Hecomes on chosen evenings,My blackbird bountiful, and singsOver the gardens of the townJust at the hour the sun goes down.His flight across the chimneys thick,By some divine arithmetic,Comes to his customary stack,And couches there his plumage black,And there he lifts his yellow bill,Kindled against the sunset, tillThese suburbs are like Dymock woodsWhere music has her solitudes,And while he mocks the winter’s wrongRapt on his pinnacle of song,Figured above our garden plotsThose are celestial chimney-pots.
Hecomes on chosen evenings,My blackbird bountiful, and singsOver the gardens of the townJust at the hour the sun goes down.His flight across the chimneys thick,By some divine arithmetic,Comes to his customary stack,And couches there his plumage black,And there he lifts his yellow bill,Kindled against the sunset, tillThese suburbs are like Dymock woodsWhere music has her solitudes,And while he mocks the winter’s wrongRapt on his pinnacle of song,Figured above our garden plotsThose are celestial chimney-pots.
Hecomes on chosen evenings,My blackbird bountiful, and singsOver the gardens of the townJust at the hour the sun goes down.His flight across the chimneys thick,By some divine arithmetic,Comes to his customary stack,And couches there his plumage black,And there he lifts his yellow bill,Kindled against the sunset, tillThese suburbs are like Dymock woodsWhere music has her solitudes,And while he mocks the winter’s wrongRapt on his pinnacle of song,Figured above our garden plotsThose are celestial chimney-pots.
A showerof green gems on my apple-treeThis first morning of MayHas fallen out of the night, to beHerald of holiday—Bright gems of green that, fallen there,Seem fixed and glowing on the air.Until a flutter of blackbird wingsShakes and makes the boughs alive,And the gems are now no frozen things,But apple-green buds to thriveOn sap of my May garden, how wellThe green September globes will tell.Also my pear-tree has its buds,But they are silver yellow,Like autumn meadows when the floodsAre silver under willow,And here shall long and shapely pearsBe gathered while the autumn wears.And there are sixty daffodilsBeneath my wall....And jealousy it is that killsThis world when allThe spring’s behaviour here is spentTo make the world magnificent.
A showerof green gems on my apple-treeThis first morning of MayHas fallen out of the night, to beHerald of holiday—Bright gems of green that, fallen there,Seem fixed and glowing on the air.Until a flutter of blackbird wingsShakes and makes the boughs alive,And the gems are now no frozen things,But apple-green buds to thriveOn sap of my May garden, how wellThe green September globes will tell.Also my pear-tree has its buds,But they are silver yellow,Like autumn meadows when the floodsAre silver under willow,And here shall long and shapely pearsBe gathered while the autumn wears.And there are sixty daffodilsBeneath my wall....And jealousy it is that killsThis world when allThe spring’s behaviour here is spentTo make the world magnificent.
A showerof green gems on my apple-treeThis first morning of MayHas fallen out of the night, to beHerald of holiday—Bright gems of green that, fallen there,Seem fixed and glowing on the air.
Until a flutter of blackbird wingsShakes and makes the boughs alive,And the gems are now no frozen things,But apple-green buds to thriveOn sap of my May garden, how wellThe green September globes will tell.
Also my pear-tree has its buds,But they are silver yellow,Like autumn meadows when the floodsAre silver under willow,And here shall long and shapely pearsBe gathered while the autumn wears.
And there are sixty daffodilsBeneath my wall....And jealousy it is that killsThis world when allThe spring’s behaviour here is spentTo make the world magnificent.
Weare talkative proud, and assured, and self-sufficient,The quick of the earth this day;This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,And the Post Office up the way.The stars in their changes, and heavenly speculation,The habits of birds and flowers,And character bred of poverty and riches,All these are ours.The world is ours, and these its themes and its substance,And of these we are free men and wise;Among them all we move in possession and judgment,For a day, till it dies.But in eighteen-hundred-and-fifty, who were the tenants,Sure and deliberate as we?They knew us not in the time of their ascension,Their self-sufficiency.And in nineteen-hundred-and-fifty this inn shall flourish,And history still be told,And the heat of blood shall thrive, and speculation,When we are cold.
Weare talkative proud, and assured, and self-sufficient,The quick of the earth this day;This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,And the Post Office up the way.The stars in their changes, and heavenly speculation,The habits of birds and flowers,And character bred of poverty and riches,All these are ours.The world is ours, and these its themes and its substance,And of these we are free men and wise;Among them all we move in possession and judgment,For a day, till it dies.But in eighteen-hundred-and-fifty, who were the tenants,Sure and deliberate as we?They knew us not in the time of their ascension,Their self-sufficiency.And in nineteen-hundred-and-fifty this inn shall flourish,And history still be told,And the heat of blood shall thrive, and speculation,When we are cold.
Weare talkative proud, and assured, and self-sufficient,The quick of the earth this day;This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,And the Post Office up the way.
The stars in their changes, and heavenly speculation,The habits of birds and flowers,And character bred of poverty and riches,All these are ours.
The world is ours, and these its themes and its substance,And of these we are free men and wise;Among them all we move in possession and judgment,For a day, till it dies.
But in eighteen-hundred-and-fifty, who were the tenants,Sure and deliberate as we?They knew us not in the time of their ascension,Their self-sufficiency.
And in nineteen-hundred-and-fifty this inn shall flourish,And history still be told,And the heat of blood shall thrive, and speculation,When we are cold.
Inthe Wheatsheaf parlour I sat to seeThe story of Chippington street go by,The squire, and dames of little degree,And drovers with cattle and flocks to cry.And these were all as my creatures there,Twinkling to and fro in the sun,And placidly I had joy, had care,Of all their labours and dealings done.Into the parlour strode me thenTwo fellows fiercely set at odds,To whom the difference of menGave the sufficiency of God.They saw me, and they stept beyondTo a chamber within earshot still,And each on each of broken bond,And honour, and inflexible will,Railed. And loud the little inn grew,But nothing I cared their quarrel to learn,Though the issue tossing between the twoThey deemed the bait of the world’s concern.Only I thought how most are menFantastic when they most are proud,And out of my laughter I looked againOn the flowing figures of Chippington crowd.
