Carol and Cadence New poems: MDCCCCII-MDCCCCVII: By John Payne |
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LONDON VOICES.
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 | Carol and Cadence |  |
79
LONDON VOICES.
81
THE TALE OF TIME.
The bell strikes one;
The small hours are begun;
Some slumber, others dream and others wake and weep:
The lagging minutes lapse, each following each like sheep.
The small hours are begun;
Some slumber, others dream and others wake and weep:
The lagging minutes lapse, each following each like sheep.
The bell strikes two:
The hours the hours ensue:
Out of the sea of dreams, that surges round Life's shore,
The night evokes the loves, the hates of heretofore.
The hours the hours ensue:
Out of the sea of dreams, that surges round Life's shore,
The night evokes the loves, the hates of heretofore.
The bell strikes three;
The Past and the To-be
Their bitters only show to the retorted sight;
Their sweets are swallowed up in unremembering night.
The Past and the To-be
Their bitters only show to the retorted sight;
Their sweets are swallowed up in unremembering night.
The bell strikes four;
Shut, shut, thou dreamland's door!
No Future e'er can pay the sorry Past-time's debt.
Since joy may not be mine, at least let me forget.
Shut, shut, thou dreamland's door!
No Future e'er can pay the sorry Past-time's debt.
Since joy may not be mine, at least let me forget.
The bell strikes five;
The night is all alive
With phantoms of past hopes and shapes of sorrows dead:
I lie and watch them flit and flutter round my head.
The night is all alive
With phantoms of past hopes and shapes of sorrows dead:
I lie and watch them flit and flutter round my head.
The bell strikes six;
Fancy its tale of bricks,
Made without straw, still brings to build my house of dreams:
My thought's a bird that nests upon the torrent-streams.
Fancy its tale of bricks,
Made without straw, still brings to build my house of dreams:
My thought's a bird that nests upon the torrent-streams.
82
The bell strikes seven;
The dawn begins to leaven
The dying night's black bread; the birds their matins say;
The roar of London tells the tale of coming day.
The dawn begins to leaven
The dying night's black bread; the birds their matins say;
The roar of London tells the tale of coming day.
The bell strikes eight;
The morning's at the gate:
Unwilling, in the East it shows and rising up,
Bestirs itself to brew the new day's bitter cup.
The morning's at the gate:
Unwilling, in the East it shows and rising up,
Bestirs itself to brew the new day's bitter cup.
The bell strikes nine;
Is that the sun ashine?
Like to a candle half-hidden by a giant's fist,
Its eye sleep-drunken blinks and battles with the mist.
Is that the sun ashine?
Like to a candle half-hidden by a giant's fist,
Its eye sleep-drunken blinks and battles with the mist.
The bell strikes ten;
'Tis time to mix with men;
'Tis time to run once more the still-returning round,
To beat and beat in vain against the viewless bound.
'Tis time to mix with men;
'Tis time to run once more the still-returning round,
To beat and beat in vain against the viewless bound.
It strikes eleven;
The sun is high in heaven;
The full streets hum and roar and thunder like the sea;
“All life,” they say, “is ours; there's nothing left for thee.”
The sun is high in heaven;
The full streets hum and roar and thunder like the sea;
“All life,” they say, “is ours; there's nothing left for thee.”
The bell strikes noon;
The morning's gone too soon:
Like all fair things, the best Day hath, the forenoon-tide,
Too late is born and doth too little long abide.
The morning's gone too soon:
Like all fair things, the best Day hath, the forenoon-tide,
Too late is born and doth too little long abide.
The bell strikes one;
Come out and see the sun.
A wintry blink, forsooth, he hath and yet he's good
To look upon; for light indeed's the spirit's food.
Come out and see the sun.
A wintry blink, forsooth, he hath and yet he's good
To look upon; for light indeed's the spirit's food.
The bell strikes two;
Twain are we, I and you:
Each in the streets of Life his way must fare alone:
None shareth Life and Death; each must abide his own.
Twain are we, I and you:
Each in the streets of Life his way must fare alone:
None shareth Life and Death; each must abide his own.
83
The bell strikes three;
What hath Day booted thee?
Since that which thou hast done to morrow will undo,
What skilleth thee to have looked upon the light anew?
What hath Day booted thee?
Since that which thou hast done to morrow will undo,
What skilleth thee to have looked upon the light anew?
The bell strikes four;
The winter day is o'er.
The beasts are wiser far than we are, you and I;
They eat and drink and sleep nor question How or Why.
The winter day is o'er.
The beasts are wiser far than we are, you and I;
They eat and drink and sleep nor question How or Why.
The bell strikes five;
What profits thee to strive?
Even as the darkness blots the battle of thy day,
So will the tide of Time thy traces wash away.
What profits thee to strive?
Even as the darkness blots the battle of thy day,
So will the tide of Time thy traces wash away.
The bell strikes six;
Life lapses, like the Styx,
And from its sluggish stream, pricked out with points of fire,
The smoke of London soars, as from a funeral pyre.
Life lapses, like the Styx,
And from its sluggish stream, pricked out with points of fire,
The smoke of London soars, as from a funeral pyre.
The bell strikes seven;
The darkling vault of heaven
The lurid lamplight casts back from the nether air;
The clouds are crimson-stained with London's furnace-flare.
The darkling vault of heaven
The lurid lamplight casts back from the nether air;
The clouds are crimson-stained with London's furnace-flare.
The bell strikes eight;
The streets are all in spate;
All hither thither run and and seek to oversee
The Present and the Past and blot the black To-be.
The streets are all in spate;
All hither thither run and and seek to oversee
The Present and the Past and blot the black To-be.
The bell strikes nine;
For Pleasure's poison-wine
The blind folk battling fare along the surging streets;
A raging tide of men on every pavement beats.
For Pleasure's poison-wine
The blind folk battling fare along the surging streets;
A raging tide of men on every pavement beats.
The bell strikes ten;
When shall it peace again
Be for the heavy hearts, the sorrowing, suffering souls?
Still in the roaring streets the tidal torrent rolls.
When shall it peace again
Be for the heavy hearts, the sorrowing, suffering souls?
Still in the roaring streets the tidal torrent rolls.
84
It strikes eleven;
Yonder the Planets Seven
Look longed-for silence down from the dumb vault on high
And in the emptying ways Day's clamours wane and die.
Yonder the Planets Seven
Look longed-for silence down from the dumb vault on high
And in the emptying ways Day's clamours wane and die.
The bell strikes twelve;
Sad world, in dreams go delve
For thy vain hopes, thy quests, thy treasures new and old.
What if, with breaking day, they prove but fairy gold?
Sad world, in dreams go delve
For thy vain hopes, thy quests, thy treasures new and old.
What if, with breaking day, they prove but fairy gold?
KENSINGTON GARDENS.
Here, in the sun,
When Summer's radiant reign is new-begun,
For him who knows
To mark the things that bide behind Life's passing shows,
Under these colonnades of dreaming elms,
The halls of Elfland rise on every hand
And he who cannot here the fairy realms
Find hath no part in the Enchanted Land.
When Summer's radiant reign is new-begun,
For him who knows
To mark the things that bide behind Life's passing shows,
Under these colonnades of dreaming elms,
The halls of Elfland rise on every hand
And he who cannot here the fairy realms
Find hath no part in the Enchanted Land.
The linnet calls;
And for my sense the inexorable walls
That shut Life in
Dissolve; and with them fades away the worldly din.
