The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Poems Author: Edward Shanks Release date: October 12, 2011 [eBook #37556] Most recently updated: January 8, 2021 Language: English Credits: Produced by Al Haines *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** Produced by Al Haines POEMS By EDWARD SHANKS LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 3 Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C. 1916 _By the Same Author_ SONGS. 6s. net. (The Poetry Bookshop) TO J. C. STOBART NOTE Certain of these pieces have appeared already in the following periodicals:--_The English Review, The Saturday Review, The Eye-Witness, The Westminster Gazette_, and _The Pall Mall Gazette_. One of the Songs was printed for the first time in an anthology called _Cambridge Poets_. I am indebted to the editors of these for permission to reprint them here. E. S. CONTENTS SONGS-- Song for an Unwritten Play The Cup A Rhymeless Song Meadow and Orchard Who thinks that he possesses Love in the Open Air Fear in the Night An Old Song Love's Close The Weed Recollection The Holiday Walking at Night Half Hope A New Song about the Sea THE WINTER SOLDIER-- The Winter Soldier, i.-ix. The Pool The Dead Poet PASTORAL PIECES-- The Vision in the Wood The Idyll The Pursuit of Daphne MISCELLANEOUS POEMS-- Ode on Beauty Song in Time of Waiting Sonnets on Separation, i.-vii. The Morning Sun Persuasion Apology The Golden Moment Bramber Now would I be Midwinter Madness At a Lecture SONGS _Song for an Unwritten Play._ The moon's a drowsy fool to-night, Wrapped in fleecy clouds and white; And all the while Endymion Sleeps on Latmos top alone. Not a single star is seen: They are gathered round their queen, Keeping vigil by her bed, Patient and unwearièd. Now the poet drops his pen And moves about like other men: Tom o' Bedlam now is still And sleeps beneath the hawthorn'd hill. Only the Latmian shepherd deems Something missing from his dreams And tosses as he sleeps alone. Alas, alas, Endymion! _The Cup._ As a hot traveller Going through stones and sands, Who sees clear water stir Amid the weary lands, Takes in his hollowed hands The clean and lively water, That trickles down his throat Like laughter, like laughter, So when you come to me Across these parchèd places And all the waste I see Flowered with your graces, I take between my hands Your face like a rare cup, Where kisses mix with laughter, And drink and drink them up Like water, like water. _A Rhymeless Song._ Rhyme with its jingle still betrays The song that's meant for one alone. Dearest, I dedicate to you A little song without a rhyme. The most unpractised schoolboy knows That quiet kisses are the sweetest. Safe locked within my arms you lie, Let not a single sound betray us. Suppose your jealous mother came By chance this way and found us here... Be still, be still, and not a sound Shall give her warning that we love. _Meadow and Orchard._ My heart is like a meadow, Where clouds go over, Dappling the mingled grass and clover With mingled sun and shadow, With light that will not stay And shade that sails away. Your heart is like an orchard, That has the sun for ever in its leaves, Where, on the grass beneath the trees, There falls the shadow of the fruit That ripen there for me. _Who thinks that he possesses._ Who thinks that he possesses His mistress with his kisses Knows neither love nor her. Nor beauty is not his Who seeks it in a kiss: If you would seek for this O seek it otherwhere! Love is a flame, a spirit Beyond all earthly merit And all we dream of here; Strive as you may but still Love is intangible, No servant to your will But sovereign otherwhere. _Love in the Open Air._ I'll love you in the open air But stuffy rooms and blazing fires And mirrors with familiar stare Cloak and befoul my high desires. The dearest day that I have known Was in the fields, when driving rain Was like a veil around us thrown, A grey close veil without a stain. The young oak-tree was stripped and bare But naked twigs a shelter made, Where curious cows came round to stare And stood astonished and dismayed. Let it be rain or summer sun, Smell of wet earth or scent of flowers, Love, once more give me, give me one Of these enchanted lover's hours. _Fear in the Night._ I am afraid to-night, We are too glad, too gay, Our life too sweet, too bright To last another day. What hap, what chance can fall, What sorrow come, what schism, What loss, what cataclysm To part us two at all? The stars with ageless fire In skies serene the same Observe our young desire And watch our loves aflame. A whisper soft, a sound Unfollowed, unattended, Shakes all the branches round: They sleep and it is ended. You sleep and I alone Torment myself with fear For new joys coming near And gracious actions done. I am afraid to-night, We are too glad, too gay, Our life too sweet, too bright To last another day. _An Old Song._ The wild duck fly over From river to river And so the young lover Goes roving for ever. They fly together, He walks alone: No maiden can tether Him with her moan. At the bursting of blossom On her breast his head; He has left her bosom Ere the apples are red. Across the valley, Singing he goes. In highway and alley He seeks a new rose. Tell me, O maidens, You who all day In lyrical cadence Dance and play, Why do you proffer Your sweets to one, Who takes all you offer And leaves you to moan? _Love's Close._ Now spring comes round again With blossom on the tree, Dark blossom of the peach, Light blossom of the pear And amorous birds complain And nesting birds prepare And love's keen fingers reach After the heart of me. But now the blackthorn blows About the dusty lane And new buds peep and peer, I have no joy at all, For love draws near its close And love's white blossoms fall And in the springing year Love's fingers bring me pain. _The Weed._ My mother told me this for true That