I laidmy heart on a stoneAnd stood in the wood to watch.Presently a priest came by;He hid it in his cowlAnd buried it in the graveyard.Now is it grown into a cyclamen tree,Clustering over the wall,Beckoning far along the twilight road;Nodding and singing where the cypress moans,Ringing its little bells while the great bell tolls.Whiter than ghosts are its flowers,And its scent is sweeter than ghostlymusic—All the men and priests that passIn the night when the stars lean down,Smell the heavy fragrance thereAnd feel the gentle touch of dripping dew.Then they cross themselves and goHurriedly, warily,Dreaming of pale women,Under the pale stars.1918
I laidmy heart on a stoneAnd stood in the wood to watch.Presently a priest came by;He hid it in his cowlAnd buried it in the graveyard.Now is it grown into a cyclamen tree,Clustering over the wall,Beckoning far along the twilight road;Nodding and singing where the cypress moans,Ringing its little bells while the great bell tolls.Whiter than ghosts are its flowers,And its scent is sweeter than ghostlymusic—All the men and priests that passIn the night when the stars lean down,Smell the heavy fragrance thereAnd feel the gentle touch of dripping dew.Then they cross themselves and goHurriedly, warily,Dreaming of pale women,Under the pale stars.1918
I laidmy heart on a stoneAnd stood in the wood to watch.Presently a priest came by;He hid it in his cowlAnd buried it in the graveyard.Now is it grown into a cyclamen tree,Clustering over the wall,Beckoning far along the twilight road;Nodding and singing where the cypress moans,Ringing its little bells while the great bell tolls.Whiter than ghosts are its flowers,And its scent is sweeter than ghostlymusic—All the men and priests that passIn the night when the stars lean down,Smell the heavy fragrance thereAnd feel the gentle touch of dripping dew.Then they cross themselves and goHurriedly, warily,Dreaming of pale women,Under the pale stars.
I laidmy heart on a stone
And stood in the wood to watch.
Presently a priest came by;
He hid it in his cowl
And buried it in the graveyard.
Now is it grown into a cyclamen tree,
Clustering over the wall,
Beckoning far along the twilight road;
Nodding and singing where the cypress moans,
Ringing its little bells while the great bell tolls.
Whiter than ghosts are its flowers,
And its scent is sweeter than ghostlymusic—
All the men and priests that pass
In the night when the stars lean down,
Smell the heavy fragrance there
And feel the gentle touch of dripping dew.
Then they cross themselves and go
Hurriedly, warily,
Dreaming of pale women,
Under the pale stars.
1918
Thecold light steals into my soulRevealing its emptiness,The cold winds batter at my heartAnd make its lonely tenant shake withfear—The raindrops slide across the window-glassLike sighs that fall from patient weariness;And coldly smiling timePeers with his clock-face, ticking in my brainThe pulse of a monotonous remorse.1918
Thecold light steals into my soulRevealing its emptiness,The cold winds batter at my heartAnd make its lonely tenant shake withfear—The raindrops slide across the window-glassLike sighs that fall from patient weariness;And coldly smiling timePeers with his clock-face, ticking in my brainThe pulse of a monotonous remorse.1918
Thecold light steals into my soulRevealing its emptiness,The cold winds batter at my heartAnd make its lonely tenant shake withfear—The raindrops slide across the window-glassLike sighs that fall from patient weariness;And coldly smiling timePeers with his clock-face, ticking in my brainThe pulse of a monotonous remorse.
Thecold light steals into my soul
Revealing its emptiness,
The cold winds batter at my heart
And make its lonely tenant shake withfear—
The raindrops slide across the window-glass
Like sighs that fall from patient weariness;
And coldly smiling time
Peers with his clock-face, ticking in my brain
The pulse of a monotonous remorse.
