FAREWELL




BY THE SAME AUTHOR


  A GLOUCESTERSHIRE LAD AT HOME AND ABROAD.
                                              [_Sixth Impression._

  GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS: Poems from a German Prison Camp.
                                              [_Third Impression._

  DUCKS, AND OTHER VERSES.

  COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY: A Record of Life in Seven German Prisons.
    Illustrated by C. E. B. Bernard.


  SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.




  FAREWELL

  BY
  F. W. HARVEY

  AUTHOR OF “A GLOUCESTERSHIRE LAD”
  “GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS”
  ETC., ETC.

  LONDON
  SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
  1921




PREFACE


In spite of all the soulful utterances of people comfortably off,
economic independence remains the first condition of happiness.

This is not to say that people aren’t great fools for preferring law to
literature. It is rather to imply that a poet who can do both is a fool
if _he_ does not.

I am not a fool.

                                  Farewell!

                                                               F. W. H.




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


The author desires to acknowledge gratefully permissions to reprint
certain of these poems granted by the editors of _The Spectator_, _The
Athenæum_, _The London Mercury_, _The Nation_, _The Woman’s Leader_,
_The Gloucestershire Chronicle_ and _The Gloucestershire Journal_.




CONTENTS


                                                             PAGE

  PREFACE                                                       5


  NATURE POEMS

  PRAYERS:    I.                                               11

     ”       II.                                               12

     ”      III.                                               13

     ”       IV.                                               14

  THE HOLLOW LAND                                              15

  ON BIRDLIP                                                   16

  OUT OF THE CITY                                              17

  A SONG                                                       18

  MAY-FLOOD                                                    18

  BIG THINGS AND SMALL                                         19

  AFTER LONG WANDERING                                         20

  THE MOON                                                     22

  THE WIND’S GRIEF                                             23

  A WINDY NIGHT                                                24

  RIDDLE CUM RUDDLE                                            25

  GLOUCESTERSHIRE FROM THE TRAIN                               26

  LASSINGTON                                                   27

  JEALOUSY                                                     28

  ELVERS                                                       29

  JOHN HELPS                                                   32


  LOVE POEMS

  THE GOLDEN SNAKE                                             33

  IN A CATHEDRAL                                               34

  THE LANTHORN                                                 35

  SONNET: “MY NATIVE LAND IS ONLY WHERE YOU ARE”               36

  SINCE I HAVE LOVED                                           37

  SAFETY                                                       38

  HAPPY SINGING                                                39

  SONG                                                         40

  IDENTITY                                                     41

  JUNE                                                         42

  SONNET: “THAT DEATH SHALL TAKE AND SLAY ME MATTERS NOT”      43

  SONNET: “BUT NOW SINCE DEATH HATH CERTAIN DATE”              44

  “LOCAL FATALITIES ARE REPORTED”                              45

  MY JOY                                                       46

  THE WATCHING MOON                                            46

  HARVEST HOME                                                 47


  POEMS OF REFLECTION

  EXPERIMENTS IN VERS LIBRE                                    48

  THE PHILOSOPHER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB                        50

  MISERERE DOMINE                                              52

  NOW, IF I WERE RICH                                          53

  THE RABBLE FATES--TO HELL WITH THEM!                         54

  THE LAUGHTER OF LITTLE BABIES                                55

  PETITION TO THE ALMIGHTY                                     56

  LAST WORD                                                    57

  VANITY OF VANITIES                                           58

  TRIOLET: “FLESH TRIUMPHS AWHILE”                             61

  FIRE (REVISED VERSION)                                       62

  THE LIFE THAT’S UNDER THE GROUND                             66

  EPITAPH                                                      67

  INVOCATION--AND REPLY                                        68

  MADNESS                                                      70

  GLOUCESTERSHIRE MEN                                          71

  BALLADE OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE TOWNS                             72

  LUCKY                                                        74

  CAROL                                                        75

  GOD’S BEAUTY IN THE SKY                                      76

  THE LOST WORLD                                               77


  PROSE POEMS

  DAWN                                                         78

  THE VISIBLE WORLD                                            78

  FUEL                                                         78

  BLOW, INVISIBLE MOUTHS!                                      78

  ANGRY LOVER                                                  79

  HOME                                                         79

  LOVE SONG                                                    79

  THE WINDOW                                                   80

  BROTHERS                                                     80

  HOLY BROTHERHOOD                                             80




_NATURE POEMS_




PRAYERS


I

THAT MY EYES MAY BE MADE TO SEE

  God of bright colours: rainbows, peacocks,
  And the shot-silk gleam of springing
        Wind-shaken wheat
      On rolling red-ribbed Earth:
      Thou Who dost bring to birth
        From out the womb
      Of darkness golden flowers,
        Filling the hollows
      With daffodils in March,
        Cowslips in April,
        Dog-roses in May,
      Who in the smouldering forest
          Makes the huge
        Red flare of Autumn:
      God of all the colours
  On Earth, and hues (too bright for mortal eyes)
          In Paradise--
      Unblind me to Thy glory,
        That I may see!


II

THAT MY SOUL MAY BE SET TO DANCE

          God of light dancing:
            Waves and ripples
          In foam and forest,
        And shadows under leaves,
          Lambs leaping, prancing,
          Horses, dragon-flies,
            Stars ...
        Thou Whose eye perceives
  How and in what dream-ecstasy tall reeds
        Shake out brown hair and sway
            Like dusky girls
        Tranced in an Indian air;
          Who knowest the way
            Of clouds
  Which glide o’er blue unflowered fields,
          Scattering shadows
          On golden meadows
       And fields of dancing daisies:
            Teach me, O Lord,
  The rhythm of that joy which is Thy mind!
            Make my soul dance!


