399
THE CHILD AND THE MARINERThis sailor knows of wondrous lands afar,More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians shippedSilver for common ballast, and they sawHorses at silver mangers eating grain;This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hairWhich, like a golden serpent, reared and stretchedTo feel the air away beyond her head....He many a tale of wonder told: of where,At Argostoli, Cephalonia's seaRan over the earth's lip in heavy floods;And then again of how the strange ChineseConversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing.He told us how he sailed in one old shipNear that volcano Martinique, whose powerShook like dry leaves the whole Caribbean seas;And made the sun set in a sea of fireWhich only half was his; and dust was thickOn deck, and stones were pelted at the mast....He told how isles sprang up and sank again,Between short voyages, to his amaze;How they did come and go, and cheated charts;Told how a crew was cursed when one man killedA bird that perched upon a moving barque;And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong,Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships;Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas,That haunt the far horizon like white ghosts.He told of waves that lift a ship so high.That birds could pass from starboard unto portUnder her dripping keel.Oh, it was sweetTo hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales....William H. Davies
This sailor knows of wondrous lands afar,More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians shippedSilver for common ballast, and they sawHorses at silver mangers eating grain;This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hairWhich, like a golden serpent, reared and stretchedTo feel the air away beyond her head....He many a tale of wonder told: of where,At Argostoli, Cephalonia's seaRan over the earth's lip in heavy floods;And then again of how the strange ChineseConversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing.He told us how he sailed in one old shipNear that volcano Martinique, whose powerShook like dry leaves the whole Caribbean seas;And made the sun set in a sea of fireWhich only half was his; and dust was thickOn deck, and stones were pelted at the mast....He told how isles sprang up and sank again,Between short voyages, to his amaze;How they did come and go, and cheated charts;Told how a crew was cursed when one man killedA bird that perched upon a moving barque;And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong,Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships;Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas,That haunt the far horizon like white ghosts.He told of waves that lift a ship so high.That birds could pass from starboard unto portUnder her dripping keel.Oh, it was sweetTo hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales....William H. Davies
This sailor knows of wondrous lands afar,More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians shippedSilver for common ballast, and they sawHorses at silver mangers eating grain;This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hairWhich, like a golden serpent, reared and stretchedTo feel the air away beyond her head....He many a tale of wonder told: of where,At Argostoli, Cephalonia's seaRan over the earth's lip in heavy floods;And then again of how the strange ChineseConversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing.He told us how he sailed in one old shipNear that volcano Martinique, whose powerShook like dry leaves the whole Caribbean seas;And made the sun set in a sea of fireWhich only half was his; and dust was thickOn deck, and stones were pelted at the mast....He told how isles sprang up and sank again,Between short voyages, to his amaze;How they did come and go, and cheated charts;Told how a crew was cursed when one man killedA bird that perched upon a moving barque;And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong,Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships;Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas,That haunt the far horizon like white ghosts.He told of waves that lift a ship so high.That birds could pass from starboard unto portUnder her dripping keel.Oh, it was sweetTo hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales....William H. Davies
This sailor knows of wondrous lands afar,
More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians shipped
Silver for common ballast, and they saw
Horses at silver mangers eating grain;
This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hair
Which, like a golden serpent, reared and stretched
To feel the air away beyond her head....
He many a tale of wonder told: of where,
At Argostoli, Cephalonia's sea
Ran over the earth's lip in heavy floods;
And then again of how the strange Chinese
Conversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing.
He told us how he sailed in one old ship
Near that volcano Martinique, whose power
Shook like dry leaves the whole Caribbean seas;
And made the sun set in a sea of fire
Which only half was his; and dust was thick
On deck, and stones were pelted at the mast....
He told how isles sprang up and sank again,
Between short voyages, to his amaze;
How they did come and go, and cheated charts;
Told how a crew was cursed when one man killed
A bird that perched upon a moving barque;
And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong,
Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships;
Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas,
That haunt the far horizon like white ghosts.
He told of waves that lift a ship so high.
That birds could pass from starboard unto port
Under her dripping keel.
Oh, it was sweet
To hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales....