The spaces of the streets transmuted are
To dreamland, sweet with sempiternal Spring,
And London shines, as if within the ring
Of splendour steeped of some invisible star.
And for my sense the inexorable walls
That shut Life in
Dissolve; and with them fades away the worldly din.
The spaces of the streets transmuted are
To dreamland, sweet with sempiternal Spring,
And London shines, as if within the ring
Of splendour steeped of some invisible star.
Here nest the birds
Whose sweet song blossoms into sweeter words:
But he alone
To whom the dells and dales of Paradise are known
Marks them; for mute they are to other ears
Than his to whom the unseen Powers allow
The travel of the interstellar spheres,
The wonder-worlds beyond the Here and Now.
Whose sweet song blossoms into sweeter words:
But he alone
To whom the dells and dales of Paradise are known
Marks them; for mute they are to other ears
Than his to whom the unseen Powers allow
The travel of the interstellar spheres,
The wonder-worlds beyond the Here and Now.
85
THE STREETS.
From street to street,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, cold and heat,
He fares, to whom
The Gods have given to make the flowers of fancy bloom
On the grey stones and from the smoke-stained walls.
Dreams cling about him like a moving cloud;
And in the aisles of Paradisal halls
He wanders, most alone amidst the crowd.
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, cold and heat,
He fares, to whom
The Gods have given to make the flowers of fancy bloom
On the grey stones and from the smoke-stained walls.
Dreams cling about him like a moving cloud;
And in the aisles of Paradisal halls
He wanders, most alone amidst the crowd.
The folk that pass
He noteth but as darkly in a glass:
Their faces show
As phantoms but of folk forgotten long ago.
The things of thought for him alone are true;
The things of Life it is that do but seem:
The only Real lives in Heaven's blue
And in the winding woodways of his dream.
He noteth but as darkly in a glass:
Their faces show
As phantoms but of folk forgotten long ago.
The things of thought for him alone are true;
The things of Life it is that do but seem:
The only Real lives in Heaven's blue
And in the winding woodways of his dream.
The dreamland's gate
Stands open still to its initiate.
Where'er he goes,
The wastes before him flower with many a mystic rose:
Fields in each road, woods in each lane are born;
And he in London streets who cannot see
The elves at play and hear the elf king's horn
Hath no inheritance in Faërie.
Stands open still to its initiate.
Where'er he goes,
The wastes before him flower with many a mystic rose:
Fields in each road, woods in each lane are born;
And he in London streets who cannot see
The elves at play and hear the elf king's horn
Hath no inheritance in Faërie.
WINTER DAWN.
A pallid glimmer creeps across the house-peaks grey;
The Winter morning wakes, ungracious, chill, austere,
Night following in its track. As if to light its sphere
Unwilling yet to yield, the darkness stands at bay.
The Winter morning wakes, ungracious, chill, austere,
Night following in its track. As if to light its sphere
Unwilling yet to yield, the darkness stands at bay.
86
Still the unflinching light fares on its fated way,
Heedless, so but its span be filled, of hope or cheer,
Till, having, East to West, the shadows banished sheer,
The world-all in the lap it leaves of wan white Day;
Heedless, so but its span be filled, of hope or cheer,
Till, having, East to West, the shadows banished sheer,
The world-all in the lap it leaves of wan white Day;
Day sorrowfuller far than many a moonless night,
Lacking the loving shade and shelter of the dark,
Wherein dumb sorrow hides, as in a helpful ark
Of peace, its shamefast face, intolerant of the light,
Day, whose grey sullen glare, against the silver rime,
Casts up, in grim relief, the city's rust and grime.
Lacking the loving shade and shelter of the dark,
Wherein dumb sorrow hides, as in a helpful ark
Of peace, its shamefast face, intolerant of the light,
Day, whose grey sullen glare, against the silver rime,
Casts up, in grim relief, the city's rust and grime.
SUMMER DAWN.
The purple star-pricked gloom of velvet-vestured night
Begins to pale and fade in the fast-chilling air;
Its jewels one by one drop out and leave it bare:
The trees, without wind, sway, as to some spirit's flight,
Begins to pale and fade in the fast-chilling air;
Its jewels one by one drop out and leave it bare:
The trees, without wind, sway, as to some spirit's flight,
The thrill of Nature's pulse, prophetic of the light;
Old London's spires and peaks, fire-fretted by the fair
Young day, thrust up to plant their heaven-ascending stair
Against its waxing wall of rose and opal-white.
Old London's spires and peaks, fire-fretted by the fair
Young day, thrust up to plant their heaven-ascending stair
Against its waxing wall of rose and opal-white.
Yonder, on the Eastern hills, the horizon is a-flame,
Where the new sun unfurls his oriflamme of fire:
A moment more, and lo, the glad blue day is born!
A burst of song soars up to hail it from the choir
Of wakening birds and all, hills, plains, heaven, earth, acclaim
The immeasurable might and majesty of morn.
Where the new sun unfurls his oriflamme of fire:
A moment more, and lo, the glad blue day is born!
A burst of song soars up to hail it from the choir
Of wakening birds and all, hills, plains, heaven, earth, acclaim
The immeasurable might and majesty of morn.
RAIN.
Rain falls;
It hides the earth, it hides Heaven's azure halls:
Within the dungeon of my darkling thought
It shuts me with its grating crystal-wrought.
It hides the earth, it hides Heaven's azure halls:
Within the dungeon of my darkling thought
It shuts me with its grating crystal-wrought.
87
Grey skies,
Grey streets, grey walls, sad prospect for sad eyes!
Beneath my windows, on their listless way,
The dull folk lapse, like phantoms of the day.
Grey streets, grey walls, sad prospect for sad eyes!
Beneath my windows, on their listless way,
The dull folk lapse, like phantoms of the day.
No hope!
No breach of blue in sullen Heaven's cloud-scope!
Chaos is come again: all born anew,
Methinks, must be ere Heaven once more wax blue.
No breach of blue in sullen Heaven's cloud-scope!
Chaos is come again: all born anew,
Methinks, must be ere Heaven once more wax blue.
More sage,
My cats Life's rain-obliterated page
Fill up with slumber, luckier than I,
Whom Dawn o'er-often finds with waking eye.
My cats Life's rain-obliterated page
Fill up with slumber, luckier than I,
Whom Dawn o'er-often finds with waking eye.
Thought fails;
The drip from the drenched roofs is as the nails
That Time into the coffin drives of Life,
Knelling the nothingness of stress and strife.
The drip from the drenched roofs is as the nails
That Time into the coffin drives of Life,
Knelling the nothingness of stress and strife.
What skills
Past goods to balance against present ills?
Go couch thee, fool, with King Pandion dead
And all thy friends that now are lapped in lead!
Past goods to balance against present ills?
Go couch thee, fool, with King Pandion dead
And all thy friends that now are lapped in lead!
LONDON BY NIGHT.
Twilight thickens o'er sea and land;
Spent are the sun's last rays:
Ghostlike creeping, with feet of haze,
Already shadows the lowlands drown;
And I on the hill-top's crest I stand,
Where a silver line in the South foresays
The climbing feet of the coming moon;
And down on the valley below I gaze,
Where, 'neath Night's gathering frown,
As 'twere a sea, aswoon
Fallen and fixed in its wild wave-play,
Stricken to silence of ended day,
Eastward and Westward and up and down,
Gable on gable of black and grey,
Roof-tops on billowy roof-tops brown,
Sparkles and darkles, amorphous, the dim-seen town.
