AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW"AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW"
"AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW"
Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales,When the first star shivers and the last wave pales:O evening dreams!There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago,Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow,And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overheadSway when the long winds blow.Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afarYour children of the morning are clamorous for war:Fire in the night, O dreams!Though she send you as she sent you, long ago,South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow,West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must goWhere the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow.JAMES ELROY FLECKER
NOVEMBER EVESNovember Evenings! Damp and stillThey used to cloak Leckhampton hill,And lie down close on the grey plain,And dim the dripping window-pane,And send queer winds like HarlequinsThat seized our elms for violinsAnd struck a note so sharp and lowEven a child could feel the woe.Now fire chased shadow round the room;Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom:We crept about like mice, while NurseSat mending, solemn as a hearse,And even our unlearned eyesHalf closed with choking memories.Is it the mist or the dead leaves,Or the dead men—November eves?JAMES ELROY FLECKER
I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO"I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO"
"I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO"
STAR-TALK"Are you awake, Gemelli,This frosty night?""We'll be awake till reveille,Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli,"It's no good trying to go to sleep:If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,But rest is hopeless to-night,But rest is hopeless to-night."'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,This frosty night?""Yes, and so are the Hyads:See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:We huddle together like birds in a storm:It's bitter weather to-night,It's bitter weather to-night.""What do you hunt, Orion,This starry night?""The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,And the Great Bear," says Orion,"With my starry quiver and beautiful beltI am trying to find a good thick peltTo warm my shoulders to-night,To warm my shoulders to-night.""Did you hear that, Great She-bear,This frosty night?""Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare,Of my own big fur," says the She-bear."I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,And the frost so cruel to-night!And the frost so cruel to-night!""How is your trade, Aquarius,This frosty night?""Complaints is many and various,And my feet are cold," says Aquarius,"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,And the pump has frozen to-night,And the pump has frozen to-night."ROBERT GRAVES
HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?"HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?"
"HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?"
THE KINGFISHERIt was the Rainbow gave thee birth,And left thee all her lovely hues;And, as her mother's name was Tears,So runs it in thy blood to chooseFor haunts the lonely pools, and keepIn company with trees that weep.Go you and, with such glorious hues,Live with proud Peacocks in green parks;On lawns as smooth as shining glass,Let every feather show its mark;Get thee on boughs and clap thy wingsBefore the windows of proud kings.Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain;Thou hast no proud ambitious mind;I also love a quiet placeThat's green, away from all mankind;A lonely pool, and let a treeSigh with her bosom over me.WILLIAM H. DAVIES
SHEEPWhen I was once in BaltimoreA man came up to me and cried,"Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep,And we will sail on Tuesday's tide."If you will sail with me, young man,I'll pay you fifty shillings down;These eighteen hundred sheep I takeFrom Baltimore to Glasgow town."He paid me fifty shillings down,I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep;We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth,We soon were in the salt sea deep.The first night we were out at seaThose sheep were quiet in their mind;The second night they cried with fear—They smelt no pastures in the wind.They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields,They cried so loud I could not sleep:For fifty thousand shillings downI would not sail again with sheep.WILLIAM H. DAVIES
HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIEGreen gardens in Laventie!Soldiers only know the streetWhere the mud is churned and splashed aboutBy battle-wending feet;And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass,Look for it when you pass.Beyond the Church whose pitted spireSeems balanced on a strandOf swaying stone and tottering brickTwo roofless ruins stand,And here behind the wreckage where the back-wall should have beenWe found a garden green.The grass was never trodden on,The little path of gravelWas overgrown with celandine,No other folk did travelAlong its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouseRunning from house to house.So all among the vivid bladesOf soft and tender grassWe lay, nor heard the limber wheelsThat pass and ever pass,In noisy continuity, until their stony rattleSeems in itself a battle.At length we rose up from our easeOf tranquil happy mind,And searched the garden's little lengthA fresh pleasaunce to find;And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging highDid rest the tired eye.The fairest and most fragrantOf the many sweets we found,Was a little bush of Daphne flowerUpon a grassy mound,And so thick were the blossoms set, and so divine the scent,That we were well content.Hungry for Spring I bent my head,The perfume fanned my face,And all my soul was dancingIn that lovely little place,Dancing with a measured step from wrecked andshattered townsAway . . . upon the Downs.I saw green banks of daffodil,Slim poplars in the breeze,Great tan-brown hares in gusty MarchA-courting on the leas;And meadows with their glittering streams, and silverscurrying dace,Home—what a perfect place!EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT
INTO BATTLEThe naked earth is warm with Spring,And with green grass and bursting treesLeans to the sun's gaze glorying,And quivers in the sunny breeze;And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,And a striving evermore for these;And he is dead who will not fight;And who dies fighting has increase.The fighting man shall from the sunTake warmth, and life from the glowing earth;Speed with the light-foot winds to run,And with the trees to newer birth;And find, when fighting shall be done,Great rest, and fullness after dearth.All the bright company of HeavenHold him in their high comradeship,The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven,Orion's Belt and sworded hip.The woodland trees that stand together,They stand to him each one a friend,They gently speak in the windy weather;They guide to valley and ridges' end.The kestrel hovering by day,And the little owls that call by night,Bid him be swift and keen as they,As keen of ear, as swift of sight.The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,If this be the last song you shall singSing well, for you may not sing another;Brother, sing."In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,Before the brazen frenzy starts,The horses show him nobler powers;O patient eyes, courageous hearts!And when the burning moment breaks,And all things else are out of mind,And only Joy of Battle takesHim by the throat, and makes him blind—Though joy and blindness he shall know,Not caring much to know, that still,Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, soThat it be not the Destined Will.The thundering line of battle stands,And in the air Death moans and sings;But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,And Night shall fold him in soft wings.JULIAN GRENFELL
OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSHNymph, nymph, what are your beads?Green glass, goblin. Why do you stareat them?Give them me.No.Give them me. Give them me.No.Then I will howl all night in the reeds,Lie in the mud and howl for them.Goblin, why do you love them so?They are better than stars or water,Better than voices of winds that sing,Better than any man's fair daughter,Your green glass beads on a silver ring.Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO."GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO."
"GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO."
[Illustration: "GIVE ME YOUR BEADS. I DESIRE THEM. NO."]Give me your beads. I desire them.No.I will howl in a deep lagoonFor your green glass beads, I love them so.Give them me. Give them.No.HAROLD MONRO
A FLOWER IS LOOKINGTHROUGH THE GROUNDA flower is looking through the ground,Blinking at the April weather;Now a child has seen the flower:Now they go and play together.Now it seems the flower will speak,And will call the child its brother—But, oh strange forgetfulness!—They don't recognize each other.HAROLD MONRO
MAN CARRYING BALEThe tough hand closes gently on the load;Out of the mind, a voiceCalls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering welltheir work,Lengthen and pause for help.Then a slow ripple flows from head to footWhile all the muscles call to one another:'Lift!' and the bulging baleFloats like a butterfly in June.So moved the earliest carrier of bales,And the same watchful sunGlowed through his body feeding it with light.So will the last one move,And halt, and dip his head, and lay his loadDown, and the muscles will relax and tremble.Earth, you designed your manBeautiful both in labour and repose.HAROLD MONRO
THE CHERRY TREESThe cherry trees bend over and are sheddingOn the old road where all that passed are dead,Their petals, strewing the grass as for a weddingThis early May morn when there is none to wed.EDWARD THOMAS
