WHEN a foam of snow is hurledUnder the bare black trees,And rain is on the seas,And winter on the world,Yet, when I think of her,I know where summer is.When friends to-day forgetArdours of yesterday,And to-morrow turn awayAs if we never met,Yet, when I think of her,I know where constancy is.
WHEN a foam of snow is hurledUnder the bare black trees,And rain is on the seas,And winter on the world,Yet, when I think of her,I know where summer is.When friends to-day forgetArdours of yesterday,And to-morrow turn awayAs if we never met,Yet, when I think of her,I know where constancy is.
WHEN a foam of snow is hurledUnder the bare black trees,And rain is on the seas,And winter on the world,Yet, when I think of her,I know where summer is.
When friends to-day forgetArdours of yesterday,And to-morrow turn awayAs if we never met,Yet, when I think of her,I know where constancy is.
AS I go inlandLo! my heart droopingAs a bird’s in the grove when the shadow falls swoopingOf the hawk’s wing down from a cloudless sky.For the hills creep together,Murmuring, conspiring;Solitude, poverty, sorrow desiringFor men that are born to dream and to die.A prison land-locked,A grave for the living,And the ancient warders unsleeping, unforgiving,Cordon after cordon, massing behind me.I am in peril. I have left the sea.
AS I go inlandLo! my heart droopingAs a bird’s in the grove when the shadow falls swoopingOf the hawk’s wing down from a cloudless sky.For the hills creep together,Murmuring, conspiring;Solitude, poverty, sorrow desiringFor men that are born to dream and to die.A prison land-locked,A grave for the living,And the ancient warders unsleeping, unforgiving,Cordon after cordon, massing behind me.I am in peril. I have left the sea.
AS I go inlandLo! my heart droopingAs a bird’s in the grove when the shadow falls swoopingOf the hawk’s wing down from a cloudless sky.
For the hills creep together,Murmuring, conspiring;Solitude, poverty, sorrow desiringFor men that are born to dream and to die.
A prison land-locked,A grave for the living,And the ancient warders unsleeping, unforgiving,Cordon after cordon, massing behind me.I am in peril. I have left the sea.
REGINALD HARRIS(C. C. C.)
“My heart was blithe at morning.”
MY heart was blithe at morning,For he was by my side,And through the woods togetherWe wandered far and wide.My heart was gay at noon-tideTogether on the leaWe lay, and heard the murm’ringOf many a busy bee.My heart was sad at even,For in the cold stars’ wake,I laid him in the dark, dark graveAnd, oh, my heart would break!
MY heart was blithe at morning,For he was by my side,And through the woods togetherWe wandered far and wide.My heart was gay at noon-tideTogether on the leaWe lay, and heard the murm’ringOf many a busy bee.My heart was sad at even,For in the cold stars’ wake,I laid him in the dark, dark graveAnd, oh, my heart would break!
MY heart was blithe at morning,For he was by my side,And through the woods togetherWe wandered far and wide.
My heart was gay at noon-tideTogether on the leaWe lay, and heard the murm’ringOf many a busy bee.
My heart was sad at even,For in the cold stars’ wake,I laid him in the dark, dark graveAnd, oh, my heart would break!
RAISE high, Sicilian Muses,Raise high the mournful cry,The mallows in the woodlandsWhene’er they fade and die,And the dill, and the green parsley,When they grow wan and sere,Live on again, though dead a while,And flower another year.But we, the great, the noble men,The mighty, and the wise,Whene’er our term of life is past,And our frail body dies,Lie down for ever, evermoreBeneath earth’s hollow deep,And undisturbed for everLie low in death’s long sleep.
RAISE high, Sicilian Muses,Raise high the mournful cry,The mallows in the woodlandsWhene’er they fade and die,And the dill, and the green parsley,When they grow wan and sere,Live on again, though dead a while,And flower another year.But we, the great, the noble men,The mighty, and the wise,Whene’er our term of life is past,And our frail body dies,Lie down for ever, evermoreBeneath earth’s hollow deep,And undisturbed for everLie low in death’s long sleep.
RAISE high, Sicilian Muses,Raise high the mournful cry,The mallows in the woodlandsWhene’er they fade and die,And the dill, and the green parsley,When they grow wan and sere,Live on again, though dead a while,And flower another year.
But we, the great, the noble men,The mighty, and the wise,Whene’er our term of life is past,And our frail body dies,Lie down for ever, evermoreBeneath earth’s hollow deep,And undisturbed for everLie low in death’s long sleep.
MERCY HARVEY(ST. HILDA’S HALL)
OH! who hath seen Twilight the solemn-eyed?When the earth with a weary sighTurns unto her, as a widowed bride,With the light all gone from the sky.She walketh in solitariness,Where still, shadowy waters gleam,But her grey eyes are none the lessAs if full of a troubled dream.
OH! who hath seen Twilight the solemn-eyed?When the earth with a weary sighTurns unto her, as a widowed bride,With the light all gone from the sky.She walketh in solitariness,Where still, shadowy waters gleam,But her grey eyes are none the lessAs if full of a troubled dream.
OH! who hath seen Twilight the solemn-eyed?When the earth with a weary sighTurns unto her, as a widowed bride,With the light all gone from the sky.She walketh in solitariness,Where still, shadowy waters gleam,But her grey eyes are none the lessAs if full of a troubled dream.
H. C. HARWOOD(BALLIOL)
THERE shall be no more sorrow and no more pain.Go you to your anger and I to my books again.You loved me, but never have liked me, the issue was plain,Woman, if you be woman, you live too late,Never the man was suckled to be your mate,Wed with a god and break him in battle with fate.You are truth, and the world is illusion; faith, it is doubt.It wraps its disaster in darkness, and you shine out;And the liquor that drugs to endurance is not for your drought.Pass on to the waste and the fell! I stay, and forgetYour breasts and your hair and your laughter like suns that are set.Despise me, forgive me, but leave me. I love you yet.
THERE shall be no more sorrow and no more pain.Go you to your anger and I to my books again.You loved me, but never have liked me, the issue was plain,Woman, if you be woman, you live too late,Never the man was suckled to be your mate,Wed with a god and break him in battle with fate.You are truth, and the world is illusion; faith, it is doubt.It wraps its disaster in darkness, and you shine out;And the liquor that drugs to endurance is not for your drought.Pass on to the waste and the fell! I stay, and forgetYour breasts and your hair and your laughter like suns that are set.Despise me, forgive me, but leave me. I love you yet.
THERE shall be no more sorrow and no more pain.Go you to your anger and I to my books again.You loved me, but never have liked me, the issue was plain,Woman, if you be woman, you live too late,Never the man was suckled to be your mate,Wed with a god and break him in battle with fate.You are truth, and the world is illusion; faith, it is doubt.It wraps its disaster in darkness, and you shine out;And the liquor that drugs to endurance is not for your drought.Pass on to the waste and the fell! I stay, and forgetYour breasts and your hair and your laughter like suns that are set.Despise me, forgive me, but leave me. I love you yet.
IF I have laboured seven years,It was not for your heart.Mine was the better partAnd hope is bright amid the vapourous fears.You are too close to me to needThe idle complimentThat it was my intentTo build your name above the ages’ greed.We are comrade adventurers;Here is my challenge hurledAgainst the conspired world;You will have little time for flatterers,An equal combatant ... Or so,While in the dark I gropedVainly perhaps, I hoped,And, when at length we meet and love, shall know.
IF I have laboured seven years,It was not for your heart.Mine was the better partAnd hope is bright amid the vapourous fears.You are too close to me to needThe idle complimentThat it was my intentTo build your name above the ages’ greed.We are comrade adventurers;Here is my challenge hurledAgainst the conspired world;You will have little time for flatterers,An equal combatant ... Or so,While in the dark I gropedVainly perhaps, I hoped,And, when at length we meet and love, shall know.
