The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSelected PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Selected PoemsAuthor: John MasefieldRelease date: February 1, 2020 [eBook #61286]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Selected PoemsAuthor: John MasefieldRelease date: February 1, 2020 [eBook #61286]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Title: Selected Poems
Author: John Masefield
Author: John Masefield
Release date: February 1, 2020 [eBook #61286]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS ***
Selected PoemsByJohn Masefield
Selected Poems from The Indian Love Lyrics of Laurence Hope. F’cap 8vo. Cloth, 5s.; leather, 7s. 6d.Selections from Swinburne, edited by Edmund Gosse, C.B., and T. J. Wise. Cr. 8vo. 6s. net.The Works of Swinburne, Golden Pine Edition. In 6 vols. F’cap 8vo. Cloth, 4s.; leather, 6s. each.LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, LTD.
Selected Poems from The Indian Love Lyrics of Laurence Hope. F’cap 8vo. Cloth, 5s.; leather, 7s. 6d.
Selections from Swinburne, edited by Edmund Gosse, C.B., and T. J. Wise. Cr. 8vo. 6s. net.
The Works of Swinburne, Golden Pine Edition. In 6 vols. F’cap 8vo. Cloth, 4s.; leather, 6s. each.
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, LTD.
[Image unavailable: Portrait of John Masefield by W. Strang dated Jan 1912(W. StrangJan 1912John Masefield.)
ByJohn Masefield
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, LTD.Printed in Great Britain.TOMY WIFE
The books from which these selections are taken are published by the following firms, to whom the author makes the usual acknowledgments:—
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees,And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breezeOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt’s tale,The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sailOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.And at nights there’s fire-flies and the yellow moon,And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tuneOf the quiet voice calling me, the long low croonOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees,And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breezeOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt’s tale,The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sailOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.And at nights there’s fire-flies and the yellow moon,And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tuneOf the quiet voice calling me, the long low croonOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees,And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breezeOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.
There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt’s tale,The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sailOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.
And at nights there’s fire-flies and the yellow moon,And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tuneOf the quiet voice calling me, the long low croonOf the steady Trade Winds blowing.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted,When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored,When the last fire is out and the last guest departed,Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me, O Lord!And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder,In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar;Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me underTo the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are.And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing,Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foamAbout the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steeringTowards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.
When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted,When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored,When the last fire is out and the last guest departed,Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me, O Lord!And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder,In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar;Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me underTo the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are.And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing,Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foamAbout the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steeringTowards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.
When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted,When the last field is reaped and the last harvest stored,When the last fire is out and the last guest departed,Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me, O Lord!
And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and thunder,In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope and spar;Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll me underTo the cold tunny-fishes’ home where the drowned galleons are.
And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and hearing,Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the sea-foamAbout the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steeringTowards the lone northern star and the fair ports of home.
It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.“Will you not come home, brother? you have been long away,It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the spray;And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,”Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.
It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.“Will you not come home, brother? you have been long away,It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the spray;And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,”Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.
It’s a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils.
It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine.There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
“Will you not come home, brother? you have been long away,It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the spray;And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?
The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run,It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,”Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant OphirRowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant OphirRowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant OphirRowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing,With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold;And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing,Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold;The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled.I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering,With roses in red thread worked upon her sails;With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering,Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales,Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails.I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking,With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks,With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking,Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks,The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks.
I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing,With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold;And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing,Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold;The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled.I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering,With roses in red thread worked upon her sails;With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering,Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales,Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails.I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking,With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks,With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking,Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks,The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks.
I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing,With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold;And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing,Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold;The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled.
I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering,With roses in red thread worked upon her sails;With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering,Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales,Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails.
I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking,With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks,With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking,Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks,The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks.
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call.Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all,There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end,Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past,Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last;Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled,Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call.Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all,There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end,Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past,Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last;Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled,Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call.Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all,There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end,Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.
I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past,Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last;Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled,Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.
O wanderer into many brains,O spark the emperor’s purple hides,You sow the dusk with fiery grainsWhen the gold horseman rides.O beauty on the darkness hurled,Be it through me you shame the world.
O wanderer into many brains,O spark the emperor’s purple hides,You sow the dusk with fiery grainsWhen the gold horseman rides.O beauty on the darkness hurled,Be it through me you shame the world.
O wanderer into many brains,O spark the emperor’s purple hides,You sow the dusk with fiery grainsWhen the gold horseman rides.O beauty on the darkness hurled,Be it through me you shame the world.
