The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems, 1914-1919

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems, 1914-1919This 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, 1914-1919Author: Maurice BaringRelease date: June 4, 2016 [eBook #52236]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images available by The InternetArchive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1914-1919 ***

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, 1914-1919Author: Maurice BaringRelease date: June 4, 2016 [eBook #52236]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images available by The InternetArchive/Canadian Libraries)

Title: Poems, 1914-1919

Author: Maurice Baring

Release date: June 4, 2016 [eBook #52236]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images available by The InternetArchive/Canadian Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1914-1919 ***

POEMS: 1914-1919

OTHER WORKS BYMAURICE BARINGWHAT I SAW IN RUSSIAA YEAR IN RUSSIATHE RUSSIAN PEOPLETHE MAINSPRINGS OF RUSSIALANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURERUSSIAN ESSAYS AND STUDIESAN OUTLINE OF RUSSIAN LITERATUREORPHEUS IN MAYFAIRDEAD LETTERSDIMINUTIVE DRAMASLOST DIARIESFORGET-ME-NOT AND LILY OF THE VALLEYTHE GLASS MENDERTHE GREY STOCKINGCOLLECTED POEMSROUND THE WORLD IN ANY NUMBER OF DAYSR.F.C. H.Q.

OTHER WORKS BYMAURICE BARING

WHAT I SAW IN RUSSIAA YEAR IN RUSSIATHE RUSSIAN PEOPLETHE MAINSPRINGS OF RUSSIALANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURERUSSIAN ESSAYS AND STUDIESAN OUTLINE OF RUSSIAN LITERATUREORPHEUS IN MAYFAIRDEAD LETTERSDIMINUTIVE DRAMASLOST DIARIESFORGET-ME-NOT AND LILY OF THE VALLEYTHE GLASS MENDERTHE GREY STOCKINGCOLLECTED POEMSROUND THE WORLD IN ANY NUMBER OF DAYSR.F.C. H.Q.

LONDONMARTIN SECKERLONDON: MARTIN SECKER (LTD) 1920

ToN.L.

(Auberon Herbert, Captain Lord Lucas, R.F.C.; killed November 3, 1916.)Νωμᾶται δ’έν ἀτρυγέτῳ χάει

