I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM."I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM."
"I BRING FOR YOU, AGLINT WITH DEW, A LITTLE LOVELY DREAM."
CRADLE-SONGFrom groves of spice,O'er fields of rice,Athwart the lotus-stream,I bring for you,Aglint with dew,A little lovely dream.Sweet, shut your eyes,The wild fire-fliesDance through the fairy neem;[1]From the poppy-boleFor you I stoleA little lovely dream.Dear eyes, good-night,In golden lightThe stars around you gleam;On you I pressWith soft caressA little lovely dream.SAROJINI NAIDU
[1]A lilac-tree (Hindustani).
[1]A lilac-tree (Hindustani).
THE DONKEYWhen fishes flew and forests walkedAnd figs grew upon thorn,Some moment when the moon was bloodThen surely I was born;With monstrous head and sickening cryAnd ears like errant wings,The devil's walking parodyOn all four-footed things.The tattered outlaw of the earth,Of ancient crooked will;Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,I keep my secret still.Fools! For I also had my hour;One far fierce hour and sweet:There was a shout about my ears,And palms before my feet.G. K. CHESTERTON
WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS."WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS."
"WITH MONSTROUS HEAD AND SICKENING CRY AND EARS LIKE ERRANT WINGS."
THE EARLY MORNINGThe moon 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.HILAIRE BELLOC
THE SOUTH COUNTRYWhen I 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 be there 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.HILAIRE BELLOC
ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING"ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING"
"ALL I ASK IS A WINDY DAY WITH THE WHITE CLOUDS FLYING"
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 gipsy life,To the gull's, way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whettedknife;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.JOHN MASEFIELD
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 rushof 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 andwhite;Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop 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.JOHN MASEFIELD
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.JOHN MASEFIELD
DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE."DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE."
"DRUMMING UP THE CHANNEL, HALING PRIZES IN THEIR WAKE."
A BALLAD OF THE CAPTAINSWhere are now the CaptainsOf the narrow ships of old—Who with valiant souls went seekingFor the Fabled Fleece of Gold;In the clouded Dusk of Ages,In the Dawn of History;When the ringing songs of HomerFirst re-echoed o'er the Sea?Oh, the Captains lie a-sleepingWhere great iron hulls are sweepingOut of Suez in their pride;And they hear not, and they heed not,And they know not, and they need notIn their deep graves far and wide.Where are now the CaptainsWho went blindly through the Strait,With a tribute to Poseidon,A libation poured to Fate?They were heroes giant-hearted,That with Terrors, told and sung,Like blindfolded lions grappled,When the World was strange and young.Oh, the Captains brave and daring,With their grim old crews are faringWhere our guiding beacons gleam;And the homeward liners o'er them—All the charted seas before them—Shall not wake them as they dream.Where are now the CaptainsFrom bold Nelson back to Drake,Who came drumming up the Channel,Haling prizes in their wake?Where are England's fighting CaptainsWho, with battle-flags unfurled,Went a-rieving all the rieversO'er the waves of all the world?Oh, these Captains, all confidingIn the strong right hand, are bidingIn the margins, on the Main;They are shining bright in story,They are sleeping deep in glory,On the silken lap of Fame.
WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY"WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY"
"WITH A DEAD HIDALGO'S DAUGHTER AS A DOWER FOR THE DEY"
Here are now the CaptainsWho regarded not the tearsOf the captured Christian maidensCarried, weeping, to Algiers?Yes, the swarthy Moorish Captains,Storming wildly 'cross the Bay,With a dead hidalgo's daughter.As a dower for the Dey?Oh, those cruel Captains neverShall sweet lovers more dissever,On their forays as they roll;Or the mad Dons curse them vainly,As their baffled ships, ungainly,Heel them, jeering, to the Mole.Where are now the CaptainsOf those racing, roaring days,Who of knowledge and of courage,Drove the clippers on their ways—To the furthest ounce of pressure,To the latest stitch of sail,'Carried on' before the tempestTill the waters lapped the rail?Oh, the merry, manly skippersOf the traders and the clippers,They are sleeping East and West,And the brave blue seas shall hold them,And the oceans five enfold themIn the havens where they rest.Where are now the CaptainsOf the gallant days agone?They are biding in their places,And the Great Deep bears no tracesOf their good ships passed and gone.They are biding in their places,Where the light of God's own grace is,And the Great Deep thunders on.Yea, with never port to steer for,And with never storm to fear for,They are waiting wan and white,And they hear no more the callingOf the watches, or the fallingOf the sea rain in the night.E. J. BRADY
DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS"DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS"
"DEMI-SILKED, DARK-HAIRED MUSICIANS"
ARABIAFar are the shades of Arabia,Where the Princes ride at noon,'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets,Under the ghost of the moon;And so dark is that vaulted purpleFlowers in the forest riseAnd toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom starsPale in the noonday skies.Sweet is the music of ArabiaIn my heart, when out of dreamsI still in the thin clear mirk of dawnDescry her gliding streams;Hear her strange lutes on the green banksRing loud with the grief and delightOf the demi-silked, dark-haired MusiciansIn the brooding silence of night.They haunt me—her lutes and her forests;No beauty on earth I seeBut shadowed with that dream recallsHer loveliness to me:Still eyes look coldly upon me,Cold voices whisper and say—"He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,They have stolen his wits away."WALTER DE LA MARE
FULL MOONOne night as Dick lay half asleep,Into his drowsy eyesA great still light began to creepFrom out the silent skies.It was the lovely moon's, for whenHe raised his dreamy head,Her rays of silver filled the paneAnd streamed across his bed.So, for awhile, each gazed at each—Dick and the solemn moon—Till, climbing slowly on her way,She vanished, and was gone.WALTER DE LA MARE
NODSoftly along the road of evening,In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew,Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.His drowsy flock streams on before him,Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the sun's last beam leans lowOn Nod the shepherd's fold.The hedge is quick and green with briar,From their sand the conies creep;And all the birds that fly in heavenFlock singing home to sleep.His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,Yet, when night's shadows fall,His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,Misses not one of all.His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,The waters of no-more-pain,His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,"Rest, rest, and rest again."WALTER DE LA MARE
THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCEWho said, "Peacock Pie"?The old King to the sparrow:Who said, "Crops are ripe"?Rust to the harrow:Who said, "Where sleeps she now?Where rests she now her head,Bathed in eve's loveliness"?That's what I said.Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"?Sexton to willow:Who said, "Green dusk for dreams,Moss for a pillow"?Who said, "All Time's delightHath she for narrow bed;Life's troubled bubble broken"?That's what I said.WALTER DE LA MARE
'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'"'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'"
"'ALL TIME'S DELIGHT HATH SHE FOR NARROW BED'"
A DEAD HARVESTIN KENSINGTON GARDENSAlong the graceless grass of townThey rake the rows of red and brown,—Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hayDelicate, touched with gold and grey,Raked long ago and far away.A narrow silence in the park,Between the lights a narrow dark.One street rolls on the north; and one,Muffled, upon the south doth run;Amid the mist the work is done.A futile crop! for it the fireSmoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre.So go the town's lives on the breeze,Even as the sheddings of the trees;Bosom nor barn is filled with these.ALICE MEYNELL
NOVEMBER BLUE
The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementarycolour to the air in the early evening.Essay on London
O heavenly colour, London townHas blurred it from her skies;And, hooded in an earthly brown,Unheaven'd the city lies.No longer standard-like this hueAbove the broad road flies;Nor does the narrow street the blueWear, slender pennon-wise.But when the gold and silver lampsColour the London dew,And, misted by the winter damps,The shops shine bright anew—Blue comes to earth, it walks the street,It dyes the wide air through;A mimic sky about their feet,The throng go crowned with blue.ALICE MEYNELL
SHE WALKS—THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT—A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP"SHE WALKS—THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT—A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP"
"SHE WALKS—THE LADY OF MY DELIGHT—A SHEPHERDESS OF SHEEP"