1918
Thecaravans of spring are in the town,Lighting their brilliant torches in the park,Dangling their bells, engirdling each starkBlack tree with coloured rings. The houses frownAgainst the beryl sky, yet wear a crownOf hazy dream, or flash a golden sparkOf sun-fire in their windows glum and dark;The people blow like petals up and down.But London tires at evening, each grey streetMourns as the slow procession passes by,Traffic and crowd, and Time on loitering feet.Spring droops his lute, the slender echoes sigh,And wistfully the jaded revellers meet,Their pomp in tatters and their wreaths awry.1918
Thecaravans of spring are in the town,Lighting their brilliant torches in the park,Dangling their bells, engirdling each starkBlack tree with coloured rings. The houses frownAgainst the beryl sky, yet wear a crownOf hazy dream, or flash a golden sparkOf sun-fire in their windows glum and dark;The people blow like petals up and down.But London tires at evening, each grey streetMourns as the slow procession passes by,Traffic and crowd, and Time on loitering feet.Spring droops his lute, the slender echoes sigh,And wistfully the jaded revellers meet,Their pomp in tatters and their wreaths awry.1918
Thecaravans of spring are in the town,Lighting their brilliant torches in the park,Dangling their bells, engirdling each starkBlack tree with coloured rings. The houses frownAgainst the beryl sky, yet wear a crownOf hazy dream, or flash a golden sparkOf sun-fire in their windows glum and dark;The people blow like petals up and down.
Thecaravans of spring are in the town,
Lighting their brilliant torches in the park,
Dangling their bells, engirdling each stark
Black tree with coloured rings. The houses frown
Against the beryl sky, yet wear a crown
Of hazy dream, or flash a golden spark
Of sun-fire in their windows glum and dark;
The people blow like petals up and down.
But London tires at evening, each grey streetMourns as the slow procession passes by,Traffic and crowd, and Time on loitering feet.Spring droops his lute, the slender echoes sigh,And wistfully the jaded revellers meet,Their pomp in tatters and their wreaths awry.
But London tires at evening, each grey street
Mourns as the slow procession passes by,
Traffic and crowd, and Time on loitering feet.
Spring droops his lute, the slender echoes sigh,
And wistfully the jaded revellers meet,
Their pomp in tatters and their wreaths awry.
1918
I dreadthe beauty of approaching springNow the old month is dead and the young moonHas pierced my heart with her sharp silver horns.My tired soul is startled out of sleepBy all the urging joy of bud and leaf,And in the barren yard where I have pacedContent with prison and despair's monotony,The trees break into music wild and shrill,And flowers come out like stars amid the dust,Bewildering my loneliness with beauty....For winter with her melancholy faceShone back my miseries as in a glass,And wept and whined in harmony with me;And I could listen by the withering ashesTo the ill-omened drum of dropping rain,And sighing harken sighs and mute feel silence,And cold stretch forth my hand into the snows,And hating, hear the laughter of the windWhose mad hands tear the sky.But now again the promise of the springShall lift my martyred spirit from the dust,To where the lilied altar shines with peace,And the white priestess comesCrowning each candle with a gold desireEngirdling with pallorsThe forehead of a divine ghost.Ah, but they die, these gods, the candles dwindleAnd spring is but a radiant beckoningTo death that follows slowly, silently....O flitting swallows, fleeting laugh of wind,O flash of silver in the wings of dawnThat are spread out and closed. O hush of nightBreathless with love, oh swish of whispering tideThat swells and shrinks upon the dreaming shore.O gentle eyes of children wonder-wideThat grow too soon to weariness and close;O scuttling run of rabbit on the hills,And flight of lazy rooks above the elm;O birds' eggs frail, tinged faintly, nestled close,And mystery of flower in the bud.O burning galaxy of buttercups,And drone of bees above the poutingrose,—O twilit lovers stilled with reverieAnd footprints of them swerving on the sandAnd darkness of them clasped against the sky!I see beyond the glory of your daysThe grey days marching one behind the otherTo the bleak tunes of silence.When mists shall smear the radiance of the moonAnd the lean thief shall pass,Snatching the glittering toys away from love,Plucking the feathers from the wings of peace.And Life herself, grown old and crooked now,Shall go the way that her long shadow points,Her long black shadow down the roads of sleep.1918