there behind the mountains, That wear the mists about their feet And clouds about their summits, There grows the weed Forgetfulness, It grows there in the gullies. If I but knew the way thereto, Three days long would I wander And pick a handful of the weed And drink it steeped in honey, That so I might forget your mouth A thousand times that kissed me. _Recollection._ Hawthorn above, as pale as frost, Against the paling sky is lost: On the pool's dark sheet below, The candid water-daisies glow. As I came up and saw from far The water littered, star on star, I thought the may had left its hedge To float upon the pool's dark edge. _The Holiday._ The world's great ways unclose Through little wooded hills: An air that stirs and stills, Dies sighing where it rose Or flies to sigh again In elms, whose stately rows Receive the summer rain, And clouds, clouds, clouds go by, A drifting cavalry, In squadrons that disperse And troops that reassemble And now they pass and now Their glittering wealth disburse On tufted grass a-tremble And lately leafing bough. Thus through the shining day We'll love or pass away Light hours in golden sleep, With clos'd half-sentient eyes And lids the light comes through, As sheep and flowers do Who no new toils devise, While shining insects creep About us where we lie Beneath a pleasant sky, In fields no trouble fills, Whence, as the traveller goes, The world's great ways unclose Through little wooded hills. _Walking at Night._ _To A. G._ The moon poured down on tree and field, The leaf was silvered on the hedge, The sleeping kine were half revealed, Half shadowed at the pasture's edge. By steep inclines and long descents, Amid the inattentive trees, You spoke of the four elements, The four eternal mysteries. _Half Hope._ August is gone and now this is September, Softer the sun in a cloudier sky; Yellow the leaves grow and apples grow golden, Blackberries ripen and hedges undress. Watch and you'll see the departure of summer, Here is the end, this the last month of all: Pause and look back and remember its promise, All that looked open and easy in May. Nothing will stay them, the seasons go onward, Lightly the bright months fly out of my hand, Softly the leading note calls a new octave; Autumn is coming and what have I done? Even as summer my young days go over, No day to pause on and nowhere to rest: Slowly they go but implacably onwards, Ah! and my dreams, alas, still they are dreams. How shall I force all my flowers to fruition, Use up the season of ripening sun? Softly the years go but going have vanished, Soon I shall find myself empty and old. Yet I feel in myself bright buds and blossoms, Promise of mellowest bearing to be. Still I have time beside what I have wasted: Life shall be good to me, work shall be sweet. _A New Song about the Sea._ From Amberley to Storrington, From Storrington to Amberley, From Amberley to Washington You cannot see or smell the sea. But why the devil should you wish To see the home of silly fish? Since I prefer the earth and air, The fish may wallow in the sea And live the life that they prefer, If they will leave the land to me, So wish for each what he may wish, The earth for me, the sea for fish. THE WINTER SOLDIER _September_ 1914--_April_ 1915 _The Winter Soldier._ I. TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF HIGH GERMANY No more the English girls may go To follow with the drum But still they flock together To see the soldiers come; For horse and foot are marching by And the bold artillery: They're going to the cruel wars In Low Germany. They're marching down by lane and town And they are hot and dry But as they marched together I heard the soldiers cry: "O all of us, both horse and foot And the proud artillery, We're going to the merry wars In Low Germany." _August_, 1914 II. THE COMRADES The men that marched and sang with me Are most of them in Flanders now: I lie abed and hear the wind Blow softly through the budding bough. And they are scattered far and wide In this or that brave regiment; From trench to trench across the mud They go the way that others went. They run with shining bayonet Or lie and take a careful aim And theirs it is to learn of death And theirs the joy and theirs the fame. III. IN TRAINING The wind is cold and heavy And storms are in the sky: Our path across the heather Goes higher and more high. To right, the town we came from, To left, blue hills and sea: The wind is growing colder And shivering are we. We drag with stiffening fingers Our rifles up the hill. The path is steep and tangled But leads to Flanders still. IV. THE OLD SOLDIERS We come from dock and shipyard, we come from car and train, We come from foreign countries to slope our arms again And, forming fours by numbers or turning to the right, We're learning all our drill again and 'tis a pretty sight. Our names are all unspoken, our regiments forgotten, For some of us were pretty bad and some of us were rotten And some will misremember what once they learnt with pain And hit a bloody Serjeant and go to clink again. V. GOING IN TO DINNER Beat the knife on the plate and the fork on the can, For we're going in to dinner, so make all the noise you can, Up and down the officer wanders, looking blue, Sing a song to cheer him up, he wants his dinner too. March into the dining-hall, make the tables rattle Like a dozen dam' machine guns in the bloody battle, Use your forks for drum-sticks, use your plates for drums, Make a most infernal clatter, here the dinner comes! VI. ON TREK Under a grey dawn, timidly breaking, Through the little village the men are waking, Easing their stiff limbs and rubbing their eyes; From my misted window I watch the sun rise. In the middle of the village a fountain stands, Round it the men sit, washing their red hands. Slowly the light grows, we call the roll over, Bring the laggards stumbling from their warm