William H. Davies
400
THE PARROTSSomewhere, somewhen I've seen,But where or when I'll never know,Parrots of shrilly greenWith crests of shriller scarlet flyingOut of black cedars as the sun was dyingAgainst cold peaks of snow.From what forgotten lifeOf other worlds I cannot tellFlashes that screeching strife:Yet the shrill colour and shrill cryingSing through my blood and set my heart replyingAnd jangling like a bell.Wilfrid Gibson
Somewhere, somewhen I've seen,But where or when I'll never know,Parrots of shrilly greenWith crests of shriller scarlet flyingOut of black cedars as the sun was dyingAgainst cold peaks of snow.From what forgotten lifeOf other worlds I cannot tellFlashes that screeching strife:Yet the shrill colour and shrill cryingSing through my blood and set my heart replyingAnd jangling like a bell.Wilfrid Gibson
Somewhere, somewhen I've seen,But where or when I'll never know,Parrots of shrilly greenWith crests of shriller scarlet flyingOut of black cedars as the sun was dyingAgainst cold peaks of snow.
Somewhere, somewhen I've seen,
But where or when I'll never know,
Parrots of shrilly green
With crests of shriller scarlet flying
Out of black cedars as the sun was dying
Against cold peaks of snow.
From what forgotten lifeOf other worlds I cannot tellFlashes that screeching strife:Yet the shrill colour and shrill cryingSing through my blood and set my heart replyingAnd jangling like a bell.Wilfrid Gibson
From what forgotten life
Of other worlds I cannot tell
Flashes that screeching strife:
Yet the shrill colour and shrill crying
Sing through my blood and set my heart replying
And jangling like a bell.
Wilfrid Gibson
401
OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPTI met a traveller from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:And on the pedestal these words appear:"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:And on the pedestal these words appear:"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frownAnd wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold commandTell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:And on the pedestal these words appear:"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
402
ST. ANTHONY'S TOWNSHIPThe trees of the elder lands,Give ear to the march of Time,To his steps that are heavy and slowIn the streets of ruined citiesThat were great awhile ago—Skeletons bare to the skiesOr mummies hid in the sands,Wasting to rubble and lime.Ancient are they and wise;But the gum-trees down by the creek,Gnarled, archaic and grey,Are even as wise as they.They have learned in a score of yearsThe lore that their brethren know;For they saw a town arise,Arise and pass.There are pits by the dry, dead river,Whence the diggers won their gold,A circle traced in the grass,A hearthstone long a-cold,A path none come to seek—The trail of the pioneers—Where the sheep wind to and fro;And the rest is a tale that is toldBy voices quavering and weakOf men grown old.Gilbert Sheldon
The trees of the elder lands,Give ear to the march of Time,To his steps that are heavy and slowIn the streets of ruined citiesThat were great awhile ago—Skeletons bare to the skiesOr mummies hid in the sands,Wasting to rubble and lime.Ancient are they and wise;But the gum-trees down by the creek,Gnarled, archaic and grey,Are even as wise as they.They have learned in a score of yearsThe lore that their brethren know;For they saw a town arise,Arise and pass.There are pits by the dry, dead river,Whence the diggers won their gold,A circle traced in the grass,A hearthstone long a-cold,A path none come to seek—The trail of the pioneers—Where the sheep wind to and fro;And the rest is a tale that is toldBy voices quavering and weakOf men grown old.Gilbert Sheldon
The trees of the elder lands,Give ear to the march of Time,To his steps that are heavy and slowIn the streets of ruined citiesThat were great awhile ago—Skeletons bare to the skiesOr mummies hid in the sands,Wasting to rubble and lime.Ancient are they and wise;
The trees of the elder lands,
Give ear to the march of Time,
To his steps that are heavy and slow
In the streets of ruined cities
That were great awhile ago—
Skeletons bare to the skies
Or mummies hid in the sands,
Wasting to rubble and lime.
Ancient are they and wise;
But the gum-trees down by the creek,Gnarled, archaic and grey,Are even as wise as they.They have learned in a score of yearsThe lore that their brethren know;For they saw a town arise,Arise and pass.
But the gum-trees down by the creek,
Gnarled, archaic and grey,
Are even as wise as they.
They have learned in a score of years
The lore that their brethren know;
For they saw a town arise,
Arise and pass.
