CAESAR AND ANTHONY.

TO-DAY the Triremes sailed for SicilyWith no wind stirring on a soundless sea;But a great crying of birds beat up and filledThe empty caverns of the air and stilledThe thrashing of the oars. The level sunUnto himself, it seemed, drew one by oneWith strings of gold the ships that no one heardMove on the waters, till at last one bird(Of all the wings past knowledge and past counting)Wheeled upwards on the air and mounting, mounting,Rose out of human sight, but all the restPassed with the passing fleet into the West.To-day the Triremes sailed—and will their sailingProsper or fail because a gull was wailingFor crumbs about the prows? Who but a foolWould find a message in a screaming gull?For if gods use such messengers as theseThe less gods they (or so says Socrates).They are not gods (he says) of fear and hate,A swollen type of man degenerate,Catching at flattery, at sorrow fleeringAnd every spiteful whisper overhearing;But largely on their mountain they attendUnflinchingly the one appointed end,When what was nobly done and finely strivenWill find the archetype laid up in heaven.Not these by gulls pronounce or suffer doom,Nor cries among the ships (and yet the gloomSettles about Athene’s temple. IfAn injured god used his prerogativeOf anger, might not Hermes?)—that’s the gullStirring the superstition of a fool!What if a week ago we, waking, foundThe Hermae spoiled or fallen to the ground?Shall Fate be altered or a doom be spokenBecause an image was in malice broken?Or Athens, that remembers Marathon,Rock in her empire for a splintered stone?How dear she is—was never city elseSo loved, or lovely in her strength; like bellsPealed in the brain her beauty. This is she,Athens, whose sweeter name is liberty.To-day the Triremes sailed—as Zeus decreesAll shall be done; but hardly Socrates,As Westward in the dark our captains wear,Would frown if an Athenian spoke a prayerEven to Hermes, (even though it seemWe fear the flight of birds and cries in him),Thus saying simply for the love of her—Athens—“O Hermes, called the Messenger,God of the wings, since now the sails are set,If aught was evil, evil now forget!If aught was left undone, think not of thisBut her remember, Hermes, what she is,A city leaning to the sea, and shodWith freedom on her feet, as thou a godWith wings art poised for flight—O, if the gullWere bird of thine, Hermes, be merciful.”

To-day the Triremes sailed—and will their sailingProsper or fail because a gull was wailingFor crumbs about the prows? Who but a foolWould find a message in a screaming gull?For if gods use such messengers as theseThe less gods they (or so says Socrates).They are not gods (he says) of fear and hate,A swollen type of man degenerate,Catching at flattery, at sorrow fleeringAnd every spiteful whisper overhearing;But largely on their mountain they attendUnflinchingly the one appointed end,When what was nobly done and finely strivenWill find the archetype laid up in heaven.Not these by gulls pronounce or suffer doom,Nor cries among the ships (and yet the gloomSettles about Athene’s temple. IfAn injured god used his prerogativeOf anger, might not Hermes?)—that’s the gullStirring the superstition of a fool!What if a week ago we, waking, foundThe Hermae spoiled or fallen to the ground?Shall Fate be altered or a doom be spokenBecause an image was in malice broken?Or Athens, that remembers Marathon,Rock in her empire for a splintered stone?How dear she is—was never city elseSo loved, or lovely in her strength; like bellsPealed in the brain her beauty. This is she,Athens, whose sweeter name is liberty.

To-day the Triremes sailed—as Zeus decreesAll shall be done; but hardly Socrates,As Westward in the dark our captains wear,Would frown if an Athenian spoke a prayerEven to Hermes, (even though it seemWe fear the flight of birds and cries in him),Thus saying simply for the love of her—Athens—“O Hermes, called the Messenger,God of the wings, since now the sails are set,If aught was evil, evil now forget!If aught was left undone, think not of thisBut her remember, Hermes, what she is,A city leaning to the sea, and shodWith freedom on her feet, as thou a godWith wings art poised for flight—O, if the gullWere bird of thine, Hermes, be merciful.”