Thewind had blown away the rainThat all day long had soaked the level plain.Against the horizon’s fiery wrack,The sheds loomed black.And higher, in their tumultuous concourse met,The streaming clouds, shot-riddled banners, wetWith the flickering storm,Drifted and smouldered, warmWith flashes sentFrom the lower firmament.And they concealed—They only here and there through rifts revealedA hidden sanctuary of fire and light,A city of chrysolite.We looked and laughed and wondered, and I said:That orange sea, those oriflammes outspreadWere like the fanciful imaginingsThat the young painter flingsUpon the canvas bold,Such as the sage and the oldMake mock at, saying it could never beAnd you assented also, laughingly.I wondered what they meant,That flaming firmament,Those clouds so grey so gold, so wet so warm,So much of glory and so much of storm,The end of the world, or the endOf the war—remoter still to me and you, my friend.Alas! it meant not this, it meant not that:It meant that now the last time you and IShould look at the golden sky,And the dark fields large and flat,And smell the evening weather,And laugh and talk and wonder both together.The last, last time. We nevermore should meetIn France or London street,Or fields of home. The desolated spaceOf life shall nevermoreBe what it was before.No one shall take your place.No other faceCan fill that empty frame.There is no answer when we call your name.We cannot hear your step upon the stair.We turn to speak and find a vacant chair.Something is broken which we cannot mend.God has done more than take away a friendIn taking you; for all that we have leftIs bruised and irremediably bereft.There is none like you. Yet not that aloneDo we bemoan;But this; that you were greater than the rest,And better than the best.O liberal heart fast-rooted to the soil,O lover of ancient freedom and proud toil,Friend of the gipsies and all wandering song,The forest’s nursling and the favoured childOf woodlands wild—O brother to the birds and all things free,Captain of liberty!Deep in your heart the restless seed was sown;The vagrant spirit fretted in your feet;We wondered could you tarry long,And brook for long the cramping street,Or would you one day sail for shores unknown,And shake from you the dust of towns, and spurnThe crowded market-place—and not return?You found a sterner guide;You heard the guns. Then, to their distant fire,Your dreams were laid aside;And on that day, you cast your heart’s desireUpon a burning pyre;You gave your service to the exalted need,Until at last from bondage freed,At liberty to serve as you loved best,You chose the noblest way. God did the rest.So when the spring of the world shall shrive our stain,After the winter of war,When the poor world awakes to peace once more,After such night of ravage and of rain,You shall not come again.You shall not come to taste the old Spring weather,To gallop through the soft untrampled heather,To bathe and bake your body on the grass.We shall be there, alas!But not with you. When Spring shall wake the earth,And quicken the scarred fields to the new birth,Our grief shall grow. For what can Spring renewMore fiercely for us than the need of you?That night I dreamt they sent for me and saidThat you were missing, “missing, missing—dead”:I cried when in the morning I awoke,And all the world seemed shrouded in a cloak;But when I saw the sun,And knew another day had just begun,I brushed the dream away, and quite forgotThe nightmare’s ugly blot.So was the dream forgot. The dream came true.Before the night I knewThat you had flown away into the airForever. Then I cheated my despair.I saidThat you were safe—or wounded—but not dead.Alas! I knewWhich was the false and true.And after days of watching, days of lead,There came the certain news that you were deadYou had died fighting, fighting against odds,Such as in war the godsÆthereal dared when all the world was young;Such fighting as blind Homer never sung,Nor Hector nor Achilles never knew;High in the empty blue.High, high, above the clouds, against the setting sun,The fight was fought, and your great task was done.Of all your brave adventures this the lastThe bravest was and best;Meet ending to a long embattled past,This swift, triumphant, fatal quest,Crowned with the wreath that never perisheth,And diadem of honourable death;Swift Death aflame with offering supremeAnd mighty sacrifice,More than all mortal dream;A soaring death, and near to Heaven’s gate;Beneath the very walls of Paradise.Surely with soul elate,You heard the destined bullet as you flew,And surely your prophetic spirit knewThat you had well deserved that shining fate.Here is no waste,No burning Might-have-been,No bitter after-taste,None to censure, none to screen,Nothing awry, nor anything misspent;Only content, content beyond content,Which hath not any room for betterment.God, Who had made you valiant, strong and swift,And maimed you with a bullet long ago,And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift,And checked your youth’s tumultuous overflow,Gave back your youth to you,And packed in moments rare and fewAchievements manifoldAnd happiness untold,And bade you spring to Death as to a bride,In manhood’s ripeness, power and pride,And on your sandals the strong wings of youth.He let you leave a nameTo shine on the entablatures of truth,Forever:To sound forever in answering halls of fame.For you soared onwards to that world which ragsOf clouds, like tattered flags,Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite,The mansions white;And losing all, you gained the civic crownOf that eternal town,Wherein you passed a rightful citizenOf the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken.Surely you found companions meet for youIn that high place;You met there face to faceThose you had never known, but whom you knew;Knights of the Table Round,And all the very brave, the very true,With chivalry crowned;The captains rare,Courteous and brave beyond our human air;Those who had loved and suffered overmuch,Now free from the world’s touch.And with them were the friends of yesterday,Who went before and pointed you the way;And in that place of freshness, light and rest,Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keepOver their King’s long sleep,Surely they made a place for you,Their long-expected guest,Among the chosen few,And welcomed you, their brother and their friend,To that companionship which hath no end.And in the portals of the sacred hallYou hear the trumpet’s call,At dawn upon the silvery battlement,Re-echo through the deepAnd bid the sons of God to rise from sleep,And with a shout to hailThe sunrise on the city of the Grail:The music that proud Lucifer in HellMissed more than all the joys that he forwent.You hear the solemn bellAt vespers, when the oriflammes are furled;And then you know that somewhere in the world,That shines far-off beneath you like a gem,They think of you, and when you think of themYou know that they will wipe away their tears,And cast aside their fears;That they will have it so,And in no otherwise;That it is well with them because they know,With faithful eyes,Fixed forward and turned upwards to the skies,That it is well with you,Among the chosen few,Among the very brave, the very true.

