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(Yet much is merry in men’s moods diverse.I am no mystic, I, that I should preachWith lips string-drawn as tight as miser’s purse,Dispense thin wisdom by my scrannel speech;No, none, thank God, can more have loved good laughter,Beauty, well-being, perilous lottery,Or paid the reckoning that followed afterWith smaller grudge to justice than did I.)

(Yet much is merry in men’s moods diverse.I am no mystic, I, that I should preachWith lips string-drawn as tight as miser’s purse,Dispense thin wisdom by my scrannel speech;

No, none, thank God, can more have loved good laughter,Beauty, well-being, perilous lottery,Or paid the reckoning that followed afterWith smaller grudge to justice than did I.)

Sometimes I met with one, and would have cried,“Pilgrim! by the proud manner of your goingClearly you ask no alms when ills betide.Though of your journey’s end I have no knowing,Travel a little distance by my side.Lonely am I; lonely; I have not spokenClosely with friend this many a questing day;Body, my beast of burden, stumbles broken,Rowelled by desperate spur along the way.Pilgrim, if lonely spirit cross anotherAnd pride in me salute in you your pride,Shall we not either recognise a brother?”But reticence held me, and I passed him wide.

But reticence held me, and I passed him wide.

And sometimes met with those who offered meComfort upholstered like a harlot’s bedWith winks for ribbons, shrugs to swansdown wed,And squalor under frowsy frippery.This draggletail of passion should be mine,This slattern bastard born of spleen and lust,Convention’s shrewd Bacchante, if I mustYield to the senses’ feverish anodyne!But I would turn, and, half-defeated, failing,(How near defeat, they never guessed or knew,)Load my last breath with scorn, and cry “You?You?”And cry, at bay before their vanguard, railing,

And sometimes met with those who offered meComfort upholstered like a harlot’s bedWith winks for ribbons, shrugs to swansdown wed,And squalor under frowsy frippery.

This draggletail of passion should be mine,This slattern bastard born of spleen and lust,Convention’s shrewd Bacchante, if I mustYield to the senses’ feverish anodyne!

But I would turn, and, half-defeated, failing,(How near defeat, they never guessed or knew,)Load my last breath with scorn, and cry “You?You?”And cry, at bay before their vanguard, railing,

“What!youhad vision? mountains, comets, seas,Wild storm, wild beauty, wild embattled flames,You harnessed to your tongues with hackneyed ease.Tamers of splendour! those familiar namesTroubled you not, less kingly, more remoteThan gain and ease, your god, your man-made grail.Not nature’s giants, not cosmic menace smoteYour souls with awe, or thrust you down the scale.No, nor the thoughts your thoughts could not embrace,A God’s intention, void, sublime, or strange,The birth or death of time, the bourn of space,Nor unimaginable colours’ range,Nor the continuous eastward roll of earth,Half, in the energy of day aware;Half, where the sweeping shadow curves its girth,Within night’s darkened temple cowled in prayer.No deep misgivings, no mysterious faith;Your very god was passed from hand to hand;You had no inkling of the nobler breathBlown on the spark you could not understand.

No, nor the thoughts your thoughts could not embrace,A God’s intention, void, sublime, or strange,The birth or death of time, the bourn of space,Nor unimaginable colours’ range,

Nor the continuous eastward roll of earth,Half, in the energy of day aware;Half, where the sweeping shadow curves its girth,Within night’s darkened temple cowled in prayer.

No deep misgivings, no mysterious faith;Your very god was passed from hand to hand;You had no inkling of the nobler breathBlown on the spark you could not understand.

“The little spark within the heart of man.How should you know the desperate clutch of fingersThat feel the moment slipping, feel the dearInfrequent moment slipping as it lingers,The flaming hour ironic in its fleetness,The rush of vision swift beyond belief?Near, as the dead to the incredulous living;So dead, the heart is rigid with its grief.What would you offer me as compensationAfter your sloth had blanketed my fire?Your deepest peace, satiety Lethean;Your aim, diversion; and your spur, desire.Tragic, or merry, be the body’s passion,Ordained or gay; not, not the sordid mean!Your soul’s a skinny waif, that was not drivenTo sin, but sought small solaces unclean.You struck no fire from flint; you neither knewFasting nor feasting; vigour, nor a kiss;The silk pavilioned bed of Aphrodite,Or woodland hardihood of Artemis.

“The little spark within the heart of man.How should you know the desperate clutch of fingersThat feel the moment slipping, feel the dearInfrequent moment slipping as it lingers,

The flaming hour ironic in its fleetness,The rush of vision swift beyond belief?Near, as the dead to the incredulous living;So dead, the heart is rigid with its grief.

