The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis 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: PoemsAuthor: Elinor JenkinsRelease date: February 3, 2013 [eBook #41985]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness 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 ***
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: PoemsAuthor: Elinor JenkinsRelease date: February 3, 2013 [eBook #41985]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness 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
Author: Elinor Jenkins
Author: Elinor Jenkins
Release date: February 3, 2013 [eBook #41985]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David E. Brown, Bryan Ness 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 ***
Copyright, 1915,by Sidgwick & Jackson Ltd.All rights reserved
FAIN had I given precious things and sweet,But having neither frankincense nor gem,Only sad flowers—last year's fading yieldGathered about that bitter harvest field—I made a sorry garland out of them,And laid it where immortelles had been meet.
WE were bereft ere we were well awareOf all our precious fears, and had insteadA hopeless safety, a secure despair.We know that fate dealt kindly with our dead,Tenderer to that fair face we held so dearThan unto many another's best beloved.Whate'er befall, we know him far removedFrom all the weary labours of last year,And even in paying this most bitter priceWe know the cause worthy the sacrifice.Now he is safe from any further ill,Nor toils in peril while at ease we sit,Yet bides our loss in thinking of him still,—Of sombre eyes, by sudden laughter lit,Darkened till all the eternal stars shall wane;And lost the incommunicable loreOf cunning fingers ne'er to limn againAnd restless hands at rest for ever more.
"COURAGE, invention, mirth we ill can spareLie lost with him, the greatest loss of all,We grudge to well-won restHis swiftness to devise and dareThat never failed the call."Thus they all spoke together of the deadWho was their comrade many a dark hour through,As one whose work was ended quite,But he that held him dearest saidNothing, for well he knewHis friend forsook them not in dying.—Often above the din he seemed to hearHis well known voice beloved,Often in mud and darkness lying,Felt he was working near,By star-shell light oft with that commonplaceFamiliar kindness knowing not surpriseJust as in other nights now lost,Suddenly glimpsed his face,Unchanged the same sleep-burdened eyes,Whimsical brows and laughter-lifted lip;And turned again to labours lighter grown,Glad of that unforgetful soul'sImperishable fellowshipThat left him not to serve alone.
TOO well they saw the road where they must treadWas shrouded in a misty winding sheet,Among whose strangling coils their souls might meetDeath, and delaying not to go, they saidFarewell to hope, to dear tasks left undone,To well-loved faces and to length of days.—So came they to the parting of the ways,A year agone, and saw no way but one.Others, and they were many, watched them goBut turned not from the pleasant path of ease,With hedges full of flowers, and fields of sheep.Their hearts waxed gross, battening on braver woeAnd their eyes heavy.—God, for such as theseNo trump avails but Thine to break their sleep!
ALL night, from the quiet streetComes the sound, without pause or breakOf the marching legions' feetTo listeners lying awake.Their faces may none descry;Night folds them close like a pall;But the feet of them passing byTramp on the hearts of all.What comforting makes them strong?What trust and what fears have theyThat march without music or songTo death at the end of the way?What faith in our victory?What hopes that beguile and bless?What heaven-sent hilarity?What mirth and what weariness?What valour from vanished yearsIn the heart of youth confined?What wellsprings of unshed tearsFor the loves they leave behind?No sleep, my soul to befriend;No voice, neither answering light!But darkness that knows no endAnd feet going by in the night.
THE misty night broods o'er this peopled place,Chimneys and trees stand black against the sky,One goes belated by with echoing paceAnd careless whistle, shrilling loud and high.And ere his steps into the stillness mergeSome labouring giant of our later dayPasses with hollow roar of distant surgeAnd clouds of steam as white as ocean spray.In turn the lighted windows, twinkling fair,Darken, till all these earthborn stars are down;Stained dusky red by the great city's glareThe waning moon hangs low o'er London Town.E'en now that moon in her own silver guiseLooks down on some stretched on a stricken plain,Yet she shows red unto their blood-dimmed eyesThat never shall behold the sun again.We, weary of the idle watch we keep,Turn from the window to our sure reposeAnd pass into the pleasant realms of sleep,Or snug and drowsy muse upon their woes.And whether we that sleep or they that wake,—We that have laboured light and slumber wellOr they that bled and battled for our sake—Have the best portion scarce seems hard to tell.Soon shall the sun behold them, where they lie,Yet his fierce rays may never warm them more;No further need have they to strive or cry,They have found rest that laboured long and sore;While we take up again in street and martThe burden and the business of the day:And which of these two is the better partGod only knows, whose face is turned away.