We looked and laughed and wondered, and I said:That orange sea, those oriflammes outspreadWere like the fanciful imaginingsThat the young painter flingsUpon the canvas bold,Such as the sage and the oldMake mock at, saying it could never beAnd you assented also, laughingly.I wondered what they meant,That flaming firmament,Those clouds so grey so gold, so wet so warm,So much of glory and so much of storm,The end of the world, or the endOf the war—remoter still to me and you, my friend.

Alas! it meant not this, it meant not that:It meant that now the last time you and IShould look at the golden sky,And the dark fields large and flat,And smell the evening weather,And laugh and talk and wonder both together.

The last, last time. We nevermore should meetIn France or London street,Or fields of home. The desolated spaceOf life shall nevermoreBe what it was before.No one shall take your place.No other faceCan fill that empty frame.There is no answer when we call your name.We cannot hear your step upon the stair.We turn to speak and find a vacant chair.Something is broken which we cannot mend.God has done more than take away a friendIn taking you; for all that we have leftIs bruised and irremediably bereft.There is none like you. Yet not that aloneDo we bemoan;But this; that you were greater than the rest,And better than the best.

O liberal heart fast-rooted to the soil,O lover of ancient freedom and proud toil,Friend of the gipsies and all wandering song,The forest’s nursling and the favoured childOf woodlands wild—O brother to the birds and all things free,Captain of liberty!Deep in your heart the restless seed was sown;The vagrant spirit fretted in your feet;We wondered could you tarry long,And brook for long the cramping street,Or would you one day sail for shores unknown,And shake from you the dust of towns, and spurnThe crowded market-place—and not return?You found a sterner guide;You heard the guns. Then, to their distant fire,Your dreams were laid aside;And on that day, you cast your heart’s desireUpon a burning pyre;You gave your service to the exalted need,Until at last from bondage freed,At liberty to serve as you loved best,You chose the noblest way. God did the rest.

So when the spring of the world shall shrive our stain,After the winter of war,When the poor world awakes to peace once more,After such night of ravage and of rain,You shall not come again.You shall not come to taste the old Spring weather,To gallop through the soft untrampled heather,To bathe and bake your body on the grass.We shall be there, alas!But not with you. When Spring shall wake the earth,And quicken the scarred fields to the new birth,Our grief shall grow. For what can Spring renewMore fiercely for us than the need of you?

That night I dreamt they sent for me and saidThat you were missing, “missing, missing—dead”:I cried when in the morning I awoke,And all the world seemed shrouded in a cloak;But when I saw the sun,And knew another day had just begun,I brushed the dream away, and quite forgotThe nightmare’s ugly blot.So was the dream forgot. The dream came true.Before the night I knewThat you had flown away into the airForever. Then I cheated my despair.I saidThat you were safe—or wounded—but not dead.Alas! I knewWhich was the false and true.

And after days of watching, days of lead,There came the certain news that you were deadYou had died fighting, fighting against odds,Such as in war the godsÆthereal dared when all the world was young;Such fighting as blind Homer never sung,Nor Hector nor Achilles never knew;High in the empty blue.

High, high, above the clouds, against the setting sun,The fight was fought, and your great task was done.

Of all your brave adventures this the lastThe bravest was and best;Meet ending to a long embattled past,This swift, triumphant, fatal quest,Crowned with the wreath that never perisheth,And diadem of honourable death;Swift Death aflame with offering supremeAnd mighty sacrifice,More than all mortal dream;A soaring death, and near to Heaven’s gate;Beneath the very walls of Paradise.Surely with soul elate,You heard the destined bullet as you flew,And surely your prophetic spirit knewThat you had well deserved that shining fate.

Here is no waste,No burning Might-have-been,No bitter after-taste,None to censure, none to screen,Nothing awry, nor anything misspent;Only content, content beyond content,Which hath not any room for betterment.