I dreadthe beauty of approaching springNow the old month is dead and the young moonHas pierced my heart with her sharp silver horns.My tired soul is startled out of sleepBy all the urging joy of bud and leaf,And in the barren yard where I have pacedContent with prison and despair's monotony,The trees break into music wild and shrill,And flowers come out like stars amid the dust,Bewildering my loneliness with beauty....For winter with her melancholy faceShone back my miseries as in a glass,And wept and whined in harmony with me;And I could listen by the withering ashesTo the ill-omened drum of dropping rain,And sighing harken sighs and mute feel silence,And cold stretch forth my hand into the snows,And hating, hear the laughter of the windWhose mad hands tear the sky.But now again the promise of the springShall lift my martyred spirit from the dust,To where the lilied altar shines with peace,And the white priestess comesCrowning each candle with a gold desireEngirdling with pallorsThe forehead of a divine ghost.Ah, but they die, these gods, the candles dwindleAnd spring is but a radiant beckoningTo death that follows slowly, silently....O flitting swallows, fleeting laugh of wind,O flash of silver in the wings of dawnThat are spread out and closed. O hush of nightBreathless with love, oh swish of whispering tideThat swells and shrinks upon the dreaming shore.O gentle eyes of children wonder-wideThat grow too soon to weariness and close;O scuttling run of rabbit on the hills,And flight of lazy rooks above the elm;O birds' eggs frail, tinged faintly, nestled close,And mystery of flower in the bud.O burning galaxy of buttercups,And drone of bees above the poutingrose,—O twilit lovers stilled with reverieAnd footprints of them swerving on the sandAnd darkness of them clasped against the sky!I see beyond the glory of your daysThe grey days marching one behind the otherTo the bleak tunes of silence.When mists shall smear the radiance of the moonAnd the lean thief shall pass,Snatching the glittering toys away from love,Plucking the feathers from the wings of peace.And Life herself, grown old and crooked now,Shall go the way that her long shadow points,Her long black shadow down the roads of sleep.1918
I dreadthe beauty of approaching springNow the old month is dead and the young moonHas pierced my heart with her sharp silver horns.My tired soul is startled out of sleepBy all the urging joy of bud and leaf,And in the barren yard where I have pacedContent with prison and despair's monotony,The trees break into music wild and shrill,And flowers come out like stars amid the dust,Bewildering my loneliness with beauty....For winter with her melancholy faceShone back my miseries as in a glass,And wept and whined in harmony with me;And I could listen by the withering ashesTo the ill-omened drum of dropping rain,And sighing harken sighs and mute feel silence,And cold stretch forth my hand into the snows,And hating, hear the laughter of the windWhose mad hands tear the sky.But now again the promise of the springShall lift my martyred spirit from the dust,To where the lilied altar shines with peace,And the white priestess comesCrowning each candle with a gold desireEngirdling with pallorsThe forehead of a divine ghost.Ah, but they die, these gods, the candles dwindleAnd spring is but a radiant beckoningTo death that follows slowly, silently....
I dreadthe beauty of approaching spring
Now the old month is dead and the young moon
Has pierced my heart with her sharp silver horns.
My tired soul is startled out of sleep
By all the urging joy of bud and leaf,
And in the barren yard where I have paced
Content with prison and despair's monotony,
The trees break into music wild and shrill,
And flowers come out like stars amid the dust,
Bewildering my loneliness with beauty....
For winter with her melancholy face
Shone back my miseries as in a glass,
And wept and whined in harmony with me;
And I could listen by the withering ashes
To the ill-omened drum of dropping rain,
And sighing harken sighs and mute feel silence,
And cold stretch forth my hand into the snows,
And hating, hear the laughter of the wind
Whose mad hands tear the sky.
But now again the promise of the spring
Shall lift my martyred spirit from the dust,
To where the lilied altar shines with peace,
And the white priestess comes
Crowning each candle with a gold desire
Engirdling with pallors
The forehead of a divine ghost.
Ah, but they die, these gods, the candles dwindle
And spring is but a radiant beckoning
To death that follows slowly, silently....