A MONTH ago they marched to fightAway 'twixt the woodland and the sown,I walked that lonely road to-nightAnd yet I could not feel alone.The voice of the wind called shrill and highLike a bugle band of ghosts,And the restless leaves that shuffled bySeemed the tread of the phantom hosts.Mayhap when the shadows gather roundAnd the low skies lower with rain,The dead that rot upon outland groundMarch down the road again.
FOR fifteen hundred valiant men and tried,These waters were as Lethe's, dark and deepAnd bitter as the bitterest tears we weep;Their high hearts rose above the swollen tide,Fain of the foe upon the further side,Though in death's draught their lips they needs must steep.Since their own lives their valour might not keep,Our tall young men drank of that cup and died.Now are their faces hidden from the sky,Under the trampled turf where last they trod;Yet unforsaken sleeps that sad array;The living hearts of all their mothers lieBuried with them, and beat below the sod,As their poor pulse could stir the senseless clay.
BEFORE the throne the spirits of the slainWith a loud voice importunately cried,"Oh, Lord of Hosts, whose name be glorified,Scarce may the line one onslaught more sustainWanting our help. Let it not be in vain,Not all in vain, Oh God, that we have died."And smiling on them our good Lord replied,"Begone then, foolish ones, and fight again."Our eyes were holden, that we saw them not;Disheartened foes beheld—our prisoners said—Behind us massed, a mighty host indeed,Where no host was. On comrades unforgotWe thought, and knew that all those valiant deadForwent their rest to save us at our need.
HE hung upon a wayside Calvary,From whence no more the carven Christ looks downWith wide, blank eyes beneath the thorny crown,On the devout and careless, passing by.The Cross had shaken with his agony,His blood had stained the dancing grasses brown,But when we found him, though the weary frown,That waited on death's long delayed mercy,Still bent his brow, yet he was dead and cold,With drooping head and patient eyes astare,That would not shut. As we stood turned to iceThe sun remembered Golgotha of old,And made a halo of his yellow hairIn mockery of that fruitless sacrifice.
WHEN the night watches slowly downwards creep,And heavy darkness lays her leaden wingsOn aged eyes that ache but cannot weep,For burning time hath dried the water-springs—Yearneth the watcher then with sleepless painFor eager hearts that in the grave lie cold,For all the toil and pride of years made vain,And grieveth sore to be alive, and old.Without, the lost wind desolately cryingScatters poor spring's frail children rent and torn,And when the moon looks, wearily a-dying,A moment 'thwart her shroud, faint and forlorn,Gleams ghostly through the trees her fickle lightOn barren blossoms, strewn upon the night.
YOUNG and great hearted, went he forth to dareDeath on the field of honour; all he sought,Was leave to lay life down a thing of naughtAnd spill its hopes and promise on the air.Then lest vile foes should vaunt a spoil so rareThe sun that loved him gave a kiss death-fraughtQuenching the heaven-enkindled fire that wroughtFair fancies, bodied forth in words more fair,And lit the dreaming beauty of his faceWith tender mirth and strength-begetting trust,—Impotent strength, and mirth that might not save.Therefore we mourn, counting each vanished grace.Ne'er was so much, since dust returned to dust,Cribbed in the compass of a narrow grave.