God, Who had made you valiant, strong and swift,And maimed you with a bullet long ago,And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift,And checked your youth’s tumultuous overflow,Gave back your youth to you,And packed in moments rare and fewAchievements manifoldAnd happiness untold,And bade you spring to Death as to a bride,In manhood’s ripeness, power and pride,And on your sandals the strong wings of youth.He let you leave a nameTo shine on the entablatures of truth,Forever:To sound forever in answering halls of fame.

For you soared onwards to that world which ragsOf clouds, like tattered flags,Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite,The mansions white;And losing all, you gained the civic crownOf that eternal town,Wherein you passed a rightful citizenOf the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken.

Surely you found companions meet for youIn that high place;You met there face to faceThose you had never known, but whom you knew;Knights of the Table Round,And all the very brave, the very true,With chivalry crowned;The captains rare,Courteous and brave beyond our human air;Those who had loved and suffered overmuch,Now free from the world’s touch.And with them were the friends of yesterday,Who went before and pointed you the way;And in that place of freshness, light and rest,

Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keepOver their King’s long sleep,Surely they made a place for you,Their long-expected guest,Among the chosen few,And welcomed you, their brother and their friend,To that companionship which hath no end.

And in the portals of the sacred hallYou hear the trumpet’s call,At dawn upon the silvery battlement,Re-echo through the deepAnd bid the sons of God to rise from sleep,And with a shout to hailThe sunrise on the city of the Grail:The music that proud Lucifer in HellMissed more than all the joys that he forwent.You hear the solemn bellAt vespers, when the oriflammes are furled;And then you know that somewhere in the world,That shines far-off beneath you like a gem,They think of you, and when you think of themYou know that they will wipe away their tears,And cast aside their fears;That they will have it so,And in no otherwise;That it is well with them because they know,With faithful eyes,Fixed forward and turned upwards to the skies,That it is well with you,Among the chosen few,Among the very brave, the very true.

To J. C. S.The snows have fled, the hail, the lashing rain,Before the Spring.The grass is starred with buttercups again,The blackbirds sing.Now spreads the month that feast of lovely thingsWe loved of old.Once more the swallow glides with darkling wingsAgainst the gold.Now the brown bees about the peach trees boomUpon the walls;And far away beyond the orchard’s bloomThe cuckoo calls.The season holds a festival of light,For you, for me,The shadows are abroad, there falls a blightOn each green tree.And every leaf unfolding, every flowerBrings bitter meed;Beauty of the morning and the evening hourQuickens our need.All is reborn, but never any SpringCan bring back this;Nor any fullness of midsummer bringThe voice we miss.The smiling eyes shall smile on us no more;The laughter clear,Too far away on the forbidden shore,We shall not hear.Bereft of these until the day we die,We both must dwell;Alone, alone, and haunted by the cry:“Hail and farewell!”Yet when the scythe of Death shall near us hissThrough the cold air,Then on the shuddering marge of the abyssThey will be there.They will be there to lift us from sheer spaceAnd empty night;And we shall turn and see them face to faceIn the new light.So shall we pay the unabated priceOf their release,And found on our consenting sacrificeTheir lasting peace.The hopes that fall like leaves before the wind,The baffling waste,And every earthly joy that leaves behindA mortal taste.The uncompleted end of all things dear,The clanging doorOf Death, forever loud with the last fear,Haunt them no more.Without them the awakening world is darkWith dust and mire;Yet as they went they flung to us a spark,A thread of fire.To guide us while beneath the sombre skiesFaltering we tread,Until for us like morning stars shall riseThe deathless dead.

To J. C. S.

The snows have fled, the hail, the lashing rain,Before the Spring.The grass is starred with buttercups again,The blackbirds sing.

Now spreads the month that feast of lovely thingsWe loved of old.Once more the swallow glides with darkling wingsAgainst the gold.

Now the brown bees about the peach trees boomUpon the walls;And far away beyond the orchard’s bloomThe cuckoo calls.

The season holds a festival of light,For you, for me,The shadows are abroad, there falls a blightOn each green tree.