IF I have laboured seven years,It was not for your heart.Mine was the better partAnd hope is bright amid the vapourous fears.You are too close to me to needThe idle complimentThat it was my intentTo build your name above the ages’ greed.We are comrade adventurers;Here is my challenge hurledAgainst the conspired world;You will have little time for flatterers,An equal combatant ... Or so,While in the dark I gropedVainly perhaps, I hoped,And, when at length we meet and love, shall know.
LUISA HEWITT(HOME STUDENT)
YOU lit your cigarette from mine,And each increased the other’s glowTill the blue clouds began to blowAnd two red stars began to shine.Who knows, if then our lips had met,A greater fire we might have fannedWhose fragrant smoke had filled the land,But left us ashes and regret.
YOU lit your cigarette from mine,And each increased the other’s glowTill the blue clouds began to blowAnd two red stars began to shine.Who knows, if then our lips had met,A greater fire we might have fannedWhose fragrant smoke had filled the land,But left us ashes and regret.
YOU lit your cigarette from mine,And each increased the other’s glowTill the blue clouds began to blowAnd two red stars began to shine.
Who knows, if then our lips had met,A greater fire we might have fannedWhose fragrant smoke had filled the land,But left us ashes and regret.
ZEUS! whom Prometheus first defied and failed to quell,Once, only once I call on you that cannot hear;Titans and monstrous Forms inspiring these with fear;Heroes enthroned in Heaven, of whom their children tell;Pan of the forest, fauns and dryads of the dell;Chryselephantine gods to Art and Athens dear,Protectors of the deme, the spindle and the spear,—Once, only once I give you greeting and—farewell.Proud-vested charioteers of punctual sun and moon,Racing and wrestling in your diverse course divine,Ye stars of peace and war, ye rivers of the sea,Greeting! from one who will forget your name right soon;Farewell! the while I pass, and nevermore repineThe Perfect God in Man alone constraining me.
ZEUS! whom Prometheus first defied and failed to quell,Once, only once I call on you that cannot hear;Titans and monstrous Forms inspiring these with fear;Heroes enthroned in Heaven, of whom their children tell;Pan of the forest, fauns and dryads of the dell;Chryselephantine gods to Art and Athens dear,Protectors of the deme, the spindle and the spear,—Once, only once I give you greeting and—farewell.Proud-vested charioteers of punctual sun and moon,Racing and wrestling in your diverse course divine,Ye stars of peace and war, ye rivers of the sea,Greeting! from one who will forget your name right soon;Farewell! the while I pass, and nevermore repineThe Perfect God in Man alone constraining me.
ZEUS! whom Prometheus first defied and failed to quell,Once, only once I call on you that cannot hear;Titans and monstrous Forms inspiring these with fear;Heroes enthroned in Heaven, of whom their children tell;Pan of the forest, fauns and dryads of the dell;Chryselephantine gods to Art and Athens dear,Protectors of the deme, the spindle and the spear,—Once, only once I give you greeting and—farewell.
Proud-vested charioteers of punctual sun and moon,Racing and wrestling in your diverse course divine,Ye stars of peace and war, ye rivers of the sea,Greeting! from one who will forget your name right soon;Farewell! the while I pass, and nevermore repineThe Perfect God in Man alone constraining me.
R. M. HEWITT(KEBLE)
WHEN I rode out of IspahanA thousand years ago,My horse’s hoofs were shod with gold,My turban rolled with gems untold,And the people louted low.My poet rode along with meAnd sang of old Irán,Of Rustem and of Rudabeh,And whiled away the summer dayAs only poets can.But now I march the Persian roadWith the devil of a pack;The jackals howl as we go by,And the fellows sigh and curse and cry,And my clothes are like a sack.And the palaces of IspahanAre full of owls and bats,And the truest poet that ever I knew,Whose roses grew in the Syrian dew,Lies dead at Davos Platz.
WHEN I rode out of IspahanA thousand years ago,My horse’s hoofs were shod with gold,My turban rolled with gems untold,And the people louted low.My poet rode along with meAnd sang of old Irán,Of Rustem and of Rudabeh,And whiled away the summer dayAs only poets can.But now I march the Persian roadWith the devil of a pack;The jackals howl as we go by,And the fellows sigh and curse and cry,And my clothes are like a sack.And the palaces of IspahanAre full of owls and bats,And the truest poet that ever I knew,Whose roses grew in the Syrian dew,Lies dead at Davos Platz.
WHEN I rode out of IspahanA thousand years ago,My horse’s hoofs were shod with gold,My turban rolled with gems untold,And the people louted low.
My poet rode along with meAnd sang of old Irán,Of Rustem and of Rudabeh,And whiled away the summer dayAs only poets can.
But now I march the Persian roadWith the devil of a pack;The jackals howl as we go by,And the fellows sigh and curse and cry,And my clothes are like a sack.
And the palaces of IspahanAre full of owls and bats,And the truest poet that ever I knew,Whose roses grew in the Syrian dew,Lies dead at Davos Platz.
IDREAMED that I was dead, and afterMy soul had passed its mortal barsI caught an echo of rolling laughterAcross the intervening stars.And all my fear was changed to wonder,I knew the rapture of the blest;To hear the immortal sons of thunderApplaud each day the immortal jest.
IDREAMED that I was dead, and afterMy soul had passed its mortal barsI caught an echo of rolling laughterAcross the intervening stars.And all my fear was changed to wonder,I knew the rapture of the blest;To hear the immortal sons of thunderApplaud each day the immortal jest.
IDREAMED that I was dead, and afterMy soul had passed its mortal barsI caught an echo of rolling laughterAcross the intervening stars.
And all my fear was changed to wonder,I knew the rapture of the blest;To hear the immortal sons of thunderApplaud each day the immortal jest.
E. E. ST. L. HILL(KEBLE)
THE sky illumed by evening’s magic lightReflected in the lake seems opal blue.The autumn sun glows with a radiance brightThat gives to everything an orange hue.The evening of the year draws on to night.No sound of arms within this hallowed placeComes to disturb us with the thought of strife.Unhindered I may gaze upon your face,My jewel of priceless worth—my Love—my Life—Forgetting I must leave you for a space.The woods around us, clothed in sombre gold,Robed for the great Death Pageant of the year,Grow dark. I strain you to my breast and holdYou there, whispering in your earStories of love you know ere they are told.Now I must go. But, when the blue-bells makeThe woods a carpet azure as the sky,Once more my darling in my arms I’ll take,Once more we’ll be together—you and I—And dream our dreams again and never wake.
THE sky illumed by evening’s magic lightReflected in the lake seems opal blue.The autumn sun glows with a radiance brightThat gives to everything an orange hue.The evening of the year draws on to night.No sound of arms within this hallowed placeComes to disturb us with the thought of strife.Unhindered I may gaze upon your face,My jewel of priceless worth—my Love—my Life—Forgetting I must leave you for a space.The woods around us, clothed in sombre gold,Robed for the great Death Pageant of the year,Grow dark. I strain you to my breast and holdYou there, whispering in your earStories of love you know ere they are told.Now I must go. But, when the blue-bells makeThe woods a carpet azure as the sky,Once more my darling in my arms I’ll take,Once more we’ll be together—you and I—And dream our dreams again and never wake.
THE sky illumed by evening’s magic lightReflected in the lake seems opal blue.The autumn sun glows with a radiance brightThat gives to everything an orange hue.The evening of the year draws on to night.
No sound of arms within this hallowed placeComes to disturb us with the thought of strife.Unhindered I may gaze upon your face,My jewel of priceless worth—my Love—my Life—Forgetting I must leave you for a space.
The woods around us, clothed in sombre gold,Robed for the great Death Pageant of the year,Grow dark. I strain you to my breast and holdYou there, whispering in your earStories of love you know ere they are told.
Now I must go. But, when the blue-bells makeThe woods a carpet azure as the sky,Once more my darling in my arms I’ll take,Once more we’ll be together—you and I—And dream our dreams again and never wake.
