Wewill not whisper, we have found the placeOf silence and the endless halls of sleep.And that which breathes alone throughout the deepThe end and the beginning: and the faceBetween the level brows of whose blind eyesLie plenary contentment, full surceaseOf violence, and the passionless long peaceWherein we lose our human lullabies.Look up and tell the immeasurable heightBetween the vault of the world and your dear head;That’s death, my little sister, and the nightWhich was our Mother beckons us to bed,Where large oblivion in her house is laidFor us tired children, now our games are played.
Wewill not whisper, we have found the placeOf silence and the endless halls of sleep.And that which breathes alone throughout the deepThe end and the beginning: and the faceBetween the level brows of whose blind eyesLie plenary contentment, full surceaseOf violence, and the passionless long peaceWherein we lose our human lullabies.Look up and tell the immeasurable heightBetween the vault of the world and your dear head;That’s death, my little sister, and the nightWhich was our Mother beckons us to bed,Where large oblivion in her house is laidFor us tired children, now our games are played.
Wewill not whisper, we have found the placeOf silence and the endless halls of sleep.And that which breathes alone throughout the deepThe end and the beginning: and the faceBetween the level brows of whose blind eyesLie plenary contentment, full surceaseOf violence, and the passionless long peaceWherein we lose our human lullabies.
Look up and tell the immeasurable heightBetween the vault of the world and your dear head;That’s death, my little sister, and the nightWhich was our Mother beckons us to bed,Where large oblivion in her house is laidFor us tired children, now our games are played.
I wentto sleep at Dawn in TuscanyBeneath a Rock and dreamt a morning dream.I thought I stood by that baptismal streamWhereon the bounds of our redemption lie.And there, beyond, a radiance rose to takeMy soul at passing, in which light your eyesSo filled me I was drunk with Paradise.Then the day broadened, but I did not wake.Here’s the last edge of my long parchment furledAnd all was writ that you might read it so.This sleep I swear shall last the length of day;Not noise, not chance, shall drive this dream away:Not time, not treachery, not good fortune—no,Not all the weight of all the wears of the world.
I wentto sleep at Dawn in TuscanyBeneath a Rock and dreamt a morning dream.I thought I stood by that baptismal streamWhereon the bounds of our redemption lie.And there, beyond, a radiance rose to takeMy soul at passing, in which light your eyesSo filled me I was drunk with Paradise.Then the day broadened, but I did not wake.Here’s the last edge of my long parchment furledAnd all was writ that you might read it so.This sleep I swear shall last the length of day;Not noise, not chance, shall drive this dream away:Not time, not treachery, not good fortune—no,Not all the weight of all the wears of the world.
I wentto sleep at Dawn in TuscanyBeneath a Rock and dreamt a morning dream.I thought I stood by that baptismal streamWhereon the bounds of our redemption lie.And there, beyond, a radiance rose to takeMy soul at passing, in which light your eyesSo filled me I was drunk with Paradise.Then the day broadened, but I did not wake.
Here’s the last edge of my long parchment furledAnd all was writ that you might read it so.This sleep I swear shall last the length of day;Not noise, not chance, shall drive this dream away:Not time, not treachery, not good fortune—no,Not all the weight of all the wears of the world.
AlmightyGod, whose justice like a sunShall coruscate along the floors of Heaven,Raising what’s low, perfecting what’s undone,Breaking the proud and making odd things even.The poor of Jesus Christ along the streetIn your rain sodden, in your snows unshod,They have nor hearth, nor sword, nor human meat,Nor even the bread of men: Almighty God.The poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hearsHave waited on your vengeance much too long.Wipe out not tears but blood: our eyes bleed tears.Come smite our damnéd sophistries so strongThat thy rude hammer battering this rude wrongRing down the abyss of twice ten thousand years.
AlmightyGod, whose justice like a sunShall coruscate along the floors of Heaven,Raising what’s low, perfecting what’s undone,Breaking the proud and making odd things even.The poor of Jesus Christ along the streetIn your rain sodden, in your snows unshod,They have nor hearth, nor sword, nor human meat,Nor even the bread of men: Almighty God.The poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hearsHave waited on your vengeance much too long.Wipe out not tears but blood: our eyes bleed tears.Come smite our damnéd sophistries so strongThat thy rude hammer battering this rude wrongRing down the abyss of twice ten thousand years.
AlmightyGod, whose justice like a sunShall coruscate along the floors of Heaven,Raising what’s low, perfecting what’s undone,Breaking the proud and making odd things even.The poor of Jesus Christ along the streetIn your rain sodden, in your snows unshod,They have nor hearth, nor sword, nor human meat,Nor even the bread of men: Almighty God.
The poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hearsHave waited on your vengeance much too long.Wipe out not tears but blood: our eyes bleed tears.Come smite our damnéd sophistries so strongThat thy rude hammer battering this rude wrongRing down the abyss of twice ten thousand years.
Motherof all my cities once there layAbout your weedy wharves an orient showerOf spice and languorous silk and all the dowerThat Ocean gave you on his bridal day.And now the youth and age have passed awayAnd all the sail superb and all the power;Your time’s a time of memory like that hourJust after sunset, wonderful and grey.Too tired to rise and much too sad to weep,With strong arm nerveless on a nerveless knee,Still to your slumbering ears the spousal deepMurmurs his thoughts of eld eternally;But your soul wakes not from its holy sleepDreaming of dead delights beside a tideless sea.
Motherof all my cities once there layAbout your weedy wharves an orient showerOf spice and languorous silk and all the dowerThat Ocean gave you on his bridal day.And now the youth and age have passed awayAnd all the sail superb and all the power;Your time’s a time of memory like that hourJust after sunset, wonderful and grey.Too tired to rise and much too sad to weep,With strong arm nerveless on a nerveless knee,Still to your slumbering ears the spousal deepMurmurs his thoughts of eld eternally;But your soul wakes not from its holy sleepDreaming of dead delights beside a tideless sea.
Motherof all my cities once there layAbout your weedy wharves an orient showerOf spice and languorous silk and all the dowerThat Ocean gave you on his bridal day.And now the youth and age have passed awayAnd all the sail superb and all the power;Your time’s a time of memory like that hourJust after sunset, wonderful and grey.
Too tired to rise and much too sad to weep,With strong arm nerveless on a nerveless knee,Still to your slumbering ears the spousal deepMurmurs his thoughts of eld eternally;But your soul wakes not from its holy sleepDreaming of dead delights beside a tideless sea.
Novemberis that historied EmperorConquered in age but foot to foot with fateWho from his refuge high has heard the roarOf squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late,Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war,And arms the garrison of his last heirloom,And shakes the sky to its extremest shoreWith battle against irrevocable doom.Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels,He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on,Empty of lingerings, empty of farewellsAnd final benedictions and is gone.But in my garden all the trees have shedTheir legacies of the light and all the flowers are dead.
Novemberis that historied EmperorConquered in age but foot to foot with fateWho from his refuge high has heard the roarOf squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late,Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war,And arms the garrison of his last heirloom,And shakes the sky to its extremest shoreWith battle against irrevocable doom.Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels,He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on,Empty of lingerings, empty of farewellsAnd final benedictions and is gone.But in my garden all the trees have shedTheir legacies of the light and all the flowers are dead.