ROUND a bright isle, set in a sea of gloom,We sat together, dining,And spoke and laughed even as in better timesThough each one knew no other might misdoubtThe doom that marched moment by moment nigher,Whose couriers knocked on every heart like death,And changed all things familiar to our sightInto strange shapes and grieving ghosts that wept.The crimson-shaded lightShed in the garden roses of red fireThat burned and bloomed on the decorous limes.The hungry night that lay in wait withoutMade blind, blue eyes against the silver's shiningAnd waked the affrighted candles with its breathOut of their steady sleep, while round the roomThe shadows crouched and crept.Among the legions of beleaguering fears,Still we sat on and kept them still at bay,A little while, a little longer yet,And wooed the hurrying moments to forgetWhat we remembered well,—Till the hour struck—then desperately we soughtAnd found no further respite—only tearsWe would not shed, and words we might not say.We needs must know that now the time was comeYet still against the strangling foe we fought,And some of us were brave and someBorrowed a bubble courage nigh to breaking,And he that went, perforce went speedilyAnd stayed not for leave-taking.But even in going, as he would dispelThe bitterness of incomplete good-byes,He paused within the circle of dim light,And turned to us a face, lit seeminglyLess by the lamp than by his shining eyes.So, in the radiance of his mastered fate,A moment stood our soldier by the gateAnd laughed his long farewell—Then passed into the silence and the night.
SHE read the words of him that was her own:The dauntless brow that grief itself had steeledQuickened with listening ever, not in vainAmid brave stories of the stricken field,For strange, sad echoes from a child's heart grownUntimely old, that scarce will dance againThis side the grave, but nathless keeps a leavenOf mirth most bitter sweet.So changed her face, 'twixt pride and sorrowing,As stirs and shadows sun-bleached wheatWith winds that walk the stair of heavenAnd high clouds hovering.
FOR the last time I kissedThe lips of my dearest son,For the last time looked in his face—My brave, my beautiful one.Reaching up to his breast,But lately as low as my knee,I felt with my hands in his heartA shadow I might not see.Scarce could I bid him farewell,Scarce to bless him find breath,For I felt the shape of the shadeAnd knew 'twas the shadow of death.
THE limbs she bore and cherished tenderly,And rocked against her heart, with loving fears,Through helpless infancy that all endears,Unto the verge of manhood's empery,Were fostered for this cruel end, and sheKneeling beside him, looks through blinding tearsDown the long vista of the lonely years,Void of all light, drear as eternity.But her young son, who knows not that he dies,Gives good-night lightly, on the utmost brink,And, anguish overmastered for her sake,Says smiling with stiff lips and death-dimmed eyes,"Why, Mother, if you kiss me so, I'll thinkYou'll not be here to-morrow, when I wake."
DEAR is young morning's tender-hued attire:To us and ours, 'stead of that promise, cameA brief and burning sunset, blood and flame,And, looking on the end of our desire,Yet said we, "What if fealty to a nameHave built our hearts' beloved a funeral pyre?Their death hath kindled a fair beacon fireTo lighten all this world of fear and shame,And none shall quench it." As the words were said,Darkened and failed the strange, unearthly light,And faded all the surging sea of gold,And nought was left of the fierce glories fledBut ashen skies slow deepening into night,Lit by pale memory's stars that shake for cold.
OH faint and feeble hearted, comfort ye!Nor shame those dead whose death was great indeed,Greater than life in death. It doth not need,Since we seek strength where healing may not be,Faith in fair fables of eternal rest,Nor seer's eyes to look beyond the grave.That they endured and dared for us shall saveOur souls alive:—they met, our tenderest,Pain without plaint and death without dismay,Bore and beheld sorrows unspeakable,Yet shrank not from that double-edged distress,But, eyes set steadfastly where ends the way,They through all perils laughed and laboured well,Nor ceased from mercy on the merciless.
IF with his fathers he had fallen asleep,Far different would have been this drear lyke-wake.Lonely and lampless lies he, for whose sakeMany might well a night-long vigil keep,And, though we have not time nor heart to weep,Yet fain would we some slight observance make,E'er sad to-morrow's earliest dawn shall breakWhen he must lie yet darker and more deep.Therefore we've laid him 'neath a chestnut tree,That bears a myriad candles all alight,And faintly glimmering through the starry gloom—No dimmer than a holy vault might be—It sheds abroad upon the quiet nightA gentle radiance and a faint perfume.