There are pits by the dry, dead river,Whence the diggers won their gold,A circle traced in the grass,A hearthstone long a-cold,A path none come to seek—The trail of the pioneers—Where the sheep wind to and fro;And the rest is a tale that is toldBy voices quavering and weakOf men grown old.Gilbert Sheldon
There are pits by the dry, dead river,
Whence the diggers won their gold,
A circle traced in the grass,
A hearthstone long a-cold,
A path none come to seek—
The trail of the pioneers—
Where the sheep wind to and fro;
And the rest is a tale that is told
By voices quavering and weak
Of men grown old.
Gilbert Sheldon
403
SILENCEThere is a silence where hath been no sound,There is a silence where no sound may be,In the cold grave—under the deep—deep sea,Or in wide desert where no life is found,Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;No voice is hushed—no life treads silently,But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,That never spoke, over the idle ground:But in green ruins, in the desolate wallsOf antique palaces, where Man hath been,Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, calls,And owls, that flit continually between,Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.Thomas Hood
There is a silence where hath been no sound,There is a silence where no sound may be,In the cold grave—under the deep—deep sea,Or in wide desert where no life is found,Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;No voice is hushed—no life treads silently,But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,That never spoke, over the idle ground:But in green ruins, in the desolate wallsOf antique palaces, where Man hath been,Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, calls,And owls, that flit continually between,Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.Thomas Hood
There is a silence where hath been no sound,There is a silence where no sound may be,In the cold grave—under the deep—deep sea,Or in wide desert where no life is found,Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;No voice is hushed—no life treads silently,But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,That never spoke, over the idle ground:But in green ruins, in the desolate wallsOf antique palaces, where Man hath been,Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, calls,And owls, that flit continually between,Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.Thomas Hood
There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep—deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hushed—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
Thomas Hood
404
KUBLA KHANIn Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And here were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and longI would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise....Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And here were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and longI would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise....Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And here were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and longI would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise....Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise....
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
405
LOST LOVEHis eyes are quickened so with grief,He can watch a grass or leafEvery instant grow; he canClearly through a flint wall see,Or watch the startled spirit fleeFrom the throat of a dead man.Across two counties he can hear,And catch your words before you speak.The woodlouse, or the maggot's weakClamour rings in his sad ear;And noise so slight it would surpassCredence:—drinking sound of grass,Worm talk, clashing jaws of mothChumbling holes in cloth:The groan of ants who undertakeGigantic loads for honour's sake,Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:Whir of spiders when they spin,And minute whispering, mumbling, sighsOf idle grubs and flies.This man is quickened so with grief,He wanders god-like or like thiefInside and out, below, above,Without relief seeking lost love.Robert Graves
His eyes are quickened so with grief,He can watch a grass or leafEvery instant grow; he canClearly through a flint wall see,Or watch the startled spirit fleeFrom the throat of a dead man.Across two counties he can hear,And catch your words before you speak.The woodlouse, or the maggot's weakClamour rings in his sad ear;And noise so slight it would surpassCredence:—drinking sound of grass,Worm talk, clashing jaws of mothChumbling holes in cloth:The groan of ants who undertakeGigantic loads for honour's sake,Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:Whir of spiders when they spin,And minute whispering, mumbling, sighsOf idle grubs and flies.This man is quickened so with grief,He wanders god-like or like thiefInside and out, below, above,Without relief seeking lost love.Robert Graves
His eyes are quickened so with grief,He can watch a grass or leafEvery instant grow; he canClearly through a flint wall see,Or watch the startled spirit fleeFrom the throat of a dead man.Across two counties he can hear,And catch your words before you speak.The woodlouse, or the maggot's weakClamour rings in his sad ear;And noise so slight it would surpassCredence:—drinking sound of grass,Worm talk, clashing jaws of mothChumbling holes in cloth:The groan of ants who undertakeGigantic loads for honour's sake,Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:Whir of spiders when they spin,And minute whispering, mumbling, sighsOf idle grubs and flies.This man is quickened so with grief,He wanders god-like or like thiefInside and out, below, above,Without relief seeking lost love.Robert Graves
His eyes are quickened so with grief,
He can watch a grass or leaf
Every instant grow; he can
Clearly through a flint wall see,
Or watch the startled spirit flee
From the throat of a dead man.