Novemberis that historied EmperorConquered in age but foot to foot with fateWho from his refuge high has heard the roarOf squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late,Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war,And arms the garrison of his last heirloom,And shakes the sky to its extremest shoreWith battle against irrevocable doom.
Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels,He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on,Empty of lingerings, empty of farewellsAnd final benedictions and is gone.But in my garden all the trees have shedTheir legacies of the light and all the flowers are dead.
HoarTime about the House betakes him slowSeeking an entry for his weariness.And in that dreadful company distressAnd the sad night with silent footsteps go.On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglowAnd in the woods without what memories pressWhere, waning in the trees from less to lessMysterious hangs the hornéd moon and low.For now December, full of agéd careComes in upon the year and weakly grieves;Mumbling his lost desires and his despairAnd with mad trembling hand still interweavesThe dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair,While round about him whirl the rotten leaves.
HoarTime about the House betakes him slowSeeking an entry for his weariness.And in that dreadful company distressAnd the sad night with silent footsteps go.On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglowAnd in the woods without what memories pressWhere, waning in the trees from less to lessMysterious hangs the hornéd moon and low.For now December, full of agéd careComes in upon the year and weakly grieves;Mumbling his lost desires and his despairAnd with mad trembling hand still interweavesThe dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair,While round about him whirl the rotten leaves.
HoarTime about the House betakes him slowSeeking an entry for his weariness.And in that dreadful company distressAnd the sad night with silent footsteps go.On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglowAnd in the woods without what memories pressWhere, waning in the trees from less to lessMysterious hangs the hornéd moon and low.
For now December, full of agéd careComes in upon the year and weakly grieves;Mumbling his lost desires and his despairAnd with mad trembling hand still interweavesThe dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair,While round about him whirl the rotten leaves.
Itfreezes: all across a soundless skyThe birds go home. The governing dark’s begun.The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun;The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.Death with his evil finger to his lipLeers in at human windows, turning spyTo learn the country where his rule shall lieWhen he assumes perpetual generalship.The undefeated enemy, the chillThat shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,Is master of our moment, and has boundThe viewless wind itself. There is no sound.It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.It freezes, and the graven twigs are still.
Itfreezes: all across a soundless skyThe birds go home. The governing dark’s begun.The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun;The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.Death with his evil finger to his lipLeers in at human windows, turning spyTo learn the country where his rule shall lieWhen he assumes perpetual generalship.The undefeated enemy, the chillThat shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,Is master of our moment, and has boundThe viewless wind itself. There is no sound.It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.It freezes, and the graven twigs are still.
Itfreezes: all across a soundless skyThe birds go home. The governing dark’s begun.The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun;The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.Death with his evil finger to his lipLeers in at human windows, turning spyTo learn the country where his rule shall lieWhen he assumes perpetual generalship.
The undefeated enemy, the chillThat shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,Is master of our moment, and has boundThe viewless wind itself. There is no sound.It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.It freezes, and the graven twigs are still.
O mycompanion, O my sister Sleep,The valley is all before us, bear me on.High through the heaven of evening, hardly gone,Beyond the harbour lights, beyond the steep,Beyond the land and its lost benisonTo where, majestic on the darkening deep,The night comes forward from Mount Aurion.O my companion, O my sister Sleep.Above the surf-line, into the night-breeze;Eastward above the ever-whispering seas;Through the warm airs with no more watch to keep.My day’s run out and all its dooms are graven.O dear forerunner of Death and promise of Haven.O my companion, O my sister Sleep.
O mycompanion, O my sister Sleep,The valley is all before us, bear me on.High through the heaven of evening, hardly gone,Beyond the harbour lights, beyond the steep,Beyond the land and its lost benisonTo where, majestic on the darkening deep,The night comes forward from Mount Aurion.O my companion, O my sister Sleep.Above the surf-line, into the night-breeze;Eastward above the ever-whispering seas;Through the warm airs with no more watch to keep.My day’s run out and all its dooms are graven.O dear forerunner of Death and promise of Haven.O my companion, O my sister Sleep.
O mycompanion, O my sister Sleep,The valley is all before us, bear me on.High through the heaven of evening, hardly gone,Beyond the harbour lights, beyond the steep,Beyond the land and its lost benisonTo where, majestic on the darkening deep,The night comes forward from Mount Aurion.O my companion, O my sister Sleep.
Above the surf-line, into the night-breeze;Eastward above the ever-whispering seas;Through the warm airs with no more watch to keep.My day’s run out and all its dooms are graven.O dear forerunner of Death and promise of Haven.O my companion, O my sister Sleep.
Areyou the end, Despair, or the poor leastOf them that cast great shadows and are lies?That dread the simple and destroy the wise,Fail at the tomb and triumph at the feast?You were not found on Olivet, dull beast,Nor in Thebaid, when the night’s agoniesDissolved to glory on the effulgent eastAnd Jesus Christ was in the morning skies.You did not curb the indomitable crestOf Tzerna-Gora, when the Falcon-bredScreamed over the Adriatic, and their LordWent riding out, much angrier than the rest,To summon at ban the living and the deadAnd break the Mahommedan with the repeated sword.
Areyou the end, Despair, or the poor leastOf them that cast great shadows and are lies?That dread the simple and destroy the wise,Fail at the tomb and triumph at the feast?You were not found on Olivet, dull beast,Nor in Thebaid, when the night’s agoniesDissolved to glory on the effulgent eastAnd Jesus Christ was in the morning skies.You did not curb the indomitable crestOf Tzerna-Gora, when the Falcon-bredScreamed over the Adriatic, and their LordWent riding out, much angrier than the rest,To summon at ban the living and the deadAnd break the Mahommedan with the repeated sword.
Areyou the end, Despair, or the poor leastOf them that cast great shadows and are lies?That dread the simple and destroy the wise,Fail at the tomb and triumph at the feast?You were not found on Olivet, dull beast,Nor in Thebaid, when the night’s agoniesDissolved to glory on the effulgent eastAnd Jesus Christ was in the morning skies.
You did not curb the indomitable crestOf Tzerna-Gora, when the Falcon-bredScreamed over the Adriatic, and their LordWent riding out, much angrier than the rest,To summon at ban the living and the deadAnd break the Mahommedan with the repeated sword.
Butoh! not Lovely Helen, nor the prideOf that most ancient Ilium matched with doom.Men murdered Priam in his royal roomAnd Troy was burned with fire and Hector died.For even Hector’s dreadful day was moreThan all his breathing courage dared defendThe armouréd light and bulwark of the warTrailed his great story to the accustomed end.He was the city’s buttress, Priam’s Son,The Soldier born in bivouac praises greatAnd horns in double front of battle won.Yet down he went: when unremembering fateFelled him at last with all his armour on.Hector: the horseman: in the Scæan Gate.
