Contents/Contents, p. 2
Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain,I know that David's with me here again.All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.Caressingly I strokeRough bark of the friendly oak.A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.Turf burns with pleasant smoke:I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.Over the whole wood in a little whileBreaks his slow smile.
Contents/Contents, p. 2
Your face was lifted to the golden skyAblaze beyond the black roofs of the square,As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in airIts tumult of red stars exultantly,To the cold constellations dim and high;And as we neared, the roaring ruddy flareKindled to gold your throat and brow and hairUntil you burned, a flame of ecstasy.The golden head goes down into the nightQuenched in cold gloom — and yet again you standBeside me now with lifted face alight,As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn ...Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn,And look into my eyes and take my hand.
Contents/Contents, p. 2
Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways,We came upon the little house asleepIn cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep,In the white magic of the full moon-blaze.Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze,Fearful to break that quiet, and to creepInto the home that had been ours to keepThrough a long year of happy nights and days.So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam,So old and ghostly like a house of dreamIt seemed, that over us there stole the dreadThat even as we watched it, side by side,The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and diedWithin its walls, were sleeping in our bed.
Contents/Contents, p. 2
All night under the moonPlovers are flyingOver the dreaming meadows of silvery light,Over the meadows of June,Flying and crying —Wandering voices of love in the hush of the night.All night under the moon,Love, though we're lyingQuietly under the thatch, in silvery lightOver the meadows of JuneTogether we're flying —Rapturous voices of love in the hush of the night?
Contents/Contents, p. 2
Wind-flicked and ruddy her young body glowedIn sunny shallows, splashing them to spray;But when on rippled, silver sand she lay,And over her the little green waves flowed,Coldly translucent and moon-coloured showedHer frail young beauty, as if rapt awayFrom all the light and laughter of the dayTo some twilit, forlorn sea-god's abode.Again into the sun with happy cryShe leapt alive and sparkling from the sea,Sprinkling white spray against the hot blue sky,A laughing girl ... and yet, I see her lieUnder a deeper tide eternallyIn cold moon-coloured immortality.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Contents/Contents, p. 3
We who are left, how shall we look againHappily on the sun or feel the rainWithout remembering how they who wentUngrudgingly and spentTheir lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings —But we, how shall we turn to little thingsAnd listen to the birds and winds and streamsMade holy by their dreams,Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Music comesSweetly from the trembling stringWhen wizard fingers sweepDreamily, half asleep;When through remembering reedsAncient airs and murmurs creep,Oboe oboe following,Flute answering clear high flute,Voices, voices — falling mute,And the jarring drums.At night I heardFirst a waking birdOut of the quiet darkness sing ...Music comesStrangely to the brain asleep!And I heardSoft, wizard fingers sweepMusic from the trembling string,And through remembering reedsAncient airs and murmurs creep;Oboe oboe following,Flute calling clear high flute,Voices faint, falling mute,And low jarring drums;Then all those airsSweetly jangled — newly strange,Rich with change ...Was it the wind in the reeds?Did the wind rangeOver the trembling string;Into flute and oboe pouringSolemn music; sinking, soaringLow to high,Up and down the sky?Was it the wind jarringDrowsy far-off drums?Strangely to the brain asleepMusic comes.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Than these November skiesIs no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;Into their grey the subtle spiesOf colour creep,Changing that high austerity to delight,Till ev'n the leaden interfolds are bright.And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peersEre a thin flushing cloud againShuts up that loveliness, or shares.The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, asReluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,Holding in bright caprice their rain.And when of colours none,Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,Is truly seen, —In all the myriad grey,In silver height and dusky deep, remainThe loveliest,Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright.She in the long fresh grass scattered her rainsSparkling and glittering like a host of stars,But not like stars cold, severe, terrible.Hers was the laughter of the wind that leapedArm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide.Hers the bright light within the quick greenOf every new leaf on the oldest tree.It was her swimming made the river runShining as the sun;Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark,Singing in the incessant lark....All this was hers — yet all this had not beenExcept 'twas seen.It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright;My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins,The vehemence of transfiguring thought —Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains —That made thy wonders wonderful.For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee,Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play,Empty of meaning and so of all delight.Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss,Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth,And I have paid thee with my thankfulness.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