What would you offer me as compensationAfter your sloth had blanketed my fire?Your deepest peace, satiety Lethean;Your aim, diversion; and your spur, desire.

Tragic, or merry, be the body’s passion,Ordained or gay; not, not the sordid mean!Your soul’s a skinny waif, that was not drivenTo sin, but sought small solaces unclean.

You struck no fire from flint; you neither knewFasting nor feasting; vigour, nor a kiss;The silk pavilioned bed of Aphrodite,Or woodland hardihood of Artemis.

“Ashamed of tolerance, but more ashamedOf hot intolerance; who hold the snareLess perilous when fraudulently named;Forgetting folly, while remembering care;Who shun the sinner with averted eyes;Mistrust the impulse, danger in its breath;Who think truth wholly truth, lies wholly lies;Who never lived, but duly wept at death;Who could not gaily stake the cherished wholeUpon the spinning coin’s fantastic turn;Who count the moneyed value of your soul,And give, but, giving, claim the just return.

Who could not gaily stake the cherished wholeUpon the spinning coin’s fantastic turn;Who count the moneyed value of your soul,And give, but, giving, claim the just return.

“I’ll dip contempt’s broad ladle for a measureLest I accept reprieve in such a guise,Such cheap attainment where I most despise,Or lull disquiet by such sham of pleasure.Love, amongst counterfeits and marsh-light gleamsAlready arch-impostor, doubly apedBy lust, to parody (most rarely shaped),The consummation of our difficult dreams!”

“I’ll dip contempt’s broad ladle for a measureLest I accept reprieve in such a guise,Such cheap attainment where I most despise,Or lull disquiet by such sham of pleasure.

Love, amongst counterfeits and marsh-light gleamsAlready arch-impostor, doubly apedBy lust, to parody (most rarely shaped),The consummation of our difficult dreams!”

MOONLIGHT through lattice throws a chequered square;Night! and I wake in my low-ceilinged roomTo lovely silence deep with harmony;Sweet are the flutes of night-time, sweet the spellLies between day and day. This wise old night,That, unreproachful, gives the pause to strife!The murmurous diapason of the darkWithin the house made quick and intimateBy tiny noise—a bat? a mouse? a mothBruising against the ceiling? or a birdNested beneath the eaves? night, grave and hugeOutside with swell of sighing through the boughs,Whispering far over unscythèd meadows,Dying in dim cool cloisters of the woods.I have been absent. I have found unchangedThe oaks, the slope and order of the fields;I knew the wealden fragrance, and that oldDear stubborn enemy of mine, the clay.Nothing to mark the difference of yearBut young wheat springing where I left the roots,And last year’s pasture browned to this year’s plough;Last year the crop was niggard on the orchard,But blossom now foretells the weighted branches,And the great stack, that like a galleonRode beneath furled tarpaulins last July,Showed its bare brushwood as I passed to-day.Where the sun rises, that I know of old;Knowledge precedes me round the turn of the lane,And I could take you where the orchids growFriendly with cowslips; where the bluebell pullsSmooth from its bulb, bleached where it grew concealed,Hidden from light; the tiny brook is eager,Quick with spring rains, bright April rains, and fillsThe pool where drowsy cattle slouch to drink.Familiar! oh, familiar! native speechComes not more readily than that dear senseOf bend and depth of country. This is Kent,Unflaunting England, where the steaming mould,Not plaintive, not regretful, lies contentThat leaves should spring from sacrifice of leaves.My Saxon weald! my cool and candid weald!Dear God! the heart, the very heart of meThat plays and strays, a truant in strange lands,Always returns and finds its inward peace,Its swing of truth, its measure of restraint,Here among meadows, orchards, lanes, and shaws.Take me then close, O branches, take me close;Whisper me all the secrets of the sap,You branches fragile, tentative, that stretchYour moonlit blossom to my open window,Messengers of the gentle weald, encroachingSo shyly on the shelter of the house;Cradle me, hammock me amongst you; letNight’s quietude so drench my sleepy spiritThat morning shall not rob me of that calm.Your buds against my pulses; so I lieWakeful as though in tree-tops, and the sapCreeps through my blood, up from the scented earth.... The birds are restless underneath the eaves,Down in the byre the uneasy cattle stir,And through the fret of branches grows the dawn.