Butoh! not Lovely Helen, nor the prideOf that most ancient Ilium matched with doom.Men murdered Priam in his royal roomAnd Troy was burned with fire and Hector died.For even Hector’s dreadful day was moreThan all his breathing courage dared defendThe armouréd light and bulwark of the warTrailed his great story to the accustomed end.He was the city’s buttress, Priam’s Son,The Soldier born in bivouac praises greatAnd horns in double front of battle won.Yet down he went: when unremembering fateFelled him at last with all his armour on.Hector: the horseman: in the Scæan Gate.
Butoh! not Lovely Helen, nor the prideOf that most ancient Ilium matched with doom.Men murdered Priam in his royal roomAnd Troy was burned with fire and Hector died.For even Hector’s dreadful day was moreThan all his breathing courage dared defendThe armouréd light and bulwark of the warTrailed his great story to the accustomed end.
He was the city’s buttress, Priam’s Son,The Soldier born in bivouac praises greatAnd horns in double front of battle won.Yet down he went: when unremembering fateFelled him at last with all his armour on.Hector: the horseman: in the Scæan Gate.
Theworld’s a stage. The light is in one’s eyes.The Auditorium is extremely dark.The more dishonest get the larger rise;The more offensive make the greater mark.The women on it prosper by their shape,Some few by their vivacity. The men,By tailoring in breeches and in cape.The world’s a stage—I say it once again.The scenery is very much the bestOf what the wretched drama has to show,Also the prompter happens to be dumb.We drink behind the scenes and pass a jestOn all our folly; then, before we goLoud cries for “Author” ... but he doesn’t come.
Theworld’s a stage. The light is in one’s eyes.The Auditorium is extremely dark.The more dishonest get the larger rise;The more offensive make the greater mark.The women on it prosper by their shape,Some few by their vivacity. The men,By tailoring in breeches and in cape.The world’s a stage—I say it once again.The scenery is very much the bestOf what the wretched drama has to show,Also the prompter happens to be dumb.We drink behind the scenes and pass a jestOn all our folly; then, before we goLoud cries for “Author” ... but he doesn’t come.
Theworld’s a stage. The light is in one’s eyes.The Auditorium is extremely dark.The more dishonest get the larger rise;The more offensive make the greater mark.The women on it prosper by their shape,Some few by their vivacity. The men,By tailoring in breeches and in cape.The world’s a stage—I say it once again.
The scenery is very much the bestOf what the wretched drama has to show,Also the prompter happens to be dumb.We drink behind the scenes and pass a jestOn all our folly; then, before we goLoud cries for “Author” ... but he doesn’t come.
Theworld’s a stage—and I’m the Super man,And no one seems responsible for salary.I roar my part as loudly as I canAnd all I mouth I mouth it to the gallery.I haven’t got another rhyme in “alery”It would have made a better job, no doubtIf I had left attempt at Rhyming out,Like Alfred Tennyson adapting Malory.The world’s a stage, the company of whichHas very little talent and less reading:But many a waddling heathen painted bitchAnd many a standing cad of gutter breeding.We sweat to learn our book: for all our painsWe pass. The Chucker-out alone remains.
Theworld’s a stage—and I’m the Super man,And no one seems responsible for salary.I roar my part as loudly as I canAnd all I mouth I mouth it to the gallery.I haven’t got another rhyme in “alery”It would have made a better job, no doubtIf I had left attempt at Rhyming out,Like Alfred Tennyson adapting Malory.The world’s a stage, the company of whichHas very little talent and less reading:But many a waddling heathen painted bitchAnd many a standing cad of gutter breeding.We sweat to learn our book: for all our painsWe pass. The Chucker-out alone remains.
Theworld’s a stage—and I’m the Super man,And no one seems responsible for salary.I roar my part as loudly as I canAnd all I mouth I mouth it to the gallery.I haven’t got another rhyme in “alery”It would have made a better job, no doubtIf I had left attempt at Rhyming out,Like Alfred Tennyson adapting Malory.
The world’s a stage, the company of whichHas very little talent and less reading:But many a waddling heathen painted bitchAnd many a standing cad of gutter breeding.We sweat to learn our book: for all our painsWe pass. The Chucker-out alone remains.
Theworld’s a stage. The trifling entrance feeIs paid (by proxy) to the registrar.The Orchestra is very loud and freeBut plays no music in particular.They do not print a programme, that I know.The caste is large. There isn’t any plot.The acting of the piece is far belowThe very worst of modernistic rot.The only part about it I enjoyIs what was called in English the Foyay.There will I stand apart awhile and toyWith thought, and set my cigarette alight;And then—without returning to the play—On with my coat and out into the night.
Theworld’s a stage. The trifling entrance feeIs paid (by proxy) to the registrar.The Orchestra is very loud and freeBut plays no music in particular.They do not print a programme, that I know.The caste is large. There isn’t any plot.The acting of the piece is far belowThe very worst of modernistic rot.The only part about it I enjoyIs what was called in English the Foyay.There will I stand apart awhile and toyWith thought, and set my cigarette alight;And then—without returning to the play—On with my coat and out into the night.
Theworld’s a stage. The trifling entrance feeIs paid (by proxy) to the registrar.The Orchestra is very loud and freeBut plays no music in particular.They do not print a programme, that I know.The caste is large. There isn’t any plot.The acting of the piece is far belowThe very worst of modernistic rot.
The only part about it I enjoyIs what was called in English the Foyay.There will I stand apart awhile and toyWith thought, and set my cigarette alight;And then—without returning to the play—On with my coat and out into the night.
Dives, when you and I go down to Hell,Where scribblers end and millionaires as well,We shall be carrying on our separate backsTwo very large but very different packs;And as you stagger under yours, my friend,Down the dull shore where all our journeys end,And go before me (as your rank demands)Towards the infinite flat underlands,And that dear river of forgetfulness—Charon, a man of exquisite address(For, as your wife’s progenitors could tell,They’re very strict on etiquette in Hell),Will, since you are a lord, observe, “My lord,We cannot take these weighty things aboard!”Then down they go, my wretched Dives, down—The fifteen sorts of boots you kept for town,The hat to meet the Devil in; the plainBut costly ties; the cases of champagne;The solid watch, and seal, and chain, and charm;The working model of a Burning Farm(To give the little Belials); all the threeBiscuits for Cerberus; the guaranteeFrom Lambeth that the Rich can never burn,And even promising a safe return;The admirable overcoat, designedTo cross Cocytus—very warmly lined:Sweet Dives, you will leave them all behindAnd enter Hell as tattered and as bareAs was your father when he took the airBehind a barrow-load in Leicester Square.Then turned to me, and noting one that bringsWith careless step a mist of shadowy things:Laughter and memories, and a few regrets,Some honour, and a quantity of debts,A doubt or two of sorts, a trust in God,And (what will seem to you extremely odd)His father’s granfer’s father’s father’s name,Unspoilt, untitled, even spelt the same;Charon, who twenty thousand times beforeHas ferried Poets to the ulterior shore,Will estimate the weight I bear, and cry—“Comrade!” (He has himself been known to tryHis hand at Latin and Italian verse,Much in the style of Virgil—only worse)“We let such vain imaginaries pass!”Then tell me, Dives, which will look the ass—You, or myself? Or Charon? Who can tell?They order things so damnably in Hell.
