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The wind has thrownThe boldest of trees down.Now disgraced it lies,Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies,Naked and still.It was the windSo furious and blindThat scourged half England through,Ruining the fairest where most fair it grewBy dell and hill,And springing here,The black clouds dragging near,Against this lonely elmThrust all his strength to maim and overwhelmIn one wild shock.As in the deepSatisfaction of dark sleepThe tree her dream dreamed on,And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrownAnd her head rock.And the wind raughtHer ageing boughs and caughtHer body fast again.Then in one agony of age, grief, pain,She fell and died.Her noble height,Branches that loved the light,Her music and cool shade,Her memories and all of her is deadOn the hill side.But the wind stooped,With madness tired, and droopedIn the soft valley and slept,While morning strangely round the hush'd tree creptAnd called in vain.The birds fed whereThe roots uptorn and bareThrust shameful at the sky;And pewits round the tree would dip and cryWith the old pain.'Ten o'clock's gone!'Said sadly every one.And mothers looking thoughtOf sons and husbands far away that fought: —And looked again.
Footnote 1:
Ten o'clock
is the name of a tall tree that crowned the eastern Cotswolds.
return to footnote mark
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In the hush of early evenThe clouds came flocking over,Till the last wind fell from heavenAnd no bird cried.Darkly the clouds were flocking,Shadows moved and deepened,Then paused; the poplar's rockingCeased; the light hung stillLike a painted thing, and deadly.Then from the cloud's side flickeredSharp lightning, thrusting madlyAt the cowering fields.Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,Down the hill slow thunder trembledDay in her cave grew frightened,Crept away, and died.
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How near I walked to Love,How long, I cannot tell.I was like the Alde that flowsQuietly through green level lands,So quietly, it knowsTheir shape, their greenness and their shadows well;And then undreamingly for miles it goesAnd silently, beside the sea.Seamews circle over,The winter wildfowl wings,Long and green the grasses waveBetween the river and the sea.The sea's cry, wild or grave,From bank to low bank of the river rings;But the uncertain river though it craveThe sea, knows not the sea.Was that indeed salt wind?Came that noise from fallingWild waters on a stony shore?Oh, what is this new troubling tideOf eager waves that pourAround and over, leaping, parting, recalling?...How near I moved (as day to same day wore)And silently, beside the sea!
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Thy hand my hand,Thine eyes my eyes,All of theeCaught and confused with me:My hand thy hand,My eyes thine eyes,All of meSunken and discovered anew in thee....No: stillA foreign mind,A thoughtBy other yet uncaught;A secret willStrange as the wind:The heart of theeBewildering with strange fire the heart in me.Hand touches hand,Eye to eye beckons,But who shall guessAnother's loneliness?Though hand grasp hand,Though the eye quickens,Still lone as nightRemain thy spirit and mine, past touch and sight.
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The earth is purple in the evening light,The grass is graver green.The gold among the meadows darker glows,In the quieted air the blackbird sings more loud.The sky has lost its rose —Nothing more than this candle now shines bright.Were there but natural night, how easy wereThe putting-by of senseAt the day's end, and if no heavier airCame o'er the mind in a thick-falling cloud.But now there is no lightWithin; and to this innocent night how dark my night!
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The roaming sheep, forbidden to roam far,Were stayed within the shadow of his eye.The sheep-dog on that unseen shadow's edgeMoved, halted, barked, while the tall shepherd stoodUnmoving, leaned upon a sarsen stone,Looking at the rain that curtained the bare hillsAnd drew the smoking curtain near and near! —Tawny, bush-faced, with cloak and staff, and flaskAnd bright brass-ribb'd umbrella, standing stoneAgainst the veinless, senseless sarsen stone.The Roman Road hard by, the green Ridge Way,Not older seemed, nor calmer the long barrowsOf bones and memories of ancient daysThan the tall shepherd with his craft of daysOlder than Roman or the oldest caveman,When, in the generation of all living,Sheep and kine flocked in the Aryan valley andThe first herd with his voice and skill of waterFleetest of foot, led them into green pastures,From perished pastures to new green. I sawThe herdsmen everywhere about the world,And herdsmen of all time, fierce, lonely, wise,Herds of Arabia and SyriaAnd Thessaly, and longer-winter'd climes;And this lone herd, ages before England was,Pelt-clad, and armed with flint-tipped ashen sap,Watching his flocks, and those far flocks of starsSlow moving as the heavenly shepherd willedAnd at dawn shut into the sunny fold.