PURPLE and grey the vacant moor lies spreadAnd all the storms of heaven sweep and cryAmong the barrows of forgotten dead,Who died as we shall die.There dwelt of yore, upon such desert land,Strange merchants of a stranger merchandise,Who stole the Winds from out God's hollowed handAnd loosed them, at a price.Thither mayhap the reiving marchman rodeAnd bought a gale to ruffle the red cockThat he would set upon his foe's abode,And leave no standing stock.And thither, with hearts tossing to and froOn stormy seas, came foolish maids and fain,And chaffered for a favouring wind to blowTheir lovers home again.Oh were such mighty witches living still,Those whistle tempests and light airs obeyed,We have more need the wind should do our willThan e'er had love-sick maid.At body's peril and in soul's despiteWe would give all we had of gold and gemFor a west wind, where our beloved fight,To blow the reek from them.But these wind-pedlars with their hard-earned feeMocked and forsaken of the fiend their sire'Spite of all powers of spell and gramaryePassed long ago in fire.So to High God let humble prayers be said,From bursting hearts that wait in vain, and HeIn His good time, when all your dears are dead,May stoop to answer ye.
WE buried of our dead the dearest one—Said each to other, "Here then let him lie,And they may find the place, when all is done,From the old may tree standing guard near by."Strong limbs whereon the wasted life blood dries,And soft cheeks that a girl might wish her own,A scholar's brow, o'ershadowing valiant eyes,Henceforth shall pleasure charnel-worms alone.For we, that loved him, covered up his face,And laid him in the sodden earth away,And left him lying in that lonely placeTo rot and moulder with the mouldering clay.The hawthorn that above his grave head grewLike an old crone toward the raw earth bowed,Wept softly over him, the whole night through,And made him of her tears a glimmering shroud.· · · · · ·Oh Lord of Hosts, no hallowed prayer we bring,Here for Thy grace is no importuning,No room for those that will not strive nor cryWhen loving kindness with our dead lies slain:Give us our fathers' heathen hearts again,Valour to dare, and fortitude to die.
IN a strange burial groundSearching strange graves above,By a sure sign I foundWhere lay my love.Bluer than summer skies,Than summer seas more blue,Looked from the dust his eyesWhose death I rue.Sweet eyes of my sweet slainLost all these weary hours,Lo, I beheld againTurned into flowers.
OF all the spectres feared and then forgotThat haunt us sleeping, this is dreadfullest—Still to seek help and find it notThrough those dim lands that sleep and know not rest;Followed for ever by a formless fearThat drawing near and nearer hungrilyLowers against our dearest dear,And nought can shield them from that jeopardy;To see the unknown horror rearing slow,Hang high above them like a craning wave,And in that endless moment knowIntolerable impotence to save.Yet 'whelmed the dream-doom never one dear head,Our own hearts woke us with their passionate beat:Straightway we found all peril fledAnd lay, awaiting dawn's deliverance sweet.· · · · · ·Now growing with the strengthening daylight strongDoth that ill dream, the sleep-world's confines breaking,Walk at our elbow all day longTo leave us only at a worse awaking.
THE poor proud mother in the sad old tale,That wept her lovely children's loss in vainGrew one with her own tears' most bitter rain;The immortal Gods that spared not for her wailThen made from out her grief's eternal flowA never-failing fountain, at whose brinkWayfaring men oft stooped them down to drinkAnd blessed those Gods, whose envy wrought her woe.So may these bitter springs with years grow sweet,And welling ever upward full and strong,As when from many a broken heart they burst,Stay not for frost nor fail for summer heat,But make fair pools life's desert way alongWhere unborn generations slake their thirst.
WHILE the noonday prayers were said,For the warriors in our War,And many bowed the headWith heavy hearts and sore,Each with his voiceless dread,Each with his hidden pain,Each thinking on his own,The living and the dead,—Then on the pillared stoneBehind the altar, fellA cross-shaped stain,A shadow strong and darkThat all may mark,And know it well,That doth dear won salvation spell.Awhile the sad sign stayed,And the shadow-shape, concealedIn the hearts of them that prayed,Stood for a space revealed.