I held that when a person diesHis soul returns again to earth;Arrayed in some new flesh-disguiseAnother mother gives him birth.With sturdier limbs and brighter brainThe old soul takes the roads again.Such was my own belief and trust;This hand, this hand that holds the pen,Has many a hundred times been dustAnd turned, as dust, to dust again;These eyes of mine have blinked and shoneIn Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.All that I rightly think or do,Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,Is curse or blessing justly dueFor sloth or effort in the past.My life’s a statement of the sumOf vice indulged, or overcome.I know that in my lives to beMy sorry heart will ache and burn,And worship, unavailingly,The woman whom I used to spurn,And shake to see another haveThe love I spurned, the love she gave.And I shall know, in angry words,In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,A carrion flock of homing-birds,The gibes and scorns I uttered here.The brave word that I failed to speakWill brand me dastard on the cheek.And as I wander on the roadsI shall be helped and healed and blessed;Dear words shall cheer and be as goadsTo urge to heights before unguessed.My road shall be the road I made;All that I gave shall be repaid.So shall I fight, so shall I tread,In this long war beneath the stars;So shall a glory wreathe my head,So shall I faint and show the scars,Until this case, this clogging mould,Be smithied all to kingly gold.
I held that when a person diesHis soul returns again to earth;Arrayed in some new flesh-disguiseAnother mother gives him birth.With sturdier limbs and brighter brainThe old soul takes the roads again.Such was my own belief and trust;This hand, this hand that holds the pen,Has many a hundred times been dustAnd turned, as dust, to dust again;These eyes of mine have blinked and shoneIn Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.All that I rightly think or do,Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,Is curse or blessing justly dueFor sloth or effort in the past.My life’s a statement of the sumOf vice indulged, or overcome.I know that in my lives to beMy sorry heart will ache and burn,And worship, unavailingly,The woman whom I used to spurn,And shake to see another haveThe love I spurned, the love she gave.And I shall know, in angry words,In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,A carrion flock of homing-birds,The gibes and scorns I uttered here.The brave word that I failed to speakWill brand me dastard on the cheek.And as I wander on the roadsI shall be helped and healed and blessed;Dear words shall cheer and be as goadsTo urge to heights before unguessed.My road shall be the road I made;All that I gave shall be repaid.So shall I fight, so shall I tread,In this long war beneath the stars;So shall a glory wreathe my head,So shall I faint and show the scars,Until this case, this clogging mould,Be smithied all to kingly gold.
I held that when a person diesHis soul returns again to earth;Arrayed in some new flesh-disguiseAnother mother gives him birth.With sturdier limbs and brighter brainThe old soul takes the roads again.
Such was my own belief and trust;This hand, this hand that holds the pen,Has many a hundred times been dustAnd turned, as dust, to dust again;These eyes of mine have blinked and shoneIn Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.
All that I rightly think or do,Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,Is curse or blessing justly dueFor sloth or effort in the past.My life’s a statement of the sumOf vice indulged, or overcome.
I know that in my lives to beMy sorry heart will ache and burn,And worship, unavailingly,The woman whom I used to spurn,And shake to see another haveThe love I spurned, the love she gave.
And I shall know, in angry words,In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,A carrion flock of homing-birds,The gibes and scorns I uttered here.The brave word that I failed to speakWill brand me dastard on the cheek.
And as I wander on the roadsI shall be helped and healed and blessed;Dear words shall cheer and be as goadsTo urge to heights before unguessed.My road shall be the road I made;All that I gave shall be repaid.
So shall I fight, so shall I tread,In this long war beneath the stars;So shall a glory wreathe my head,So shall I faint and show the scars,Until this case, this clogging mould,Be smithied all to kingly gold.
When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,And changed her glorious beauty into mudBy his old skill in hateful wizardries;When an old lichened marble strives to tellHow sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;When rheumy grey-beards say, “I knew her well,”Showing the grave to curious worshippers;When all the roses that she sowed in meHave dripped their crimson petals and decayed,Leaving no greenery on any treeThat her dear hands in my heart’s garden laid,Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull,These songs may keep her memory beautiful.
When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,And changed her glorious beauty into mudBy his old skill in hateful wizardries;When an old lichened marble strives to tellHow sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;When rheumy grey-beards say, “I knew her well,”Showing the grave to curious worshippers;When all the roses that she sowed in meHave dripped their crimson petals and decayed,Leaving no greenery on any treeThat her dear hands in my heart’s garden laid,Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull,These songs may keep her memory beautiful.