III

THAT I MAY BE TAUGHT THE GESTURE OF HEAVEN

      God of the steadfast line,
    Who laid the curving Cotswolds on the sky:
        God of the hills,
    And of the lonely hollows in the hills,
    And of the cloudy nipples of the mountains:
    Teach me thy passionate austerity!
        God of elm twigs
      And of all winter trees
    Etched ebony on sunset, or bright silver
      Upon hard morning heavens;
      Cunning shaper of ferns,
  And ferns which whitely gleam on frosty windows
        And snow-flakes:
  God of the naked body beautifully snatched
  To some swift-gestured loveliness of Heaven:
        Master
        Of stars,
  And all beneath most passionately curbed
  In Form: catch up my sprawling soul and fix it
    In gesture of its lost divinity!


IV

THAT I MAY BE GIVEN FELLOWSHIP OF ANGELS AND A HAPPY HEART

  God of fine fellowship in heaven and earth,
        O let me share
    A little of the gaiety of saints.
  Sometimes let angels carelessly with robins
    Sing in these Minsterworth trees.
        Teach me that mirth,
  Give me that happy heart, hating the thin
  Blasphemous gravity of wicked men.




THE HOLLOW LAND


  Elms on the marbled sky
    Walling this hollow land,
  Write something black that I
    Find hard to understand.

  Belshazzar in his hall,
    Belshazzar and those lords
  Saw suddenly on the wall
    Great crooked words:

  A doom, a doom of fear ...
    Something our hearts forget
  Is mighty still and near
    To claim his debt.

  Behold before it falls--
    Behold the mighty hand
  Of Nature on the walls
    Of the hollow land!




ON BIRDLIP


  I’ve tramped a score of miles to-day
    And now on Cotswold stand,
  Wondering if in any way
    Their owners understand
  How all those little gold fields I see
    And the great green woods beyond
  Have given themselves to me, to me
    Who own not an inch of land.

  Because I loved with deep desire,
    Wooing all as I walked,
  This noble country by tree and spire
    Taught (as if music talked)
  How Beauty is never bought or sold,
    But freely given to them
  Who worship more than crowns of gold
    Her dew-bright diadem.

  _Now_ all that under open heaven
    I see of arable
  Or pasture land to me is given,
    As runs the parable--
  “To him that hath not----” Even so,
    For all we love is ours
  While the little streams of Cotswold flow,
    Swaying forget-me-not flowers.




OUT OF THE CITY


  Here in the ring of the hills,
    Under a cloudy sky,
    Content at last I lie
  Where Peace o’erspills
    Like a cool rain which giveth
  This brave daisy scent
  And wine of sacrament
    Whereby he liveth.

  The big hooters may howl,
    Men quarrel, whistles screech,
    I will hear only the speech
  Of my forgotten soul,
    Which is the speech of trees,
  Soft yet of clarity
  And brimmed with verity
    And all gay peace.




A SONG


  O, Cranham ways are steep and green
    And Cranham woods are high,
  And if I was that black rook,
    It’s there that I would fly.

  But since I’m here in London town,
    A silly walking man;
  I’ll make this song and caw it
    As loudly as I can.




MAY-FLOOD


          Now the Spring’s cold
          Foam-crested waves, the bright
          Hedges, delay
          To break and quench the light
          Of golden fields with spray
          Of hawthorn. As of old
          Men saw the steep
          Walls of the Red Sea round them,
          Quiet sheep
  Watch the wild hedge forbear to drown them.




BIG THINGS AND SMALL


  This spinning spark in space--our Earth and all
    Its vast envelopment of ancient night--
  Is not a wonder greater or less than the white
    Blossom now in the orchards, soon to fall.

  And let men learn the secret of that bloom
    And all its beauty’s wonder, they shall know
  Life to the core; and they with God may go
    To make a daisy or the day of doom.




AFTER LONG WANDERING


  I will go back to Gloucestershire,
    To the spot where I was born,
  To the talk at eve with men and women
    And song on the roads at morn.
  And I’ll sing as I tramp by dusty hedges
    Or drink my ale in the shade
  How Gloucestershire is the finest home
    That the Lord God ever made.

  First I will go to the ancient house
    Where Doomsday book was planned,
  And cool my body and soul in shade
    Of pillars huge which stand
  Where the organ echoes thunder-like
    Its paean of triumph and praise
  In a temple lovely as ever the love
    Of Beauty’s God did raise.

  Gargoyles will thrust out heads to hearken,
    A frozen forest of stone
  Echo behind me as I pass
    Out of the shadow alone
  To buzz and bustle of Barton Fair
    And its drifting droves of sheep,
  To find three miles away the village
    Where I will sleep.

  Minsterworth, queen of riverside places
    (Save Framilode, who can vie?),
  To her I’ll go when day has dwindled
    And the light low in the sky;
  And my troubles shall fall from me, a bundle,
    And youth come back again,
  Seeing the smoke of her houses and hearing
    The talk of Minsterworth men.

  I’ll drink my perry and sing my song
    Of home and home again,
  Pierced with the old miraculous pleasure
    Keen as sharpest pain;
  And if I rise to sing on the morrow
    Or if I die in my bed,
  ’Tis all the same: I’ll be home again,
    And happy alive or dead.