A WILDERNESS were better than this placeWhere foregone seasons set a gentle spellDecking it with such fair and tender graceAn angel might be pleased here to dwell;Now all its gay delights are dismal grownIn the full glory of the summer time,As from the horror of some evil thingIts every grace had flown,—Laid under penance for an unknown crimeThe garden close lies sick and sorrowing.Pale in the sultry splendour of the dayEach shoot a finger, stiffened wearily,The harsh-leaved rosemary stands stark and greyPointing at that which none may ever see,And darker grows the pansy's brooding faceWith dark foreboding; and the lily's cupTurns loathsome, festering sourly in the sun;In the cypress's embraceThe valiant scented bay is swallowed up.The roses all have withered, one by one.Beyond the close, smothering the wholesome corn,A flight of scarlet locusts fallen to earthBaleful, and blighting all that they adorn,The burnished heralds of a bitterer dearth,Coral and flame and blood among the gold,Like Eastern armies gorgeously dightAnd raised by gramarye from English sodWith banners brave unrolledEach silken tent enclosing dusky night,Drowsy dream-laden poppies beck and nod.Brighter than stains of that imperial hueSpilled from the vats of sea-enthronèd Tyre,Their flaunting ranks grow dull and blow anewFrom smouldering rubies to fierce coals of fire,As through the thunder-burdened air of noonThe slow clouds slowly drift and passCasting soft shifting shadows on the field.Alas, and all too soonThe wearied eye 'gins ache for shaded grassThough the charmed sense would to the glamour yield.Now that love's rose has crumbled into dust,And nought is left but sharp envenomed thorns,Burning remorse with many a cruel thrust,Bitter regret that unavailing mourns,Now thought is fear and memory is painAnd hope a sickly pulse that will not cease,And fame a gaping grave whereby we weep,Nowhere now doth remainA place of refuge for us, or release,Save in the shadowy wastes of idle sleep.Therefore, scorn not these flowers of phantasyThat blow about the ivory gate of dreams,For though they have not truth or constancyYet very fair their idle semblance seems.Though short the blest relief they bring to woe,And wakening the worm 'gins gnaw again,Yet comely truth is grown a grim death's head.Fly the unconquerable foe;Go, in an empty dream lost joys regainAnd down among the poppies meet your dead.
WARM and golden and dearIn custom and kindness set,We builded against our fearA place wherein to forgetDarkness that rings us near.Here our hearts we deceiveAnd will not understand.Whether we laugh or grieveWe dwell in a lamp-lit land—A land of make-believeNot too high for our prideWhereto we are ever bondNor for our souls too wide—And all is night beyondWhere monstrous things abide.Still without ceasing weWatch on our stronghold keep,Lest lamps burn flickeringly,And, while we slumber and sleep,Outcast eternityBreak in a moment throughOur soul-built barriers slight,Look in on us with blueLustreless eyes, whose lightLife everlasting slew.Heavy with endless days,With endless wisdom sad,Should those eyes behold our daysAnd our loves wherein we are glad,We might not abide their gaze.Our sorrows flee fast awayLike shadows before the morn,In the light of eternal dayPale all our joys forlorn,Elf-gold that will not stay;Find we, looking again,For all our cherished treasuresAnd all our labours vain,Weariness all our pleasuresAnd worthless all our pain.Our vanities kissed and curled,Ere the swift vision is gone,Into the void are hurled;But we ourselves live on,Waifs in a blasted world,Where light and laughter and loveLie dead in the dark togetherAnd we brood their dust above,Knowing not surely whether'Tis life at our hearts doth move.Lost without remedy,We sit under pitiless skiesMourning the moment weLooked with our finite eyesInto Infinity!
FATHER, forget not, now that we must go,A little one in alien earth low laid;Send some kind angel when thy trumpets blowLest he should wake alone, and be afraid.
SHE lifted up her eyes and looked at me;—Straightway, methought that I was gazing downThrough lacy lattices of meadow grass,Into the face of that low, little flower,That holds all fathomless eternity,Inscrutable, immeasurable dusk'sHeart-breaking blue, and night's first timid star,Prisoned and mirrored in a shallow cup,So small a single dewdrop would o'erflow it,So frail no vagrant bee could rest thereon.But unaware of its own lovelinessThis symbol of all mysteries sad and sweetFixes on heaven the wide unwinking stareOf blind, bright eyes, coloured and glorified,By light and hues, it apprehendeth not.—Even so, lovely, senseless and aloof,Round-eyed Veronica looked up at me.