Spent are the sun's last rays:
Ghostlike creeping, with feet of haze,
Already shadows the lowlands drown;
And I on the hill-top's crest I stand,
Where a silver line in the South foresays
The climbing feet of the coming moon;
And down on the valley below I gaze,
88
As 'twere a sea, aswoon
Fallen and fixed in its wild wave-play,
Stricken to silence of ended day,
Eastward and Westward and up and down,
Gable on gable of black and grey,
Roof-tops on billowy roof-tops brown,
Sparkles and darkles, amorphous, the dim-seen town.
London, likeness on earth of hell,
There, in thy perilous pit,
Huddled together like souls in pine,
Herded of sorrow like hapless sheep,
Far from the fields and the free sun's shine,
Each to other in slavery knit,
Loveless linked by the conquering spell
Of fear and Fortune, in darkness deep
Of doubt there dwell
Millions of men who have no sleep
Nor know, for carefulness, night from morn.
There, in the bounds of Life's prison-bars,
Fierce and forlorn,
They range, wild-beast like, and wrangle and toil and weep,
Under the unbeholding sun and moon
Whether it be or stern unsympathizing stars.
There, in thy perilous pit,
Huddled together like souls in pine,
Herded of sorrow like hapless sheep,
Far from the fields and the free sun's shine,
Each to other in slavery knit,
Loveless linked by the conquering spell
Of fear and Fortune, in darkness deep
Of doubt there dwell
Millions of men who have no sleep
Nor know, for carefulness, night from morn.
There, in the bounds of Life's prison-bars,
Fierce and forlorn,
They range, wild-beast like, and wrangle and toil and weep,
Under the unbeholding sun and moon
Whether it be or stern unsympathizing stars.
Ocean of pine and pain,
Bottomless abysm of doubt and dole,
More of monsters than any main,
Fuller of fear than the dreariest deep,
Billowed beneath the Pole,
Where, 'neath the shimmering stars asleep,
It wakes, as the whales in the midnight whirl and leap,
Who shall thy fathomless waters sound?
Tide thou knowest nor ebb nor flow;
None may number thy wrecked and drowned.
Still, through the ages' resonant round,
Thy roaring surges clamouring go;
And none shall hearken the tale of their sullen song,
Till mortals all,
Both great and small,
From sleep aroused by the trumpet's sound,
Lift up the head,
Till high and low,
Till quick and dead,
At the last great summons, to judgment throng.
Bottomless abysm of doubt and dole,
More of monsters than any main,
Fuller of fear than the dreariest deep,
Billowed beneath the Pole,
Where, 'neath the shimmering stars asleep,
It wakes, as the whales in the midnight whirl and leap,
Who shall thy fathomless waters sound?
Tide thou knowest nor ebb nor flow;
None may number thy wrecked and drowned.
Still, through the ages' resonant round,
89
And none shall hearken the tale of their sullen song,
Till mortals all,
Both great and small,
From sleep aroused by the trumpet's sound,
Lift up the head,
Till high and low,
Till quick and dead,
At the last great summons, to judgment throng.
VOICES.
1.
The wind and the rain
Go shrilling past, like a soul in pain.
What is their message to humankind,
The rain and the wind?
Go shrilling past, like a soul in pain.
What is their message to humankind,
The rain and the wind?
Feckless forever,
So they tell us, is Life's endeavour,
Senseless sowing and reaping reckless,
Forever feckless.
So they tell us, is Life's endeavour,
Senseless sowing and reaping reckless,
Forever feckless.
2.
Low or loud
Murmurs or clamours the moving crowd.
What do they say, as they pass and go,
Loud or low?
Murmurs or clamours the moving crowd.
What do they say, as they pass and go,
Loud or low?
Pain and need,
All adventured for gain and greed;
Nothing gotten, they say, but vain
Need and pain.
All adventured for gain and greed;
Nothing gotten, they say, but vain
Need and pain.
90
MAY INTRA MUROS.
Blithe to behold
Is the glittering blossoming rain of the rathe laburnum-gold
In May,
When the wakening world hath forgotten the frost-time grey
And the woes of the winter cold.
The lilacs are robed like princes in purple and red and white
And the wandering airs are drunk with the wine of delight
Of the new Spring day.
Is the glittering blossoming rain of the rathe laburnum-gold
In May,
When the wakening world hath forgotten the frost-time grey
And the woes of the winter cold.
The lilacs are robed like princes in purple and red and white
And the wandering airs are drunk with the wine of delight
Of the new Spring day.
Old London shines;
The lindens lighten the ways with their shimmering sun-shot lines
Of green;
The grey town basks in the bath of the sunlight sheen;
Hope hangs out the shining signs
Of Summer to come on every tree:—Rejoice, old soul!
There is nothing so sweet as the season when Summer's goal
Through Spring is seen.
The lindens lighten the ways with their shimmering sun-shot lines
Of green;
The grey town basks in the bath of the sunlight sheen;
Hope hangs out the shining signs
Of Summer to come on every tree:—Rejoice, old soul!
There is nothing so sweet as the season when Summer's goal
Through Spring is seen.
Lush to the brim
With blossom, my little garden glows in the grip of the grim
Old walls,
Like a white thought mured in a dream of misery dim.
Without, Life blusters and brawls:
But here is a haven of pleasance and boscage and peace and balm,
Where the thrush and the blackbird flute in the mid-Spring calm
And the cuckoo calls.
With blossom, my little garden glows in the grip of the grim
Old walls,
Like a white thought mured in a dream of misery dim.
Without, Life blusters and brawls:
But here is a haven of pleasance and boscage and peace and balm,
Where the thrush and the blackbird flute in the mid-Spring calm
And the cuckoo calls.
The soft hours pass;
They lapse, like a summer sea, o'er me, as I lie on the grass,
Not fast,
But slow as a happy dream that is sweet to the last.
A wine of peace in Life's glass
They pour, the wine of a wish that is sure, though unfulfilled,
In the brimming bowl of a Future yet unspilled
By a Now, half Past.
They lapse, like a summer sea, o'er me, as I lie on the grass,
Not fast,
But slow as a happy dream that is sweet to the last.
A wine of peace in Life's glass
They pour, the wine of a wish that is sure, though unfulfilled,
In the brimming bowl of a Future yet unspilled
By a Now, half Past.
91
Sing, throstle, sing!
Thy song is the tale in tune of the peartree's blossoming;
And I,
As thy notes float up and blend with the lark's in the sky,
My soul on the tune takes wing
To the fields of Fable and Faith, where sorrow is not nor strife,
Where Death is a dream of the dark and given is life
To live, not die.
Thy song is the tale in tune of the peartree's blossoming;
And I,
As thy notes float up and blend with the lark's in the sky,
My soul on the tune takes wing
To the fields of Fable and Faith, where sorrow is not nor strife,
Where Death is a dream of the dark and given is life
To live, not die.
FOG.
The fog
Hangs like a shroud above the streets and houses:
Beneath its pall the dreaming city drowses
And snorts and wheezes like a sleeping dog.
Hangs like a shroud above the streets and houses:
Beneath its pall the dreaming city drowses
And snorts and wheezes like a sleeping dog.
Death-white,
The gas-lamps glimmer, ghosts of radiance only,
Like wild-fires flickering o'er some marish lonely,
To lure the traveller with their treacherous light.
The gas-lamps glimmer, ghosts of radiance only,
Like wild-fires flickering o'er some marish lonely,
To lure the traveller with their treacherous light.
