Gordon Bottomley
My moon was lit in an hour of lilies;The apple-trees seemed older than ever.It rose from matted trees that severThe oats from the meadow, and woke the filliesThat reared in dew and gleamed with dewAnd ran like water and shadow, and cried.It moistened and veiled the oats yet new,And seemed to drip long drops of the tide,Of the mother-sea so lately left.Feathers of flower were each bereftOf color and stem, and floated low;Another lily opened thenAnd lost a little gold dust; but whenThe lime-boughs lifted there seemed to goSome life of the moon, like breath that movesOr parting glances that flutter and strain—A ghost with hands the color of dovesAnd feet the color of rain.
My moon was lit in an hour of lilies;The apple-trees seemed older than ever.It rose from matted trees that severThe oats from the meadow, and woke the filliesThat reared in dew and gleamed with dewAnd ran like water and shadow, and cried.It moistened and veiled the oats yet new,And seemed to drip long drops of the tide,Of the mother-sea so lately left.Feathers of flower were each bereftOf color and stem, and floated low;Another lily opened thenAnd lost a little gold dust; but whenThe lime-boughs lifted there seemed to goSome life of the moon, like breath that movesOr parting glances that flutter and strain—A ghost with hands the color of dovesAnd feet the color of rain.
My moon was lit in an hour of lilies;The apple-trees seemed older than ever.It rose from matted trees that severThe oats from the meadow, and woke the filliesThat reared in dew and gleamed with dewAnd ran like water and shadow, and cried.It moistened and veiled the oats yet new,And seemed to drip long drops of the tide,Of the mother-sea so lately left.Feathers of flower were each bereftOf color and stem, and floated low;Another lily opened thenAnd lost a little gold dust; but whenThe lime-boughs lifted there seemed to goSome life of the moon, like breath that movesOr parting glances that flutter and strain—A ghost with hands the color of dovesAnd feet the color of rain.
My moon was lit in an hour of lilies;
The apple-trees seemed older than ever.
It rose from matted trees that sever
The oats from the meadow, and woke the fillies
That reared in dew and gleamed with dew
And ran like water and shadow, and cried.
It moistened and veiled the oats yet new,
And seemed to drip long drops of the tide,
Of the mother-sea so lately left.
Feathers of flower were each bereft
Of color and stem, and floated low;
Another lily opened then
And lost a little gold dust; but when
The lime-boughs lifted there seemed to go
Some life of the moon, like breath that moves
Or parting glances that flutter and strain—
A ghost with hands the color of doves
And feet the color of rain.
ELEGIAC MOOD
From song and dream for ever goneAre Helen, Helen of Troy,And Cleopatra made to look upon,And many a daring boy—Young Faust and Sigurd and Hippolytus:They are twice dead and we must findGreat ladies yet unblemished by the mind,Heroes and acts not cold for usIn amber or spirits of too many words.Ay, these are murdered by much thinking on.I hanker even for new shapes of swords,More different sins, and raptures not yet done.Yet, as I wait on marvels, such a birdAs maybe Sigurd heard—A thrush—alighting with a little runOut-tops the daisies as it passesAnd peeps bright-eyed above the grasses.
From song and dream for ever goneAre Helen, Helen of Troy,And Cleopatra made to look upon,And many a daring boy—Young Faust and Sigurd and Hippolytus:They are twice dead and we must findGreat ladies yet unblemished by the mind,Heroes and acts not cold for usIn amber or spirits of too many words.Ay, these are murdered by much thinking on.I hanker even for new shapes of swords,More different sins, and raptures not yet done.Yet, as I wait on marvels, such a birdAs maybe Sigurd heard—A thrush—alighting with a little runOut-tops the daisies as it passesAnd peeps bright-eyed above the grasses.
From song and dream for ever goneAre Helen, Helen of Troy,And Cleopatra made to look upon,And many a daring boy—Young Faust and Sigurd and Hippolytus:They are twice dead and we must findGreat ladies yet unblemished by the mind,Heroes and acts not cold for usIn amber or spirits of too many words.Ay, these are murdered by much thinking on.I hanker even for new shapes of swords,More different sins, and raptures not yet done.Yet, as I wait on marvels, such a birdAs maybe Sigurd heard—A thrush—alighting with a little runOut-tops the daisies as it passesAnd peeps bright-eyed above the grasses.
From song and dream for ever gone
Are Helen, Helen of Troy,
And Cleopatra made to look upon,
And many a daring boy—
Young Faust and Sigurd and Hippolytus:
They are twice dead and we must find
Great ladies yet unblemished by the mind,
Heroes and acts not cold for us
In amber or spirits of too many words.
Ay, these are murdered by much thinking on.
I hanker even for new shapes of swords,
More different sins, and raptures not yet done.
Yet, as I wait on marvels, such a bird
As maybe Sigurd heard—
A thrush—alighting with a little run
Out-tops the daisies as it passes
And peeps bright-eyed above the grasses.
A thrush is tapping a stoneWith a snail-shell in its beak;A small bird hangs from a cherryUntil the stem shall break.No waking song has begun,And yet birds chatter and hurryAnd throng in the elm’s gloomBecause an owl goes home.
A thrush is tapping a stoneWith a snail-shell in its beak;A small bird hangs from a cherryUntil the stem shall break.No waking song has begun,And yet birds chatter and hurryAnd throng in the elm’s gloomBecause an owl goes home.
A thrush is tapping a stoneWith a snail-shell in its beak;A small bird hangs from a cherryUntil the stem shall break.No waking song has begun,And yet birds chatter and hurryAnd throng in the elm’s gloomBecause an owl goes home.
A thrush is tapping a stone
With a snail-shell in its beak;
A small bird hangs from a cherry
Until the stem shall break.
No waking song has begun,
And yet birds chatter and hurry
And throng in the elm’s gloom
Because an owl goes home.