cover, Slowly the company gathers all together And the men and the officer look shyly at the weather. By the left, quick march! Off the column goes. All through the village all the windows unclose: At every window stands a child, early waking, To see what road the company is taking. VII. LEAVING THE BILLET Good luck, good health, good temper, these, A very hive of honey-bees To make and store up happiness, Should wait upon you without cease, If I'd the power to call them down Into this stuffy little town, Where the dull air in sticky wreaths Afflicts a man each time he breathes. But since I have no power to call Benevolent spirits down at all, I'll wish you all the good I know And close the chapter up and go. VIII. THE FAREWELL Farewell to rising early, now comes the lying late, And long on the parade-ground my company shall wait Before I come to join it on mornings cold and dark And no more shall I lead it across the rimy park. The men shall still manoeuvre in sunshine and in rain And still they'll make the blunders I shall not check again; They'll march upon the highway in weather foul and fair And talk and sing with laughter and I shall not be there. IX. ON ACCOUNT OF ILL HEALTH You go, brave friends, and I am cast to stay behind, To read with frowning eyes and discontented mind The shining history that you are gone to make, To sleep with working brain, to dream and to awake Into another day of most ignoble peace, To drowse, to read, to smoke, to pray that war may cease. The spring is coming on, and with the spring you go In countries where strange scents on the April breezes blow; You'll see the primroses marched down into the mud, You'll see the hawthorn-tree wear crimson flowers of blood And I shall walk about, as I did walk of old, Where the laburnum trails its chains of useless gold, I'll break a branch of may, I'll pick a violet And see the new-born flowers that soldiers must forget, I'll love, I'll laugh, I'll dream and write undying songs But with your regiment my marching soul belongs. Men that have marched with me and men that I have led Shall know and feel the things that I have only read, Shall know what thing it is to sleep beneath the skies And to expect their death what time the sun shall rise. Men that have marched with me shall march to peace again, Bringing for plunder home glad memories of pain, Of toils endured and done, of terrors quite brought under, And all the world shall be their plaything and their wonder. Then in that new-born world, unfriendly and estranged, I shall be quite alone, I shall be left unchanged. _The Pool._ Out of that noise and hurry of large life The river flings me in an idle pool: The waters still go on with stir and strife And sunlit eddies, and the beautiful Tall trees lean down upon the mighty flow, Reflected in that movement. Beauty there Waxes more beautiful, the moments grow Thicker and keener in that lovely air Above the river. Here small sticks and straws Come now to harbour, gather, lie and rot, Out of cross-currents and the water's flaws In this unmoving death, where joy is not, Where war's a shade again, ambition rotten And bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten. _The Dead Poet._ When I grow old they'll come to me and say: Did you then know him in that distant day? Did you speak with him, touch his hand, observe The proud eyes' fire, soft voice and light lips' curve? And I shall answer: This man was my friend; Call to my memory, add, improve, amend And count up all the meetings that we had And note his good and touch upon his bad. When I grow older and more garrulous, I shall discourse on the dead poet thus: I said to him ... he answered unto me... He dined with me one night in Trinity... I supped with him in King's ... Ah, pitiful The twisted memories of an ancient fool And sweet the silence of a young man dead! Now far in Lemnos sleeps that golden head, Unchanged, serene, for ever young and strong, Lifted above the chances that belong To us who live, for he shall not grow old And only of his youth there shall be told Magical stories, true and wondrous tales, As of a god whose virtue never fails, Whose limbs shall never waste, eyes never fall, And whose clear brain shall not be dimmed at all. PASTORAL PIECES _The Vision in the Wood._ The husht September afternoon was sweet With rich and peaceful light. I could not hear On either side the sound of moving feet Although the hidden road was very near. The laden wood had powdered sun in it, Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messenger To tell me of the golden world outside Where fields of stubble stretched through counties wide. And yet I did not move. My head reposed Upon a tuft of dry and scented grass And, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed, I watched the languid chain of shadows pass, Light as the slowly moving shade imposed By summer clouds upon a sea of glass, And strove to banish or to make more clear The elusive and persistent dream of her. And then I saw her, very dim at first, Peering for nuts amid the twisted boughs, Thought her some warm-haired dryad, lately burst Out of the chambers of her leafy house, Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirst Such water as the woodland stream allows, After the greedy summer has drunk up All but a drain within the mossy cup. Then I, beholding her, was still a space And marked each posture as she moved or stood, Watching the sunlight on her hair and face. Thus with calm folded hands and quiet blood I gazed until her counterfeited grace Faded and left me lonely in the wood, Glad that the gods had given so much as this, To see her, if I might not have her kiss. _The Idyll._ This is the valley where we sojourn now, Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green And shaded sweetly by the waving bough About the trench where floats the soft serene Arun with waters running