It's rough on sailors' women. They have to mangle hard,And stitch at dungarees till their finger-ends are scarred,Thinking of the sailor-men who sang among the crowd,Hoisting of her topsails when she sailed so proud.A CREEDI hold that when a person diesHis soul returns again to earth;Arrayed in some new flesh-disguiseAnother mother gives him birth.With sturdier limbs and brighter brainThe old soul takes the roads again.Such is my own belief and trust;This hand, this hand that holds the pen,Has many a hundred times been dustAnd turned, as dust, to dust again;These eyes of mine have blinked and shoneIn Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.All that I rightly think or do,Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,Is curse or blessing justly dueFor sloth or effort in the past.My life's a statement of the sumOf vice indulged, or overcome.I know that in my lives to beMy sorry heart will ache and burn,And worship, unavailingly,The woman whom I used to spurn,And shake to see another haveThe love I spurned, the love she gave.And I shall know, in angry words,In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,A carrion flock of homing-birds,The gibes and scorns I uttered here.The brave word that I failed to speakWill brand me dastard on the cheek.And as I wander on the roadsI shall be helped and healed and blessed;Dear words shall cheer and be as goadsTo urge to heights before unguessed.My road shall be the road I made;All that I gave shall be repaid.So shall I fight, so shall I tread,In this long war beneath the stars;So shall a glory wreathe my head,So shall I faint and show the scars,Until this case, this clogging mould,Be smithied all to kingly gold.WHEN BONY DEATHWhen bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,And changed her glorious beauty into mudBy his old skill in hateful wizardries;When an old lichened marble strives to tellHow sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;When rheumy grey-beards say, "I knew her well,"Showing the grave to curious worshippers;When all the roses that she sowed in meHave dripped their crimson petals and decayed,Leaving no greenery on any treeThat her dear hands in my heart's garden laid,Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull,These songs may keep her memory beautiful.THE WEST WINDIt's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest."Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away.It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray:And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run;It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.It's the white road westwards is the road I must treadTo the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' songIn the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.HER HEARTHer heart is always doing lovely things,Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers;Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings,Delighting all my undelightful hours.She plays me like a lute, what tune she will,No string in me but trembles at her touch,Shakes into sacred music, or is still,Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.And in the dusty tavern of my soulWhere filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine,Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl,Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse,Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.BEING HER FRIENDBeing her friend, I do not care, not I,How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;Her word's sufficient star to travel by,I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.Being her friend, I do not covet gold,Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.Being her friend, I only covet art,A white pure flame to search me as I traceIn crooked letters from a throbbing heartThe hymn to beauty written on her face.FRAGMENTSTroy Town is covered up with weeds,The rabbits and the pismires broodOn broken gold, and shards, and beadsWhere Priam's ancient palace stood.The floors of many a gallant houseAre matted with the roots of grass;The glow-worm and the nimble mouseAmong her ruins flit and pass.And there, in orts of blackened bone,The widowed Trojan beauties lie,And Simois babbles over stoneAnd waps and gurgles to the sky.Once there were merry days in Troy,Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals,The passing chariots did annoyThe sunning housewives at their wheels.And many a lovely Trojan maidSet Trojan lads to lovely things;The game of life was nobly played,They played the game like Queens and Kings.So that, when Troy had greatly passedIn one red roaring fiery coal,The courts the Grecians overcastBecame a city in the soul.In some green island of the sea,Where now the shadowy coral growsIn pride and pomp and emperyThe courts of old Atlantis rose.In many a glittering house of glassThe Atlanteans wandered there;The paleness of their faces wasLike ivory, so pale they were.And hushed they were, no noise of wordsIn those bright cities ever rang;Only their thoughts, like golden birds,About their chambers thrilled and sang.They knew all wisdom, for they knewThe souls of those Egyptian KingsWho learned, in ancient Babilu,The beauty of immortal things.They knew all beauty--when they thoughtThe air chimed like a stricken lyre,The elemental birds were wrought,The golden birds became a fire.And straight to busy camps and martsThe singing flames were swiftly gone;The trembling leaves of human heartsHid boughs for