Dives, when you and I go down to Hell,Where scribblers end and millionaires as well,We shall be carrying on our separate backsTwo very large but very different packs;And as you stagger under yours, my friend,Down the dull shore where all our journeys end,And go before me (as your rank demands)Towards the infinite flat underlands,And that dear river of forgetfulness—Charon, a man of exquisite address(For, as your wife’s progenitors could tell,They’re very strict on etiquette in Hell),Will, since you are a lord, observe, “My lord,We cannot take these weighty things aboard!”Then down they go, my wretched Dives, down—The fifteen sorts of boots you kept for town,The hat to meet the Devil in; the plainBut costly ties; the cases of champagne;The solid watch, and seal, and chain, and charm;The working model of a Burning Farm(To give the little Belials); all the threeBiscuits for Cerberus; the guaranteeFrom Lambeth that the Rich can never burn,And even promising a safe return;The admirable overcoat, designedTo cross Cocytus—very warmly lined:Sweet Dives, you will leave them all behindAnd enter Hell as tattered and as bareAs was your father when he took the airBehind a barrow-load in Leicester Square.Then turned to me, and noting one that bringsWith careless step a mist of shadowy things:Laughter and memories, and a few regrets,Some honour, and a quantity of debts,A doubt or two of sorts, a trust in God,And (what will seem to you extremely odd)His father’s granfer’s father’s father’s name,Unspoilt, untitled, even spelt the same;Charon, who twenty thousand times beforeHas ferried Poets to the ulterior shore,Will estimate the weight I bear, and cry—“Comrade!” (He has himself been known to tryHis hand at Latin and Italian verse,Much in the style of Virgil—only worse)“We let such vain imaginaries pass!”Then tell me, Dives, which will look the ass—You, or myself? Or Charon? Who can tell?They order things so damnably in Hell.
Dives, when you and I go down to Hell,Where scribblers end and millionaires as well,We shall be carrying on our separate backsTwo very large but very different packs;And as you stagger under yours, my friend,Down the dull shore where all our journeys end,And go before me (as your rank demands)Towards the infinite flat underlands,And that dear river of forgetfulness—Charon, a man of exquisite address(For, as your wife’s progenitors could tell,They’re very strict on etiquette in Hell),Will, since you are a lord, observe, “My lord,We cannot take these weighty things aboard!”Then down they go, my wretched Dives, down—The fifteen sorts of boots you kept for town,The hat to meet the Devil in; the plainBut costly ties; the cases of champagne;The solid watch, and seal, and chain, and charm;The working model of a Burning Farm(To give the little Belials); all the threeBiscuits for Cerberus; the guaranteeFrom Lambeth that the Rich can never burn,And even promising a safe return;The admirable overcoat, designedTo cross Cocytus—very warmly lined:Sweet Dives, you will leave them all behindAnd enter Hell as tattered and as bareAs was your father when he took the airBehind a barrow-load in Leicester Square.Then turned to me, and noting one that bringsWith careless step a mist of shadowy things:Laughter and memories, and a few regrets,Some honour, and a quantity of debts,A doubt or two of sorts, a trust in God,And (what will seem to you extremely odd)His father’s granfer’s father’s father’s name,Unspoilt, untitled, even spelt the same;Charon, who twenty thousand times beforeHas ferried Poets to the ulterior shore,Will estimate the weight I bear, and cry—“Comrade!” (He has himself been known to tryHis hand at Latin and Italian verse,Much in the style of Virgil—only worse)“We let such vain imaginaries pass!”Then tell me, Dives, which will look the ass—You, or myself? Or Charon? Who can tell?They order things so damnably in Hell.
Thewoods and downs have caught the mid-December,The noisy woods and high sea-downs of home;The wind has found me and I do rememberThe strong scent of the foam.Woods, darlings of my wandering feet, anotherPossesses you, another treads the Down;The South West Wind that was my elder brotherHas come to me in town.The wind is shouting from the hills of morning,I do remember and I will not stay.I’ll take the Hampton road without a warningAnd get me clean away.The Channel is up, the little seas are leaping,The tide is making over Arun Bar;And there’s my boat, where all the rest are sleepingAnd my companions are.I’ll board her, and apparel her, and I’ll mount her,My boat, that was the strongest friend to me—That brought my boyhood to its first encounterAnd taught me the wide sea.Now shall I drive her, roaring hard a’ weather,Right for the salt and leave them all behind;We’ll quite forget the treacherous streets togetherAnd find—or shall we find?There is no Pilotry my soul relies onWhereby to catch beneath my bended hand,Faint and beloved along the extreme horizonThat unforgotten land.We shall not round the granite piers and pavenTo lie to wharves we know with canvas furled.My little Boat, we shall not make the haven—It is not of the world.Somewhere of English forelands grandly guardedIt stands, but not for exiles, marked and clean;Oh! not for us. A mist has risen and marred it:—My youth lies in between.So in this snare that holds me and appals me,Where honour hardly lives nor loves remain,The Sea compels me and my County calls me,But stronger things restrain.. . . . . .
Thewoods and downs have caught the mid-December,The noisy woods and high sea-downs of home;The wind has found me and I do rememberThe strong scent of the foam.Woods, darlings of my wandering feet, anotherPossesses you, another treads the Down;The South West Wind that was my elder brotherHas come to me in town.The wind is shouting from the hills of morning,I do remember and I will not stay.I’ll take the Hampton road without a warningAnd get me clean away.The Channel is up, the little seas are leaping,The tide is making over Arun Bar;And there’s my boat, where all the rest are sleepingAnd my companions are.I’ll board her, and apparel her, and I’ll mount her,My boat, that was the strongest friend to me—That brought my boyhood to its first encounterAnd taught me the wide sea.Now shall I drive her, roaring hard a’ weather,Right for the salt and leave them all behind;We’ll quite forget the treacherous streets togetherAnd find—or shall we find?There is no Pilotry my soul relies onWhereby to catch beneath my bended hand,Faint and beloved along the extreme horizonThat unforgotten land.We shall not round the granite piers and pavenTo lie to wharves we know with canvas furled.My little Boat, we shall not make the haven—It is not of the world.Somewhere of English forelands grandly guardedIt stands, but not for exiles, marked and clean;Oh! not for us. A mist has risen and marred it:—My youth lies in between.So in this snare that holds me and appals me,Where honour hardly lives nor loves remain,The Sea compels me and my County calls me,But stronger things restrain.. . . . . .
Thewoods and downs have caught the mid-December,The noisy woods and high sea-downs of home;The wind has found me and I do rememberThe strong scent of the foam.
Woods, darlings of my wandering feet, anotherPossesses you, another treads the Down;The South West Wind that was my elder brotherHas come to me in town.
The wind is shouting from the hills of morning,I do remember and I will not stay.I’ll take the Hampton road without a warningAnd get me clean away.
The Channel is up, the little seas are leaping,The tide is making over Arun Bar;And there’s my boat, where all the rest are sleepingAnd my companions are.