ALDOUS HUXLEY(BALLIOL)
THICK-flowered is the trellisThat hides our joysFrom prying eyes of maliceAnd all annoys,And we lie rosily bowered.Through the long afternoonsAnd evenings endlesslyDrawn out, when summer swoonsIn perfume windlessly,Sounds our light laughter,With whispered words betweenAnd silent kisses.None but the flowers have seenOur white caresses—Flowers and the bright-eyed birds.
THICK-flowered is the trellisThat hides our joysFrom prying eyes of maliceAnd all annoys,And we lie rosily bowered.Through the long afternoonsAnd evenings endlesslyDrawn out, when summer swoonsIn perfume windlessly,Sounds our light laughter,With whispered words betweenAnd silent kisses.None but the flowers have seenOur white caresses—Flowers and the bright-eyed birds.
THICK-flowered is the trellisThat hides our joysFrom prying eyes of maliceAnd all annoys,And we lie rosily bowered.
Through the long afternoonsAnd evenings endlesslyDrawn out, when summer swoonsIn perfume windlessly,Sounds our light laughter,
With whispered words betweenAnd silent kisses.None but the flowers have seenOur white caresses—Flowers and the bright-eyed birds.
MEN of a certain ageGrow sad rememberingTheir youth’s libertinage,Drinking and chambering.She, whom devotedlyOnce they solicited,Proves all too bloatedlyGross when revisitedTwenty years after,Sordid years,Oh, bitter laughterAnd bitter tears!
MEN of a certain ageGrow sad rememberingTheir youth’s libertinage,Drinking and chambering.She, whom devotedlyOnce they solicited,Proves all too bloatedlyGross when revisitedTwenty years after,Sordid years,Oh, bitter laughterAnd bitter tears!
MEN of a certain ageGrow sad rememberingTheir youth’s libertinage,Drinking and chambering.
She, whom devotedlyOnce they solicited,Proves all too bloatedlyGross when revisited
Twenty years after,Sordid years,Oh, bitter laughterAnd bitter tears!
SHEPHERD, to yon tall poplars tune your flute:Let them pierce, keenly, subtly shrill,The slow blue rumour of the hill;Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold,And the great sky be mute.Then hearken how the poplar trees unfoldTheir buds, yet close and gummed and blind,In airy leafage of the mind,Rustling in silvery whispers the twin-hued scalesThat fade not nor grow old.“Poplars and fountains and you cypress spiresSpringing in dark and rusty flame,Seek you aught that hath a name?Or say, say: Are you all an upward agonyOf undefined desires?“Say, are you happy in the golden marchOf sunlight all across the day?Or do you watch the uncertain wayThat leads the withering moon on cloudy stairsOver the heaven’s wide arch?“Is it towards sorrow or towards joy you liftThe sharpness of your trembling spears?Or do you seek, through the grey tearsThat blur the sky, in the heart of the triumphing blur,A deeper, calmer rift?”So; I have tuned my music to the trees,And there were voices, dim belowTheir shrillness, voices swelling slowIn the blue murmur of hills, and a golden cryAnd then vast silences.
SHEPHERD, to yon tall poplars tune your flute:Let them pierce, keenly, subtly shrill,The slow blue rumour of the hill;Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold,And the great sky be mute.Then hearken how the poplar trees unfoldTheir buds, yet close and gummed and blind,In airy leafage of the mind,Rustling in silvery whispers the twin-hued scalesThat fade not nor grow old.“Poplars and fountains and you cypress spiresSpringing in dark and rusty flame,Seek you aught that hath a name?Or say, say: Are you all an upward agonyOf undefined desires?“Say, are you happy in the golden marchOf sunlight all across the day?Or do you watch the uncertain wayThat leads the withering moon on cloudy stairsOver the heaven’s wide arch?“Is it towards sorrow or towards joy you liftThe sharpness of your trembling spears?Or do you seek, through the grey tearsThat blur the sky, in the heart of the triumphing blur,A deeper, calmer rift?”So; I have tuned my music to the trees,And there were voices, dim belowTheir shrillness, voices swelling slowIn the blue murmur of hills, and a golden cryAnd then vast silences.
SHEPHERD, to yon tall poplars tune your flute:Let them pierce, keenly, subtly shrill,The slow blue rumour of the hill;Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold,And the great sky be mute.
Then hearken how the poplar trees unfoldTheir buds, yet close and gummed and blind,In airy leafage of the mind,Rustling in silvery whispers the twin-hued scalesThat fade not nor grow old.
“Poplars and fountains and you cypress spiresSpringing in dark and rusty flame,Seek you aught that hath a name?Or say, say: Are you all an upward agonyOf undefined desires?
“Say, are you happy in the golden marchOf sunlight all across the day?Or do you watch the uncertain wayThat leads the withering moon on cloudy stairsOver the heaven’s wide arch?
“Is it towards sorrow or towards joy you liftThe sharpness of your trembling spears?Or do you seek, through the grey tearsThat blur the sky, in the heart of the triumphing blur,A deeper, calmer rift?”
So; I have tuned my music to the trees,And there were voices, dim belowTheir shrillness, voices swelling slowIn the blue murmur of hills, and a golden cryAnd then vast silences.
C. R. JURY(MAGDALEN)
YOUNG bright-plumed eagle, prince of pure heaven’s fire,Inhabitant of glory clothed in light,Exalt me to this new triumphant pyreThat burns the shades and monsters of our night,Vouchsafe thy spirit; touch me with the powerSo to desire, and so maintain my voiceAs thou, who in thy fair ascending hourHawk’st in the top of morning at thy joys;O mortal splendour in immortal beams,Or deathless ghost, who buildest out of dustAn edifice of temporal flame which seemsBeyond the movement of our change and rust,Though it must die; O sheer delight above me,Fountain of undescended love, I love thee.
YOUNG bright-plumed eagle, prince of pure heaven’s fire,Inhabitant of glory clothed in light,Exalt me to this new triumphant pyreThat burns the shades and monsters of our night,Vouchsafe thy spirit; touch me with the powerSo to desire, and so maintain my voiceAs thou, who in thy fair ascending hourHawk’st in the top of morning at thy joys;O mortal splendour in immortal beams,Or deathless ghost, who buildest out of dustAn edifice of temporal flame which seemsBeyond the movement of our change and rust,Though it must die; O sheer delight above me,Fountain of undescended love, I love thee.
YOUNG bright-plumed eagle, prince of pure heaven’s fire,Inhabitant of glory clothed in light,Exalt me to this new triumphant pyreThat burns the shades and monsters of our night,Vouchsafe thy spirit; touch me with the powerSo to desire, and so maintain my voiceAs thou, who in thy fair ascending hourHawk’st in the top of morning at thy joys;O mortal splendour in immortal beams,Or deathless ghost, who buildest out of dustAn edifice of temporal flame which seemsBeyond the movement of our change and rust,Though it must die; O sheer delight above me,Fountain of undescended love, I love thee.
YOU who shall come, exalt these childless deadAs your great fathers, from whose fire you are bred;The dead beget you now, for now they giveTheir hope of sons, that you, their sons, may live.
YOU who shall come, exalt these childless deadAs your great fathers, from whose fire you are bred;The dead beget you now, for now they giveTheir hope of sons, that you, their sons, may live.
YOU who shall come, exalt these childless deadAs your great fathers, from whose fire you are bred;The dead beget you now, for now they giveTheir hope of sons, that you, their sons, may live.
MARGARET LEIGH(SOMERVILLE)
OH, who will bid me rise againThat gambled with the souls of men?Those whose lives I signed awayWill meet me at the Judgment Day,My dead: cantheyforgive and pray?All honest men, pray for me, and pray well,Lest true men’s curses send the false to hell.
OH, who will bid me rise againThat gambled with the souls of men?Those whose lives I signed awayWill meet me at the Judgment Day,My dead: cantheyforgive and pray?All honest men, pray for me, and pray well,Lest true men’s curses send the false to hell.