I have been absent. I have found unchangedThe oaks, the slope and order of the fields;I knew the wealden fragrance, and that oldDear stubborn enemy of mine, the clay.Nothing to mark the difference of yearBut young wheat springing where I left the roots,And last year’s pasture browned to this year’s plough;Last year the crop was niggard on the orchard,But blossom now foretells the weighted branches,And the great stack, that like a galleonRode beneath furled tarpaulins last July,Showed its bare brushwood as I passed to-day.Where the sun rises, that I know of old;Knowledge precedes me round the turn of the lane,And I could take you where the orchids growFriendly with cowslips; where the bluebell pullsSmooth from its bulb, bleached where it grew concealed,Hidden from light; the tiny brook is eager,Quick with spring rains, bright April rains, and fillsThe pool where drowsy cattle slouch to drink.

Familiar! oh, familiar! native speechComes not more readily than that dear senseOf bend and depth of country. This is Kent,Unflaunting England, where the steaming mould,Not plaintive, not regretful, lies contentThat leaves should spring from sacrifice of leaves.

My Saxon weald! my cool and candid weald!Dear God! the heart, the very heart of meThat plays and strays, a truant in strange lands,Always returns and finds its inward peace,Its swing of truth, its measure of restraint,Here among meadows, orchards, lanes, and shaws.Take me then close, O branches, take me close;Whisper me all the secrets of the sap,You branches fragile, tentative, that stretchYour moonlit blossom to my open window,Messengers of the gentle weald, encroachingSo shyly on the shelter of the house;Cradle me, hammock me amongst you; letNight’s quietude so drench my sleepy spiritThat morning shall not rob me of that calm.Your buds against my pulses; so I lieWakeful as though in tree-tops, and the sapCreeps through my blood, up from the scented earth.

... The birds are restless underneath the eaves,Down in the byre the uneasy cattle stir,And through the fret of branches grows the dawn.

Tools with the comely names,Mattock and scythe and spade,Couth and bitter as flames,Clean, and bowed in the blade,—A man and his tools make a man and his trade.Breadth of the English shires,Hummock and kame and mead,Tang of the reeking byres,Land of the English breed,—A man and his land make a man and his creed.Leisurely flocks and herds,Cool-eyed cattle that comeMildly to wonted words,Swine that in orchards roam,—A man and his beasts make a man and his home.Children sturdy and flaxenShouting in brotherly strife,Like the land they are Saxon,Sons of a man and his wife,—For a man and his loves make a man and his life.

Tools with the comely names,Mattock and scythe and spade,Couth and bitter as flames,Clean, and bowed in the blade,—A man and his tools make a man and his trade.

Breadth of the English shires,Hummock and kame and mead,Tang of the reeking byres,Land of the English breed,—A man and his land make a man and his creed.

Leisurely flocks and herds,Cool-eyed cattle that comeMildly to wonted words,Swine that in orchards roam,—A man and his beasts make a man and his home.

Children sturdy and flaxenShouting in brotherly strife,Like the land they are Saxon,Sons of a man and his wife,—For a man and his loves make a man and his life.

JOY have I had of life this vigorous daySince sunrise when I took the wealden way,And my fair country as I rapid strodeLay round the turn of the familiar roadIn mists diaphanous as seas in foam.And all the orchards cried me welcome home.I drove the spade that turned the heavy loam,Bending the winter to the needs of spring,The soft air winnowingThe thistledown that blew along the hedge.A little moorhen rippled in the sedge;A distant sheep-dog barked; the day was still,For summer’s ghost in winter lay upon the hill.I worked in peace; an aeroplane aboveCrooned through the heaven coloured like a dove.Within the house I lit a fireAnd coaxed the friendly kettle on to boil.My boots were heavy with the wealden soil,My hunger eager from the glow of toil.Fresh bread had I; brown eggs; a little meat;Clear water, and an apple sweet.Freedom I drank for my delirious wine,And Shelley gave me company divine.What more could heart desire?And when the orange of the sunset burned,I laid aside my tools and townward turned,Seeing across the uplands of the WealdThe ploughteams straining on the half-brown field.I sang aloud; my limbs were rich with health,As brooding winter rich with summer’s wealth.

JOY have I had of life this vigorous daySince sunrise when I took the wealden way,And my fair country as I rapid strodeLay round the turn of the familiar roadIn mists diaphanous as seas in foam.

And all the orchards cried me welcome home.

I drove the spade that turned the heavy loam,Bending the winter to the needs of spring,The soft air winnowingThe thistledown that blew along the hedge.A little moorhen rippled in the sedge;A distant sheep-dog barked; the day was still,For summer’s ghost in winter lay upon the hill.I worked in peace; an aeroplane aboveCrooned through the heaven coloured like a dove.