THE MOON


  What have you not seen,
    Old White-face, looking down
  Since the heavens were hollowed out
    And winds were blown?

  You saw white Helen
    On the walls of Troy Town,
  You silvered dew on the ruin
    When Troy shook down.

  Ulysses you saw
    And the strange seas that bore him;
  But all he wandered to see
    You had seen before him.

  Bodies black and yellow,
    Gold tresses and brown,
  The brown earth covers them ...
    And you look down.




THE WIND’S GRIEF


  The wind is grieving. Over what old woe
      Howls it as though
    Its very heart would break?--
  The roving wind who merrily did make
  A song all day in woods and meadows gay
      Grieves in the night.

  Is it for olden evil it hath done
      ’Neath moon and sun
    Since first it roved the world?
  Brave trees uprooted, ships and sailors hurled
  To stormy death? or for the passing breath
      Of flowers bright?




A WINDY NIGHT


  The rain is done; and a great wind,
    Filling the hollow night,
  He shouts like a boy in an archway
    And whistles with all his might.

  He has blown the sky empty,
    Except for the little stout
  Stars, and they are flickering
    As if they might go out.

  All the black trees are crying;
    The night is full of noise;
  They are shouting under the arch of heaven
    Like a school of rowdy boys.




RIDDLE CUM RUDDLE


  The wains be unloaded, the ricks be in stack--
    Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam;
  An’ varmer be merry, an’ me an’ Jack
    Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam.

  There’s wuts for the horses and hay for the cow--
    Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam;
  And wheat for bread, and barley for brew--
    Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam

  Young randy lovers may praise the Spring--
    Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam;
  But this be the time ver to dance and sing
          Riddle cum Ruddle!
          Riddle cum Ruddle!
          Riddle cum Ruddle!
          The harvest’s whoam!




GLOUCESTERSHIRE FROM THE TRAIN


  The golden fields wheel round--
    Their spokes, green hedges;
  And at the galloping sound
    Of the train, from watery sedges
      Arise familiar birds.

  Pools brown, and blue, and green,
    Criss-crossed with shadows,
  Flash by, and in between
    Gloucestershire meadows
      Lie speckled red with herds.

  A little flying farm,
    With humped grey back
  Against the rays that warm
    To gold a last-year stack,
      Like a friendly cat appears;

  And so through gloom and gleam
    Continues dwindling,
  While in my heart a dream
    Of home awakes to kindling
      Fire, and falling tears.




LASSINGTON


  To Lassington the priests went out
    From Gloucester long ago
  To worship oaks and fool about
      With mistletoe.

  Now after twenty centuries
    Still men and girls do go
  Lassington way. To worship trees?
      You ask,--ah no!

  They laugh the magic boughs beneath,
    Catch hands, and kiss the while:
  And the dead Druids grind their teeth
      Below, or smile

  To see (ah, fair beneath the bough
    The fretted moonlight lies!)
  How readily come the victims now
      To sacrifice.

  How, robed in moonlight’s ancient gold,
    Another god doth reign,
  Tormenting men as did their old
      Grey gods of Pain.




JEALOUSY


  On Zunday marn dro’ varmer’s wheat
  I zeed the print and track o’ veet:
  If I’d a had a rook-gun then
  They vaur veet would’n a walked again.

  Two on ’em--they o’ the larger zize--
  I coulden praperly reckernize.
  Two wer the purty-printed veet
  O’ Molly--zo valse as she be sweet.

  I hadn’t no bird-gun: zo it fell
  As I maun laugh--ho, ho!--and tell
  Here in a pub at the end o’ the street
  O’ the winding--ha! ha!--o’ they vaur veet.

  But may the zoul o’ him as wore
  They hob-nails roast vor evermore;
  And the veet wi’ the instep’s purty curve
  May both on ’em get what um deserve!




ELVERS


  Up the Severn River from Lent to Eastertide
  Millions and millions of slithy elvers glide,
  Millions, billions of glassy bright
      Little wormy fish,
        Chewed-string fish,
          Slithery dithery fish,
  In the dead of the night.

  Up the gleaming river miles and miles along
  Lanterns burn yellow: old joke and song
  Echo as fishermen dip down a slight
      Wide frail net,
        Gauzy white net,
          Strong long net
  In the water bright.

  From the Severn river at daybreak come
  Hundreds of happy fishermen home
  With bags full of elvers: perhaps that’s why
      We all love Lent,
        Lean mean Lent,
          Fishy old Lent,
  When the elvers fry.

  When elvers fry for breakfast with egg chopped small
  And bacon from the side that’s hung upon the wall.
  When the dish is on the table how the children shout
      “O, what funny fish,
        Wormy squirmy fish,
          Weeny white fish,
  Our mother’s dishing out!”

  Eels have a flavour (and a baddish one) of oil.
  “When we have shuffled _down_ their mortal coil,
  What dreams may come!” what horrid nightmares neigh,
      Gallop or squat,
        Trample or trot,
          Vanishing not
  Till break of day!

  “Never start nothing,” says the motto in our pub:
  “It might lead to summat”: that’s (as Shakespeare said) the rub!
  So I’m not going to tell you, anyway not yet,
      If the elvers are eels,
        White baby eels,
          Tiny shiny eels,
  Caught with a net--

  Or another quite separate wriggly kind of grub,
  For I’ve seen more fights over that outside a pub
  Than ever _you_ saw at Barton Fair when Joe
      The brown gipsy man,
        The tawny gipsy man,
          The tipsy gipsy man,
  Tried to smart up the show.

