The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNew PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: New PoemsAuthor: Sir Charles G. D. RobertsRelease date: July 10, 2019 [eBook #59897]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: New PoemsAuthor: Sir Charles G. D. RobertsRelease date: July 10, 2019 [eBook #59897]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: New Poems
Author: Sir Charles G. D. Roberts
Author: Sir Charles G. D. Roberts
Release date: July 10, 2019 [eBook #59897]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW POEMS ***
TO SHAKESPEARE, IN 1916"THE UNKNOWN CITY"O EARTH, SUFFICING ALL OUR NEEDSMONITIONON THE ROADHILL TOP SONGS:I.HERE ON THE HILLII.WHEN THE LIGHTS COME OUTIN THE VALLEY OF LUCHONTHE GOOD EARTHWAYFARER OF EARTHUNDER THE PILLARS OF THE SKYALL NIGHT THE LONE CICADAEASTWARD BOUNDWHEN IN THE ROWAN TREEWITH APRIL HEREFROM THE HIGH WINDOW OF YOUR ROOMTHE HOUR OF MOST DESIRETHE FLOWERWHEN THE CLOUD COMES DOWN THE MOUNTAINTHE STREAMTHE SUMMONSTHE PLACE OF HIS RESTGOING OVERCAMBRAI AND MARNE
With what white wrath must turn thy bones,What stern amazement flame thy dust,To feel so near this England's heartThe outrage of the assassin's thrust!
How must thou burn to have enduredThe acclaim of these whose fame uncleanReeks from the "Lusitania's" slain,Stinks from the orgies of Malines!
But surely, too, thou art consoled(Who knew'st thy stalwart breed so well)To see us rise from sloth, and go,Plain and unbragging, through this hell.
And surely, too, thou art assured.Hark how that grim and gathering beatDraws upwards from the ends of earth,—The tramp, tramp, of thy kinsmen's feet.
There lies a city inaccessible,Where the dead dreamers dwell.
Abrupt and blue, with many a high ravineAnd soaring bridge half seen.With many an iris cloud that comes and goesOver the ancient snows,The imminent hills environ it, and holdIts portals from of old,That grief invade not, weariness, nor war,Nor anguish evermore.
White-walled and jettied on the peacock tide,With domes and towers enskied,Its battlements and balconies one sheenOf ever-living green,It hears the happy dreamers turning homeSlow-oared across the foam.
Cool are its streets with waters musicalAnd fountains' shadowy fall.With orange and anemone and rose,And every flower that blowsOf magic scent or unimagined dye,Its gardens shine and sigh.Its chambers, memoried with old romanceAnd faëry circumstance,—From any window love may lean some timeFor love that dares to climb.
This is that city babe and seer divinedWith pure, believing mind.This is the home of unachieved emprize.Here, here the visioned eyesOf them that dream past any power to do,Wake to the dream come true.Here the high failure, not the level fame,Attests the spirit's aim.Here is fulfilled each hope that soared and soughtBeyond the bournes of thought.
The obdurate marble yields; the canvas glows;Perfect the column grows;The chorded cadence art could ne'er attainCrowns the imperfect strain;And the great song that seemed to die unsungTriumphs upon the tongue.
O earth, sufficing all our needs, O youWith room for body and for spirit too,How patient while your children vex their soulsDevising alien heavens beyond your blue!
Dear dwelling of the immortal and unseen,How obstinate in my blindness have I been,Not comprehending what your tender calls,Veiled promises and re-assurance, mean.
Not far and cold the way that they have goneWho through your sundering darkness have withdrawn;Almost within our hand-reach they remainWho pass beyond the sequence of the dawn.
Not far and strange the Heaven, but very near,Your children's hearts unknowingly hold dear.At times we almost catch the door swung wide.And unforgotten voice almost we hear,
I am the heir of Heaven—and you are just.You, you alone I know—and you I trust.I have sought God beyond his farthest star—But here I find Him, in your quickening dust.