Within the house I lit a fireAnd coaxed the friendly kettle on to boil.My boots were heavy with the wealden soil,My hunger eager from the glow of toil.Fresh bread had I; brown eggs; a little meat;Clear water, and an apple sweet.Freedom I drank for my delirious wine,And Shelley gave me company divine.What more could heart desire?

And when the orange of the sunset burned,I laid aside my tools and townward turned,Seeing across the uplands of the WealdThe ploughteams straining on the half-brown field.I sang aloud; my limbs were rich with health,As brooding winter rich with summer’s wealth.

HOW do I love you, beech trees, in the autumn,Your stone-grey columns a cathedral naveProcessional above the earth’s brown glory!I was a child, and loved the knurly tangleOf roots that coiled above a scarp like serpents,Where I might hide my treasure with the squirrels.I was a child, and splashed my way in laughterThrough drifts of leaves, where underfoot the beechnutsSplit with crisp crackle to my great rejoicing.Red are the wooded slopes below Shock Tavern,Red is the bracken on the sandy Furze-field,Red are the herds of deer by Bo-Pit Meadows,The tawny deer that nightly through the beechwoodsRoar out their challenge, carrying their antlersProudly beneath the antlered moonlit branches.I was a child, and heard the red deer’s challengeProwling and baying underneath my window,Never a cry so haughty or so mournful.

HOW do I love you, beech trees, in the autumn,Your stone-grey columns a cathedral naveProcessional above the earth’s brown glory!

I was a child, and loved the knurly tangleOf roots that coiled above a scarp like serpents,Where I might hide my treasure with the squirrels.

I was a child, and splashed my way in laughterThrough drifts of leaves, where underfoot the beechnutsSplit with crisp crackle to my great rejoicing.

Red are the wooded slopes below Shock Tavern,Red is the bracken on the sandy Furze-field,Red are the herds of deer by Bo-Pit Meadows,

The tawny deer that nightly through the beechwoodsRoar out their challenge, carrying their antlersProudly beneath the antlered moonlit branches.

I was a child, and heard the red deer’s challengeProwling and baying underneath my window,Never a cry so haughty or so mournful.

LEOPARDS on the gable-ends,Leopards on the painted stair,Stiff the blazoned shield they bear,Or and gules, a bend of vair,Leopards on the gable-ends,Leopards everywhere.Guard and vigil in the nightWhile the ancient house is sleepingThey three hundred years are keeping,Nightly from their stations leaping,Shadows black in moonlight bright,Roof to gable creeping.Rigid when the day returns,Up aloft in sun or rainLeopards at their posts againWatch the shifting pageant’s train;And their jewelled colour burnsIn the window-pane.Often on the painted stair,As I passed abstractedly,Velvet footsteps, two and three,Padded gravely after me.—There was nothing, nothing there,Nothing there to see.

LEOPARDS on the gable-ends,Leopards on the painted stair,Stiff the blazoned shield they bear,Or and gules, a bend of vair,Leopards on the gable-ends,Leopards everywhere.

Guard and vigil in the nightWhile the ancient house is sleepingThey three hundred years are keeping,Nightly from their stations leaping,Shadows black in moonlight bright,Roof to gable creeping.

Rigid when the day returns,Up aloft in sun or rainLeopards at their posts againWatch the shifting pageant’s train;And their jewelled colour burnsIn the window-pane.

Often on the painted stair,As I passed abstractedly,Velvet footsteps, two and three,Padded gravely after me.—There was nothing, nothing there,Nothing there to see.

WHEN evening sun had beat the rainAnd skies were washed so primrose-clean,We swung the orchard gate againTo let the cattle down the lane;To let with ripened udders passThe heavy milch-cows one by one,And underfoot the blossom wasLike scattered snow upon the grass.The steep wet road was like a shieldAfter the rain; and, slouching on,We idly grumbled at the yieldOf apple-orchards in the Weald.

WHEN evening sun had beat the rainAnd skies were washed so primrose-clean,We swung the orchard gate againTo let the cattle down the lane;

To let with ripened udders passThe heavy milch-cows one by one,And underfoot the blossom wasLike scattered snow upon the grass.

The steep wet road was like a shieldAfter the rain; and, slouching on,We idly grumbled at the yieldOf apple-orchards in the Weald.