them to perch upon.And men in desert places, menAbandoned, broken, sick with fears,Rose singing, swung their swords agen,And laughed and died among the spears.The green and greedy seas have drownedThat city's glittering walls and towers,Her sunken minarets are crownedWith red and russet water-flowers.In towers and rooms and golden courtsThe shadowy coral lifts her sprays;The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts,The shark doth haunt her hidden ways.But, at the falling of the tide,The golden birds still sing and gleam,The Atlanteans have not died,Immortal things still give us dream.The dream that fires man's heart to make,To build, to do, to sing or sayA beauty Death can never take,An Adam from the crumbled clay.BORN FOR NOUGHT ELSEBorn for nought else, for nothing but for this,To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat,To think how comely sweet her body is,And learn the poem of her face by rote.Born for nought else but to attempt a rhymeThat shall describe her womanhood aright,And make her holy to the end of Time,And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight.Born for nought else but to expressly markThe music of her dear delicious ways;Born but to perish meanly in the dark,Yet born to be the man to sing her praise.Born for nought else: there is a spirit tellsMy lot's a King's, being born for nothing else.TEWKESBURY ROADIt is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brinkWhere the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drinkWhen the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirthAt the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.THE DEATH ROOMSMy soul has many an old decaying roomHung with the ragged arras of the past,Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,A something like a worm gnawing a brain,That bids me heed what bitter lesson saithThe blind wind beating on the window-pane.None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can--I pass them through at night with hidden head;Lock'd rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know,Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.IGNORANCESince I have learned Love's shining alphabet,And spelled in ink what's writ in me in flame,And borne her sacred image richly setHere in my heart to keep me quit of shame;Since I have learned how wise and passing wiseIs the dear friend whose beauty I extol,And know how sweet a soul looks through the eyes,That are so pure a window to her soul;Since I have learned how rare a woman showsAs much in all she does as in her looks,And seen the beauty of her shame the rose,And dim the beauty writ about in books;All I have learned, and can learn, shows me this--How scant, how slight, my knowledge of her is.SEA FEVERI must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking,I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.THE WATCH IN THE WOODWhen Death has laid her in his quietude,And dimmed the glow of her benignant star,Her tired limbs shall rest within a wood,In a green glade where oaks and beeches are,Where the shy fawns, the pretty fawns, the deer,With mild brown eyes shall view her spirit's husk;The sleeping woman of her will appear,The maiden Dian shining through the dusk.And, when the stars are white as twilight fails,And the green leaves are hushed, and the winds swoon,The calm pure thrilling throats of nightingalesShall hymn her sleeping beauty to the moon.All the woods hushed--save for a dripping rose,All the woods dun--save where a glow-worm glows.Brimming the quiet woods with holiness,The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn,The delicate, shy, dappled deer will pressSoft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn.The little pretty rabbits running by.Will pause among the dewy grass to peep,Their thudding hearts affrighted to espyThe maiden Dian lying there asleep.Brown, lustrous, placid eyes of sylvan thingsWill wonder at the quiet in her face,While from the thorny branch the singer bringsBeauty and peace to that immortal place.Until the grey dawn sets the woods astirThe pure birds' thrilling psalm will mourn for her.C. L. M.In the dark womb where I beganMy mother's life made me a man.Through all the months of human birthHer beauty fed my common earth.I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,But through the death of some of her.Down in the darkness of the graveShe cannot see the life she gave.For all her love, she cannot tellWhether I use it ill or well,Nor knock at dusty doors to findHer beauty dusty in the mind.If the grave's gates could be undone,She would not know her little son,I am so grown. If we should meetShe would pass by me in the street,Unless my soul's face let her seeMy sense of what she did for me.What have I done to keep in mindMy debt to her and womankind?What woman's happier life repaysHer for those months of wretched days?For all my mouthless body leechedEre Birth's releasing hell was reached?What have I done, or tried, or saidIn thanks to that dear woman dead?Men triumph over women still,Men trample women's rights at will,And man's lust roves the world untamed.