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When I had sight, great glamour wasIn myriad lamps of coloured glass:Old lamps for new I never sold;For old were new, and new were old.And Chinese lanterns, paper globes,Were Dragon Gods in tissue robesThat stood on air with squat, round shoon,Beneath the thin, receded Moon.
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Dusk gathers. On the seaward hedgeThe wild hops, hanging bright,Gleam as a foam-spray flung on sedgeFrom a sea of golden light.A ship lies heavy on the sandsAbove the warped, wan tide,Whose waves thrust ineffectual handsBeneath its murmuring side.They cannot lift the monstrous hulk,Nor break the ghostly spell;The ship lies dreaming, all her bulkRacked on a shoal of hell.I hear the sullen timbers creak,With echoings deep and numb;No other sound: nor groan nor shriek;For agony is dumb!But at the seams, in every crack,A beaded sweat appears:The soul that's stretched on such a rackCan shed no other tears!
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We may fill the daytime with friendshipAnd laughter and song;But however the laughter may tripAnd the words break in songOn a loved one's lip;And however gaily the road may bendInto the sky,It must come to this in the end,That we standAnd watch the last friendTurn with a half-felt sighAnd a wave of the hand;And silence is over the day,Shadows fall,And our happiness crumbles awayLike a wallThat nobody cares for,That falls stone by stoneTill its grandeur is rubble once more,And we are alone.
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Word through the world wentOn Christmas morn, —'Tidings! behold, aTownsman is born!'Then in their councilSmiled the high lords:'Sword for world-conquest'Mid a world's swords.Need shall our armiesHave of each birth,In that last battleWins us the earth.'Still were the priesthood,Singing the Mass:'Lo, is our creed comeTruly to pass?Blesséd and brokenCrumbs that we give,Say! say, O chalice,Can a creed live?Then to lord Shakespeare,Brooding alone,While in a visionLear was shown,While his just loathingHung over men,Lo, from the darknessCame Imogen.Then said a free maid,Heart against mine, —Take me, lord governor,Who am all thine!Thou that hast blessed meWith a new light,Ah, is thy handmaidFair in thy sight?'Then said our Lady, —'Clean is the hut,Filled are the platters,And the door shut.Sit, O son Jesus!Sit thou, sweet friend!Poor folk have supperAnd their woes end.''Now,' said our Father,'All things are won:Welcome, O Saviour!Welcome, O Son!More than creationLives now again,God hath borne GodheadNowise in vain.'Word went through SarrasOn Easter morn, —'Tidings! behold aTownsman is born!'
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The footfalls of the parting MyrmidonsAnd counter-cries of leaguer and of townAre hushed behind her as the silks drop down;Alone she stands, and wonderingly consHeads circleted with gold or helmed with bronze;Higher her eyes from crown to loftier crownCreep, till they fall, nigh-blasted, at the frownOf Argos, throned in his pavilionsAnd mid his captains wrathfully awareHow the plague smites the host, how by the seaBeyond the ships, with vengeful prayer and oath,Rages the young Achilles, of whose wrathInnocent, ignorant, a captive, sheSees but the dropped staff on the voided chair.
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(
This list includes poetical works only
).
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