Inthe Wheatsheaf parlour I sat to seeThe story of Chippington street go by,The squire, and dames of little degree,And drovers with cattle and flocks to cry.And these were all as my creatures there,Twinkling to and fro in the sun,And placidly I had joy, had care,Of all their labours and dealings done.Into the parlour strode me thenTwo fellows fiercely set at odds,To whom the difference of menGave the sufficiency of God.They saw me, and they stept beyondTo a chamber within earshot still,And each on each of broken bond,And honour, and inflexible will,Railed. And loud the little inn grew,But nothing I cared their quarrel to learn,Though the issue tossing between the twoThey deemed the bait of the world’s concern.Only I thought how most are menFantastic when they most are proud,And out of my laughter I looked againOn the flowing figures of Chippington crowd.
Inthe Wheatsheaf parlour I sat to seeThe story of Chippington street go by,The squire, and dames of little degree,And drovers with cattle and flocks to cry.
And these were all as my creatures there,Twinkling to and fro in the sun,And placidly I had joy, had care,Of all their labours and dealings done.
Into the parlour strode me thenTwo fellows fiercely set at odds,To whom the difference of menGave the sufficiency of God.
They saw me, and they stept beyondTo a chamber within earshot still,And each on each of broken bond,And honour, and inflexible will,
Railed. And loud the little inn grew,But nothing I cared their quarrel to learn,Though the issue tossing between the twoThey deemed the bait of the world’s concern.
Only I thought how most are menFantastic when they most are proud,And out of my laughter I looked againOn the flowing figures of Chippington crowd.
Desires,Little determined desires,Gripped by the mould,Moving so hardly amongThe earth, of whose heart they were bred,That is old; it is old,Not gracious to little desires such as these,But apter for work on the bases of trees,Whose branches are hungOverhead,Very mightily, there overhead.Through the summer they stirred,They strove to the bulbs after May,Until harvest and song of the birdWent together away;And ever till coming of snowsThey worked in the mould, for undaunted were thoseSwift little determined desires, in the earthWithout sign, any day,Ever shaping to marvels of birth,Far away.And we wentWithout heedOn our way,Never knowing what virtue was spent,Day by day,By those little desires that were gallant to breedSuch beauty as fortitude may.Not once in our mindWas that corner of earth under trees,Very mighty and tall,As we travelled the roads and the seas,And gathered the wage of our kind,And were laggard or trim to the callOf the duties that lengthen the hoursInto seasons that flourish and fall.And blind,In the womb of the flowers,Unresting they wrought,In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,Buried far from our thought;Till one day, when the thrushes were clearIn their note it was spring—and they know—Unheeding we came into sightOf that corner forgotten, and lo,They had won through the meshes of mould,And treasuries lay in the light,Of ivory, purple, and gold.
Desires,Little determined desires,Gripped by the mould,Moving so hardly amongThe earth, of whose heart they were bred,That is old; it is old,Not gracious to little desires such as these,But apter for work on the bases of trees,Whose branches are hungOverhead,Very mightily, there overhead.Through the summer they stirred,They strove to the bulbs after May,Until harvest and song of the birdWent together away;And ever till coming of snowsThey worked in the mould, for undaunted were thoseSwift little determined desires, in the earthWithout sign, any day,Ever shaping to marvels of birth,Far away.And we wentWithout heedOn our way,Never knowing what virtue was spent,Day by day,By those little desires that were gallant to breedSuch beauty as fortitude may.Not once in our mindWas that corner of earth under trees,Very mighty and tall,As we travelled the roads and the seas,And gathered the wage of our kind,And were laggard or trim to the callOf the duties that lengthen the hoursInto seasons that flourish and fall.And blind,In the womb of the flowers,Unresting they wrought,In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,Buried far from our thought;Till one day, when the thrushes were clearIn their note it was spring—and they know—Unheeding we came into sightOf that corner forgotten, and lo,They had won through the meshes of mould,And treasuries lay in the light,Of ivory, purple, and gold.
Desires,Little determined desires,Gripped by the mould,Moving so hardly amongThe earth, of whose heart they were bred,That is old; it is old,Not gracious to little desires such as these,But apter for work on the bases of trees,Whose branches are hungOverhead,Very mightily, there overhead.
Through the summer they stirred,They strove to the bulbs after May,Until harvest and song of the birdWent together away;And ever till coming of snowsThey worked in the mould, for undaunted were thoseSwift little determined desires, in the earthWithout sign, any day,Ever shaping to marvels of birth,Far away.
And we wentWithout heedOn our way,Never knowing what virtue was spent,Day by day,By those little desires that were gallant to breedSuch beauty as fortitude may.Not once in our mindWas that corner of earth under trees,Very mighty and tall,As we travelled the roads and the seas,And gathered the wage of our kind,And were laggard or trim to the callOf the duties that lengthen the hoursInto seasons that flourish and fall.
And blind,In the womb of the flowers,Unresting they wrought,In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,Buried far from our thought;Till one day, when the thrushes were clearIn their note it was spring—and they know—Unheeding we came into sightOf that corner forgotten, and lo,They had won through the meshes of mould,And treasuries lay in the light,Of ivory, purple, and gold.
Hewas a boy of April beauty; oneWho had not tried the world; who, while the sunFlamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done.Time would have brought him in her patient ways—So his young beauty spoke—to prosperous days,To fulness of authority and praise.He would not wait so long. A boy, he spentHis boy’s dear life for England. Be content:No honour of age had been more excellent.
Hewas a boy of April beauty; oneWho had not tried the world; who, while the sunFlamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done.Time would have brought him in her patient ways—So his young beauty spoke—to prosperous days,To fulness of authority and praise.He would not wait so long. A boy, he spentHis boy’s dear life for England. Be content:No honour of age had been more excellent.
Hewas a boy of April beauty; oneWho had not tried the world; who, while the sunFlamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done.
Time would have brought him in her patient ways—So his young beauty spoke—to prosperous days,To fulness of authority and praise.
He would not wait so long. A boy, he spentHis boy’s dear life for England. Be content:No honour of age had been more excellent.
[1]Lieutenant Stewart G. Ridley, Royal Flying Corps, sacrificed his life in the Egyptian desert in an attempt to save a comrade. He was twenty years of age.
[1]Lieutenant Stewart G. Ridley, Royal Flying Corps, sacrificed his life in the Egyptian desert in an attempt to save a comrade. He was twenty years of age.