OH, who will bid me rise againThat gambled with the souls of men?Those whose lives I signed awayWill meet me at the Judgment Day,My dead: cantheyforgive and pray?All honest men, pray for me, and pray well,Lest true men’s curses send the false to hell.
IFATTENED on the blood and tearsOf these long laborious years;Out of loss came forth my gain,Watered by another’s pain:Who shall bid me rise again?Pray for me, all poor men, and pray right well,Lest poor men’s curses bring the rich to hell.
IFATTENED on the blood and tearsOf these long laborious years;Out of loss came forth my gain,Watered by another’s pain:Who shall bid me rise again?Pray for me, all poor men, and pray right well,Lest poor men’s curses bring the rich to hell.
IFATTENED on the blood and tearsOf these long laborious years;Out of loss came forth my gain,Watered by another’s pain:Who shall bid me rise again?Pray for me, all poor men, and pray right well,Lest poor men’s curses bring the rich to hell.
HE called for blood, and would not shed his own,He sat at ease, and sent young men to dieWith his strong pen; he was the enemyStalking at noontide, by whose hand were sownRank tares among us—love of country grownTo poisonous cant, and blind hostility.He forged a chain to lead the people by,A chain of words, rattling with strident tone.He battened on men’s selfishness and fear,He pulled the strings that shook their statesmen down;The people were content to sit and hearHis platitudes, and tremble at his frown,And followed him with meek attentive earTill His Mendacity assumed the crown.
HE called for blood, and would not shed his own,He sat at ease, and sent young men to dieWith his strong pen; he was the enemyStalking at noontide, by whose hand were sownRank tares among us—love of country grownTo poisonous cant, and blind hostility.He forged a chain to lead the people by,A chain of words, rattling with strident tone.He battened on men’s selfishness and fear,He pulled the strings that shook their statesmen down;The people were content to sit and hearHis platitudes, and tremble at his frown,And followed him with meek attentive earTill His Mendacity assumed the crown.
HE called for blood, and would not shed his own,He sat at ease, and sent young men to dieWith his strong pen; he was the enemyStalking at noontide, by whose hand were sownRank tares among us—love of country grownTo poisonous cant, and blind hostility.He forged a chain to lead the people by,A chain of words, rattling with strident tone.He battened on men’s selfishness and fear,He pulled the strings that shook their statesmen down;The people were content to sit and hearHis platitudes, and tremble at his frown,And followed him with meek attentive earTill His Mendacity assumed the crown.
E. H. W. MEYERSTEIN(MAGDALEN)
EVIL birds of evil featherNight and storm are met together,Bitter gale and dripping wrackUnforetold by almanack.Come, Lucasta, bolt the doorWhile I grave upon the floorCircle wide, and strew aroundPentacles to guard the groundWhen the solemn fiends appearIn fulfilment of our prayer;For though Cimon scorn thy sightHe shall sleep with thee to-night.Wond’rest not how I, a croneWhom no crippled lout would ownHis paramour, have strength to flingThe loveless ’neath his true love’s wing.The old are strong, the young are fair,And thou, wan leaf, whom eager careSpirits to this world-shop of mine,Shalt for this hour see things divine.Thou trustest that my uglinessShall dissipate thy soul’s distress.Yea, though he loathe Lucasta bright,Cimon shall sleep with her to-night.See yon dun familiar toadThat infecteth my abodeWith sage humours; stroke his head.Now he sleeps as he were dead.Yet must he hearken to the charmWatching that we take no harm,For spirits are fickle as men areAnd called to help may come to war.He wakes; now will I cease my croakAnd read the grand words from this bookThat he who recks not of our riteMay sleep with her who loves to-night.Arise, ye majesties of flameExhorted by Jehovah’s name,That all things to itself hath won,The almighty Tetragrammaton.Paymon, Belphegor, ye that err,Tried spaniel-friends to LuciferAnd him whose red and gusty eyesCaptain the legions of the flies,Attend with ceremonious hum,Conjure the light o’ love to comeInfirm of step, infirm of sight,To sleep with her who loves to-night.Lucasta, see the lamp burns blue.Spirits, have we this boon of you?In the smoke their faces nod,He shall come though he were God.Shake not, girl, thy love they sayConquers—Spirits frisk away;By the powers that raised you, henceTo your depths. Ye have licence.So, they are vanished. Why so frail?Once more the wick gleams yellow pale,The smokewreaths whirl to left and right,Cimon shall sleep with thee to-night.He comes; his hand is on the latch,The owlet shrieks above the thatch,Unbolt, unbolt—scatter the yew,The tripod, and the cauldron’s brew.Cimon, Lucasta, hails thee now,The star of fate is on his brow,His eyes grow moist, his bosom warms,Receive him in thy weary arms,Loveliest! By Thessalian mightHe sleeps with her he loves to-night.
EVIL birds of evil featherNight and storm are met together,Bitter gale and dripping wrackUnforetold by almanack.Come, Lucasta, bolt the doorWhile I grave upon the floorCircle wide, and strew aroundPentacles to guard the groundWhen the solemn fiends appearIn fulfilment of our prayer;For though Cimon scorn thy sightHe shall sleep with thee to-night.Wond’rest not how I, a croneWhom no crippled lout would ownHis paramour, have strength to flingThe loveless ’neath his true love’s wing.The old are strong, the young are fair,And thou, wan leaf, whom eager careSpirits to this world-shop of mine,Shalt for this hour see things divine.Thou trustest that my uglinessShall dissipate thy soul’s distress.Yea, though he loathe Lucasta bright,Cimon shall sleep with her to-night.See yon dun familiar toadThat infecteth my abodeWith sage humours; stroke his head.Now he sleeps as he were dead.Yet must he hearken to the charmWatching that we take no harm,For spirits are fickle as men areAnd called to help may come to war.He wakes; now will I cease my croakAnd read the grand words from this bookThat he who recks not of our riteMay sleep with her who loves to-night.Arise, ye majesties of flameExhorted by Jehovah’s name,That all things to itself hath won,The almighty Tetragrammaton.Paymon, Belphegor, ye that err,Tried spaniel-friends to LuciferAnd him whose red and gusty eyesCaptain the legions of the flies,Attend with ceremonious hum,Conjure the light o’ love to comeInfirm of step, infirm of sight,To sleep with her who loves to-night.Lucasta, see the lamp burns blue.Spirits, have we this boon of you?In the smoke their faces nod,He shall come though he were God.Shake not, girl, thy love they sayConquers—Spirits frisk away;By the powers that raised you, henceTo your depths. Ye have licence.So, they are vanished. Why so frail?Once more the wick gleams yellow pale,The smokewreaths whirl to left and right,Cimon shall sleep with thee to-night.He comes; his hand is on the latch,The owlet shrieks above the thatch,Unbolt, unbolt—scatter the yew,The tripod, and the cauldron’s brew.Cimon, Lucasta, hails thee now,The star of fate is on his brow,His eyes grow moist, his bosom warms,Receive him in thy weary arms,Loveliest! By Thessalian mightHe sleeps with her he loves to-night.
EVIL birds of evil featherNight and storm are met together,Bitter gale and dripping wrackUnforetold by almanack.Come, Lucasta, bolt the doorWhile I grave upon the floorCircle wide, and strew aroundPentacles to guard the groundWhen the solemn fiends appearIn fulfilment of our prayer;For though Cimon scorn thy sightHe shall sleep with thee to-night.
Wond’rest not how I, a croneWhom no crippled lout would ownHis paramour, have strength to flingThe loveless ’neath his true love’s wing.The old are strong, the young are fair,And thou, wan leaf, whom eager careSpirits to this world-shop of mine,Shalt for this hour see things divine.Thou trustest that my uglinessShall dissipate thy soul’s distress.Yea, though he loathe Lucasta bright,Cimon shall sleep with her to-night.