And every leaf unfolding, every flowerBrings bitter meed;Beauty of the morning and the evening hourQuickens our need.

All is reborn, but never any SpringCan bring back this;Nor any fullness of midsummer bringThe voice we miss.

The smiling eyes shall smile on us no more;The laughter clear,Too far away on the forbidden shore,We shall not hear.

Bereft of these until the day we die,We both must dwell;Alone, alone, and haunted by the cry:“Hail and farewell!”

Yet when the scythe of Death shall near us hissThrough the cold air,Then on the shuddering marge of the abyssThey will be there.

They will be there to lift us from sheer spaceAnd empty night;And we shall turn and see them face to faceIn the new light.

So shall we pay the unabated priceOf their release,And found on our consenting sacrificeTheir lasting peace.

The hopes that fall like leaves before the wind,The baffling waste,And every earthly joy that leaves behindA mortal taste.

The uncompleted end of all things dear,The clanging doorOf Death, forever loud with the last fear,Haunt them no more.

Without them the awakening world is darkWith dust and mire;Yet as they went they flung to us a spark,A thread of fire.

To guide us while beneath the sombre skiesFaltering we tread,Until for us like morning stars shall riseThe deathless dead.

Becauseof you we will be glad and gay,Remembering you, we will be brave and strong;And hail the advent of each dangerous day,And meet the last adventure with a song.And, as you proudly gave your jewelled gift,We’ll give our lesser offering with a smile,Nor falter on that path where, all too swift,You led the way and leapt the golden stile.Whether new paths, new heights to climb you find,Or gallop through the unfooted asphodel,We know you know we shall not lag behind,Nor halt to waste a moment on a fear;And you will speed us onward with a cheer,And wave beyond the stars that all is well.

Whether new paths, new heights to climb you find,Or gallop through the unfooted asphodel,We know you know we shall not lag behind,Nor halt to waste a moment on a fear;And you will speed us onward with a cheer,And wave beyond the stars that all is well.

I sawyou starting for another war,The emblem of adventure and of youth,So that men trembled, saying: “He forsoothHas gone, has gone, and shall return no more.”And then out there, they told me you were dead,Taken and killed; how was it that I knew,Whatever else was true, that was not true?And then I saw you pale upon your bed,Scarcely two years ago, when you were sentBack from the margin of the dim abyss;For Death had sealed you with a warning kiss,And let you go to meet a nobler fate:To serve in fellowship, O fortunate:To die in battle with your regiment.

Scarcely two years ago, when you were sentBack from the margin of the dim abyss;For Death had sealed you with a warning kiss,And let you go to meet a nobler fate:To serve in fellowship, O fortunate:To die in battle with your regiment.

Herefell the daring Icarus in his prime,He who was brave enough to scale the skies;And here bereft of plumes his body lies,Leaving the valiant envious of that climb.O rare performance of a soul sublime,That with small loss such great advantage buys!Happy mishap! fraught with so rich a prize,That bids the vanquished triumph over time.So new a path his youth did not dismay,His wings but not his noble heart said nay;He had the glorious sun for funeral fire;He died upon a high adventure bent;The sea his grave, his goal the firmament.Great is the tomb, but greater the desire.

So new a path his youth did not dismay,His wings but not his noble heart said nay;He had the glorious sun for funeral fire;He died upon a high adventure bent;The sea his grave, his goal the firmament.Great is the tomb, but greater the desire.

Heremurdered by the frenzied, not the free,Lies the latest monarch of a star-crossed line;Anointed Emperor by right divine,From Arctic icefields to the Aral sea,From Warsaw to the walls of Tartary.His country’s travail claimed a high design;Too stubborn to respond, he shrank supineBefore the large demand of destiny.Bereft of crown, and throne, and hearth and name,Grief lent him majesty, and sufferingGave him a more than regal diadem.His people kissed the desecrated hemOf robes not now of splendour but of shame,And knelt before their undiminished King.