When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,And changed her glorious beauty into mudBy his old skill in hateful wizardries;
When an old lichened marble strives to tellHow sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;When rheumy grey-beards say, “I knew her well,”Showing the grave to curious worshippers;
When all the roses that she sowed in meHave dripped their crimson petals and decayed,Leaving no greenery on any treeThat her dear hands in my heart’s garden laid,
Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull,These songs may keep her memory beautiful.
My soul has many an old decaying roomHung with the ragged arras of the past,Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,A something like a worm gnawing a brain,That bids me heed what bitter lesson saithThe blind wind beating on the widow-pane.None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can:I pass them through at night with hidden head;Lock’d rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know,Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.
My soul has many an old decaying roomHung with the ragged arras of the past,Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,A something like a worm gnawing a brain,That bids me heed what bitter lesson saithThe blind wind beating on the widow-pane.None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can:I pass them through at night with hidden head;Lock’d rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know,Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.
My soul has many an old decaying roomHung with the ragged arras of the past,Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.
Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,A something like a worm gnawing a brain,That bids me heed what bitter lesson saithThe blind wind beating on the widow-pane.
None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can:I pass them through at night with hidden head;Lock’d rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.
Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know,Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.
In the dark womb where I beganMy mother’s life made me a man.Through all the months of human birthHer beauty fed my common earth.I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,But through the death of some of her.Down in the darkness of the graveShe cannot see the life she gave.For all her love, she cannot tellWhether I use it ill or well,Nor knock at dusty doors to findHer beauty dusty in the mind.If the grave’s gates could be undone,She would not know her little son,I am so grown. If we should meetShe would pass by me in the street,Unless my soul’s face let her seeMy sense of what she did for me.What have I done to keep in mindMy debt to her and womankind?What woman’s happier life repaysHer for those months of wretched days?For all my mouthless body leechedEre Birth’s releasing hell was reached?What have I done, or tried, or saidIn thanks to that dear woman dead?Men triumph over women still,Men trample women’s rights at will,And man’s lust roves the world untamed.* * * *O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
In the dark womb where I beganMy mother’s life made me a man.Through all the months of human birthHer beauty fed my common earth.I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,But through the death of some of her.Down in the darkness of the graveShe cannot see the life she gave.For all her love, she cannot tellWhether I use it ill or well,Nor knock at dusty doors to findHer beauty dusty in the mind.If the grave’s gates could be undone,She would not know her little son,I am so grown. If we should meetShe would pass by me in the street,Unless my soul’s face let her seeMy sense of what she did for me.What have I done to keep in mindMy debt to her and womankind?What woman’s happier life repaysHer for those months of wretched days?For all my mouthless body leechedEre Birth’s releasing hell was reached?What have I done, or tried, or saidIn thanks to that dear woman dead?Men triumph over women still,Men trample women’s rights at will,And man’s lust roves the world untamed.* * * *O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
In the dark womb where I beganMy mother’s life made me a man.Through all the months of human birthHer beauty fed my common earth.I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the graveShe cannot see the life she gave.For all her love, she cannot tellWhether I use it ill or well,Nor knock at dusty doors to findHer beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave’s gates could be undone,She would not know her little son,I am so grown. If we should meetShe would pass by me in the street,Unless my soul’s face let her seeMy sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mindMy debt to her and womankind?What woman’s happier life repaysHer for those months of wretched days?For all my mouthless body leechedEre Birth’s releasing hell was reached?
What have I done, or tried, or saidIn thanks to that dear woman dead?Men triumph over women still,Men trample women’s rights at will,And man’s lust roves the world untamed.* * * *O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.Her beauty must go underneath the grass,Under the long roots of the violets.O, many glowing beauties Time has hidIn that dark, blotting box the villain sends.He covers over with a coffin-lidMothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay.All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,Things the old envious villain sweeps away.And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll,Death brings another April to the soul.
No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.Her beauty must go underneath the grass,Under the long roots of the violets.O, many glowing beauties Time has hidIn that dark, blotting box the villain sends.He covers over with a coffin-lidMothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay.All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,Things the old envious villain sweeps away.And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll,Death brings another April to the soul.
No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.Her beauty must go underneath the grass,Under the long roots of the violets.
O, many glowing beauties Time has hidIn that dark, blotting box the villain sends.He covers over with a coffin-lidMothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.
Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay.All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,Things the old envious villain sweeps away.
And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll,Death brings another April to the soul.
Twilight; red in the west;Dimness; a glow on the wood.The teams plod home to rest.The wild duck come to glean.O souls not understood,What a wild cry in the pool;What things have the farm ducks seenThat they cry so, huddle and cry?Only the soul that goes,Eager, eager, flying,Over the globe of the moon,Over the wood that glows;Wings linked; necks a-strain,A rush and a wild crying.* * * *A cry of the long painIn the reeds of a steel lagoonIn a land that no man knows.