AUGUSTUS CAESAR, aging by the sea,Remembered, musingly, dead Anthony,And wondered as he thought upon his daysWhich had been better, laurel leaves or bays.“Bays for the victor, when his fight is over,But laurels” thought Augustus “for the lover.That brown Egyptian woman, the fierce queenWho with a serpent died—she came betweenHim and the world’s dominion, whispering‘Does empire burn so, has thy crown the stingThese lips have when they touch thee—thus and thus?Choose then!’ ‘I choose!’ replied Antonius.”“I wonder” thought Augustus as he layWatching the menial clouds of conquered dayApplaud with vehement reflectionThe cold triumphant ending of the sun.“The sun’s an emperor, and all the skyBurns to a flame for his nativity,And not less beautiful nor unattendedBy conquered flocks of cloud he passes splendid,Throwing his slaves this laminated gold.Master in death, but in his death how cold!But to have died astonished on a kissHad heat to the end and Anthony had this.”

THIS was the way of it, or I forgetHow visions end. The flaming sun was setOr setting in a sky as green as grass,Stained here and there like a window, where there wasA martyr-cloud with halo dipped in goldOr red as the Sacred Heart is. From the oldLow house—a country house not built with handsAnd of that country where the poplar standsWhose leaves have shivered in our dreams—there cameWith the rising moon the dancers to the sameTune we have heard we scarce remember when,Nor care so only that it sound again.Each dancer wears a fancy for a dress,This one with starlike tears is gemmed no lessThan that is crowned with roses as of lipsThat kissed and do not kiss. There also tripsPierrot, because we all have lost, and thin,Cruelly swift, victorious Harlequin,Because some find and keep, but both entwine,Because she needs them both, with Columbine.Then lanterns on the trees to radiant fruitBurn till dawn plucks them, and the light pursuitOf dancers on the lawn is done, and laughterOf those who fled and those who followed afterDies; to a little wind the darkened treesBend gravely and resume their silences.

IHAVE always known just where the river ends(Or seems to end) that I shall find my friends,Who are my friends no longer, being dead,And hear the ordinary things they said,That now seem wonderful, some evening whenI take the Number Nineteen bus againTo Battersea. It will, I think, be clearWith stars behind the four great chimneys. DearIn the moon, young and unchanging, theyWill cry me welcome in the boyish wayThey had before they went to France, but I,A boy no more, will greet them silently.

“The plan by which individual Viennese are allowed to obtain their own wood supplies has already been described by more than one observer. It will, however, in time to come appear so incredible, and it so completely sums up the misery of the people and the breakdown of civilization and administration, that no excuse is needed for placing it once more formally and definitely on record.In the immediate neighbourhood of Vienna lies a forest known as the Wienerwald, the nearest point being on hills to the north, two or three miles from the centre of the city.The two chief centres of wood collection are the suburbs of Hütteldorf and Dorhbach.The prevalence of women and children among the collectors is the most painful feature of the proceedings.”From“Peace in Austria,”by Sir W. Beveridge.

In the immediate neighbourhood of Vienna lies a forest known as the Wienerwald, the nearest point being on hills to the north, two or three miles from the centre of the city.

The two chief centres of wood collection are the suburbs of Hütteldorf and Dorhbach.

The prevalence of women and children among the collectors is the most painful feature of the proceedings.”

From“Peace in Austria,”by Sir W. Beveridge.