As trees
Walking, sparse passers-by, successive looming
Forth of the haze, like ghosts that wander, glooming,
In limboes of the underworld, one sees.
Walking, sparse passers-by, successive looming
Forth of the haze, like ghosts that wander, glooming,
In limboes of the underworld, one sees.
Their way
Portentous urging through the rolling curtain,
Motors and tramcars thunder, vast, uncertain,
Peace-poisoning dragons of our restless day.
Portentous urging through the rolling curtain,
Motors and tramcars thunder, vast, uncertain,
Peace-poisoning dragons of our restless day.
The gloom,
Even as I watch it, waxes grimmer, thicker;
The tongues of gas no longer through it flicker;
The day is drowned in Night Primaeval's womb.
Even as I watch it, waxes grimmer, thicker;
The tongues of gas no longer through it flicker;
The day is drowned in Night Primaeval's womb.
92
Each street,
Each road is strangled with funeral fleeces;
Even the thunder of the traffic ceases;
The pavements echo to no passing feet.
Each road is strangled with funeral fleeces;
Even the thunder of the traffic ceases;
The pavements echo to no passing feet.
All cowers,
Still-sepulchred in nothingness abysmal:
No light, no sound-ray breaks the silence dismal;
The world is voiceless; voiceless are the hours.
Still-sepulchred in nothingness abysmal:
No light, no sound-ray breaks the silence dismal;
The world is voiceless; voiceless are the hours.
What strange
Vague portents harbour in this brumal ocean?
What monsters haunt its billows without motion,
What phantoms through its deeps Tartarian range,
Vague portents harbour in this brumal ocean?
What monsters haunt its billows without motion,
What phantoms through its deeps Tartarian range,
Who knows?
Midst prehistoric wars and ancient slaughters
Thought strays. Beneath its dull diluvian waters
A tide of dreams delirious ebbs and flows.
Midst prehistoric wars and ancient slaughters
Thought strays. Beneath its dull diluvian waters
A tide of dreams delirious ebbs and flows.
Life lies,
Inert, beneath the sable pall, and stirless:
Its altars idle; frankincense and myrrhless,
They smoke no longer tow'rd the extinguished skies.
Inert, beneath the sable pall, and stirless:
Its altars idle; frankincense and myrrhless,
They smoke no longer tow'rd the extinguished skies.
But lo!
Where on the horizon, in rhe Westward distance,
Like fires funereal for a past existence,
A dull red shimmer waxes, dim and slow.
Where on the horizon, in rhe Westward distance,
Like fires funereal for a past existence,
A dull red shimmer waxes, dim and slow.
The sun
It is, behind the shroud of darkness setting,
That to the world, the difference forgetting
'Twixt noon and night, gives token of day done.
It is, behind the shroud of darkness setting,
That to the world, the difference forgetting
'Twixt noon and night, gives token of day done.
In this
Unluminous glow the lurid city slumbers,
Like that grim fortress, that, in Dante's numbers,
Tremendous towers from the deeps of Dis.
Unluminous glow the lurid city slumbers,
Like that grim fortress, that, in Dante's numbers,
Tremendous towers from the deeps of Dis.
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The face
Of the far orb ere long grows overclouded
With hovering Night, and 'neath the horizon shrouded,
His last rays vanish from the fields of space.
Of the far orb ere long grows overclouded
With hovering Night, and 'neath the horizon shrouded,
His last rays vanish from the fields of space.
Day's pyres
Outburned are; not a glimmer in their ashes
Bides; o'er the eye of heaven fall Night's lashes,
Obscurer for the late-extinguished fires.
Outburned are; not a glimmer in their ashes
Bides; o'er the eye of heaven fall Night's lashes,
Obscurer for the late-extinguished fires.
Again
The swart Cimmerian ocean o'er the city
Its strangling billows closes, without pity,
And Night and Fog, twin anarchs, jointly reign.
The swart Cimmerian ocean o'er the city
Its strangling billows closes, without pity,
And Night and Fog, twin anarchs, jointly reign.
Once more
Antaeval Chaos comes and Dark discordial:
Whelmed in their wave of Nothingness primordial,
The whirling looms of Time no longer roar.
Antaeval Chaos comes and Dark discordial:
Whelmed in their wave of Nothingness primordial,
The whirling looms of Time no longer roar.
Not dead
Alone it seems, but having ne'er existed,
Thought from remembrance blotted, over-misted,
Of all that may have been in days forsped,
Alone it seems, but having ne'er existed,
Thought from remembrance blotted, over-misted,
Of all that may have been in days forsped,
In gloom,
For grave-clothes lapped, the world-all drowses, scorning
The hope of any Resurrection morning,
As in the grip of fore-appointed doom.
For grave-clothes lapped, the world-all drowses, scorning
The hope of any Resurrection morning,
As in the grip of fore-appointed doom.
MUNDUS SENESCENS.
The hawthorn ought, of ancient use, to bloom in middle May;
But now 'tis seldom full in flower until June's earliest day:
The April meadows wont whilom to glow with cowslip-gold;
But now their time is latter May.—The world is growing old.
But now 'tis seldom full in flower until June's earliest day:
The April meadows wont whilom to glow with cowslip-gold;
But now their time is latter May.—The world is growing old.
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To those, in this sad London doomed to dwell, it seems Life's page
Is quicklier overwrit with all the charact'ry of age;
The Spring less early lights with leaf the lindens than of yore;
The Summer tarries every year and lingers more and more.
Is quicklier overwrit with all the charact'ry of age;
The Spring less early lights with leaf the lindens than of yore;
The Summer tarries every year and lingers more and more.
Even the Autumn seldom comes till Winter's on the wing,
And Winter, won to end, is loath to yield to infant Spring.
Less hot's the sun, less bright the day: Life's fires are burning low:
Its sap each season vivifies Earth's veins with feebler flow.
And Winter, won to end, is loath to yield to infant Spring.
Less hot's the sun, less bright the day: Life's fires are burning low:
Its sap each season vivifies Earth's veins with feebler flow.
The days draw near when Earth, its fires extinct in cold and gloom,
Will, like the moon, in space become a vast and vagrant tomb,
When of this weary world of men an end fore'er shall be
And nothing more of Life abide, not even memory.
Will, like the moon, in space become a vast and vagrant tomb,
When of this weary world of men an end fore'er shall be
And nothing more of Life abide, not even memory.
And how should this our sad soul hope for any happier thing?
To have a world for tomb were worth a poet or a king.
In such a grave assured we were, at least, of Life's surcease,
Rid of rebirth and certified of everlasting peace.
To have a world for tomb were worth a poet or a king.
In such a grave assured we were, at least, of Life's surcease,
Rid of rebirth and certified of everlasting peace.
FLOWERS OF NIGHT.
Grimy London in the gloaming fading lies:
Webs of Winter evening's weaving, falling from the sunless skies,
Film by film, a gradual ocean, gathers over all the haze:
Darkling, in the toneless twilight, drowse the unenlightened ways.
Webs of Winter evening's weaving, falling from the sunless skies,
Film by film, a gradual ocean, gathers over all the haze:
Darkling, in the toneless twilight, drowse the unenlightened ways.
Dark and darker every moment grows the air:
As on touchpaper enkindled sparks run scattering here and there,
Gas-lamps, one after another, prick the mantle of the dark,
Till their broid'ries all the highways out in lines of silver mark.
As on touchpaper enkindled sparks run scattering here and there,
Gas-lamps, one after another, prick the mantle of the dark,
Till their broid'ries all the highways out in lines of silver mark.