  But anyway, good people, you may search the river over
  Before a breakfast tastier or cheaper you discover
  Than elvers, and if all the year the elver season lasted
      I wouldn’t mind a bit,
        I wouldn’t care a bit,
          Not a little tiny bit,
  _How_ long I fasted!




JOHN HELPS


  John Helps a wer an honest mon;
    The perry that a made
  Wer crunched vrom purs as honest
    As ever tree displayed.

  John Helps a wer an honest mon;
    The dumplings that a chewed
  Wer made vrom honest apples
    As Autumn ever growed.

  John Helps a wer an honest mon,
    And I be sorry a’s dead.
  Perry and honest men be scarce
    These days, ’tiz zed.




_LOVE POEMS_




THE GOLDEN SNAKE


  Her body’s glory is a golden snake
          Around Life’s tree
      Coiled: the tree shall break
        In the blast of Eternity
        And the coil be crushed.

  Too late! immortal poison has rushed
        Through more-than-veins.
          Beauty remains
        Though bodies rot. The fang
        (Though flesh the pang
          To flesh deliver)
        Strikes down more deep
        Than flesh, to trouble
        Even the ultimate sleep,
          The eternal dream.

          Though all she seem
        To be, like a golden bubble
      Shall break at the prick of Death,
          This shall not break:
  Her beauty’s sting: sharp as the sting of a snake:
  The sting of Beauty failing not with breath.




IN A CATHEDRAL


  From her sweet unrest and sting
      Hither I come.
  The cloisters like a frozen forest ring,
    Echoing back more faint and faintlier
      The tread of living. Home,
  Home flies the spirit. Faint and faintlier
    The surging waves of passion break to foam

  Then like a clash of cymbals suddenly
      She, slave of Time,
  O’ercomes all tokens of Eternity,
    Nay, rather with Eternity is made one,
      One with recurrent rhyme
  Of arch, with flash of window, with the sun
    Yellow on lofty walls sweet echoes climb.




THE LANTHORN

  “I never saw a soul save in the body.”


  Haply within the woods of Paradise
  We see unblinded of our earthly eyes,
  Kiss with unthwarted lips, and taste our one
  Desired and complete communion.

  There scabbards that do sheath the gleaming blade,
  There globes which muffle in the naked light
  Aside being cast, naked and unafraid,
  Lovers may stand in one another’s sight.

  Now since through fleshly glass Thy flame, O Love,
  Shines clear, and nowhere else doth visibly move;
  That lanthorn bright I will bow down before,
  Kneeling the crystal body to adore.




SONNET


  My native land is only where you are,
  You are my home, my roof-tree, hearth, and fire.
  I have been home-sick for you, wandering far,
  But now have reached the end of my desire.
  You are my kingdom small and very fair,
  Your breasts my snowy hills, my lakes your eyes,
  Your face my garden, and my woods your hair,
  Your breath the breeze of that sweet Paradise.

  Lie fenced within the circle of these arms,
  Dear country: you whose air to breathe is Peace,
  Peace deeper than Death, more soft than Night--
  Soother of griefs. Here, safe from wild alarms,
  I’ll bide, plucking from off your sighing trees
  The fruit of dreams, red apples of delight.




SINCE I HAVE LOVED


  Since I have loved, I have put the world in my heart.
  The great clouds scattering over Cotswold seem
  But shadows of those others counterpart:
  Those clouds standing over hills of dream--
  Hills of dream in a country that is called
  Peace--a country by my own heart walled.

  Since I do love and bear you in my breast,
  Who are both my beloved country and its queen,
  I wonder not to see red dawn uprise.
  I say no more how restful is the green
  Of summer fields, for looking on your eyes
  It is as though I had died and found my rest.




SAFETY


  You are like a pool reflecting shadowy trees
  Of green and glint of sunbeams mixed together
  (And I had forgotten both) in water clear.

  Full of the foulness of blood and lust and fear
  Is the past now. I break its holding tether,
  And stand once more with guiding Innocences.

  You are like silence in which I can be myself.
  You are the truth of music: something lost
  Ages and ages ago, and forgotten, and found.

  Ere death my feet are set upon holy ground,
  I, wanderer amid a wandering host,
  Come home, led by the magic of one sweet elf.




HAPPY SINGING


  Men have made songs,
    And I among them,
  Because some hell
    Of grief had wrung them.
  The tolling bell
    Will often bring
  Torture to force
    A man to sing.

  But I this day
    A song will make
  Only for joy
    And my sweet love’s sake:
  And will employ
    No sorrowful thing
  For making of it,--
    That song, I’ll sing.

  But lovely laughter
    Of singing thrushes
  When dawn has broken
    And heaven flushes,
  Shall be the token
    Of one whom days
  Nor death can rob
    Of joyous praise.




SONG


  And in the evening when I walked apart
  For joy of that I carry in my heart,
  The song I made brave thrushes did complete,
  Shouting, “O, pretty Joy!” and “Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!”

  This is my glory, this the crown of me:
  That I hold joy of my love, and she of me;
  And though my song be but a breath of air,
  Yet is it greater than death and all despair.

  For howso poor and of what base estate
  I be, this love shall make me proud and great.
  And howso deep in care I lie, there are words
  Shall build my heart a nest of singing birds.




IDENTITY


  I am the blood that burns,
    The flesh that dies,
  The haunted heart that turns
    To Paradise,
  The soul that laugheth low
    And whispereth
  There are sweet things to know
    After--Death.