O flitting swallows, fleeting laugh of wind,O flash of silver in the wings of dawnThat are spread out and closed. O hush of nightBreathless with love, oh swish of whispering tideThat swells and shrinks upon the dreaming shore.O gentle eyes of children wonder-wideThat grow too soon to weariness and close;O scuttling run of rabbit on the hills,And flight of lazy rooks above the elm;O birds' eggs frail, tinged faintly, nestled close,And mystery of flower in the bud.O burning galaxy of buttercups,And drone of bees above the poutingrose,—O twilit lovers stilled with reverieAnd footprints of them swerving on the sandAnd darkness of them clasped against the sky!I see beyond the glory of your daysThe grey days marching one behind the otherTo the bleak tunes of silence.When mists shall smear the radiance of the moonAnd the lean thief shall pass,Snatching the glittering toys away from love,Plucking the feathers from the wings of peace.And Life herself, grown old and crooked now,Shall go the way that her long shadow points,Her long black shadow down the roads of sleep.
O flitting swallows, fleeting laugh of wind,
O flash of silver in the wings of dawn
That are spread out and closed. O hush of night
Breathless with love, oh swish of whispering tide
That swells and shrinks upon the dreaming shore.
O gentle eyes of children wonder-wide
That grow too soon to weariness and close;
O scuttling run of rabbit on the hills,
And flight of lazy rooks above the elm;
O birds' eggs frail, tinged faintly, nestled close,
And mystery of flower in the bud.
O burning galaxy of buttercups,
And drone of bees above the poutingrose,—
O twilit lovers stilled with reverie
And footprints of them swerving on the sand
And darkness of them clasped against the sky!
I see beyond the glory of your days
The grey days marching one behind the other
To the bleak tunes of silence.
When mists shall smear the radiance of the moon
And the lean thief shall pass,
Snatching the glittering toys away from love,
Plucking the feathers from the wings of peace.
And Life herself, grown old and crooked now,
Shall go the way that her long shadow points,
Her long black shadow down the roads of sleep.
1918
TO MY FATHER
I cannotthink that you have gone away,You loved the earth—and life lit up your eyes,And flickered in your smile that would surmiseDeath as a song, a poem, or a play.You were reborn afresh with every day,And baffled fortune in some new disguise.Ah! can it perish when the body dies,Such youth, such love, such passion to be gay?We shall not see you come to us and leaveA conqueror—nor catch on fairy wingSome slender fancy—nor new wonders weaveUpon the loom of your imagining.The world is wearier, grown dark to grieveHer child that was a pilgrim and a king.1917
I cannotthink that you have gone away,You loved the earth—and life lit up your eyes,And flickered in your smile that would surmiseDeath as a song, a poem, or a play.You were reborn afresh with every day,And baffled fortune in some new disguise.Ah! can it perish when the body dies,Such youth, such love, such passion to be gay?We shall not see you come to us and leaveA conqueror—nor catch on fairy wingSome slender fancy—nor new wonders weaveUpon the loom of your imagining.The world is wearier, grown dark to grieveHer child that was a pilgrim and a king.1917
I cannotthink that you have gone away,You loved the earth—and life lit up your eyes,And flickered in your smile that would surmiseDeath as a song, a poem, or a play.You were reborn afresh with every day,And baffled fortune in some new disguise.Ah! can it perish when the body dies,Such youth, such love, such passion to be gay?
I cannotthink that you have gone away,
You loved the earth—and life lit up your eyes,
And flickered in your smile that would surmise
Death as a song, a poem, or a play.
You were reborn afresh with every day,
And baffled fortune in some new disguise.
Ah! can it perish when the body dies,
Such youth, such love, such passion to be gay?
We shall not see you come to us and leaveA conqueror—nor catch on fairy wingSome slender fancy—nor new wonders weaveUpon the loom of your imagining.The world is wearier, grown dark to grieveHer child that was a pilgrim and a king.
We shall not see you come to us and leave
A conqueror—nor catch on fairy wing
Some slender fancy—nor new wonders weave
Upon the loom of your imagining.
The world is wearier, grown dark to grieve
Her child that was a pilgrim and a king.