Twilight; red in the west;Dimness; a glow on the wood.The teams plod home to rest.The wild duck come to glean.O souls not understood,What a wild cry in the pool;What things have the farm ducks seenThat they cry so, huddle and cry?Only the soul that goes,Eager, eager, flying,Over the globe of the moon,Over the wood that glows;Wings linked; necks a-strain,A rush and a wild crying.* * * *A cry of the long painIn the reeds of a steel lagoonIn a land that no man knows.
Twilight; red in the west;Dimness; a glow on the wood.The teams plod home to rest.The wild duck come to glean.O souls not understood,What a wild cry in the pool;What things have the farm ducks seenThat they cry so, huddle and cry?Only the soul that goes,Eager, eager, flying,Over the globe of the moon,Over the wood that glows;Wings linked; necks a-strain,A rush and a wild crying.* * * *A cry of the long painIn the reeds of a steel lagoonIn a land that no man knows.
Man is a sacred city, built of marvellous earth.Life was lived nobly here to give this body birth.Something was in this brain and in this eager hand.Death is so dumb and blind, Death cannot understand.Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs’ glory.Death makes women a dream and men a traveller’s story,Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky,Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
Man is a sacred city, built of marvellous earth.Life was lived nobly here to give this body birth.Something was in this brain and in this eager hand.Death is so dumb and blind, Death cannot understand.Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs’ glory.Death makes women a dream and men a traveller’s story,Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky,Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
Man is a sacred city, built of marvellous earth.Life was lived nobly here to give this body birth.Something was in this brain and in this eager hand.Death is so dumb and blind, Death cannot understand.Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs’ glory.Death makes women a dream and men a traveller’s story,Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky,Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us this strange brave fruit.Man with his soul so noble: man half god and half brute.Women bear him in pain that he may bring them tears.He is a king on earth, he rules for a term of years.And the conqueror’s prize is dust and lost endeavour.And the beaten man becomes a story for ever.For the gods employ strange means to bring their will to be.We are in the wise gods’ hands and more we cannot see.
Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us this strange brave fruit.Man with his soul so noble: man half god and half brute.Women bear him in pain that he may bring them tears.He is a king on earth, he rules for a term of years.And the conqueror’s prize is dust and lost endeavour.And the beaten man becomes a story for ever.For the gods employ strange means to bring their will to be.We are in the wise gods’ hands and more we cannot see.
Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us this strange brave fruit.Man with his soul so noble: man half god and half brute.Women bear him in pain that he may bring them tears.He is a king on earth, he rules for a term of years.And the conqueror’s prize is dust and lost endeavour.And the beaten man becomes a story for ever.For the gods employ strange means to bring their will to be.We are in the wise gods’ hands and more we cannot see.
And all their passionate hearts are dust,And dust the great idea that burnedIn various flames of love and lustTill the world’s brain was turned.God, moving darkly in men’s brains,Using their passions as his tool,Brings freedom with a tyrant’s chainsAnd wisdom with the fool.Blindly and bloodily we drift,Our interests clog our hearts with dreams,God make my brooding soul a riftThrough which a meaning gleams.
And all their passionate hearts are dust,And dust the great idea that burnedIn various flames of love and lustTill the world’s brain was turned.God, moving darkly in men’s brains,Using their passions as his tool,Brings freedom with a tyrant’s chainsAnd wisdom with the fool.Blindly and bloodily we drift,Our interests clog our hearts with dreams,God make my brooding soul a riftThrough which a meaning gleams.
And all their passionate hearts are dust,And dust the great idea that burnedIn various flames of love and lustTill the world’s brain was turned.
God, moving darkly in men’s brains,Using their passions as his tool,Brings freedom with a tyrant’s chainsAnd wisdom with the fool.
Blindly and bloodily we drift,Our interests clog our hearts with dreams,God make my brooding soul a riftThrough which a meaning gleams.
