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If I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
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My mind has thunderstorms,That brood for heavy hours:Until they rain me words,My thoughts are drooping flowersAnd sulking, silent birds.Yet come, dark thunderstorms,And brood your heavy hours;For when you rain me wordsMy thoughts are dancing flowersAnd joyful singing birds.
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The mind, with its own eyes and ears,May for these others have no care;No matter where this body is,The mind is free to go elsewhere.My mind can be a sailor, whenThis body's still confined to land;And turn these mortals into trees,That walk in Fleet Street or the Strand.So, when I'm passing Charing Cross,Where porters work both night and day,I ofttimes hear sweet Malpas Brook,That flows thrice fifty miles away.And when I'm passing near St Paul's,I see, beyond the dome and crowd,Twm Barlum, that green pap in Gwent,With its dark nipple in a cloud.
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Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul,Oh thou fair Moon, so close and bright;Thy beauty makes me like the childThat cries aloud to own thy light:The little child that lifts each armTo press thee to her bosom warm.Though there are birds that sing this nightWith thy white beams across their throats,Let my deep silence speak for meMore than for them their sweetest notes:Who worships thee till music fails,Is greater than thy nightingales.
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When on a summer's morn I wake,And open my two eyes,Out to the clear, born-singing rillsMy bird-like spirit flies,To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush,Or any bird in song;And common leaves that hum all day,Without a throat or tongue.And when Time strikes the hour for sleep,Back in my room alone,My heart has many a sweet bird's song —And one that's all my own.
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Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad,Beyond the town, where wild flowers grow —A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord,How rich and great the times are now!Know, all ye sheepAnd cows, that keepOn staring that I stand so longIn grass that's wet from heavy rain —A rainbow and a cuckoo's songMay never come together again;May never comeThis side the tomb.
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Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched,The air is all around:What is it that can keep thee set,From falling to the ground?The concentration of thy mindSupports thee in the air;As thou dost watch the small young birds,With such a deadly care.My mind has such a hawk as thou,It is an evil mood;It comes when there's no cause for grief,And on my joys doth brood.Then do I see my life in parts;The earth receives my bones,The common air absorbs my mind —It knows not flowers from stones.
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Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,Thou knowest of no strange continent:Thou hast not felt thy bosom keepA gentle motion with the deep;Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,Where scent comes forth in every breeze.Thou hast not seen the rich grape growFor miles, as far as eyes can go;Thou hast not seen a summer's nightWhen maids could sew by a worm's light;Nor the North Sea in spring send outBright hues that like birds flit aboutIn solid cages of white ice —Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.Thou hast not seen black fingers pickWhite cotton when the bloom is thick,Nor heard black throats in harmony;Nor hast thou sat on stones that lieFlat on the earth, that once did riseTo hide proud kings from common eyes.Thou hast not seen plains full of bloomWhere green things had such little roomThey pleased the eye like fairer flowers —Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;For thou hast made more homely stuffNurture thy gentle self enough;I love thee for a heart that's kind —Not for the knowledge in thy mind.
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Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp,Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;As quietly and solemnlyAs Life when it is kissing Death.Now in the silence of the grave,My hand is squeezing that soft breast;While thou dost in such passion lie,It mocks me with its look of rest.But when the morning comes at last,And we must part, our passions cold,You'll think of some new feather, scarfTo buy with my small piece of gold;And I'll be dreaming of green lanes,Where little things with beating heartsHold shining eyes between the leaves,Till men with horses pass, and carts.
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Here comes Kate Summers, who, for gold,Takes any man to bed:"You knew my friend, Nell Barnes," she said;"You knew Nell Barnes — she's dead."Nell Barnes was bad on all you men,Unclean, a thief as well;Yet all my life I have not foundA better friend than Nell."So I sat at her side at last,For hours, till she was dead;And yet she had no sense at allOf any word I said."For all her cry but came to this —'Not for the world! Take care:Don't touch that bird of paradise,Perched on the bed-post there!'"I asked her would she like some grapes,Some damsons ripe and sweet;A custard made with new-laid eggs,Or tender fowl to eat."I promised I would follow her,To see her in her grave;And buy a wreath with borrowed pence,If nothing I could save."Yet still her cry but came to this —'Not for the world! Take care:Don't touch that bird of paradise,Perched on the bed-post there!'"