1917
TO MY MOTHER
Atevening when the twilight curtains fall,Before the lamps are lit within my room,My memories hang bright upon the gloom,Like ancient frescoes painted on the wall.And I can hear the call of birds and bellsAnd shadowy sound of waves, and wind through leavesAnd wind that rustles through the burnished sheaves,And far off voices whispering farewells.I dream again the joy I used to knowWhile straying by the sea that hardly sighedA sorrow in my singing, as the tideCrept up to clasp me, smiled, and let me go.And I remember all the glad lost hours,The racing of brown rabbits on the hill,The winds that prowled around the lonely mill,Laburnum laughter, music of the flowers.The berries plucked with loitering delight,Staining the dusk with purple, till the thoughtOf starry little ghosts behind us caughtOur hearts and made us fearful of the night.The London evenings huddled in the rainWhose misty prisms shone with lamplight pale,Making our hearts seem sinister and frail,Fainting our thoughts with mystery and pain.I have a world of memories to dream,To touch with loving fingers as a sighRevives a little flame and lets it die.Ah, were the days as lovely as they seemNow that they look so peaceful lying dead?And is it all the hope of Joy we have,The broken trophies of the things she gaveAnd took away to give us dreams instead?The things we love and lose before we findThe way to love them well enough and keep,That now are woven on the looms of sleepThat now are only music of the wind.1918
Atevening when the twilight curtains fall,Before the lamps are lit within my room,My memories hang bright upon the gloom,Like ancient frescoes painted on the wall.And I can hear the call of birds and bellsAnd shadowy sound of waves, and wind through leavesAnd wind that rustles through the burnished sheaves,And far off voices whispering farewells.I dream again the joy I used to knowWhile straying by the sea that hardly sighedA sorrow in my singing, as the tideCrept up to clasp me, smiled, and let me go.And I remember all the glad lost hours,The racing of brown rabbits on the hill,The winds that prowled around the lonely mill,Laburnum laughter, music of the flowers.The berries plucked with loitering delight,Staining the dusk with purple, till the thoughtOf starry little ghosts behind us caughtOur hearts and made us fearful of the night.The London evenings huddled in the rainWhose misty prisms shone with lamplight pale,Making our hearts seem sinister and frail,Fainting our thoughts with mystery and pain.I have a world of memories to dream,To touch with loving fingers as a sighRevives a little flame and lets it die.Ah, were the days as lovely as they seemNow that they look so peaceful lying dead?And is it all the hope of Joy we have,The broken trophies of the things she gaveAnd took away to give us dreams instead?The things we love and lose before we findThe way to love them well enough and keep,That now are woven on the looms of sleepThat now are only music of the wind.1918
Atevening when the twilight curtains fall,Before the lamps are lit within my room,My memories hang bright upon the gloom,Like ancient frescoes painted on the wall.
Atevening when the twilight curtains fall,
Before the lamps are lit within my room,
My memories hang bright upon the gloom,
Like ancient frescoes painted on the wall.
And I can hear the call of birds and bellsAnd shadowy sound of waves, and wind through leavesAnd wind that rustles through the burnished sheaves,And far off voices whispering farewells.
And I can hear the call of birds and bells
And shadowy sound of waves, and wind through leaves
And wind that rustles through the burnished sheaves,
And far off voices whispering farewells.
I dream again the joy I used to knowWhile straying by the sea that hardly sighedA sorrow in my singing, as the tideCrept up to clasp me, smiled, and let me go.
I dream again the joy I used to know
While straying by the sea that hardly sighed
A sorrow in my singing, as the tide
Crept up to clasp me, smiled, and let me go.
And I remember all the glad lost hours,The racing of brown rabbits on the hill,The winds that prowled around the lonely mill,Laburnum laughter, music of the flowers.
And I remember all the glad lost hours,
The racing of brown rabbits on the hill,
The winds that prowled around the lonely mill,
Laburnum laughter, music of the flowers.
The berries plucked with loitering delight,Staining the dusk with purple, till the thoughtOf starry little ghosts behind us caughtOur hearts and made us fearful of the night.