THE BELLS OF HEAVEN'T Would ring the bells of HeavenThe wildest peal for years,If Parson lost his sensesAnd people came to theirs,And he and they togetherKnelt down with angry prayersFor tamed and shabby tigersAnd dancing dogs and bears,And wretched, blind pit ponies,And little hunted hares.RALPH HODGSON
THE SONG OF HONOURI climbed a hill as light fell short,And rooks came home in scramble sort,And filled the trees and flapped and foughtAnd sang themselves to sleep;An owl from nowhere with no soundSwung by and soon was nowhere found,I heard him calling half-way round,Holloing loud and deep;A pair of stars, faint pins of light,Then many a star, sailed into sight,And all the stars, the flower of night,Were round me at a leap;To tell how still the valleys layI heard a watch-dog miles away,And bells of distant sheep.I heard no more of bird or bell,The mastiff in a slumber fell,I stared into the sky,As wondering men have always doneSince beauty and the stars were one,Though none so hard as I.It seemed, so still the valleys were,As if the whole world knelt at prayer,Save me and me alone;So pure and wide that silence wasI feared to bend a blade of grass,And there I stood like stone.[Continued]RALPH HODGSON
STUPIDITY STREET>I saw with open eyesSinging birds sweetSold in the shopsFor the people to eat,Sold in the shops ofStupidity Street.I saw in visionThe worm in the wheat,And in the shops nothingFor people to eat;Nothing for sale inStupidity Street.RALPH HODGSON
WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES"WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES"
"WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES"
TO THE COMING SPRINGO punctual Spring!We had forgotten in this winter townThe days of Summer and the long, long eves.But now you come on airy wing,With busy fingers spilling baby-leavesOn all the bushes, and a faint green downOn ancient trees, and everywhereYour warm breath soft with kissesStirs the wintry air,And waking us to unimagined blisses.Your lightest footprints in the grassAre marked by painted crocus-flowersAnd heavy-headed daffodils,While little trees blush faintly as you pass.The morning and the nightYou bathe with heavenly showers,And scatter scentless violets on the rounded hills,Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose posies.With magic key, in the new evening light,You are unlocking buds that keep the roses;The purple lilac soon will blow above the wallAnd bended boughs in orchards whitely bloom—We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom ...Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call!MARGARET MACKENZIE
ALMS IN AUTUMNSpindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray,A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way?The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen,And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again.Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a lightTo find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please,Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys.I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fastThat nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past.I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go alongMy heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task,A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask :A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands(I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands).So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright,They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.ROSE FYLEMAN
THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT"THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT"
"THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT"
I DON'T LIKE BEETLESI don't like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good,I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should;I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play,And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away.I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk,And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk;I don't like tigers, not even in a book,And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook!ROSE FYLEMAN
WISHESI wish I liked rice pudding,I wish I were a twin,I wish some day a real live fairyWould just come walking in.I wish when I'm at tableMy feet would touch the floor,I wish our pipes would burst next winter,Just like they did next door.I wish that I could whistleReal proper grown-up tunes,I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneysOn rainy afternoons.I've got such heaps of wishes,I've only said a few;I wish that I could wake some morningAnd find they'd all come true!ROSE FYLEMAN
ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!"ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!"
"ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!"