A faint wind, blowing from World's End,Made strange the city street.A strange sound mingled in the fallOf the familiar feet.
Something unseen whirled with the leavesTo tap on door and sill.Something unknown went whispering byEven when the wind was still.
And men looked up with startled eyesAnd hurried on their way,As if they had been called, and toldHow brief their day.
Ever just over the top of the next brown riseI expect some wonderful thing to flatter my eyes."What's yonder?" I ask of the first wayfarer I meet."Nothing!" he answers, and looks at my travel-worn feet.
"Only more hills and more hills, like the many you've passed,With rough country between, and a poor enough inn at the last."But already I am a-move, for I see he is blind,And I hate that old grumble I've listened to time out of mind.
I've tramped it too long not to know there is truth in it still,That lure of the turn of the road, of the crest of the hill.So I breast me the rise with full hope, well assured I shall seeSome new prospect of joy, some brave venture a tip-toe for me.
For I have come far, and confronted the calm and the strife.I have fared wide, and bit deep in the apple of life.It is sweet at the rind, but oh, sweeter still at the core;And whatever be gained, yet the reach of the morrow is more.
At the crest of the hill I shall hail the new summits to climb.The demand of my vision shall beggar the largess of time.For I know that the higher I press, the wider I view,The more's to be ventured and visioned, in worlds that are new.
So when my feet, failing, shall stumble in ultimate dark,And faint eyes no more the high lift of the pathway shall mark,There under the dew I'll lie down with my dreams, for I knowWhat bright hill-tops the morning will show me, all red in the glow.
Here on the hillAt last the soul sees clear.Desire being stillThe High Unseen appear.The thin grass bendsOne way, and hushed attendsUnknown and gracious ends.Where the sheep's pasturing feetHave cleft the sodsThe mystic light lies sweet;The very clods,In purpling hues elate,Thrill to their fate;The high rock-hollows wait,Expecting gods.
When the lights come out in the cottagesAlong the shores at eve,And across the darkening waterThe last pale shadows leave;
And up from the rock-ridged pasture slopesThe sheep-bell tinklings steal,And the folds are shut, and the shepherdsTurn to their quiet meal;
And even here, on the unfenced height,No journeying wind goes by,But the earth-sweet smells, and the home-sweet sounds,Mount, like prayer, to the sky;
Then from the door of my opened heartOld blindness and pride are driven,Till I know how high is the humble,The dear earth how close to heaven.
Day long, and night long,From the soaring peaks and the snow,Down through the valley villagesThe cold white waters flow.
Quiet are the villages;And very quiet the cloudAt rest on the breast of the mountain;But the falling waves are loud
Through the little, clustering cottages,Through the little, climbing fields,Where every sunburnt vineyardIts patch of purple yields.
High hung, a steel-bright scimitar,The crooked glacier gleams.The white church dreams in the valleyWhere the red oleander dreams.
And every wonder of beautyComes, as a dream comes, true,Where the sun drips rose from the ledgesAnd the moon by the peak swims blue.
The smell of burning weedsUpon the twilight air;The piping of the frogsFrom meadows wet and bare;
A presence in the wood,And in my blood a stir;In all the ardent earthNo failure or demur.
O spring wind, sweet with loveAnd tender with desire,Pour into veins of mineYour pure, impassioned fire.
O waters running freeWith full, exultant song,Give me, for outworn dream,Life that is clean and strong.
O good Earth, warm with youth,My childhood heart renew.Make me elate, sincere,Simple and glad, as you.
O springing things of green,O waiting things of bloom,O winging things of air,Your lordship now resume.
Up, Heart of mine,Thou wayfarer of earth!Of seed divine,Be mindful of thy birth.Though the flesh faintThrough long-endured constraintOf nights and days,Lift up thy praiseTo life, that set thee in such strenuous ways,And left thee notTo drowse and rotIn some thick-perfumed and luxurious plot.
Strong, strong is earthWith vigour for thy feet,To make thy wayfaringTireless and fleet.And good is earth,—But earth not all thy good,O thou with seed of sunsAnd star-fire in thy blood!