NOUS n’irons plus au bois: the woods are shut:Les lauriers sont coupés: the laurels cut.Thus love, when still his pitiful sweet cryFor youth and spring, his play-boys, sensiblyTouched at the heart. But now he does not careWhat woods, what trees are standing anywhere.For there’s no wood in the world to be foundThat does not stab his feet, and the trees woundHis eyes with thorns—the eyes which did not seeIn joy, but find their sight in misery.There is a wood they named the Wienerwald.There when the spring was new the throstle calledSpring to her ball-room, and the VienneseHeard her light foot provoking the grave trees,Half willingly at first, young leaves to stir,That later passionately danced with her.And here the cannon-fodder used to feedThe altar-fire of the older need,And sweeter than the need of death. In springThe Austrian boys saw love awakeningHere, and as English boys in English woodHave given all to love, all that they couldThese gave—their childhood, dawn’s relentless starThat is put out with kisses. These they gaveAnd buried childhood lightly in her graveSo that a man might hear her calling yet,“Primrose farewell, good-morrow violet!”—Might yet have heard her, but the woods are shutTo those who would return: the laurels cut.There are many go to-day to Wienerwald,But love does not go with them. He has failedIn the Great War, who had so little skillIn the Will to Murder, love who was the WillTo live and make live, but the War has shewnHis Will is treachery, and love’s aloneIn a great wilderness. For if he criesAloud, they mock him in their Paradise—The Angels of Armageddon. “This is heWho ruled us, being blind, now let him see”They say, “a prisoner, what we have done,The priests of mankind’s last religion.Let him look deep and celebrate in HellHow we reverse the Christian miracle,Stealing their spirits from the sullen swineAnd consecrating them as yours and mine,So that we rush together suddenlyDown a steep place, where by an empty seaOur worshippers pile on a flaming wharfThe trees that were the woods at Hütteldorf.”Ares, the god of battles, has prevailed.At Hütteldorf, deep in the Wienerwald,They go to the woods for fuel, and one seesA child that beats upon the laurel treesWith starved small hands that hold an axe, and howThe spring returns to find a hooded crowWaiting and waiting, as the thrush once waitedFor childhood’s end. But this, it seems, was fatedThat all should change, save only that these seemStill unsubstantial as the lover’s dream,As unsubstantial, but with blossoms setThat have no traffic with the violetAnd primrose. Here the purple flowers of DisBurn their young foreheads and they fade with this,Who find a different end and different haven,Where the hooded crow is waiting with the raven.In Wienerwald the starving VienneseHave spoiled the woods and cut the laurel trees,Nous n’irons plus au bois: oh love, oh love!Will you not go the more because they proveSo shattered, the poor woods? and will you shutYour heart, O love, because the trees are cut?Les lauriers sont coupés, but you can healEven the broken laurel, and revealWhere in the valley of death the children falterThat, though all else doth change, love does not alter,And, though the woods were dead, there is a treeYou know of, love, planted in Calvary.Go back to the woods; replant the laurel trees.Still love than war hath greater victories,And while the devils beat the warlike drumInto their kingdom of peace the children come.

There is a wood they named the Wienerwald.There when the spring was new the throstle calledSpring to her ball-room, and the VienneseHeard her light foot provoking the grave trees,Half willingly at first, young leaves to stir,That later passionately danced with her.And here the cannon-fodder used to feedThe altar-fire of the older need,And sweeter than the need of death. In springThe Austrian boys saw love awakeningHere, and as English boys in English woodHave given all to love, all that they couldThese gave—their childhood, dawn’s relentless starThat is put out with kisses. These they gaveAnd buried childhood lightly in her graveSo that a man might hear her calling yet,“Primrose farewell, good-morrow violet!”—Might yet have heard her, but the woods are shutTo those who would return: the laurels cut.

There are many go to-day to Wienerwald,But love does not go with them. He has failedIn the Great War, who had so little skillIn the Will to Murder, love who was the WillTo live and make live, but the War has shewnHis Will is treachery, and love’s aloneIn a great wilderness. For if he criesAloud, they mock him in their Paradise—The Angels of Armageddon. “This is heWho ruled us, being blind, now let him see”They say, “a prisoner, what we have done,The priests of mankind’s last religion.Let him look deep and celebrate in HellHow we reverse the Christian miracle,Stealing their spirits from the sullen swineAnd consecrating them as yours and mine,So that we rush together suddenlyDown a steep place, where by an empty seaOur worshippers pile on a flaming wharfThe trees that were the woods at Hütteldorf.”

Ares, the god of battles, has prevailed.At Hütteldorf, deep in the Wienerwald,They go to the woods for fuel, and one seesA child that beats upon the laurel treesWith starved small hands that hold an axe, and howThe spring returns to find a hooded crowWaiting and waiting, as the thrush once waitedFor childhood’s end. But this, it seems, was fatedThat all should change, save only that these seemStill unsubstantial as the lover’s dream,As unsubstantial, but with blossoms setThat have no traffic with the violetAnd primrose. Here the purple flowers of DisBurn their young foreheads and they fade with this,Who find a different end and different haven,Where the hooded crow is waiting with the raven.

In Wienerwald the starving VienneseHave spoiled the woods and cut the laurel trees,Nous n’irons plus au bois: oh love, oh love!Will you not go the more because they proveSo shattered, the poor woods? and will you shutYour heart, O love, because the trees are cut?Les lauriers sont coupés, but you can healEven the broken laurel, and revealWhere in the valley of death the children falterThat, though all else doth change, love does not alter,And, though the woods were dead, there is a treeYou know of, love, planted in Calvary.