low and low Through banks where lately still the tide has been; Here is our resting-place, you walk with me And watch the light die out in Amberley. The light that dies is soft and flooding still, Shed from the broad expanse of all the skies And brimming up the space from hill to hill, Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise, Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fill And to each other speak with moaning cries; We on the hill-side standing rest and see The light die out in brook and grass and tree. Lately we walked upon the lonely downs And through the still heat of the heavy day We heard the medley of low drifting sounds And through the matted brambles found a way Or lightly trod upon enchanted grounds Musing, or with rich blackberries made delay, Where feed such fruit on the rich air, until We struck like falling stars from Bignor Hill. Down the vast slope, by chalky roads and steep, With trees and bushes hidden here and there, By circling turns into the valley deep We came and left behind the hill-top air For this cool village where to-night we sleep, A country meal, a country bed to share, With sleepy kisses and contented dreams Over a land of still and narrow streams. The light is ebbing in the dusky sky, The valley floor is in the shadow. Hark! With rushing and mysterious noises fly The bats already, looking for the dark With blinking still and unaccustomed eye. Now over Rackham Mount a steady spark Burns, rising slowly in the rising night, And pledges peace and promises delight. Now from the east the wheeling shade appears And softly night into the valley falls, Soft on the meadows drop her dewy tears, Softly a darkness on the crumbled walls. Now in the dusk the village disappears, Men's songs are hushed there and the children's calls, While night in passage swallows up the land And in the shadow your hand seeks my hand. Only the glimmering stars in heaven lie And unseen trees with rustling still betray How all the valley lives invisibly, Where dim sweet odours, remnants of the day, Float from the sleeping fields to please and die, Borne up by roaming airs, that drift away Beyond our hearing, vagabond and light, To visit the cool meadows of the night. _The Pursuit of Daphne._ Daphne is running, running through the grass, The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes. I saw the nymph, the god, I saw them pass And how a mounting flush of tender rose Invaded the white bosom of the lass And reached her shoulders, conquering their snows. He wasted all his breath, imploring still: They passed behind the shadow of the hill. The mad course goes across the silent plain, Their flying footsteps make a path of sound Through all the sleeping country. Now with pain She runs across a stretch of stony ground That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again She hastens through a wood where flowers abound, Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads And for her healing give their trodden heads. Her sisters, from their coverts unbetrayed, Look out in fright and see the two go by, Each unrelenting, and reflect dismayed How fear and anguish glisten in her eye. By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maid Whose breath is coming short in agony: Hard at her heels pursues the golden boy, She flies in fear of him, she flies from joy. His arrows scattered on the countryside, His shining bow deserted, he pursues Through hindering woodlands, over meadows wide And now no longer as he runs he sues But breathing deep and set and eager-eyed. His flashing feet disperse the morning dews, His hands most roughly put the boughs away, That cross and cling and join and make delay. Across small shining brooks and rills they leap And now she fords the waters of a stream; Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deep And cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream; The silver minnows, wakened from their sleep In sunny shallows, round her ankles gleam; She scrambles up the grassy bank and on, Though courage and quick breath are nearly done. Now in the dusky spinneys round the field, The fauns set up a joyous mimicry, Pursuing of light nymphs, who lightly yield, Or startle the young dryad from her tree And shout with joy to see her limbs revealed And give her grace and bid her swiftly flee: The hunt is up, pursuer and pursued Run, double, twist, evade, turn, grasp, elude. The woodlands are alive with chase and cry, Escape and triumph. Still the nymph in vain, With heaving breast in lovely agony And wide and shining eyes that show her pain, Leads on the god and now she knows him nigh And sees before her the unsheltered plain. His hot hand touches her white side and she Thrusts up her hands and turns into a tree. There is an end of dance and mocking tune, Of laughter and bright love among the leaves. The sky is overcast, the afternoon Is dull and heavy for a god who grieves. The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soon The ruffled dryad in her trunk receives. Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white: The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS _Ode on Beauty._ Infinite peace is hanging in the air, Infinite peace is resting on mine eyes, That just an hour ago learnt how to bear Seeing your body's flaming harmonies. The grey clouds flecked with orange are and gold, Birds unto rest are falling, falling, falling, And all the earth goes slowly into night, Steadily turning from the harshly bright Sunset. And now the wind is growing cold And in my heart a hidden voice is calling. Say, is our sense of beauty mixed with earth When lip on lip and breast on breast we cling, When ecstasy brings short bright sobs to birth And all our pulses, both our bodies sing? When through the haze that gathers on my sight I see your eyelids, know the eyes behind See me and half not see me, when our blood Goes roaring like a deep tremendous flood, Calm and terrific in unhasty might, Is then our inner sight sealed up and blind? Or could it be that when our blood was colder And side by side we sat with lips disparted I saw the perfect line of your resting shoulder, Your mouth, your peaceful throat with fuller-hearted, More splendid joy? Ah poignant joys all these! And rest can stab the heart as well as passion. Yea, I have known sobs choke my heart to see Your honey-coloured hair move languorously, Ruffled, not by my hands, but by the breeze, And I have prayed the rough air for compassion. Yea, I have knelt to the unpiteous air And knelt to gods I knew not, to remove The viewless hands whose sight I could not bear Out of the wind-blown head of her I love. Ecstasy enters me and cannot speak, Seizes my hands and smites my fainting eyes And sends through all my veins a dim despair Of never apprehending all so fair And I have stood, unnerved and numb and weak, Watching your breathing bosom fall and rise. Ah no! This joy is empty, incomplete, And sullied with a sense of too much longing, Where thoughts and fancies, sweet and bitter-sweet, And old regrets and new-born hopes come thronging. Man can see beauty for a moment's space And live, having seen her with an unfilmed eye, If all his body and all his soul in one Instant are tuned by passion to unison And I can image in your kissing face The eternal meaning of the earth and sky. _Song in Time of Waiting._ Because the days are long for you and me, I make this song to lighten their slow time, So that the weary waiting fruitful be Or blossomed only by my limping rhyme. The days are very long And may not shortened be by any chime Of measured words or any fleeting song. Yet let us gather blossoms while we wait And sing brave tunes against the face of fate. Day after day goes by: the exquisite Procession of the variable year, Summer, a sheaf with flowers bound up in it, And autumn, tender till the frosts appear And dry the humid skies; And winter following on, aloof, austere, Clad in the garments of a frore sunrise; And spring again. May not too many a spring Make both our voices tremble as we sing! The days are empty, empty, and the nights Are cold and void; there is no single gleam Across the space unpeopled of delights, Save only now and then some thin-blood dream, Some stray of summer weather; The tedious hours like slow-foot laggarts seem, When you and I, my love, are not together And when I hold you in my arms at last The minutes go like April cloudlets past. And yet no hidden charm, no desperate spell Can make these minutes longer, those less long: No force there is that yearning can impel Against the callous years which do us wrong. No words, no whispered rune, No witchery and no Thessalian song Can make that far-off, misty day more soon. The bravest tune, the most courageous rhyme Fall broken from the bastions of time. A long and dusty road it is to tread; Few are the wayside flowers and far apart And are no sooner plucked than withered, When yearning heart is torn from yearning heart. A weary road it is And yet far off I see clear waters start And clean sweet grass and tangled traceries Of whispering leaves, that laugh to see us come, And there one day ... one day shall be our home. The day will come. O dearest, do not doubt! It is not born as yet but I shall see Some day the fearless sunrise flashing out And know the night will give you up to me. O heart, my heart, be glad, Because the time will come at last when we Shall leave all grief and unlearn all things sad And know the joy than which none sweeter is And I shall sing a happier song than this. _Sonnets on Separation._ I. The time shall be, old Wisdom says, when you Shall grow awrinkled and I, indifferent, Shall no more follow the light steps I knew Or trace you, finding out the way you went, By swinging branches and the displaced flowers Among the thickets. I no more shall stand, With careful pencil through the adoring hours Scratching your grace on paper. My still hand No more shall tremble at the touch of yours And I'll write no more songs and you'll not sing. But this is all a lie, for love endures And we shall closer kiss, remembering How budding trees turned barren in the sun Through this long week, whereof one day's now done. II. The time is all so short. One week is much To be without your deep and peaceful eyes, Your soft and all-contenting cheek, the touch Of well-caressing hands. O were we wise We would not love too strongly, would not bind Life into life so inextricably, That the dumb body suffers with the mind In a sad partnership this agony. For death will come and swallow up us two, You there, I here, and we shall lie apart, Out of the houses and the woods we knew. Then in the lonely grave, my dust-choked heart Out of the dust will raise, if it can speak, A threnody for this lost, lovely week. III. Is there no prophylactic against love? Can I with drugs not dull the ache one night? The rain is heavy and the low clouds move Over the empty home of our delight And find me in it weeping. You are far And you are now asleep. The night's so thick, Not even one stooping and compassionate star Shines on us both disparted. O be quick, Torturing days and heavy, turn your hours To minutes, melt yourselves into one day! ... The cold rain falls in swift assailing showers, Darkness is round me and light far away. I'm in our well-known room and you're shut in By strange unfriendly walls I've never seen. IV. Lovers that drug themselves for ecstasy Seek love too closely in an overdose, When the sweet spasm turns to agony And the quick limbs are still and the eyes close. I too, a fool, desired--to make love strong-- Absence and parting but the measure's brimmed, The dose is over-poured, the time's too long Already, though two nights have hardly dimmed My lonely eyes with the elusive