It was the lovely moon — she liftedSlowly her white brow amongBronze cloud-waves that ebbed and driftedFaintly, faintlier afar.Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,Watching the earth that dwindled underFaintly, faintlier afar.It was the lovely moon that lovelikeHovered over the wandering, tiredEarth, her bosom grey and dovelike,Hovering beautiful as a dove....The lovely moon: — her soft light fallingLightly on roof and poplar and pine —Tree to tree whispering and calling,Wonderful in the silvery shineOf the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Last night a sword-light in the skyFlashed a swift terror on the dark.In that sharp light the fields did lieNaked and stone-like; each tree stoodLike a tranced woman, bound and stark.Far off the woodWith darkness ridged the riven dark.And cows astonied stared with fear,And sheep crept to the knees of cows,And conies to their burrows slid,And rooks were still in rigid boughs,And all things else were still or hid.From all the woodCame but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.In that cold trance the earth was heldIt seemed an age, or time was nought.Sure never from that stone-like fieldSprang golden corn, nor from those chillGrey granite trees was music wrought.In all the woodEven the tall poplar hung stone still.It seemed an age, or time was none ...Slowly the earth heaved out of sleepAnd shivered, and the trees of stoneBent and sighed in the gusty wind,And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.Far off the woodRolled the slow thunders on the wind.From all the wood came no brave bird,No song broke through the close-fall'n night,Nor any sound from cowering herd:Only a dog's long lonely howlWhen from the window poured pale light.And from the woodThe hoot came ghostly of the owl.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
The pigeons, following the faint warm light,Stayed at last on the roof till warmth was gone,Then in the mist that's hastier than nightDisappeared all behind the carved dark stone,Huddling from the black cruelty of the frost.With the new sparkling sun they swooped and cameLike a cloud between the sun and street, and thenLike a cloud blown from the blue north were lost,Vanishing and returning ever again,Small cloud following cloud across the flameThat clear and meagre burned and burned awayAnd left the ice unmelting day by day.... Nor could the sun through the roof's purple slate(Though his gold magic played with shadow thereAnd drew the pigeons from the streaming air)With any fiery magic penetrate.Under the roof the air and water froze,And no smoke from the gaping chimney rose.The silver frost upon the window paneFlowered and branched each starving night anew,And stranger, lovelier and crueller grew;Pouring her silver that cold silver through,The moon made all the dim flower bright again.... Pouring her silver through that barren flowerOf silver frost, until it filled and whitenedA room where two small children waited, frightenedAt the pale ghost of light that hour by hourStared at them till though fear slept not they slept.And when that white ghost from the window crept,And day came and they woke and saw all plainThough still the frost-flower blinded the window pane,And touched their mother and touched her hand in vain,And wondered why she woke not when they woke;And wondered what it was their sleep that brokeWhen hand in hand they stared and stared, so frightened;They feared and waited, and waited all day long,While all the shadows went and the day brightened,All the ill shadows but one shadow strong.Outside were busy feet and human speechAnd daily cries and horns. Maybe they heard,Painfully wondering still, and each to eachLeaning, and listening if their mother stirred —Cold, cold,Hungering as the long slow hours grew old,Though food within the cupboard idle layBeyond their thought, or but beyond their reach.The soft blue pigeons all the afternoonSunned themselves on the roof or rose at play,Then with the shrinking light fluttered away;And once more came the icy-hearted moon,Staring down at the frightened children thereThat could but shiver and stare.How many hours, how many days, who knows?Neighbours there were who thought they had gone awayTo return some luckier or luckless day.No sound came from the room: the cold air frozeThe very echo of the children's sighs.And what they saw within each other's eyes,Or heard each other's heart say as they peeredAt the dead mother lying there, and fearedThat she might wake, and then might never wake,Who knows, who knows?None heard a living sound their silence break.In those cold days and nights how many birds,Flittering above the fields and streams all frozen,Watched hungrily the tended flocks and herds —Earth's chosen nourished by earth's wise self-chosen!How many birds suddenly stiffened and diedWith no plaint cried,The starved heart ceasing when the pale sun ceased!And when the new day stepped from the same cold EastThe dead birds lay in the light on the snow-flecked field,Their song and beautiful free winging stilled.I walked under snow-sprinkled hills at night,And starry sprinkled skies deep blue and bright.The keen wind thrust with his knife against the thinBreast of the wood as I went tingling by,And heard a weak cheep-cheep, — no more — the cryOf a bird that crouched the smitten wood within ...But no one heeded that sharp spiritual cryOf the two children in their misery,When in the cold and famished night death's shadeMore terrible the moon's cold shadows made.How was it none could hearThat bodiless crying, birdlike, sharp and clear?I cannot think what they, unanswered, thoughtWhen the night came again and shadows movedAs the moon through the ice-flower stared and roved,And that unyielding Shadow came again.That Shadow came again unseen and caughtThe children as they sat listening in vain,Their starved hearts failing ere the Shadow removed.And when the new morn stepped from the same cold EastThey lay unawakening in the barren light,Their song and their imaginations bright,Their pains and fears and all bewilderment ceased....While the brief sun gaveNew beauty to the death-flower of the frost,And pigeons in the frore air swooped and tossed,And glad eyes were more glad, and grave less grave.There is not pity enough in heaven or earth,There is not love enough, if children dieLike famished birds — oh, less mercifully.A great wrong's done when such as these go forthInto the starless dark, broken and bruised,With mind and sweet affection all confused,And horror closing round them as they go.There is not pity enough!And I have made, children, these verses for you,Lasting a little longer than your breath,Because I have been haunted with your death:So men are driven to things they hate to do.Jesus, forgive us all our happiness,As Thou dost blot out all our miseries.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