Go back to the woods; replant the laurel trees.Still love than war hath greater victories,And while the devils beat the warlike drumInto their kingdom of peace the children come.

LIFE’S a blonde of whom I’m tired(Being fair is just a knackWomen learn to be desiredBy a Jew—who answers back).Blonde, oh blonde, ye lost princessesWith the shadow in your eyesAs of bodiless caressesKnown ere birth in Paradise.Little ears of alabaster,Where like ocean in a shellGentle murmurs drown the vasterVoice of rapture or of Hell.Tender bodies—ah too tenderTo be given or be lentUnto love the money-lenderWho demands his cent per cent.Thus you took a man and tricked him,Life and ladies, to a willIn your favour, but the victimCheats you with a codicil.All I had, you thought, was given—Life and ladies, you were wrong:In a poet’s secret heavenThere is always one last song.Even he is half afraid of,Even he but hears in part,For the stuff that it is made of,Ladies, is the poet’s heart.Not for you, oh blonde princessesIs that final tune, but ISing it drowning in the tressesOf a darker Lorelei.For her hair than yours is stranger;Wilder lights are lost in hersWhere the heart’s immortal danger,That you cannot know of, stirs.Life and ladies, it is over:Blonde asks all, gives nothing back;You must find another lover,For the poet chooses black.Where death’s raven marriage blossomFalls in clouds about her breast,On his dark beloved’s bosomHeinrick Heine is at rest.

LIFE’S a blonde of whom I’m tired(Being fair is just a knackWomen learn to be desiredBy a Jew—who answers back).

Blonde, oh blonde, ye lost princessesWith the shadow in your eyesAs of bodiless caressesKnown ere birth in Paradise.

Little ears of alabaster,Where like ocean in a shellGentle murmurs drown the vasterVoice of rapture or of Hell.

Tender bodies—ah too tenderTo be given or be lentUnto love the money-lenderWho demands his cent per cent.

Thus you took a man and tricked him,Life and ladies, to a willIn your favour, but the victimCheats you with a codicil.

All I had, you thought, was given—Life and ladies, you were wrong:In a poet’s secret heavenThere is always one last song.

Even he is half afraid of,Even he but hears in part,For the stuff that it is made of,Ladies, is the poet’s heart.

Not for you, oh blonde princessesIs that final tune, but ISing it drowning in the tressesOf a darker Lorelei.

For her hair than yours is stranger;Wilder lights are lost in hersWhere the heart’s immortal danger,That you cannot know of, stirs.

Life and ladies, it is over:Blonde asks all, gives nothing back;You must find another lover,For the poet chooses black.

Where death’s raven marriage blossomFalls in clouds about her breast,On his dark beloved’s bosomHeinrick Heine is at rest.

“HOLLOW” he cries and “hollow, hollow.”Mark how the creeping moon is yellowOn the cold stones, enmeshing feetThat are not soft, with blood not sweet.Though in the night one cry his NameThe shuddering air shrinks from the aim;And failing eddies will not stirTo let him through to Lucifer.What answers where no echoes fly?None where the moon looks balefully.Unheard, far-off “O hollow, hollow”The satyr crieth to his fellow.

“HOLLOW” he cries and “hollow, hollow.”Mark how the creeping moon is yellowOn the cold stones, enmeshing feetThat are not soft, with blood not sweet.

Though in the night one cry his NameThe shuddering air shrinks from the aim;And failing eddies will not stirTo let him through to Lucifer.

What answers where no echoes fly?None where the moon looks balefully.Unheard, far-off “O hollow, hollow”The satyr crieth to his fellow.

IT may be raining now, that first warm rainThat melts the heart of earth beneath the snows,Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s painWho catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flowsShuddering back into the frozen vein).And did ye think I should not come againAt the long last in spring-time with the rain?Or may be there is singing in the airAt building-time where the tall windy trees,By sap and young leaves hurt, can hardly bearThe spring’s reiterated urgenciesThat at the woods with actual fingers tear.And did ye, when these songs are everywhere,Of Balder, who first taught them song, despair?Or it may be where once my altar stoodAnd where my worshipped name in prayer ascended,Blue, like a trumpet, in the solitudeHarebells, that ring before the winter’s ended,Have with the wind my litanies renewed.Did ye forget (alas! that any could)That I, the god of flowers, found these good?And may be where the dog-rose remediesWith her wild flush the hedge, and spring begins,Born of all these there trembles the first kissThat from Valhalla brings the PaladinsAnd ladies, who for all the immortal blissOf heaven, have no joy as sharp as this.Did ye not know in your own memoriesThat where are love and spring there Balder is?It may be raining now, that first warm rainThat melts the heart of earth beneath the snows,Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s painWho catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flowsShuddering back into the frozen vein).And did ye think I should not come againAt the long last in spring-time with the rain?