Onseas where every pilot failsA thousand thousand ships to-dayRide with a moaning in their sails,Through winds grey and waters grey.They are the ships of grief. They goAs fleets are derelict and driven,Estranged from every port they know,Scarce asking fortitude of heaven.No, do not hail them. Let them rideLonely as they would lonely be ...There is an hour will prove the tide,There is a sun will strike the sea.
Onseas where every pilot failsA thousand thousand ships to-dayRide with a moaning in their sails,Through winds grey and waters grey.They are the ships of grief. They goAs fleets are derelict and driven,Estranged from every port they know,Scarce asking fortitude of heaven.No, do not hail them. Let them rideLonely as they would lonely be ...There is an hour will prove the tide,There is a sun will strike the sea.
Onseas where every pilot failsA thousand thousand ships to-dayRide with a moaning in their sails,Through winds grey and waters grey.
They are the ships of grief. They goAs fleets are derelict and driven,Estranged from every port they know,Scarce asking fortitude of heaven.
No, do not hail them. Let them rideLonely as they would lonely be ...There is an hour will prove the tide,There is a sun will strike the sea.
O royalnight, under your stars that keepTheir golden troops in charted motion set,The living legions are renewed in sleepFor bloodier battle yet.O royal death, under your boundless skyWhere unrecorded constellations throng,Dispassionate those other legions lie,Invulnerably strong.
O royalnight, under your stars that keepTheir golden troops in charted motion set,The living legions are renewed in sleepFor bloodier battle yet.O royal death, under your boundless skyWhere unrecorded constellations throng,Dispassionate those other legions lie,Invulnerably strong.
O royalnight, under your stars that keepTheir golden troops in charted motion set,The living legions are renewed in sleepFor bloodier battle yet.
O royal death, under your boundless skyWhere unrecorded constellations throng,Dispassionate those other legions lie,Invulnerably strong.
Scarceis my life more dear to me,Brief tutor of oblivion,Than fields below the rookeryThat comfortably looks uponThe little street of Piddington.I never think of Avon’s meadows,Ryton woods or Rydal mere,Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows,But I know that half the fearOf death’s indifference is here.I love my land. No heart can knowThe patriot’s mystery, untilIt aches as mine for woods ablowIn Gloucestershire with daffodil,Or Bicester brakes that violets fill.No man can tell what passion surgesFor the house of his nativityIn the patriot’s blood, until he purgesHis grosser mood of jealousy,And comes to meditate with meOf gifts of earth that stamp his brainAs mine the pools of Ludlow mill,The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane,And Forty Acres under Brill,The ferry under Elsfield hill.These are what England is to me,Not empire, nor the name of herRanging from pole to tropic sea.These are the soil in which I bearAll that I have of character.That men my fellows near and farMay live in like communion,Is all I pray; all pastures areThe best beloved beneath the sun;I have my own; I envy none.
Scarceis my life more dear to me,Brief tutor of oblivion,Than fields below the rookeryThat comfortably looks uponThe little street of Piddington.I never think of Avon’s meadows,Ryton woods or Rydal mere,Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows,But I know that half the fearOf death’s indifference is here.I love my land. No heart can knowThe patriot’s mystery, untilIt aches as mine for woods ablowIn Gloucestershire with daffodil,Or Bicester brakes that violets fill.No man can tell what passion surgesFor the house of his nativityIn the patriot’s blood, until he purgesHis grosser mood of jealousy,And comes to meditate with meOf gifts of earth that stamp his brainAs mine the pools of Ludlow mill,The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane,And Forty Acres under Brill,The ferry under Elsfield hill.These are what England is to me,Not empire, nor the name of herRanging from pole to tropic sea.These are the soil in which I bearAll that I have of character.That men my fellows near and farMay live in like communion,Is all I pray; all pastures areThe best beloved beneath the sun;I have my own; I envy none.
Scarceis my life more dear to me,Brief tutor of oblivion,Than fields below the rookeryThat comfortably looks uponThe little street of Piddington.
I never think of Avon’s meadows,Ryton woods or Rydal mere,Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows,But I know that half the fearOf death’s indifference is here.
I love my land. No heart can knowThe patriot’s mystery, untilIt aches as mine for woods ablowIn Gloucestershire with daffodil,Or Bicester brakes that violets fill.
No man can tell what passion surgesFor the house of his nativityIn the patriot’s blood, until he purgesHis grosser mood of jealousy,And comes to meditate with me
Of gifts of earth that stamp his brainAs mine the pools of Ludlow mill,The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane,And Forty Acres under Brill,The ferry under Elsfield hill.
These are what England is to me,Not empire, nor the name of herRanging from pole to tropic sea.These are the soil in which I bearAll that I have of character.
That men my fellows near and farMay live in like communion,Is all I pray; all pastures areThe best beloved beneath the sun;I have my own; I envy none.
A littletime they lived again, and lo!Back to the quiet night the shadows go,And the great folds of silence once againAre over fools and kings and fighting-men.A little while they went with stumbling feet,With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet,With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills,And now their dust is on a thousand hills.We dream of them, as men unborn shall dreamOf us, who strive a little with the streamBefore we too go out beyond the day,And are as much a memory as they.And Death, so coming, shall not seem a thingOf any fear, nor terrible his wing.We too shall be a tale on earth, and timeShall shape our pilgrimage into a rhyme.
A littletime they lived again, and lo!Back to the quiet night the shadows go,And the great folds of silence once againAre over fools and kings and fighting-men.A little while they went with stumbling feet,With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet,With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills,And now their dust is on a thousand hills.We dream of them, as men unborn shall dreamOf us, who strive a little with the streamBefore we too go out beyond the day,And are as much a memory as they.And Death, so coming, shall not seem a thingOf any fear, nor terrible his wing.We too shall be a tale on earth, and timeShall shape our pilgrimage into a rhyme.
A littletime they lived again, and lo!Back to the quiet night the shadows go,And the great folds of silence once againAre over fools and kings and fighting-men.
A little while they went with stumbling feet,With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet,With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills,And now their dust is on a thousand hills.
We dream of them, as men unborn shall dreamOf us, who strive a little with the streamBefore we too go out beyond the day,And are as much a memory as they.
And Death, so coming, shall not seem a thingOf any fear, nor terrible his wing.We too shall be a tale on earth, and timeShall shape our pilgrimage into a rhyme.