Across two counties he can hear,
And catch your words before you speak.
The woodlouse, or the maggot's weak
Clamour rings in his sad ear;
And noise so slight it would surpass
Credence:—drinking sound of grass,
Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth
Chumbling holes in cloth:
The groan of ants who undertake
Gigantic loads for honour's sake,
Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:
Whir of spiders when they spin,
And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs
Of idle grubs and flies.
This man is quickened so with grief,
He wanders god-like or like thief
Inside and out, below, above,
Without relief seeking lost love.
Robert Graves
406
ECSTASYI saw a frieze on whitest marble drawnOf boys who sought for shells along the shore,Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of greenThat faintly creamed against the cold, smooth pebbles....One held a shell unto his shell-like earAnd there was music carven in his face,His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking openTo catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roarOf numberless caverns filled with singing seas.And all of them were hearkening as to singingOf far-off voices thin and delicate,Voices too fine for any mortal windTo blow into the whorls of mortal ears—And yet those sounds flowed from their grave, sweet faces.And as I looked I heard that delicate music,And I became as grave, as calm, as stillAs those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,My eyes were staring at the far horizon....Walter J. Turner
I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawnOf boys who sought for shells along the shore,Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of greenThat faintly creamed against the cold, smooth pebbles....One held a shell unto his shell-like earAnd there was music carven in his face,His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking openTo catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roarOf numberless caverns filled with singing seas.And all of them were hearkening as to singingOf far-off voices thin and delicate,Voices too fine for any mortal windTo blow into the whorls of mortal ears—And yet those sounds flowed from their grave, sweet faces.And as I looked I heard that delicate music,And I became as grave, as calm, as stillAs those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,My eyes were staring at the far horizon....Walter J. Turner
I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawnOf boys who sought for shells along the shore,Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of greenThat faintly creamed against the cold, smooth pebbles....
I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn
Of boys who sought for shells along the shore,
Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,
The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of green
That faintly creamed against the cold, smooth pebbles....
One held a shell unto his shell-like earAnd there was music carven in his face,His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking openTo catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roarOf numberless caverns filled with singing seas.
One held a shell unto his shell-like ear
And there was music carven in his face,
His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking open
To catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roar
Of numberless caverns filled with singing seas.
And all of them were hearkening as to singingOf far-off voices thin and delicate,Voices too fine for any mortal windTo blow into the whorls of mortal ears—And yet those sounds flowed from their grave, sweet faces.
And all of them were hearkening as to singing
Of far-off voices thin and delicate,
Voices too fine for any mortal wind
To blow into the whorls of mortal ears—
And yet those sounds flowed from their grave, sweet faces.
And as I looked I heard that delicate music,And I became as grave, as calm, as stillAs those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,My eyes were staring at the far horizon....Walter J. Turner
And as I looked I heard that delicate music,
And I became as grave, as calm, as still
As those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,
I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,
My eyes were staring at the far horizon....
Walter J. Turner
407
THE SEA OF DEATH... And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleepLike water-lilies on that motionless deep,How beautiful! with bright unruffled hairOn sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that wereBuried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,Meekly apart, as if the soul intenseSpake out in dreams of its own innocence....So lay they garmented in torpid light,Under the pall of a transparent night,Like solemn apparitions lulled sublimeTo everlasting rest,—and with them TimeSlept, as he sleeps upon the silent faceOf a dark dial in a sunless place.
... And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleepLike water-lilies on that motionless deep,How beautiful! with bright unruffled hairOn sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that wereBuried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,Meekly apart, as if the soul intenseSpake out in dreams of its own innocence....So lay they garmented in torpid light,Under the pall of a transparent night,Like solemn apparitions lulled sublimeTo everlasting rest,—and with them TimeSlept, as he sleeps upon the silent faceOf a dark dial in a sunless place.
... And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleepLike water-lilies on that motionless deep,How beautiful! with bright unruffled hairOn sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that wereBuried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,Meekly apart, as if the soul intenseSpake out in dreams of its own innocence....So lay they garmented in torpid light,Under the pall of a transparent night,Like solemn apparitions lulled sublimeTo everlasting rest,—and with them TimeSlept, as he sleeps upon the silent faceOf a dark dial in a sunless place.