Or may be there is singing in the airAt building-time where the tall windy trees,By sap and young leaves hurt, can hardly bearThe spring’s reiterated urgenciesThat at the woods with actual fingers tear.And did ye, when these songs are everywhere,Of Balder, who first taught them song, despair?

Or it may be where once my altar stoodAnd where my worshipped name in prayer ascended,Blue, like a trumpet, in the solitudeHarebells, that ring before the winter’s ended,Have with the wind my litanies renewed.Did ye forget (alas! that any could)That I, the god of flowers, found these good?

And may be where the dog-rose remediesWith her wild flush the hedge, and spring begins,Born of all these there trembles the first kissThat from Valhalla brings the PaladinsAnd ladies, who for all the immortal blissOf heaven, have no joy as sharp as this.Did ye not know in your own memoriesThat where are love and spring there Balder is?

It may be raining now, that first warm rainThat melts the heart of earth beneath the snows,Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s painWho catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flowsShuddering back into the frozen vein).And did ye think I should not come againAt the long last in spring-time with the rain?

SO great a lady, so dear is she,Princess in heaven, but mother to me!When little Jesus lay in her armIt was enough for him that he was warm.When the small head at her bosom did nodDid she remember that He was the God?Or when she sang to Him low in His ear,Did she say “Master” or did she sob “Dear”?Was it the star on the manger that shoneCrowned her an empress, or was it her Son?So great a lady to lie in a stall—But only a mother (she thought) after all.So great a lady, so dear is she,Princess in heaven! but who does not seeHow against Godhead, in spite of the Cross,She holds to her bosom her Jesus that was?

SO great a lady, so dear is she,Princess in heaven, but mother to me!When little Jesus lay in her armIt was enough for him that he was warm.

When the small head at her bosom did nodDid she remember that He was the God?Or when she sang to Him low in His ear,Did she say “Master” or did she sob “Dear”?

Was it the star on the manger that shoneCrowned her an empress, or was it her Son?So great a lady to lie in a stall—But only a mother (she thought) after all.

So great a lady, so dear is she,Princess in heaven! but who does not seeHow against Godhead, in spite of the Cross,She holds to her bosom her Jesus that was?

WHEN there is no more sea and no more sailingWill God go vintaging the wine-dark seas,Reaping gold apples of the storm and trailingTo harvest home the lost Hesperides?Will God, the gates that guard the river breaking,Annul the blinding gesture of the sword,And find the Tree, all other dreams forsaking,Whose apples are the knowledge of the Lord?Forsaking dreams—forgiveness and salvation,Sins that were needless needlessly forgiven,Hell where he knew vicarious damnationAnd ghosts of rapture in a ghost of heaven?No longer from self-knowledge then exemptedShall God the apple tasting Eve repeatThus altered, saying, “By the devil temptedThrough all these years I could and did not eat.”Thus at the last shall Man and Maker pardonEve’s ancient wrong, seeing that, though He cursed,Knowledge, alone of those who used the GardenGod was afraid of apples from the first.Thereafter as it was in the beginning,Before the spirit moved upon the deep,There shall be no more sea and no more sinningAnd God will share with his beloved sleep.

WHEN there is no more sea and no more sailingWill God go vintaging the wine-dark seas,Reaping gold apples of the storm and trailingTo harvest home the lost Hesperides?

Will God, the gates that guard the river breaking,Annul the blinding gesture of the sword,And find the Tree, all other dreams forsaking,Whose apples are the knowledge of the Lord?

Forsaking dreams—forgiveness and salvation,Sins that were needless needlessly forgiven,Hell where he knew vicarious damnationAnd ghosts of rapture in a ghost of heaven?

No longer from self-knowledge then exemptedShall God the apple tasting Eve repeatThus altered, saying, “By the devil temptedThrough all these years I could and did not eat.”