* * * * *O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.WASTENo rose but fades: no glory but must pass:No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.Her beauty must go underneath the grass,Under the long roots of the violets.O, many glowing beauties Time has hidIn that dark, blotting box the villain sends.He covers over with a coffin-lidMothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay,All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,Things the old envious villain sweeps away.And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll,Death brings another April to the soul.THIRD MATEAll the sheets are clacking, all the blocks are whining,The sails are frozen stiff and the wetted decks are shining;The reef's in the topsails, and it's coming on to blow,And I think of the dear girl I left long ago.Grey were her eyes, and her hair was long and bonny,Golden was her hair, like the wild bees' honey.And I was but a dog, and a mad one to despise,The gold of her hair and the grey of her eyes.There's the sea before me, and my home's behind me,And beyond there the strange lands where nobody will mind me,No one but the girls with the paint upon their cheeks,Who sell away their beauty to whomsoever seeks.There'll be drink and women there, and songs and laughter,Peace from what is past and from all that follows after;And a fellow will forget how a woman lies awake,Lonely in the night watch crying for his sake.Black it blows and bad and it howls like slaughter,And the ship she shudders as she takes the water.Hissing flies the spindrift like a wind-blown smoke,And I think of a woman and a heart I broke.THE WILD DUCKTwilight. Red in the west.Dimness. A glow on the wood.The teams plod home to rest.The wild duck come to glean.O souls not understood,What a wild cry in the pool;What things have the farm ducks seenThat they cry so--huddle and cry?Only the soul that goes.Eager. Eager. Flying.Over the globe of the moon,Over the wood that glows.Wings linked. Necks a-strain,A rush and a wild crying.* * *A cry of the long painIn the reeds of a steel lagoon.In a land that no man knows.CHRISTMAS, 1903O, the sea breeze will be steady, and the tall ship's going trim,And the dark blue skies are paling, and the white stars burning dim;The long night watch is over, and the long sea-roving done,And yonder light is the Start Point light, and yonder comes the sun.O, we have been with the Spaniards, and far and long on the sea;But there are the twisted chimneys, and the gnarled old inns on the quay.The wind blows keen as the day breaks, the roofs are white with the rime,And the church-bells ring as the sun comes up to call men in to Prime.
It's rough on sailors' women. They have to mangle hard,And stitch at dungarees till their finger-ends are scarred,Thinking of the sailor-men who sang among the crowd,Hoisting of her topsails when she sailed so proud.
It's rough on sailors' women. They have to mangle hard,
And stitch at dungarees till their finger-ends are scarred,
Thinking of the sailor-men who sang among the crowd,
Hoisting of her topsails when she sailed so proud.
A CREED
I hold that when a person diesHis soul returns again to earth;Arrayed in some new flesh-disguiseAnother mother gives him birth.With sturdier limbs and brighter brainThe old soul takes the roads again.
I hold that when a person dies
His soul returns again to earth;
His soul returns again to earth;
Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise
Another mother gives him birth.
Another mother gives him birth.
With sturdier limbs and brighter brain
The old soul takes the roads again.
Such is my own belief and trust;This hand, this hand that holds the pen,Has many a hundred times been dustAnd turned, as dust, to dust again;These eyes of mine have blinked and shoneIn Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.
Such is my own belief and trust;
This hand, this hand that holds the pen,
This hand, this hand that holds the pen,
Has many a hundred times been dust
And turned, as dust, to dust again;
And turned, as dust, to dust again;
These eyes of mine have blinked and shone
In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.
All that I rightly think or do,Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,Is curse or blessing justly dueFor sloth or effort in the past.My life's a statement of the sumOf vice indulged, or overcome.
All that I rightly think or do,
Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,
Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,
Is curse or blessing justly due
For sloth or effort in the past.
For sloth or effort in the past.
My life's a statement of the sum
Of vice indulged, or overcome.
I know that in my lives to beMy sorry heart will ache and burn,And worship, unavailingly,The woman whom I used to spurn,And shake to see another haveThe love I spurned, the love she gave.
I know that in my lives to be
My sorry heart will ache and burn,
My sorry heart will ache and burn,
And worship, unavailingly,
The woman whom I used to spurn,
The woman whom I used to spurn,
And shake to see another have
The love I spurned, the love she gave.
And I shall know, in angry words,In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,A carrion flock of homing-birds,The gibes and scorns I uttered here.The brave word that I failed to speakWill brand me dastard on the cheek.
And I shall know, in angry words,
In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,
In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,
A carrion flock of homing-birds,
The gibes and scorns I uttered here.
The gibes and scorns I uttered here.
The brave word that I failed to speak
Will brand me dastard on the cheek.
And as I wander on the roadsI shall be helped and healed and blessed;Dear words shall cheer and be as goadsTo urge to heights before unguessed.My road shall be the road I made;All that I gave shall be repaid.
