The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems, 1908-1919This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Poems, 1908-1919Author: John DrinkwaterRelease date: March 27, 2016 [eBook #51575]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS, Bryan Ness, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1908-1919 ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Poems, 1908-1919Author: John DrinkwaterRelease date: March 27, 2016 [eBook #51575]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS, Bryan Ness, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
Title: Poems, 1908-1919
Author: John Drinkwater
Author: John Drinkwater
Release date: March 27, 2016 [eBook #51575]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by MWS, Bryan Ness, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1908-1919 ***
POEMS1908-1919
[Image not available: John Drinkwater portrait From a drawing by William Rothenstein 1917 Emery Walker ph. sc.]
ByJOHN DRINKWATERcolophon not visibleBOSTON AND NEW YORKHOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANYThe Riverside Press CambridgeCOPYRIGHT, 1919, BY JOHN DRINKWATERALL RIGHTS RESERVEDTOMY WIFE
I donot think that skies and meadows areMoral, or that the fixture of a starComes of a quiet spirit, or that treesHave wisdom in their windless silences.Yet these are things invested in my moodWith constancy, and peace, and fortitude,That in my troubled season I can cryUpon the wide composure of the sky,And envy fields, and wish that I might beAs little daunted as a star or tree.
I donot think that skies and meadows areMoral, or that the fixture of a starComes of a quiet spirit, or that treesHave wisdom in their windless silences.Yet these are things invested in my moodWith constancy, and peace, and fortitude,That in my troubled season I can cryUpon the wide composure of the sky,And envy fields, and wish that I might beAs little daunted as a star or tree.
I donot think that skies and meadows areMoral, or that the fixture of a starComes of a quiet spirit, or that treesHave wisdom in their windless silences.Yet these are things invested in my moodWith constancy, and peace, and fortitude,That in my troubled season I can cryUpon the wide composure of the sky,And envy fields, and wish that I might beAs little daunted as a star or tree.
Thosehours are best when suddenlyThe voices of the world are still,And in that quiet place is heardThe voice of one small singing bird,Alone within his quiet tree;When to one field that crowns a hill,With but the sky for neighbourhood,The crowding counties of my brainGive all their riches, lake and plain,Cornland and fell and pillared wood;When in a hill-top acre, bareFor the seed’s use, I am awareOf all the beauty that an ageOf earth has taught my eyes to see;When Pride and GenerosityThe Constant Heart and Evil Rage,Affection and Desire, and allThe passions of experienceAre no more tabled in my mind,Learning’s idolatry, but findParticularity of senseIn daily fortitudes that fallFrom this or that companion,Or in an angry gossip’s word;When one man speaks for Every One,When Music lives in one small bird,When in a furrowed hill we seeAll beauty in epitome—Those hours are best; for those belongTo the lucidity of song.
Thosehours are best when suddenlyThe voices of the world are still,And in that quiet place is heardThe voice of one small singing bird,Alone within his quiet tree;When to one field that crowns a hill,With but the sky for neighbourhood,The crowding counties of my brainGive all their riches, lake and plain,Cornland and fell and pillared wood;When in a hill-top acre, bareFor the seed’s use, I am awareOf all the beauty that an ageOf earth has taught my eyes to see;When Pride and GenerosityThe Constant Heart and Evil Rage,Affection and Desire, and allThe passions of experienceAre no more tabled in my mind,Learning’s idolatry, but findParticularity of senseIn daily fortitudes that fallFrom this or that companion,Or in an angry gossip’s word;When one man speaks for Every One,When Music lives in one small bird,When in a furrowed hill we seeAll beauty in epitome—Those hours are best; for those belongTo the lucidity of song.
Thosehours are best when suddenlyThe voices of the world are still,And in that quiet place is heardThe voice of one small singing bird,Alone within his quiet tree;
When to one field that crowns a hill,With but the sky for neighbourhood,The crowding counties of my brainGive all their riches, lake and plain,Cornland and fell and pillared wood;When in a hill-top acre, bareFor the seed’s use, I am awareOf all the beauty that an ageOf earth has taught my eyes to see;
When Pride and GenerosityThe Constant Heart and Evil Rage,Affection and Desire, and allThe passions of experienceAre no more tabled in my mind,Learning’s idolatry, but findParticularity of senseIn daily fortitudes that fallFrom this or that companion,Or in an angry gossip’s word;When one man speaks for Every One,When Music lives in one small bird,When in a furrowed hill we seeAll beauty in epitome—Those hours are best; for those belongTo the lucidity of song.