EVEN as walk on middle earthThe shades of the unquiet deadThat loathe the graves allotted them from birthAnd wander without end, uncomforted;So the dead moon, poor restless roverThat died by fire, long, long ago,Wanders forlorn the steeps of heaven over;With death's despair and life's outwearied woeShe journeys, a reluctant lustre givingTo this world's throbbing life and strong,And, being dead, envieth all things living,And sheds a passing death her beams along.To that weird corpse-light worse than dark,All fair things for a little die;The spell-bound earth lies, colourless and stark,Beneath the wan ghost witch's jealous eye.
SO fair a dream last night my heart had kissed,I sought some token of it, but 'twould giveNothing, save formless fancies fugitive,That slipped from words' encirclement away—As, when hell's shades 'gan quicken with the day,His lost belovèd fled the lutanist.
WHILE the wind low o'er the green pool creepsSpoiling with kisses the wood's mirrored beauty,Kneel we close down by the margin preparingTo launch the frail craft on those perilous deeps.Swift the wind takes them, we lean to seeOver the water gallantly faringForth our fantastical argosy.Silver-white galleons beating to seaward,Freighted with fancies lighter than foam,Bound for far havens and tall towns enchanted—Stir, sleepy breezes, and bring them safe home.Cabot sailing for ever and everTo the unknown where the wild ducks nest;Morgan mooring to rape the treasureHid in a lily's unsullied breast;Nearer, in shore among lowering leaf-bergsFranklin, crushed on his fatal quest.So I behold in your eyes re-awakenBrave sad tales that the sea wind sings,Tales of old mariners, daring hid dangers,Ghosts of forgotten adventurings.Heart of my heart, in your manhood's hereafter,When you've grown taller, and harder to please,Will you turn sometimes your wandering wishesBack to the hours when with eyes full of laughterYou watched where the day-dreaming willow treesDipped their long fingers to catch at the fishes,Mock sails flying on mimic seas?
TWO lovers walked in a green garden way'Neath towering poplar pillars all arow;The still June midnight close about them lay:They whispered soft and low.Though they could feel no wind, they heard it creepHigh in the poplars, whispering secret schemes;The tall trees stood as sentinels asleep,And listening through their dreams.The full moon's white fire lamp hung round and fairAbove the highest poplar's shivering crest,The lazy fountain's waters stirred the airAnd softly sank to rest.Unseen the honeysuckle trailed that fillsThe dim air with its heavy sweet perfume,But the wan fire-eyed wraiths of daffodilsStared spectral through the gloom.They felt no footsteps fall beside their own,But long their like had loved the garden well;And never two may walk this walk alone:Their presence wakes a spell.When here live lovers loiter to and froWith tender words and lips of kisses fain,Then those dead men that walked here long agoMeet their lost loves again.The grey dew keeps no traces of their feet,Their speech is lighter than the bat's shrill cry,They hover where of yore they used to meetLike shadows passing by.Though many wander where the moonlight liesYet are they lonely as in life they were,For each ghost looks into his own love's eyesAnd sees no other there.And when the living lips their farewells frameAnd the live feet turn to the garden door,The shades depart in darkness as they cameAnd are not any more.Did those two guess who loved that night in JuneThat others trod the grass as well as they,And won from them a passing moment's boonTo love as in life's day?Or did they think in that still haunted place,As those poor phantoms were they soon must beAnd pluck at other unknown lovers' graceThe joys that once were free?Perchance their glad hearts thrust such thoughts away;Of that night's tryst no more than this they own:That they two, in a grassy garden wayOnce walked an hour alone.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BYWM. BRENDON AND SON, LTD.,PLYMOUTH.
Rupert Brooke
John Drinkwater
Gerald Gould
Laurence Housman
Rose Macaulay
John Masefield
R. C. Phillimore
Max Plowman
Katharine Tynan