TO ALFRED NOYES
APOSTLE OF POETRY AND PEACE
AN APRIL GREETING ON HIS RETURN FROM THE SOUTH
BY EDWIN MARKHAM
AGAIN the mood of Eden on the earth!Again the summons and the mystic mirth,The beauty and the wonder and the dare,Thrilling the heart, the field, the delicate air!So now once more the old remembering:The lyric hosts come out of the South with song,With music that can save the soul from wrong—The immemorial multitudes a-wingDown bright savannas, over the greening trees.Hark, the first warbling in the bough soft-stirred!And you, O Poet, with your wingèd word,You come convoyed by these!You come with all the buds and birds astart—You with the heart of April in your heart.So take our banded welcome as we drinkA health to you on April’s flowering brink—To you come hither from that elder clime,Where April has been wreathed in poet’s rhyme,Been touched with love and tearsBy English minstrels down a thousand years.And now that Sherwood Forest calls you homeOver the furrows of the ocean foam,Take message from this people to your own—To England, with her scented hawthorns blown,And all her skylarks in a rapture-painSprinkling the happy fields with lyric rain.Tell her that, lordlier than her cliffs and towers,Tell her that, mightier than her pomps and powers,We see her line of poets stretching backTen centuries, a bright, immortal track.Tell her that while she builded the things that seem,They built her glory out of deathless dream.Ah, more is that wild beauty left by KeatsThan all the blazon of her kingly seats;More is that wonder from the hand of BlakeThan all her guns that make the nations quake;More is her Shelley, with his starry dare,Than all her flags ringed round with battle blare;More her blind Milton voyaging the vastThan all her squadrons shearing down the blast;And more is Shakspere, lord of lyric seers,Than all her conquests of a thousand years.But none of all the line(Save only Shelley, darling of the Nine)Has cried as you have cried the valorous vowOf Love’s heroic heart, God’s prayer to menTo cease the wolfish battles of the den.And so the Muses bind upon your browThe olive with the laurel; for your songBears on that dauntless prayer against the wrong,The cry the embassy of angels sentOf old across the Syrian firmament,Above the stable door.For in your voice we still can hear their crySound down into our sky:“Let there be peace: let battles be no more!”
AGAIN the mood of Eden on the earth!Again the summons and the mystic mirth,The beauty and the wonder and the dare,Thrilling the heart, the field, the delicate air!So now once more the old remembering:The lyric hosts come out of the South with song,With music that can save the soul from wrong—The immemorial multitudes a-wingDown bright savannas, over the greening trees.Hark, the first warbling in the bough soft-stirred!And you, O Poet, with your wingèd word,You come convoyed by these!You come with all the buds and birds astart—You with the heart of April in your heart.So take our banded welcome as we drinkA health to you on April’s flowering brink—To you come hither from that elder clime,Where April has been wreathed in poet’s rhyme,Been touched with love and tearsBy English minstrels down a thousand years.And now that Sherwood Forest calls you homeOver the furrows of the ocean foam,Take message from this people to your own—To England, with her scented hawthorns blown,And all her skylarks in a rapture-painSprinkling the happy fields with lyric rain.Tell her that, lordlier than her cliffs and towers,Tell her that, mightier than her pomps and powers,We see her line of poets stretching backTen centuries, a bright, immortal track.Tell her that while she builded the things that seem,They built her glory out of deathless dream.Ah, more is that wild beauty left by KeatsThan all the blazon of her kingly seats;More is that wonder from the hand of BlakeThan all her guns that make the nations quake;More is her Shelley, with his starry dare,Than all her flags ringed round with battle blare;More her blind Milton voyaging the vastThan all her squadrons shearing down the blast;And more is Shakspere, lord of lyric seers,Than all her conquests of a thousand years.But none of all the line(Save only Shelley, darling of the Nine)Has cried as you have cried the valorous vowOf Love’s heroic heart, God’s prayer to menTo cease the wolfish battles of the den.And so the Muses bind upon your browThe olive with the laurel; for your songBears on that dauntless prayer against the wrong,The cry the embassy of angels sentOf old across the Syrian firmament,Above the stable door.For in your voice we still can hear their crySound down into our sky:“Let there be peace: let battles be no more!”