The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk,It made the limestone look like chalk.It was too late for any people,Twelve struck as we went by the steeple.A dog barked, and an owl was calling,The squire’s brook was still a-falling,The carved heads on the church looked downOn “Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,”And all the graves of all the ghostsWho rise on Christmas Eve in hostsTo dance and carol in festivityFor joy of Jesus Christ’s Nativity(Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sonsBeheld ’em from the bell-tower once),Two and two about aboutSinging the end of Advent out.All the old monks’ singing placesGlimmered quick with flitting faces,Singing anthems, singing hymnsUnder carven cherubims.Ringer Dawe aloft could markFaces at the window darkCrowding, crowding, row on row,Till all the Church began to glow.The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir,All the faces became fireBelow the eastern window highTo see Christ’s star come up the sky.Then they lifted hands and turned,And all their lifted fingers burned,Burned like the golden altar tallows,Burned like a troop of God’s own Hallows,Bringing to mind the burning timeWhen all the bells will rock and chimeAnd burning saints on burning horsesWill sweep the planets from their coursesAnd loose the stars to burn up night.Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.We all went quiet down the ScallengeLest Police Inspector Drew should challenge.But ’Spector Drew was sleeping sweet,His head upon a charges sheet,Under the gas jet flaring full,Snorting and snoring like a bull,His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing,His ugly yellow front teeth showing.Just as we peeped we saw him fumbleAnd scratch his head, and shift, and mumble.Down in the lane so thin and darkThe tan-yards stank of bitter bark,The curate’s pigeons gave a flutter,A cat went courting down the gutter,And none else stirred a foot or feather.The houses put their heads together,Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly,Of all the folk they’d seen go by,Children, and men and women, merry all,Who’d some day pass that way to burial.
The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk,It made the limestone look like chalk.It was too late for any people,Twelve struck as we went by the steeple.A dog barked, and an owl was calling,The squire’s brook was still a-falling,The carved heads on the church looked downOn “Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,”And all the graves of all the ghostsWho rise on Christmas Eve in hostsTo dance and carol in festivityFor joy of Jesus Christ’s Nativity(Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sonsBeheld ’em from the bell-tower once),Two and two about aboutSinging the end of Advent out.All the old monks’ singing placesGlimmered quick with flitting faces,Singing anthems, singing hymnsUnder carven cherubims.Ringer Dawe aloft could markFaces at the window darkCrowding, crowding, row on row,Till all the Church began to glow.The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir,All the faces became fireBelow the eastern window highTo see Christ’s star come up the sky.Then they lifted hands and turned,And all their lifted fingers burned,Burned like the golden altar tallows,Burned like a troop of God’s own Hallows,Bringing to mind the burning timeWhen all the bells will rock and chimeAnd burning saints on burning horsesWill sweep the planets from their coursesAnd loose the stars to burn up night.Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.We all went quiet down the ScallengeLest Police Inspector Drew should challenge.But ’Spector Drew was sleeping sweet,His head upon a charges sheet,Under the gas jet flaring full,Snorting and snoring like a bull,His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing,His ugly yellow front teeth showing.Just as we peeped we saw him fumbleAnd scratch his head, and shift, and mumble.Down in the lane so thin and darkThe tan-yards stank of bitter bark,The curate’s pigeons gave a flutter,A cat went courting down the gutter,And none else stirred a foot or feather.The houses put their heads together,Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly,Of all the folk they’d seen go by,Children, and men and women, merry all,Who’d some day pass that way to burial.
The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk,It made the limestone look like chalk.It was too late for any people,Twelve struck as we went by the steeple.A dog barked, and an owl was calling,The squire’s brook was still a-falling,The carved heads on the church looked downOn “Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,”And all the graves of all the ghostsWho rise on Christmas Eve in hostsTo dance and carol in festivityFor joy of Jesus Christ’s Nativity(Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sonsBeheld ’em from the bell-tower once),Two and two about aboutSinging the end of Advent out.
All the old monks’ singing placesGlimmered quick with flitting faces,Singing anthems, singing hymnsUnder carven cherubims.Ringer Dawe aloft could markFaces at the window darkCrowding, crowding, row on row,Till all the Church began to glow.The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir,All the faces became fireBelow the eastern window highTo see Christ’s star come up the sky.Then they lifted hands and turned,And all their lifted fingers burned,Burned like the golden altar tallows,Burned like a troop of God’s own Hallows,Bringing to mind the burning timeWhen all the bells will rock and chimeAnd burning saints on burning horsesWill sweep the planets from their coursesAnd loose the stars to burn up night.Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.
We all went quiet down the ScallengeLest Police Inspector Drew should challenge.But ’Spector Drew was sleeping sweet,His head upon a charges sheet,Under the gas jet flaring full,Snorting and snoring like a bull,His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing,His ugly yellow front teeth showing.Just as we peeped we saw him fumbleAnd scratch his head, and shift, and mumble.
Down in the lane so thin and darkThe tan-yards stank of bitter bark,The curate’s pigeons gave a flutter,A cat went courting down the gutter,And none else stirred a foot or feather.The houses put their heads together,Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly,Of all the folk they’d seen go by,Children, and men and women, merry all,Who’d some day pass that way to burial.