sleep. O I'll remember, I'll not wish again To go with ardent limbs into this deep Sea of dejection, this dull mere of pain: We'll love our safer loves upon the shore And quest for inexperienced joys no more. V. Through the closed curtains comes the early sun, First a pale finger, preluding the hand. Outside more certainly the day's begun, Where bright and brighter still the chestnuts stand, Broad candles lighting up at the first fire. I stir and turn in my uneasy sleep But in my sorrow sleep's my whole desire. About the still room small lights move and creep Silently, stealthily on wall and chair, Till to strong rays and shining lights they grow, Which with their magic change the waiting air And all its sleeping motes to gold and throw A golden radiance on your empty bed, Which wakes me with vain likeness to your head. VI. To-morrow I shall see you come again Between the pale trees, through the sullen gate, Out of the dark and secret house of pain Where lie the unhappy and unfortunate. To-morrow you will live with me and love me, Spring will go on again, I'll see the flowers And little things, ridiculous things, shall move me To smiles or tears or verse. The world is ours To-morrow. Open heaths, tall trees, great skies, With massive clouds that fly and come again, Sweet fields, delicious rivers and the rise And fall of swelling land from the swift train We'll see together, knowing that all this Is one great room wherein we two may kiss. VII. We're at the world's top now. The hills around Stand proud in order with the valleys deep, The hills with pastures drest, with tall trees crowned, And the low valleys dipt in sunny sleep. A sound brims all the country up, a noise Of wheels upon the road and labouring bees And trodden heather, mixing with the voice Of small lost winds that die among the trees. And we are prone beneath the flooding sun, So drenched, so soaked in the unceasing light, That colours, sounds and your close presence are one, A texture woven up of all delight, Whose shining threads my hands may not undo, Yet one thread runs the whole bright garment through. _The Morning Sun._ Perhaps you sleep now, fifty miles to the south, While I sit here and dream of you by night. The thick soft blankets drawn about your mouth Have made for you a nest of warm delight; Your short crisp hair is thrown abroad and spilled Upon the pillow's whiteness and your eyes Are quiet and the round soft lids are filled With sleep. But I shall watch until sunrise Creeps into chilly clouds and heavy air, Across the lands where you sleep and I wake, And I shall know the sun has seen you there, Unmoving though the winter morning break. Next, you will lift your hands and rub your eyes And turn to sleep again but wake and start And feel, half dreaming, with a dear surprise, My hand in the sunbeam touching at your heart. Persuasion. Still must your hands withhold your loveliness? Is your soul jealous of your body still? The fair white limbs beneath the clouding dress Are such hard forms as you alone could fill With life and sweetness. Such a harmony Is yours as music and the thought expressed By the musician: have no rivalry Between your soul and the shape in which it's drest. Kisses or words, both sensual, which shall be The burning symbol of the love we bear? My art is words, yours song, but still must we Be mute and songless, seeing how love is fair. Both our known arts being useless, we must turn To love himself and his old practice learn. _Apology._ Have I slept and failed to hear you calling? Cry again, belov'd; for sleep is heavy, Curtaining away the golden sunlight, Shutting out the blue sky and the breezes, Sealing up my ears to all you tell me. Cry again! your voice shall pierce the clumsy Leaden folds that sleep has wrapt about me, Cry again! accomplish what the singing, Hours old now on all the trees and bushes, And the wind and sun could not accomplish. Lo! I waste good hours of love and kisses While the sun and you have spilt your glory Freely on me lying unregarding. In the happy islands, where no sunset Stains the waters with a morbid splendour, Where the open skies are blue for ever, I might stay for years and years unsleeping, Living for divinest conversation, Music, colour, scent and sense unceasing, Entering by eye and ear and nostril. Ah, but flesh is flesh and I am mortal! Cry again and do not leave me sleeping. _The Golden Moment._ Along the branches of the laden tree The ripe fruit smiling hang. The afternoon Is emptied of all things done and things to be. Low in the sky the inconspicuous moon Stares enviously upon the mellow earth, That mocks her barren girth. Ripe blackberries and long green trailing grass Are motionless beneath the heavy light: The happy birds and creeping things that pass Go fitfully and stir as if in fright, That they have broken on some mystery In bramble or in tree. This is no hour for beings that are maiden; The spring is virgin, lightly afraid and cold, But now the whole round earth is ripe and laden And stirs beneath her coverlet of gold And in her agony a moment calls... A heavy apple falls. _Bramber._ Before the downs in their great horse-shoes rise, I know a village where the Adur runs, Blown by sweet winds and by beneficent suns Visited and made ripe beneath kind skies. Light and delight are in the children's eyes And there the mothers sit, the fortunate ones, Blest in their daughters, happy in their sons, And the old men are beautiful and wise. There stand the downs, great, close, tall, friendly, still, Linked up by grassy saddles, hill on hill, And steep the village in unending peace And to the north the plains in order lie, Heavy with crops and woods alternately And lively with low sounds that never cease. _Now would I be._ Now would I be in that removèd place Where the dim sunlight hardly comes at all And branches of the young trees interlace And long swathes