... And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep
Like water-lilies on that motionless deep,
How beautiful! with bright unruffled hair
On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were
Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!
And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,
Meekly apart, as if the soul intense
Spake out in dreams of its own innocence....
So lay they garmented in torpid light,
Under the pall of a transparent night,
Like solemn apparitions lulled sublime
To everlasting rest,—and with them Time
Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face
Of a dark dial in a sunless place.
408
THE FROZEN OCEANThe sea would flow no longer,It wearied after change,It called its tides and breakers in,From where they might range.It sent an icy messageTo every wave and rill;They lagged, they paused, they stiffened,They froze, and were still.It summoned in its currents,They reached not where they led;It bound its foaming whirlpools."Not the old life," it said,"Not fishes for the fishermen,Not bold ships as before,Not beating loud for everUpon the seashore,"But cold white foxes steppingOn to my hard proud breast,And a bird coming sweetlyAnd building a nest."My icebergs shall be mountains,My silent fields of snowUnmarked shall join the lands' snowfields—Where, no man shall know."Viola Meynell
The sea would flow no longer,It wearied after change,It called its tides and breakers in,From where they might range.It sent an icy messageTo every wave and rill;They lagged, they paused, they stiffened,They froze, and were still.It summoned in its currents,They reached not where they led;It bound its foaming whirlpools."Not the old life," it said,"Not fishes for the fishermen,Not bold ships as before,Not beating loud for everUpon the seashore,"But cold white foxes steppingOn to my hard proud breast,And a bird coming sweetlyAnd building a nest."My icebergs shall be mountains,My silent fields of snowUnmarked shall join the lands' snowfields—Where, no man shall know."Viola Meynell
The sea would flow no longer,It wearied after change,It called its tides and breakers in,From where they might range.
The sea would flow no longer,
It wearied after change,
It called its tides and breakers in,
From where they might range.
It sent an icy messageTo every wave and rill;They lagged, they paused, they stiffened,They froze, and were still.
It sent an icy message
To every wave and rill;
They lagged, they paused, they stiffened,
They froze, and were still.
It summoned in its currents,They reached not where they led;It bound its foaming whirlpools."Not the old life," it said,
It summoned in its currents,
They reached not where they led;
It bound its foaming whirlpools.
"Not the old life," it said,
"Not fishes for the fishermen,Not bold ships as before,Not beating loud for everUpon the seashore,
"Not fishes for the fishermen,
Not bold ships as before,
Not beating loud for ever
Upon the seashore,
"But cold white foxes steppingOn to my hard proud breast,And a bird coming sweetlyAnd building a nest.
"But cold white foxes stepping
On to my hard proud breast,
And a bird coming sweetly
And building a nest.
"My icebergs shall be mountains,My silent fields of snowUnmarked shall join the lands' snowfields—Where, no man shall know."Viola Meynell
"My icebergs shall be mountains,
My silent fields of snow
Unmarked shall join the lands' snowfields—
Where, no man shall know."