Bereft of crown, and throne, and hearth and name,Grief lent him majesty, and sufferingGave him a more than regal diadem.His people kissed the desecrated hemOf robes not now of splendour but of shame,And knelt before their undiminished King.

(In a French Village.)

I hearthe tinkling of the cattle bell,In the broad stillness of the afternoon;High in the cloudless haze the harvest moonIs pallid as the phantom of a shell.A girl is drawing water from a well,I hear the clatter of her wooden shoon;Two mothers to their sleeping babies croon,And the hot village feels the drowsy spell.Sleep, child, the Angel of Death his wings has spread;His engines scour the land, the sea, the sky;And all the weapons of Hell’s armouryAre ready for the blood that is their bread;And many a thousand men to-night must die,So many that they will not count the Dead.

Sleep, child, the Angel of Death his wings has spread;His engines scour the land, the sea, the sky;And all the weapons of Hell’s armouryAre ready for the blood that is their bread;And many a thousand men to-night must die,So many that they will not count the Dead.

I watchedyou in the distance tall and pale,Like a swift swallow in a pearly sky;Your eyelids drooped like petals wearily,Your face was like a lily of the vale.You had the softness of all Summer days,The silver radiance of the twilight hour,The mystery of bluebell-haunted ways,The passion of the white syringa’s flower.I watched you, and I knew that I had foundThe long-delaying, long-expected Spring;I knew my heart had found a tune to sing;That strength to soar was in my spirit’s wing;That life was full of a triumphant sound,That death could only be a little thing.Ω Κάλα, ὧ χαρίεσσαI saw you by the Summer candlelight:—You put to shame the sparkle of the gems,The lights, the flashing of the diadems,The moon and all the stars of Summer night.I saw you in the radiant morning hour:—You put to shame the white rose and the red;Your chiselled lips, your little lovely head,Were fairer than the petals of a flower.And on the shaven surface of the lawn,You moved like music, and you smiled like dawn,—The leaves, the flowers, the dragon-flies, the dew,Beside you seemed the stuff of coarser clay;And all the glory of the Summer dayA background for the wonder that was you.

I watched you, and I knew that I had foundThe long-delaying, long-expected Spring;I knew my heart had found a tune to sing;That strength to soar was in my spirit’s wing;That life was full of a triumphant sound,That death could only be a little thing.

Ω Κάλα, ὧ χαρίεσσα

I saw you by the Summer candlelight:—You put to shame the sparkle of the gems,The lights, the flashing of the diadems,The moon and all the stars of Summer night.I saw you in the radiant morning hour:—You put to shame the white rose and the red;Your chiselled lips, your little lovely head,Were fairer than the petals of a flower.

And on the shaven surface of the lawn,You moved like music, and you smiled like dawn,—The leaves, the flowers, the dragon-flies, the dew,Beside you seemed the stuff of coarser clay;And all the glory of the Summer dayA background for the wonder that was you.

Thealmond trees of Tuscany in flower,Narcissus and the tulip growing wild;White oxen; and like a lily undefiled,Beyond the misty plain, the marble tower;The roses and the corn upon the hill,The Judas-tree against the solid blue;The fire-flies, and the downy owl’s too-whoo,Thy Aziola, Shelley, plaintive still.The lisp of Baiæ’s phosphorescent foam;And Venice like a bubble made of dew,A shell transfigured with the rainbow’s hue;The Appian Way beneath a sullen sky,(The shepherd’s pipe is like a seagull’s cry)And in a silver rift, eternal Rome.

The lisp of Baiæ’s phosphorescent foam;And Venice like a bubble made of dew,A shell transfigured with the rainbow’s hue;The Appian Way beneath a sullen sky,(The shepherd’s pipe is like a seagull’s cry)And in a silver rift, eternal Rome.

Theorange blossoms in the Alcazar,Where roses and syringas are in flower;The blinding glory of the morning hour;The eyes that gleam behind a twisted bar;The women on the balconies,—a smile;The barrel-organs, and the blazing heat;The awning hanging high across the street;A dark mantilla in a sombre aisle.A fountain tinkling in a shady court;The gold arena of the bull-ring’s feast;The coloured crowd acclaiming perilous sport;The sudden silence when they hold their breath,While thetorerogently plays with death,And flicks the horns of the tremendous beast.