of the brambles twine and fall; A space between the hedgerow and a road Not trod by foot of any known to me, Where now and then a cart with scented load Goes sleepy down the lane with creaking axle-tree. And there I'd lie upon the tumbled leaves, Watching a square of the all else hidden sky, And made such songs a drowsy mind believes To be most perfect music. So would I Keep my face heavenwards and bless eternity, Wherein my heart could be as glad as this And lazily I'd bid all men come hither And in my dreams I'd tell them what they miss, Living in hate and work and all foul weather. And still my happy dreams would go, Like children in a cowslip field Chasing rich-winged insects to and fro To see what rare delights they yield.... ... O I am tired of working to be cheated And sick of barriers that will not fall, Of ancient prudent words too much repeated And worn-out dreams that come not true at all. I know too well what things they are that ail me; To fight is nothing but to see Thus at the last my own hand fail me Is agony. O for that corner by the hummocked marshes, Visited hardly by the cynic sun, Where nothing clear and nothing bright or harsh is, Where labour and the ache of it are done, Where naught is ended and where naught begun! _Midwinter Madness._ A month or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant--but to eat it for a year Is simply beastly. Thus the poet spake, Feeling how sticky all his stomach was With hivings of ten thousand cheated bees. O wisdom that could shape immortal words And frame a diet for dyspeptic man! But what of turnips? Come, a lyric now Upon the luscious roots unsung as yet, (Not roots I know but stalks; still, never mind, Metre and sauce will suit them just as well) Or shall we speak of omelettes? Muse, begin! To feed a fortnight on transmuted eggs Would doubtless be both comforting and cheap But oh, the nausea on the fourteenth day! I'd rather read a book by Ezra Pound Then choke the seven hundredth omelette down, Just as I'd rather read some F. S. Flint Than live a month or twain on honeycomb. O Ezra Pound! O omelette of the world! Concocted with strange herbs from dead Provence, Garlic from Italy and spice from Greece, Having suffered a rare Pound-change on the way, How rarely shouldst thou taste, were not the eggs Laid in America and hither brought Too late. I don't like omelettes made with fowls. Take hence this Pound and put him to the test, Try him with acid, see if he turn black As will the best old silver, when enraged At touching fungi of the baser sort. (Forgive digression. These similitudes Entrance me and I lose myself in them, As schoolboys, picking flowers by the way, Escape the angry usher's vigilance And then, concealed behind a hedge or shed, Produce the awesome pipe or thrice-lit fag And make themselves incredibly unwell.) My brain is bubbling and the thoughts will out, But, Ezra Pound! they turn again to thee, As surely as the lode-stone to the Pole Or as the dog to what he hath cast up (A simile of Solomon's, not mine) And your shock head of damp, unwholesome hay, Such as, the cunning farmer oft declares, When stacked, will perish by spontaneous fire, Frequents my dreams and makes them ludicrous. Thou most ridiculous sprite! Thou ponderous fairy! Bourgeois Bohemian! Innocent Verlaine! I read in _The Booksellers' Circular_ That, in the University of Pa. (Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont. --A line of normal pattern, Saintsbury) You hold a fellowship in (O merciful gods!) Romanics, which strange word interpreted Means, I suppose, the Romance languages. Doubtless they read Italian in Pa. And some may speak French fluently in Ont. But German, Ezra! There's the bloody rub, It's not Romance and it is hard to learn And Heine, though an easy-going chap, Would doubtless trounce you soundly if he knew The sorry hash that you have made of him. But no! you're not for immortality, Not even such as that of Freiligrath, Enshrined, together with his _Mohrenfurst_, In unrelenting amber. I hold you here, In a soap-bubble's iridescent walls, The whimsy of a long midwinter night, And give you immortality enough. Thou sorry brat! Thou transatlantic clown! That seek'st to ape the treadless Ariel And out-top Shelley in an aeroplane, Take the all-obvious padding from your pants And cut your hair and go to Pa. again (Or Kans. or Col. or Mass, or Tex. or Ont. Or even Oomp. if such a place exist) And take with you the poets you admire, Both Yeats and Flint to charm the folk of Oomp. And write again for _Munsey's Magazine_ Of your good brother Everyone. (Just God! Am even I of his relationship?) So end as you began or even worse: No matter, so 'tis in America. _At a Lecture._ The lecturer took his place and looked At the eager women's faces, Then he cleared his throat and he jetted out A stream of commonplaces. He fondled Wordsworth and patted Shelley And said with his hand on his heart He would brook no interference from morals In any matter of art. He finished at last and strode away Over the naked boards, Erect in his conscious majesty Back to the House of Lords. THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH FROM SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S LIST JOHN MASEFIELD THE EVERLASTING MERCY. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; also Fcap. 8vo, in leather bindings, 5s. net and 6s. net. _Seventeenth Impression_ "Here, beyond question, in _The Everlasting Mercy_, is a great poem, as true to the essentials of its ancient art as it is astoundingly modern in its method; a poem, too, which 'every clergyman in the country ought to read as a revelation of the heathenism still left in the land.' ... Its technical force is on a level with its high, inspiring thought. It makes the reader think; it goads him to emotion; and it leaves him alive with a fresh appreciation of the wonderful capacity of human nature to receive new influences and atone for old and apparently ineradicable wrongs."