See yon dun familiar toadThat infecteth my abodeWith sage humours; stroke his head.Now he sleeps as he were dead.Yet must he hearken to the charmWatching that we take no harm,For spirits are fickle as men areAnd called to help may come to war.He wakes; now will I cease my croakAnd read the grand words from this bookThat he who recks not of our riteMay sleep with her who loves to-night.
Arise, ye majesties of flameExhorted by Jehovah’s name,That all things to itself hath won,The almighty Tetragrammaton.Paymon, Belphegor, ye that err,Tried spaniel-friends to LuciferAnd him whose red and gusty eyesCaptain the legions of the flies,Attend with ceremonious hum,Conjure the light o’ love to comeInfirm of step, infirm of sight,To sleep with her who loves to-night.
Lucasta, see the lamp burns blue.Spirits, have we this boon of you?In the smoke their faces nod,He shall come though he were God.Shake not, girl, thy love they sayConquers—Spirits frisk away;By the powers that raised you, henceTo your depths. Ye have licence.So, they are vanished. Why so frail?Once more the wick gleams yellow pale,The smokewreaths whirl to left and right,Cimon shall sleep with thee to-night.
He comes; his hand is on the latch,The owlet shrieks above the thatch,Unbolt, unbolt—scatter the yew,The tripod, and the cauldron’s brew.Cimon, Lucasta, hails thee now,The star of fate is on his brow,His eyes grow moist, his bosom warms,Receive him in thy weary arms,Loveliest! By Thessalian mightHe sleeps with her he loves to-night.
ROBERT NICHOLS(TRINITY)
Shepherd.Thus found he his loved Galatea fledWith Acis! What rage ensued thou knowest.Deceived, dejected, foiled, and overthrownIn hoarse distraction a full sev’n days’ termHe ranged, but on the eighth no more was glimpsedStriding from vale to vale nor, raging, heardSplintering the pine-slope nigh the precipiceWith fist far flung nor with a desolateThunder of voice, volleyed from scarp to jag,Dislodging from steep snowfields friths compactIn downward avalanche: less loud than he.And no tide had we of him, save by chanceThe while I wandered seeking a strayed goatThrough seaward vales, I happen’d on him.Girl.Ah!Lubberly still poor wretch? or quiet grown?Shepherd.He on an ocean pinnacle of rockSat, scowling, motionless. In truth he seemedRather a further buttress of the cragThan a giant, helpless and unhappy being.About his brooding bulk all day the birds,The slippery swallow, the pois’d martin,Lifted or swept a-scatter ev’n as when,Chatting, such gad around the ravaged mienOf the colossal Pharaoh or twin godsHawk-headed and immense of ancient Egypt.Thus grieved he. And the huge begnarlèd handsPillared his jaw. A chillness gloomed his faceAs on bare hills shadow of moveless cloud.Nor spake he aught. But when the sun raged highGrappling a rock he dashed it ’gainst his breastAnd roared till the golden-green sea blackenedAnd spouting drove, loud with careering gulls,Before his gusty breath; but passion spentDropping then pined, while from the single eyeOne tear, as huge and hot as Phlegethon,Fell in a hissing flood.Girl.Alas, poor brute!And yet I laugh.Shepherd.Longtime in sufferanceBowed he his massy head, quite dumb with grief.But, at the last, confusedly arousingHis sluggish hands, groped for and found his pipesTwin, dry, boughless trunks of beech fire-hollowedAnd with huge cinder bored. This pair he setTo cave-like mouth, then, pursing hairy lips,Vented, with monster fingers laid on stops,His heart’s deep sorrow: ’twas a wounding sound.Girl.And was it angry, then, the giant’s plaint?Shepherd.Angry ’twas not: though anger in it spakeAs of a rebel turning eye to heav’nWith moody imprecation naturalTo one so crossed from birth. MelancholyLent majesty to strains uncouth. He mournedThe gift of might which is his mightiest foe.Mourned! though the dire pipes themselves rebellingCame apt not to his hand. With rage he shookYet, obstinate, subdued them to his moodSo that they brimmed the dusky lower air,The fire-strewn skies, flushed cliffs and tawny seaWith the beauty borne of desolation.Thus lingered he.Girl.And of the tune itself,Ugly, was it?Shepherd.Listen: when twilight fell,While the near wave lapsed with but seldom foam,Darkling against the light foretells the moon,He still played on. “Strange end,” thought I, “thou hast,Poor fool whose all of life is ended now,Saving the music thou canst make of it.”Since, as I think, his heart is shipwrecked now:Heart, but not song! For as the night waxed lateSomewhat of beauty found he and with beautySomewhat of solace. To the last I listenedThe while th’ unbroken moon rocked in the tideAnd multitudes of sea-sprites, glistering,Rose up in choir, but, sudden, hushed to hearSuch grief pine on. Thus somewhat was the sound—Like to the muffled wind among the cragsWhen night is clear, without or stars or moon,And lightless clouds drift on a lightless sky;Or as the mournful blowing of the waves,Which in the pyloned gloom of northern caveNightly with flood soon-swallowed and dischargeOf pouring foam, deep tide and troubled ebb,Makes profound plaint and dreary melodyTo lightless waste, huge night and solemn stars.Such was the Cyclops’ music.Girl.Ah, poor soul!Shepherd.Dost weep?Girl.Yes, shepherd.Shepherd.Fie, now; comfort thee!The gods wax angry at a lass’s tearsWho has no whit to cry for. Thus say I,Those there are who ev’n by living darkenThe lives of such as are less passionateYet in their fall, by ev’n the full measureThat they o’ertopped us, must we mourn for them,Such wonder has Life bared.Girl.Maybe ’tis so;Still I am sorry.Shepherd.Yield thee now thine arm.So: round my neck as mine sinks now round thine....Evening falls. Hear the brook in the spinney:Thy very voice.Girl.And ... is yon star Venus?Shepherd.Aye: Venus ’tis. Thou hast eyes like heaven.Girl.Love is a pretty thing. Kiss me, sweet shepherd.