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When music sounds, gone is the earth I know,And all her lovely things even lovelier grow;Her flowers in vision flame, her forest treesLift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.When music sounds, out of the water riseNaiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes,Rapt in strange dream burns each enchanted face,With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place.When music sounds, all that I was I amEre to this haunt of brooding dust I came;And from Time's woods break into distant songThe swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.
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Wide are the meadows of night,And daisies are shining there,Tossing their lovely dews,Lustrous and fair;And through these sweet fields go,Wanderers amid the stars —Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune,Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.'Tired in their silver, they move,And circling, whisper and say,Fair are the blossoming meads of delightThrough which we stray.
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Three and thirty birds there stoodIn an elder in a wood;Called Melmillo — flew off three,Leaving thirty in the tree;Called Melmillo — nine now gone,And the boughs held twenty-one;Called Melmillo — and eighteenLeft but three to nod and preen;Called Melmillo — three — two — one —Now of birds were feathers none.Then stole slim Melmillo inTo that wood all dusk and green,And with lean long palms outspreadSoftly a strange dance did tread;Not a note of music sheHad for echoing company;All the birds were flown to restIn the hollow of her breast;In the wood — thorn, elder, willow —Danced alone — lone danced Melmillo.
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It was the Great Alexander,Capped with a golden helm,Sate in the ages, in his floating ship,In a dead calm.Voices of sea-maids singingWandered across the deep:The sailors labouring on their oarsRowed as in sleep.All the high pomp of Asia,Charmed by that siren lay,Out of their weary and dreaming mindsFaded away.Like a bold boy sate their Captain,His glamour withered and gone,In the souls of his brooding manners,While the song pined on.Time like a falling dew,Life like the scene of a dreamLaid between slumber and slumberOnly did seem ...O Alexander, then,In all us mortals too,Wax not so overboldOn the wave dark-blue!Come the calm starry night,Who then will hearAught save the singingOf the sea-maids clear?
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'Won't you look out of your window, Mrs Gill?'Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden;'Can'tyou look out of your window, Mrs Gill?'Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden;But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still,And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill,And never from her window looked out Mrs GillOn the Fairy shrilly mocking in the garden.'What have they done with you, you poor Mrs Gill?'Quoth the Fairy brightly glancing in the garden;'Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs Gill?'Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden;But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill,Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill,And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs GillThe Fairy mimbling mambling in the garden.
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One night as Dick lay half asleep,Into his drowsy eyesA great still light began to creepFrom out the silent skies.It was the lovely moon's, for whenHe raised his dreamy head,Her surge of silver filled the paneAnd streamed across his bed.So, for awhile, each gazed at each —Dick and the solemn moon —Till, climbing slowly on her way,She vanished, and was gone.