And as I wander on the roads
I shall be helped and healed and blessed;
I shall be helped and healed and blessed;
Dear words shall cheer and be as goads
To urge to heights before unguessed.
To urge to heights before unguessed.
My road shall be the road I made;
All that I gave shall be repaid.
So shall I fight, so shall I tread,In this long war beneath the stars;So shall a glory wreathe my head,So shall I faint and show the scars,Until this case, this clogging mould,Be smithied all to kingly gold.
So shall I fight, so shall I tread,
In this long war beneath the stars;
In this long war beneath the stars;
So shall a glory wreathe my head,
So shall I faint and show the scars,
So shall I faint and show the scars,
Until this case, this clogging mould,
Be smithied all to kingly gold.
WHEN BONY DEATH
When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,And changed her glorious beauty into mudBy his old skill in hateful wizardries;
When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,
And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,
And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,
And changed her glorious beauty into mud
By his old skill in hateful wizardries;
By his old skill in hateful wizardries;
When an old lichened marble strives to tellHow sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;When rheumy grey-beards say, "I knew her well,"Showing the grave to curious worshippers;
When an old lichened marble strives to tell
How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;
How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers;
When rheumy grey-beards say, "I knew her well,"
Showing the grave to curious worshippers;
Showing the grave to curious worshippers;
When all the roses that she sowed in meHave dripped their crimson petals and decayed,Leaving no greenery on any treeThat her dear hands in my heart's garden laid,
When all the roses that she sowed in me
Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed,
Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed,
Leaving no greenery on any tree
That her dear hands in my heart's garden laid,
That her dear hands in my heart's garden laid,
Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull,These songs may keep her memory beautiful.
Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull,
These songs may keep her memory beautiful.
THE WEST WIND
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
"Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away.It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray:And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?
"Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away.
It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray:
And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain,
Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?
The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run;It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run;
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
It's the white road westwards is the road I must treadTo the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' songIn the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
HER HEART
Her heart is always doing lovely things,Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers;Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings,Delighting all my undelightful hours.
Her heart is always doing lovely things,
Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers;
Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers;
Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings,
Delighting all my undelightful hours.
Delighting all my undelightful hours.
She plays me like a lute, what tune she will,No string in me but trembles at her touch,Shakes into sacred music, or is still,Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.
She plays me like a lute, what tune she will,
No string in me but trembles at her touch,
No string in me but trembles at her touch,
Shakes into sacred music, or is still,
Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.
Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.
And in the dusty tavern of my soulWhere filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine,Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl,Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.
And in the dusty tavern of my soul
Where filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine,
Where filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine,
Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl,
Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.
Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.
All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse,Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.
All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse,
Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.
BEING HER FRIEND
Being her friend, I do not care, not I,How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;Her word's sufficient star to travel by,I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.
Being her friend, I do not care, not I,
How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;
How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;
Her word's sufficient star to travel by,
I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.
I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.
Being her friend, I do not covet gold,Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.
Being her friend, I do not covet gold,
Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;
Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;
To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,
Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.
Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.
Being her friend, I only covet art,A white pure flame to search me as I traceIn crooked letters from a throbbing heartThe hymn to beauty written on her face.
Being her friend, I only covet art,
A white pure flame to search me as I trace
A white pure flame to search me as I trace
In crooked letters from a throbbing heart
The hymn to beauty written on her face.
The hymn to beauty written on her face.
FRAGMENTS
Troy Town is covered up with weeds,The rabbits and the pismires broodOn broken gold, and shards, and beadsWhere Priam's ancient palace stood.
Troy Town is covered up with weeds,
The rabbits and the pismires brood
The rabbits and the pismires brood
On broken gold, and shards, and beads
Where Priam's ancient palace stood.
Where Priam's ancient palace stood.
The floors of many a gallant houseAre matted with the roots of grass;The glow-worm and the nimble mouseAmong her ruins flit and pass.
The floors of many a gallant house
Are matted with the roots of grass;
Are matted with the roots of grass;
The glow-worm and the nimble mouse
Among her ruins flit and pass.
Among her ruins flit and pass.
And there, in orts of blackened bone,The widowed Trojan beauties lie,And Simois babbles over stoneAnd waps and gurgles to the sky.
