The silver sun looks downOn the silent tower;The guards awaken, nor ownTo the unguarded hour.They eye each other's face,But to speak none durst;As though the night were ungraced,Silent they are dispersed.The cruel King climbs, doth drawNear, then by he creeps,Marking in rage and aweThe smile in which she sleeps.Stamford,Autumn, 1912,and Autumn, 1913.
The silver sun looks downOn the silent tower;The guards awaken, nor ownTo the unguarded hour.
They eye each other's face,But to speak none durst;As though the night were ungraced,Silent they are dispersed.
The cruel King climbs, doth drawNear, then by he creeps,Marking in rage and aweThe smile in which she sleeps.
Stamford,Autumn, 1912,and Autumn, 1913.
I lay upon a headland hill:The sun spilt out his gold;The wind blew with a fluttering thrill;The skies were blue and cold.All day above the little coveI heard the long wind flow;The clouds foamed in the blue above,The blue sea foamed below.All day the bare sun fiercely burned;All day in the profoundAnd quivering grass my body turned,One with Earth's turning round.Till, fledged amid her fluid rings,My soul began to rouse,And slowly beat her silver wingsWithin her darkened house.Then with vans lifted up for flight,With stretched and fiery crest,Upward she leaped toward the lightAnd drew from out my breast.How long I lay while she was fled,And on the cliff belowMy body lay stiff, dark, and dead,I knew not nor may know.But long it seemed. Sped beyond sightMy soul enjoyed release;Beyond the clouds, within the light,She entered into peace.
I lay upon a headland hill:The sun spilt out his gold;The wind blew with a fluttering thrill;The skies were blue and cold.
All day above the little coveI heard the long wind flow;The clouds foamed in the blue above,The blue sea foamed below.
All day the bare sun fiercely burned;All day in the profoundAnd quivering grass my body turned,One with Earth's turning round.
Till, fledged amid her fluid rings,My soul began to rouse,And slowly beat her silver wingsWithin her darkened house.
Then with vans lifted up for flight,With stretched and fiery crest,Upward she leaped toward the lightAnd drew from out my breast.
How long I lay while she was fled,And on the cliff belowMy body lay stiff, dark, and dead,I knew not nor may know.
But long it seemed. Sped beyond sightMy soul enjoyed release;Beyond the clouds, within the light,She entered into peace.
To-day, amid a world of men,How often must I cry:"Happy I never was but thenNor shall be till I die!"Near Gold Cap,Late Summer, 1916.
To-day, amid a world of men,How often must I cry:"Happy I never was but thenNor shall be till I die!"
Near Gold Cap,Late Summer, 1916.
The Lily floated white and red,Pouring its scent up to the sun;The rapt sun floating overheadWatched no such other one.None marked it as it spread abroadAnd beautifully learned to cease:But Beauty is its own reward,Being a form of Peace.1913.
The Lily floated white and red,Pouring its scent up to the sun;The rapt sun floating overheadWatched no such other one.
None marked it as it spread abroadAnd beautifully learned to cease:But Beauty is its own reward,Being a form of Peace.
1913.
Deem you the roses taste no pleasureUnfolding hour by hourToward, through starlit peace and sunny leisure,Their sharpest moment, when they dowerThis great green world, this rustling place,Active in music, light, and grace,With their hid hearts, their golden treasure,Odours so deep they overpower?See how, hazed in the sunny weather,The silken roses swim,Nodding heads frail as a high cloud's feather,Expressing Joy in Beauty's Hymn.And, hark! from many a hidden faceEchoes I hear through silver space:The Morning Stars that sing together,And the delighting Seraphim!Lawford,Early Summer, 1916.
Deem you the roses taste no pleasureUnfolding hour by hourToward, through starlit peace and sunny leisure,Their sharpest moment, when they dowerThis great green world, this rustling place,Active in music, light, and grace,With their hid hearts, their golden treasure,Odours so deep they overpower?
See how, hazed in the sunny weather,The silken roses swim,Nodding heads frail as a high cloud's feather,Expressing Joy in Beauty's Hymn.And, hark! from many a hidden faceEchoes I hear through silver space:The Morning Stars that sing together,And the delighting Seraphim!
Lawford,Early Summer, 1916.
Those whose Love, unborn to sight,Never did itself discloseSave in water's cry; a rose;Meteor furrowing the night;Mote of any turning ray;Pipe of bird mid sunset's flush;Rain stilled, leaves flame-wet, and hushOf a rainbow's fire and spray;Any straight road leads afar'Cross a hill-brow—What's beyond?Seven hung notes of music fond;Seven dark poplars, one white star;Cloud lifting a tower aloft;Light and play and shadowy graceOf the soul behind a faceFlitting by on motion soft;Lonely figure on a height;Those whose love but shines a hintFainter than the far sea's glintTo the inland gazer's sight—These alone, and but in part,Guess of what my songs are spun,And Who holds communionSubtly with my troubled heart.But the substance of my griefScarcely can their thought surmise,Who but glimpse through these my eyesJoy as fathomless as brief.Others in this strange world flung,Orphans, too, of Destiny,Have the virtue, but not I,Keeps heart crystal, single tongue;And know not, whose hearts are whole,How—when sickened and unclean,Unfit or to see, be seen—Close thorns pack and prick the soul.Yet though here soul suffereth,Complicate by vision's light,Never would I cede this rightOf a sharpened life and death.For I keep in confidenceIn my breast a subtle faith'Scapes alway by narrow scatheAnd I draw my succour thence.One Day, or maybe one Night—Living? dying?—I shall seeThe Rose open gloriouslyOn its heart of living light.Know what any bird may mean,Meteor in my heart shall rest,Spelled on my brain blaze th' unguessedWords of the rainbow's dazzling sheen.O the hour for which I wait!Lovers of the Secret LoveWatch with me, and we will proveConstancy can be elate.For the sigil we have nowIs but echo, shadow, lessThan a nothing's nothingness,To what that hour will allow:Lost and found! The Shining Ones!Music, passion, scent, delight,Light and depth and space and height:Heaven and its seven suns!Dorset Square,October, 1916.