Shepherd.Thus found he his loved Galatea fledWith Acis! What rage ensued thou knowest.Deceived, dejected, foiled, and overthrownIn hoarse distraction a full sev’n days’ termHe ranged, but on the eighth no more was glimpsedStriding from vale to vale nor, raging, heardSplintering the pine-slope nigh the precipiceWith fist far flung nor with a desolateThunder of voice, volleyed from scarp to jag,Dislodging from steep snowfields friths compactIn downward avalanche: less loud than he.And no tide had we of him, save by chanceThe while I wandered seeking a strayed goatThrough seaward vales, I happen’d on him.Girl.Ah!Lubberly still poor wretch? or quiet grown?Shepherd.He on an ocean pinnacle of rockSat, scowling, motionless. In truth he seemedRather a further buttress of the cragThan a giant, helpless and unhappy being.About his brooding bulk all day the birds,The slippery swallow, the pois’d martin,Lifted or swept a-scatter ev’n as when,Chatting, such gad around the ravaged mienOf the colossal Pharaoh or twin godsHawk-headed and immense of ancient Egypt.Thus grieved he. And the huge begnarlèd handsPillared his jaw. A chillness gloomed his faceAs on bare hills shadow of moveless cloud.Nor spake he aught. But when the sun raged highGrappling a rock he dashed it ’gainst his breastAnd roared till the golden-green sea blackenedAnd spouting drove, loud with careering gulls,Before his gusty breath; but passion spentDropping then pined, while from the single eyeOne tear, as huge and hot as Phlegethon,Fell in a hissing flood.Girl.Alas, poor brute!And yet I laugh.Shepherd.Longtime in sufferanceBowed he his massy head, quite dumb with grief.But, at the last, confusedly arousingHis sluggish hands, groped for and found his pipesTwin, dry, boughless trunks of beech fire-hollowedAnd with huge cinder bored. This pair he setTo cave-like mouth, then, pursing hairy lips,Vented, with monster fingers laid on stops,His heart’s deep sorrow: ’twas a wounding sound.Girl.And was it angry, then, the giant’s plaint?Shepherd.Angry ’twas not: though anger in it spakeAs of a rebel turning eye to heav’nWith moody imprecation naturalTo one so crossed from birth. MelancholyLent majesty to strains uncouth. He mournedThe gift of might which is his mightiest foe.Mourned! though the dire pipes themselves rebellingCame apt not to his hand. With rage he shookYet, obstinate, subdued them to his moodSo that they brimmed the dusky lower air,The fire-strewn skies, flushed cliffs and tawny seaWith the beauty borne of desolation.Thus lingered he.Girl.And of the tune itself,Ugly, was it?Shepherd.Listen: when twilight fell,While the near wave lapsed with but seldom foam,Darkling against the light foretells the moon,He still played on. “Strange end,” thought I, “thou hast,Poor fool whose all of life is ended now,Saving the music thou canst make of it.”Since, as I think, his heart is shipwrecked now:Heart, but not song! For as the night waxed lateSomewhat of beauty found he and with beautySomewhat of solace. To the last I listenedThe while th’ unbroken moon rocked in the tideAnd multitudes of sea-sprites, glistering,Rose up in choir, but, sudden, hushed to hearSuch grief pine on. Thus somewhat was the sound—Like to the muffled wind among the cragsWhen night is clear, without or stars or moon,And lightless clouds drift on a lightless sky;Or as the mournful blowing of the waves,Which in the pyloned gloom of northern caveNightly with flood soon-swallowed and dischargeOf pouring foam, deep tide and troubled ebb,Makes profound plaint and dreary melodyTo lightless waste, huge night and solemn stars.Such was the Cyclops’ music.Girl.Ah, poor soul!Shepherd.Dost weep?Girl.Yes, shepherd.Shepherd.Fie, now; comfort thee!The gods wax angry at a lass’s tearsWho has no whit to cry for. Thus say I,Those there are who ev’n by living darkenThe lives of such as are less passionateYet in their fall, by ev’n the full measureThat they o’ertopped us, must we mourn for them,Such wonder has Life bared.Girl.Maybe ’tis so;Still I am sorry.Shepherd.Yield thee now thine arm.So: round my neck as mine sinks now round thine....Evening falls. Hear the brook in the spinney:Thy very voice.Girl.And ... is yon star Venus?Shepherd.Aye: Venus ’tis. Thou hast eyes like heaven.Girl.Love is a pretty thing. Kiss me, sweet shepherd.
Shepherd.Thus found he his loved Galatea fledWith Acis! What rage ensued thou knowest.Deceived, dejected, foiled, and overthrownIn hoarse distraction a full sev’n days’ termHe ranged, but on the eighth no more was glimpsedStriding from vale to vale nor, raging, heardSplintering the pine-slope nigh the precipiceWith fist far flung nor with a desolateThunder of voice, volleyed from scarp to jag,Dislodging from steep snowfields friths compactIn downward avalanche: less loud than he.And no tide had we of him, save by chanceThe while I wandered seeking a strayed goatThrough seaward vales, I happen’d on him.
Girl.Ah!Lubberly still poor wretch? or quiet grown?
Shepherd.He on an ocean pinnacle of rockSat, scowling, motionless. In truth he seemedRather a further buttress of the cragThan a giant, helpless and unhappy being.About his brooding bulk all day the birds,The slippery swallow, the pois’d martin,Lifted or swept a-scatter ev’n as when,Chatting, such gad around the ravaged mienOf the colossal Pharaoh or twin godsHawk-headed and immense of ancient Egypt.Thus grieved he. And the huge begnarlèd handsPillared his jaw. A chillness gloomed his faceAs on bare hills shadow of moveless cloud.Nor spake he aught. But when the sun raged highGrappling a rock he dashed it ’gainst his breastAnd roared till the golden-green sea blackenedAnd spouting drove, loud with careering gulls,Before his gusty breath; but passion spentDropping then pined, while from the single eyeOne tear, as huge and hot as Phlegethon,Fell in a hissing flood.
Girl.Alas, poor brute!And yet I laugh.
Shepherd.Longtime in sufferanceBowed he his massy head, quite dumb with grief.But, at the last, confusedly arousingHis sluggish hands, groped for and found his pipesTwin, dry, boughless trunks of beech fire-hollowedAnd with huge cinder bored. This pair he setTo cave-like mouth, then, pursing hairy lips,Vented, with monster fingers laid on stops,His heart’s deep sorrow: ’twas a wounding sound.
Girl.And was it angry, then, the giant’s plaint?
Shepherd.Angry ’twas not: though anger in it spakeAs of a rebel turning eye to heav’nWith moody imprecation naturalTo one so crossed from birth. MelancholyLent majesty to strains uncouth. He mournedThe gift of might which is his mightiest foe.Mourned! though the dire pipes themselves rebellingCame apt not to his hand. With rage he shookYet, obstinate, subdued them to his moodSo that they brimmed the dusky lower air,The fire-strewn skies, flushed cliffs and tawny seaWith the beauty borne of desolation.Thus lingered he.
Girl.And of the tune itself,Ugly, was it?
Shepherd.Listen: when twilight fell,While the near wave lapsed with but seldom foam,Darkling against the light foretells the moon,He still played on. “Strange end,” thought I, “thou hast,Poor fool whose all of life is ended now,Saving the music thou canst make of it.”Since, as I think, his heart is shipwrecked now:Heart, but not song! For as the night waxed lateSomewhat of beauty found he and with beautySomewhat of solace. To the last I listenedThe while th’ unbroken moon rocked in the tideAnd multitudes of sea-sprites, glistering,Rose up in choir, but, sudden, hushed to hearSuch grief pine on. Thus somewhat was the sound—Like to the muffled wind among the cragsWhen night is clear, without or stars or moon,And lightless clouds drift on a lightless sky;Or as the mournful blowing of the waves,Which in the pyloned gloom of northern caveNightly with flood soon-swallowed and dischargeOf pouring foam, deep tide and troubled ebb,Makes profound plaint and dreary melodyTo lightless waste, huge night and solemn stars.Such was the Cyclops’ music.
Girl.Ah, poor soul!
Shepherd.Dost weep?
Girl.Yes, shepherd.
Shepherd.Fie, now; comfort thee!The gods wax angry at a lass’s tearsWho has no whit to cry for. Thus say I,Those there are who ev’n by living darkenThe lives of such as are less passionateYet in their fall, by ev’n the full measureThat they o’ertopped us, must we mourn for them,Such wonder has Life bared.
Girl.Maybe ’tis so;Still I am sorry.
Shepherd.Yield thee now thine arm.So: round my neck as mine sinks now round thine....Evening falls. Hear the brook in the spinney:Thy very voice.
Girl.And ... is yon star Venus?
Shepherd.Aye: Venus ’tis. Thou hast eyes like heaven.
Girl.Love is a pretty thing. Kiss me, sweet shepherd.
L. RICE-OXLEY(KEBLE)
ONE slender relic from the wreck of death,One golden hair from that far age,A gleaming memory, a momentary breathOf mystic times and Merlin sage!This only trace of that far-famous queenAnd of her beauty causing sinRecalled what Lancelot had whilom seen,What fame his compeers sought to win.Swift as a monk stoops down to grasp that hairThe golden glint dissolves to dust,And naught of that old glory lieth thereBut bones, and armour gone to rust.Seek ye not thus to clutch the golden pastOf legend and romance, for soIts splendour will dissolve and nothing lastBut Now, and dust of long ago.
ONE slender relic from the wreck of death,One golden hair from that far age,A gleaming memory, a momentary breathOf mystic times and Merlin sage!This only trace of that far-famous queenAnd of her beauty causing sinRecalled what Lancelot had whilom seen,What fame his compeers sought to win.Swift as a monk stoops down to grasp that hairThe golden glint dissolves to dust,And naught of that old glory lieth thereBut bones, and armour gone to rust.Seek ye not thus to clutch the golden pastOf legend and romance, for soIts splendour will dissolve and nothing lastBut Now, and dust of long ago.