VERY NEARLY!I never quite saw fairy-folkA-dancing in the glade,Where, just beyond the hollow oak,Their broad green rings are laid:But, while behind that oak I hid,One day I very nearly did!I never quite saw mermaids riseAbove the twilight sea,When sands, left wet,'neath sunset skies,Are blushing rosily:But—all alone, those rocks amid—One night I very nearly did!I never quite saw Goblin GrimWho haunts our lumber roomAnd pops his head above the rimOf that oak chest's deep gloom:But once—when Mother raised the lid—I very, very nearly did!QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER
WHAT THE THRUSH SAYSCome and see! Come and see!"The Thrush pipes out of the hawthorn-tree:And I and Dicky on tiptoe goTo see what treasures he wants to show.His call is clear as a call can be—And "Come and see!" he says:"Come and see!""Come and see! Come and see!"His house is there in the hawthorn-tree:The neatest house that ever you saw,Built all of mosses and twigs and straw:The folk who built were his wife and he—And "Come and see!" he says:"Come and see!""Come and see! Come and see!"Within this house there are treasures three:So warm and snug in its curve they lie—Like three bright bits out of Spring's blue sky.We would not hurt them, he knows; not we!So "Come and see!" he says:"Come and see!""Come and see! Come and see!"No thrush was ever so proud as he!His bright-eyed lady has left those eggsFor just five minutes to stretch her legs.He's keeping guard in the hawthorn-tree,And "Come and see!" he says:"Come and see!""Come and see! Come and see!"He has no fear of the boys and me.He came and shared in our meals, you know,In hungry times of the frost and snow.So now we share in his Secret TreeWhere "Come and see!" he says:"Come and see!"QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER
THE SUNSET GARDENI can see from the window a little brown house,And the garden goes up to the top of the hill.And the sun comes each day,And slips down awayAt the end of the garden an' sleeps there ... untilThe daylight comes climbing up over the hill.I do wish I lived in the little brown house,Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' creepUp ... up ... then I'd stop,An' lean over the top,At the end of the garden, an' so I could peep,And see what the sun looks like when it's asleep.MARION ST JOHN WEBB
SWEET AS THE BREATH OF THE WHINSweet as the breath of the whinIs the thought of my love—Sweet as the breath of the whinIn the noonday sun—Sweet as the breath of the whinIn the sun after rain.Glad as the gold of the whinIs the thought of my love—Glad as the gold of the whinSince wandering's done—Glad as the gold of the whinIs my heart, home again.WILFRID WILSON GIBSON
THE LAW THE LAWYERS KNOW ABOUTThe law the lawyers know aboutIs property and land;But why the leaves are on the trees,And why the winds disturb the seas,Why honey is the food of bees,Why horses have such tender knees,Why winters come and rivers freeze,Why Faith is more than what one sees,And Hope survives the worst disease,And Charity is more than these,They do not understand.H. D. C. PEPLER
I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS"I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS"
"I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS"
ALL IS SPIRIT AND PART OF ME.A greater lover none can be,And all is spirit and part of me.I am sway of the rolling hills,And breath from the great wide plains;I am born of a thousand storms,And grey with the rushing rains;I have stood with the age-long rocks,And flowered with the meadow sweet;I have fought with the wind-worn firs,And bent with the ripening wheat;I have watched with the solemn clouds,And dreamt with the moorland pools;I have raced with the water's whirl,And lain where their anger cools;I have hovered as strong-winged bird,And swooped as I saw my prey;I have risen with cold grey dawn,And flamed in the dying day;For all is spirit and part of me,And greater lover none can be.L. D'O. WALTERS
STREET LANTERNSCountry roads are yellow and brown.We mend the roads in London Town.Never a hansom dare come nigh,Never a cart goes rolling by.An unwonted silence stealsIn between the turning wheels.Quickly ends the autumn day,And the workman goes his way,Leaving, midst the traffic rude,One small isle of solitude,Lit, throughout the lengthy night,By the little lantern's light.Jewels of the dark have we,Brighter than the rustic's be.Over the dull earth are thrownTopaz, and the ruby stone.MARY E. COLERIDGE
TO BETSEY-JANE, ON HER DESIRINGTO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVENMy Betsey-Jane, it would not do,For what would Heaven make of you,A little, honey-loving bear,Among the Blessed Babies there?Nor do you dwell with us in vainWho tumble and get up again.And try, with bruised knees, to smile—.Sweet, you are blessed all the-whileAnd we in you: so wait, they'll comeTo take your hand and fetch you home,In Heavenly leaves to play at tentsWith all the Holy Innocents.HELEN PARRY EDEN