I’ll board her, and apparel her, and I’ll mount her,My boat, that was the strongest friend to me—That brought my boyhood to its first encounterAnd taught me the wide sea.
Now shall I drive her, roaring hard a’ weather,Right for the salt and leave them all behind;We’ll quite forget the treacherous streets togetherAnd find—or shall we find?
There is no Pilotry my soul relies onWhereby to catch beneath my bended hand,Faint and beloved along the extreme horizonThat unforgotten land.
We shall not round the granite piers and pavenTo lie to wharves we know with canvas furled.My little Boat, we shall not make the haven—It is not of the world.
Somewhere of English forelands grandly guardedIt stands, but not for exiles, marked and clean;Oh! not for us. A mist has risen and marred it:—My youth lies in between.
So in this snare that holds me and appals me,Where honour hardly lives nor loves remain,The Sea compels me and my County calls me,But stronger things restrain.. . . . . .
England, to me that never have malingered,Nor spoken falsely, nor your flattery used,Nor even in my rightful garden lingered:—What have you not refused?
England, to me that never have malingered,Nor spoken falsely, nor your flattery used,Nor even in my rightful garden lingered:—What have you not refused?
England, to me that never have malingered,Nor spoken falsely, nor your flattery used,Nor even in my rightful garden lingered:—What have you not refused?
WhenI am living in the MidlandsThat are sodden and unkind,I light my lamp in the evening:My work is left behind;And the great hills of the South CountryCome back into my mind.The great hills of the South CountryThey stand along the sea;And it’s there walking in the high woodsThat I could wish to be,And the men that were boys when I was a boyWalking along with me.The men that live in North EnglandI saw them for a day:Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,Their skies are fast and grey;From their castle-walls a man may seeThe mountains far away.The men that live in West EnglandThey see the Severn strong,A-rolling on rough water brownLight aspen leaves along.They have the secret of the Rocks,And the oldest kind of song.But the men that live in the South CountryAre the kindest and most wise,They get their laughter from the loud surf,And the faith in their happy eyesComes surely from our Sister the SpringWhen over the sea she flies;The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,She blesses us with surprise.I never get between the pinesBut I smell the Sussex air;Nor I never come on a belt of sandBut my home is there.And along the sky the line of the DownsSo noble and so bare.A lost thing could I never find,Nor a broken thing mend:And I fear I shall be all aloneWhen I get towards the end.Who will there be to comfort meOr who will be my friend?I will gather and carefully make my friendsOf the men of the Sussex Weald,They watch the stars from silent folds,They stiffly plough the field.By them and the God of the South CountryMy poor soul shall be healed.If I ever become a rich man,Or if ever I grow to be old,I will build a house with deep thatchTo shelter me from the cold,And there shall the Sussex songs be sungAnd the story of Sussex told.I will hold my house in the high woodWithin a walk of the sea,And the men that were boys when I was a boyShall sit and drink with me.
WhenI am living in the MidlandsThat are sodden and unkind,I light my lamp in the evening:My work is left behind;And the great hills of the South CountryCome back into my mind.The great hills of the South CountryThey stand along the sea;And it’s there walking in the high woodsThat I could wish to be,And the men that were boys when I was a boyWalking along with me.The men that live in North EnglandI saw them for a day:Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,Their skies are fast and grey;From their castle-walls a man may seeThe mountains far away.The men that live in West EnglandThey see the Severn strong,A-rolling on rough water brownLight aspen leaves along.They have the secret of the Rocks,And the oldest kind of song.But the men that live in the South CountryAre the kindest and most wise,They get their laughter from the loud surf,And the faith in their happy eyesComes surely from our Sister the SpringWhen over the sea she flies;The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,She blesses us with surprise.I never get between the pinesBut I smell the Sussex air;Nor I never come on a belt of sandBut my home is there.And along the sky the line of the DownsSo noble and so bare.A lost thing could I never find,Nor a broken thing mend:And I fear I shall be all aloneWhen I get towards the end.Who will there be to comfort meOr who will be my friend?I will gather and carefully make my friendsOf the men of the Sussex Weald,They watch the stars from silent folds,They stiffly plough the field.By them and the God of the South CountryMy poor soul shall be healed.If I ever become a rich man,Or if ever I grow to be old,I will build a house with deep thatchTo shelter me from the cold,And there shall the Sussex songs be sungAnd the story of Sussex told.I will hold my house in the high woodWithin a walk of the sea,And the men that were boys when I was a boyShall sit and drink with me.
WhenI am living in the MidlandsThat are sodden and unkind,I light my lamp in the evening:My work is left behind;And the great hills of the South CountryCome back into my mind.
The great hills of the South CountryThey stand along the sea;And it’s there walking in the high woodsThat I could wish to be,And the men that were boys when I was a boyWalking along with me.
The men that live in North EnglandI saw them for a day:Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,Their skies are fast and grey;From their castle-walls a man may seeThe mountains far away.
The men that live in West EnglandThey see the Severn strong,A-rolling on rough water brownLight aspen leaves along.They have the secret of the Rocks,And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South CountryAre the kindest and most wise,They get their laughter from the loud surf,And the faith in their happy eyesComes surely from our Sister the SpringWhen over the sea she flies;The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,She blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pinesBut I smell the Sussex air;Nor I never come on a belt of sandBut my home is there.And along the sky the line of the DownsSo noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,Nor a broken thing mend:And I fear I shall be all aloneWhen I get towards the end.Who will there be to comfort meOr who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friendsOf the men of the Sussex Weald,They watch the stars from silent folds,They stiffly plough the field.By them and the God of the South CountryMy poor soul shall be healed.
If I ever become a rich man,Or if ever I grow to be old,I will build a house with deep thatchTo shelter me from the cold,And there shall the Sussex songs be sungAnd the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high woodWithin a walk of the sea,And the men that were boys when I was a boyShall sit and drink with me.
Lastnight in Compton Street, Soho,A man whom many of you knowGave up the ghost at half past nine.That evening he had been to dineAt Gressington’s—an act unwise,But not the cause of his demise.The doctors all agree that heWas touched with cardiac atrophyAccelerated (more or less)By lack of proper food, distress,Uncleanliness, and loss of sleep.He was a man that could not keepHis money (when he had the same)Because of creditors who cameAnd took it from him; and he gaveSo freely that he could not save.But all the while a sort of whimPersistently remained with him,Half admirable, half absurd:To keep his word, to keep his word....By which he did not mean what youAnd I would mean (of payments dueOr punctual rental of the Flat—He was a deal too mad for that)But—as he put it with a fineAbandon, foolish or divine—But “That great word which every manGave God before his life began.”It was a sacred word, he said,Which comforted the pathless deadAnd made God smile when it was shownUnforfeited, before the Throne.And this (he said) he meant to holdIn spite of debt, and hate, and cold;And this (he said) he meant to showAs passport to the Wards below.He boasted of it and gave praiseTo his own self through all his days.He wrote a record to preserveHow steadfastly he did not swerveFrom keeping it; how stiff he stoodIts guardian, and maintained it good.He had two witnesses to swearHe kept it once in Berkeley Square.(Where hardly anything survives)And, through the loneliest of livesHe kept it clean, he kept it still,Down to the last extremes of ill.So when he died, of many friendsWho came in crowds from all the endsOf London, that it might be knownThey knew the man who died alone,Some, who had thought his mood sublimeAnd sent him soup from time to time,Said, “Well, you cannot make them fitThe world, and there’s an end of it!”But others, wondering at him, said:“The man that kept his word is dead!”Then angrily, a certain thirdCried, “Gentlemen, he kept his word.And as a man whom beasts surroundTumultuous, on a little moundStands Archer, for one dreadful hour,Because a Man is born to Power—And still, to daunt the pack below,Twangs the clear purpose of his bow,Till overwhelmed he dares to fall:So stood this bulwark of us all.He kept his word as none but heCould keep it, and as did not we.And round him as he kept his wordTo-day’s diseased and faithless herd,A moment loud, a moment strong,But foul forever, rolled along.”