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Three jolly FarmersOnce bet a poundEach dance the others wouldOff the ground.Out of their coatsThey slipped right soon,And neat and nicesomePut each his shoon.One — Two — Three!And away they go,Not too fast,And not too slow;Out from the elm-tree'sNoonday shadow,Into the sunAnd across the meadow.Past the schoolroom,With knees well bent,Fingers a-flicking,They dancing went.Up sides and over,And round and round,They crossed click-clackingThe Parish bound;By Tupman's meadowThey did their mile,Tee-to-tumOn a three-barred stile.Then straight through Whipham,Downhill to Week,Footing it lightsome,But not too quick,Up fields to Watchet,And on through Wye,Till seven fine churchesThey'd seen skip by —Seven fine churches,And five old mills,Farms in the valley,And sheep on the hills;Old Man's AcreAnd Dead Man's PoolAll left behind,As they danced through Wool.And Wool gone by,Like tops that seemTo spin in sleepThey danced in dream:Withy — Wellover —Wassop — Wo —Like an old clockTheir heels did go.A league and a leagueAnd a league they went,And not one weary,And not one spent.And lo, and behold!Past Willow-cum-LeighStretched with its watersThe great green sea.Says Farmer Bates,'I puffs and I blows,What's under the water,Why, no man knows!'Says Farmer Giles,'My mind comes weak,And a good man drownedIs far to seek.'But Farmer Turvey,On twirling toes,Up's with his gaiters,And in he goes:Down where the mermaidsPluck and playOn their twangling harpsIn a sea-green day;Down where the mermaids,Finned and fair,Sleek with their combsTheir yellow hair ...Bates and Giles —On the shingle sat,Gazing at Turvey'sFloating hat.But never a rippleNor bubble toldWhere he was suppingOff plates of gold.Never an echoRilled through the seaOf the feasting and dancingAnd minstrelsy.They called — called — called:Came no reply:Nought but the ripples'Sandy sigh.Then glum and silentThey sat instead,Vacantly broodingOn home and bed,Till both togetherStood up and said: —'Us knows not, dreams not,Where you be,Turvey, unlessIn the deep blue sea;But axcusing silver —And it comes most willing —Here's us two payingOur forty shilling;For it's sartin sure, Turvey,Safe and sound,You danced us square, Turvey,Off the ground!'
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Beyond my window in the nightIs but a drab inglorious street,Yet there the frost and clean starlightAs over Warwick woods are sweet.Under the grey drift of the townThe crocus works among the mouldAs eagerly as those that crownThe Warwick spring in flame and gold.And when the tramway down the hillAcross the cobbles moans and rings,There is about my window-sillThe tumult of a thousand wings.
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(To those who live there)
For peace, than knowledge more desirable,Into your Sussex quietness I came,When summer's green and gold and azure fellOver the world in flame.And peace upon your pasture-lands I found,Where grazing flocks drift on continually,As little clouds that travel with no soundAcross a windless sky.Out of your oaks the birds call to their matesThat brood among the pines, where hidden deepFrom curious eyes a world's adventure waitsIn columned choirs of sleep.Under the calm ascension of the nightWe heard the mellow lapsing and returnOf night-owls purring in their groundling flightThrough lanes of darkling fern.Unbroken peace when all the stars were drawnBack to their lairs of light, and ranked alongFrom shire to shire the downs out of the dawnWere risen in golden song.* * * * *I sing of peace who have known the large unrestOf men bewildered in their travelling,And I have known the bridal earth unblestBy the brigades of spring.I have known that loss. And now the broken thoughtOf nations marketing in death I know,The very winds to threnodies are wroughtThat on your downlands blow.I sing of peace. Was it but yesterdayI came among your roses and your corn?Then momently amid this wrath I prayFor yesterday reborn.