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As a blue-necked mallard alighting in a poolAmong marsh-marigolds and splashing wetGreen leaves and yellow blooms, like jewels setIn bright, black mud, with clear drops crystal-cool,Bringing keen savours of the sea and stirOf windy spaces where wild sunsets flameTo that dark inland dyke, the thought of herInto my brooding stagnant being came.And all my senses quickened into life,Tingling and glittering, and the salt and fireSang through my singing blood in eager strifeUntil through crystal airs we seemed to beSoaring together, one fleet-winged desireOf windy sunsets and the wandering sea.
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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.
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In smoky lamplight of a Smyrna Café,He saw them, seven solemn negroes dancing,With faces rapt and out-thrust bellies prancingIn a slow solemn ceremonial cakewalk,Dancing and prancing to the sombre tom-tomThumped by a crookbacked grizzled negro squatting.And as he watched ... within the steamy twilightOf swampy forest in rank greenness rotting,That sombre tom-tom at his heartstrings strummingSet all his sinews twitching, and a singingOf cold fire through his blood — and he was dancingAmong his fellows in the dank green twilightWith naked, oiled, bronze-gleaming bodies swingingIn a rapt holy everlasting cakewalkFor evermore in slow procession prancing.
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Black spars of driftwood burn to peacock flames,Sea-emeralds and sea-purples and sea-blues,And all the innumerable ever-changing huesThat haunt the changeless deeps but have no names,Flicker and spire in our enchanted sight:And as we gaze, the unsearchable mystery,The unfathomed cold salt magic of the sea,Shines clear before us in the quiet night.We know the secret that Ulysses sought,That moonstruck mariners since time beganSnatched at a drowning hazard — -strangely broughtTo our homekeeping hearts in drifting sparsWe chanced to kindle under the cold stars —The secret in the ocean-heart of man.
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Only the footprints of the partridge runOver the billowy drifts on the mountain-side;And now on level wings the brown birds glideFollowing the snowy curves, and in the sunBright birds of gold above the stainless whiteThey move, and as the pale blue shadows move,With them my heart glides on in golden flightOver the hills of quiet to my love.Storm-shaken, racked with terror through the longTempestuous night, in the quiet blue of mornLove drinks the crystal airs, and peace newbornWithin his troubled heart, on wings aglowSoars into rapture, as from the quiet snowThe golden birds; and out of silence, song.
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Still bathed in its moonlight slumber, the little white house by the cedarStands silent against the red dawn;And nothing I know of who sleeps there, to the travail of day yet unwakened,Behind the blue curtains undrawn:But I dream as we march down the roadway, ringing loud and white-rimed in the moonlight,Of a little dark house on a hillWherein when the battle is over, to the rapture of day yet unwakened,We shall slumber as dreamless and still.