Viola Meynell
409
THE END OF THE WORLDThe snow had fallen many nights and days;The sky was come upon the earth at last,Sifting thinly down as endlesslyAs though within the system of blind planetsSomething had been forgot or overdriven.The dawn now seemed neglected in the greyWhere mountains were unbuilt and shadowless treesRootlessly paused or hung upon the air.There was no wind, but now and then a sighCrossed that dry falling dust and rifted itThrough crevices of slate and door and casement.Perhaps the new moon's time was even past.Outside, the first white twilights were too voidUntil a sheep called once, as to a lamb,And tenderness crept everywhere from it;But now the flock must have strayed far away.The lights across the valley must be veiled,The smoke lost in the greyness or the dusk.For more than three days now the snow had thatchedThat cow-house roof where it had ever meltedWith yellow stains from the beasts' breath inside;But yet a dog howled there, though not quite lately.Someone passed down the valley swift and singing,Yes, with locks spreaded like a son of morning;But if he seemed too tall to be a manIt was that men had been so long unseen,Or shapes loom larger through a moving snow.And he was gone and food had not been given him.When snow slid from an overweighted leaf,Shaking the tree, it might have been a birdSlipping in sleep or shelter, whirring wings;Yet never bird fell out, save once a dead one—And in two days the snow had covered it.The dog had howled again—or thus it seemedUntil a lean fox passed and cried no more.All was so safe indoors where life went onGlad of the close enfolding snow—O gladTo be so safe and secret at its heart,Watching the strangeness of familiar things.They knew not what dim hours went on, went by,For while they slept the clock stopt newly woundAs the cold hardened. Once they watched the road,Thinking to be remembered. Once they doubtedIf they had kept the sequence of the days,Because they heard not any sound of bells.A butterfly, that hid until the SpringUnder a ceiling's shadow, dropt, was dead.The coldness seemed more nigh, the coldness deepenedAs a sound deepens into silences;It was of earth and came not by the air;The earth was cooling and drew down the sky.The air was crumbling. There was no more sky.Rails of a broken bed charred in the grate,And when he touched the bars he thought the stingCame from their heat—he could not feel such cold...She said, "O do not sleep,Heart, heart of mine, keep near me. No, no; sleep.I will not lift his fallen, quiet eyelids,Although I know he would awaken then—He closed them thus but now of his own will.He can stay with me while I do not lift them."Gordon Bottomley
The snow had fallen many nights and days;The sky was come upon the earth at last,Sifting thinly down as endlesslyAs though within the system of blind planetsSomething had been forgot or overdriven.The dawn now seemed neglected in the greyWhere mountains were unbuilt and shadowless treesRootlessly paused or hung upon the air.There was no wind, but now and then a sighCrossed that dry falling dust and rifted itThrough crevices of slate and door and casement.Perhaps the new moon's time was even past.Outside, the first white twilights were too voidUntil a sheep called once, as to a lamb,And tenderness crept everywhere from it;But now the flock must have strayed far away.The lights across the valley must be veiled,The smoke lost in the greyness or the dusk.For more than three days now the snow had thatchedThat cow-house roof where it had ever meltedWith yellow stains from the beasts' breath inside;But yet a dog howled there, though not quite lately.Someone passed down the valley swift and singing,Yes, with locks spreaded like a son of morning;But if he seemed too tall to be a manIt was that men had been so long unseen,Or shapes loom larger through a moving snow.And he was gone and food had not been given him.When snow slid from an overweighted leaf,Shaking the tree, it might have been a birdSlipping in sleep or shelter, whirring wings;Yet never bird fell out, save once a dead one—And in two days the snow had covered it.The dog had howled again—or thus it seemedUntil a lean fox passed and cried no more.All was so safe indoors where life went onGlad of the close enfolding snow—O gladTo be so safe and secret at its heart,Watching the strangeness of familiar things.They knew not what dim hours went on, went by,For while they slept the clock stopt newly woundAs the cold hardened. Once they watched the road,Thinking to be remembered. Once they doubtedIf they had kept the sequence of the days,Because they heard not any sound of bells.A butterfly, that hid until the SpringUnder a ceiling's shadow, dropt, was dead.The coldness seemed more nigh, the coldness deepenedAs a sound deepens into silences;It was of earth and came not by the air;The earth was cooling and drew down the sky.The air was crumbling. There was no more sky.Rails of a broken bed charred in the grate,And when he touched the bars he thought the stingCame from their heat—he could not feel such cold...She said, "O do not sleep,Heart, heart of mine, keep near me. No, no; sleep.I will not lift his fallen, quiet eyelids,Although I know he would awaken then—He closed them thus but now of his own will.He can stay with me while I do not lift them."Gordon Bottomley