I met some children in a wood,A happy and tumultuous routThat came with many a wanton shoutAnd darted hither and about(As in a stream the fickle trout),To ease their pagan lustihood.And in their midst they led alongA goat with wreaths about his neckThat they had taken pains to deckTo join the bacchanalian throng.And one of them was garlandedWith strands of wild convolvulusAbout his ringlets riotous,And carried rowan-berries red.And one, the eldest of the band,Whose life was seven summers glad,Was all in flowered muslin clad,And naked dancing feet she hadTo lead the sylvan saraband.With hazel skin and coral beadA gipsy dryad of the meadShe seemed; she led the gay stampedeWith fruited branches in her hand.For all were bearing autumn fruit;Some, apples on the loaded bough,And pears that on the orchard’s browWith damask-plums are hanging now;And much they had of woodland loot,Of berries black and berries blue,Of fircones, and of medlars too;And one, who bore no plunder, blewOn reeds like an Arcadian flute.They passed, and still I stood knee-deepIn thymy grass to watch their train.They wound along the wooded laneAnd crossed a streamlet with a leap,And as I saw them once againThey passed a shepherd and his sheep.And you might think, I made this songFor joy of song as I strode alongOne day between the Kentish shaws,Slashing at scarlet hips and haws.But thinking so, you nothing knowOf children taken unawares,Of tinkers’ tents among the gorse,The poor lean goat, the hobbled horse,And painted vans for country fairs.

I met some children in a wood,A happy and tumultuous routThat came with many a wanton shoutAnd darted hither and about(As in a stream the fickle trout),To ease their pagan lustihood.

And in their midst they led alongA goat with wreaths about his neckThat they had taken pains to deckTo join the bacchanalian throng.

And one of them was garlandedWith strands of wild convolvulusAbout his ringlets riotous,And carried rowan-berries red.

And one, the eldest of the band,Whose life was seven summers glad,Was all in flowered muslin clad,And naked dancing feet she hadTo lead the sylvan saraband.With hazel skin and coral beadA gipsy dryad of the meadShe seemed; she led the gay stampedeWith fruited branches in her hand.

For all were bearing autumn fruit;Some, apples on the loaded bough,And pears that on the orchard’s browWith damask-plums are hanging now;And much they had of woodland loot,Of berries black and berries blue,Of fircones, and of medlars too;And one, who bore no plunder, blewOn reeds like an Arcadian flute.

They passed, and still I stood knee-deepIn thymy grass to watch their train.They wound along the wooded laneAnd crossed a streamlet with a leap,And as I saw them once againThey passed a shepherd and his sheep.

And you might think, I made this songFor joy of song as I strode alongOne day between the Kentish shaws,Slashing at scarlet hips and haws.But thinking so, you nothing knowOf children taken unawares,Of tinkers’ tents among the gorse,The poor lean goat, the hobbled horse,And painted vans for country fairs.

WHEN I am dead, let not my limbs be givenTo rot amongst the dead I never knew,But cast my ashes wide under wide heaven,Or to my garden let me still be true,And, like the ashes I was wont to savePreciously from the hearth beneath my fire,Lighten the soil with mine. Not, not the grave!I loved the soil I fought, and this is my desire.

WHEN I am dead, let not my limbs be givenTo rot amongst the dead I never knew,But cast my ashes wide under wide heaven,Or to my garden let me still be true,

And, like the ashes I was wont to savePreciously from the hearth beneath my fire,Lighten the soil with mine. Not, not the grave!I loved the soil I fought, and this is my desire.

THIS little space which scented box enclosesIs blue with lupins and is sweet with thyme.My garden all is overblown with roses,My spirit all is overblown with rhyme,And like a drunken honeybee I waverFrom house to garden and again to house,And, undetermined which delight to favour,On verse and rose alternately carouse.Adam, were you, in your primeval plenty,A poet and a gardener in one?Did you with easy songs the blossoms sheave,In Eden where the blooms by ten and twentySprang up beneath the magic of the sun,To deck the brows of your capricious Eve?

Adam, were you, in your primeval plenty,A poet and a gardener in one?Did you with easy songs the blossoms sheave,In Eden where the blooms by ten and twentySprang up beneath the magic of the sun,To deck the brows of your capricious Eve?

SHE was wearing the coral taffeta trousersSomeone had brought her from Ispahan,And the little gold coat with pomegranate blossoms,And the coral-hafted feather fan;But she ran down a Kentish lane in the moonlight,And skipped in the pool of the moon as she ran.She cared not a rap for all the big planets,For Betelgeuse or Aldebaran,And all the big planets cared nothing for her,That small impertinent charlatan;But she climbed on a Kentish stile in the moonlight,And laughed at the sky through the sticks of her fan.

She cared not a rap for all the big planets,For Betelgeuse or Aldebaran,And all the big planets cared nothing for her,That small impertinent charlatan;But she climbed on a Kentish stile in the moonlight,And laughed at the sky through the sticks of her fan.