SometimesI feel that death is very near,And, with half-lifted hand,Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,But walk his friendly land,Comrade with him, and wiseAs peace is wise.Then, greatly though my heart with pity movesFor dear imperilled loves,I somehow knowThat death is friendly so,A comfortable spirit; one who takesLong thought for all our sakes.I wonder; will he come that friendly way,That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,My soul be torn from me,Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,Slip quietly to sea?
SometimesI feel that death is very near,And, with half-lifted hand,Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,But walk his friendly land,Comrade with him, and wiseAs peace is wise.Then, greatly though my heart with pity movesFor dear imperilled loves,I somehow knowThat death is friendly so,A comfortable spirit; one who takesLong thought for all our sakes.I wonder; will he come that friendly way,That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,My soul be torn from me,Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,Slip quietly to sea?
SometimesI feel that death is very near,And, with half-lifted hand,Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,But walk his friendly land,Comrade with him, and wiseAs peace is wise.
Then, greatly though my heart with pity movesFor dear imperilled loves,I somehow knowThat death is friendly so,A comfortable spirit; one who takesLong thought for all our sakes.
I wonder; will he come that friendly way,That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,My soul be torn from me,Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,Slip quietly to sea?
Whattime I write my roundelays,I am as proud as princes gone,Who built their empires in old days,As Tamburlaine or Solomon;And wisely though companions thenSay well it is and well I sing,Assured above the praise of menI am a solitary king.But when I leave that straiter mood,That lonely hour, and put asideThe continence of solitude,I fall in treason to my pride,And if a witling’s word be spentUpon my song in jealousy,In anger and in argumentI am as derelict as he.
Whattime I write my roundelays,I am as proud as princes gone,Who built their empires in old days,As Tamburlaine or Solomon;And wisely though companions thenSay well it is and well I sing,Assured above the praise of menI am a solitary king.But when I leave that straiter mood,That lonely hour, and put asideThe continence of solitude,I fall in treason to my pride,And if a witling’s word be spentUpon my song in jealousy,In anger and in argumentI am as derelict as he.
Whattime I write my roundelays,I am as proud as princes gone,Who built their empires in old days,As Tamburlaine or Solomon;And wisely though companions thenSay well it is and well I sing,Assured above the praise of menI am a solitary king.
But when I leave that straiter mood,That lonely hour, and put asideThe continence of solitude,I fall in treason to my pride,And if a witling’s word be spentUpon my song in jealousy,In anger and in argumentI am as derelict as he.
Yousay a thousand things,Persuasively,And with strange passion hotly I agree,And praise your zest,And thenA blackbird singsOn April lilac, or fieldfaring men,Ghostlike, with loaded wain,Come down the twilit laneTo rest,And what is all your argument to me?Oh, yes—I know, I know,It must be so—You must deviseYour myriad policies,For we are little wise,And must be led and marshalled, lest we keepToo fast a sleepFar from the central world’s realities.Yes, we must heed—For surely you revealLife’s very heart; surely with flaming zealYou search our folly and our secret need;And surely it is wrongTo count my blackbird’s song,My cones of lilac, and my wagon team,More than a world of dream.But stillA voice calls from the hill—I must away—I cannot hear your argument to-day.
Yousay a thousand things,Persuasively,And with strange passion hotly I agree,And praise your zest,And thenA blackbird singsOn April lilac, or fieldfaring men,Ghostlike, with loaded wain,Come down the twilit laneTo rest,And what is all your argument to me?Oh, yes—I know, I know,It must be so—You must deviseYour myriad policies,For we are little wise,And must be led and marshalled, lest we keepToo fast a sleepFar from the central world’s realities.Yes, we must heed—For surely you revealLife’s very heart; surely with flaming zealYou search our folly and our secret need;And surely it is wrongTo count my blackbird’s song,My cones of lilac, and my wagon team,More than a world of dream.But stillA voice calls from the hill—I must away—I cannot hear your argument to-day.
Yousay a thousand things,Persuasively,And with strange passion hotly I agree,And praise your zest,And thenA blackbird singsOn April lilac, or fieldfaring men,Ghostlike, with loaded wain,Come down the twilit laneTo rest,And what is all your argument to me?
Oh, yes—I know, I know,It must be so—You must deviseYour myriad policies,For we are little wise,And must be led and marshalled, lest we keepToo fast a sleepFar from the central world’s realities.Yes, we must heed—For surely you revealLife’s very heart; surely with flaming zealYou search our folly and our secret need;And surely it is wrongTo count my blackbird’s song,My cones of lilac, and my wagon team,More than a world of dream.
But stillA voice calls from the hill—I must away—I cannot hear your argument to-day.
Allwords are said,And may it fallThat, crowning these,You here shall findA friendly bed,A sheltering wall,Your body’s ease,A quiet mind.May you forgetIn happy sleepThe world that stillYou hold as friend,And may it yetBe ours to keepYour friendly willTo the world’s end.For he is blestWho, fixed to shunAll evil, whenThe worst is known,Counts, east and west,When life is done,His debts to menIn love alone.
Allwords are said,And may it fallThat, crowning these,You here shall findA friendly bed,A sheltering wall,Your body’s ease,A quiet mind.May you forgetIn happy sleepThe world that stillYou hold as friend,And may it yetBe ours to keepYour friendly willTo the world’s end.For he is blestWho, fixed to shunAll evil, whenThe worst is known,Counts, east and west,When life is done,His debts to menIn love alone.
Allwords are said,And may it fallThat, crowning these,You here shall findA friendly bed,A sheltering wall,Your body’s ease,A quiet mind.
May you forgetIn happy sleepThe world that stillYou hold as friend,And may it yetBe ours to keepYour friendly willTo the world’s end.
For he is blestWho, fixed to shunAll evil, whenThe worst is known,Counts, east and west,When life is done,His debts to menIn love alone.
Dawnis up at my window, and in the May-treeThe finches gossip, and tits, and beautiful sparrowsWith feathers bright and brown as September hazels.The sunlight is here, filtered through rosy curtains,Docile and disembodied, a ghost of sunlight,A gentle light to greet the dreamer returning.Part the curtains. I give you salutationDay, clear day; let us be friendly fellows.Come.... I hear the Liars about the city.