Lastnight in Compton Street, Soho,A man whom many of you knowGave up the ghost at half past nine.That evening he had been to dineAt Gressington’s—an act unwise,But not the cause of his demise.The doctors all agree that heWas touched with cardiac atrophyAccelerated (more or less)By lack of proper food, distress,Uncleanliness, and loss of sleep.He was a man that could not keepHis money (when he had the same)Because of creditors who cameAnd took it from him; and he gaveSo freely that he could not save.But all the while a sort of whimPersistently remained with him,Half admirable, half absurd:To keep his word, to keep his word....By which he did not mean what youAnd I would mean (of payments dueOr punctual rental of the Flat—He was a deal too mad for that)But—as he put it with a fineAbandon, foolish or divine—But “That great word which every manGave God before his life began.”It was a sacred word, he said,Which comforted the pathless deadAnd made God smile when it was shownUnforfeited, before the Throne.And this (he said) he meant to holdIn spite of debt, and hate, and cold;And this (he said) he meant to showAs passport to the Wards below.He boasted of it and gave praiseTo his own self through all his days.He wrote a record to preserveHow steadfastly he did not swerveFrom keeping it; how stiff he stoodIts guardian, and maintained it good.He had two witnesses to swearHe kept it once in Berkeley Square.(Where hardly anything survives)And, through the loneliest of livesHe kept it clean, he kept it still,Down to the last extremes of ill.So when he died, of many friendsWho came in crowds from all the endsOf London, that it might be knownThey knew the man who died alone,Some, who had thought his mood sublimeAnd sent him soup from time to time,Said, “Well, you cannot make them fitThe world, and there’s an end of it!”But others, wondering at him, said:“The man that kept his word is dead!”Then angrily, a certain thirdCried, “Gentlemen, he kept his word.And as a man whom beasts surroundTumultuous, on a little moundStands Archer, for one dreadful hour,Because a Man is born to Power—And still, to daunt the pack below,Twangs the clear purpose of his bow,Till overwhelmed he dares to fall:So stood this bulwark of us all.He kept his word as none but heCould keep it, and as did not we.And round him as he kept his wordTo-day’s diseased and faithless herd,A moment loud, a moment strong,But foul forever, rolled along.”
Lastnight in Compton Street, Soho,A man whom many of you knowGave up the ghost at half past nine.That evening he had been to dineAt Gressington’s—an act unwise,But not the cause of his demise.The doctors all agree that heWas touched with cardiac atrophyAccelerated (more or less)By lack of proper food, distress,Uncleanliness, and loss of sleep.He was a man that could not keepHis money (when he had the same)Because of creditors who cameAnd took it from him; and he gaveSo freely that he could not save.But all the while a sort of whimPersistently remained with him,Half admirable, half absurd:To keep his word, to keep his word....By which he did not mean what youAnd I would mean (of payments dueOr punctual rental of the Flat—He was a deal too mad for that)But—as he put it with a fineAbandon, foolish or divine—But “That great word which every manGave God before his life began.”It was a sacred word, he said,Which comforted the pathless deadAnd made God smile when it was shownUnforfeited, before the Throne.And this (he said) he meant to holdIn spite of debt, and hate, and cold;And this (he said) he meant to showAs passport to the Wards below.He boasted of it and gave praiseTo his own self through all his days.He wrote a record to preserveHow steadfastly he did not swerveFrom keeping it; how stiff he stoodIts guardian, and maintained it good.He had two witnesses to swearHe kept it once in Berkeley Square.(Where hardly anything survives)And, through the loneliest of livesHe kept it clean, he kept it still,Down to the last extremes of ill.So when he died, of many friendsWho came in crowds from all the endsOf London, that it might be knownThey knew the man who died alone,Some, who had thought his mood sublimeAnd sent him soup from time to time,Said, “Well, you cannot make them fitThe world, and there’s an end of it!”But others, wondering at him, said:“The man that kept his word is dead!”Then angrily, a certain thirdCried, “Gentlemen, he kept his word.And as a man whom beasts surroundTumultuous, on a little moundStands Archer, for one dreadful hour,Because a Man is born to Power—And still, to daunt the pack below,Twangs the clear purpose of his bow,Till overwhelmed he dares to fall:So stood this bulwark of us all.He kept his word as none but heCould keep it, and as did not we.And round him as he kept his wordTo-day’s diseased and faithless herd,A moment loud, a moment strong,But foul forever, rolled along.”
Themoon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.
Themoon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.
Themoon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.
Theywarned Our Lady for the ChildThat was Our blessed Lord,And She took Him into the desert wild,Over the camel’s ford.And a long song She sang to HimAnd a short story told:And She wrapped Him in a woollen cloakTo keep Him from the cold.But when Our Lord was grown a manThe Rich they dragged Him down,And they crucified Him in Golgotha,Out and beyond the Town.They crucified Him on Calvary,Upon an April day;And because He had been her little SonShe followed Him all the way.Our Lady stood beside the Cross,A little space apart,And when She heard Our Lord cry outA sword went through Her Heart.They laid Our Lord in a marble tomb,Dead, in a winding sheet.But Our Lady stands above the worldWith the white Moon at Her feet.
Theywarned Our Lady for the ChildThat was Our blessed Lord,And She took Him into the desert wild,Over the camel’s ford.And a long song She sang to HimAnd a short story told:And She wrapped Him in a woollen cloakTo keep Him from the cold.But when Our Lord was grown a manThe Rich they dragged Him down,And they crucified Him in Golgotha,Out and beyond the Town.They crucified Him on Calvary,Upon an April day;And because He had been her little SonShe followed Him all the way.Our Lady stood beside the Cross,A little space apart,And when She heard Our Lord cry outA sword went through Her Heart.They laid Our Lord in a marble tomb,Dead, in a winding sheet.But Our Lady stands above the worldWith the white Moon at Her feet.
Theywarned Our Lady for the ChildThat was Our blessed Lord,And She took Him into the desert wild,Over the camel’s ford.
And a long song She sang to HimAnd a short story told:And She wrapped Him in a woollen cloakTo keep Him from the cold.
But when Our Lord was grown a manThe Rich they dragged Him down,And they crucified Him in Golgotha,Out and beyond the Town.