A fountain tinkling in a shady court;The gold arena of the bull-ring’s feast;The coloured crowd acclaiming perilous sport;The sudden silence when they hold their breath,While thetorerogently plays with death,And flicks the horns of the tremendous beast.

TheSpring had scattered poppies on the land,The Spring was saying her secret to the breeze;In the translucent shallows of green seas,A fisherman, a trident in his hand,Was casting shining fishes to the sand,And wading in the water to his knees;And still I hear the crickets and the bees,The hidden hoofs, the ringing saraband.I see the temples above the breaking foam,The pillars pink as dawn in the silver dust;The Parthenon at sunset large and dim,Smouldering against the purple mountain’s crust;And far away on the ocean’s blazing rim,The phantom ship that brought Ulysses home.

I see the temples above the breaking foam,The pillars pink as dawn in the silver dust;The Parthenon at sunset large and dim,Smouldering against the purple mountain’s crust;And far away on the ocean’s blazing rim,The phantom ship that brought Ulysses home.

Whatcan the secret link between us be?Why does your song’s unresting ebb and flowSpeak to me in a language that I know?Why does the burden of your mysteryCome like the message of a friend to me?Why do I love your vasts of corn or snow,The tears and laughter of your sleepless woe,The murmur of your brown immensity?I cannot say, I only know that whenI hear your soldiers singing in the street,I know it is with you that I would dwell;And when I see your peasants reaping wheat,Your children playing on the road, your menAt prayer before a shrine, I wish them well.

I cannot say, I only know that whenI hear your soldiers singing in the street,I know it is with you that I would dwell;And when I see your peasants reaping wheat,Your children playing on the road, your menAt prayer before a shrine, I wish them well.

A concert. Hark to the prelude’s opening bar!Played by the sheep bells tinkling on the hill;Dogs bark and frogs are croaking near the mill,The watchman’s rattle beats the time afar.Like water bubbling in a magic jar,The nightingale begins a liquid trill,Another answers; and the world’s so still,You’d think that you could hear that falling star.I scarcely see for light the stars that swimAloof in skies not dark but only dim.The women’s voices echo far away.And on the road two lovers sing a song:They sing the joy of love that lasts a day:The sorrow of love that lasts a whole life long.

I scarcely see for light the stars that swimAloof in skies not dark but only dim.The women’s voices echo far away.And on the road two lovers sing a song:They sing the joy of love that lasts a day:The sorrow of love that lasts a whole life long.

Thebreeze has come at last. The day was long;And in the lustrous air the dark bats fly;And Hark! It is the reapers passing by,I hear the burden of their peaceful song.A voice intones; and swift the answering throngTake up the theme and build the harmony;The music swells and soars into the skyAnd dies away intense, and clear and strong.Now through the trees the stately shapes I seeOf women with the attributes of toil,Calm in their sacerdotal majesty;And backward, through the drifting mist of years,I see the festal rites that blessed the soil,As old as the first drop of mortal tears.

Now through the trees the stately shapes I seeOf women with the attributes of toil,Calm in their sacerdotal majesty;And backward, through the drifting mist of years,I see the festal rites that blessed the soil,As old as the first drop of mortal tears.

Youhealed the sore, you made the fearful brave,They bless you for your lasting legacy;The balm, the tears, the fragrant charityYou sought and treasured in your living grave.The gifts you humbly took you greatly gave,For solace of the soul in agony,When through the bars the brutal passions pry,And mock the bonds of the celestial slave.You wandered in the uttermost abyss;And there, amidst the ashes and the dust,You spoke no word of anger or of pride;You found the prints of steps divine to kiss;You looked right upwards to the stars, you cried:“Hosanna to the Lord, for He is just.”

You wandered in the uttermost abyss;And there, amidst the ashes and the dust,You spoke no word of anger or of pride;You found the prints of steps divine to kiss;You looked right upwards to the stars, you cried:“Hosanna to the Lord, for He is just.”

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