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Strawberries that in gardens growAre plump and juicy fine,But sweeter far as wise men knowSpring from the woodland vine.No need for bowl or silver spoon,Sugar or spice or cream,Has the wild berry plucked in JuneBeside the trickling stream.One such to melt at the tongue's root,Confounding taste with scent,Beats a full peck of garden fruit:Which points my argument.May sudden justice overtakeAnd snap the froward pen,That old and palsied poets shakeAgainst the minds of men;Blasphemers trusting to hold caughtIn far-flung webs of inkThe utmost ends of human thought,Till nothing's left to think.But may the gift of heavenly peaceAnd glory for all timeKeep the boy Tom who tending geeseFirst made the nursery rhyme.By the brookside one August day,Using the sun for clock,Tom whiled the languid hours awayBeside his scattering flock,Carving with a sharp pointed stoneOn a broad slab of slateThe famous lives of Jumping Joan,Dan Fox and Greedy Kate;Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds,Spain, Scotland, Babylon,That sister Kate might learn the wordsTo tell to Toddling John.But Kate, who could not stay contentTo learn her lesson pat,New beauty to the rough lines lentBy changing this or that;And she herself set fresh things downIn corners of her slate,Of lambs and lanes and London Town.God's blessing fall on Kate!The baby loved the simple sound,With jolly glee he shook,And soon the lines grew smooth and roundLike pebbles in Tom's brook,From mouth to mouth told and retoldBy children sprawled at easeBefore the fire in winter's cold,In June beneath tall trees;Till though long lost are stone and slate,Though the brook no more runs,And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate,Their sons and their sons' sons;Yet, as when Time with stealthy treadLays the rich garden waste,The woodland berry ripe and redFails not in scent or taste,So these same rhymes shall still be toldTo children yet unborn,While false philosophy growing oldFades and is killed by scorn.
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Mother
:
Alice, dear, what ails you,Dazed and white and shaken?Has the chill night numbed you?Is it fright you have taken?
Alice
:
Mother I am very well,I felt never better;Mother, do not hold me so,Let me write my letter.
Mother
:
Sweet, my dear, what ails you?
Alice
:
No, but I am well.The night was cold and frosty,There's no more to tell.
Mother
:
Ay, the night was frosty,Coldly gaped the moon,Yet the birds seemed twitteringThrough green boughs of June.Soft and thick the snow lay,Stars danced in the sky.Not all the lambs of May-daySkip so bold and high.Your feet were dancing, Alice,Seemed to dance on air,You looked a ghost or angelIn the starlight there.Your eyes were frosted starlight,Your heart, fire, and snow.Who was it said 'I love you?'
Alice
:
Mother, let me go!
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Mary
:
Johnny, sweetheart, can you be trueTo all those famous vows you've made?Will you love me as I love youUntil we both in earth are laid?Or shall the old wives nod and say'His love was only for a day,The mood goes by,His fancies fly,And Mary's left to sigh.'
Johnny
:
Mary, alas, you've hit the truth,And I with grief can but admitHot-blooded haste controls my youth,My idle fancies veer and flitFrom flower to flower, from tree to tree,And when the moment catches meOh, love goes by,Away I fly,And leave my girl to sigh.
Mary
:
Could you but now foretell the day,Johnny, when this sad thing must be,When light and gay you'll turn awayAnd laugh and break the heart in me?For like a nut for true love's sakeMy empty heart shall crack and break,When fancies flyAnd love goes byAnd Mary's left to die.
Johnny
:
When the sun turns against the clock,When Avon waters upward flow,When eggs are laid by barn-door cock,When dusty hens do strut and crow,When up is down, when left is right,Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight,With careless eyeAway I'll flyAnd Mary here shall die.
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Mother:
What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary:
Which cupboard, mother dear?
Mother:
The cupboard of red mahoganyWith handles shining clear.
Mary:
That cupboard, dearest mother,With shining crystal handles?There's nought inside but rags and jagsAnd yellow tallow candles.
Mother:
What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary:
Which cupboard, mother mine?
Mother:
That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,The silver corners shine.
Mary:
There's nothing there inside, mother,But wool and thread and flax,And bits of faded silk and velvetAnd candles of white wax.
Mother:
What's in that cupboard, Mary?And this time tell me true.
Mary:
White clothes for an unborn baby, mother..But what's the truth to you?