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Firefly-like, they flit and flutter o'er Night's soil;
Then, upon its branches settling, with the darkness for a foil,
Counterfeit a fallen heaven, mocking, with its faded stars,
At the empty sphere above it, blank behind its lightless bars.
Then, upon its branches settling, with the darkness for a foil,
Counterfeit a fallen heaven, mocking, with its faded stars,
At the empty sphere above it, blank behind its lightless bars.
Flowers of darkness, in the garden of the gloom,
Like the world-all's woes, exhaling from the pit of pain, they bloom,
In lugubrious lines assembling on the outskirts of the night,
As it were corpse-candles, kindled for the funeral of the light.
Like the world-all's woes, exhaling from the pit of pain, they bloom,
In lugubrious lines assembling on the outskirts of the night,
As it were corpse-candles, kindled for the funeral of the light.
Time was when their light-tracks, leading o'er Night's sea,
Like the moon upon the waters, hither, thither, endlessly,
Ways unto my youthful fancy to the worlds of Faerie seemed,
Where the Paradises waited, of whose splendours then I dreamed.
Like the moon upon the waters, hither, thither, endlessly,
Ways unto my youthful fancy to the worlds of Faerie seemed,
Where the Paradises waited, of whose splendours then I dreamed.
Flowers of Night, for what you are I know you now,
Wreckers' lights, that to perdition lure and lead the shipman's prow;
And with sadness, not with gladness, now I view your wandering fires,
Emanations from the marshes of the world of waste desires.
Wreckers' lights, that to perdition lure and lead the shipman's prow;
And with sadness, not with gladness, now I view your wandering fires,
Emanations from the marshes of the world of waste desires.
THE TELEPHONE HARP.
The hand of the storm-wind sweeps the harp of the telephone wires;
It sounds the tempestuous tune to the world of the waste desires,
The story of life that's bond to a burden it may not cast,
The burden of Will and Woe, of Present, To-be and Past.
It sounds the tempestuous tune to the world of the waste desires,
The story of life that's bond to a burden it may not cast,
The burden of Will and Woe, of Present, To-be and Past.
Black 'gainst the blank of the clouds, upreared o'er the housetops high,
A giant sextuple stave is graven on the page of the sky,
Lyre for the lapse of the blast and score whence the choirs of the air
Their dreadful harmonies draw, the hymn of the world's despair.
A giant sextuple stave is graven on the page of the sky,
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Their dreadful harmonies draw, the hymn of the world's despair.
The levins play on the page and lighten the nameless notes
That the drums of the thunder sound and the tempest's trumpet-throats;
And whenas the West wind joins in the stormy symphony,
It is as there boomed in the air the droning bass of the sea.
That the drums of the thunder sound and the tempest's trumpet-throats;
And whenas the West wind joins in the stormy symphony,
It is as there boomed in the air the droning bass of the sea.
One hears in the storm of sound the plaint of the unknown powers,
The concert of wail that comes from other worlds than ours,
The inarticulate cry of things that till now were mute
And speak out their need through the strings of this monstrous man-made lute.
The concert of wail that comes from other worlds than ours,
The inarticulate cry of things that till now were mute
And speak out their need through the strings of this monstrous man-made lute.
Nay, cruel it is to hear the cry of the lives unknown,
That voice their ineffable woes in a speech that is not their own,
A speech that is neither theirs nor ours, that can but wail
Nor give us to understand a word of their woeful tale.
That voice their ineffable woes in a speech that is not their own,
A speech that is neither theirs nor ours, that can but wail
Nor give us to understand a word of their woeful tale.
Nay, doubtless, a like wail soars from this world of ours on high,
As it toils on its tedious round through the spheres of the empty sky;
And doubtless, as theirs o'er earth, o'er Venus our woe doth brood
And Saturn; nor there, as theirs with us, is understood.
As it toils on its tedious round through the spheres of the empty sky;
And doubtless, as theirs o'er earth, o'er Venus our woe doth brood
And Saturn; nor there, as theirs with us, is understood.
Will ever a speech be found, that is common to both, a speech,
That will able our aching hearts those other hearts to reach?
Will ever our earthly pains with the other-worldly woes
Commingle and each consoled of other be? Who knows?
That will able our aching hearts those other hearts to reach?
Will ever our earthly pains with the other-worldly woes
Commingle and each consoled of other be? Who knows?
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Sad sons of the Primal Curse, blind bondmen born of Will,
We follow the wandering fires, that Science lights; and still,
As we tread in the squirrel-round of the cage we “Progress” call,
Life reareth at either end the same unscaleable wall.
We follow the wandering fires, that Science lights; and still,
As we tread in the squirrel-round of the cage we “Progress” call,
Life reareth at either end the same unscaleable wall.
Drunk with conceit and drugged with the wine of the Will-to-be,
We think, though we know not yet our own world-history,
To have mastered the secret of Life, whilst still from the dark around
The sad mysterious spheres their mocking canticles sound;
We think, though we know not yet our own world-history,
To have mastered the secret of Life, whilst still from the dark around
The sad mysterious spheres their mocking canticles sound;
And still, o'er the world-din, shrills the old inscrutable plaint,
The wail of the wandering worlds, that speak, now far and faint,
Now doomful and deep, now low and light, now shrill and sharp,
As the hand of the storm-wind sweeps the strings of the telephone-harp.
The wail of the wandering worlds, that speak, now far and faint,
Now doomful and deep, now low and light, now shrill and sharp,
As the hand of the storm-wind sweeps the strings of the telephone-harp.
THE BEGGAR.
I dream by the fire
And the nightingales bred in my breast are all astir;
They carol in jubilance high to the tune of my heart's desire
And a thousand altars smoke in my soul to the True and the Fair and the Sweet.
Of frankincense full, such as never grew on earth, and heavenly myrrh,
The censer-fumes of my heart float up to heaven and ever up.
My soul with the music brims and boils, like a sacrificial cup,
And the Muses and Graces round me flit in clouds, with flying feet.
But, sudden, from utterward there in the mist, amidmost the Winter's mirk,
There steals through the window the mewling whine of a mendicant out in the street.
The whine of the cadger that can but cadge, that would rather rot than work,
It fills the air with its shrilling sound; and straight, at the blatant bleat,
The Graces flee and the birds fall mute and the fragrance fades away;
There is nothing left but December's pall of mist and mirkness grey.
The visions, that blew in my breast but now, to the limboes get them back,
The limboes of dreams that fail of flower for the workday din and wrack,
As the cadge-wife's canting doggrel drones and twangs in my tortured ear;
And I curse her and curse myself, in turn, next moment, for cursing her.
And the nightingales bred in my breast are all astir;
They carol in jubilance high to the tune of my heart's desire
And a thousand altars smoke in my soul to the True and the Fair and the Sweet.
Of frankincense full, such as never grew on earth, and heavenly myrrh,
The censer-fumes of my heart float up to heaven and ever up.
My soul with the music brims and boils, like a sacrificial cup,
And the Muses and Graces round me flit in clouds, with flying feet.
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There steals through the window the mewling whine of a mendicant out in the street.
The whine of the cadger that can but cadge, that would rather rot than work,
It fills the air with its shrilling sound; and straight, at the blatant bleat,
The Graces flee and the birds fall mute and the fragrance fades away;
There is nothing left but December's pall of mist and mirkness grey.