And though thou feelThe slow clog of the hoursLeaden upon thy heel,Put forth thy powers.Thine the deep sky,The unpreëmpted blue,The haste of storm,The hush of dew.Thine, thine the freeExalt of star and tree,The reinless runOf wind and sun,The vagrance of the sea.
Under the pillars of the skyI played at life, I knew not why.
The grave recurrence of the dayWas matter of my trivial play.
The solemn stars, the sacred night,I took for toys of my delight,
Till now, with startled eyes, I seeThe portents of Eternity.
All night the lone cicadaKept shrilling through the rain,A voice of joy undauntedBy unforgotten pain.
Down from the tossing branchesRang out the high refrain,By tumult undisheartened,By storm assailed in vain.
To looming vasts of mountain,To shadowy deeps of plainThe ephemeral, brave defianceAdventured not in vain,—
Till to my faltering spirit,And to my weary brain,From loss and fear and failureMy joy returned again.
We mount the arc of ocean's roundTo meet the splendours of the sun;Then downward rush into the darkWhen the blue, spacious day is done.
The slow, eternal drift of starsDraws over us until the dawn.Then the grey steep we mount once more,And night is down the void withdrawn.
Space, and interminable hours,And moons that rise, and sweep, and fall,—On-swinging earth, and orbéd sea,—And voyaging souls more vast than all!
When in the rowan treeThe coloured light fades slowly,And the quiet dusk,All lilied, breathes of you,Then, Heart's Content,I feel your hair enfolding me,And tender comes the dark,Bringing me—you.
And when across the seaThe rose-dawn opens slowly,And the gold breaks, and the blue,All glad of you,Then, Heart's Reward,Red, red is your mouth for me,And life to me means love,And love means—you.
With April here,And first thin green on the awakening bough,What wonderful things and dear,My tired heart to cheer,At last appear!Colours of dream afloat on cloud and tree,So far, so clear,A spell, a mystery;And joys that thrill and sing,New come on mating wing,The wistfulness and ardour of the Spring,—And Thou!
From the high window of your room,Above the roofs, and streets, and cries,Lying awake and still, I watchThe wonder of the dawn arise.
Slow tips the world's deliberate rim,Descending to the baths of day:Up floats the pure, ethereal tideAnd floods the outworn dark away.
The city's sprawled, uneasy bulkIllumines slowly in my sight.The crowded roofs, the common walls,The grey streets, melt in mystic light.
It passes. Then, with longing soreFor that veiled light of paradise,I turn my face,—and find it inThe wonder of your waking eyes.
It is not in the dayThat I desire you most,Turning to seek your smileFor solace or for joy.
Nor is it in the dark,When I toss restlessly,Groping to find your face,Half waking, half in dream.
It is not while I work,—When, to endear success,Or rob defeat of pain,I weary for your hands.
Nor while from work I rest,And rest is all unrestFor lack of your dear voice,Your laughter, and your lips.
But every hour it isThat I desire you most,—Need you in all my lifeAnd every breath I breathe.
I am the man who found a flower,A blossom blown upon the wind,More radiant than the sunrise rose,More sweet than lotus-airs of Ind.
I clutched the flower, and on my heartI crushed its petals, red and burning.O ecstasy of life new-born!O youth returned, the unreturning!
I am the man who dared the GodsAnd under their thunderbolts lay blest,Because I found the flower, and wore itOne wild hour upon my breast.
When the cloud comes down the mountain,And the rain is loud on the leaves,And the slim flies gather for shelterUnder my cabin eaves,—
Then my heart goes out to earth,With the swollen brook runs free,Drinks life with the drenched brown roots,And climbs with the sap in the tree.
I know a streamThan which no lovelier flows.Its banks a-gleamWith yarrow and wild rose,Singing it goesAnd shining through my dream.
Its waters glideBeneath the basking noon,A magic tideThat keeps perpetual June.