There is not anything more wonderfulThan a great people moving towards the deepOf an unguessed and unfeared future; norIs aught so dear of all held dear beforeAs the new passion stirring in their veinsWhen the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.Happy is England now, as never yet!And though the sorrows of the slow days fretHer faithfullest children, grief itself is proud.Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summerThat turns to bitterness turns then to gladnessSince for this England the beloved ones died.Happy is England in the brave that dieFor wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers;Happy in those that give, give, and endureThe pain that never the new years may cure;Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns,Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea.What'er was dear before is dearer now.There's not a bird singing upon his boughBut sings the sweeter in our English ears:There's not a nobleness of heart, hand, brainBut shines the purer; happiest is England nowIn those that fight, and watch with pride and tears.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
A shower of green gems on my apple treeThis first morning of MayHas fallen out of the night, to beHerald of holiday —Bright gems of green that, fallen there,Seem fixed and glowing on the air.Until a flutter of blackbird wingsShakes and makes the boughs alive,And the gems are now no frozen things,But apple-green buds to thriveOn sap of my May garden, how wellThe green September globes will tell.Also my pear tree has its buds,But they are silver-yellow,Like autumn meadows when the floodsAre silver under willow,And here shall long and shapely pearsBe gathered while the autumn wears.And there are sixty daffodilsBeneath my wall....And jealousy it is that killsThis world when allThe spring's behaviour here is spentTo make the world magnificent.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Black in the summer night my Cotswold hillAslant my window sleeps, beneath a skyDeep as the bedded violets that fillMarch woods with dusky passion. As I lieAbed between cool walls I watch the hostOf the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,And drowsily the habit of these mostBeloved of English lands moves in my brain,While silence holds dominion of the dark,Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.I see the valleys in their morning mistWreathed under limpid hills in moving light,Happy with many a yeoman melodist:I see the little roads of twinkling whiteBusy with fieldward teams and market gearOf rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tellThe many-minded changes of the year,Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well;I see the sun persuade the mist away,Till town and stead are shining to the day.I see the wagons move along the rowsOf ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower,I see the lissom husbandman who knowsDeep in his heart the beauty of his power,As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids onThe harvest home. I hear the rickyard fillWith gossip as in generations gone,While wagon follows wagon from the hill.I think how, when our seasons all are sealed,Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field.I see the barns and comely manors plannedBy men who somehow moved in comely thought,Who, with a simple shippon to their hand,As men upon some godlike business wrought;I see the little cottages that keepTheir beauty still where since PlantagenetHave come the shepherds happily to sleep,Finding the loaves and cups of cider set;I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old,Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold.And now the valleys that upon the sunBroke from their opal veils, are veiled again,And the last light upon the wolds is done,And silence falls on flock and fields and men;And black upon the night I watch my hill,And the stars shine, and there an owly wingBrushes the night, and all again is still,And, from this land of worship that I sing,I turn to sleep, content that from my siresI draw the blood of England's midmost shires.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Sometimes the ghosts forgotten goAlong the hill-top way,And with long scythes of silver mowMeadows of moonlit hay,Until the cocks of Cotswold crowThe coming of the day.There's Tony Turkletob who diedWhen he could drink no more,And Uncle Heritage, the prideOf eighteen-twenty-four,And Ebenezer Barleytide,And others half a score.They fold in phantom pens, and ploughFurrows without a share,And one will milk a faery cow,And one will stare and stare,And whistle ghostly tunes that nowAre not sung anywhere.The moon goes down on Oakridge lea,The other world's astir,The Cotswold Farmers silentlyGo back to sepulchre,The sleeping watchdogs wake, and seeNo ghostly harvester.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Play to the tender stops, though cheerily:Gently, my soul, my song: let no one hear:Sing to thyself alone; thine ecstasyRising in silence to the inward earThat is attuned to silence: do not tellA friend, a bird, a star, lest they should say —He danced in woods and meadows all the day,Waving his arms, and cried as evening fell,'O, do not come,' and cried, 'O, come, thou queen,And walk with me unwatched upon the greenUnder the sky.'