  Such powers am I, and more
    Both good and bad;
  Nor all the learnéd lore
    Solomon had
  Could ill and good dissever.
    Yet this is true:
  Naught’s me that doth not ever
    Cleave to you.




JUNE


  April was in your making--youth of the year,
    Wild-blooded, beautiful! And May with flowers
  And showers agleam went into you, my dear.

  But you are June. Deep shadows, silver dew,
    Red roses, and the nightingale’s delight:
  White moonlight the essential soul of you.

  And sometimes as I watch you walk arrayed
    In beauty of that month, a foolish fear
  Comes, dear, into my heart: I am afraid

  That you being one with shadow-bars and roses,
    Birds and wild scents of June, with these will fly
  And I be left alone when Summer closes
                Her pageantry!




SONNET


  That Death shall take and slay me matters not
  In truth: for better men are buried under,
  And--tut, “what can’t be cured must be endured”!
  But I am wild with hate, pray devil’s thunder
  May fall on Death though heaven itself glow hot,
  Hell-like, and stars be lighted stubble, and worlds
  Like birds drop blinded by the bloody light!
  O, such a bonfire do I wish for Death
  Or ever his insolent envy of sweet breath
  Should touch and soil the body of delight--
  The singing flame of fragrant holy fire
  Which showed to me the meaning of the spring
  And every lovely tune musicians bring
  Out of the womb of innermost desire!




SONNET


  But now since Death hath certain date, I fling,
    Strong in this manhood for a little space,
    Gayest defiance in his wrinkled face,
  And mock that envious shadowy old king:
  Scyther of flowers, plucker of everything
    In beauty fair upgrowing; so the place
    Thereof knoweth no more the golden grace
  That was the pride and savour of its spring.

  Spring is not here. But spring is in this heart,
    Quick with the blowing buds of lovely mirth
      And over-brimmed with love taken and given
  When that is withered, let us lie apart
    And rock like sleeping babes in cradle of earth,
      Dearest, till Doomsday: we have had our heaven.




“LOCAL FATALITIES ARE REPORTED”


  Dangerously sheltered they,
  The lovers lay
  Upon the great dead hill,
  Frail flesh and blood:
  Beneath a twisted thorn,
  Which to the heaven’s mood
  Died and was born
  Again, as lightning fell.

  Two mites of trembling clay--
      Ah, what cared they!
      The lightning flashed:
        They laughed.
      The thunder crashed:
        They kissed.
      The grey rain lashed
  The hill: and hid them in mist.

  Did they return again
  To the sunny plain,
  To spite and scorn,
  The plane of mortal care?
  Nay, with passions of skies
  They mingled were ...
  They were made wise
  Beneath the twisted thorn.




MY JOY


  In your impassioned loveliness
  I drink a wine no heel did press
  In vats of place or time or space,
  And gazing on your April face
  And in your dim green-shadowed eyes
  I glimpse green leaves of a great vine
  Whose roots are firm in Paradise:
  And you the cup and you the wine.




THE WATCHING MOON


  Calm with the calm
    Of all old Earth has taken
  To her peaceful breast,
    And will not awaken;

  Pale with the passion
    Of Life that never dies;
  You sit there watching us
    With clear bright eyes.




HARVEST HOME


  My heart is filled with you
  As a field tilled which grew
    But couch and weed;
  You are my cornfield spread,
  Ripe to be harvested
    For bitter need.

  You have built barns in my heart,
  You have become a part
    Of all I knew:
  Wherefore I dance and sing
  And fear not anything
    Sharp scythes may do.




_POEMS OF REFLECTION_




EXPERIMENTS IN VERS LIBRE


  I

  Not curled into rose leaves
  Or twisted into fantastic patterns of beauty ...

  Out of my joy in the Earth,
  Out of my sorrow for men,
  Out of the love which I bore to one and another
  Come these rough nuggets.

  Take them--they are all I can give you!
  Take, and make of them whatsoever you will,
    You who have skill,
  And you also who have none.

  Hold them in sunlight and moonlight
    Till they shine back,
  Ponder also the dark Earth wherefrom they came!


  II

  He who lies dead was my father.
  Degradation has befallen his flesh.
    Why? O, why?

  The palace is fouled.
  The king insulted, crucified, and abandoned.
    The slaves have fled.

  And so, after certain days, you
    And I too shall lie.

          The pride
          Shall pass.
  Our mouths shall never kiss
  Nor our strong arms embrace ...
    We too, we too shall die.


  III

  Lust spoils the sunlight
    And narrows the day;
    Love widens
  Time to Eternity which alone can hold it!




THE PHILOSOPHER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB


  Fair and worthless things that die
  Praising their goddess Vanity
  Here gather. Like a violin
  Many a sweetly-scented Sin
  Whispers. Many a bright-wreathed Folly,
  Finding its roses turned to holly,
  Seeks with Pleasure’s aid to fend
  That Boredom which is Folly’s end.
  Wherefore the violins make moan.

  For these “the visible world” alone
  Exists; and “ah that it should pass!”
  They cry, and fill a trembling glass.
  “Here’s to Beauty!” (surnamed Lust)
  They cry; and e’er it falls to dust,
  “Love it,” they cry, “and hug it well.”

  “To whatsoever heaven or hell
  Fate builds for fools, these surely go,”
  Thought the moralist watching this tinsel show.
  “Yet is it not difficult to know
  Who best deserve the name of Fool,
  These or those more respectable
  Most moral folks I know so well?...
  _These_ make of living a foolish sham,
  _These_ play a silly blind man’s game,
  Chasing bubbles like a fool.
  But the others like a sullen mule
  Play at nothing at all, and so
  Think they’re good because they’re dull--
  Where, in the name of sense, will _they_ go?”

