the embers
Smiles at me—devil!—the selfsame way.
If only early enough one had guessed,
Known, suspected, watched him at rest,
Noted the Master's sign and fashion,
And unbefooled by the heart's compassion,
Undeterred by form and feature,
Caught the creature,
Tried by the test of water and fire,
Pierced and pinioned with silver wire,
Circled with signs that could control,
Battered with spells that tame and torture
The demon nature,
Till he writhed in his shape, a fiend confest,
And vanished—
Then had come back, the poor soul banished,
Then had come back the little soul.
But now there is nothing to do or to say.
Will no one grip him and tear him away,
The Thing of Blood that gnaws at my breast?
Perhaps he called me and I was dumb.Unconcerned I sat and heardLittle things,Ivy tendrils, a bird's wings,A frightened bird—Or faint hands at the window-pane?And now he will never come again,The little soul. He is quite lost.
Perhaps he called me and I was dumb.
Unconcerned I sat and heard
Little things,
Ivy tendrils, a bird's wings,
A frightened bird—
Or faint hands at the window-pane?
And now he will never come again,
The little soul. He is quite lost.
I have summoned him back with incantationsOf heart-deep sobs and whispering cries,Of anguished love and travail of prayer,Nothing has answered my despairBut long sighsOf pitiful wind in the fir-plantations.Poor little soul! He cannot come.Perchance on a night when trees were tost,The Changeling rode with his cavalcadeAmong the clouds, that were tossing too,And made the little soul afraid.They hunted him madly, the howling crew,Into the Limbo of the lost,Into the Limbo of the othersWho wander crying and calling their mothers.
I have summoned him back with incantations
Of heart-deep sobs and whispering cries,
Of anguished love and travail of prayer,
Nothing has answered my despair
But long sighs
Of pitiful wind in the fir-plantations.
Poor little soul! He cannot come.
Perchance on a night when trees were tost,
The Changeling rode with his cavalcade
Among the clouds, that were tossing too,
And made the little soul afraid.
They hunted him madly, the howling crew,
Into the Limbo of the lost,
Into the Limbo of the others
Who wander crying and calling their mothers.
Now I knowThe creatures that come to harry and raidHow they ride in the airy regions,Dance their rounds on meadow and moor,Gallop under the earth in legions,Hunt and holloa and run their racesOver tombs in burial-places.
Now I know
The creatures that come to harry and raid
How they ride in the airy regions,
Dance their rounds on meadow and moor,
Gallop under the earth in legions,
Hunt and holloa and run their races
Over tombs in burial-places.
In the common roads where people go,Masked and mingled with human traces,I have marked, I who know,In the common dust a devil's spoor.
In the common roads where people go,
Masked and mingled with human traces,
I have marked, I who know,
In the common dust a devil's spoor.
To somebody's gateA Thing is footing it, cares not muchWhether he creep through an Emperor's portalAnd steal the fateOf a Prince, or into a poor man's hutch—For the grief will be everywhere as greatAnd he'll everywhere spread the smirch of sin—So long as a taste of our blood he may win,So long as he may become a mortal.
To somebody's gate
A Thing is footing it, cares not much
Whether he creep through an Emperor's portal
And steal the fate
Of a Prince, or into a poor man's hutch—
For the grief will be everywhere as great
And he'll everywhere spread the smirch of sin—
So long as a taste of our blood he may win,
So long as he may become a mortal.
I beseech you,Prince and poor man, to watch the gate.The heart is poisoned where he has fed,The house is ruined that lets him in.Yet I know I shall never teach you.With the voice of the dear and the eyes of the deadHe will come to the door, and you'll let him in.
I beseech you,
Prince and poor man, to watch the gate.
The heart is poisoned where he has fed,
The house is ruined that lets him in.
Yet I know I shall never teach you.
With the voice of the dear and the eyes of the dead
He will come to the door, and you'll let him in.
If I could forgetOnly that ever I had a child,If only upon some mirk midnight,When he stands at the door, all wet and wild,With his owl's feather and dripping hair,I could lie warm and not care,I should rid myself of this Changeling yet.
If I could forget
Only that ever I had a child,
If only upon some mirk midnight,
When he stands at the door, all wet and wild,
With his owl's feather and dripping hair,
I could lie warm and not care,
I should rid myself of this Changeling yet.
I carried my woe to the Wise Man yonder,"You sell forgetfulness, they say.How much to payTo forget a son who is my sorrow?"
I carried my woe to the Wise Man yonder,
"You sell forgetfulness, they say.
How much to pay
To forget a son who is my sorrow?"
The Wise Man began to ponder."Charms have I, many a one,To make a woman forget her lover,A man his wife or a fortune fled,To make the day forget the morrow,The doer forget the deed he has done,But a mighty spell must I borrowTo make a woman forget her son,For this I will take a royal fee.Your house," said he,"The storied hangings richly cover,On your banquet table there were sixGolden branched candlesticks,And of noble dishes you had a score.The crown you woreI remember, the sparkling crown.All of these,Madam, you shall pay me down.Also the day I give you easeOf golden guineas you pay a hundred."
The Wise Man began to ponder.
"Charms have I, many a one,
To make a woman forget her lover,
A man his wife or a fortune fled,
To make the day forget the morrow,
The doer forget the deed he has done,
But a mighty spell must I borrow
To make a woman forget her son,
For this I will take a royal fee.
Your house," said he,
"The storied hangings richly cover,
On your banquet table there were six
Golden branched candlesticks,
And of noble dishes you had a score.
The crown you wore
I remember, the sparkling crown.
All of these,
Madam, you shall pay me down.
Also the day I give you ease
Of golden guineas you pay a hundred."
Laughing I left the Wise Man's door.Has he found such things where a Changeling sits?The home is darkened from roof to floor,The house is naked and ravaged and plunderedWhere a Changling sitsOn the hearthstone, warming his shivering fits.
Laughing I left the Wise Man's door.
Has he found such things where a Changeling sits?
The home is darkened from roof to floor,
The house is naked and ravaged and plundered
Where a Changling sits
On the hearthstone, warming his shivering fits.
He sits at his ease, for he knows wellHe can keep his post.He has left me nothing to pay the costOf snatching my heart from his private Hell.
He sits at his ease, for he knows well
He can keep his post.
He has left me nothing to pay the cost
Of snatching my heart from his private Hell.
Yet when all is done and toldI am glad the Wise Man in the CityHad no pityFor me, and for him I had no gold.
Yet when all is done and told
I am glad the Wise Man in the City
Had no pity
For me, and for him I had no gold.
Because if I did not remember him,My little child—Ah! What should we have,He and I? Not even a graveWith a name of his own by the river's brim.Because if among the poppies gay,On the hill-side, now my eyes are dim,I could not fancy a child at play,And if I should pass by the pool in the quarryAnd never see him, a darling ghost,Sailing a boat there, I should be sorry—If in the firelit, lone DecemberI never heard him come scampering postHaste down the stair—if the soul that is lostCame back, and I did not remember.
Because if I did not remember him,
My little child—Ah! What should we have,
He and I? Not even a grave
With a name of his own by the river's brim.
Because if among the poppies gay,
On the hill-side, now my eyes are dim,
I could not fancy a child at play,
And if I should pass by the pool in the quarry
And never see him, a darling ghost,
Sailing a boat there, I should be sorry—
If in the firelit, lone December
I never heard him come scampering post
Haste down the stair—if the soul that is lost
Came back, and I did not remember.
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