The visions, that blew in my breast but now, to the limboes get them back,
The limboes of dreams that fail of flower for the workday din and wrack,
As the cadge-wife's canting doggrel drones and twangs in my tortured ear;
And I curse her and curse myself, in turn, next moment, for cursing her.
The dream is fled;
But still through the window shrills the thin persistent whine,
With its wail of the Winter wind through the boughs in the forest dead;
And the old hysterical pity wells in me, like a poison-wine;
The old unreasoning doubt once more comes deluging all my soul.
“O God, if this thing the one should be of the myriads old and new,”
It cries in my tortured brain; “if this should be for once the true,
“The one sole true of the million false, this oft-told tale of dole!
“If this should be true, my God, and I shut my heart to its cry in the night!”
And as ever, reason to ruth must yield, and I give her an alms; and she,
She looks with the fawning face and the smile of mingled hate and spite,
The smile of the beggar born and bred, from age to age, at me,
The smile of the sluggard, whose dream of heaven is squalor and idleness,
That takes and curses the giver at heart and scorns him for his largesse,
The smile and the glance of the slave ingrain, that might nevermore be free
And that scouteth those who have struggled clear of the chains of the Will-to-be,
The look and the smile of the rotting soul in the body yet alive,
That hates all who do as it cannot,—nay, as it will not,—work and thrive.
But still through the window shrills the thin persistent whine,
With its wail of the Winter wind through the boughs in the forest dead;
And the old hysterical pity wells in me, like a poison-wine;
The old unreasoning doubt once more comes deluging all my soul.
“O God, if this thing the one should be of the myriads old and new,”
It cries in my tortured brain; “if this should be for once the true,
“The one sole true of the million false, this oft-told tale of dole!
“If this should be true, my God, and I shut my heart to its cry in the night!”
And as ever, reason to ruth must yield, and I give her an alms; and she,
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The smile of the beggar born and bred, from age to age, at me,
The smile of the sluggard, whose dream of heaven is squalor and idleness,
That takes and curses the giver at heart and scorns him for his largesse,
The smile and the glance of the slave ingrain, that might nevermore be free
And that scouteth those who have struggled clear of the chains of the Will-to-be,
The look and the smile of the rotting soul in the body yet alive,
That hates all who do as it cannot,—nay, as it will not,—work and thrive.
VER IN URBE.
The Springtime blossoms like a bride
And even on London's grimy tide
Some reflex casts of light and love.
The streets below, the skies above,
Each other, wondering, survey
As who “What have we twain,” should say,
“With one another here to do?”
And I Spring's dream of gold and blue,
Life's dull phantasmagoric show
Athwart, ensuing, as I go,
Long for the walls and roofs to pass
And leave the highways to the grass,
For all the weary worldly hum
To cease and let the flowertide come,
To see, instead of stones, once more,
The verdure-vaulted forest-floor.
For the dear days before the crowd,
When in the lanes the thrush was loud,
The days ere love and light and song
Were crowded out from life, I long,
As by the January hearth,
When oversnowed are green and garth
And all without the raging East
Goes rending man and bird and beast,
One sits and waits for Winter done
And wearies for the summer sun.
And even on London's grimy tide
Some reflex casts of light and love.
The streets below, the skies above,
Each other, wondering, survey
As who “What have we twain,” should say,
“With one another here to do?”
And I Spring's dream of gold and blue,
Life's dull phantasmagoric show
Athwart, ensuing, as I go,
Long for the walls and roofs to pass
And leave the highways to the grass,
For all the weary worldly hum
To cease and let the flowertide come,
To see, instead of stones, once more,
The verdure-vaulted forest-floor.
For the dear days before the crowd,
When in the lanes the thrush was loud,
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Were crowded out from life, I long,
As by the January hearth,
When oversnowed are green and garth
And all without the raging East
Goes rending man and bird and beast,
One sits and waits for Winter done
And wearies for the summer sun.
Borne on the highway's boundless stream,
I wander with my waking dream,
Among an alien crowd, that knows
Nor whence it comes nor where it goes,
Of stranger folk, whose lightless eyes
Bytimes, with wondering surprise,
Not all unblent with pitying scorn,
Of lack of comprehension born,
Upon me rest and who awhile
Regard me with a puzzled smile,
Ne'er doubting, — these whose lives are vain,
— That I am mad and they are sane.
If sanity, indeed, be that
With vanity which rhymes so pat,
But by the sibilant differing,
Which doth the geese to memory bring,
God help the sane, who seem to know
No difference 'twixt joy and woe,
Who cannot sow and cannot reap,
Who know not how to smile or weep,
But, when the lark is in the sky
And blue and bright is Heaven's eye,
Leave lea and hill and shore and down,
To jostle in the joyless town!
I wander with my waking dream,
Among an alien crowd, that knows
Nor whence it comes nor where it goes,
Of stranger folk, whose lightless eyes
Bytimes, with wondering surprise,
Not all unblent with pitying scorn,
Of lack of comprehension born,
Upon me rest and who awhile
Regard me with a puzzled smile,
Ne'er doubting, — these whose lives are vain,
— That I am mad and they are sane.
If sanity, indeed, be that
With vanity which rhymes so pat,
But by the sibilant differing,
Which doth the geese to memory bring,
God help the sane, who seem to know
No difference 'twixt joy and woe,
Who cannot sow and cannot reap,
Who know not how to smile or weep,
But, when the lark is in the sky
And blue and bright is Heaven's eye,
Leave lea and hill and shore and down,
To jostle in the joyless town!
And yet, what say I? I, like them,
The labouring tides of London stem
And (why uneath it were to tell),
In this tenth circle stray of Hell,
I, who to fare in field and wood
Was born, a son of solitude,
Whom Nature branded from his birth
To walk the lonely ways of earth
And in the footsteps of the Spring
Ensue forever, wandering,
Still seeking, from his kind afar,
The fellowship of flower and star,
Hearkening fore'er from breeze or bird
To catch the enchanted wonder-word,
That should to his attent appeal
The secret of the world reveal
And bid the portals of the land
Of dreams fly open to his hand.
Yet in the troublous town dwell I,
Against my will, I know not why;
I only know that all are bound
To follow Fate's relentless round
And that the Destinies, which make
Our lives, as little notice take
Or heed of that which I or you
Or any man were fain to do,
As we of oxen question how
They choose to labour at the plough
Or of draught-horses, whether they
Would liefer this or the other way
Their burdens drag along the streets,
In Winter's colds or Summer's heats.
The thralls of blind Necessity,
Even as the cattle are, are we;
And if our chains be steel or gold,
It matters not, when all is told.
No help for us there is, in fine,
But, unresisting, to resign
Ourselves unto the common lot,
Unwearying to alter what
For ineluctable we know,
And on Life's soil, wherefrom there blow
Few blossoms of delight or cheer,
By the pale rays of Thought to rear,
(Sole crop at our arbitrament
That is,) the field-flowers of Content.
The labouring tides of London stem
And (why uneath it were to tell),
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I, who to fare in field and wood
Was born, a son of solitude,
Whom Nature branded from his birth
To walk the lonely ways of earth
And in the footsteps of the Spring
Ensue forever, wandering,
Still seeking, from his kind afar,
The fellowship of flower and star,
Hearkening fore'er from breeze or bird
To catch the enchanted wonder-word,
That should to his attent appeal
The secret of the world reveal
And bid the portals of the land
Of dreams fly open to his hand.