Dawnis up at my window, and in the May-treeThe finches gossip, and tits, and beautiful sparrowsWith feathers bright and brown as September hazels.The sunlight is here, filtered through rosy curtains,Docile and disembodied, a ghost of sunlight,A gentle light to greet the dreamer returning.Part the curtains. I give you salutationDay, clear day; let us be friendly fellows.Come.... I hear the Liars about the city.
Dawnis up at my window, and in the May-treeThe finches gossip, and tits, and beautiful sparrowsWith feathers bright and brown as September hazels.
The sunlight is here, filtered through rosy curtains,Docile and disembodied, a ghost of sunlight,A gentle light to greet the dreamer returning.
Part the curtains. I give you salutationDay, clear day; let us be friendly fellows.Come.... I hear the Liars about the city.
Wehave our dreams; not happiness.Great cities are upon the hillTo lighten all our dream, and stillWe have no cities to possessBut cities built of bitterness.We see gay fellows top to toe,And girls in rainbow beauty bright—’Tis but of silly dreams I write,For up and down the streets we know,The scavengers and harlots go.Give me a dozen men whose themeIs honesty, and we will setOn high the banner of dreams ... and yetThousands will pass us in a stream,Nor care a penny what we dream.
Wehave our dreams; not happiness.Great cities are upon the hillTo lighten all our dream, and stillWe have no cities to possessBut cities built of bitterness.We see gay fellows top to toe,And girls in rainbow beauty bright—’Tis but of silly dreams I write,For up and down the streets we know,The scavengers and harlots go.Give me a dozen men whose themeIs honesty, and we will setOn high the banner of dreams ... and yetThousands will pass us in a stream,Nor care a penny what we dream.
Wehave our dreams; not happiness.Great cities are upon the hillTo lighten all our dream, and stillWe have no cities to possessBut cities built of bitterness.
We see gay fellows top to toe,And girls in rainbow beauty bright—’Tis but of silly dreams I write,For up and down the streets we know,The scavengers and harlots go.
Give me a dozen men whose themeIs honesty, and we will setOn high the banner of dreams ... and yetThousands will pass us in a stream,Nor care a penny what we dream.
Youploughmen at the gate,All that you are for meIs of my mind create,And in my brain to beA figure newly wonFrom the world’s confusion.And if you are of grace,That’s honesty for me,And if of evil face,Recorded then shall beDishonour that I sawNot beauty, but the flaw.
Youploughmen at the gate,All that you are for meIs of my mind create,And in my brain to beA figure newly wonFrom the world’s confusion.And if you are of grace,That’s honesty for me,And if of evil face,Recorded then shall beDishonour that I sawNot beauty, but the flaw.
Youploughmen at the gate,All that you are for meIs of my mind create,And in my brain to beA figure newly wonFrom the world’s confusion.
And if you are of grace,That’s honesty for me,And if of evil face,Recorded then shall beDishonour that I sawNot beauty, but the flaw.
I amno merry monger whenI see the slatterns of the town:I hate to think of docile menWhose angers all are driven down;For sluts make joy a thing obscene,And in contempt is nothing clean.I like to see the ladies walkWith heels to set their chins atilt:I like to hear the clergy talkOf other clergy’s people’s guilt;For happy is the amorous eye,And indignation clears the sky.
I amno merry monger whenI see the slatterns of the town:I hate to think of docile menWhose angers all are driven down;For sluts make joy a thing obscene,And in contempt is nothing clean.I like to see the ladies walkWith heels to set their chins atilt:I like to hear the clergy talkOf other clergy’s people’s guilt;For happy is the amorous eye,And indignation clears the sky.
I amno merry monger whenI see the slatterns of the town:I hate to think of docile menWhose angers all are driven down;For sluts make joy a thing obscene,And in contempt is nothing clean.
I like to see the ladies walkWith heels to set their chins atilt:I like to hear the clergy talkOf other clergy’s people’s guilt;For happy is the amorous eye,And indignation clears the sky.
Beautyof old and beauty yet to be,Stripped of occasion, have security;This hour it is searches the judgment through,When masks of beauty walk with beauty too.
Beautyof old and beauty yet to be,Stripped of occasion, have security;This hour it is searches the judgment through,When masks of beauty walk with beauty too.
Beautyof old and beauty yet to be,Stripped of occasion, have security;This hour it is searches the judgment through,When masks of beauty walk with beauty too.
Shades, that our town-fellows have comeTo hear rewake for ChristendomThis cleansing of a Pagan wrongIn flowing tides of tragic song,—You shadows that the living callTo walk again the Trojan wall,—You lips and countenance renewedOf an immortal fortitude,—Know that, among the silent rowsOf these our daily town-fellows,Watching the shades with these who bringBut mortal ears to this you sing,There somewhere sits the Greek who madeThis gift of song, himself a shade.
Shades, that our town-fellows have comeTo hear rewake for ChristendomThis cleansing of a Pagan wrongIn flowing tides of tragic song,—You shadows that the living callTo walk again the Trojan wall,—You lips and countenance renewedOf an immortal fortitude,—Know that, among the silent rowsOf these our daily town-fellows,Watching the shades with these who bringBut mortal ears to this you sing,There somewhere sits the Greek who madeThis gift of song, himself a shade.
Shades, that our town-fellows have comeTo hear rewake for ChristendomThis cleansing of a Pagan wrongIn flowing tides of tragic song,—You shadows that the living callTo walk again the Trojan wall,—You lips and countenance renewedOf an immortal fortitude,—Know that, among the silent rowsOf these our daily town-fellows,Watching the shades with these who bringBut mortal ears to this you sing,There somewhere sits the Greek who madeThis gift of song, himself a shade.
Ifone should tell you that in such a springThe hawthorn boughs into the blackbird’s nestPoured poison, or that once at harvestingThe ears were stony, from so manifestSlander of proven faith in tree and cornYou would turn unheeding, knowing him forsworn.Yet now, when one whose life has never knownCorruption, as you know: whose days have beenAs daily tidings in your heart of loneAnd gentle courage, suffers the word uncleanOf envious tongues, doubting you dare not cry—“I have been this man’s familiar, and you lie.”
Ifone should tell you that in such a springThe hawthorn boughs into the blackbird’s nestPoured poison, or that once at harvestingThe ears were stony, from so manifestSlander of proven faith in tree and cornYou would turn unheeding, knowing him forsworn.Yet now, when one whose life has never knownCorruption, as you know: whose days have beenAs daily tidings in your heart of loneAnd gentle courage, suffers the word uncleanOf envious tongues, doubting you dare not cry—“I have been this man’s familiar, and you lie.”