  Upon which curious reflection
  The sad and wondering sage arose,
  Paid for his drink and blew his nose,
  Brushed the confetti from his clothes,
  And shuffled forth in deep dejection.




MISERERE DOMINE


  Three things a man can do without:
  Debtors, a scolding wife, and gout.
  First hates for what (he knows) they’ve got,
  Second for what (she knows) he’s not,
  The third of this unholy lot
  Hates him and all he hateth not,
  Brisk walking and the pewter pot,
  Sound sleep and jovial company.
  Who suffers these well may cry, God wot--
    Miserere Domine!




NOW, IF I WERE RICH


  Now, if I were rich,
    And lord of the manor,
  My limbs might all twitch.
  Now, if I were rich
  I might marry a--witch,
    And lose every tanner
  That made me so rich,
    And lord of the manor.


  (_But I wish I were rich,
    And lord of the manor!_)




THE RABBLE FATES--TO HELL WITH THEM!


  They fling at me stones and mud,
    My clothes are tattered and foul,
  My face is covered in blood;
    But they haven’t hurt my soul.

  They have beaten me sore--in truth
    No part of me stands whole!
  They have stolen away my youth:
    But they could not steal my soul.

  Robbed, baffled, and broken,
    Something lives in me whole;
  And I hold by that for a token
    That they cannot conquer my soul.

  Let them thrash me with knotted sorrow,
    Stone me with sharp regret;
  I shall be their king on a morrow,
    My soul is a monarch yet.




THE LAUGHTER OF LITTLE BABIES


  The laughter of little babies
    Who chuckle and crow
  Is the laugh of a stream
    Which needs must flow
  Into black caverns; on its way
  Reflecting briefly the blue of day.

  The mirth of little babies
    Who chuckle and nod
  Is the mirth of a spirit
    Remembering odd
  Scraps of the tales and heavenly mirth
  He shall never remember again on Earth.




PETITION TO THE ALMIGHTY


  My sins of scarlet I pray Thee wash away,
    For they were done in passion and hot blood,
  When youth was lord of me nor understood
    The glory of the beauty of Thy way.
  So pardon them; but, Lord, if I have stood
    The enemy of any destitute,
  Done cruelty to any man or brute,
    Or nailed Thy poor upon a cross of wood,
  Or on a cross of gold, or iron, O, smite!
    Smite with Thy rod and cast me from Thy sight.




LAST WORD


  Let no man call me coward that I will die
  And dip no more my bread in living’s foul
  And muddy stream; but, God, accept my soul
  Which into air so soon must wandering fly.
  For I have never hated you at all,
  You brother men, albeit that you must
  Hate all such dust as is not of your dust,
  Content for power to strive and hate and brawl.

  But to you who have laughed and holpen one another,
  You few gay valiant souls amid the rabble,
  I say--“God knows I have loved you!” Then forgive
  Me in whose heart is no more power to live:
  Who must with this poor gesture break the bubble
  Which held us here on Earth brother to brother.




VANITY OF VANITIES


  We spend our days for things which profit not,
    We set our heart on things.
  When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot,
    And when stiff age like ice about us clings,
  We spend our days for that which profits not,
    We set our heart on things.

  More worthy was the blasphemous disdain
  Of all God’s world of sense by stubborn saint,
  Ungrateful of the sunlight and the rain,
  Untouched by colours bending rainbows paint.
  More worthy was the pagan ignorance
  Of all save what a world of sense discloses:
  That found his soul above the starry dance,
  This in a sweet but fading heaven of roses.
  But us no heaven of saint nor flower delights;
  When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot
  We spend our days for things which profit not,
  And in the last cold days and lonely nights
  Wherewith our little span of living closes,
    We set our heart on things.

  What profits it, you futile little men
  Who, furry-coated, tethering the lightning,
  From here to London ride and back again?
  What profits it, you whose fat hands are tightening
  Upon the lives of others? Nay, but tell
  What would you profit gaining all the world?
    (And if there were no hell)
  What have you seen of loveliness unfurled
    In heaven above or on the earth below?
  Speak! What have you to show?

  What do you profit? If you drove a car
  Through Paradise you would not hear the wings!
  Did Michael leave the gates of God ajar
  (As he has done!) what would you crave but things?
    More houses, maybe, with a telephone,
    To call your own!

  And you, my brothers, in the dim-lit mine,
  Or in the town, or on the tumbling sea,
  Who carry in your ears the hungry whine
  Of wolves which hunt the woods of Poverty:
  What profit you, if under that same sign
  As they who grind you down you too advance?
    If on the tide of chance
      You (swept away)
      Do even as they?

  For close about us whir the angel wings,
  And near beside us sound the throbbing strings
  Of Paradise. The song of Brotherhood
  With flowers springs, and sings through all the air
  To that high place where Jacob’s ladder stood
  Tethered to chanting stars. We only dare
  Ignore God’s message, we alone of all
  His children scorn Love’s joyous festival,
    Spending our days for that which profits not,
      Setting our heart on things.

  When sense is edged and blood of Youth is hot,
    And when stiff age like ice about us clings,
  We spend our days for things which profit not,
    We set our heart on things.




