THOUGHJeshurun kicks and grows fatter and fatter,And chinks in his pockets the gold of his gain,Yet up in the gables the young sparrows chatter,The corn-fields are rich with the promise of grain,The hedges are yellow, and (balm to the brain!)Their pink and white blossoms the cherry trees scatter—The blossoming orchards of England remain!Long lines of our soldiers swing by with a clatter,To die in their thousands by river and plain,In lands where the gathering loud torrents batter,They heap the hills high with heroical slain—But far in the weald how the misty moons wane!And deep in a silence no anger can shatterThe blossoming orchards of England remain!The world is a fool and as mad as a hatter—And poets and lovers were sent her for bane—Yet theirs are the ears which can catch the first patter,The prophet of all God’s abundance of rain,The smell of earth earthy and wholesome again;And from the drenched ground where the spent bullets spatterThe blossoming orchards of England remain!
THOUGHJeshurun kicks and grows fatter and fatter,And chinks in his pockets the gold of his gain,Yet up in the gables the young sparrows chatter,The corn-fields are rich with the promise of grain,The hedges are yellow, and (balm to the brain!)Their pink and white blossoms the cherry trees scatter—The blossoming orchards of England remain!Long lines of our soldiers swing by with a clatter,To die in their thousands by river and plain,In lands where the gathering loud torrents batter,They heap the hills high with heroical slain—But far in the weald how the misty moons wane!And deep in a silence no anger can shatterThe blossoming orchards of England remain!The world is a fool and as mad as a hatter—And poets and lovers were sent her for bane—Yet theirs are the ears which can catch the first patter,The prophet of all God’s abundance of rain,The smell of earth earthy and wholesome again;And from the drenched ground where the spent bullets spatterThe blossoming orchards of England remain!
THOUGHJeshurun kicks and grows fatter and fatter,And chinks in his pockets the gold of his gain,Yet up in the gables the young sparrows chatter,The corn-fields are rich with the promise of grain,The hedges are yellow, and (balm to the brain!)Their pink and white blossoms the cherry trees scatter—The blossoming orchards of England remain!
Long lines of our soldiers swing by with a clatter,To die in their thousands by river and plain,In lands where the gathering loud torrents batter,They heap the hills high with heroical slain—But far in the weald how the misty moons wane!And deep in a silence no anger can shatterThe blossoming orchards of England remain!
The world is a fool and as mad as a hatter—And poets and lovers were sent her for bane—Yet theirs are the ears which can catch the first patter,The prophet of all God’s abundance of rain,The smell of earth earthy and wholesome again;And from the drenched ground where the spent bullets spatterThe blossoming orchards of England remain!
Princes and potentates, ye whom men flatter,Harken a moment to this my refrain—Ye shall pass as a dream, and it will not much matter—The blossoming orchards of England remain!
Princes and potentates, ye whom men flatter,Harken a moment to this my refrain—Ye shall pass as a dream, and it will not much matter—The blossoming orchards of England remain!
Princes and potentates, ye whom men flatter,Harken a moment to this my refrain—Ye shall pass as a dream, and it will not much matter—The blossoming orchards of England remain!
AGREATwind blows through the pine trees,A clean salt wind from sea,A loud wind full of all healingBlows kindly but boisterously;Oh, a good wind blows through the pine treesAnd the heart and mind of me!A wind stirs the long grass lightlyAnd the dear young flowers of May,And blows in the English meadowsThe breath of a Summer’s day—But this wind rings with honourAnd is wet with the cold sea spray.There are straits where the tall ships founderAnd no live thing may draw breath,Where men look at splendid, angry skiesAnd hear what the thunder saith:Where men look their last at gloryAnd bravely drink of death.There is much afoot this eveningIn these pine woods by the sea,And no branch shall endure until morningThat is rotten on the tree—Nor any decayed thing endure in my soulWhen God’s wind blows through me!
AGREATwind blows through the pine trees,A clean salt wind from sea,A loud wind full of all healingBlows kindly but boisterously;Oh, a good wind blows through the pine treesAnd the heart and mind of me!A wind stirs the long grass lightlyAnd the dear young flowers of May,And blows in the English meadowsThe breath of a Summer’s day—But this wind rings with honourAnd is wet with the cold sea spray.There are straits where the tall ships founderAnd no live thing may draw breath,Where men look at splendid, angry skiesAnd hear what the thunder saith:Where men look their last at gloryAnd bravely drink of death.There is much afoot this eveningIn these pine woods by the sea,And no branch shall endure until morningThat is rotten on the tree—Nor any decayed thing endure in my soulWhen God’s wind blows through me!
AGREATwind blows through the pine trees,A clean salt wind from sea,A loud wind full of all healingBlows kindly but boisterously;Oh, a good wind blows through the pine treesAnd the heart and mind of me!
A wind stirs the long grass lightlyAnd the dear young flowers of May,And blows in the English meadowsThe breath of a Summer’s day—But this wind rings with honourAnd is wet with the cold sea spray.
There are straits where the tall ships founderAnd no live thing may draw breath,Where men look at splendid, angry skiesAnd hear what the thunder saith:Where men look their last at gloryAnd bravely drink of death.
There is much afoot this eveningIn these pine woods by the sea,And no branch shall endure until morningThat is rotten on the tree—Nor any decayed thing endure in my soulWhen God’s wind blows through me!
HOWshall I find the words of perfect praise,To give you back the gladness and the mirth,With which you filled my hands, the lyric daysYour gracious bounty gave me in my dearth?My song fails on the wing, and yet I knowThe meaning of Spring’s living ecstasy,The laughing prophecy the March winds blowAmong the buds, and through the heart of me.I know, I know the rose and silver dress,Wherewith God clothed that clear and virginal morn,Which came to you in joyful gentleness,The hour of shy delight when you were born.I know the innocence and sweet surprise,The waiting earth made ready for your eyes.
HOWshall I find the words of perfect praise,To give you back the gladness and the mirth,With which you filled my hands, the lyric daysYour gracious bounty gave me in my dearth?My song fails on the wing, and yet I knowThe meaning of Spring’s living ecstasy,The laughing prophecy the March winds blowAmong the buds, and through the heart of me.I know, I know the rose and silver dress,Wherewith God clothed that clear and virginal morn,Which came to you in joyful gentleness,The hour of shy delight when you were born.I know the innocence and sweet surprise,The waiting earth made ready for your eyes.
HOWshall I find the words of perfect praise,To give you back the gladness and the mirth,With which you filled my hands, the lyric daysYour gracious bounty gave me in my dearth?My song fails on the wing, and yet I knowThe meaning of Spring’s living ecstasy,The laughing prophecy the March winds blowAmong the buds, and through the heart of me.
I know, I know the rose and silver dress,Wherewith God clothed that clear and virginal morn,Which came to you in joyful gentleness,The hour of shy delight when you were born.I know the innocence and sweet surprise,The waiting earth made ready for your eyes.