Ifone should tell you that in such a springThe hawthorn boughs into the blackbird’s nestPoured poison, or that once at harvestingThe ears were stony, from so manifestSlander of proven faith in tree and cornYou would turn unheeding, knowing him forsworn.
Yet now, when one whose life has never knownCorruption, as you know: whose days have beenAs daily tidings in your heart of loneAnd gentle courage, suffers the word uncleanOf envious tongues, doubting you dare not cry—“I have been this man’s familiar, and you lie.”
Itis strange how we travel the wide world over,And see great churches and foreign streets,And armies afoot and kings of wonder,And deeds a-doing to fill the sheetsThat grave historians will penTo ferment the brains of simple men.And all the time the heart remembersThe quiet habit of one far place,The drawings and books, the turn of a passage,The glance of a dear familiar face,And there is the true cosmopolis,While the thronging world a phantom is.
Itis strange how we travel the wide world over,And see great churches and foreign streets,And armies afoot and kings of wonder,And deeds a-doing to fill the sheetsThat grave historians will penTo ferment the brains of simple men.And all the time the heart remembersThe quiet habit of one far place,The drawings and books, the turn of a passage,The glance of a dear familiar face,And there is the true cosmopolis,While the thronging world a phantom is.
Itis strange how we travel the wide world over,And see great churches and foreign streets,And armies afoot and kings of wonder,And deeds a-doing to fill the sheetsThat grave historians will penTo ferment the brains of simple men.
And all the time the heart remembersThe quiet habit of one far place,The drawings and books, the turn of a passage,The glance of a dear familiar face,And there is the true cosmopolis,While the thronging world a phantom is.
Cometell us, you that travel farWith brave or shabby merchandise,Have you saluted any starThat goes uncourtiered in the skies?Do you remember leaf or wingOr brook the willows leant along,Or any small familiar thingThat passed you as you went along?Or does the trade that is your lustDrive you as yoke-beasts driven apace,Making the world a road of dustFrom market-place to market-place?Your traffic in the grain, the wine,In purple and in cloth of gold,In treasure of the field and mine,In fables of the poets told,—But have you laughed the wine-cups dryAnd on the loaves of plenty fed,And walked, with all your banners high,In gold and purple garmented?And do you know the songs you sellAnd cry them out along the way?And is the profit that you tellAfter your travel day by daySinew and sap of life, or husk—Dead coffer-ware or kindled brain?And do you gather in the duskTo make your heroes live again?If the grey dust is over all,And stars and leaves and wings forgot,And your blood holds no festival—Go out from us; we need you not.But if you are immoderate men,Zealots of joy, the salt and stingAnd savour of life upon you—thenWe call you to our counselling.And we will hew the holy boughsTo make us level rows of oars,And we will set our shining prowsFor strange and unadventured shores.Where the great tideways swiftliest runWe will be stronger than the strongAnd sack the cities of the sunAnd spend our booty in a song.
Cometell us, you that travel farWith brave or shabby merchandise,Have you saluted any starThat goes uncourtiered in the skies?Do you remember leaf or wingOr brook the willows leant along,Or any small familiar thingThat passed you as you went along?Or does the trade that is your lustDrive you as yoke-beasts driven apace,Making the world a road of dustFrom market-place to market-place?Your traffic in the grain, the wine,In purple and in cloth of gold,In treasure of the field and mine,In fables of the poets told,—But have you laughed the wine-cups dryAnd on the loaves of plenty fed,And walked, with all your banners high,In gold and purple garmented?And do you know the songs you sellAnd cry them out along the way?And is the profit that you tellAfter your travel day by daySinew and sap of life, or husk—Dead coffer-ware or kindled brain?And do you gather in the duskTo make your heroes live again?If the grey dust is over all,And stars and leaves and wings forgot,And your blood holds no festival—Go out from us; we need you not.But if you are immoderate men,Zealots of joy, the salt and stingAnd savour of life upon you—thenWe call you to our counselling.And we will hew the holy boughsTo make us level rows of oars,And we will set our shining prowsFor strange and unadventured shores.Where the great tideways swiftliest runWe will be stronger than the strongAnd sack the cities of the sunAnd spend our booty in a song.
Cometell us, you that travel farWith brave or shabby merchandise,Have you saluted any starThat goes uncourtiered in the skies?
Do you remember leaf or wingOr brook the willows leant along,Or any small familiar thingThat passed you as you went along?
Or does the trade that is your lustDrive you as yoke-beasts driven apace,Making the world a road of dustFrom market-place to market-place?
Your traffic in the grain, the wine,In purple and in cloth of gold,In treasure of the field and mine,In fables of the poets told,—
But have you laughed the wine-cups dryAnd on the loaves of plenty fed,And walked, with all your banners high,In gold and purple garmented?
And do you know the songs you sellAnd cry them out along the way?And is the profit that you tellAfter your travel day by day
Sinew and sap of life, or husk—Dead coffer-ware or kindled brain?And do you gather in the duskTo make your heroes live again?
If the grey dust is over all,And stars and leaves and wings forgot,And your blood holds no festival—Go out from us; we need you not.
But if you are immoderate men,Zealots of joy, the salt and stingAnd savour of life upon you—thenWe call you to our counselling.
And we will hew the holy boughsTo make us level rows of oars,And we will set our shining prowsFor strange and unadventured shores.
Where the great tideways swiftliest runWe will be stronger than the strongAnd sack the cities of the sunAnd spend our booty in a song.
Whereare you going, you pretty riders?—To the moon’s rising, the rising of death’s moon,Where the waters move not, and birds are still and songless,Soon, very soon.Where are you faring to, you proud Hectors?Through battle, out of battle, under the grass,Dust behind your hoof-beats rises, and into dust,Clouded, you pass.I’m a pretty rider, I’m a proud Hector,I as you a little am pretty and proud;I with you am riding, riding to the moonrise,So sing we loud—“Out beyond the dust lies mystery of moonrise,We go to chiller learning than is bred in the sun,Hectors, and riders, and a simple singer,Riding as one.”