CONQUEROR! what have you seen in the heavens?Star-dust is in your hair.Say, have you woken the sleeping thunderAnd taken it unaware?Come on the storm as a wild beast crouching,And mocked at it in its lair?Ridden the wind as a riotous charger,Your hand in his mane entwined,As a new unbroken Pegasus,That a master had divined?A boast for a man to bring down from heaven,“I have bridled the wild East wind!”Gazed in the mirror of unshed dew-ponds,Bathed in the rivers of rain?Caught at the meteor’s sparks in passing,And flung them to earth for grain?Dropped in the wake of the scattered handfulsTo the morning earth again?How have you raced with the car of Apollo,A trial of strength indeed,He in his golden chariot standingAnd lashing his golden steed,You with your glimmering wings of silverAnd unconquerable speed?What of the sirens that dwell in the heavensIn a palace of cloud and air?As a lover of nymphs inviolate,Of sirens with rainbow hair,Have you dwelt like a new OdysseusWith the sirens of the air?Speak! have you guarded Diana’s uprisingFrom a couch of mist and sheen?Speak! have you watched Diana’s disrobingAfter her reign as queen?Speak! for your eyes are eloquentWith the mysteries they have seen.And your feet, which have trod in unlaboured fields,Are with wingèd sandals shod,And the hawthorn stick at the touch of your handHas turned to a wingèd rod,And your eyes and lips are burnished goldWith the kiss of the bright sun-god.

Ridden the wind as a riotous charger,Your hand in his mane entwined,As a new unbroken Pegasus,That a master had divined?A boast for a man to bring down from heaven,“I have bridled the wild East wind!”

Gazed in the mirror of unshed dew-ponds,Bathed in the rivers of rain?Caught at the meteor’s sparks in passing,And flung them to earth for grain?Dropped in the wake of the scattered handfulsTo the morning earth again?

How have you raced with the car of Apollo,A trial of strength indeed,He in his golden chariot standingAnd lashing his golden steed,You with your glimmering wings of silverAnd unconquerable speed?

What of the sirens that dwell in the heavensIn a palace of cloud and air?As a lover of nymphs inviolate,Of sirens with rainbow hair,Have you dwelt like a new OdysseusWith the sirens of the air?

Speak! have you guarded Diana’s uprisingFrom a couch of mist and sheen?Speak! have you watched Diana’s disrobingAfter her reign as queen?Speak! for your eyes are eloquentWith the mysteries they have seen.

And your feet, which have trod in unlaboured fields,Are with wingèd sandals shod,And the hawthorn stick at the touch of your handHas turned to a wingèd rod,And your eyes and lips are burnished goldWith the kiss of the bright sun-god.

Son of the morning, son of the daybreak,Son of the stars and sky,Son of the clean untrodden places,Son of the air am I.I am the sailor of the heavens,And the Viking of the gale,The cloud-built galleon is my vessel,And the bellying cloud my sail.I am the reaper of the heavens,With the sickle moon in my hand.I am the minstrel of the heavens,With the birds that rise from land.I am the hunter of the heavens,With the night-hounds for my pack,Lord of unbroken solitudesThat I am the first to track.Son of the tempest, son of the moonlight,Son of the silver sky,Son of the clean untrodden places,Son of the air am I.

Son of the morning, son of the daybreak,Son of the stars and sky,Son of the clean untrodden places,Son of the air am I.

I am the sailor of the heavens,And the Viking of the gale,The cloud-built galleon is my vessel,And the bellying cloud my sail.

I am the reaper of the heavens,With the sickle moon in my hand.I am the minstrel of the heavens,With the birds that rise from land.

I am the hunter of the heavens,With the night-hounds for my pack,Lord of unbroken solitudesThat I am the first to track.

Son of the tempest, son of the moonlight,Son of the silver sky,Son of the clean untrodden places,Son of the air am I.

[The scene is laid in a circular space of grass in a garden, enclosed by a stone balustrade broken at intervals by statues of sylvan deities. A background of cypresses. An assembly of dim figures.Right, theMuse of Tragedyupon a raised throne. Centre, a great convoluted shell, in which a naked youth lies sleeping.]

[The scene is laid in a circular space of grass in a garden, enclosed by a stone balustrade broken at intervals by statues of sylvan deities. A background of cypresses. An assembly of dim figures.

Right, theMuse of Tragedyupon a raised throne. Centre, a great convoluted shell, in which a naked youth lies sleeping.]

Melpomene.(She is crowned with vine-leaves, shod with the cothurnus, and carries in her hand a tragic mask.)

She addressesthe assembly.