Beyondmy window in the nightIs but a drab inglorious street,Yet there the frost and clean starlightAs over Warwick woods are sweet.Under the grey drift of the townThe crocus works among the mouldAs eagerly as those that crownThe Warwick spring in flame and gold.And when the tramway down the hillAcross the cobbles moans and rings,There is about my window-sillThe tumult of a thousand wings.
Beyondmy window in the nightIs but a drab inglorious street,Yet there the frost and clean starlightAs over Warwick woods are sweet.Under the grey drift of the townThe crocus works among the mouldAs eagerly as those that crownThe Warwick spring in flame and gold.And when the tramway down the hillAcross the cobbles moans and rings,There is about my window-sillThe tumult of a thousand wings.
Beyondmy window in the nightIs but a drab inglorious street,Yet there the frost and clean starlightAs over Warwick woods are sweet.
Under the grey drift of the townThe crocus works among the mouldAs eagerly as those that crownThe Warwick spring in flame and gold.
And when the tramway down the hillAcross the cobbles moans and rings,There is about my window-sillThe tumult of a thousand wings.
Thinknot that mystery has placeIn the obscure and veilèd face,Or when the midnight watches areUncompanied of moon or star,Or where the fields and forests lieEnfolded from the loving eyeBy fogs rebellious to the sun,Or when the poet’s rhymes are spunFrom dreams that even in his ownImagining are half-unknown.These are not mystery, but mereConditions that deny the clearReality that lies behindThe weak, unspeculative mind,Behind contagions of the airAnd screens of beauty everywhere,The brooding and tormented sky,The hesitation of an eye.Look rather when the landscapes glowThrough crystal distances as thoughThe forty shires of England spreadInto one vision harvested,Or when the moonlit waters lieIn silver cold lucidity;Those countenances search that bearWitness to very character,And listen to the song that weighsA life’s adventure in a phrase—These are the founts of wonder, theseThe plainer miracles to pleaseThe brain that reads the world aright;Here is the mystery of light.
Thinknot that mystery has placeIn the obscure and veilèd face,Or when the midnight watches areUncompanied of moon or star,Or where the fields and forests lieEnfolded from the loving eyeBy fogs rebellious to the sun,Or when the poet’s rhymes are spunFrom dreams that even in his ownImagining are half-unknown.These are not mystery, but mereConditions that deny the clearReality that lies behindThe weak, unspeculative mind,Behind contagions of the airAnd screens of beauty everywhere,The brooding and tormented sky,The hesitation of an eye.Look rather when the landscapes glowThrough crystal distances as thoughThe forty shires of England spreadInto one vision harvested,Or when the moonlit waters lieIn silver cold lucidity;Those countenances search that bearWitness to very character,And listen to the song that weighsA life’s adventure in a phrase—These are the founts of wonder, theseThe plainer miracles to pleaseThe brain that reads the world aright;Here is the mystery of light.
Thinknot that mystery has placeIn the obscure and veilèd face,Or when the midnight watches areUncompanied of moon or star,Or where the fields and forests lieEnfolded from the loving eyeBy fogs rebellious to the sun,Or when the poet’s rhymes are spunFrom dreams that even in his ownImagining are half-unknown.
These are not mystery, but mereConditions that deny the clearReality that lies behindThe weak, unspeculative mind,Behind contagions of the airAnd screens of beauty everywhere,The brooding and tormented sky,The hesitation of an eye.
Look rather when the landscapes glowThrough crystal distances as thoughThe forty shires of England spreadInto one vision harvested,Or when the moonlit waters lieIn silver cold lucidity;Those countenances search that bearWitness to very character,And listen to the song that weighsA life’s adventure in a phrase—These are the founts of wonder, theseThe plainer miracles to pleaseThe brain that reads the world aright;Here is the mystery of light.