Contents/Contents, p. 3
I do not think that skies and meadows areMoral, or that the fixture of a starComes of a quiet spirit, or that treesHave wisdom in their windless silences.Yet these are things invested in my moodWith constancy, and peace, and fortitude,That in my troubled season I can cryUpon the wide composure of the sky,And envy fields, and wish that I might beAs little daunted as a star or tree.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Lord Rameses of Egypt sighedBecause a summer evening passed;And little Ariadne criedThat summer fancy fell at lastTo dust; and young Verona diedWhen beauty's hour was overcast.Theirs was the bitterness we knowBecause the clouds of hawthorn keepSo short a state, and kisses goTo tombs unfathomably deep,While Rameses and RomeoAnd little Ariadne sleep.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Now June walks on the waters,And the cuckoo's last enchantmentPasses from Olton pools.Now dawn comes to my windowBreathing midsummer roses,And scythes are wet with dew.Is it not strange for everThat, bowered in this wonder,Man keeps a jealous heart?...That June and the June waters,And birds and dawn-lit roses,Are gospels in the wind,Fading upon the deserts,Poor pilgrim revelations?...Hist ... over Olton pools!
Contents/Contents, p. 3
What lovely thingsThy hand hath made,The smooth-plumed birdIn its emerald shade,The seed of the grass,The speck of stoneWhich the wayfaring antStirs, and hastes on!Though I should sitBy some tarn in Thy hills,Using its inkAs the spirit willsTo write of Earth's wonders,Its live willed things,Flit would the agesOn soundless wingsEre unto ZMy pen drew nigh,Leviathan told,And the honey-fly:And still would remainMy wit to try —My worn reeds broken,The dark tarn dry,All words forgotten —Thou, Lord, and I.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
I was at peace until you cameAnd set a careless mind aflame;I lived in quiet; cold, content;All longing in safe banishment,Until your ghostly lips and eyesMade wisdom unwise.Naught was in me to tempt your feetTo seek a lodging. Quite forgotLay the sweet solitude we twoIn childhood used to wander through;Time's cold had closed my heart about,And shut you out.Well, and what then?... O vision grave,Take all the little all I have!Strip me of what in voiceless thoughtLife's kept of life, unhoped, unsought! —Reverie and dream that memory mustHide deep in dust!This only I say: Though cold and bareThe haunted house you have chosen to share,Still 'neath its walls the moonbeam goesAnd trembles on the untended rose;Still o'er its broken roof-tree riseThe starry arches of the skies;And 'neath your lightest word shall beThe thunder of an ebbing sea.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
'Who knocks?' 'I, who was beautifulBeyond all dreams to restore,I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither,And knock on the door.''Who speaks?' 'I — once was my speechSweet as the bird's on the air,When echo lurks by the waters to heed;'Tis I speak thee fair.''Dark is the hour!' 'Aye, and cold.''Lone is my house.' 'Ah, but mine?''Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleamed in vain.''Long dead these to thine.'Silence. Still faint on the porchBrake the flames of the stars.In gloom groped a hope-wearied handOver keys, bolts, and bars.A face peered. All the grey nightIn chaos of vacancy shone;Nought but vast sorrow was there —The sweet cheat gone.
Contents/Contents, p. 3
Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee;And thou, poor Innocency;And Love — a lad with broken wing;And Pity, too:The Fool shall sing to you,As Fools will sing.Aye, music hath small sense.And a time's soon told,And Earth is old,And my poor wits are dense;Yet I have secrets, — dark, my dear,To breathe you all: Come near.And lest some hideous listener tells,I'll ring the bells.They're all at war!Yes, yes, their bodies go'Neath burning sun and icy starTo chaunted songs of woe,Dragging cold cannon through a mireOf rain and blood and spouting fire,The new moon glinting hard on eyesWide with insanities!Hush!... I use wordsI hardly know the meaning of;And the mute birdsAre glancing at LoveFrom out their shade of leaf and flower,Trembling at treacheriesWhich even in noonday cower.Heed, heed not what I saidOf frenzied hosts of men,More fools than I,On envy, hatred fed,Who kill, and die —Spake I not plainly, then?Yet Pity whispered, 'Why?'Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go.Mine was not news for child to know,And Death — no ears hath. He hath supped where creepEyeless worms in hush of sleep;Yet, when he smiles, the hand he drawsAthwart his grinning jaws —Faintly the thin bones rattle and ... there, there,Hearken how my bells in the airDrive away care!...Nay, but a dream I hadOf a world all mad.Not simple happy mad like me,Who am mad like an empty sceneOf water and willow tree,Where the wind hath been;But that foul Satan-mad,Who rots in his own head,And counts the dead,Not honest one — and two —But for the ghosts they were,Brave, faithful, true,When, head in air,In Earth's clear green and blueHeaven they did shareWith Beauty who bade them there....There, now! — Death goes —Mayhap I have wearied him.Aye, and the light doth dim,And asleep's the rose,And tired InnocenceIn dreams is hence....Come, Love, my lad,Nodding that drowsy head,'Tis time thy prayers were said.