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He was a man with wide and patient eyes,Grey, like the drift of twitch-fires blown in June,That, without fearing, searched if any wrongMight threaten from your heart. Grey eyes he hadUnder a brow was drawn because he knewSo many seasons to so many passOf upright service, loyal, unabasedBefore the world seducing, and so, barrenOf good words praising and thought that mated his.He carved in stone. Out of his quiet lifeHe watched as any faithful seaman chargedWith tidings of the myriad faring sea,And thoughts and premonitions through his mindSailing as ships from strange and storied landsHis hungry spirit held, till all they wereFound living witness in the chiselled stone.Slowly out of the dark confusion, spreadBy life's innumerable venturingsOver his brain, he would triumph into the lightOf one clear mood, unblemished of the blindLegions of errant thought that cried aboutHis rapt seclusion: as a pearl unsoiled,Nay, rather washed to lonelier chastity,In gritty mud. And then would come a bird,A flower, or the wind moving upon a flower,A beast at pasture, or a clustered fruit,A peasant face as were the saints of old,The leer of custom, or the bow of the moonSwung in miraculous poise — some stray from the worldOf things created by the eternal mindIn joy articulate. And his perfect moodWould dwell about the token of God's mood,Until in bird or flower or moving windOr flock or shepherd or the troops of heavenIt sprang in one fierce moment of desireTo visible form.Then would his chisel work among the stone,Persuading it of petal or of limbOr starry curve, till risen anew there sangShape out of chaos, and again the visionOf one mind single from the world was pressedUpon the daily custom of the skyOr field or the body of man.His peopleHad many gods for worship. The tiger-god,The owl, the dewlapped bull, the running pard,The camel, and the lizard of the slime,The ram with quivering fleece and fluted horn,The crested eagle and the doming batWere sacred. And the king and his high priestsDecreed a temple, wide on columns huge,Should top the cornlands to the sky's far line.They bade the carvers carve along the wallsImages of their gods, each one to carveAs he desired, his choice to name his god ...And many came; and he among them, gladOf three leagues' travel through the singing airOf dawn among the boughs yet bare of green,The eager flight of the spring leading his bloodInto swift lofty channels of the air,Proud as an eagle riding to the sun ...An eagle, clean of pinion — there's his choice.Daylong they worked under the growing roof,One at his leopard, one the staring ram,And he winning his eagle from the stone,Until each man had carved one image out,Arow beyond the portal of the house.They stood arow, the company of gods,Camel and bat, lizard and bull and ram,The pard and owl, dead figures on the wall,Figures of habit driven on the stoneBy chisels governed by no heat of the brainBut drudges of hands that moved by easy rule.Proudly recorded mood was none, no thoughtPlucked from the dark battalions of the mindAnd throned in everlasting sight. But oneGod of them all was witness of beliefAnd large adventure dared. His eagle spreadWide pinions on a cloudless ground of heaven,Glad with the heart's high courage of that dawnMoving upon the ploughlands newly sown,Dead stone the rest. He looked, and knew it so.Then came the king with priests and counsellorsAnd many chosen of the people, wiseWith words weary of custom, and eyes askewThat watched their neighbour face for any newsOf the best way of judgment, till, each sureNone would determine with authority,All spoke in prudent praise. One liked the owlBecause an owl blinked on the beam of his barn.One, hoarse with crying gospels in the street,Praised most the ram, because the common folkWore breeches made of ram's wool. One declaredThe tiger pleased him best, — the man who carvedThe tiger-god was halt out of the womb —A man to praise, being so pitiful.And one, whose eyes dwelt in a distant void,With spell and omen pat upon his lips,And a purse for any crystal prophet ripe,A zealot of the mist, gazed at the bull —A lean ill-shapen bull of meagre linesThat scarce the steel had graved upon the stone —Saying that here was very mysteryAnd truth, did men but know. And one there wasWho praised his eagle, but rememberingThe lither pinion of the swift, the curveThat liked him better of the mirrored swan.And they who carved the tiger-god and ram,The camel and the pard, the owl and bull,And lizard, listened greedily, and madeHumble denial of their worthiness,And when the king his royal judgment gaveThat all had fashioned well, and bade that eachRe-shape his chosen god along the wallsTill all the temple boasted of their skill,They bowed themselves in token that as thisNever had carvers been so fortunate.Only the man with wide and patient eyesMade no denial, neither bowed his head.Already while they spoke his thoughts had goneFar from his eagle, leaving it for a signLoyally