O population beautiful and strangeHaunting the curtained boundaries of youth,Children among immortals, swift of range,Light-footed, gay of glance, evasive, shy,Truth robed in fantasy, truth in untruthThat all men apprehend and most pass by,—You that come crowding and inquisitiveWith covert laugh, quick hands, and eyes that live,Wingèd and whispering and fugitive,Wide generosities and proud beliefs,Flamboyant hopes and lovely rainbow griefs,Rare reverence, lusty audacity,Faith with bound eyes, arrogant certainty,Slim fancy with her finger to her lips,Bright-haired adventure, mother of all ships,Pale wanton nymphs, quarry of men and gods,

She addressesthe assembly.

AND dappled centaurs from the dappled woods,—Draw near.—Here lies, that all may see him well,A naked Youth within a conchèd shell,Asleep, in nudity most beautiful.His arm is flung beneath his lovely head,He sleeps as sound as in his mortal bed;Yet him the dolphins hither boreAnd all the waters founted with their spouting,The river-horses galloped by the shore,And little wine-drunk sons of love ran shouting,But he lies victim to the poppy-bell.

She tells theoccasion of themasque.

NOW set I forth in briefest argumentThe causes of our present tournament,Saying how tender Grief and laughing JoyStrove for possession of the mortal boy,—As once upon the traveller of oldThe sun shone warmly and the wind blew cold,—And ages long endured their pleasant strifeRenewed with each young adolescent life,And neither triumphed, for in early yearsYouth freely gave to Grief his secret tears(Grief for grief’s sake, which youth to Youth endears),And sorrows of his melancholy heart,And Joy, her garlands drooping, stood apart;Till Love drew near to play his part.

She tells ofYouth inLove.

AH! then forgotten were the mournful days.Youth crowned his head with flowers and with bays;He flung the leopard-skin about his loins,And bracelets jangled at his wrists like coins,Nor was the triumph of his singing muteWhen at his lips the windy fluteMingled its treble with the chords of praiseAnd melody hung scented round his ways.Proud in his beauty and his sinews’ girthHe strode in strength and conquest on the earth,Or measured down the terraced olive-grovesIntrepid footsteps with the centaur’s hooves.The pleasant valleys echoed with his mirth,And in the morning resonant and stillHis voice was heard like music on the hill.So ever ran the course of youth the same,And Joy and Grief strove on; Grief could not claimThat Love had played unfairly in the gameSince often some poor weeping love-lorn childReturned to her with sorrow wild,And cast his broken flute upon the groundAnd all his ornaments with tears defiled.Now Joy this pretty mortal boy has foundAnd brought him hither, that by our consentThe rivals try their strength, and one be crowned.Conditional thereon, that Love be boundTo take no action in the tournament.

So ever ran the course of youth the same,And Joy and Grief strove on; Grief could not claimThat Love had played unfairly in the gameSince often some poor weeping love-lorn childReturned to her with sorrow wild,And cast his broken flute upon the groundAnd all his ornaments with tears defiled.

Now Joy this pretty mortal boy has foundAnd brought him hither, that by our consentThe rivals try their strength, and one be crowned.Conditional thereon, that Love be boundTo take no action in the tournament.

* * * * *

They pressforward roundthe shell.

HOW richly stirs his craving blood to-nightFor songs of freedom all among the stars!Thoughts like a flock of birds in summer lightCircle beyond the reach of lifted arms,And deeds beyond the scope of life’s alarmsFloat into sight,And pass, yet undefined, through heaven’s bars.

IT is the hour of twilight, still, profound,When dreams and visions in their legions flyOn fancy’s horses mounted, robed and crownedWith streaming flames, an aureole of fire,And pass, the eagle shapes of man’s desire,Towards the sunset bound,In wingèd ride across the evening sky.

HE stirs disquieted, he stirs again.The stamping hoofs of that proud galaxyIn passing struck from space the spangled rainAnd flung the ardent fragments down to himThat scorched his mortal soul through vision dim.O shackled soul in painTortured by glimpses of divinity!

WHAT shall we sing in praise of youth? the free,The clarion years, the redolent years of youth?Youth that loved gold and scarlet pageantryAnd caught the fringe upon the robe of truth?

GAY youth, that goes, with some familiar friend,On quest of hopes heroic, quest of shoresUntravelled, with the heart of conquerors,Eager and brave, and talking without endOf high, magnificent, and cleanly thingsRich as the sunset, swift as cormorants’ wingsThat sweep the waters,—youth, whose destinySails like a ship upon a virgin sea.