TRIOLET


  Flesh triumphs awhile,
  And after, the spirit.
  By force and by guile
  Flesh triumphs awhile,
  Then finds but a pile
  Of grave-earth to inherit
  Flesh triumphs awhile
  And after, the spirit.




FIRE

(REVISED VERSION[1])


  I

  Gold-crowned with flames
    Behind its bars
      The coal:
  And over the chimney
    In a black hole
  Spark-children playing
    Their mazy games
  And mimic-mighty wars:
  Apple-logs green
    Crossed cunningly:
  Smoke-veils between
    Drifting and lifting....

  O fire, my glee,
  Poor man’s friend,
  Food, company,
  Warmth and wine in one:
  May I never need
  Shillings to spend
  On apple-logs
  And coals to feed
        Thee,
  Bright-faced wonder of children and me!

[1] First version was published in _Ducks, and other Verses_, 1919.


  II

  Warm at thy feet
      I hear
  Speech more wise, more dear
  And clear than sage’s:
  More sweet than pages
    Of any poet,
  Showing never yet
    Smoke-veils of blue
  In golden places,
    Soot too,
    And faces
  In fire, and sparkling gay
  Little-lived glad children of fire at play.


  III

  What lore forlorn,
    What tale of tales,
  When man’s poor stock
    Of wisdom fails
  In Fire’s cave,
    Is born!
  Here Jack shall knock,
  --That hero brave
  On the giant’s door ...
  With rumbling snore
    The monster turns
      From sleep,
    And yawns....
  But the sheep
  Of Little Bo-Peep
    (By magic quick
  To wolves now turning)
  Are following Jack.
  Hark, crackle crack!
    (Is it fire burning?)
  They crunch, they lick
    Up “Fe, Fo, Fum.”
  Sucking his thumb
    Little Jack Horner
    Creeps from the corner
  Where he had hidden
    Behind a pie
    From the giant’s eye.

  Now doors as bidden
    Do open fly,
  And in they throng--
    The prisoners all
  With a merry song.
  Here’s Old King Cole
    To lead the ball!
    How merrily
  His fiddlers three
  Strike up the air
  That pleases his soul--
    A mighty sound
  As of wind in chimneys
    When trees are bare....
  Round and round
    In smoke-wreaths whirl
    Prince, Shepherd-girl,
  King, goose-girl, queen,
  All who have been
  For joy of children,
    And company,
  Since tales began:
  All that a man
    Can believe and be
  Never again;
    Save when in fire
  (Apple-logs green
    Crossed cunningly)
  He sees it plain,
    As I have seen,
  This thronged night-fire:
    Such light that shines
    Through Poetry and
  Small tumbling strain
  Of song, or from a window-pane
    As daylight fails,
    As evening pales
    In a sweet land
    Shadowed with pines,
  Peopled with children-haunted pines
  Murmuring fairy-tales.




THE LIFE THAT’S UNDER THE GROUND


  It’s funny to think of the life that’s under the ground.
  The mole that snouted up that loose red mound
  Of earth; the worm that turned those worm-casts; now,
  _They_ are enough to pucker any man’s brow.

  Once (I was only a boy) I caught a mole,
  And he was angry, and bit a little hole
  In the ball of my thumb. Worms I have often found,
  Glow-worms, and ones like this that slithe around.

         *       *       *       *       *

  It’s funny to think of the life that’s under ground.




EPITAPH


      This little girl
      In brown earth lies.
  She shall sweeten the sweet air
      Of Paradise
  With her slow lovely speech
      And wondering eyes.




INVOCATION--AND REPLY


    Hear me, brave words,
      You who of old
      Came singing birds
        To a poet’s call:
  “_Many have called us, yet we served not all._”
      Come words of jade
        To make green eyes
      Of a little maid,
        Come words that sing
  And let her linnet speech now softly ring.

      Ivory words
        Denote her breasts,
      Two fluttering birds
        That sit and sing
  For joy of some unseen delicious spring.

      Dusky words weave
        Her falling hair,
      The world bereave
        Of shadows long
  And shake them in a sombre tangled throng.

      Come you most durable
        Shining words,
      ’Gainst the incurable
        Drift of Time
  Guard me her sweetness safe within a rhyme.

         *       *       *       *       *

  _Is that thy need?_--Truly the all-complete
  Imperious need of every mortal lover
  Since life was lived in Time and Time was rover--
  To carve the image of that passing-sweet
  Swift withering flower of Beauty naméd Love;
  To crystallize a moment’s grace for ever.
  (“_The old old plea yet that is not enough!_”
  _Words whisper_); to seize Joy; to stay the river
  Of ever-flowing water bearing down
  To shadowy oceans all we crave to mind us
  Of Beauty and her heart of perfect peace.
  Words, aid me! Set your Time-defying crown
  On all my heart would never more release.
  Where wait ye, words? _Here._ Come! _No, poet, find us!_




MADNESS


  “Nothing without a cause,”
    You say. _Why did the wind
  Point with a thin
  Lean finger then?_

  “Laws behind the laws,
    And behind all a mind.”
  _A mind: just so.
  Somebody telling it to!_

  _Bidding it point and beckon
    And wave;
  Bidding it blast and blacken
    All life was,
  With thoughts of one in a grave,
  And wind stroking the grass._




GLOUCESTERSHIRE MEN


  Gloucester, Glevum, and Caer Glow,
  The name is nothing! Then as now
  Men mowed the meadow-grass for cattle,
  Died for Gloucestershire in battle,
  Fought, and loved, and built, and planned,
  And wrested with this kindly land.