March 27th, 1917
THOUGHI should deck you with my jewelled rhyme,And spread my songs a carpet at your feet,Where men may see unchanged through changing timeYour face a pattern in sad songs and sweet;Though I should blow your honour through the earthOr touch your gentleness on gentle strings,Or sing abroad your beauty and your worth—Dearest, yet these were all imperfect things.Rather in lovely silence will I keepThe heart’s shut song no words of mine may mar,No words of mine enrich. The ways of sleepAnd prayer and pain, all things that lonely are,All humble things that worship and rejoiceShall weave a spell of silence for my voice.
THOUGHI should deck you with my jewelled rhyme,And spread my songs a carpet at your feet,Where men may see unchanged through changing timeYour face a pattern in sad songs and sweet;Though I should blow your honour through the earthOr touch your gentleness on gentle strings,Or sing abroad your beauty and your worth—Dearest, yet these were all imperfect things.Rather in lovely silence will I keepThe heart’s shut song no words of mine may mar,No words of mine enrich. The ways of sleepAnd prayer and pain, all things that lonely are,All humble things that worship and rejoiceShall weave a spell of silence for my voice.
THOUGHI should deck you with my jewelled rhyme,And spread my songs a carpet at your feet,Where men may see unchanged through changing timeYour face a pattern in sad songs and sweet;Though I should blow your honour through the earthOr touch your gentleness on gentle strings,Or sing abroad your beauty and your worth—Dearest, yet these were all imperfect things.
Rather in lovely silence will I keepThe heart’s shut song no words of mine may mar,No words of mine enrich. The ways of sleepAnd prayer and pain, all things that lonely are,All humble things that worship and rejoiceShall weave a spell of silence for my voice.
WHENinto Yelverton I cameI found the bracken all aflame,The tors in their unyielding line,The air as comforting as wine,The swinging wind, the singing sunAt Yelverton.At Yelverton the moor is kindAnd blows its healing through my mind,The hunchback skyline lies a mistOf purple and of amethyst,And up and down the smooth roads runAt Yelverton.At Yelverton a man may stand,The whole of Devon within his hand,The tors in their austerity,And far away the basking sea,A cloth of shining silver spunAt Yelverton.At Yelverton a man may keepDeep silence and a deeper sleep,Yet know the brave recurring dreamOf kingly cider, queenly creamTo bless him when his days are doneAt Yelverton.
WHENinto Yelverton I cameI found the bracken all aflame,The tors in their unyielding line,The air as comforting as wine,The swinging wind, the singing sunAt Yelverton.At Yelverton the moor is kindAnd blows its healing through my mind,The hunchback skyline lies a mistOf purple and of amethyst,And up and down the smooth roads runAt Yelverton.At Yelverton a man may stand,The whole of Devon within his hand,The tors in their austerity,And far away the basking sea,A cloth of shining silver spunAt Yelverton.At Yelverton a man may keepDeep silence and a deeper sleep,Yet know the brave recurring dreamOf kingly cider, queenly creamTo bless him when his days are doneAt Yelverton.
WHENinto Yelverton I cameI found the bracken all aflame,The tors in their unyielding line,The air as comforting as wine,The swinging wind, the singing sunAt Yelverton.
At Yelverton the moor is kindAnd blows its healing through my mind,The hunchback skyline lies a mistOf purple and of amethyst,And up and down the smooth roads runAt Yelverton.
At Yelverton a man may stand,The whole of Devon within his hand,The tors in their austerity,And far away the basking sea,A cloth of shining silver spunAt Yelverton.
At Yelverton a man may keepDeep silence and a deeper sleep,Yet know the brave recurring dreamOf kingly cider, queenly creamTo bless him when his days are doneAt Yelverton.
FORyour joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stirWhere the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir;Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait;The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.And God for your Clothing fashioned in patience the sun,A cloak wrought of glory and fire where dreadful dyes run,Saffron and Crimson and sapphire and gold, as is meet;And stars to be set on your head and stars under your feet.For you, His most lovely of daughters, the mighty God bowedFrom heaven to give you your dowry of sunset and cloud;And splendid in light and in worship were Gabriel’s wings,When he breathed in your bosom the hope of impossible things.Sudden and dear was the secret he whispered to you,Of one who should quietly fall to the earth with the dew;As dew that at night in the valleys distils upon fleece,With no shattering trump did He come but in terrible peace.In your hands that are sweeter than honey, in all the wide earthGod laid the desire of the nations, their home and their mirth,And gave to your merciful keeping man’s joy and man’s rest,And under incredible skies a babe at your breast.And though the stars wane and the royal deep colours should fade,Yet still shall endure in the heart and the lips of a Maid,The sweep of the archangel’s pinions—the humble accord—The song—the dim stable—the night—and the birth of the Lord!For your joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stirWhere the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir;Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait;The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.
FORyour joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stirWhere the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir;Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait;The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.And God for your Clothing fashioned in patience the sun,A cloak wrought of glory and fire where dreadful dyes run,Saffron and Crimson and sapphire and gold, as is meet;And stars to be set on your head and stars under your feet.For you, His most lovely of daughters, the mighty God bowedFrom heaven to give you your dowry of sunset and cloud;And splendid in light and in worship were Gabriel’s wings,When he breathed in your bosom the hope of impossible things.Sudden and dear was the secret he whispered to you,Of one who should quietly fall to the earth with the dew;As dew that at night in the valleys distils upon fleece,With no shattering trump did He come but in terrible peace.In your hands that are sweeter than honey, in all the wide earthGod laid the desire of the nations, their home and their mirth,And gave to your merciful keeping man’s joy and man’s rest,And under incredible skies a babe at your breast.And though the stars wane and the royal deep colours should fade,Yet still shall endure in the heart and the lips of a Maid,The sweep of the archangel’s pinions—the humble accord—The song—the dim stable—the night—and the birth of the Lord!For your joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stirWhere the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir;Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait;The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.
FORyour joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stirWhere the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir;Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait;The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.
And God for your Clothing fashioned in patience the sun,A cloak wrought of glory and fire where dreadful dyes run,Saffron and Crimson and sapphire and gold, as is meet;And stars to be set on your head and stars under your feet.
For you, His most lovely of daughters, the mighty God bowedFrom heaven to give you your dowry of sunset and cloud;And splendid in light and in worship were Gabriel’s wings,When he breathed in your bosom the hope of impossible things.
Sudden and dear was the secret he whispered to you,Of one who should quietly fall to the earth with the dew;As dew that at night in the valleys distils upon fleece,With no shattering trump did He come but in terrible peace.
In your hands that are sweeter than honey, in all the wide earthGod laid the desire of the nations, their home and their mirth,And gave to your merciful keeping man’s joy and man’s rest,And under incredible skies a babe at your breast.
And though the stars wane and the royal deep colours should fade,Yet still shall endure in the heart and the lips of a Maid,The sweep of the archangel’s pinions—the humble accord—The song—the dim stable—the night—and the birth of the Lord!
For your joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stirWhere the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir;Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait;The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.
HOWshall I answer God and stand,My naked life within my hand,To plead upon the Judgment Day?Seeing the glory in arrayOf cherubim and seraphim,What answer shall I give to Him?I was too dull of heart and senseTo read His cryptic providence,Its strange and intricate deviceWas hidden from my foolish eyes.My gratitude could not reach upTo the sharing of His awful cup,To the blinding light of mysteryAnd the painful pomp of sanctity.But since as a happy child I wentWith love and laughter and contentAlong the road of simple things,Making no idle questionings;Since young and careless I did keepThe cool and cloistered halls of sleep,And took my daily drink and food,Finding them very, very good—God may perhaps be pleased to seeSuch signs of sheer felicity.But if I somehow should be givenAn attic in His storied heaven,I’m sure I should be far apartFrom Catherine of the wounded heart,Teresa of the flaming soul,And Bruno’s sevenfold aureole,And be told, of course, I’m not to mixWith the Bernards or the Dominics,Or thrust my company uponSt. Michael or the great St. John.Yet God may grant it me to sitAnd sing (with little skill or wit)My intimate canticles of praiseFor all life’s dear and gracious days—Though hardly a single syllableOf what St. Raphael has to tell,The triumphs of the cosmic wars,The raptures and the jewelled scarsOf the high lords of martyrdom—Hardly a word of this will comeTo strike my understanding ear,Hardly a single word, I fear!. . . . . .But woe upon the Judgment DayIf my heart gladdened not at May;Nor woke to hear with the waking birdsThe morning’s sweet and winsome words;Nor loved to see laburnums flingTheir pennons to the winds of Spring;Nor watched among the expectant grassThe Summer’s painted pageant pass;Nor thrilled with blithe beatitudeWithin a kindling Autumn woodOr when each separate twig did lieEtched sharp upon the wintry sky.If out of all my sunny hoursI brought no chaplet of their flowers;If I gave no kiss to His lovely feetWhen they shone as poppies in the wheat;If no rose to me were a Mystic Rose,No Snow were whiter than the snows;If in my baseness I let fallAt once His cross and His carnival ...Then must I take my ungrateful headTo where the lakes of Hell burn red.
HOWshall I answer God and stand,My naked life within my hand,To plead upon the Judgment Day?Seeing the glory in arrayOf cherubim and seraphim,What answer shall I give to Him?I was too dull of heart and senseTo read His cryptic providence,Its strange and intricate deviceWas hidden from my foolish eyes.My gratitude could not reach upTo the sharing of His awful cup,To the blinding light of mysteryAnd the painful pomp of sanctity.But since as a happy child I wentWith love and laughter and contentAlong the road of simple things,Making no idle questionings;Since young and careless I did keepThe cool and cloistered halls of sleep,And took my daily drink and food,Finding them very, very good—God may perhaps be pleased to seeSuch signs of sheer felicity.But if I somehow should be givenAn attic in His storied heaven,I’m sure I should be far apartFrom Catherine of the wounded heart,Teresa of the flaming soul,And Bruno’s sevenfold aureole,And be told, of course, I’m not to mixWith the Bernards or the Dominics,Or thrust my company uponSt. Michael or the great St. John.Yet God may grant it me to sitAnd sing (with little skill or wit)My intimate canticles of praiseFor all life’s dear and gracious days—Though hardly a single syllableOf what St. Raphael has to tell,The triumphs of the cosmic wars,The raptures and the jewelled scarsOf the high lords of martyrdom—Hardly a word of this will comeTo strike my understanding ear,Hardly a single word, I fear!. . . . . .But woe upon the Judgment DayIf my heart gladdened not at May;Nor woke to hear with the waking birdsThe morning’s sweet and winsome words;Nor loved to see laburnums flingTheir pennons to the winds of Spring;Nor watched among the expectant grassThe Summer’s painted pageant pass;Nor thrilled with blithe beatitudeWithin a kindling Autumn woodOr when each separate twig did lieEtched sharp upon the wintry sky.If out of all my sunny hoursI brought no chaplet of their flowers;If I gave no kiss to His lovely feetWhen they shone as poppies in the wheat;If no rose to me were a Mystic Rose,No Snow were whiter than the snows;If in my baseness I let fallAt once His cross and His carnival ...Then must I take my ungrateful headTo where the lakes of Hell burn red.
HOWshall I answer God and stand,My naked life within my hand,To plead upon the Judgment Day?Seeing the glory in arrayOf cherubim and seraphim,What answer shall I give to Him?
I was too dull of heart and senseTo read His cryptic providence,Its strange and intricate deviceWas hidden from my foolish eyes.My gratitude could not reach upTo the sharing of His awful cup,To the blinding light of mysteryAnd the painful pomp of sanctity.
But since as a happy child I wentWith love and laughter and contentAlong the road of simple things,Making no idle questionings;Since young and careless I did keepThe cool and cloistered halls of sleep,And took my daily drink and food,Finding them very, very good—God may perhaps be pleased to seeSuch signs of sheer felicity.
But if I somehow should be givenAn attic in His storied heaven,I’m sure I should be far apartFrom Catherine of the wounded heart,Teresa of the flaming soul,And Bruno’s sevenfold aureole,And be told, of course, I’m not to mixWith the Bernards or the Dominics,Or thrust my company uponSt. Michael or the great St. John.
Yet God may grant it me to sitAnd sing (with little skill or wit)My intimate canticles of praiseFor all life’s dear and gracious days—Though hardly a single syllableOf what St. Raphael has to tell,The triumphs of the cosmic wars,The raptures and the jewelled scarsOf the high lords of martyrdom—Hardly a word of this will comeTo strike my understanding ear,Hardly a single word, I fear!. . . . . .But woe upon the Judgment DayIf my heart gladdened not at May;Nor woke to hear with the waking birdsThe morning’s sweet and winsome words;Nor loved to see laburnums flingTheir pennons to the winds of Spring;Nor watched among the expectant grassThe Summer’s painted pageant pass;Nor thrilled with blithe beatitudeWithin a kindling Autumn woodOr when each separate twig did lieEtched sharp upon the wintry sky.If out of all my sunny hoursI brought no chaplet of their flowers;If I gave no kiss to His lovely feetWhen they shone as poppies in the wheat;If no rose to me were a Mystic Rose,No Snow were whiter than the snows;If in my baseness I let fallAt once His cross and His carnival ...Then must I take my ungrateful headTo where the lakes of Hell burn red.
HERErest the thin worn hands which fondled Him,The trembling lips which magnified the Lord,Who looked upon His handmaid, the young, slimMary at her meek tasks, and here the swordWithin the soul of her whose anguished eyesGazed at the stars which watch Gethsemane,And saw the sun fail in the stricken skies.In these dim rooms she guards the treasuryOf her white memories—the strange, sweet faceMore marred than any man’s, the tender, fainAnd eager words, the wistful human grace,The mysteries of glory, joy and pain,And that hope tremulous, half-sob, half-song,Ringing through night—“How long, O Lord, how long?”
