SAW ye the stars last night, all still,Remote, and bitter-cold,Who were too passionless to thrill,Being so wise and old?
SAW ye the stars last night, all still,Remote, and bitter-cold,Who were too passionless to thrill,Being so wise and old?
SAW ye the stars last night, all still,Remote, and bitter-cold,Who were too passionless to thrill,Being so wise and old?
Second Voices.
O SAW ye not one star alight,A leap of silver fire,Did ye not see it sear the nightAnd die of its own desire?
O SAW ye not one star alight,A leap of silver fire,Did ye not see it sear the nightAnd die of its own desire?
O SAW ye not one star alight,A leap of silver fire,Did ye not see it sear the nightAnd die of its own desire?
First Voices.
SAW ye the ancient stars look onLocked in a chilly dreamWhich banished the awakened oneBeyond their frozen scheme?
SAW ye the ancient stars look onLocked in a chilly dreamWhich banished the awakened oneBeyond their frozen scheme?
SAW ye the ancient stars look onLocked in a chilly dreamWhich banished the awakened oneBeyond their frozen scheme?
Second Voices.
O SAW ye not the ashen bandFade in the morning-gold,Who long had ceased to understand,Being so bitter-old?
O SAW ye not the ashen bandFade in the morning-gold,Who long had ceased to understand,Being so bitter-old?
O SAW ye not the ashen bandFade in the morning-gold,Who long had ceased to understand,Being so bitter-old?
All the Voices.
YE petrified on heavenly thrones,Was there not chaos once?Ye did not keep your ordered zonesWhen ye were raging suns!Once flaming rivers were your breathAnd the wild hairs of your brow—Once ye were life, once ye were death!Ye are not either now.
YE petrified on heavenly thrones,Was there not chaos once?Ye did not keep your ordered zonesWhen ye were raging suns!Once flaming rivers were your breathAnd the wild hairs of your brow—Once ye were life, once ye were death!Ye are not either now.
YE petrified on heavenly thrones,Was there not chaos once?Ye did not keep your ordered zonesWhen ye were raging suns!
Once flaming rivers were your breathAnd the wild hairs of your brow—Once ye were life, once ye were death!Ye are not either now.
IAM as awful as my brother War,I am the sudden silence after clamour.I am the face that shows the seamy scarWhen blood has lost its frenzy and its glamour.Men in my pause shall know the cost at lastThat is not to be paid in triumphs or tears,Men will begin to judge the thing that’s pastAs men will judge it in a hundred years.Nations! whose ravenous engines must be fedEndlessly with the father and the son,My naked light upon your darkness, dread!—By which ye shall behold what ye have done:Whereon, more like a vulture than a dove,Ye set my seal in hatred, not in love.
IAM as awful as my brother War,I am the sudden silence after clamour.I am the face that shows the seamy scarWhen blood has lost its frenzy and its glamour.Men in my pause shall know the cost at lastThat is not to be paid in triumphs or tears,Men will begin to judge the thing that’s pastAs men will judge it in a hundred years.Nations! whose ravenous engines must be fedEndlessly with the father and the son,My naked light upon your darkness, dread!—By which ye shall behold what ye have done:Whereon, more like a vulture than a dove,Ye set my seal in hatred, not in love.
IAM as awful as my brother War,I am the sudden silence after clamour.I am the face that shows the seamy scarWhen blood has lost its frenzy and its glamour.Men in my pause shall know the cost at lastThat is not to be paid in triumphs or tears,Men will begin to judge the thing that’s pastAs men will judge it in a hundred years.
Nations! whose ravenous engines must be fedEndlessly with the father and the son,My naked light upon your darkness, dread!—By which ye shall behold what ye have done:Whereon, more like a vulture than a dove,Ye set my seal in hatred, not in love.
LET no man call me good. I am not blest.My single virtue is the end of crimes,I only am the period of unrest,The ceasing of the horrors of the times;My good is but the negative of ill,Such ill as bends the spirit with despair,Such ill as makes the nations’ soul stand stillAnd freeze to stone beneath its Gorgon glare.Be blunt, and say that peace is but a stateWherein the active soul is free to move,And nations only show as mean or greatAccording to the spirit then they prove.—O which of ye whose battle-cry is HateWill first in peace dare shout the name of Love?
LET no man call me good. I am not blest.My single virtue is the end of crimes,I only am the period of unrest,The ceasing of the horrors of the times;My good is but the negative of ill,Such ill as bends the spirit with despair,Such ill as makes the nations’ soul stand stillAnd freeze to stone beneath its Gorgon glare.Be blunt, and say that peace is but a stateWherein the active soul is free to move,And nations only show as mean or greatAccording to the spirit then they prove.—O which of ye whose battle-cry is HateWill first in peace dare shout the name of Love?
LET no man call me good. I am not blest.My single virtue is the end of crimes,I only am the period of unrest,The ceasing of the horrors of the times;My good is but the negative of ill,Such ill as bends the spirit with despair,Such ill as makes the nations’ soul stand stillAnd freeze to stone beneath its Gorgon glare.