AGAIN the mood of Eden on the earth!Again the summons and the mystic mirth,The beauty and the wonder and the dare,Thrilling the heart, the field, the delicate air!
AGAIN the mood of Eden on the earth!
Again the summons and the mystic mirth,
The beauty and the wonder and the dare,
Thrilling the heart, the field, the delicate air!
So now once more the old remembering:The lyric hosts come out of the South with song,With music that can save the soul from wrong—The immemorial multitudes a-wingDown bright savannas, over the greening trees.Hark, the first warbling in the bough soft-stirred!And you, O Poet, with your wingèd word,You come convoyed by these!
So now once more the old remembering:
The lyric hosts come out of the South with song,
With music that can save the soul from wrong—
The immemorial multitudes a-wing
Down bright savannas, over the greening trees.
Hark, the first warbling in the bough soft-stirred!
And you, O Poet, with your wingèd word,
You come convoyed by these!
You come with all the buds and birds astart—You with the heart of April in your heart.So take our banded welcome as we drinkA health to you on April’s flowering brink—To you come hither from that elder clime,Where April has been wreathed in poet’s rhyme,Been touched with love and tearsBy English minstrels down a thousand years.
You come with all the buds and birds astart—
You with the heart of April in your heart.
So take our banded welcome as we drink
A health to you on April’s flowering brink—
To you come hither from that elder clime,
Where April has been wreathed in poet’s rhyme,
Been touched with love and tears
By English minstrels down a thousand years.
And now that Sherwood Forest calls you homeOver the furrows of the ocean foam,Take message from this people to your own—To England, with her scented hawthorns blown,And all her skylarks in a rapture-painSprinkling the happy fields with lyric rain.Tell her that, lordlier than her cliffs and towers,Tell her that, mightier than her pomps and powers,We see her line of poets stretching backTen centuries, a bright, immortal track.Tell her that while she builded the things that seem,They built her glory out of deathless dream.
And now that Sherwood Forest calls you home
Over the furrows of the ocean foam,
Take message from this people to your own—
To England, with her scented hawthorns blown,
And all her skylarks in a rapture-pain
Sprinkling the happy fields with lyric rain.
Tell her that, lordlier than her cliffs and towers,
Tell her that, mightier than her pomps and powers,
We see her line of poets stretching back
Ten centuries, a bright, immortal track.
Tell her that while she builded the things that seem,
They built her glory out of deathless dream.
Ah, more is that wild beauty left by KeatsThan all the blazon of her kingly seats;More is that wonder from the hand of BlakeThan all her guns that make the nations quake;More is her Shelley, with his starry dare,Than all her flags ringed round with battle blare;More her blind Milton voyaging the vastThan all her squadrons shearing down the blast;And more is Shakspere, lord of lyric seers,Than all her conquests of a thousand years.
Ah, more is that wild beauty left by Keats
Than all the blazon of her kingly seats;
More is that wonder from the hand of Blake
Than all her guns that make the nations quake;
More is her Shelley, with his starry dare,
Than all her flags ringed round with battle blare;
More her blind Milton voyaging the vast
Than all her squadrons shearing down the blast;
And more is Shakspere, lord of lyric seers,
Than all her conquests of a thousand years.
But none of all the line(Save only Shelley, darling of the Nine)Has cried as you have cried the valorous vowOf Love’s heroic heart, God’s prayer to menTo cease the wolfish battles of the den.And so the Muses bind upon your browThe olive with the laurel; for your songBears on that dauntless prayer against the wrong,The cry the embassy of angels sentOf old across the Syrian firmament,Above the stable door.For in your voice we still can hear their crySound down into our sky:“Let there be peace: let battles be no more!”
But none of all the line
(Save only Shelley, darling of the Nine)
Has cried as you have cried the valorous vow
Of Love’s heroic heart, God’s prayer to men
To cease the wolfish battles of the den.
And so the Muses bind upon your brow
The olive with the laurel; for your song
Bears on that dauntless prayer against the wrong,
The cry the embassy of angels sent
Of old across the Syrian firmament,
Above the stable door.
For in your voice we still can hear their cry
Sound down into our sky:
“Let there be peace: let battles be no more!”
To Alfred Noyes (1)
To Alfred Noyes (2)(Original Images)
(Original Images)