WHOSE heart is as a glowing forge at nightWherein the blacksmith, gleaming with his sweatLike some gigantic negro in the lightOf angry fires that touch his limbs of jet,Strikes at the clanging anvil of his thought.

SING to him, sing! till he be so distraught,So drunken and enraptured,That all his heart be captured.

GIPSY, what have you in your packBound with old thongs across your back?Poplin, dimity, huckaback,Who draws the prize?Tumble your treasures out on the grass:A wine-dark ruby, a shine of brass,Aladdin’s lamp, and a magic glass,And a last surprise.Dip in your hands, you wayward crew,The peddler caters for all of you;You press, like a crowd of girls, anew,With your eager eyes;Dip in your hands, there are treasures free,Curious pearls, and chalcedony,And the cap of invisibility,But the thing you will none of you ever seeIs the last surprise.

GIPSY, what have you in your packBound with old thongs across your back?Poplin, dimity, huckaback,Who draws the prize?

Tumble your treasures out on the grass:A wine-dark ruby, a shine of brass,Aladdin’s lamp, and a magic glass,And a last surprise.

Dip in your hands, you wayward crew,The peddler caters for all of you;You press, like a crowd of girls, anew,With your eager eyes;Dip in your hands, there are treasures free,Curious pearls, and chalcedony,And the cap of invisibility,But the thing you will none of you ever seeIs the last surprise.

I am the swift omnipotent magician;All bounty’s in my gift, all songs unsung,All slumbering chords, all undiscovered craftsBaffling their premature interpreters;No law’s beyond my searching; I’ll condemnNo vice, despise no sorrow, scorn no joy,Deride no virtue, throw no stone at Pilate,But sweep my mantle round humanityAnd round the pomp of nature; naught I’ll findToo mean, too great, too little, or too spacious;Mine be the secrets both of hearts and stars,(Small, measureless hearts; great, measurable stars;)And love’s old barbarous reiterationI’ll tolerate, and the great self-less peaceLike the deep sea’s perpetual repose.I’ll not be parsimonious of my wealth.I’ll fill your heaven with many coloured moonsAnd hang such variable tides upon themAs strew the astonished fish along the shores.I’ll bring the planets nearer: I’ll attractSaturn within his hoop of shining rings;I’ll summon a great conclave of the cometsWhich hitherto were strangers to each other,And man, at nightfall standing on the crestOf a familiar hill, shall marvelling stareInto an unfamiliar firmament.I’ll show you Jupiter’s rebel satelliteThat on the outer fringe of measured spaceBackwards revolves, striving against the lawThat chains her anger to an irksome orbit.I’ll dry the seas and bring the unknown landsTo light, that on unchristened continentsMan stray dry-foot from Africa to Asia.Oh, what new rivers then, what deep, deep lakes,What caverns and what cliffs, what strange ravines,What deserts, what denuded leagues of plain,Should offer to his swarming multitude!Peaks shall be islands, islands shall be peaks,When I reverse the ordering and makeA mountainous Pacific continent,A Himalayan archipelago.And all the daily and the lovely things,—The fawn’s late bed of bracken, newly warmed,The nets of fishermen through water sinking,Drawn up all hoar with flake of silver scalesAnd round clear drops that tremble from the mesh,—These little things, these nimble shy delights,With the quick magic of significanceI’ll not despise to startle into being.

I’ll not be parsimonious of my wealth.I’ll fill your heaven with many coloured moonsAnd hang such variable tides upon themAs strew the astonished fish along the shores.I’ll bring the planets nearer: I’ll attractSaturn within his hoop of shining rings;I’ll summon a great conclave of the cometsWhich hitherto were strangers to each other,And man, at nightfall standing on the crestOf a familiar hill, shall marvelling stareInto an unfamiliar firmament.I’ll show you Jupiter’s rebel satelliteThat on the outer fringe of measured spaceBackwards revolves, striving against the lawThat chains her anger to an irksome orbit.

I’ll dry the seas and bring the unknown landsTo light, that on unchristened continentsMan stray dry-foot from Africa to Asia.Oh, what new rivers then, what deep, deep lakes,What caverns and what cliffs, what strange ravines,What deserts, what denuded leagues of plain,Should offer to his swarming multitude!Peaks shall be islands, islands shall be peaks,When I reverse the ordering and makeA mountainous Pacific continent,A Himalayan archipelago.

And all the daily and the lovely things,—The fawn’s late bed of bracken, newly warmed,The nets of fishermen through water sinking,Drawn up all hoar with flake of silver scalesAnd round clear drops that tremble from the mesh,—These little things, these nimble shy delights,With the quick magic of significanceI’ll not despise to startle into being.

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