And there, in orts of blackened bone,
The widowed Trojan beauties lie,
The widowed Trojan beauties lie,
And Simois babbles over stone
And waps and gurgles to the sky.
And waps and gurgles to the sky.
Once there were merry days in Troy,Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals,The passing chariots did annoyThe sunning housewives at their wheels.
Once there were merry days in Troy,
Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals,
Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals,
The passing chariots did annoy
The sunning housewives at their wheels.
The sunning housewives at their wheels.
And many a lovely Trojan maidSet Trojan lads to lovely things;The game of life was nobly played,They played the game like Queens and Kings.
And many a lovely Trojan maid
Set Trojan lads to lovely things;
Set Trojan lads to lovely things;
The game of life was nobly played,
They played the game like Queens and Kings.
They played the game like Queens and Kings.
So that, when Troy had greatly passedIn one red roaring fiery coal,The courts the Grecians overcastBecame a city in the soul.
So that, when Troy had greatly passed
In one red roaring fiery coal,
In one red roaring fiery coal,
The courts the Grecians overcast
Became a city in the soul.
Became a city in the soul.
In some green island of the sea,Where now the shadowy coral growsIn pride and pomp and emperyThe courts of old Atlantis rose.
In some green island of the sea,
Where now the shadowy coral grows
Where now the shadowy coral grows
In pride and pomp and empery
The courts of old Atlantis rose.
The courts of old Atlantis rose.
In many a glittering house of glassThe Atlanteans wandered there;The paleness of their faces wasLike ivory, so pale they were.
In many a glittering house of glass
The Atlanteans wandered there;
The Atlanteans wandered there;
The paleness of their faces was
Like ivory, so pale they were.
Like ivory, so pale they were.
And hushed they were, no noise of wordsIn those bright cities ever rang;Only their thoughts, like golden birds,About their chambers thrilled and sang.
And hushed they were, no noise of words
In those bright cities ever rang;
In those bright cities ever rang;
Only their thoughts, like golden birds,
About their chambers thrilled and sang.
About their chambers thrilled and sang.
They knew all wisdom, for they knewThe souls of those Egyptian KingsWho learned, in ancient Babilu,The beauty of immortal things.
They knew all wisdom, for they knew
The souls of those Egyptian Kings
The souls of those Egyptian Kings
Who learned, in ancient Babilu,
The beauty of immortal things.
The beauty of immortal things.
They knew all beauty--when they thoughtThe air chimed like a stricken lyre,The elemental birds were wrought,The golden birds became a fire.
They knew all beauty--when they thought
The air chimed like a stricken lyre,
The air chimed like a stricken lyre,
The elemental birds were wrought,
The golden birds became a fire.
The golden birds became a fire.
And straight to busy camps and martsThe singing flames were swiftly gone;The trembling leaves of human heartsHid boughs for them to perch upon.
And straight to busy camps and marts
The singing flames were swiftly gone;
The singing flames were swiftly gone;
The trembling leaves of human hearts
Hid boughs for them to perch upon.
Hid boughs for them to perch upon.
And men in desert places, menAbandoned, broken, sick with fears,Rose singing, swung their swords agen,And laughed and died among the spears.
And men in desert places, men
Abandoned, broken, sick with fears,
Abandoned, broken, sick with fears,
Rose singing, swung their swords agen,
And laughed and died among the spears.
And laughed and died among the spears.
The green and greedy seas have drownedThat city's glittering walls and towers,Her sunken minarets are crownedWith red and russet water-flowers.
The green and greedy seas have drowned
That city's glittering walls and towers,
That city's glittering walls and towers,
Her sunken minarets are crowned
With red and russet water-flowers.
With red and russet water-flowers.
In towers and rooms and golden courtsThe shadowy coral lifts her sprays;The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts,The shark doth haunt her hidden ways.
In towers and rooms and golden courts
The shadowy coral lifts her sprays;
The shadowy coral lifts her sprays;
The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts,
The shark doth haunt her hidden ways.
The shark doth haunt her hidden ways.
But, at the falling of the tide,The golden birds still sing and gleam,The Atlanteans have not died,Immortal things still give us dream.
But, at the falling of the tide,
The golden birds still sing and gleam,
The golden birds still sing and gleam,
The Atlanteans have not died,
Immortal things still give us dream.
Immortal things still give us dream.