Those whose Love, unborn to sight,Never did itself discloseSave in water's cry; a rose;Meteor furrowing the night;
Mote of any turning ray;Pipe of bird mid sunset's flush;Rain stilled, leaves flame-wet, and hushOf a rainbow's fire and spray;
Any straight road leads afar'Cross a hill-brow—What's beyond?Seven hung notes of music fond;Seven dark poplars, one white star;
Cloud lifting a tower aloft;Light and play and shadowy graceOf the soul behind a faceFlitting by on motion soft;
Lonely figure on a height;Those whose love but shines a hintFainter than the far sea's glintTo the inland gazer's sight—
These alone, and but in part,Guess of what my songs are spun,And Who holds communionSubtly with my troubled heart.
But the substance of my griefScarcely can their thought surmise,Who but glimpse through these my eyesJoy as fathomless as brief.
Others in this strange world flung,Orphans, too, of Destiny,Have the virtue, but not I,Keeps heart crystal, single tongue;
And know not, whose hearts are whole,How—when sickened and unclean,Unfit or to see, be seen—Close thorns pack and prick the soul.
Yet though here soul suffereth,Complicate by vision's light,Never would I cede this rightOf a sharpened life and death.
For I keep in confidenceIn my breast a subtle faith'Scapes alway by narrow scatheAnd I draw my succour thence.
One Day, or maybe one Night—Living? dying?—I shall seeThe Rose open gloriouslyOn its heart of living light.
Know what any bird may mean,Meteor in my heart shall rest,Spelled on my brain blaze th' unguessedWords of the rainbow's dazzling sheen.
O the hour for which I wait!Lovers of the Secret LoveWatch with me, and we will proveConstancy can be elate.
For the sigil we have nowIs but echo, shadow, lessThan a nothing's nothingness,To what that hour will allow:
Lost and found! The Shining Ones!Music, passion, scent, delight,Light and depth and space and height:Heaven and its seven suns!
Dorset Square,October, 1916.
O let it beJust such an eve as this when I must die!To see the green bough soaking, still against a skyWashed clean after the rain.To watch the rapturous rainbow flame and flyInto the gloom where drops fall goldenly,And in my heart to feel the end of pain.The end of pain: the late, the long expected!—To see the skies clear in a sudden minute,The grey disparting on the blue within it,And on the low far sea the clouds collected.In that deep quiet die to all has been,To be renewed, to bud, to flower again:My second spring!—whose hope was nigh rejectedBefore I go hence and am no more seen.To hear the blackbird ring out, gay and bold,The low renewal of the ringdove's moanFrom among high, sheltered boughs, and ceaseless fallPitter, pitter, patter,A dribble of goldFrom leaves nodding each on the other one,The hush, calm piping and the slow, sweet mood!To drink the ripe warm scent of soaking matter,Wet grass, wet leaves, wet wood,Wet mould,The saddest and the grandest scent of all.So when my dying eyes have loved the treesTill with huge tears turned blind,When the vague ears for the last time have hearkenedTo the cool stir of the long evening breeze,The blackbird's tireless call,Having drunk deep of earth-scent strong and kind,Come then, O Death, and let my day be darkened.I shall have had my all.Lawford,April, 1916.
O let it beJust such an eve as this when I must die!To see the green bough soaking, still against a skyWashed clean after the rain.To watch the rapturous rainbow flame and flyInto the gloom where drops fall goldenly,And in my heart to feel the end of pain.The end of pain: the late, the long expected!—To see the skies clear in a sudden minute,The grey disparting on the blue within it,And on the low far sea the clouds collected.
In that deep quiet die to all has been,To be renewed, to bud, to flower again:My second spring!—whose hope was nigh rejectedBefore I go hence and am no more seen.
To hear the blackbird ring out, gay and bold,The low renewal of the ringdove's moanFrom among high, sheltered boughs, and ceaseless fallPitter, pitter, patter,A dribble of goldFrom leaves nodding each on the other one,The hush, calm piping and the slow, sweet mood!To drink the ripe warm scent of soaking matter,Wet grass, wet leaves, wet wood,Wet mould,The saddest and the grandest scent of all.
So when my dying eyes have loved the treesTill with huge tears turned blind,When the vague ears for the last time have hearkenedTo the cool stir of the long evening breeze,The blackbird's tireless call,Having drunk deep of earth-scent strong and kind,Come then, O Death, and let my day be darkened.
I shall have had my all.
Lawford,April, 1916.