ONE slender relic from the wreck of death,One golden hair from that far age,A gleaming memory, a momentary breathOf mystic times and Merlin sage!
This only trace of that far-famous queenAnd of her beauty causing sinRecalled what Lancelot had whilom seen,What fame his compeers sought to win.
Swift as a monk stoops down to grasp that hairThe golden glint dissolves to dust,And naught of that old glory lieth thereBut bones, and armour gone to rust.
Seek ye not thus to clutch the golden pastOf legend and romance, for soIts splendour will dissolve and nothing lastBut Now, and dust of long ago.
[A]A tradition says that the grave was opened in the time of Henry II., and that all that remained of the royal pair was a hair, which too turned to dust as a monk stooped down to pick it up.
[A]A tradition says that the grave was opened in the time of Henry II., and that all that remained of the royal pair was a hair, which too turned to dust as a monk stooped down to pick it up.
DOROTHY L. SAYERS(SOMERVILLE)
Therefore one day, as all flesh must, she died,Just as the mowers brought the last load inFrom happy meadows warm with summer-tide,And through the open casement, far and thin,The nightingale’s first music did begin.“Love is the sum of this world’s whole delight,Love,” said the bird, “the ending of desire,Love brought us, timid, forth to the lovely light,Love the sole outlet, love, both toil and hire,Love, with whose death the songs of life expire.”Yet, as the limbs turned stone and bitter-cold,Widowed Pygmalion sat beside the bed,Huddling dry-eyed to see the new grown oldAgain so strangely, and his clamorous headJarred him with discourse; and at length he said:“Marble, my white girl, marble! Cyprian thighsAnd amorous bosom all made chaste once more,As though no lips had ever kissed thine eyesTo slumber—virgin as they were, beforeThe feet of Venus glowed along the floor!...“Thy beauty should have made the workman blindThat found thee buried in the dust of thronesHereafter, when our pomps are left behindLike some strange, sprawling scale of barbarous tones,Our temples turned to curious heaps of stones;“When by the highways merchant folk shall goThree feet of earth above our walls and towers,And other than Grecian ships bear to and froNew wares, new men, and all as brief as flowers—Thou hadst outlasted all that time devours.“But thou art dead; thou art flesh and art dead;The grave will be thy lover, thy round breastNourish the worm, while, shred by ghastly shred,The mouth that laughed, the fingers that caressed,Wither, O dearest of my works and best!...“What have I gained? some mornings when my soulLeaped out of me into the arms of day,When the world, like a chariot, span in my own control,Times when I saw the beech-tree leaves a-swayAnd knew how green they were and far from grey.“Say I learned joy—this was indeed a gain;But can I face the reckoning unafraid?For joy I bartered, first, that ancient painWhich stabbed me into vision; next, betrayedAll that men looked for in me; thus I paid.“Yea, I that rated at a small amountThat strange, cold jewel, purchased unawares,Men’s gratitude—I that no longer countFor anything in any man’s affairs,Am doubtful now; thus the gods grant our prayers.“Ay me undone! The world cries out to me:‘Pygmalion the sculptor, where art thou?’—Buried indeed, O buried hopelesslyFathom-deep under, fathom-deep under now—The curious rootlets pry about his brow ...“There is no remedy; what is changed is changed;No skill can rub out wrinkles from the heart,Nor even God knit friends that are estrangedAs innocently again as at the start,Since they must keep the memory of that smart“For good or evil still. So I returnNever to that old quiet which asked no beatOf answering pulse, content alone to burn,While no fierce hand might fret thy bosom sweet,Nor any lover come betwixt thy feet.“I wrought thee for the world, and then thou wastImmortal—and I wept uncomforted;But since I made thee mine—O thou art lostTo me and all men. I was glad,” he said,“But thou art dead, O thou art dead, art dead.”
Therefore one day, as all flesh must, she died,Just as the mowers brought the last load inFrom happy meadows warm with summer-tide,And through the open casement, far and thin,The nightingale’s first music did begin.“Love is the sum of this world’s whole delight,Love,” said the bird, “the ending of desire,Love brought us, timid, forth to the lovely light,Love the sole outlet, love, both toil and hire,Love, with whose death the songs of life expire.”Yet, as the limbs turned stone and bitter-cold,Widowed Pygmalion sat beside the bed,Huddling dry-eyed to see the new grown oldAgain so strangely, and his clamorous headJarred him with discourse; and at length he said:“Marble, my white girl, marble! Cyprian thighsAnd amorous bosom all made chaste once more,As though no lips had ever kissed thine eyesTo slumber—virgin as they were, beforeThe feet of Venus glowed along the floor!...“Thy beauty should have made the workman blindThat found thee buried in the dust of thronesHereafter, when our pomps are left behindLike some strange, sprawling scale of barbarous tones,Our temples turned to curious heaps of stones;“When by the highways merchant folk shall goThree feet of earth above our walls and towers,And other than Grecian ships bear to and froNew wares, new men, and all as brief as flowers—Thou hadst outlasted all that time devours.“But thou art dead; thou art flesh and art dead;The grave will be thy lover, thy round breastNourish the worm, while, shred by ghastly shred,The mouth that laughed, the fingers that caressed,Wither, O dearest of my works and best!...“What have I gained? some mornings when my soulLeaped out of me into the arms of day,When the world, like a chariot, span in my own control,Times when I saw the beech-tree leaves a-swayAnd knew how green they were and far from grey.“Say I learned joy—this was indeed a gain;But can I face the reckoning unafraid?For joy I bartered, first, that ancient painWhich stabbed me into vision; next, betrayedAll that men looked for in me; thus I paid.“Yea, I that rated at a small amountThat strange, cold jewel, purchased unawares,Men’s gratitude—I that no longer countFor anything in any man’s affairs,Am doubtful now; thus the gods grant our prayers.“Ay me undone! The world cries out to me:‘Pygmalion the sculptor, where art thou?’—Buried indeed, O buried hopelesslyFathom-deep under, fathom-deep under now—The curious rootlets pry about his brow ...“There is no remedy; what is changed is changed;No skill can rub out wrinkles from the heart,Nor even God knit friends that are estrangedAs innocently again as at the start,Since they must keep the memory of that smart“For good or evil still. So I returnNever to that old quiet which asked no beatOf answering pulse, content alone to burn,While no fierce hand might fret thy bosom sweet,Nor any lover come betwixt thy feet.“I wrought thee for the world, and then thou wastImmortal—and I wept uncomforted;But since I made thee mine—O thou art lostTo me and all men. I was glad,” he said,“But thou art dead, O thou art dead, art dead.”
Therefore one day, as all flesh must, she died,Just as the mowers brought the last load inFrom happy meadows warm with summer-tide,And through the open casement, far and thin,The nightingale’s first music did begin.
“Love is the sum of this world’s whole delight,Love,” said the bird, “the ending of desire,Love brought us, timid, forth to the lovely light,Love the sole outlet, love, both toil and hire,Love, with whose death the songs of life expire.”
Yet, as the limbs turned stone and bitter-cold,Widowed Pygmalion sat beside the bed,Huddling dry-eyed to see the new grown oldAgain so strangely, and his clamorous headJarred him with discourse; and at length he said:
“Marble, my white girl, marble! Cyprian thighsAnd amorous bosom all made chaste once more,As though no lips had ever kissed thine eyesTo slumber—virgin as they were, beforeThe feet of Venus glowed along the floor!...
“Thy beauty should have made the workman blindThat found thee buried in the dust of thronesHereafter, when our pomps are left behindLike some strange, sprawling scale of barbarous tones,Our temples turned to curious heaps of stones;
“When by the highways merchant folk shall goThree feet of earth above our walls and towers,And other than Grecian ships bear to and froNew wares, new men, and all as brief as flowers—Thou hadst outlasted all that time devours.