The dream that fires man's heart to make,To build, to do, to sing or sayA beauty Death can never take,An Adam from the crumbled clay.
The dream that fires man's heart to make,
To build, to do, to sing or say
To build, to do, to sing or say
A beauty Death can never take,
An Adam from the crumbled clay.
An Adam from the crumbled clay.
BORN FOR NOUGHT ELSE
Born for nought else, for nothing but for this,To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat,To think how comely sweet her body is,And learn the poem of her face by rote.
Born for nought else, for nothing but for this,
To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat,
To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat,
To think how comely sweet her body is,
And learn the poem of her face by rote.
And learn the poem of her face by rote.
Born for nought else but to attempt a rhymeThat shall describe her womanhood aright,And make her holy to the end of Time,And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight.
Born for nought else but to attempt a rhyme
That shall describe her womanhood aright,
That shall describe her womanhood aright,
And make her holy to the end of Time,
And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight.
And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight.
Born for nought else but to expressly markThe music of her dear delicious ways;Born but to perish meanly in the dark,Yet born to be the man to sing her praise.
Born for nought else but to expressly mark
The music of her dear delicious ways;
The music of her dear delicious ways;
Born but to perish meanly in the dark,
Yet born to be the man to sing her praise.
Yet born to be the man to sing her praise.
Born for nought else: there is a spirit tellsMy lot's a King's, being born for nothing else.
Born for nought else: there is a spirit tells
My lot's a King's, being born for nothing else.
TEWKESBURY ROAD
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,
Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;
Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;
Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,
Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.
Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.
And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brinkWhere the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drinkWhen the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.
And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink
Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;
Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white;
Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink
When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.
When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.
O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirthAt the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.
O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,
Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;
Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;
And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth
At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.
At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.
THE DEATH ROOMS
My soul has many an old decaying roomHung with the ragged arras of the past,Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.
My soul has many an old decaying room
Hung with the ragged arras of the past,
Hung with the ragged arras of the past,
Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,
And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.
And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.
Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,A something like a worm gnawing a brain,That bids me heed what bitter lesson saithThe blind wind beating on the window-pane.
Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,
A something like a worm gnawing a brain,
A something like a worm gnawing a brain,
That bids me heed what bitter lesson saith
The blind wind beating on the window-pane.
The blind wind beating on the window-pane.
None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can--I pass them through at night with hidden head;Lock'd rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.
None dwells in those old rooms: none ever can--
I pass them through at night with hidden head;
I pass them through at night with hidden head;
Lock'd rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,
Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.
Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.
Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know,Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.
Haunted old rooms: rooms she must never know,
Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.
IGNORANCE
Since I have learned Love's shining alphabet,And spelled in ink what's writ in me in flame,And borne her sacred image richly setHere in my heart to keep me quit of shame;
Since I have learned Love's shining alphabet,
And spelled in ink what's writ in me in flame,
And spelled in ink what's writ in me in flame,
And borne her sacred image richly set
Here in my heart to keep me quit of shame;
Here in my heart to keep me quit of shame;
Since I have learned how wise and passing wiseIs the dear friend whose beauty I extol,And know how sweet a soul looks through the eyes,That are so pure a window to her soul;
Since I have learned how wise and passing wise
Is the dear friend whose beauty I extol,
Is the dear friend whose beauty I extol,
And know how sweet a soul looks through the eyes,
That are so pure a window to her soul;
That are so pure a window to her soul;
Since I have learned how rare a woman showsAs much in all she does as in her looks,And seen the beauty of her shame the rose,And dim the beauty writ about in books;
Since I have learned how rare a woman shows
As much in all she does as in her looks,
As much in all she does as in her looks,
And seen the beauty of her shame the rose,
And dim the beauty writ about in books;
And dim the beauty writ about in books;
All I have learned, and can learn, shows me this--How scant, how slight, my knowledge of her is.
All I have learned, and can learn, shows me this--
How scant, how slight, my knowledge of her is.
SEA FEVER
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking,
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking,
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
THE WATCH IN THE WOOD
When Death has laid her in his quietude,And dimmed the glow of her benignant star,Her tired limbs shall rest within a wood,In a green glade where oaks and beeches are,
When Death has laid her in his quietude,
And dimmed the glow of her benignant star,
And dimmed the glow of her benignant star,
Her tired limbs shall rest within a wood,
In a green glade where oaks and beeches are,
In a green glade where oaks and beeches are,
Where the shy fawns, the pretty fawns, the deer,With mild brown eyes shall view her spirit's husk;The sleeping woman of her will appear,The maiden Dian shining through the dusk.