HERErest the thin worn hands which fondled Him,The trembling lips which magnified the Lord,Who looked upon His handmaid, the young, slimMary at her meek tasks, and here the swordWithin the soul of her whose anguished eyesGazed at the stars which watch Gethsemane,And saw the sun fail in the stricken skies.In these dim rooms she guards the treasuryOf her white memories—the strange, sweet faceMore marred than any man’s, the tender, fainAnd eager words, the wistful human grace,The mysteries of glory, joy and pain,And that hope tremulous, half-sob, half-song,Ringing through night—“How long, O Lord, how long?”
HERErest the thin worn hands which fondled Him,The trembling lips which magnified the Lord,Who looked upon His handmaid, the young, slimMary at her meek tasks, and here the swordWithin the soul of her whose anguished eyesGazed at the stars which watch Gethsemane,And saw the sun fail in the stricken skies.In these dim rooms she guards the treasuryOf her white memories—the strange, sweet faceMore marred than any man’s, the tender, fainAnd eager words, the wistful human grace,The mysteries of glory, joy and pain,And that hope tremulous, half-sob, half-song,Ringing through night—“How long, O Lord, how long?”
HARKhow a silver music fallsBetween these meek monastic walls,And airy flute and psalteryAwaken heavenly melody!Yet not to unentunèd earsMay come the joyance of the spheres,And only humbled hearts may seeThe humble heart of mystery.Where tread in light and lilting waysBright angels through the dance’s mazeOn grassy floors to meet the justIn robes of woven diamond dust.And jewelled daisies burst to greetThe flutter of the Blessed’s feet:Along the cloister’s gathered gloomLilies and mystic roses bloom.Grown in the hush of hidden hoursThoughts fairer than the summer flowersLift up their sweet and living heads,Crystalline whites and sanguine reds!Who keep in lowly pageantrySilence a lovely ceremony;[B]Who set a seal upon their eyesResponsive only to the skies;Who in a quick obedience moveAlong the hallowed paths of love,Win at last to that secret placeAdorned with the glory of God’s face.And as each eve the tired sunSinks softly down, the long day done,Upon the bosom of the west—So, even so, upon God’s breastEach weary heart is folded deepInto His arms in quiet sleep,And sheltered safe, all warm and bright,Against the phantoms of the night.
HARKhow a silver music fallsBetween these meek monastic walls,And airy flute and psalteryAwaken heavenly melody!Yet not to unentunèd earsMay come the joyance of the spheres,And only humbled hearts may seeThe humble heart of mystery.Where tread in light and lilting waysBright angels through the dance’s mazeOn grassy floors to meet the justIn robes of woven diamond dust.And jewelled daisies burst to greetThe flutter of the Blessed’s feet:Along the cloister’s gathered gloomLilies and mystic roses bloom.Grown in the hush of hidden hoursThoughts fairer than the summer flowersLift up their sweet and living heads,Crystalline whites and sanguine reds!Who keep in lowly pageantrySilence a lovely ceremony;[B]Who set a seal upon their eyesResponsive only to the skies;Who in a quick obedience moveAlong the hallowed paths of love,Win at last to that secret placeAdorned with the glory of God’s face.And as each eve the tired sunSinks softly down, the long day done,Upon the bosom of the west—So, even so, upon God’s breastEach weary heart is folded deepInto His arms in quiet sleep,And sheltered safe, all warm and bright,Against the phantoms of the night.
HARKhow a silver music fallsBetween these meek monastic walls,And airy flute and psalteryAwaken heavenly melody!
Yet not to unentunèd earsMay come the joyance of the spheres,And only humbled hearts may seeThe humble heart of mystery.
Where tread in light and lilting waysBright angels through the dance’s mazeOn grassy floors to meet the justIn robes of woven diamond dust.
And jewelled daisies burst to greetThe flutter of the Blessed’s feet:Along the cloister’s gathered gloomLilies and mystic roses bloom.
Grown in the hush of hidden hoursThoughts fairer than the summer flowersLift up their sweet and living heads,Crystalline whites and sanguine reds!
Who keep in lowly pageantrySilence a lovely ceremony;[B]Who set a seal upon their eyesResponsive only to the skies;
Who in a quick obedience moveAlong the hallowed paths of love,Win at last to that secret placeAdorned with the glory of God’s face.
And as each eve the tired sunSinks softly down, the long day done,Upon the bosom of the west—So, even so, upon God’s breast
Each weary heart is folded deepInto His arms in quiet sleep,And sheltered safe, all warm and bright,Against the phantoms of the night.
[B]“Quia silentium est pulchra caeremonia”:Ex Constitutionibus FratrumS. Ordinis Prædicatorum.
[B]“Quia silentium est pulchra caeremonia”:
Ex Constitutionibus FratrumS. Ordinis Prædicatorum.
Ex Constitutionibus FratrumS. Ordinis Prædicatorum.
Ex Constitutionibus FratrumS. Ordinis Prædicatorum.
YOUwho were beauty’s worshipper,Her ardent lover, in this placeYou have seen Beauty face to face;And known the wistful eyes of her,And kissed the hands of Poverty,And praised her tattered bravery.You shall be humble, give your daysTo silence and simplicity;And solitude shall come to beThe goal of all your winding ways;When pride and youthful pomp of wordsFly far away like startled birds.Possessing nothing, you shall knowThe heart of all things in the earth,Their secret agonies and mirth,The awful innocence of snow,The sadness of November leaves,The joy of fields of girded sheaves.A shelter from the driving rainYour high renouncement of desire;Food it shall be and wine and fire;And Peace shall enter once againAs quietly as dreams in sleepThe hidden trysting-place you keep.You shall grow humble as the grass,And patient as each slow, dumb beast;And as their fellow—yea the least—Yield stoat and hedgehog room to pass;And learn the ignorance of menBefore the robin and the wren.The things so terrible and sweetYou strove to say in accents harsh,The frogs are croaking on the marsh,The crickets chirping at your feet—Oh, they can teach you unafraidThe meaning of the songs you made.Till clothed in white humilities,Each happening that doth befall,Each thought of yours be musical,As wind is musical in the trees,When strong as sun and clean as dewYour old dead songs come back to you.
YOUwho were beauty’s worshipper,Her ardent lover, in this placeYou have seen Beauty face to face;And known the wistful eyes of her,And kissed the hands of Poverty,And praised her tattered bravery.You shall be humble, give your daysTo silence and simplicity;And solitude shall come to beThe goal of all your winding ways;When pride and youthful pomp of wordsFly far away like startled birds.Possessing nothing, you shall knowThe heart of all things in the earth,Their secret agonies and mirth,The awful innocence of snow,The sadness of November leaves,The joy of fields of girded sheaves.A shelter from the driving rainYour high renouncement of desire;Food it shall be and wine and fire;And Peace shall enter once againAs quietly as dreams in sleepThe hidden trysting-place you keep.You shall grow humble as the grass,And patient as each slow, dumb beast;And as their fellow—yea the least—Yield stoat and hedgehog room to pass;And learn the ignorance of menBefore the robin and the wren.The things so terrible and sweetYou strove to say in accents harsh,The frogs are croaking on the marsh,The crickets chirping at your feet—Oh, they can teach you unafraidThe meaning of the songs you made.Till clothed in white humilities,Each happening that doth befall,Each thought of yours be musical,As wind is musical in the trees,When strong as sun and clean as dewYour old dead songs come back to you.