They crucified Him on Calvary,Upon an April day;And because He had been her little SonShe followed Him all the way.
Our Lady stood beside the Cross,A little space apart,And when She heard Our Lord cry outA sword went through Her Heart.
They laid Our Lord in a marble tomb,Dead, in a winding sheet.But Our Lady stands above the worldWith the white Moon at Her feet.
OfCourtesy, it is much lessThan Courage of Heart or Holiness,Yet in my Walks it seems to meThat the Grace of God is in Courtesy.On Monks I did in Storrington fall,They took me straight into their Hall;I saw Three Pictures on a wall,And Courtesy was in them all.The first the Annunciation;The second the Visitation;The third the Consolation,Of God that was Our Lady’s Son.The first was of Saint Gabriel;On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell;And as he went upon one kneeHe shone with Heavenly Courtesy.Our Lady out of Nazareth rode—It was Her month of heavy load;Yet was Her face both great and kind,For Courtesy was in Her Mind.The third it was our Little Lord,Whom all the Kings in arms adored;He was so small you could not seeHis large intent of Courtesy.Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son,Go bless you, People, one by one;My Rhyme is written, my work is done.
OfCourtesy, it is much lessThan Courage of Heart or Holiness,Yet in my Walks it seems to meThat the Grace of God is in Courtesy.On Monks I did in Storrington fall,They took me straight into their Hall;I saw Three Pictures on a wall,And Courtesy was in them all.The first the Annunciation;The second the Visitation;The third the Consolation,Of God that was Our Lady’s Son.The first was of Saint Gabriel;On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell;And as he went upon one kneeHe shone with Heavenly Courtesy.Our Lady out of Nazareth rode—It was Her month of heavy load;Yet was Her face both great and kind,For Courtesy was in Her Mind.The third it was our Little Lord,Whom all the Kings in arms adored;He was so small you could not seeHis large intent of Courtesy.Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son,Go bless you, People, one by one;My Rhyme is written, my work is done.
OfCourtesy, it is much lessThan Courage of Heart or Holiness,Yet in my Walks it seems to meThat the Grace of God is in Courtesy.
On Monks I did in Storrington fall,They took me straight into their Hall;I saw Three Pictures on a wall,And Courtesy was in them all.
The first the Annunciation;The second the Visitation;The third the Consolation,Of God that was Our Lady’s Son.
The first was of Saint Gabriel;On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell;And as he went upon one kneeHe shone with Heavenly Courtesy.
Our Lady out of Nazareth rode—It was Her month of heavy load;Yet was Her face both great and kind,For Courtesy was in Her Mind.
The third it was our Little Lord,Whom all the Kings in arms adored;He was so small you could not seeHis large intent of Courtesy.
Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son,Go bless you, People, one by one;My Rhyme is written, my work is done.
Mostholy Night, that still dost keepThe keys of all the doors of sleep,To me when my tired eyelids closeGive thou repose.And let the far lament of themThat chaunt the dead day’s requiemMake in my ears, who wakeful lie,Soft lullaby.Let them that guard the horned moonBy my bedside their memories croon.So shall I have new dreams and blestIn my brief rest.Fold your great wings about my face,Hide dawning from my resting-place,And cheat me with your false delight,Most Holy Night.
Mostholy Night, that still dost keepThe keys of all the doors of sleep,To me when my tired eyelids closeGive thou repose.And let the far lament of themThat chaunt the dead day’s requiemMake in my ears, who wakeful lie,Soft lullaby.Let them that guard the horned moonBy my bedside their memories croon.So shall I have new dreams and blestIn my brief rest.Fold your great wings about my face,Hide dawning from my resting-place,And cheat me with your false delight,Most Holy Night.
Mostholy Night, that still dost keepThe keys of all the doors of sleep,To me when my tired eyelids closeGive thou repose.
And let the far lament of themThat chaunt the dead day’s requiemMake in my ears, who wakeful lie,Soft lullaby.
Let them that guard the horned moonBy my bedside their memories croon.So shall I have new dreams and blestIn my brief rest.
Fold your great wings about my face,Hide dawning from my resting-place,And cheat me with your false delight,Most Holy Night.
Thesword fell down: I heard a knell;I thought that ease was best,And sullen men that buy and sellWere host: and I was guest.All unashamed I sat with swine,We shook the dice for war,The night was drunk with an evil wine—But she went on before.She rode a steed of the sea-foam breed,All faery was her blade,And the armour on her tender limbsWas of the moonshine made.By God that sends the master-maids,I know not whence she came,But the sword she bore to save the soulWent up like an altar flameWhere a broken race in a desert placeCall on the Holy Name.We strained our eyes in the dim day-rise,We could not see them plain;But two dead men from Valmy fenRode at her bridle-rein.I hear them all, my fathers call,I see them how they ride,And where had been that rout obsceneWas an army straight with pride.A hundred thousand marching men,Of squadrons twenty score,And after them all the guns, the guns,But she went on before.Her face was like a king’s commandWhen all the swords are drawn.She stretched her arms and smiled at us,Her head was higher than the hills.She led us to the endless plains.We lost her in the dawn.
Thesword fell down: I heard a knell;I thought that ease was best,And sullen men that buy and sellWere host: and I was guest.All unashamed I sat with swine,We shook the dice for war,The night was drunk with an evil wine—But she went on before.She rode a steed of the sea-foam breed,All faery was her blade,And the armour on her tender limbsWas of the moonshine made.By God that sends the master-maids,I know not whence she came,But the sword she bore to save the soulWent up like an altar flameWhere a broken race in a desert placeCall on the Holy Name.We strained our eyes in the dim day-rise,We could not see them plain;But two dead men from Valmy fenRode at her bridle-rein.I hear them all, my fathers call,I see them how they ride,And where had been that rout obsceneWas an army straight with pride.A hundred thousand marching men,Of squadrons twenty score,And after them all the guns, the guns,But she went on before.Her face was like a king’s commandWhen all the swords are drawn.She stretched her arms and smiled at us,Her head was higher than the hills.She led us to the endless plains.We lost her in the dawn.
Thesword fell down: I heard a knell;I thought that ease was best,And sullen men that buy and sellWere host: and I was guest.All unashamed I sat with swine,We shook the dice for war,The night was drunk with an evil wine—But she went on before.
She rode a steed of the sea-foam breed,All faery was her blade,And the armour on her tender limbsWas of the moonshine made.
By God that sends the master-maids,I know not whence she came,But the sword she bore to save the soulWent up like an altar flameWhere a broken race in a desert placeCall on the Holy Name.
We strained our eyes in the dim day-rise,We could not see them plain;But two dead men from Valmy fenRode at her bridle-rein.
I hear them all, my fathers call,I see them how they ride,And where had been that rout obsceneWas an army straight with pride.A hundred thousand marching men,Of squadrons twenty score,And after them all the guns, the guns,But she went on before.
Her face was like a king’s commandWhen all the swords are drawn.She stretched her arms and smiled at us,Her head was higher than the hills.She led us to the endless plains.We lost her in the dawn.