Be blunt, and say that peace is but a stateWherein the active soul is free to move,And nations only show as mean or greatAccording to the spirit then they prove.—O which of ye whose battle-cry is HateWill first in peace dare shout the name of Love?
NOW that you too must shortly go the wayWhich in these bloodshot years uncounted menHave gone in vanishing armies day by day,And in their numbers will not come again:I must not strain the moments of our meetingStriving each look, each accent, not to miss,Or question of our parting and our greeting,Is this the last of all? is this—or this?Last sight of all it may be with these eyes,Last touch, last hearing, since eyes, hands, and ears,Even serving love, are our mortalities,And cling to what they own in mortal fears:—But oh, let end what will, I hold you fastBy immortal love, which has no first or last.
NOW that you too must shortly go the wayWhich in these bloodshot years uncounted menHave gone in vanishing armies day by day,And in their numbers will not come again:I must not strain the moments of our meetingStriving each look, each accent, not to miss,Or question of our parting and our greeting,Is this the last of all? is this—or this?Last sight of all it may be with these eyes,Last touch, last hearing, since eyes, hands, and ears,Even serving love, are our mortalities,And cling to what they own in mortal fears:—But oh, let end what will, I hold you fastBy immortal love, which has no first or last.
NOW that you too must shortly go the wayWhich in these bloodshot years uncounted menHave gone in vanishing armies day by day,And in their numbers will not come again:I must not strain the moments of our meetingStriving each look, each accent, not to miss,Or question of our parting and our greeting,Is this the last of all? is this—or this?
Last sight of all it may be with these eyes,Last touch, last hearing, since eyes, hands, and ears,Even serving love, are our mortalities,And cling to what they own in mortal fears:—But oh, let end what will, I hold you fastBy immortal love, which has no first or last.
B. H. BLACKWELL, OXFORD.
THIS SECOND OF THE INITIATES SERIES OFPOETRY BY PROVED HANDS, WAS PRINTEDIN OXFORD AT THE VINCENT WORKS,AND FINISHED IN APRIL, MCMXVIII.PUBLISHED BY B. H. BLACKWELL, BROADSTREET, OXFORD, AND SOLD IN AMERICABY LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., NEW YORK.
THIS SECOND OF THE INITIATES SERIES OFPOETRY BY PROVED HANDS, WAS PRINTEDIN OXFORD AT THE VINCENT WORKS,AND FINISHED IN APRIL, MCMXVIII.PUBLISHED BY B. H. BLACKWELL, BROADSTREET, OXFORD, AND SOLD IN AMERICABY LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., NEW YORK.
THIS SECOND OF THE INITIATES SERIES OFPOETRY BY PROVED HANDS, WAS PRINTEDIN OXFORD AT THE VINCENT WORKS,AND FINISHED IN APRIL, MCMXVIII.PUBLISHED BY B. H. BLACKWELL, BROADSTREET, OXFORD, AND SOLD IN AMERICABY LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., NEW YORK.
INITIATESA SERIES OF POETRY BY PROVED HANDSUNIFORM VOLUMES IN DOLPHIN OLD STYLE TYPEART BOARDS, THREE SHILLINGS NET.
INITIATESA SERIES OF POETRY BY PROVED HANDSUNIFORM VOLUMES IN DOLPHIN OLD STYLE TYPEART BOARDS, THREE SHILLINGS NET.
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THE SHELDONIAN SERIES OF REPRINTS AND RENDERINGS OF MASTERPIECES IN ALL LANGUAGESEDITED BY REGINALD HEWITT, M. A.MEDIUM 16MO, IN DOLPHIN OLD STYLE TYPE, RED AND BLACK, BOARDS, TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE NET.
THE SHELDONIAN SERIES OF REPRINTS AND RENDERINGS OF MASTERPIECES IN ALL LANGUAGESEDITED BY REGINALD HEWITT, M. A.MEDIUM 16MO, IN DOLPHIN OLD STYLE TYPE, RED AND BLACK, BOARDS, TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE NET.
THE SHELDONIAN SERIES OF REPRINTS AND RENDERINGS OF MASTERPIECES IN ALL LANGUAGESEDITED BY REGINALD HEWITT, M. A.MEDIUM 16MO, IN DOLPHIN OLD STYLE TYPE, RED AND BLACK, BOARDS, TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE NET.
FIRST THREE BOOKS
SONGS AND SAYINGS OF WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE, MINNESAENGERENGLISHED BY FRANK BETTS.
THE FUNERAL ORATION OF PERICLES. ENGLISHED BY THOMAS HOBBES OF MALMESBURY.
BALLADES OF FRANCOIS VILLONINTERPRETED INTO ENGLISH VERSE BY PAUL HOOKHAM.
OXFORDB. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD ST.
ADVENTURERS ALLA SERIES OF YOUNG POETS UNKNOWN TO FAMEUNIFORM VOLUMES IN DOLPHIN OLD STYLE TYPE IN ART WRAPPERSTWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE NET EACH.
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¶. “Beautiful little books ... containing poetry, real poetry.”—The New Witness.
OXFORDB. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET