 | Quo Musa Tendis? |  |
69
AQUARELLES.
71
In a Garden.
Sitting on a garden-seat,
All a summer afternoon,
Reading, while the envious heat
Haunts you like a weary tune:
Watching other people playing,
Playing at a certain game;
Bodies flitting, twisting, swaying:
White balls flying, white forms vying
With each other: can you blame
One who says: “The worst of men is
He who first devised Lawn-Tennis”?
All a summer afternoon,
Reading, while the envious heat
Haunts you like a weary tune:
Watching other people playing,
Playing at a certain game;
Bodies flitting, twisting, swaying:
White balls flying, white forms vying
With each other: can you blame
One who says: “The worst of men is
He who first devised Lawn-Tennis”?
In a villa's garden plot
Such a game might be allowed:
When a London square grows hot,
Let a fashionable crowd
Gather, where the brown turf hardens,
With their Sunday hats and racquets:
But in perfect College gardens
Made for leisure, rife with pleasure,
Where men go in flannel jackets,
Read their books, and dream their dreams,
Forge their future volumes' themes;
Such a game might be allowed:
When a London square grows hot,
Let a fashionable crowd
Gather, where the brown turf hardens,
With their Sunday hats and racquets:
But in perfect College gardens
72
Where men go in flannel jackets,
Read their books, and dream their dreams,
Forge their future volumes' themes;
Is it decent, is it right,
That a man should have to look at
Such a desolating sight,
One so made to throw a book at,
As a little don that's prancing,
With a wild, perspiring air,
All about the court is dancing,
Gallopading, masquerading,
Though nor grace nor strength be there
As an athlete? Let him do it
Somewhere else, or duly rue it.
That a man should have to look at
Such a desolating sight,
One so made to throw a book at,
As a little don that's prancing,
With a wild, perspiring air,
All about the court is dancing,
Gallopading, masquerading,
Though nor grace nor strength be there
As an athlete? Let him do it
Somewhere else, or duly rue it.
Nay, more: it was here, was it not,
That we wandered, two friends and I,
Past the end of June, when a large half-moon
Sailed sad in a sober sky,
And the trees that were leafy and thick forgot
To be green, and the mist-wreaths wandered by.
That we wandered, two friends and I,
Past the end of June, when a large half-moon
Sailed sad in a sober sky,
And the trees that were leafy and thick forgot
To be green, and the mist-wreaths wandered by.
And the world beyond was a dim expanse
Of blue that was green, and green that was blue,
And the bushes were black which enclosed our track,
And the flowers were dashed with a blackness too,
And caught in a rapture, or rapt in a trance,
The garden was waiting: such hours are few!
Of blue that was green, and green that was blue,
And the bushes were black which enclosed our track,
And the flowers were dashed with a blackness too,
And caught in a rapture, or rapt in a trance,
The garden was waiting: such hours are few!
73
For at first there were remnants of rosy light
On the tall grey chapel beyond the trees,
And the west not ablaze, but aglow with rays
That had faded: a whisper of rest the breeze,
And the silence a tremulous still delight,
And the unseen meadows as unseen seas.
On the tall grey chapel beyond the trees,
And the west not ablaze, but aglow with rays
That had faded: a whisper of rest the breeze,
And the silence a tremulous still delight,
And the unseen meadows as unseen seas.
And we noted a spot where the purple shade,
Which hid the tree-trunks and dimmed the grass,
Seemed to mean far more than it meant before,
Till all that we fancied took shape and was:
And we looked on a deep, reposeful glade,
Whence Satyr and Dryad and Faun might pass.
Which hid the tree-trunks and dimmed the grass,
Seemed to mean far more than it meant before,
Till all that we fancied took shape and was:
And we looked on a deep, reposeful glade,
Whence Satyr and Dryad and Faun might pass.
And that's what the garden must mean for me,
For me and my friends who were there that night:
What wonder, then, if I hate the men
Who prove beyond doubt, when the noon is bright,
That my glade is a lawn which can easily be
Deformed with horrible squares of white,
And peopled with forms that offend my sight.
For me and my friends who were there that night:
What wonder, then, if I hate the men
Who prove beyond doubt, when the noon is bright,
That my glade is a lawn which can easily be
Deformed with horrible squares of white,
And peopled with forms that offend my sight.
74
Autumn Thoughts.
Winter in the College Garden,
Twigs for leaves, and snow for grass,
Biting blasts that sear and harden
Where soft zephyrs used to pass,
Hidden places, white bare spaces;—
What a change it was!
Twigs for leaves, and snow for grass,
Biting blasts that sear and harden
Where soft zephyrs used to pass,
Hidden places, white bare spaces;—
What a change it was!
Months have passed since I beheld it:
Soon it may be here again,
Summer's gone: grey ghosts expelled it:
Sad's the murmur of the rain:—
“Winter, winter!”—dreary hinter:
Hear the dull refrain.
Soon it may be here again,
Summer's gone: grey ghosts expelled it:
Sad's the murmur of the rain:—
“Winter, winter!”—dreary hinter:
Hear the dull refrain.
As I sit this wet October
Russet leaf-clouds whirling by,
Can I but be grave and sober,
Drooping spirit, downcast eye,
Thinking dimly, brooding grimly;—
Winter, winter's nigh?
Russet leaf-clouds whirling by,
Can I but be grave and sober,
Drooping spirit, downcast eye,
Thinking dimly, brooding grimly;—
Winter, winter's nigh?
And the world that I'm recalling:—
Such a world of burnished snow!
Scarce a brown leaf left for falling:
Not a green leaf left to show
How the splendid colours blended
Twenty weeks ago!
Such a world of burnished snow!
Scarce a brown leaf left for falling:
Not a green leaf left to show
How the splendid colours blended
Twenty weeks ago!
75
Up and down the long white spaces,
Where dim leaves are whirling now,
How I gazed on phantom-faces,
How I planned—no matter how!
Here I wandered, here I pondered,
Here I made a vow.
Where dim leaves are whirling now,
How I gazed on phantom-faces,
How I planned—no matter how!
Here I wandered, here I pondered,
Here I made a vow.
Cold crisp renovating weather,
Clear and colourless and bright,
This, I think, should go together
With a mind intent on right,
Plans revolving, deeds resolving,
Seeking for the light.
Clear and colourless and bright,
This, I think, should go together
With a mind intent on right,
Plans revolving, deeds resolving,
Seeking for the light.
Yes, I made a vow, and wrote it
In my heart, nine months ago:
Framed a contract—I could quote it:
Drew a line to walk by—so:
Have I kept it? or o'erleapt it?
Well, I hardly know.
In my heart, nine months ago:
Framed a contract—I could quote it:
Drew a line to walk by—so:
Have I kept it? or o'erleapt it?
Well, I hardly know.
76
After Sunset.
1. Aug. 30, 1891.
At Magna Charta Island.
A grey lawn cut by the river's brink,
And then the stream,
Dun slabs of marble, splashed with ink,
Beyond—a dream!—
A purple shield of blazing bronze
Streaked here and there with silver: a pair
Of rainbow-coloured swans.
And then the stream,
Dun slabs of marble, splashed with ink,
Beyond—a dream!—
A purple shield of blazing bronze
Streaked here and there with silver: a pair
Of rainbow-coloured swans.
And above the blaze of the burnished river
The burnished sky,
Bronze banners of vapour which hardly quiver
As the breeze goes by,
Girt round with a dark blue belt of cloud;
One primrose patch, which the ripples catch,
And the first of the stars' blithe crowd.
The burnished sky,
Bronze banners of vapour which hardly quiver
As the breeze goes by,
Girt round with a dark blue belt of cloud;
One primrose patch, which the ripples catch,
And the first of the stars' blithe crowd.
And between the water and sky one observes
A slope, tree-crowned:
Black tree-tops tracing a thousand curves,
Where gloom's profound;
And grey-green meadows from slope to stream,
With a steep black bank at the edge: how thank
The fate which allows man's brain to house
Such a spirit-soothing dream.
A slope, tree-crowned:
Black tree-tops tracing a thousand curves,
Where gloom's profound;
And grey-green meadows from slope to stream,
With a steep black bank at the edge: how thank
The fate which allows man's brain to house
Such a spirit-soothing dream.
77
2. Sept. 5, 1891.
In the Lock-Cut: Old Windsor.
Great purple clouds in the western sky,
Hung thick o'er a blaze of golden white,
And below that glory there seems to lie,
A cushion of silver: not so bright
But it dulls to a grey that entombs the day
And heralds the march of night.
Hung thick o'er a blaze of golden white,
And below that glory there seems to lie,
A cushion of silver: not so bright
But it dulls to a grey that entombs the day
And heralds the march of night.
One tree hides a third of the gorgeous west,—
A disk of black is its dusky growth—
Yet not hides: nay perhaps displays at best
Through the chinks which it opens, nothing loth:
While its outline bold cuts silver and gold,
And heightens the blaze of both.
A disk of black is its dusky growth—
Yet not hides: nay perhaps displays at best
Through the chinks which it opens, nothing loth:
While its outline bold cuts silver and gold,
And heightens the blaze of both.
And up to the glory of golden white,
With the purple above and the silver below,
There's a river lane that is darkly bright,
Softly and smoothly and quietly aglow,
Blue willows beside it, night hasting to hide it,
Day sorry to let it go.
With the purple above and the silver below,
There's a river lane that is darkly bright,
Softly and smoothly and quietly aglow,
Blue willows beside it, night hasting to hide it,
Day sorry to let it go.
The tree grows blacker, the night falls fast,
And purple and silver and white must fade:
But something was shown us which can't but last:
Has a song been sung? has a play been played?
Has a lesson been taught, or was all for naught?
Well—nothing endures like the past.
And purple and silver and white must fade:
But something was shown us which can't but last:
Has a song been sung? has a play been played?
Has a lesson been taught, or was all for naught?
Well—nothing endures like the past.
78
3. Sept. 9, 1891.
Off the Bells of Ouseley.
The Poet.The water is black and opaque and polished,
Not a ripple to break it, or ray to illume:
From bank to bank, like a sunless tank,
Swept clear of ripples by some witch-broom:
What's it like, dear Muse? come! impart your views,
Or, faith, you'll be soon abolished.
The Muse.
Just the dripping asphalte of rain-washed Paris,
With our gliding punt for the rumbling tram;
And your face shining black in the glistening track:
On the bank, for the workman who drains his dram,
One willow as grim as a phantom dim
Evoked by Augustus Harris.
| Quo Musa Tendis? | |