Thus at the last shall Man and Maker pardonEve’s ancient wrong, seeing that, though He cursed,Knowledge, alone of those who used the GardenGod was afraid of apples from the first.

Thereafter as it was in the beginning,Before the spirit moved upon the deep,There shall be no more sea and no more sinningAnd God will share with his beloved sleep.

THOUGH the world tumble tier by tier,Down, down the broken galleries,By day the sun would shine as clearBy night the moon would ride her seas.Though man and all was meant by menUpon the empty air were spent,Irrevocably Charles’s WainWould swing across the firmament.So large they are and cool the skies;God’s frozen breath in dreams, or worse:Beautiful unsupported liesThat simulate a universe.

THOUGH the world tumble tier by tier,Down, down the broken galleries,By day the sun would shine as clearBy night the moon would ride her seas.

Though man and all was meant by menUpon the empty air were spent,Irrevocably Charles’s WainWould swing across the firmament.

So large they are and cool the skies;God’s frozen breath in dreams, or worse:Beautiful unsupported liesThat simulate a universe.

YOU have made the golden journey. SamarkandIs all about you, Flecker, and where you lieHow youth and her beauty perish in the sandThey are singing in the caravanserai.

WHO died for love, we use to nourish hate:Who was all tenderness, our hearts to harden;And who of mercy had the high estateBy us escheated of her right of pardon.

THIS little sleeper, who was overtakenBy death, as one child overtakes another,Dreams by his side all night and will not wakenTill the dawn comes in heaven with his mother.

“What sword is left?” sighs England. Answer her(For you must answer) “This—Excalibur.”

THAT is the sword of England. Arthur drewThe blade at that last battle when he failed,(Shadow among the shadows, who prevailedVictorious in disaster). Harold knewIts point in his heart at Hastings, and it flewOut of the scabbard when King Richard sailedAnd did not reach Jerusalem. It wailedIn the false hand that on the scaffold slewCharles, and proud Balliol saw the light on itShining for Ridley through the flame; was seenWhen Mary, Queen of Scotland, was a queenOn earth no longer, and when William Pitt“England! O how I leave thee,” failing cried,The sword, the sword, was with him when he died.

THE line at Mons were privy to the blade,When God and England seemed together lost,And riding by the far Pacific coastAdmiral Cradock took its accolade.These are its victories—to be afraid,To hear thin bugles sounding “The Last Post,”Until the blood creeps noiseless as a ghostAnd cold, and all we cherished is betrayed.That is the sword’s way. Those who lose shall have;And only those who in defeat have knownThe bitterness of death, and stood aloneIn darkness, shall have worship in the grave.Swordsman, go into battle, and recordHow one more English knight has found his sword!

TO-DAY you’ll find by field and ditchThe small invasion of the vetch:And where they sleep rest-harrow willFollow upon the daffodil.These in their soft disordered ranksWithstand and overcome the Tanks;And the small unconsidered grassCries to the gunner “On ne passe.”The corn outlasts the bayonet,Whose blades no blood nor rust can fret,Or only the immortal rustOf poppies failing in their thrust.The line these hold no force can break,Nor their platoons advancing shake,Whose wide offensive wave on waveDoth make a garden of a grave.These with the singing lark conspireTo veil with loveliness the wire,While he ascending cleans the stainIn heaven of the aeroplane.These in the fields and open skyReverse the errors of Versailles,Who with a natural increaseFrom year to year establish peace.For all the living these will cloakThe things they spoiled, the hearts they broke;And where these heal the earth will beFor all the dead indemnity.

TO-DAY you’ll find by field and ditchThe small invasion of the vetch:And where they sleep rest-harrow willFollow upon the daffodil.

These in their soft disordered ranksWithstand and overcome the Tanks;And the small unconsidered grassCries to the gunner “On ne passe.”

The corn outlasts the bayonet,Whose blades no blood nor rust can fret,Or only the immortal rustOf poppies failing in their thrust.

The line these hold no force can break,Nor their platoons advancing shake,Whose wide offensive wave on waveDoth make a garden of a grave.

These with the singing lark conspireTo veil with loveliness the wire,While he ascending cleans the stainIn heaven of the aeroplane.

These in the fields and open skyReverse the errors of Versailles,Who with a natural increaseFrom year to year establish peace.

For all the living these will cloakThe things they spoiled, the hearts they broke;And where these heal the earth will beFor all the dead indemnity.