Yet in the troublous town dwell I,
Against my will, I know not why;
I only know that all are bound
To follow Fate's relentless round
And that the Destinies, which make
Our lives, as little notice take
Or heed of that which I or you
Or any man were fain to do,
As we of oxen question how
They choose to labour at the plough
Or of draught-horses, whether they
Would liefer this or the other way
Their burdens drag along the streets,
In Winter's colds or Summer's heats.
The thralls of blind Necessity,
Even as the cattle are, are we;
And if our chains be steel or gold,
It matters not, when all is told.
No help for us there is, in fine,
But, unresisting, to resign
Ourselves unto the common lot,
Unwearying to alter what
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And on Life's soil, wherefrom there blow
Few blossoms of delight or cheer,
By the pale rays of Thought to rear,
(Sole crop at our arbitrament
That is,) the field-flowers of Content.
ON THE OMNIBUS.
High-throned, I ride; to left and right,
The streets unroll before my sight:
Life lapses past me, as I look;
I read the roadways, like a book
The streets unroll before my sight:
Life lapses past me, as I look;
I read the roadways, like a book
Whose pages are the passers-by.
Each hath a story in his eye,
A writ of versicoloured hours,
Deep-charactered of sun and showers.
Each hath a story in his eye,
A writ of versicoloured hours,
Deep-charactered of sun and showers.
Sad only yesterday their tale
With memories was of rain and hail;
The faces of the streets were dark
And sinister with care and cark.
With memories was of rain and hail;
The faces of the streets were dark
And sinister with care and cark.
To-day how different of show
The farers are that come and go!
Another tale their faces tell
Of Summer come and all is well.
The farers are that come and go!
Another tale their faces tell
Of Summer come and all is well.
The very housefronts hail the dear
Sweet season of the flowered year:
The streets have shuffled off the grime
And grievousness of winter time.
Sweet season of the flowered year:
The streets have shuffled off the grime
And grievousness of winter time.
The world hath cast away its care;
Old London steeps in summer air
And basks beneath the blessed sun,
That shines and smiles for every one.
Old London steeps in summer air
And basks beneath the blessed sun,
That shines and smiles for every one.
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Was ever such a thing as stress
And strain of Winter-weariness?
In green and gold of summertide
The town to-day is glorified.
And strain of Winter-weariness?
In green and gold of summertide
The town to-day is glorified.
Life's young, that yesterday was old;
Its dreams are clad in blue and gold;
In wonder-weeds of glee and glory
Transfigured is its sorry story.
Its dreams are clad in blue and gold;
In wonder-weeds of glee and glory
Transfigured is its sorry story.
Its discords all again in tune
Are fallen beneath the touch of June;
The wandering winds bring up the spice
And frankincense of Paradise.
Are fallen beneath the touch of June;
The wandering winds bring up the spice
And frankincense of Paradise.
The starlings' chatter fills the air
And pigeons, fluttering here and there,
With plumage dapple all the day
Of slaty blue and rosy grey.
And pigeons, fluttering here and there,
With plumage dapple all the day
Of slaty blue and rosy grey.
Was ever such a town for trees?
In every nook and coign one sees
Tall stems, that stood, unmarked, unseen,
Till Summer suited them in green.
In every nook and coign one sees
Tall stems, that stood, unmarked, unseen,
Till Summer suited them in green.
At each street-end the bloomy Park
Its domes of verdure raises, ark
Of refuge for the thirsting spright,
That pines for flowers and leaves and light.
Its domes of verdure raises, ark
Of refuge for the thirsting spright,
That pines for flowers and leaves and light.
Ah Summer, wizard of the world,
Thy banners, in the blue unfurled,
Have made this smoky stead of ours
A town of birds and trees and flowers!
Thy banners, in the blue unfurled,
Have made this smoky stead of ours
A town of birds and trees and flowers!
Was ever miracle like thine,
That solvest us of care and pine
And even to London's steppes of stone
A glory grantest of thine own?
That solvest us of care and pine
And even to London's steppes of stone
A glory grantest of thine own?
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So ever blesséd be, sweet time
Of love and light, of rest and rhyme,
And when thou go'st, our thanks ensue
Thy memory, till thou com'st anew!
Of love and light, of rest and rhyme,
And when thou go'st, our thanks ensue
Thy memory, till thou com'st anew!
THE ALMOND TREE.
The almond flowers in March,
The month when most of all the weary East winds parch
And flay the labouring lands.
Above the general dearth,
Whilst Winter lingereth yet, it spreadeth rosy hands,
Spring's benison to assure unto the suffering earth.
The month when most of all the weary East winds parch
And flay the labouring lands.
Above the general dearth,
Whilst Winter lingereth yet, it spreadeth rosy hands,
Spring's benison to assure unto the suffering earth.
Against the long grey lines
Of London's walls, still scarred with Winter's lingering signs,
With arms yet bare of leaves,
Upon its branches sere
Its bright and blushing veil of virgin bloom it weaves,
As if to anticipate the bridal of the year.
Of London's walls, still scarred with Winter's lingering signs,
With arms yet bare of leaves,
Upon its branches sere
Its bright and blushing veil of virgin bloom it weaves,
As if to anticipate the bridal of the year.
Such heat is in its heart,
It may not wait till rain and hail and fog depart:
To leaf it lingereth not,
But robes itself in rose,
Like to some poet young, in whom his youth is hot
And needs must flower in rhyme, or e'er it leaf in prose.
It may not wait till rain and hail and fog depart:
To leaf it lingereth not,
But robes itself in rose,
Like to some poet young, in whom his youth is hot
And needs must flower in rhyme, or e'er it leaf in prose.
No need it hath of green
To tell its timeless tale of Summer's coming sheen:
Though all of Spring despair,
Beneath the frowning sky,
It feels the future stir of April in the air
And flowers its frolic dream of Maytide drawing nigh.
To tell its timeless tale of Summer's coming sheen:
Though all of Spring despair,
Beneath the frowning sky,
It feels the future stir of April in the air
And flowers its frolic dream of Maytide drawing nigh.
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Live ever, lovesome tree!
A homily of hope and faith thou fablest me.
God grant that I as thou
May still at heart have Spring,
Still may the fair To-be feel through the niggard Now
And in the Winter-night the summer-day foresing!
A homily of hope and faith thou fablest me.
God grant that I as thou
May still at heart have Spring,
Still may the fair To-be feel through the niggard Now
And in the Winter-night the summer-day foresing!
Like thee in this I am,
That still my spirit flies the flower-tide's oriflamme
And still with Summer's sign
Defies the wintry clime,
That, though my head be grey and lack of leaves like thine,
My heart blooms lush and free with flowers of love and rhyme.
That still my spirit flies the flower-tide's oriflamme
And still with Summer's sign
Defies the wintry clime,
That, though my head be grey and lack of leaves like thine,
My heart blooms lush and free with flowers of love and rhyme.
THE LABURNUM.
The time is here again of Heaven-appointed May:
Despite the pains and cares, that scar Life's sorry page,
The hawthorn everywhere once more is growing grey,
After its gracious wont, with youth and not with age:
The lilacs take the sense
With their ripe redolence,
And to the grim grey walls of London's wastes of stone
The lush laburnum lends a radiance of its own.
Despite the pains and cares, that scar Life's sorry page,
The hawthorn everywhere once more is growing grey,
After its gracious wont, with youth and not with age:
The lilacs take the sense
With their ripe redolence,
And to the grim grey walls of London's wastes of stone
The lush laburnum lends a radiance of its own.