The berries plucked with loitering delight,
Staining the dusk with purple, till the thought
Of starry little ghosts behind us caught
Our hearts and made us fearful of the night.
The London evenings huddled in the rainWhose misty prisms shone with lamplight pale,Making our hearts seem sinister and frail,Fainting our thoughts with mystery and pain.
The London evenings huddled in the rain
Whose misty prisms shone with lamplight pale,
Making our hearts seem sinister and frail,
Fainting our thoughts with mystery and pain.
I have a world of memories to dream,To touch with loving fingers as a sighRevives a little flame and lets it die.Ah, were the days as lovely as they seem
I have a world of memories to dream,
To touch with loving fingers as a sigh
Revives a little flame and lets it die.
Ah, were the days as lovely as they seem
Now that they look so peaceful lying dead?And is it all the hope of Joy we have,The broken trophies of the things she gaveAnd took away to give us dreams instead?
Now that they look so peaceful lying dead?
And is it all the hope of Joy we have,
The broken trophies of the things she gave
And took away to give us dreams instead?
The things we love and lose before we findThe way to love them well enough and keep,That now are woven on the looms of sleepThat now are only music of the wind.
The things we love and lose before we find
The way to love them well enough and keep,
That now are woven on the looms of sleep
That now are only music of the wind.
1918
Londongrows sad at evening,And we at the windows sitTo watch her moods,Wearying with her.Even a noise of laughter from the streetSounds in our earsLike something dropped and shattered on the stone.Then her musician comes,A wandering, malicious spirit;The organ grinder, playing those old tunesWe know too well,That hurt us with fatigue.Till Hope like a harlequin,His glitter hidden in a ragged coat,The lamplighter, goes by,Planting his pale flames in the dusk.1918
Londongrows sad at evening,And we at the windows sitTo watch her moods,Wearying with her.Even a noise of laughter from the streetSounds in our earsLike something dropped and shattered on the stone.Then her musician comes,A wandering, malicious spirit;The organ grinder, playing those old tunesWe know too well,That hurt us with fatigue.Till Hope like a harlequin,His glitter hidden in a ragged coat,The lamplighter, goes by,Planting his pale flames in the dusk.1918
Londongrows sad at evening,And we at the windows sitTo watch her moods,Wearying with her.Even a noise of laughter from the streetSounds in our earsLike something dropped and shattered on the stone.Then her musician comes,A wandering, malicious spirit;The organ grinder, playing those old tunesWe know too well,That hurt us with fatigue.Till Hope like a harlequin,His glitter hidden in a ragged coat,The lamplighter, goes by,Planting his pale flames in the dusk.
Londongrows sad at evening,
And we at the windows sit
To watch her moods,
Wearying with her.
Even a noise of laughter from the street
Sounds in our ears
Like something dropped and shattered on the stone.
Then her musician comes,
A wandering, malicious spirit;
The organ grinder, playing those old tunes
We know too well,
That hurt us with fatigue.
Till Hope like a harlequin,
His glitter hidden in a ragged coat,
The lamplighter, goes by,
Planting his pale flames in the dusk.
1918
Ah!the spring,Sudden, surprising,Melting the iron scales around the heartAs the earliest sunMelts the cold case of dew onleaves—Ah! the streets like odorous riversChanting the echoes ofseas—Ah! the flowers in shop-windowsBeseeching, persuasive,Reluctant to let their beauty flow awayFrom thoughts that mirror them inpassing—Beautiful exilesFluttering in their chains,Thrilled with the noise of bees,The music of meadowsStill hovering aroundthem—Flower fingers, flower-touches,Passional, reminiscent,Rippling the soul's stillwaters—Flower galaxies,Enamelled bridges arching from dream to dream,Garlands splashing over the eyes of satyrs,The furtive woodland eyes,The pointed inquisitiveears—Pallid flowers foaming on hill-crests,Gushing heavenwardsFrom a sea of stormymountains—Opening and shutting exquisite doors,As the senses open to music,Shut upon silence,Open to beauty,Close their caskets uponlove—Ah! the flowers in the windows,Amorous of poetsMaking a chaplet of song!1919
Ah!the spring,Sudden, surprising,Melting the iron scales around the heartAs the earliest sunMelts the cold case of dew onleaves—Ah! the streets like odorous riversChanting the echoes ofseas—Ah! the flowers in shop-windowsBeseeching, persuasive,Reluctant to let their beauty flow awayFrom thoughts that mirror them inpassing—Beautiful exilesFluttering in their chains,Thrilled with the noise of bees,The music of meadowsStill hovering aroundthem—Flower fingers, flower-touches,Passional, reminiscent,Rippling the soul's stillwaters—Flower galaxies,Enamelled bridges arching from dream to dream,Garlands splashing over the eyes of satyrs,The furtive woodland eyes,The pointed inquisitiveears—Pallid flowers foaming on hill-crests,Gushing heavenwardsFrom a sea of stormymountains—Opening and shutting exquisite doors,As the senses open to music,Shut upon silence,Open to beauty,Close their caskets uponlove—Ah! the flowers in the windows,Amorous of poetsMaking a chaplet of song!1919
Ah!the spring,Sudden, surprising,Melting the iron scales around the heartAs the earliest sunMelts the cold case of dew onleaves—Ah! the streets like odorous riversChanting the echoes ofseas—Ah! the flowers in shop-windowsBeseeching, persuasive,Reluctant to let their beauty flow awayFrom thoughts that mirror them inpassing—Beautiful exilesFluttering in their chains,Thrilled with the noise of bees,The music of meadowsStill hovering aroundthem—Flower fingers, flower-touches,Passional, reminiscent,Rippling the soul's stillwaters—Flower galaxies,Enamelled bridges arching from dream to dream,Garlands splashing over the eyes of satyrs,The furtive woodland eyes,The pointed inquisitiveears—Pallid flowers foaming on hill-crests,Gushing heavenwardsFrom a sea of stormymountains—Opening and shutting exquisite doors,As the senses open to music,Shut upon silence,Open to beauty,Close their caskets uponlove—Ah! the flowers in the windows,Amorous of poetsMaking a chaplet of song!
Ah!the spring,
Sudden, surprising,
Melting the iron scales around the heart
As the earliest sun
Melts the cold case of dew onleaves—
Ah! the streets like odorous rivers
Chanting the echoes ofseas—
Ah! the flowers in shop-windows
Beseeching, persuasive,
Reluctant to let their beauty flow away
From thoughts that mirror them inpassing—
Beautiful exiles
Fluttering in their chains,
Thrilled with the noise of bees,
The music of meadows
Still hovering aroundthem—
Flower fingers, flower-touches,
Passional, reminiscent,
Rippling the soul's stillwaters—
Flower galaxies,
Enamelled bridges arching from dream to dream,
Garlands splashing over the eyes of satyrs,
The furtive woodland eyes,
The pointed inquisitiveears—
Pallid flowers foaming on hill-crests,
Gushing heavenwards
From a sea of stormymountains—
Opening and shutting exquisite doors,
As the senses open to music,
Shut upon silence,
Open to beauty,
Close their caskets uponlove—
Ah! the flowers in the windows,
Amorous of poets
Making a chaplet of song!