WHEN Kew found spring, and we found Kew,Gold was the London that we knew—The gold of gold whose metal isAs yellow as the primroses.London’s Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington,In heaven heard the carillon“Turn again;” London after allIs paved with gold by Chiswick Mall.But afterwards the town was soldTo a mad alchemist for gold,Who used his art to change, insteadOf lead to gold, the gold to lead.If where the streets to Hampstead twistYou meet a doting alchemistSeeking lost gold, refuse him pity;He changed us when he changed the city!

WHEN Kew found spring, and we found Kew,Gold was the London that we knew—The gold of gold whose metal isAs yellow as the primroses.

London’s Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington,In heaven heard the carillon“Turn again;” London after allIs paved with gold by Chiswick Mall.

But afterwards the town was soldTo a mad alchemist for gold,Who used his art to change, insteadOf lead to gold, the gold to lead.

If where the streets to Hampstead twistYou meet a doting alchemistSeeking lost gold, refuse him pity;He changed us when he changed the city!

WHAT Orpheus whistled for Eurydice(While all the shades were silent, achinglyHolding out hands, and hands stretched evermoreIn a vain longing for the further shore).The blue smoke floatsLazily in the dawn above the whiteFlat roof you knew, and somewhere out of sightA child is singing the old Linus song,Sweeter because the baby voice goes wrong—The little goatherd calling to her goats.There’s a small hillOn which the olive trees you used to callAthene’s little sisters, now grown tall,Watch all day long the coming of the child,And you’ll remember how the brook, else wild,About these pastures suddenly grows still.There’s such a peace,Save where a wandering beast shakes on its bell,You’d almost think the trees had learned a spellFrom their wise sister (or from you) to blessA baby frightened of the loneliness,Tending her herd and waiting by the trees.Ah! certainlyThere are two things are stronger than the fates—A lover’s song in Hell, a child that waits.The shadows lengthen. Ere the night descendOn earth, O sweetheart, Mother, friendWin out of Hell! Return Eurydice!

WHAT Orpheus whistled for Eurydice(While all the shades were silent, achinglyHolding out hands, and hands stretched evermoreIn a vain longing for the further shore).

The blue smoke floatsLazily in the dawn above the whiteFlat roof you knew, and somewhere out of sightA child is singing the old Linus song,Sweeter because the baby voice goes wrong—The little goatherd calling to her goats.

There’s a small hillOn which the olive trees you used to callAthene’s little sisters, now grown tall,Watch all day long the coming of the child,And you’ll remember how the brook, else wild,About these pastures suddenly grows still.

There’s such a peace,Save where a wandering beast shakes on its bell,You’d almost think the trees had learned a spellFrom their wise sister (or from you) to blessA baby frightened of the loneliness,Tending her herd and waiting by the trees.

Ah! certainlyThere are two things are stronger than the fates—A lover’s song in Hell, a child that waits.The shadows lengthen. Ere the night descendOn earth, O sweetheart, Mother, friendWin out of Hell! Return Eurydice!

WHAT is there left? The wind makes answer“I saw the green leaves grow brown and fall;I danced with the shadows, I the dancerAmong bare branches. For I,” he saith,“Hear the thin music whistle and call,Music, horn-music, the music of death.”“There stands at the edge of the wood the playerDark in the darkness, but I have seen,Ere my feet were lifted, the branches stir.Darker than dark, than light more fair,Before I have come he slips between;But I, the dancer,” wind saith, “do not care.”“The leaves have fallen and who shall discoverWhat there is left in the blackened tree?And who will know when the years are over,Among bare branches if I,” wind saith,“Dance where the shadows and music be,Music, horn-music, the music of death?”

“There stands at the edge of the wood the playerDark in the darkness, but I have seen,Ere my feet were lifted, the branches stir.Darker than dark, than light more fair,Before I have come he slips between;But I, the dancer,” wind saith, “do not care.”

“The leaves have fallen and who shall discoverWhat there is left in the blackened tree?And who will know when the years are over,Among bare branches if I,” wind saith,“Dance where the shadows and music be,Music, horn-music, the music of death?”

SUPPOSE I gave you what my heart has given—A door to dreams, a little road to heaven.Would you pass through the door, my dreams forgetting,And turn the corner when my sun is setting?So I should only have (as I have only)Your hair remembered, eyes that left me lonely,A mouth as cold as roses, and the kissOf Gabriel, sealing love’s defeat with this!