YOUwho were beauty’s worshipper,Her ardent lover, in this placeYou have seen Beauty face to face;And known the wistful eyes of her,And kissed the hands of Poverty,And praised her tattered bravery.
You shall be humble, give your daysTo silence and simplicity;And solitude shall come to beThe goal of all your winding ways;When pride and youthful pomp of wordsFly far away like startled birds.
Possessing nothing, you shall knowThe heart of all things in the earth,Their secret agonies and mirth,The awful innocence of snow,The sadness of November leaves,The joy of fields of girded sheaves.
A shelter from the driving rainYour high renouncement of desire;Food it shall be and wine and fire;And Peace shall enter once againAs quietly as dreams in sleepThe hidden trysting-place you keep.
You shall grow humble as the grass,And patient as each slow, dumb beast;And as their fellow—yea the least—Yield stoat and hedgehog room to pass;And learn the ignorance of menBefore the robin and the wren.
The things so terrible and sweetYou strove to say in accents harsh,The frogs are croaking on the marsh,The crickets chirping at your feet—Oh, they can teach you unafraidThe meaning of the songs you made.
Till clothed in white humilities,Each happening that doth befall,Each thought of yours be musical,As wind is musical in the trees,When strong as sun and clean as dewYour old dead songs come back to you.
IKNOWa sheaf of splendid songs by heartWhich stir the blood or move the soul to tears,Of death or honour or of love’s sweet smart,The runes and legends of a thousand years;And some of them go plaintively and slow,And some are jolly like the earth in May—But this isreallythe best song I know:I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.I sang it in a house-boat on the DartTo several members of the House of Peers.The Editor of theExchange and Mart(A man of taste) stood up and led the cheers.I carolled it at Christmas in the snow,I hummed it on my summer holiday—Doh-ray-me-fah-sol-la-fah-me-ray-doh—I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.It made a gathering of Fabians startAnd put their fingers in their outraged ears.They did not understand my subtle art,But though they only gave me scoffs and jeers,I sang my ditty high, I sang it low,I sang it every known (and unknown) way—Crescendo, forte, pianissimo—I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
IKNOWa sheaf of splendid songs by heartWhich stir the blood or move the soul to tears,Of death or honour or of love’s sweet smart,The runes and legends of a thousand years;And some of them go plaintively and slow,And some are jolly like the earth in May—But this isreallythe best song I know:I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.I sang it in a house-boat on the DartTo several members of the House of Peers.The Editor of theExchange and Mart(A man of taste) stood up and led the cheers.I carolled it at Christmas in the snow,I hummed it on my summer holiday—Doh-ray-me-fah-sol-la-fah-me-ray-doh—I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.It made a gathering of Fabians startAnd put their fingers in their outraged ears.They did not understand my subtle art,But though they only gave me scoffs and jeers,I sang my ditty high, I sang it low,I sang it every known (and unknown) way—Crescendo, forte, pianissimo—I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
IKNOWa sheaf of splendid songs by heartWhich stir the blood or move the soul to tears,Of death or honour or of love’s sweet smart,The runes and legends of a thousand years;And some of them go plaintively and slow,And some are jolly like the earth in May—But this isreallythe best song I know:I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
I sang it in a house-boat on the DartTo several members of the House of Peers.The Editor of theExchange and Mart(A man of taste) stood up and led the cheers.I carolled it at Christmas in the snow,I hummed it on my summer holiday—Doh-ray-me-fah-sol-la-fah-me-ray-doh—I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
It made a gathering of Fabians startAnd put their fingers in their outraged ears.They did not understand my subtle art,But though they only gave me scoffs and jeers,I sang my ditty high, I sang it low,I sang it every known (and unknown) way—Crescendo, forte, pianissimo—I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
Prince, if by some amazing fluke you goTo heaven, you’ll hear the shawms and citherns play,And all the trumpets of the angels blowI-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
Prince, if by some amazing fluke you goTo heaven, you’ll hear the shawms and citherns play,And all the trumpets of the angels blowI-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
Prince, if by some amazing fluke you goTo heaven, you’ll hear the shawms and citherns play,And all the trumpets of the angels blowI-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.
ABOYgoes by the window while I write,Whistling—the little demon!—in delight.I shake my fist and scowl at him, and curseOver the carcase of my murdered verse.And yet—which is it that the world most needs,His happy laughter or my threadbare screeds?There is more poetry in being youngThan in the finest song that Shakespeare sung—And if that’s true of godlike Shakespeare—well,Whistle the Marseillaise, and ring the bell,And chase the cat, and lose your tennis-ball,And tear your trousers on the garden wall,Scalp a Red Indian, sail the Spanish seas—Do any mortal thing you damn well please.
ABOYgoes by the window while I write,Whistling—the little demon!—in delight.I shake my fist and scowl at him, and curseOver the carcase of my murdered verse.And yet—which is it that the world most needs,His happy laughter or my threadbare screeds?There is more poetry in being youngThan in the finest song that Shakespeare sung—And if that’s true of godlike Shakespeare—well,Whistle the Marseillaise, and ring the bell,And chase the cat, and lose your tennis-ball,And tear your trousers on the garden wall,Scalp a Red Indian, sail the Spanish seas—Do any mortal thing you damn well please.
ABOYgoes by the window while I write,Whistling—the little demon!—in delight.I shake my fist and scowl at him, and curseOver the carcase of my murdered verse.And yet—which is it that the world most needs,His happy laughter or my threadbare screeds?There is more poetry in being youngThan in the finest song that Shakespeare sung—And if that’s true of godlike Shakespeare—well,Whistle the Marseillaise, and ring the bell,And chase the cat, and lose your tennis-ball,And tear your trousers on the garden wall,Scalp a Red Indian, sail the Spanish seas—Do any mortal thing you damn well please.
WHENall the world was blackYour courage did not fail;No laughter did you lackOr fellowship or ale.And you have made defeatA nobler pageantry,Your bitterness more sweetThan is their victory.For by your stricken lipsA gallant song is sung;Joy suffers no eclipse,Is lyrical and young,Is rooted in the sod,Is ambient in the air,Since Hope lifts up to GodThe escalade of prayer.The tyrants and the kingsIn purple splendour ride,But all ironic thingsGo marching at your sideTo nerve your hands with power,To salt your souls with scorn,Till that awaited hourWhen Freedom shall be born.
WHENall the world was blackYour courage did not fail;No laughter did you lackOr fellowship or ale.And you have made defeatA nobler pageantry,Your bitterness more sweetThan is their victory.For by your stricken lipsA gallant song is sung;Joy suffers no eclipse,Is lyrical and young,Is rooted in the sod,Is ambient in the air,Since Hope lifts up to GodThe escalade of prayer.The tyrants and the kingsIn purple splendour ride,But all ironic thingsGo marching at your sideTo nerve your hands with power,To salt your souls with scorn,Till that awaited hourWhen Freedom shall be born.