  Man’s tiny spark of mortal fire
  Seems suddenly big in Gloucestershire.
  The little chain of life on earth
  Lengthens out round Minsterworth.
  Here and in all the country round
  Marks of men are on the ground.

  Here no brooding iron peak,
  No barren desert is, to shriek
  The little loneliness of man,
  Whose days are measured by a span;
  But in the faces of our brothers
  See we the looks of those old “others”:

  The men in yonder humped-up barrow,
  Crouched with their mortal joys and sorrow;
  The Roman soldier sound asleep
  By walls where English weeds slow creep
  (A thousand years are but a span ...):
  Each dead man was a Gloucestershire man!




A BALLADE OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE TOWNS


  Or ever in Cheltenham town dyspeptic flaunted
  His finery, or steel-clad Normans came
  To build that tower at Tewkesbury bird-haunted:
  Or ever rose that town of olden fame--
  Ciceter, out of Roman arms and flame:
  Before the older Bristol was begot
  Of Keltic fathers: Caer Glow was a name.
  Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot!

  Caer Glow, “the splendid city,” so they called it,
  Those funny beggars brilliant in woad;
  And then the tramping Romans came and walled it
  And called it Glevum, throwing many a road
  Through and around it. Dane and Saxon strode
  Awhile its streets; then they whose quills did blot
  That Domesday Book which every city showed,
  Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot!

  Bristol, that blue-eyed sailor-man, who sallied
  Forth to adventure, latterly has grown
  A merchant-prince, respectable, pot-bellied.
  Winchcombe--poor pagan queen--doth lack a throne.
  Ciceter keeps her soul, but she alone:
  For Tewkesbury’s soul is in a pewter-pot,
  And Cheltenham never had one of her own.
  Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot!


  L’ENVOY

  Prince, you have travelled far and wide, and seen
  Much nicer towns than these? “All Tommy rot!”
  (“Your Royal Highness surely jests,” I mean.)
  Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot!




LUCKY


  Lucky to live,
    Lucky again
  To have met and marched
    With the finest men
  (So I believe)
    Earth ever bred
  Since heaven was arched....
    _But they are dead._

  Lucky to love,
    Most lucky to
  Have loved, of all
    I might have, you
  Whom Time doth prove
    Most tender-hearted
  And beautiful....
    _But we are parted._




CAROL


  Sing lullaby, sing lullaby,
    While snow doth softly fall,
  Sing lullaby to Jesus
    Born in an oxen-stall.

  Sing lullaby to Jesus,
    Born now in Bethlehem,
  The naked blackthorn’s growing
    To weave His diadem.

  Sing lullaby, sing lullaby,
    While thickly snow doth fall,
  Sing lullaby to Jesus
    The Saviour of all.




GOD’S BEAUTY IN THE SKY


  God’s beauty in the sky,
    And in a silver cloud:
  Everywhere in the world
    His beauty cries aloud.

  But why should I talk of it?
    Let me drink it up
  As now I drink this cider
    From a big blue cup!




THE LOST WORLD


  What hues, what dances
    Do I remember
  Lighter than leaves dancing
    And red November?
  Why does my heart whisper
    Under the trees,
  “There are brighter colours and lighter
    Dancers than these”?

  What dream more golden
    In firelight hovers
  Than these faces of friends
    And trusty lovers?
  Why does my heart whisper
    In this gay peace,
  “There are bolder lovers and older
    Comrades than these”?




_PROSE POEMS_




DAWN


  ARISE!--ARISE!

Dew, like a thousand gems, is in the hair of the dear earth eager to
dance.




THE VISIBLE WORLD


Rub your eyes! If a man believe not in earth, how should he believe in
heaven? If he love not the visible, how should he its high symbol?




FUEL


You are burning me in a flame whereat starved men and women may warm
themselves. But you are angry that the winds blow my ashes into your
eyes.




BLOW, INVISIBLE MOUTHS!


Did God blow upon a reed (having cut it to His mind), what melodies
might not be piped!--what news of glorious birth! To you, beloved Dead,
I give my life that is but a reed. Blow, blow, invisible mouths of God!




ANGRY LOVER


Before God’s throne came the angry lover. “I am betrayed!” he cried,
and the courts of Heaven rang again with the sound of the word. “Thy
daughter Life have I wooed. For her have I given all--yea, all--since
that is the price of love, and now, behold, Thou hast given me her dark
sister, Death!”

“Yet have I but one daughter,” answered God.

“Is it possible that even yet thou dost not know me?” whispered the
veiled one.




HOME


  HOME!--HOME!

All night the orchards sighing and surging.... All night the branches
tossing and gesturing against the moon.... All night the scent of the
blossom.... But why do they say that I am dead?




LOVE SONG


He sang of the strong labouring of stars that wheel in their courses,
and of passionate Suns.... Songs of courage against destiny, of
scorn against mean riches; songs of sorrow, and of dancing joy; of
childhood, old age, and life again after. But never a song sang he of
his beloved. Therefore she laughed, and knew that he was still her
slave.




THE WINDOW


Blinking at the sun, what things of horror come peering out of
me!--what ages of beasts! O that God would look out of me upon His
world--that I might be a window for the eyes of Christ!




BROTHERS


Are men only our brothers? Were not the animals and the stars at
Bethlehem?




HOLY BROTHERHOOD


O you who have found mankind for a brother, be not content! You are
brothers and sisters of angels and archangels: and your feet are on the
glimmering roadways of unimaginable stars.


_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.