SUPPOSE I gave you what my heart has given—A door to dreams, a little road to heaven.Would you pass through the door, my dreams forgetting,And turn the corner when my sun is setting?

So I should only have (as I have only)Your hair remembered, eyes that left me lonely,A mouth as cold as roses, and the kissOf Gabriel, sealing love’s defeat with this!

CALL it an age, call it a day,What’s in the world with love away?The sun a round and golden ghost,The moon the shadow he has lost;And spring herself for all her greenThe bare and brown a pause between.Call it an age, call it a day,When love is gone, what’s there to say?Opal or gold, amber or gray,What’s in the world with love away?Opal a pool of changeling fires,Where the gold angel stirs desiresThat do not heal Bethesda wayBut only turn the amber gray.Call it an age, call it a day,When love is gone, what’s there to say?Call it a dream, call it a play,What’s in the world with love away?With love away can a man clamberTo heaven by a rope of amber?Or can an opal stretch a wireTo lead a girl to her desire?Amber and opal—but I rememberLove that was better than opal or amber.Call it an age, call it a day,What’s in the world with love away?

Opal or gold, amber or gray,What’s in the world with love away?Opal a pool of changeling fires,Where the gold angel stirs desiresThat do not heal Bethesda wayBut only turn the amber gray.Call it an age, call it a day,When love is gone, what’s there to say?

Call it a dream, call it a play,What’s in the world with love away?With love away can a man clamberTo heaven by a rope of amber?Or can an opal stretch a wireTo lead a girl to her desire?

Amber and opal—but I rememberLove that was better than opal or amber.Call it an age, call it a day,What’s in the world with love away?

AFTER the fightingComes not sudden peace, but weariness;A gloom no lightingOf little lamps of jest or speech unravels,But for the brain and body endless travels,Twisting and turning like the lovers hurledFor punishment athwart the underworld,Twisting and turning and no respite sighting.After the livingComes not relief, but a grey level gloom,When the heart beats as in a padded roomWith wild shapes moving—Silence imploring and from silence flying,Praying to life and all athirst for dying.Tearing lost dreams and for the torn dreams weeping,Fearing to wake, tumultuously sleeping.. . . . . .Death’s a poor leech with worn-out simples strivingTo heal in vain the malady of living.

After the livingComes not relief, but a grey level gloom,When the heart beats as in a padded roomWith wild shapes moving—Silence imploring and from silence flying,Praying to life and all athirst for dying.Tearing lost dreams and for the torn dreams weeping,Fearing to wake, tumultuously sleeping.. . . . . .Death’s a poor leech with worn-out simples strivingTo heal in vain the malady of living.

WHEN the stir and the movement are over,When you that had the lightness of a windOr the poise of some swift birdBurn no longer in any man’s mind,And your voice in no man’s heart is heard,Who in the world will dare to be a lover?Would any being hurt in the night be crying“O God! her little mouth that with a kissDrank all a man; and—God! her weaving fingers!”Would any of another dare say this?Will there be other women, other singers?I wish with you and me love might be dying.

Would any being hurt in the night be crying“O God! her little mouth that with a kissDrank all a man; and—God! her weaving fingers!”Would any of another dare say this?Will there be other women, other singers?I wish with you and me love might be dying.

YOU have the way of a blossom,Cold petal with April green,And you melt the heart in the bosomAs your beauty enters in.I will fold my hands together,Asking of God for youAlways in April weatherCold petal and colder dew.

YOU have the way of a blossom,Cold petal with April green,And you melt the heart in the bosomAs your beauty enters in.

I will fold my hands together,Asking of God for youAlways in April weatherCold petal and colder dew.

ALL that I know of Cambridge—The colleges and that indulgent airOf a great gentleman who is contentThat lesser men should make experimentWith life, for which he does not vastly care—Is that you tell me you were happy there.All that I’ll say of Cambridge—Though in her courts Apollo lose the artOf immortality to find it whereRupert was used to walk at Grantchester—Is that for me Cambridge is but a partOf greater beauties than inform your heart.

All that I’ll say of Cambridge—Though in her courts Apollo lose the artOf immortality to find it whereRupert was used to walk at Grantchester—Is that for me Cambridge is but a partOf greater beauties than inform your heart.

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