--ARTHUR WAUGH in _The Daily Chronicle_. THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net. _Fourth Thousand_ "Mr Masefield is no common realist, but universalises his tragedy in the grand manner.... We are convinced that he is writing truly of human nature, which is the vital thing.... The last few stanzas show us pastoral poetry in the very perfection of simplicity."--_Spectator_. "In 'The Widow in the Bye Street' all Mr Masefield's passionate love of loveliness is utterly fused with the violent and unlovely story, which glows with an inner harmony. The poem, it is true, ends on a note of idyllism which recalls Theocritus; but this is no touch of eternal decoration. Inevitably the story has worked towards this culmination."--_Bookman_. THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE GREAT. A Play in Three Acts. Second Edition, revised and reset. _Fourth Impression_. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; wrappers, 1s. 6d. net. "In this Roman tragedy, while we admire its closely knit structure, dramatic effectiveness, and atmosphere of reality ... the warmth and colour of the diction are the most notable things.... He knows the art of phrasing; he has the instinct for and by them."--_Athenæum_. RUPERT BROOKE POEMS. (First issued in 1911.) Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. _Ninth Impression_ "Unlike most youthful work it shows a curious absence of imitation and a strenuous originality ... there is much that is uncommonly good. He has both imagination and intellect--so much of the latter sometimes that the verse is crabbed and heavy with its weight of it. It is a book of rare and remarkable promise."--_Spectator_. 1914 AND OTHER POEMS. Crown 8vo. With a Photogravure Portrait. 2s. 6d. net. _Twelfth Impression_ "It is impossible to shred up this beauty for the purpose of criticism. These sonnets are personal--never were sonnets more personal since Sidney died--and yet the very blood and youth of England seem to find expression in them. They speak not for one heart only, but for all to whom her call has come in the hour of need and found instantly ready."--_Times_. LETTERS FROM AMERICA. With a Preface by HENRY JAMES, O. M., and a new Portrait. Extra crown 8vo, buckram, 7s. 6d. net. This volume contains the series of descriptive articles contributed in 1913 by Rupert Brooke to _The Westminster Gazette_, four written from the United States, and nine from Canada. To these are here added an article on Samoa, and a study called "An Unusual Young Man," both of which appeared in The New Statesman after the outbreak of war. POEMS OF TO-DAY: an Anthology. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. net. _Third Impression_ A selection of contemporary poetry made by the English Association and intended for the use of higher forms in secondary schools. It contains nearly 150 poems, representative of the chief tendencies of English poetry during the last quarter of a century, written by 47 authors, including Meredith, Stevenson, Kipling, Newbolt, Masefield, Bridges, Yeats, Thompson, Davidson, Watson, Belloc, Chesterton, Gosse, "A.E.," Binyon, Noyes, Flecker, and Rupert Brooke. "The great merit of the selection is that the pieces are all genuine; whatever their ultimate value, they are at least free from the fetters of past tradition, and they therefore mark ... the beginning of a new lease of inspiration."--_Times Educational Supplement_. "It is a book which any student of English literature will prize for its own sake."--_Scotsman_. SWORDS AND PLOUGHSHARES. By JOHN DRINKWATER. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net. "These lyrics, many of them inspired by the war, come from one of the most accomplished poets of the day."--_Times_. POEMS. By ELINOR JENKINS. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. "A new poet, whose poetry is all made out of pain and the beautiful religion of loss."--Mr JAMES DOUGLAS in _The Star_. THE VOLUNTEER, and Other Poems. By HERBERT ASQUITH. Crown 8vo, 1s. net. _Second Impression_ "Lieutenant Asquith has undoubtedly a true feeling for poetry.... It is impossible to miss the beauty of its phrases and the fineness of its emotion."--_Standard_. KATHARINE TYNAN INNOCENCIES. A Book of Verse. NEW POEMS. IRISH POEMS. _Second Impression_ FLOWER OF YOUTH: Poems in War Time. _Second Impression_ _Each, Super-royal 16mo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net_ THE WILD HARP. A Selection from Irish Poetry. By KATHARINE TYNAN. Decorated by Miss C. M. WATTS. Medium 8vo, designed, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d. net. THE TWO BLIND COUNTRIES. By ROSE MACAULAY. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. net. "Out of familiar things she contrives to draw a magic which sets all our definitions tottering.... This specific gift is so rare in modern poetry that we may well hail it with enthusiasm."--_Spectator_. SELECTED POEMS. By LAURENCE HOUSMAN. F'cap. 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. "The selections have been made from four previous volumes now out of print: Mendicant Rhymes, The Little Land, Rue, and Spikenard. There is hardly a stanza that is not felicitous in some way, and not one selection that could be spared."--_Morning Post_. SOME VERSE. By F. S. F'cap. 8vo, 2s. net. "Some of these pieces ... might almost have borne the signature C. S. C. Others ... have the mellow wit of the school of J. K. Stephen and the Cantabrigians on whom his mantle has fallen."--_Times_. SIDGWICK & JACKSON'S MODERN DRAMA "Messrs Sidgwick & Jackson are choosing their plays excellently."--_Saturday Review_. THREE PLAYS BY GRANVILLE BARKER: "The Marrying of Ann Leete," "The Voysey Inheritance," and "Waste." 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