THE BRIDGEHere, with one leap,The bridge that spans the cutting; on its backThe loadOf the main-road,And under it the railway-track.Into the plains they sweep,Into the solitary plains asleep,The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel—Fringed with their narrow grass,Into the plains they pass,The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal.A cryProlonged across the earth—a callTo the remote horizons and the sky;The whole east-rushes down them with its light,And the whole west receives them, with its pallOf stars and night—The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel.And with the fallOf darkness, see! the red,Bright anger of the signal, where it flaresLike a huge eye that staresOn some hid danger in the dark ahead.A twang of wire—unseenThe signal drops; and now, insteadOf a red eye, a green.Out of the silence growsAn iron thunder—grows, and roars, and sweeps,Menacing! The plainSuddenly leaps,Startled, from its repose—Alert and listening. Now, from the gloomOf the soft distance, loomThree lights and, over them, a brushOf tawny flame and flying spark—Three pointed lights that rush,Monstrous, upon the cringing dark.And nearer, nearer rolls the sound,Louder the throb and roar of wheels,The shout of speed, the shriek of steam;The sloping bank,Cut into flashing squares, gives back the clankAnd grind of metal, while the groundShudders and the bridge reels—As, with a scream,The train,A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire,A lighted anguish of desire,A dreamOf gold and iron, of sound and flight,Tumultuous roars across the night.The train roars past—and, with a cry,Drowned in a flying howl of wind,Half-stifled in the smoke and blind,The plain,Shaken, exultant, unconfined,Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by,Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the sky.J. REDWOOD ANDERSON
FEBRUARYThe robin on my lawnHe was the first to tellHow, in the frozen dawn,This miracle befell,Waking the meadows whiteWith hoar, the iron roadAgleam with splintered light,And ice where water flowed:Till, when the low sun drankThose milky mists that cloakHanger and hollied bank,The winter world awokeTo hear the feeble bleatOf lambs on downland farms:A blackbird whistled sweet;Old beeches moved their armsInto a mellow hazeAerial, newly-born:And I, alone, agaze,Stood waiting for the thornTo break in blossom white,Or burst in a green flame....So, in a single night,Fair February came,Bidding my lips to singOr whisper their surprise,With all the joy of springAnd morning in her eyes.FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG
SEA-FOAMA fleck of foam on the shining sand,Left by the ebbing sea,But richer than man may understandIn magic and mystery—Transient bubbles rainbow-bright,Myriad-hued and strange,Tremble and throb in the noonday light,Flower and flush and change.A million tides have come and gone,Great gales of autumn and spring,A million summoning moons have shoneTo bring to birth this thing—A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sandBy the wave of an outgoing sea,With all the colour of Faeryland,Wonder and mystery.TERESA HOOLEY
A PETITIONAll that a man might ask, thou hast given me, England,Birth-right and happy childhood's long heart's-ease,And love whose range is deep beyond all soundingAnd wider than all seas.A heart to front the world and find God in it,Eyes blind enow, but not too blind to seeThe lovely things behind the dross and darkness,And lovelier things to be.And friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken,And quenchless hope and laughter's golden store;All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England,Yet grant thou one thing more:That now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour,Unversed in arms, a dreamer such as IMay in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy,England, for thee to die.R. E. VERNÈDE
BLACK AND WHITEI met a man along the roadTo Withernsea;Was ever anything so dark, so paleAs he?His hat, his clothes, his tie, his bootsWere black as blackCould be,And midst of all was a cold white face,And eyes that looked wearily.The road was bleak and straight and flatTo Withernsea,Gaunt poles with shrilling wires their weirdDid dree;On the sky stood out, on the swollen skyThe black blood veinsOf treeAfter tree, as they beat from the faceOf the wind which they could not flee.And in the fields along the roadTo Withernsea,
MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE"MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE"
"MIDST OF ALL WAS A COLD WHITE FACE"
Swart crows sat huddled on the groundDisconsolately,While overhead the seamews wheeled, and skirledIn glee;But the black cows stood, and cropped wherethey stood,And never heeded thee,O dark pale man, with the weary eyes,On the road to Withernsea.H. H. ABBOTT
THE OXENChristmas Eve, and twelve of the clock."Now they are all on their knees,"An elder said as we sat in a flockBy the embers in hearthside ease.We pictured the meek mild creatures whereThey dwelt in their strawy pen,Nor did it occur to one of us thereTo doubt they were kneeling then.So fair a fancy few believeIn these years! Yet, I feel,If someone said on Christmas Eve"Come; see the oxen kneelIn the lonely barton by yonder coombOur childhood used to know,"I should go with him in the gloom,Hoping it might be so.THOMAS HARDY