There the light sleepsUnstirred by any storm;The wild mouse creepsThrough tall weeds hushed and warm;And the shy snipe,Alighting unafraid;With sudden pipeAwakes the dreaming shade.
So long ago!Still, still my memory hearsIts silver flowAcross the sundering years,—Its roses glow,Ah, through what longing tears!
Deeps of the wind-torn west,Flaming and desolate,Upsprings my soul from his restWith your banners at the gate.
'Neath this o'ermastering skyHow could the heart lie still,Or the sluggish willContent in the old chains lie,When over the lonely hillYour torn wild scarlets cry?
Up, Soul, and outInto the deeps alone,To the long peal and the shoutOf those trumpets blown and blown.
The green marsh-mallowsAre over him.Along the shallowsThe pale lights swim.
Wide air, washed grasses,And waveless stream;And over him passesThe drift of dream;—
The pearl-hue downOf the poplar seed;The elm-flower brown;And the sway of the reed;
The blue moth, wingedWith a flake of sky;The bee, gold ringed;And the dragon fly.
Lightly the rushes,Lean to his breast;A bird's wing brushesThe place of his rest.
The far-flown swallow,The gold-finch flame,—They come, they followThe paths he came.
'Tis the land of No CareWhere now he lies,Fulfilled the prayerOf his weary eyes:
And while around himThe kind grass creeps,Where peace hath found himHow sound he sleeps.
Well to his slumberAttends the year:Soft rains without numberSoft noons, blue clear,
With nights of balm,And the dark, sweet hoursBrooding with calm,Pregnant with flowers.
See how she speeds them,Each childlike bloom,And softly leads themTo tend his tomb!—
The white thorn nearsAs the cowslip goes;Then the iris appears;And then, the rose.
A girl's voice in the night troubled my heart.Across the roar of the guns, the crash of the shells,Low and soft as a sigh, clearly I heard it.
Where was the broken parapet, crumbling about me?Where my shadowy comrades, crouching expectant?A girl's voice in the dark troubled my heart.
A dream was the ooze of the trench, the wet clay slipping,A dream the sudden out-flare of the wide-flung Verys.I saw but a garden of lilacs, a-flower in the dusk.
What was the sergeant saying?—I passed it along.—DidIpass it along? I was breathing the breath of the lilacs.For a girl's voice in the night troubled my heart.
Over! How the mud sucks! Vomits red the barrage.But I am far off in the hush of a garden of lilacs.For a girl's voice in the night troubled my heart.Tender and soft as a sigh, clearly I heard it.
Before our trenches at CambraiWe saw their columns cringe away.We saw their masses melt and reelBefore our line of leaping steel.
A handful to their storming hordesWe scourged them with the scourge of swords,And still, the more we slew, the moreCame up for every slain a score.
Between the hedges and the townTheir cursing squadrons we rode down.To stay them we outpoured our bloodBetween the beetfields and the wood.
In that red hell of shrieking shellUnfaltering our gunners fell.They fell, or ere that day was done,Beside the last unshattered gun.
But still we held them, like a wallOn which the breakers vainly fall—Till came the word, and we obeyed,Reluctant, bleeding, undismayed.
Our feet, astonished, learned retreat,Our souls rejected still defeat.Unbroken still, a lion at bay,We drew back grimly from Cambrai.
In blood and sweat, with slaughter spent,They thought us beaten as we went;Till suddenly we turned and smoteThe shout of triumph in their throat.
At last, at last we turned and stood—And Marne's fair water ran with blood.We stood by trench and steel and gun,For now the indignant flight was done.
We ploughed their shaken ranks with fire.We trod their masses into mire.Our sabres drove through their retreat,As drives the whirlwind through young wheat.
At last, at last we flung them backAlong their drenched and smoking track.We hurled them back, in blood and flame,The reeking ways by which they came.
By cumbered road and desperate ford,How fled their shamed and harassed horde!Shout, Sons of Freemen, for the dayWhen Marne so well avenged Cambrai!