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Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!The other birds woke all around;Rising with toot and howl they stirredTheir plumage, broke the trembling sound,They craned their necks, they fluttered wings,'While we are silent no one sings,And while we sing you hush your throat,Or tune your melody to our note.'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!The screams and hootings rose again:They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirredTheir noisy plumage; small but plainThe lonely hidden singer madeA well of grief within the glade.'Whist, silly fool, be off,' they shout,'Or we'll come pluck your feathers out.'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!Slight and small the lovely cryCame trickling down, but no one heard;Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie,Jarred horrid notes, the jangling jayRipped the fine threads of song away;For why should peeping chick aspireTo challenge their loud woodland choir?Cried it so sweet, that unseen bird?Lovelier could no music be,Clearer than water, soft as curd,Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree.How sang the others all around?Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound,WithPretty Poll, Tuwit-tuwooPeewit, Caw Caw, Cuckoo-Cuckoo.How went the song, how looked the bird?If I could tell, if I could showWith one quick phrase, one lightning word,I'd learn you more than poets know;For poets, could they only catchOf that forgotten tune one snatch,Would build it up in song or sonnet,And found their whole life's fame upon it.
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This is a wild land, country of my choice,With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare.Seldom in these acres is heard any voiceBut voice of cold water that runs here and thereThrough rocks and lank heather growing without care.No mice in the heath run nor no birds cryFor fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky.He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings,He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye,He catches the trembling of small hidden things,He tears them in pieces dropping from the sky:Tenderness and pity the land will deny,Where life is but nourished from water and rock,A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock.Time has never journeyed to this lost land,Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date,The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand,Careless if the season be early or late.The skies wander overhead, now blue now slate:Winter would be known by his cold cutting snowIf June did not borrow his armour also.Yet this is my country beloved by me best,The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood,Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest,Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no bloodBold immortal country whose hill-tops have stoodStrongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go,Terror for fat burghers in far plains below.
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Since this is the last night I keep you home,Come, I will consecrate you for the journey.Rather I had you would not go. Nay come,I will not again reproach you. Lie backAnd let me love you a long time ere you go.For you are sullen-hearted still, and lackThe will to love me. But even soI will set a seal upon you from my lip,Will set a guard of honour at each door,Seal up each channel out of which might slipYour love for me.I kiss your mouth. Ah, love,Could I but seal its ruddy, shining springOf passion, parch it up, destroy, removeIts softly-stirring, crimson welling-upOf kisses! Oh, help me, God! Here at the sourceI'd lie for ever drinking and drawing inYour fountains, as heaven drinks from out their courseThe floods.I close your ears with kissesAnd seal your nostrils; and round your neck you'll wear —Nay, let me work — a delicate chain of kisses.Like beads they go around, and not one missesTo touch its fellow on either side.And thereFull mid-between the champaign of your breastI place a great and burning seal of loveLike a dark rose, a mystery of restOn the slow bubbling of your rhythmic heart.Nay, I persist, and very faith shall keepYou integral to me. Each door, each mystic portOf egress from you I will seal and steepIn perfect chrism.Now it is done. The mortWill sound in heaven before it is undone.But let me finish what I have begunAnd shirt you now invulnerable in the mailOf iron kisses, kisses linked like steel.Put greaves upon your thighs and knees, and frailWebbing of steel on your feet. So you shall feelEnsheathed invulnerable with me, with sevenGreat seals upon your outgoings, and wovenChain of my mystic will wrapped perfectlyUpon you, wrapped in indomitable me.
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They are the angels of that watery world,With so much knowledge that they just aspireTo move themselves on golden fins,Or fill their paradise with fireBy darting suddenly from end to end.Glowing a thousand centuries behindIn pools half-recollected of the mind,Their large eyes stare and stare, but do not seeBeyond those curtains of Eternity.When twilight flows into the roomAnd air becomes like water, you can feelTheir movements growing larger in the gloom,And you are ledBackward to where they live beyond the dead.But in the morning, when the seven raysOf London sunlight one by one incline,They glide to meet them, and their gulping lipsSuck the light in, so they are caught and playedLike salmon on a heavenly fishing line.* * * *Ghosts on a twilight floor,Moving about behind their watery door,Breathing and yet not breathing day and night,They give the house some gleam of faint delight.