THE SHEPHERDESSShe walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;She guards them from the steep;She feeds them on the fragrant height,And folds them in for sleep.She roams maternal hills and bright,Dark valleys safe and deep,Into that tender breast at nightThe chastest stars may peep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.She holds her little thoughts in sight,Though gay they run and leap.She is so circumspect and right;She has her soul to keep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.ALICE MEYNELL
THE DEADBlow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.These laid the world away; poured out the redSweet wine of youth; gave up the years to beOf work and joy, and that unhoped serene,That men call age; and those who would have been,Their sons, they gave, their immortality.Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,And paid his subjects with a royal wage;And Nobleness walks in our ways again;And we have come into our heritage.RUPERT BROOKE
HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH"HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH"
"HONOUR HAS COME BACK, AS A KING, TO EARTH"
THE GREAT LOVERI have been so great a lover: filled my daysSo proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,Desire illimitable, and still content,And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,For the perplexed and viewless streams that bearOur hearts at random down the dark of life.Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strifeSteals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,My night shall be remembered for a starThat outshone all the suns of all men's days.Shall I not crown them with immortal praiseWhom I have loved, who have given me, dared with meHigh secrets, and in darkness knelt to seeThe inenarrable godhead of delight?Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.A city:—and we have built it, these and I.An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,And the high cause of Love's magnificence,And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those namesGolden for ever, eagles, crying flames,And set them as a banner, that men may know,To dare the generations, burn, and blowOut on the wind of Time, shining and streaming....These I have loved:White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crustOf friendly bread; and many-tasting food;Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soonSmooth away trouble; and the rough male kissOf blankets; grainy wood; live hair that isShining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keenUnpassioned beauty of a great machine;The benison of hot water; furs to touch;The good smell of old clothes; and other such—The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingersAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns....
OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING"OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING"
"OUT ON THE WIND OF TIME, SHINING AND STREAMING"
Dear names,And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foamThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;And washen stones, gay for an hour; the coldGraveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;—And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.Whatever passes not, in the great hour,Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have powerTo hold them with me through the gate of Death.They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trustAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.—Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,And give what's left of love again, and makeNew friends, now strangers....But the best I've known,Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.Nothing remains.O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one last gift I give: that after menShall know, and later lovers, far-removed,Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."RUPERT BROOKE
MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW"MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW"
"MOIST BLACK EARTHEN mould;... AND HIGH PLACES FOOTPRINTS IN THE DEW"
THE SOLDIERIf I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.RUPERT BROOKE
BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSSSombre and rich, the skies;Great glooms, and starry plains.Gently the night wind sighs;Else a vast silence reigns.The splendid silence clingsAround me: and aroundThe saddest of all kingsCrowned, and again discrowned.Comely and calm, he ridesHard by his own Whitehall:Only the night wind glides:No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.Gone, too, his Court; and yet,The stars his courtiers are:Stars in their stations set;And every wandering star.Alone he rides, alone,The fair and fatal king:Dark night is all his own,That strange and solemn thing.Which are more full of fate:The stars; or those sad eyes?Which are more still and great:Those brows; or the dark skies?Although his whole heart yearnIn passionate tragedy:Never was face so sternWith sweet austerity.Vanquished in life, his deathBy beauty made amends:The passing of his breathWon his defeated ends.Brief life and hapless? Nay:Through death, life grew sublime.Speak after sentence?Yea:And to the end of time.Armoured he rides, his headBare to the stars of doom:He triumphs now, the dead,Beholding London's gloom.Our wearier spirit faints,Vexed in the world's employ:His soul was of the saints;And art to him was joy.King, tried in fires of woeMen hunger for thy grace:And through the night I go,Loving thy mournful face.Yet when the city sleeps;When all the cries are still:The stars and heavenly deepsWork out a perfect will.LIONEL JOHNSON