wrought of one deep breath of life,And played about the image of a toadThat crawled among his ivy leaves. A queerPuff-bellied toad, with eyes that always staredSidelong at heaven and saw no heaven there,Weak-hammed, and with a throttle somehow twistedBeyond full wholesome draughts of air, and skinOf wrinkled lips, the only zest or willThe little flashing tongue searching the leaves.And king and priest, chosen and counsellor,Babbling out of their thin and jealous brains,Seemed strangely one; a queer enormous toadPanting under giant leaves of dark,Sunk in the loins, peering into the day.Their judgment wry he counted not for wrongMore than the fabled poison of the toadStriking at simple wits; how should their thoughtOr word in praise or blame come near the peaceThat shone in seasonable hours aboveThe patience of his spirit's husbandry?They foolish and not seeing, how should heSpend anger there or fear — great ceremoniesEqual for none save great antagonists?The grave indifference of his heart before themWas moved by laughter innocent of hate,Chastising clean of spite, that moulded themInto the antic likeness of his toadBidding for laughter underneath the leaves.He bowed not, nor disputed, but he sawThose ill-created joyless gods, and loathed,And saw them creeping, creeping round the walls,Death breeding death, wile witnessing to wile,And sickened at the dull iniquityShould be rewarded, and for ever breatheContagion on the folk gathered in prayer.His truth should not be doomed to march amongThis falsehood to the ages. He was called,And he must labour there; if so the kingWould grant it, where the pillars bore the roofA galleried way of meditation nursedSecluded time, with wall of ready stoneIn panels for the carver set betweenThe windows — there his chisel should be set, —It was his plea. And the king spoke of him,Scorning, as one lack-fettle, among all theseEager to take the riches of renown;One fearful of the light or knowing nothingOf light's dimension, a witling who would throwHonour aside and praise spoken aloudAll men of heart should covet. Let him goGrubbing out of the sight of those who knewThe worth of substance; there was his proper trade.A squat and curious toad indeed ... The eyes,Patient and grey, were dumb as were the lips,That, fixed and governed, hoarded from them allThe larger laughter lifting in his heart.Straightway about his gallery he moved,Measured the windows and the virgin stone,Till all was weighed and patterned in his brain.Then first where most the shadows struck the wall,Under the sills, and centre of the base,From floor to sill out of the stone was wooedMemorial folly, as from the chisel leaptHis chastening laughter searching priest and king —Huge and wrinkled toad, with legs asplay,And belly loaded, leering with great eyesBusily fixed upon the void.All daysHis chisel was the first to ring acrossThe temple's quiet; and at fall of duskPassing among the carvers homeward, theyWould speak of him as mad, or weak againstThe challenge of the world, and let him goLonely, as was his will, under the nightOf stars or cloud or summer's folded sun,Through crop and wood and pasture-land to sleep.None took the narrow stair as wonderingHow did his chisel prosper in the stone,Unvisited his labour and forgot.And times when he would lean out of his heightAnd watch the gods growing along the walls,The row of carvers in their linen coatsTook in his vision a virtue that aloneCarving they had not nor the thing they carved.Knowing the health that flowed about his closeImagining, the daily quiet wonFrom process of his clean and supple craft,Those carvers there, far on the floor below,Would haply be transfigured in his thoughtInto a gallant company of menGlad of the strict and loyal reckoningThat proved in the just presence of the brainEach chisel-stroke. How surely would he prosperIn pleasant talk at easy hours with menSo fashioned if it might be — and his eyesWould pass again to those dead gods that grewIn spreading evil round the temple walls;And, one dead pressure made, the carvers movedAlong the wall to mould and mould againThe self-same god, their chisels on the stoneTapping in dull precision as before,And he would turn, back to his lonely truth.He carved apace. And first his people's gods,About the toad, out of their sterile time,Under his hand thrilled and were recreate.The bull, the pard, the camel and the ram,Tiger and owl and bat — all were the signsVisibly made body on the stoneOf sightless thought adventuring the hostThat is mere spirit; these the bloom achievedBy secret labour in the flowing woodOf rain and air and wind and continent sun ...His tiger, lithe, immobile in the stone,A swift destruction for a moment leashed,Sprang crying from the jealous stealth of menOpposed in cunning watch, with engines hidOf torment and calamitous desire.His leopard, swift on lean and paltry limbs,Was fear in flight before accusing faith.His bull, with eyes that often in the duskWould lift from the sweet meadow grass to watchHim