WHENall the world was blackYour courage did not fail;No laughter did you lackOr fellowship or ale.
And you have made defeatA nobler pageantry,Your bitterness more sweetThan is their victory.
For by your stricken lipsA gallant song is sung;Joy suffers no eclipse,Is lyrical and young,
Is rooted in the sod,Is ambient in the air,Since Hope lifts up to GodThe escalade of prayer.
The tyrants and the kingsIn purple splendour ride,But all ironic thingsGo marching at your sideTo nerve your hands with power,To salt your souls with scorn,Till that awaited hourWhen Freedom shall be born.
To one who said that to conceive of God as a person was toreduce Him to our own level.
OH, we can pierceWith the swift lightnings far and fierce;We can beholdHim in the sunset’s lucid gold.Yet not by theseDo we read His dark mysteries,Or tear apartThe thick veil upon Heaven’s heart....Kneel with the kingsBefore His dreadful Emptyings,And see Him laidIn the slender arms of a Maid.The village streetKnew God’s familiar, weary feet—The carpenter’s SonWho made the great hills one by one.No glory slipsFrom His sublime apocalypse—His homespun dress,Hunger, thirst and the wilderness.To a slave’s deathHe gave his broken body’s breath;An outcast hungThe swart and venomous thieves among.And still yields HeGodhead to our humanity,Leaving for signHimself in the meek bread and wine.
OH, we can pierceWith the swift lightnings far and fierce;We can beholdHim in the sunset’s lucid gold.Yet not by theseDo we read His dark mysteries,Or tear apartThe thick veil upon Heaven’s heart....Kneel with the kingsBefore His dreadful Emptyings,And see Him laidIn the slender arms of a Maid.The village streetKnew God’s familiar, weary feet—The carpenter’s SonWho made the great hills one by one.No glory slipsFrom His sublime apocalypse—His homespun dress,Hunger, thirst and the wilderness.To a slave’s deathHe gave his broken body’s breath;An outcast hungThe swart and venomous thieves among.And still yields HeGodhead to our humanity,Leaving for signHimself in the meek bread and wine.
OH, we can pierceWith the swift lightnings far and fierce;We can beholdHim in the sunset’s lucid gold.
Yet not by theseDo we read His dark mysteries,Or tear apartThe thick veil upon Heaven’s heart....
Kneel with the kingsBefore His dreadful Emptyings,And see Him laidIn the slender arms of a Maid.
The village streetKnew God’s familiar, weary feet—The carpenter’s SonWho made the great hills one by one.
No glory slipsFrom His sublime apocalypse—His homespun dress,Hunger, thirst and the wilderness.
To a slave’s deathHe gave his broken body’s breath;An outcast hungThe swart and venomous thieves among.
And still yields HeGodhead to our humanity,Leaving for signHimself in the meek bread and wine.
CANflesh and blood contrive defence’Gainst swords that pierce the spirit through,Or meet, not knowing why or whence,The blind bolt crashing from the blue?“Oh, men have held times out of mindTheir stern and stoic courage bright—But if no cry comes on the wind,How shall I face the ambushed night?“How shall I turn to bay, and standTo grapple, if I cannot seeMy fierce assailant at my hand,The high look of mine enemy?“If He will answer me, with rodAnd plague and thunder let Him come—But how can man dispute with GodWho writes no book, whose voice is dumb?“Who rings me round with prison barsThrough which I peer with sleepless eyes,And see the enigmatic stars—These only—in the iron skies.”. . . . . .“These only?These together sangAt the glad birthday of the earthWhen all the courts of Heaven rangWith shouting and angelic mirth!“The night enfolds you with a cloakOf silence and of chill affright?But when man’s wells of laughter broke,Who gave man singing in the night?“The Rod shall burst to flowers and fruitRicher than grew on Aaron’s rod,And Mercy clothe you head to foot,Beloved and smitten of your God!”
CANflesh and blood contrive defence’Gainst swords that pierce the spirit through,Or meet, not knowing why or whence,The blind bolt crashing from the blue?“Oh, men have held times out of mindTheir stern and stoic courage bright—But if no cry comes on the wind,How shall I face the ambushed night?“How shall I turn to bay, and standTo grapple, if I cannot seeMy fierce assailant at my hand,The high look of mine enemy?“If He will answer me, with rodAnd plague and thunder let Him come—But how can man dispute with GodWho writes no book, whose voice is dumb?“Who rings me round with prison barsThrough which I peer with sleepless eyes,And see the enigmatic stars—These only—in the iron skies.”. . . . . .“These only?These together sangAt the glad birthday of the earthWhen all the courts of Heaven rangWith shouting and angelic mirth!“The night enfolds you with a cloakOf silence and of chill affright?But when man’s wells of laughter broke,Who gave man singing in the night?“The Rod shall burst to flowers and fruitRicher than grew on Aaron’s rod,And Mercy clothe you head to foot,Beloved and smitten of your God!”
CANflesh and blood contrive defence’Gainst swords that pierce the spirit through,Or meet, not knowing why or whence,The blind bolt crashing from the blue?
“Oh, men have held times out of mindTheir stern and stoic courage bright—But if no cry comes on the wind,How shall I face the ambushed night?
“How shall I turn to bay, and standTo grapple, if I cannot seeMy fierce assailant at my hand,The high look of mine enemy?
“If He will answer me, with rodAnd plague and thunder let Him come—But how can man dispute with GodWho writes no book, whose voice is dumb?
“Who rings me round with prison barsThrough which I peer with sleepless eyes,And see the enigmatic stars—These only—in the iron skies.”. . . . . .“These only?These together sangAt the glad birthday of the earthWhen all the courts of Heaven rangWith shouting and angelic mirth!
“The night enfolds you with a cloakOf silence and of chill affright?But when man’s wells of laughter broke,Who gave man singing in the night?
“The Rod shall burst to flowers and fruitRicher than grew on Aaron’s rod,And Mercy clothe you head to foot,Beloved and smitten of your God!”
IMAYnot stand with other men, or rideIn those grey fields where fall the screaming shells,Or mix my blood with blood of those who diedTo find a heaven in their sevenfold hells.Honour and death a strident bugle blows,Setting an end to death and blasphemy—Oh, had I any choice in it, God knowsWhere in this epic day I too would be!Yet may I keep some English heart aliveWith a poet’s pleasure in all English things—Good-fellowship and kindliness still thriveIn English soil; the dusk is full of wings;And by the river long reeds grow; and stillA little house sits brooding on the hill!
IMAYnot stand with other men, or rideIn those grey fields where fall the screaming shells,Or mix my blood with blood of those who diedTo find a heaven in their sevenfold hells.Honour and death a strident bugle blows,Setting an end to death and blasphemy—Oh, had I any choice in it, God knowsWhere in this epic day I too would be!Yet may I keep some English heart aliveWith a poet’s pleasure in all English things—Good-fellowship and kindliness still thriveIn English soil; the dusk is full of wings;And by the river long reeds grow; and stillA little house sits brooding on the hill!