Whereare you going, you pretty riders?—To the moon’s rising, the rising of death’s moon,Where the waters move not, and birds are still and songless,Soon, very soon.Where are you faring to, you proud Hectors?Through battle, out of battle, under the grass,Dust behind your hoof-beats rises, and into dust,Clouded, you pass.I’m a pretty rider, I’m a proud Hector,I as you a little am pretty and proud;I with you am riding, riding to the moonrise,So sing we loud—“Out beyond the dust lies mystery of moonrise,We go to chiller learning than is bred in the sun,Hectors, and riders, and a simple singer,Riding as one.”
Whereare you going, you pretty riders?—To the moon’s rising, the rising of death’s moon,Where the waters move not, and birds are still and songless,Soon, very soon.
Where are you faring to, you proud Hectors?Through battle, out of battle, under the grass,Dust behind your hoof-beats rises, and into dust,Clouded, you pass.
I’m a pretty rider, I’m a proud Hector,I as you a little am pretty and proud;I with you am riding, riding to the moonrise,So sing we loud—
“Out beyond the dust lies mystery of moonrise,We go to chiller learning than is bred in the sun,Hectors, and riders, and a simple singer,Riding as one.”
Shyin their herding dwell the fallow deer.They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody nearComes upon their pastures. There a life they live,Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,Treading as in jungles free leopards do,Printless as evelight, instant as dew.The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheepKnow our bidding. The fallow deer keepDelicate and far their counsels wild,Never to be folded reconciledTo the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are:Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,These you may not hinder, unconfinedBeautiful flocks of the mind.
Shyin their herding dwell the fallow deer.They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody nearComes upon their pastures. There a life they live,Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,Treading as in jungles free leopards do,Printless as evelight, instant as dew.The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheepKnow our bidding. The fallow deer keepDelicate and far their counsels wild,Never to be folded reconciledTo the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are:Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,These you may not hinder, unconfinedBeautiful flocks of the mind.
Shyin their herding dwell the fallow deer.They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody nearComes upon their pastures. There a life they live,Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,Treading as in jungles free leopards do,Printless as evelight, instant as dew.The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheepKnow our bidding. The fallow deer keepDelicate and far their counsels wild,Never to be folded reconciledTo the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are:Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,These you may not hinder, unconfinedBeautiful flocks of the mind.
AsI walked along the passage, in the night, beyond the stairs,In the dark,I was afraid,Suddenly,As will happen you know, my dear, it will often happen.I knew the walls at my side,Knew the drawings hanging there, the order of their placing,And the door where my bed lay beyond,And the window on the landing—There was even a little ray of moonlight through it—All was known, familiar, my comfortable home;And yet I was afraid,Suddenly,In the dark, like a child, of nothing,Of vastness, of eternity, of the queer pains of thought,Such as used to trouble me when I heard,When I was little, the people talkOn Sundays of “As it was in the Beginning,Is Now, and Ever Shall Be....”I am thirty-six years old,And folk are friendly to me,And there are no ghosts that should have reason to haunt me,And I have tempted no magical happeningsBy forsaking the clear noons of thoughtFor the wizardries that the credulous takeTo be golden roads to revelation.I knew all was simplicity there,Without conspiracy, without antagonism,And yet I was afraid,Suddenly,A child, in the dark, forlorn....And then, as suddenly,I was aware of a profound, a miraculous understanding,Knowledge that comes to a manBut once or twice, as a bird’s noteIn the still depth of the nightStriking upon the silence ...I stood at the door, and thereWas mellow candle-light,And companionship, and comfort,And I knewThat it was even so,That it must be even soWith death.I knewThat no harm could have touched me out of my fear,Because I had no grudge against anything,Because I had desiredIn the darkness, when fear came,Love only, and pity, and fellowship,And it would have been a thing monstrous,Something defying natureAnd all the simple universal fitnessFor any force there to have come evillyUpon me, who had no evil in my heart,But only trust, and tendernessFor every presence about me in the air,For the very shadow about me,Being a little child for no one’s envy.And I knew that GodMust understand that we goTo death as little children,Desiring love so simply, and love’s defence,And that he would be a barren God, without humour,To cheat so little, so wistful, a desire,That he createdIn us, in our childishness ...And I may never again be sure of this,But there, for a moment,In the candle-light,Standing at the door,I knew.
AsI walked along the passage, in the night, beyond the stairs,In the dark,I was afraid,Suddenly,As will happen you know, my dear, it will often happen.I knew the walls at my side,Knew the drawings hanging there, the order of their placing,And the door where my bed lay beyond,And the window on the landing—There was even a little ray of moonlight through it—All was known, familiar, my comfortable home;And yet I was afraid,Suddenly,In the dark, like a child, of nothing,Of vastness, of eternity, of the queer pains of thought,Such as used to trouble me when I heard,When I was little, the people talkOn Sundays of “As it was in the Beginning,Is Now, and Ever Shall Be....”I am thirty-six years old,And folk are friendly to me,And there are no ghosts that should have reason to haunt me,And I have tempted no magical happeningsBy forsaking the clear noons of thoughtFor the wizardries that the credulous takeTo be golden roads to revelation.I knew all was simplicity there,Without conspiracy, without antagonism,And yet I was afraid,Suddenly,A child, in the dark, forlorn....And then, as suddenly,I was aware of a profound, a miraculous understanding,Knowledge that comes to a manBut once or twice, as a bird’s noteIn the still depth of the nightStriking upon the silence ...I stood at the door, and thereWas mellow candle-light,And companionship, and comfort,And I knewThat it was even so,That it must be even soWith death.I knewThat no harm could have touched me out of my fear,Because I had no grudge against anything,Because I had desiredIn the darkness, when fear came,Love only, and pity, and fellowship,And it would have been a thing monstrous,Something defying natureAnd all the simple universal fitnessFor any force there to have come evillyUpon me, who had no evil in my heart,But only trust, and tendernessFor every presence about me in the air,For the very shadow about me,Being a little child for no one’s envy.And I knew that GodMust understand that we goTo death as little children,Desiring love so simply, and love’s defence,And that he would be a barren God, without humour,To cheat so little, so wistful, a desire,That he createdIn us, in our childishness ...And I may never again be sure of this,But there, for a moment,In the candle-light,Standing at the door,I knew.