homeward passing, bore on massy beamThe burden of the patient of the earth.His camel bore the burden of the damned,Being gaunt, with eyes aslant along the nose.He had a friend, who hammered bronze and ironAnd cupped the moonstone on a silver ring,One constant like himself, would come at nightOr bid him as a guest, when they would makeTheir poets touch a starrier height, or searchTogether with unparsimonious mindThe crowded harbours of mortality.And there were jests, wholesome as harvest ale,Of homely habit, bred of hearts that daredJudgment of laughter under the eternal eye:This frolic wisdom was his carven owl.His ram was lordship on the lonely hills,Alert and fleet, content only to knowThe wind mightily pouring on his fleece,With yesterday and all unrisen sunsPoorer than disinherited ghosts. His batWas ancient envy made a mockery,Cowering below the newer eagle carvedAbove the arches with wide pinion spread,His faith's dominion of that happy dawn.And so he wrought the gods upon the wall,Living and crying out of his desire,Out of his patient incorruptible thought,Wrought them in joy was wages to his faith.And other than the gods he made. The stalksOf bluebells heavy with the news of spring,The vine loaded with plenty of the year,And swallows, merely tenderness of thoughtBidding the stone to small and fragile flight;Leaves, the thin relics of autumnal boughs,Or massed in June ...All from their native pressure bloomed and sprangUnder his shaping hand into a proudAnd governed image of the central man, —Their moulding, charts of all his travelling.And all were deftly ordered, duly setBetween the windows, underneath the sills,And roofward, as a motion rightly planned,Till on the wall, out of the sullen stone,A glory blazed, his vision manifest,His wonder captive. And he was content.And when the builders and the carvers knewTheir labours done, and high the temple stoodOver the cornlands, king and counsellorAnd priest and chosen of the people cameAmong a ceremonial multitudeTo dedication. And, below the thronesWhere king and archpriest ruled above the throng,Highest among the ranked artificersThe carvers stood. And when, the temple vowedTo holy use, tribute and choral praiseGiven as was ordained, the king looked downUpon the gathered folk, and bade them seeThe comely gods fashioned about the walls,And keep in honour men whose precious skillCould so adorn the sessions of their worship,Gravely the carvers bowed them to the ground.Only the man with wide and patient eyesStood not among them; nor did any comeTo count his labour, where he watched aloneAbove the coloured throng. He heard, and lookedAgain upon his work, and knew it good,Smiled on his toad, passed down the stair unseen,And sang across the teeming meadows home.
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I have seen old ships sail like swans asleepBeyond the village which men still call Tyre,With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deepFor Famagusta and the hidden sunThat rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;And all those ships were certainly so old —Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,The pirate GenoeseHell-raked them till they rolledBlood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.But now through friendly seas they softly run,Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.But I have seenPointing her shapely shadows from the dawnAnd image tumbled on a rose-swept bayA drowsy ship of some yet older day;And, wonder's breath indrawn,Thought I — who knows — who knows — but in that same(Fished up beyond Ææa, patched up new— Stern painted brighter blue — )That talkative, bald-headed seaman came(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)From Troy's doom-crimson shore,And with great lies about his wooden horseSet the crew laughing, and forgot his course.It was so old a ship — who knows, who knows?— And yet so beautiful, I watched in vainTo see the mast burst open with a rose,And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
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O pouring westering streamsShouting that I have leapt the mountain bar,Down curve on curve my journey's white way gleams —My road along the river of return.I know the countries where the white moons burn,And heavy star on starDips on the pale and crystal desert hills.I know the river of the sun that fillsWith founts of gold the lakes of Orient sky.* * * * *And I have heard a voice of broken seasAnd from the cliffs a cry.Ah still they learn, those cave-eared Cyclades,The Triton's friendly or his fearful horn,And why the deep sea-bells but seldom chime,And how those waves and with what spell-swept rhymeIn years of morning, on a summer's mornWhispering round his castle on the coast,Lured young Achilles from his haunted sleepAnd drave him out to dive beyond those deepDim purple windows of the empty swell,His ivory body flitting like a ghostOver the holes where flat blind fishes dwell,All to embrace his mother thronèd in her shell.