IMAYnot stand with other men, or rideIn those grey fields where fall the screaming shells,Or mix my blood with blood of those who diedTo find a heaven in their sevenfold hells.Honour and death a strident bugle blows,Setting an end to death and blasphemy—Oh, had I any choice in it, God knowsWhere in this epic day I too would be!Yet may I keep some English heart aliveWith a poet’s pleasure in all English things—Good-fellowship and kindliness still thriveIn English soil; the dusk is full of wings;And by the river long reeds grow; and stillA little house sits brooding on the hill!
NOWlays the king his crown and sceptre down,Her gown of taffeta the lovely bride,The knight his sword, his cap and bells the clown,The poet all his verse’s pomp and pride—The eloquent, the beautiful, the braveDescend reluctant to the straight, cold grave.No more shall shine for them the glorious rose,Or sunsets stain with red and awful gold,Night shall no more for them her stars disclose,Or day the grandeur of the Downs unfold,Or those eyes dull in death watch solemnlyThe regal splendour of the Sussex sea.For them the ringing surges are in vain;They wake not at the cry of waking bird;The sun, the holy hill, the fruitful rain,The winds have called them and they have not stirred;The woods are widowed of your eager tread,O dear and desolate and dungeoned dead!Yet you shall rest awhile in English earth,And ripen many a pleasant English fieldThrough the green Summer to the Autumn’s mirthAnd flower unconsciously upon the weald—Until that last angelic word be said,And the shut graves deliver up their dead!
NOWlays the king his crown and sceptre down,Her gown of taffeta the lovely bride,The knight his sword, his cap and bells the clown,The poet all his verse’s pomp and pride—The eloquent, the beautiful, the braveDescend reluctant to the straight, cold grave.No more shall shine for them the glorious rose,Or sunsets stain with red and awful gold,Night shall no more for them her stars disclose,Or day the grandeur of the Downs unfold,Or those eyes dull in death watch solemnlyThe regal splendour of the Sussex sea.For them the ringing surges are in vain;They wake not at the cry of waking bird;The sun, the holy hill, the fruitful rain,The winds have called them and they have not stirred;The woods are widowed of your eager tread,O dear and desolate and dungeoned dead!Yet you shall rest awhile in English earth,And ripen many a pleasant English fieldThrough the green Summer to the Autumn’s mirthAnd flower unconsciously upon the weald—Until that last angelic word be said,And the shut graves deliver up their dead!
NOWlays the king his crown and sceptre down,Her gown of taffeta the lovely bride,The knight his sword, his cap and bells the clown,The poet all his verse’s pomp and pride—The eloquent, the beautiful, the braveDescend reluctant to the straight, cold grave.
No more shall shine for them the glorious rose,Or sunsets stain with red and awful gold,Night shall no more for them her stars disclose,Or day the grandeur of the Downs unfold,Or those eyes dull in death watch solemnlyThe regal splendour of the Sussex sea.
For them the ringing surges are in vain;They wake not at the cry of waking bird;The sun, the holy hill, the fruitful rain,The winds have called them and they have not stirred;The woods are widowed of your eager tread,O dear and desolate and dungeoned dead!
Yet you shall rest awhile in English earth,And ripen many a pleasant English fieldThrough the green Summer to the Autumn’s mirthAnd flower unconsciously upon the weald—Until that last angelic word be said,And the shut graves deliver up their dead!
THEgrey and wrinkled earth again is youngAnd lays aside her tattered winter weedsFor April-coloured gauze, and gives her tongueTo jocund songs instead of pedants’ screeds.Scatter the thin, white ashes of the hearth,And throw the brilliant diamond casement wide—Oh, wonder of the lonely garden garth!Oh, golden glory of the steep hillsideWhere flames the living loveliness of God!...But far, far off, beyond the bloom and budA fiercer blossom burgeons from the sodBright with the hues of honour and of blood;And men have plucked the sanguine flower of painWhere violets might be growing in the rain!
THEgrey and wrinkled earth again is youngAnd lays aside her tattered winter weedsFor April-coloured gauze, and gives her tongueTo jocund songs instead of pedants’ screeds.Scatter the thin, white ashes of the hearth,And throw the brilliant diamond casement wide—Oh, wonder of the lonely garden garth!Oh, golden glory of the steep hillsideWhere flames the living loveliness of God!...But far, far off, beyond the bloom and budA fiercer blossom burgeons from the sodBright with the hues of honour and of blood;And men have plucked the sanguine flower of painWhere violets might be growing in the rain!
THEgrey and wrinkled earth again is youngAnd lays aside her tattered winter weedsFor April-coloured gauze, and gives her tongueTo jocund songs instead of pedants’ screeds.Scatter the thin, white ashes of the hearth,And throw the brilliant diamond casement wide—Oh, wonder of the lonely garden garth!Oh, golden glory of the steep hillsideWhere flames the living loveliness of God!...But far, far off, beyond the bloom and budA fiercer blossom burgeons from the sodBright with the hues of honour and of blood;And men have plucked the sanguine flower of painWhere violets might be growing in the rain!
BEYONDthese hills where sinks the sun in amber,Imperial in purple, gold and blood,I keep the garden walks where roses clamber,Set in still rows with shrub and flower and bud.After the clash of all the swords that sunder,After the headstrong pride of youth that fails,After the shattered heavens and the thunderRemain the summer woods and nightingales!So when the fever has died down that urgesMy lips to utterance of whirling words,Which, blown among the winds and stormy surges,Skim the wild sea-waves like the wild sea-birds.So when has ceased the tumult and the riot,A man may rest his soul a little space,And seek your solitary eyes in quiet,And all the gracious calmness of your face.
BEYONDthese hills where sinks the sun in amber,Imperial in purple, gold and blood,I keep the garden walks where roses clamber,Set in still rows with shrub and flower and bud.After the clash of all the swords that sunder,After the headstrong pride of youth that fails,After the shattered heavens and the thunderRemain the summer woods and nightingales!So when the fever has died down that urgesMy lips to utterance of whirling words,Which, blown among the winds and stormy surges,Skim the wild sea-waves like the wild sea-birds.So when has ceased the tumult and the riot,A man may rest his soul a little space,And seek your solitary eyes in quiet,And all the gracious calmness of your face.
BEYONDthese hills where sinks the sun in amber,Imperial in purple, gold and blood,I keep the garden walks where roses clamber,Set in still rows with shrub and flower and bud.
After the clash of all the swords that sunder,After the headstrong pride of youth that fails,After the shattered heavens and the thunderRemain the summer woods and nightingales!
So when the fever has died down that urgesMy lips to utterance of whirling words,Which, blown among the winds and stormy surges,Skim the wild sea-waves like the wild sea-birds.
So when has ceased the tumult and the riot,A man may rest his soul a little space,And seek your solitary eyes in quiet,And all the gracious calmness of your face.