CHECKThe night was creeping on the ground;She crept and did not make a soundUntil she reached the tree, and thenShe covered it, and stole againAlong the grass beside the wall.I heard the rustle of her shawlAs she threw blackness everywhereUpon the sky and ground and air,And in the room where I was hid:But no matter what she didTo everything that was without,She could not put my candle out.So I stared at the night, and sheStared back solemnly at me.JAMES STEPHENS
WHEN THE LEAVES FALLWhen the leaves fall off the treesEverybody walks on them:Once they had a time of easeHigh above, and every breezeUsed to stay and talk to them.Then they were so debonairAs they fluttered up and down;Dancing in the sunny air,Dancing without knowing thereWas a gutter in the town.Now they have no place at all!All the home that they can findIs a gutter by a wall,And the wind that waits their fallIs an apache of a wind.JAMES STEPHENS
IN FRANCEThe poplars in the fields of FranceAre golden ladies come to dance;But yet to see them there is noneBut I and the September sun.The girl who in their shadow sitsCan only see the sock she knits;Her dog is watching all the dayThat not a cow shall go astray.The leisurely contented cowsCan only see the earth they browse;Their piebald bodies through the grassWith busy, munching noses pass.Alone the sun and I beholdProcessions crowned with shining gold—The poplars in the fields of France,Like glorious ladies come to dance.FRANCES CORNFORD
THE RAGWORTThe thistles on the sandy flatsAre courtiers with crimson hats;The ragworts, growing up so straight,Are emperors who stand in state,And march about, so proud and bold,In crowns of fairy-story gold.The people passing home at nightRejoice to see the shining sight,They quite forget the sands and seaWhich are as grey as grey can be,Nor ever heed the gulls who cryLike peevish children in the sky.FRANCES CORNFORD
LONE DOGI'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff, and kick, and hate.Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,Wide wind, and wild stars, and the hunger of the quest!IRENE R. McLEOD
IF I HAD A BROOMSTICKIf I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it,I'd fly through the windows when Jane goes to tea,And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide it,To lands where no children are cripples like me;I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the sea,Where soft red anemones close when you touch;If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it,If I had a broomstick—instead of a crutch!PATRICK R. CHALMERS
IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK"IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK"
"IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK"
ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGSIt was early last September nigh to Framlin'amon-Sea,An''twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea,An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane,A Pharaoh with his waggons cornin' jolt an' creak an' strain;A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up,An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup,An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-stringsWas joggin' in the dust along is roundabouts and swings."Goo'-day," said'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go,An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?""I find," said'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found,For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round."Said'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were,It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a'are;But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's,What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!"Goo' luck," said'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt;An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out";'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on againTo meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane;An' the moon she climbed the'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spinThat Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, is sooth of lose-and-win;For "up an' down an' round," said'e, "goes all appointed things,An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!"PATRICK R. CHALMERS
A TOWN WINDOWBeyond my window in the nightIs but a drab inglorious street,Yet there the frost and clean starlightAs over Warwick woods are sweet.Under the grey drift of the townThe crocus works among the mouldAs eagerly as those that crownThe Warwick spring in flame and gold.And when the tramway down the hillAcross the cobbles moans and rings,There is about my window-sillThe tumult of a thousand wings.JOHN DRINKWATER
BRUMANAOh shall I never never be home again?Meadows of England shining in the rainSpread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts greenWith briar fortify, with blossom screenTill my far morning—and O streams that slowAnd pure and deep through plains and playlands go,For me your love and all your kingcups store,And—dark militia of the southern shore,Old fragrant friends—preserve me the last linesOf that long saga which you sung me, pines,When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen treeI listened, with my eyes upon the sea.[Continued]JAMES ELROY FLECKER
THE DYING PATRIOTDay breaks on England down the Kentish hills,Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills,Day of my dreams, O day!I saw them march from Dover, long ago,With a silver cross before them, singing low,Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam,Augustine with his feet of snow.Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,—Beauty she was statue cold—there's blood upon her gown:Noon of my dreams, O noon!Proud and godly kings had built her, long agoWith her towers and tombs and statues all arow,With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there,And the streets where the great men go.