Youcame without a human sound,You came and brought my soul to me;I only woke, and all aroundThey slumbered on the firelit ground,Beside the guns in Burgundy.
Youcame without a human sound,You came and brought my soul to me;I only woke, and all aroundThey slumbered on the firelit ground,Beside the guns in Burgundy.
Youcame without a human sound,You came and brought my soul to me;I only woke, and all aroundThey slumbered on the firelit ground,Beside the guns in Burgundy.
I feltthe gesture of your hands,You signed my forehead with the Cross;The gesture of your holy handsWas bounteous—like the misty landsAlong the Hills in Calvados.
I feltthe gesture of your hands,You signed my forehead with the Cross;The gesture of your holy handsWas bounteous—like the misty landsAlong the Hills in Calvados.
I feltthe gesture of your hands,You signed my forehead with the Cross;The gesture of your holy handsWas bounteous—like the misty landsAlong the Hills in Calvados.
Butwhen I slept I saw your eyes,Hungry as death, and very far.I saw demand in your dim eyesMysterious as the moons that riseAt midnight, in the Pines of Var.
Butwhen I slept I saw your eyes,Hungry as death, and very far.I saw demand in your dim eyesMysterious as the moons that riseAt midnight, in the Pines of Var.
Butwhen I slept I saw your eyes,Hungry as death, and very far.I saw demand in your dim eyesMysterious as the moons that riseAt midnight, in the Pines of Var.
Yearsago when I was at Balliol,Balliol men—and I was one—Swam together in winter rivers,Wrestled together under the sun.And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol,Loved already, but hardly known,Welded us each of us into the others:Called a levy and chose her own.Here is a House that armours a manWith the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger,And a laughing way in the teeth of the worldAnd a holy hunger and thirst for danger:Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,Whatever I had she gave me again:And the best of Balliol loved and led me.God be with you, Balliol men.I have said it before, and I say it again,There was treason done, and a false word spoken,And England under the dregs of men,And bribes about, and a treaty broken:But angry, lonely, hating it still,I wished to be there in spite of the wrong.My heart was heavy for Cumnor HillAnd the hammer of galloping all day long.Galloping outward into the weather,Hands a-ready and battle in all:Words together and wine togetherAnd song together in Balliol Hall.Rare and single! Noble and few!...Oh! they have wasted you over the sea!The only brothers ever I knew,The men that laughed and quarrelled with me.. . . . . .Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,Whatever I had she gave me again;And the best of Balliol loved and led me,God be with you, Balliol men.
Yearsago when I was at Balliol,Balliol men—and I was one—Swam together in winter rivers,Wrestled together under the sun.And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol,Loved already, but hardly known,Welded us each of us into the others:Called a levy and chose her own.Here is a House that armours a manWith the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger,And a laughing way in the teeth of the worldAnd a holy hunger and thirst for danger:Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,Whatever I had she gave me again:And the best of Balliol loved and led me.God be with you, Balliol men.I have said it before, and I say it again,There was treason done, and a false word spoken,And England under the dregs of men,And bribes about, and a treaty broken:But angry, lonely, hating it still,I wished to be there in spite of the wrong.My heart was heavy for Cumnor HillAnd the hammer of galloping all day long.Galloping outward into the weather,Hands a-ready and battle in all:Words together and wine togetherAnd song together in Balliol Hall.Rare and single! Noble and few!...Oh! they have wasted you over the sea!The only brothers ever I knew,The men that laughed and quarrelled with me.. . . . . .Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,Whatever I had she gave me again;And the best of Balliol loved and led me,God be with you, Balliol men.
Yearsago when I was at Balliol,Balliol men—and I was one—Swam together in winter rivers,Wrestled together under the sun.And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol,Loved already, but hardly known,Welded us each of us into the others:Called a levy and chose her own.
Here is a House that armours a manWith the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger,And a laughing way in the teeth of the worldAnd a holy hunger and thirst for danger:Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,Whatever I had she gave me again:And the best of Balliol loved and led me.God be with you, Balliol men.
I have said it before, and I say it again,There was treason done, and a false word spoken,And England under the dregs of men,And bribes about, and a treaty broken:But angry, lonely, hating it still,I wished to be there in spite of the wrong.My heart was heavy for Cumnor HillAnd the hammer of galloping all day long.
Galloping outward into the weather,Hands a-ready and battle in all:Words together and wine togetherAnd song together in Balliol Hall.Rare and single! Noble and few!...Oh! they have wasted you over the sea!The only brothers ever I knew,The men that laughed and quarrelled with me.. . . . . .Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,Whatever I had she gave me again;And the best of Balliol loved and led me,God be with you, Balliol men.
VERSES TO A LORD WHO, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, SAID THAT THOSE WHO OPPOSED THE SOUTH AFRICAN ADVENTURE CONFUSED SOLDIERS WITH MONEY-GRUBBERS
VERSES TO A LORD WHO, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, SAID THAT THOSE WHO OPPOSED THE SOUTH AFRICAN ADVENTURE CONFUSED SOLDIERS WITH MONEY-GRUBBERS
Youthought because we held, my lord,An ancient cause and strong,That therefore we maligned the sword:My lord, you did us wrong.We also know the sacred heightUp on Tugela side,Where those three hundred fought with BeitAnd fair young Wernher died.The daybreak on the failing force,The final sabres drawn:Tall Goltman, silent on his horse,Superb against the dawn.The little mound where Eckstein stoodAnd gallant Albu fell,And Oppenheim, half blind with bloodWent fording through the rising flood—My Lord, we know them well.The little empty homes forlorn,The ruined synagogues that mourn,In Frankfort and Berlin;We knew them when the peace was torn—We of a nobler lineage born—And now by all the gods of scornWe mean to rub them in.
Youthought because we held, my lord,An ancient cause and strong,That therefore we maligned the sword:My lord, you did us wrong.We also know the sacred heightUp on Tugela side,Where those three hundred fought with BeitAnd fair young Wernher died.The daybreak on the failing force,The final sabres drawn:Tall Goltman, silent on his horse,Superb against the dawn.The little mound where Eckstein stoodAnd gallant Albu fell,And Oppenheim, half blind with bloodWent fording through the rising flood—My Lord, we know them well.The little empty homes forlorn,The ruined synagogues that mourn,In Frankfort and Berlin;We knew them when the peace was torn—We of a nobler lineage born—And now by all the gods of scornWe mean to rub them in.
Youthought because we held, my lord,An ancient cause and strong,That therefore we maligned the sword:My lord, you did us wrong.
We also know the sacred heightUp on Tugela side,Where those three hundred fought with BeitAnd fair young Wernher died.
The daybreak on the failing force,The final sabres drawn:Tall Goltman, silent on his horse,Superb against the dawn.
The little mound where Eckstein stoodAnd gallant Albu fell,And Oppenheim, half blind with bloodWent fording through the rising flood—My Lord, we know them well.
The little empty homes forlorn,The ruined synagogues that mourn,In Frankfort and Berlin;We knew them when the peace was torn—We of a nobler lineage born—And now by all the gods of scornWe mean to rub them in.