The snow had fallen many nights and days;The sky was come upon the earth at last,Sifting thinly down as endlesslyAs though within the system of blind planetsSomething had been forgot or overdriven.The dawn now seemed neglected in the greyWhere mountains were unbuilt and shadowless treesRootlessly paused or hung upon the air.There was no wind, but now and then a sighCrossed that dry falling dust and rifted itThrough crevices of slate and door and casement.Perhaps the new moon's time was even past.Outside, the first white twilights were too voidUntil a sheep called once, as to a lamb,And tenderness crept everywhere from it;But now the flock must have strayed far away.The lights across the valley must be veiled,The smoke lost in the greyness or the dusk.For more than three days now the snow had thatchedThat cow-house roof where it had ever meltedWith yellow stains from the beasts' breath inside;But yet a dog howled there, though not quite lately.Someone passed down the valley swift and singing,Yes, with locks spreaded like a son of morning;But if he seemed too tall to be a manIt was that men had been so long unseen,Or shapes loom larger through a moving snow.And he was gone and food had not been given him.When snow slid from an overweighted leaf,Shaking the tree, it might have been a birdSlipping in sleep or shelter, whirring wings;Yet never bird fell out, save once a dead one—And in two days the snow had covered it.The dog had howled again—or thus it seemedUntil a lean fox passed and cried no more.All was so safe indoors where life went onGlad of the close enfolding snow—O gladTo be so safe and secret at its heart,Watching the strangeness of familiar things.They knew not what dim hours went on, went by,For while they slept the clock stopt newly woundAs the cold hardened. Once they watched the road,Thinking to be remembered. Once they doubtedIf they had kept the sequence of the days,Because they heard not any sound of bells.A butterfly, that hid until the SpringUnder a ceiling's shadow, dropt, was dead.The coldness seemed more nigh, the coldness deepenedAs a sound deepens into silences;It was of earth and came not by the air;The earth was cooling and drew down the sky.The air was crumbling. There was no more sky.Rails of a broken bed charred in the grate,And when he touched the bars he thought the stingCame from their heat—he could not feel such cold...She said, "O do not sleep,Heart, heart of mine, keep near me. No, no; sleep.I will not lift his fallen, quiet eyelids,Although I know he would awaken then—He closed them thus but now of his own will.He can stay with me while I do not lift them."Gordon Bottomley
The snow had fallen many nights and days;
The sky was come upon the earth at last,
Sifting thinly down as endlessly
As though within the system of blind planets
Something had been forgot or overdriven.
The dawn now seemed neglected in the grey
Where mountains were unbuilt and shadowless trees
Rootlessly paused or hung upon the air.
There was no wind, but now and then a sigh
Crossed that dry falling dust and rifted it
Through crevices of slate and door and casement.
Perhaps the new moon's time was even past.
Outside, the first white twilights were too void
Until a sheep called once, as to a lamb,
And tenderness crept everywhere from it;
But now the flock must have strayed far away.
The lights across the valley must be veiled,
The smoke lost in the greyness or the dusk.
For more than three days now the snow had thatched
That cow-house roof where it had ever melted
With yellow stains from the beasts' breath inside;
But yet a dog howled there, though not quite lately.
Someone passed down the valley swift and singing,
Yes, with locks spreaded like a son of morning;
But if he seemed too tall to be a man
It was that men had been so long unseen,
Or shapes loom larger through a moving snow.
And he was gone and food had not been given him.
When snow slid from an overweighted leaf,
Shaking the tree, it might have been a bird
Slipping in sleep or shelter, whirring wings;
Yet never bird fell out, save once a dead one—
And in two days the snow had covered it.
The dog had howled again—or thus it seemed
Until a lean fox passed and cried no more.
All was so safe indoors where life went on
Glad of the close enfolding snow—O glad
To be so safe and secret at its heart,
Watching the strangeness of familiar things.
They knew not what dim hours went on, went by,
For while they slept the clock stopt newly wound
As the cold hardened. Once they watched the road,
Thinking to be remembered. Once they doubted
If they had kept the sequence of the days,
Because they heard not any sound of bells.
A butterfly, that hid until the Spring
Under a ceiling's shadow, dropt, was dead.
The coldness seemed more nigh, the coldness deepened
As a sound deepens into silences;
It was of earth and came not by the air;
The earth was cooling and drew down the sky.
The air was crumbling. There was no more sky.
Rails of a broken bed charred in the grate,
And when he touched the bars he thought the sting
Came from their heat—he could not feel such cold...
She said, "O do not sleep,
Heart, heart of mine, keep near me. No, no; sleep.
I will not lift his fallen, quiet eyelids,
Although I know he would awaken then—
He closed them thus but now of his own will.
He can stay with me while I do not lift them."
Gordon Bottomley