AsI walked along the passage, in the night, beyond the stairs,In the dark,I was afraid,Suddenly,As will happen you know, my dear, it will often happen.I knew the walls at my side,Knew the drawings hanging there, the order of their placing,And the door where my bed lay beyond,And the window on the landing—There was even a little ray of moonlight through it—All was known, familiar, my comfortable home;And yet I was afraid,Suddenly,In the dark, like a child, of nothing,Of vastness, of eternity, of the queer pains of thought,Such as used to trouble me when I heard,When I was little, the people talkOn Sundays of “As it was in the Beginning,Is Now, and Ever Shall Be....”I am thirty-six years old,And folk are friendly to me,And there are no ghosts that should have reason to haunt me,And I have tempted no magical happeningsBy forsaking the clear noons of thoughtFor the wizardries that the credulous takeTo be golden roads to revelation.I knew all was simplicity there,Without conspiracy, without antagonism,And yet I was afraid,Suddenly,A child, in the dark, forlorn....And then, as suddenly,I was aware of a profound, a miraculous understanding,Knowledge that comes to a manBut once or twice, as a bird’s noteIn the still depth of the nightStriking upon the silence ...I stood at the door, and thereWas mellow candle-light,And companionship, and comfort,And I knewThat it was even so,That it must be even soWith death.I knewThat no harm could have touched me out of my fear,Because I had no grudge against anything,Because I had desiredIn the darkness, when fear came,Love only, and pity, and fellowship,And it would have been a thing monstrous,Something defying natureAnd all the simple universal fitnessFor any force there to have come evillyUpon me, who had no evil in my heart,But only trust, and tendernessFor every presence about me in the air,For the very shadow about me,Being a little child for no one’s envy.And I knew that GodMust understand that we goTo death as little children,Desiring love so simply, and love’s defence,And that he would be a barren God, without humour,To cheat so little, so wistful, a desire,That he createdIn us, in our childishness ...And I may never again be sure of this,But there, for a moment,In the candle-light,Standing at the door,I knew.
I toohave known my mutinies,Played with improvident desires,Gone indolently vain as theseWhose lips from undistinguished choirsMock at the music of our sires.I too have erred in thought. In hoursWhen needy life forbade me bringTo song the brain’s unravished powers,Then had it been a temperate thingLoosely to pluck an easy string.Yet thought has been, poor profligate,Sin’s period. Through dear and longObedience I learn to hateUnhappy lethargies that wrongThe larger loyalties of song.And you upon your slender reed,Most exquisitely tuned, have madeFor every singing heart a creed.And I have heard; and I have playedMy lonely music unafraid,Knowing that still a friendly few,Turning aside from turbulence,Cherish the difficult phrase, the dueBridals of disembodied senseWith the new word’s magnificence.
I toohave known my mutinies,Played with improvident desires,Gone indolently vain as theseWhose lips from undistinguished choirsMock at the music of our sires.I too have erred in thought. In hoursWhen needy life forbade me bringTo song the brain’s unravished powers,Then had it been a temperate thingLoosely to pluck an easy string.Yet thought has been, poor profligate,Sin’s period. Through dear and longObedience I learn to hateUnhappy lethargies that wrongThe larger loyalties of song.And you upon your slender reed,Most exquisitely tuned, have madeFor every singing heart a creed.And I have heard; and I have playedMy lonely music unafraid,Knowing that still a friendly few,Turning aside from turbulence,Cherish the difficult phrase, the dueBridals of disembodied senseWith the new word’s magnificence.
I toohave known my mutinies,Played with improvident desires,Gone indolently vain as theseWhose lips from undistinguished choirsMock at the music of our sires.
I too have erred in thought. In hoursWhen needy life forbade me bringTo song the brain’s unravished powers,Then had it been a temperate thingLoosely to pluck an easy string.
Yet thought has been, poor profligate,Sin’s period. Through dear and longObedience I learn to hateUnhappy lethargies that wrongThe larger loyalties of song.
And you upon your slender reed,Most exquisitely tuned, have madeFor every singing heart a creed.And I have heard; and I have playedMy lonely music unafraid,
Knowing that still a friendly few,Turning aside from turbulence,Cherish the difficult phrase, the dueBridals of disembodied senseWith the new word’s magnificence.
O Lord, I pray: that for each happinessMy housemate brings I may give back no lessThan all my fertile will;That I may take from friends but as the streamCreates again the hawthorn bloom adreamAbove the river sill;That I may see the spurge upon the wallAnd hear the nesting birds give call to call,Keeping my wonder new;That I may have a body fit to mateWith the green fields, and stars, and streams in spate,And clean as clover-dew;That I may have the courage to confuteAll fools with silence when they will dispute,All fools who will deride;That I may know all strict and sinewy artAs that in man which is the counterpart,Lord, of Thy fiercest pride;That somehow this beloved earth may wearA later grace for all the love I bear,For some song that I sing;That, when I die, this word may stand for me—He had a heart to praise, an eye to see,And beauty was his king.
O Lord, I pray: that for each happinessMy housemate brings I may give back no lessThan all my fertile will;That I may take from friends but as the streamCreates again the hawthorn bloom adreamAbove the river sill;That I may see the spurge upon the wallAnd hear the nesting birds give call to call,Keeping my wonder new;That I may have a body fit to mateWith the green fields, and stars, and streams in spate,And clean as clover-dew;That I may have the courage to confuteAll fools with silence when they will dispute,All fools who will deride;That I may know all strict and sinewy artAs that in man which is the counterpart,Lord, of Thy fiercest pride;That somehow this beloved earth may wearA later grace for all the love I bear,For some song that I sing;That, when I die, this word may stand for me—He had a heart to praise, an eye to see,And beauty was his king.
O Lord, I pray: that for each happinessMy housemate brings I may give back no lessThan all my fertile will;
That I may take from friends but as the streamCreates again the hawthorn bloom adreamAbove the river sill;
That I may see the spurge upon the wallAnd hear the nesting birds give call to call,Keeping my wonder new;
That I may have a body fit to mateWith the green fields, and stars, and streams in spate,And clean as clover-dew;
That I may have the courage to confuteAll fools with silence when they will dispute,All fools who will deride;
That I may know all strict and sinewy artAs that in man which is the counterpart,Lord, of Thy fiercest pride;
That somehow this beloved earth may wearA later grace for all the love I bear,For some song that I sing;That, when I die, this word may stand for me—He had a heart to praise, an eye to see,And beauty was his king.