Where the shy fawns, the pretty fawns, the deer,
With mild brown eyes shall view her spirit's husk;
With mild brown eyes shall view her spirit's husk;
The sleeping woman of her will appear,
The maiden Dian shining through the dusk.
The maiden Dian shining through the dusk.
And, when the stars are white as twilight fails,And the green leaves are hushed, and the winds swoon,The calm pure thrilling throats of nightingalesShall hymn her sleeping beauty to the moon.
And, when the stars are white as twilight fails,
And the green leaves are hushed, and the winds swoon,
And the green leaves are hushed, and the winds swoon,
The calm pure thrilling throats of nightingales
Shall hymn her sleeping beauty to the moon.
Shall hymn her sleeping beauty to the moon.
All the woods hushed--save for a dripping rose,All the woods dun--save where a glow-worm glows.
All the woods hushed--save for a dripping rose,
All the woods dun--save where a glow-worm glows.
Brimming the quiet woods with holiness,The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn,The delicate, shy, dappled deer will pressSoft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn.
Brimming the quiet woods with holiness,
The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn,
The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn,
The delicate, shy, dappled deer will press
Soft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn.
Soft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn.
The little pretty rabbits running by.Will pause among the dewy grass to peep,Their thudding hearts affrighted to espyThe maiden Dian lying there asleep.
The little pretty rabbits running by.
Will pause among the dewy grass to peep,
Will pause among the dewy grass to peep,
Their thudding hearts affrighted to espy
The maiden Dian lying there asleep.
The maiden Dian lying there asleep.
Brown, lustrous, placid eyes of sylvan thingsWill wonder at the quiet in her face,While from the thorny branch the singer bringsBeauty and peace to that immortal place.
Brown, lustrous, placid eyes of sylvan things
Will wonder at the quiet in her face,
Will wonder at the quiet in her face,
While from the thorny branch the singer brings
Beauty and peace to that immortal place.
Beauty and peace to that immortal place.
Until the grey dawn sets the woods astirThe pure birds' thrilling psalm will mourn for her.
Until the grey dawn sets the woods astir
The pure birds' thrilling psalm will mourn for her.
C. L. M.
In the dark womb where I beganMy mother's life made me a man.Through all the months of human birthHer beauty fed my common earth.I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,But through the death of some of her.
In the dark womb where I began
My mother's life made me a man.
Through all the months of human birth
Her beauty fed my common earth.
I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,
But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the graveShe cannot see the life she gave.For all her love, she cannot tellWhether I use it ill or well,Nor knock at dusty doors to findHer beauty dusty in the mind.
Down in the darkness of the grave
She cannot see the life she gave.
For all her love, she cannot tell
Whether I use it ill or well,
Nor knock at dusty doors to find
Her beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave's gates could be undone,She would not know her little son,I am so grown. If we should meetShe would pass by me in the street,Unless my soul's face let her seeMy sense of what she did for me.
If the grave's gates could be undone,
She would not know her little son,
I am so grown. If we should meet
She would pass by me in the street,
Unless my soul's face let her see
My sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mindMy debt to her and womankind?What woman's happier life repaysHer for those months of wretched days?For all my mouthless body leechedEre Birth's releasing hell was reached?
What have I done to keep in mind
My debt to her and womankind?
What woman's happier life repays
Her for those months of wretched days?
For all my mouthless body leeched
Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached?
What have I done, or tried, or saidIn thanks to that dear woman dead?Men triumph over women still,Men trample women's rights at will,And man's lust roves the world untamed.
What have I done, or tried, or said
In thanks to that dear woman dead?
Men triumph over women still,
Men trample women's rights at will,
And man's lust roves the world untamed.
* * * * *
O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
WASTE
No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.Her beauty must go underneath the grass,Under the long roots of the violets.
No rose but fades: no glory but must pass:
No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.
No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.
Her beauty must go underneath the grass,
Under the long roots of the violets.
Under the long roots of the violets.
O, many glowing beauties Time has hidIn that dark, blotting box the villain sends.He covers over with a coffin-lidMothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.