“But thou art dead; thou art flesh and art dead;The grave will be thy lover, thy round breastNourish the worm, while, shred by ghastly shred,The mouth that laughed, the fingers that caressed,Wither, O dearest of my works and best!...
“What have I gained? some mornings when my soulLeaped out of me into the arms of day,When the world, like a chariot, span in my own control,Times when I saw the beech-tree leaves a-swayAnd knew how green they were and far from grey.
“Say I learned joy—this was indeed a gain;But can I face the reckoning unafraid?For joy I bartered, first, that ancient painWhich stabbed me into vision; next, betrayedAll that men looked for in me; thus I paid.
“Yea, I that rated at a small amountThat strange, cold jewel, purchased unawares,Men’s gratitude—I that no longer countFor anything in any man’s affairs,Am doubtful now; thus the gods grant our prayers.
“Ay me undone! The world cries out to me:‘Pygmalion the sculptor, where art thou?’—Buried indeed, O buried hopelesslyFathom-deep under, fathom-deep under now—The curious rootlets pry about his brow ...
“There is no remedy; what is changed is changed;No skill can rub out wrinkles from the heart,Nor even God knit friends that are estrangedAs innocently again as at the start,Since they must keep the memory of that smart
“For good or evil still. So I returnNever to that old quiet which asked no beatOf answering pulse, content alone to burn,While no fierce hand might fret thy bosom sweet,Nor any lover come betwixt thy feet.
“I wrought thee for the world, and then thou wastImmortal—and I wept uncomforted;But since I made thee mine—O thou art lostTo me and all men. I was glad,” he said,“But thou art dead, O thou art dead, art dead.”
HELEN SIMPSON(HOME STUDENT)
EVERY day at ten to three,Be the weather wet or warm,I doff my identity,And assume a uniform.Clad in this I sally out,Cause considerable stir,Order nobodies aboutAs becomes an Officer;Freeze the surreptitious smileWith a chill severity—Longing all the weary whileFor the unregenerate Me.But when my release is earnedAnd I am at home, secure,My identity has turnedUnexpectedly demure.Why? I enter rather lateAnd My manner when we meet,Seems, I fear, to indicateThe repentant indiscreet.I, thus tantalized by MeSpend an irritated day;Now the question seems to be—What goes on when I’m away?
EVERY day at ten to three,Be the weather wet or warm,I doff my identity,And assume a uniform.Clad in this I sally out,Cause considerable stir,Order nobodies aboutAs becomes an Officer;Freeze the surreptitious smileWith a chill severity—Longing all the weary whileFor the unregenerate Me.But when my release is earnedAnd I am at home, secure,My identity has turnedUnexpectedly demure.Why? I enter rather lateAnd My manner when we meet,Seems, I fear, to indicateThe repentant indiscreet.I, thus tantalized by MeSpend an irritated day;Now the question seems to be—What goes on when I’m away?
EVERY day at ten to three,Be the weather wet or warm,I doff my identity,And assume a uniform.Clad in this I sally out,Cause considerable stir,Order nobodies aboutAs becomes an Officer;Freeze the surreptitious smileWith a chill severity—Longing all the weary whileFor the unregenerate Me.But when my release is earnedAnd I am at home, secure,My identity has turnedUnexpectedly demure.Why? I enter rather lateAnd My manner when we meet,Seems, I fear, to indicateThe repentant indiscreet.I, thus tantalized by MeSpend an irritated day;Now the question seems to be—What goes on when I’m away?
IWAS watching as you flewCircling in the summer sky;Round about you thoughts I threw,Every bit as swift as you,Every bit as high.Out of cloud a palace springs,Domes and minarets and towers,Bastions, where the trumpet ringsAnd my topmost turret swingsHigh about the showers.You were captain in the skiesNimble as a darting sword—Of the company of spiesWho my castle from surpriseVigilantly ward.Wheeling, darting, unawareThat you were the warden boldOf my palace towering there,Of its battlements of airAnd its roofs of gold.All unheeding trumpet callsDown you plunged from out the blue;Warderless the silver wells,And my airy castle fallsSwifter far than you.
IWAS watching as you flewCircling in the summer sky;Round about you thoughts I threw,Every bit as swift as you,Every bit as high.Out of cloud a palace springs,Domes and minarets and towers,Bastions, where the trumpet ringsAnd my topmost turret swingsHigh about the showers.You were captain in the skiesNimble as a darting sword—Of the company of spiesWho my castle from surpriseVigilantly ward.Wheeling, darting, unawareThat you were the warden boldOf my palace towering there,Of its battlements of airAnd its roofs of gold.All unheeding trumpet callsDown you plunged from out the blue;Warderless the silver wells,And my airy castle fallsSwifter far than you.
IWAS watching as you flewCircling in the summer sky;Round about you thoughts I threw,Every bit as swift as you,Every bit as high.
Out of cloud a palace springs,Domes and minarets and towers,Bastions, where the trumpet ringsAnd my topmost turret swingsHigh about the showers.
You were captain in the skiesNimble as a darting sword—Of the company of spiesWho my castle from surpriseVigilantly ward.
Wheeling, darting, unawareThat you were the warden boldOf my palace towering there,Of its battlements of airAnd its roofs of gold.
All unheeding trumpet callsDown you plunged from out the blue;Warderless the silver wells,And my airy castle fallsSwifter far than you.
L. A. G. STRONG(WADHAM)
IN the darkening church,Where but a few had stayed,At the Litany DeskThe idiot knelt and prayed.Rufus, stunted, uncouth.The one son of his mother:“Eh, I’d sooner ’ave Rufie,”She said, “than many another.“’E’s so useful about the ’ouseAnd so gentle as ’e can be:And ’e gets up early o’ mornin’sTo make me a cup o’ tea.”The formal evensongHad passed over his head:He sucked his thumb, and squinted,And dreamed, instead.Now while the organ boomedTo few who still were there,At the Litany DeskThe idiot made his prayer:“Gawd bless Muther,’N’ make Rufie a good lad.Take Rufie to Heaven,’N’ forgive him when he’s bad.“’N’ early mornin’s in Heaven’E’ll make Muther’s tea,’N’ a cup for the Lord Jesus’N’ a cup for Thee.”
IN the darkening church,Where but a few had stayed,At the Litany DeskThe idiot knelt and prayed.Rufus, stunted, uncouth.The one son of his mother:“Eh, I’d sooner ’ave Rufie,”She said, “than many another.“’E’s so useful about the ’ouseAnd so gentle as ’e can be:And ’e gets up early o’ mornin’sTo make me a cup o’ tea.”The formal evensongHad passed over his head:He sucked his thumb, and squinted,And dreamed, instead.Now while the organ boomedTo few who still were there,At the Litany DeskThe idiot made his prayer:“Gawd bless Muther,’N’ make Rufie a good lad.Take Rufie to Heaven,’N’ forgive him when he’s bad.“’N’ early mornin’s in Heaven’E’ll make Muther’s tea,’N’ a cup for the Lord Jesus’N’ a cup for Thee.”
IN the darkening church,Where but a few had stayed,At the Litany DeskThe idiot knelt and prayed.
Rufus, stunted, uncouth.The one son of his mother:“Eh, I’d sooner ’ave Rufie,”She said, “than many another.
“’E’s so useful about the ’ouseAnd so gentle as ’e can be:And ’e gets up early o’ mornin’sTo make me a cup o’ tea.”
The formal evensongHad passed over his head:He sucked his thumb, and squinted,And dreamed, instead.
Now while the organ boomedTo few who still were there,At the Litany DeskThe idiot made his prayer:
“Gawd bless Muther,’N’ make Rufie a good lad.Take Rufie to Heaven,’N’ forgive him when he’s bad.
“’N’ early mornin’s in Heaven’E’ll make Muther’s tea,’N’ a cup for the Lord Jesus’N’ a cup for Thee.”