(An Inscription for a Book of Poems)
YOUwho will hold these gathered songs,Made, darling, long before we met,Must keep the prophecy which belongsTo those dear eyes, so strangely setWith peace and laughter, where fulfilsThe rapture of my alien hills.Unknown, unknown you softly trodAmong my fruitful silences,The last and splendid gift of God.The quest of all my Odysseys,The meaning of those quiet landsWhere I found comfort at your hands.And when the yellowing woods awake,And small birds’ twittered loves are told,When streams run silver, and there breakThe crocuses to tender gold,When quick light winds shall stir my hair,Some part of you will wander there.
YOUwho will hold these gathered songs,Made, darling, long before we met,Must keep the prophecy which belongsTo those dear eyes, so strangely setWith peace and laughter, where fulfilsThe rapture of my alien hills.Unknown, unknown you softly trodAmong my fruitful silences,The last and splendid gift of God.The quest of all my Odysseys,The meaning of those quiet landsWhere I found comfort at your hands.And when the yellowing woods awake,And small birds’ twittered loves are told,When streams run silver, and there breakThe crocuses to tender gold,When quick light winds shall stir my hair,Some part of you will wander there.
YOUwho will hold these gathered songs,Made, darling, long before we met,Must keep the prophecy which belongsTo those dear eyes, so strangely setWith peace and laughter, where fulfilsThe rapture of my alien hills.
Unknown, unknown you softly trodAmong my fruitful silences,The last and splendid gift of God.The quest of all my Odysseys,The meaning of those quiet landsWhere I found comfort at your hands.
And when the yellowing woods awake,And small birds’ twittered loves are told,When streams run silver, and there breakThe crocuses to tender gold,When quick light winds shall stir my hair,Some part of you will wander there.
MYeyes look out across the dim grey wold,The grey sky and the grey druidic trees,Knowing they keep inviolate the goldMemories of summer and the propheciesThat lie imprisoned in the buried seedsOf all the lyric gaiety of Spring....The sun shall ride again his flaming steeds;The dragon-fly dance past on diamond wing;The earth distil to music; and the roseFlaunt her impassioned loveliness and beA symbol of the singing hour that blowsThe tall ship and my gladness home to me—When I shall cry: Awake, my heart, awake,And deck yourself in beauty for her sake!
MYeyes look out across the dim grey wold,The grey sky and the grey druidic trees,Knowing they keep inviolate the goldMemories of summer and the propheciesThat lie imprisoned in the buried seedsOf all the lyric gaiety of Spring....The sun shall ride again his flaming steeds;The dragon-fly dance past on diamond wing;The earth distil to music; and the roseFlaunt her impassioned loveliness and beA symbol of the singing hour that blowsThe tall ship and my gladness home to me—When I shall cry: Awake, my heart, awake,And deck yourself in beauty for her sake!
MYeyes look out across the dim grey wold,The grey sky and the grey druidic trees,Knowing they keep inviolate the goldMemories of summer and the propheciesThat lie imprisoned in the buried seedsOf all the lyric gaiety of Spring....The sun shall ride again his flaming steeds;The dragon-fly dance past on diamond wing;The earth distil to music; and the roseFlaunt her impassioned loveliness and beA symbol of the singing hour that blowsThe tall ship and my gladness home to me—When I shall cry: Awake, my heart, awake,And deck yourself in beauty for her sake!
IFany song I sing for you should beBut made to please a poet’s vanity,A richly jewelled and an empty cupIn which no hallowed wine is offered up,A thing of chosen rhyme and cunning phrase,Fashioned that it may bring its maker praise;If love in me grow only soft and sweet,Remembering not with what worn and weary feetIt journeyed to your fields of golden grain,The quiet orchards folded in the rain,The twilight gardens and the morning birds;If love remembers not and brings you words,Words as your thanks; if in an idle hourIt breaks its sword and plays the troubadour—Then may high God, the Universal Lord,Break me, as I false knight have broken my sword,If I who have touched your hands should bring eclipseTo love’s nobility with lying lips,Having seen more terrible than gleaming spearsYour gentleness, your sorrow and your tears!
IFany song I sing for you should beBut made to please a poet’s vanity,A richly jewelled and an empty cupIn which no hallowed wine is offered up,A thing of chosen rhyme and cunning phrase,Fashioned that it may bring its maker praise;If love in me grow only soft and sweet,Remembering not with what worn and weary feetIt journeyed to your fields of golden grain,The quiet orchards folded in the rain,The twilight gardens and the morning birds;If love remembers not and brings you words,Words as your thanks; if in an idle hourIt breaks its sword and plays the troubadour—Then may high God, the Universal Lord,Break me, as I false knight have broken my sword,If I who have touched your hands should bring eclipseTo love’s nobility with lying lips,Having seen more terrible than gleaming spearsYour gentleness, your sorrow and your tears!
IFany song I sing for you should beBut made to please a poet’s vanity,A richly jewelled and an empty cupIn which no hallowed wine is offered up,A thing of chosen rhyme and cunning phrase,Fashioned that it may bring its maker praise;If love in me grow only soft and sweet,Remembering not with what worn and weary feetIt journeyed to your fields of golden grain,The quiet orchards folded in the rain,The twilight gardens and the morning birds;If love remembers not and brings you words,Words as your thanks; if in an idle hourIt breaks its sword and plays the troubadour—Then may high God, the Universal Lord,Break me, as I false knight have broken my sword,If I who have touched your hands should bring eclipseTo love’s nobility with lying lips,Having seen more terrible than gleaming spearsYour gentleness, your sorrow and your tears!
ACROSSthe fields of unforgotten daysI see the gorgeous pearl-white morning burstThrough her fine gauze of dreamy summer hazeBeyond the rolling flats of Staplehurst,To bless the hours with songs of nesting birds,And the wild hedge rose and the apple tree,And laughter and the ring of friendly words,And the noon’s pageant moving languidly.I walk again with boys now grown to men,And see far off with reminiscent eyes,How in the tangled woods of HorsmondenThe mighty sun, a blood-red dragon, dies....Some things there are as rooted as the grassIn a man’s mind—and these shall never pass.
ACROSSthe fields of unforgotten daysI see the gorgeous pearl-white morning burstThrough her fine gauze of dreamy summer hazeBeyond the rolling flats of Staplehurst,To bless the hours with songs of nesting birds,And the wild hedge rose and the apple tree,And laughter and the ring of friendly words,And the noon’s pageant moving languidly.I walk again with boys now grown to men,And see far off with reminiscent eyes,How in the tangled woods of HorsmondenThe mighty sun, a blood-red dragon, dies....Some things there are as rooted as the grassIn a man’s mind—and these shall never pass.
ACROSSthe fields of unforgotten daysI see the gorgeous pearl-white morning burstThrough her fine gauze of dreamy summer hazeBeyond the rolling flats of Staplehurst,To bless the hours with songs of nesting birds,And the wild hedge rose and the apple tree,And laughter and the ring of friendly words,And the noon’s pageant moving languidly.I walk again with boys now grown to men,And see far off with reminiscent eyes,How in the tangled woods of HorsmondenThe mighty sun, a blood-red dragon, dies....Some things there are as rooted as the grassIn a man’s mind—and these shall never pass.