O, many glowing beauties Time has hid
In that dark, blotting box the villain sends.
In that dark, blotting box the villain sends.
He covers over with a coffin-lid
Mothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.
Mothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.
Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay,All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,Things the old envious villain sweeps away.
Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,
Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay,
Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay,
All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,
Things the old envious villain sweeps away.
Things the old envious villain sweeps away.
And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll,Death brings another April to the soul.
And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll,
Death brings another April to the soul.
THIRD MATE
All the sheets are clacking, all the blocks are whining,The sails are frozen stiff and the wetted decks are shining;The reef's in the topsails, and it's coming on to blow,And I think of the dear girl I left long ago.
All the sheets are clacking, all the blocks are whining,
The sails are frozen stiff and the wetted decks are shining;
The reef's in the topsails, and it's coming on to blow,
And I think of the dear girl I left long ago.
Grey were her eyes, and her hair was long and bonny,Golden was her hair, like the wild bees' honey.And I was but a dog, and a mad one to despise,The gold of her hair and the grey of her eyes.
Grey were her eyes, and her hair was long and bonny,
Golden was her hair, like the wild bees' honey.
And I was but a dog, and a mad one to despise,
The gold of her hair and the grey of her eyes.
There's the sea before me, and my home's behind me,And beyond there the strange lands where nobody will mind me,No one but the girls with the paint upon their cheeks,Who sell away their beauty to whomsoever seeks.
There's the sea before me, and my home's behind me,
And beyond there the strange lands where nobody will mind me,
No one but the girls with the paint upon their cheeks,
Who sell away their beauty to whomsoever seeks.
There'll be drink and women there, and songs and laughter,Peace from what is past and from all that follows after;And a fellow will forget how a woman lies awake,Lonely in the night watch crying for his sake.
There'll be drink and women there, and songs and laughter,
Peace from what is past and from all that follows after;
And a fellow will forget how a woman lies awake,
Lonely in the night watch crying for his sake.
Black it blows and bad and it howls like slaughter,And the ship she shudders as she takes the water.Hissing flies the spindrift like a wind-blown smoke,And I think of a woman and a heart I broke.
Black it blows and bad and it howls like slaughter,
And the ship she shudders as she takes the water.
Hissing flies the spindrift like a wind-blown smoke,
And I think of a woman and a heart I broke.
THE WILD DUCK
Twilight. Red in the west.Dimness. A glow on the wood.The teams plod home to rest.The wild duck come to glean.O souls not understood,What a wild cry in the pool;What things have the farm ducks seenThat they cry so--huddle and cry?
Twilight. Red in the west.
Dimness. A glow on the wood.
The teams plod home to rest.
The wild duck come to glean.
O souls not understood,
What a wild cry in the pool;
What things have the farm ducks seen
That they cry so--huddle and cry?
Only the soul that goes.Eager. Eager. Flying.Over the globe of the moon,Over the wood that glows.Wings linked. Necks a-strain,A rush and a wild crying.
Only the soul that goes.
Eager. Eager. Flying.
Over the globe of the moon,
Over the wood that glows.
Wings linked. Necks a-strain,
A rush and a wild crying.
* * *
A cry of the long painIn the reeds of a steel lagoon.In a land that no man knows.
A cry of the long pain
In the reeds of a steel lagoon.
In a land that no man knows.
CHRISTMAS, 1903
O, the sea breeze will be steady, and the tall ship's going trim,And the dark blue skies are paling, and the white stars burning dim;The long night watch is over, and the long sea-roving done,And yonder light is the Start Point light, and yonder comes the sun.
O, the sea breeze will be steady, and the tall ship's going trim,
And the dark blue skies are paling, and the white stars burning dim;
The long night watch is over, and the long sea-roving done,
And yonder light is the Start Point light, and yonder comes the sun.
O, we have been with the Spaniards, and far and long on the sea;But there are the twisted chimneys, and the gnarled old inns on the quay.The wind blows keen as the day breaks, the roofs are white with the rime,And the church-bells ring as the sun comes up to call men in to Prime.
O, we have been with the Spaniards, and far and long on the sea;
But there are the twisted chimneys, and the gnarled old inns on the quay.
The wind blows keen as the day breaks, the roofs are white with the rime,
And the church-bells ring as the sun comes up to call men in to Prime.