1919
THE UNDERTONE OF THE VOLGA BOAT SONG
OGod,We have nothing to give Thee,We are as fog that drifts on the river,As the wailing of voices blown throughmist—We are as those that carry bags of dustHeaping them with thedust—We are covered with the dust of days,We are pale from the dust of dreamless nightsShaken before we wererested—At dawn we are found by the sunAdrift, labouring, thinking ofnothing—Our wine is bitter, it has made us drunk,Our bread is coarse,We are always athirst and hungry....O God, we have been patient,We have grown old in weariness,Our lives are as the labouring of thewind—We are huddled together in the dawn,The sleeping houses pass us,The dawn is a field of nettlesStinging us from rest....O God,We have nothing to give Thee but patience,We have suffered evil and believed Thee good,Thy face is the gentleness of the distance,The river is placid with the thought ofThee—Our tears have washed us harder than the rocks,And like the rocks we wait,Grow old with waiting....Weariness, the riverFlowing through banks of sleep....O God, we have nothing to give Thee,Take our great weariness,We that have never lived and never slept,Take our long weariness, O God!...1919
OGod,We have nothing to give Thee,We are as fog that drifts on the river,As the wailing of voices blown throughmist—We are as those that carry bags of dustHeaping them with thedust—We are covered with the dust of days,We are pale from the dust of dreamless nightsShaken before we wererested—At dawn we are found by the sunAdrift, labouring, thinking ofnothing—Our wine is bitter, it has made us drunk,Our bread is coarse,We are always athirst and hungry....O God, we have been patient,We have grown old in weariness,Our lives are as the labouring of thewind—We are huddled together in the dawn,The sleeping houses pass us,The dawn is a field of nettlesStinging us from rest....O God,We have nothing to give Thee but patience,We have suffered evil and believed Thee good,Thy face is the gentleness of the distance,The river is placid with the thought ofThee—Our tears have washed us harder than the rocks,And like the rocks we wait,Grow old with waiting....Weariness, the riverFlowing through banks of sleep....O God, we have nothing to give Thee,Take our great weariness,We that have never lived and never slept,Take our long weariness, O God!...1919
OGod,We have nothing to give Thee,We are as fog that drifts on the river,As the wailing of voices blown throughmist—We are as those that carry bags of dustHeaping them with thedust—We are covered with the dust of days,We are pale from the dust of dreamless nightsShaken before we wererested—At dawn we are found by the sunAdrift, labouring, thinking ofnothing—Our wine is bitter, it has made us drunk,Our bread is coarse,We are always athirst and hungry....O God, we have been patient,We have grown old in weariness,Our lives are as the labouring of thewind—We are huddled together in the dawn,The sleeping houses pass us,The dawn is a field of nettlesStinging us from rest....O God,We have nothing to give Thee but patience,We have suffered evil and believed Thee good,Thy face is the gentleness of the distance,The river is placid with the thought ofThee—Our tears have washed us harder than the rocks,And like the rocks we wait,Grow old with waiting....Weariness, the riverFlowing through banks of sleep....O God, we have nothing to give Thee,Take our great weariness,We that have never lived and never slept,Take our long weariness, O God!...
OGod,
We have nothing to give Thee,
We are as fog that drifts on the river,
As the wailing of voices blown throughmist—
We are as those that carry bags of dust
Heaping them with thedust—
We are covered with the dust of days,
We are pale from the dust of dreamless nights
Shaken before we wererested—
At dawn we are found by the sun
Adrift, labouring, thinking ofnothing—
Our wine is bitter, it has made us drunk,
Our bread is coarse,
We are always athirst and hungry....
O God, we have been patient,
We have grown old in weariness,
Our lives are as the labouring of thewind—
We are huddled together in the dawn,
The sleeping houses pass us,
The dawn is a field of nettles
Stinging us from rest....
O God,
We have nothing to give Thee but patience,
We have suffered evil and believed Thee good,
Thy face is the gentleness of the distance,
The river is placid with the thought ofThee—
Our tears have washed us harder than the rocks,
And like the rocks we wait,
Grow old with waiting....
Weariness, the river
Flowing through banks of sleep....
O God, we have nothing to give Thee,
Take our great weariness,
We that have never lived and never slept,
Take our long weariness, O God!...
1919
Transcribers' Notes:Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were not changed.Ellipses are reproduced as printed in the original book.Most of the poems' titles appear only in the Table of Contents, not with the poems themselves.When the Transcriber could not to determine whether a verse at the top of a page was a new stanza or part of the stanza on the previous page, the latter was assumed.Page42: "sombring" was printed that way.Page89: "Because I can not" was printed with "can" and "not" as separate words.
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were not changed.
Ellipses are reproduced as printed in the original book.
Most of the poems' titles appear only in the Table of Contents, not with the poems themselves.
When the Transcriber could not to determine whether a verse at the top of a page was a new stanza or part of the stanza on the previous page, the latter was assumed.
Page42: "sombring" was printed that way.
Page89: "Because I can not" was printed with "can" and "not" as separate words.