True to its pristine tryst with the returning Prime,
Each year, when at the gate of gladness Springtide knocks
And Life takes heart again for hue and scent and rhyme,
O'er every garden-wall it hangs its glittering locks
And for a week or two,
Beneath the mottled blue
Of May's uncertain sky and in its rathe sun-beam,
Unhindered of the smoke, it dreams its golden dream.
Each year, when at the gate of gladness Springtide knocks
And Life takes heart again for hue and scent and rhyme,
O'er every garden-wall it hangs its glittering locks
And for a week or two,
Beneath the mottled blue
Of May's uncertain sky and in its rathe sun-beam,
Unhindered of the smoke, it dreams its golden dream.
But little heart it hath to leaf; its soul in flowers
Well nigh it spends; and when the splendid summertime,
Declining, giveth place to Autumn's placid hours,
The winsome webs of green, its slender boughs that hide,
Are quick to fade and fall;
And bare it bideth all
Till Spring to it recall its Attic hills of old
And into flower translate its memories of gold.
Well nigh it spends; and when the splendid summertime,
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The winsome webs of green, its slender boughs that hide,
Are quick to fade and fall;
And bare it bideth all
Till Spring to it recall its Attic hills of old
And into flower translate its memories of gold.
Laburnum, exiled thou in London art as I,
Yet thy Greek gracious name rememberest, Cytisus;
Whilst I forgotten have, beneath this stranger sky,
The name I bore erewhen in worlds more luminous.
But I no less, sweet tree,
In this am like to thee,
That I, as thou, anon, despite Life's wintry clime,
Remember me of Spring and flower with golden rhyme.
Yet thy Greek gracious name rememberest, Cytisus;
Whilst I forgotten have, beneath this stranger sky,
The name I bore erewhen in worlds more luminous.
But I no less, sweet tree,
In this am like to thee,
That I, as thou, anon, despite Life's wintry clime,
Remember me of Spring and flower with golden rhyme.
THE HORSE-CHESTNUT.
Horse-chestnut, all along the ways
Thou lift'st thy dome of fan-leaved sprays,
Five-fingered, like a hand of green,
Thy gracious signal, that foresays
The festival of Summer sheen.
Thou lift'st thy dome of fan-leaved sprays,
Five-fingered, like a hand of green,
Thy gracious signal, that foresays
The festival of Summer sheen.
Moreover and from top to toe,
Thy leafy turrets, high and low,
Thou overdeck'st, at Summer's spell,
With blossoms white as driven snow
And rosy-tinted as a shell.
Thy leafy turrets, high and low,
Thou overdeck'st, at Summer's spell,
With blossoms white as driven snow
And rosy-tinted as a shell.
Their pinnacles of green alight
With blossom-lamps of pink and white,
By many a living leafy hand
Upholden in the sheer sun's sight,
Thy giant candelabra stand.
With blossom-lamps of pink and white,
By many a living leafy hand
Upholden in the sheer sun's sight,
Thy giant candelabra stand.
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With thine illumining of flower,
Toward the radiant heavens a-tower,
Above Life's dull delirium,
Thou celebrat'st the shining hour,
The hallowtide of Summer come.
Toward the radiant heavens a-tower,
Above Life's dull delirium,
Thou celebrat'st the shining hour,
The hallowtide of Summer come.
Of little worth, indeed, thou art
To men; for, poet-like, thy heart
Is over-soft for common needs;
Thy fruit, like his, is in the mart
Unvalued and thy flowers are weeds.
To men; for, poet-like, thy heart
Is over-soft for common needs;
Thy fruit, like his, is in the mart
Unvalued and thy flowers are weeds.
But thou, like him, withal art fair
And glorifi'st the general air
With bloom and beauty. Thrush and wren
Give thanks for thee, though thou no care
Hast for the narrow needs of men.
And glorifi'st the general air
With bloom and beauty. Thrush and wren
Give thanks for thee, though thou no care
Hast for the narrow needs of men.
So, gracious, generous tree, all hail,
That art beyond Life's common pale,
Acquitted by the friendly Fates,
Like poet, rose and nightingale,
Of men's pretentious postulates!
That art beyond Life's common pale,
Acquitted by the friendly Fates,
Like poet, rose and nightingale,
Of men's pretentious postulates!
THE HAWTHORN.
The hawthorn's out in bloom;
It is raimented all in webs of white and red from the fairies' loom:
The scent of its balmy breath
All over the grim grey walls soars up like a great sweet voice,
That biddeth the wretch rejoice
And heartens the suffering soul with the hope of eternal life,
In the midst of a world of strife
And death.
It is raimented all in webs of white and red from the fairies' loom:
The scent of its balmy breath
All over the grim grey walls soars up like a great sweet voice,
That biddeth the wretch rejoice
And heartens the suffering soul with the hope of eternal life,
In the midst of a world of strife
And death.
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But yesternight 'twas green
And now there is nothing for blossom of leafage to-day to be seen.
What angel with Aaron's rod
Hath smitten its verdurous wells with the stroke and the word Divine
And bidden them brim with wine
Of glory and glamour and gladness and colour and sweetness and scent,
In the name omnipotent
Of God?
And now there is nothing for blossom of leafage to-day to be seen.
What angel with Aaron's rod
Hath smitten its verdurous wells with the stroke and the word Divine
And bidden them brim with wine
Of glory and glamour and gladness and colour and sweetness and scent,
In the name omnipotent
Of God?
In its redolent robes of grey
And coral, it stands like the blossoming sign of the birth of a new world-day;
It biddeth all hearts have heed
Of its homily preached to the grey old world of grace and youth,
Its tale of the pearls of truth
And beauty that are for the diver, the seeker, to find and gain
In the heart of Life's seas of pain
And need.
And coral, it stands like the blossoming sign of the birth of a new world-day;
It biddeth all hearts have heed
Of its homily preached to the grey old world of grace and youth,
Its tale of the pearls of truth
And beauty that are for the diver, the seeker, to find and gain
In the heart of Life's seas of pain
And need.
In alley and street and square,
With the balm of its breath of benison sweet it heartens the heavy air:
No quarter there is so base
Where the blossoming hawthorn scorns to lighten the loveless day
With its bridal robes in May,
No nook, in its blossoming-tide, of the grim old town's to find
But the track of its scent on the wind
Can trace.
With the balm of its breath of benison sweet it heartens the heavy air:
No quarter there is so base
Where the blossoming hawthorn scorns to lighten the loveless day
With its bridal robes in May,
No nook, in its blossoming-tide, of the grim old town's to find
But the track of its scent on the wind
Can trace.
Hail to thee, hawthorn-tree!
Thy perfumes perish, thy flower-flames dwindle and drown in Summer's sea;
in Summer's sea;
But thy lesson of joy and cheer,
Of faith in beauty that dies not and sleeps but to wake again,
Shall still with us remain
For solace, when Life lies faint and flowerless in Winter's hold
And the hope at its heart grows cold
And sere.
Thy perfumes perish, thy flower-flames dwindle and drown in Summer's sea;
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But thy lesson of joy and cheer,
Of faith in beauty that dies not and sleeps but to wake again,
Shall still with us remain
For solace, when Life lies faint and flowerless in Winter's hold
And the hope at its heart grows cold
And sere.
SICK LIFE.
Day daws;
Life is so loud, night hardly calls a pause;
'Twixt day and day the dark alone division draws.
Life is so loud, night hardly calls a pause;
'Twixt day and day the dark alone division draws.
The streets
Through the small hours roar on and morning greets
The weary eyes o'eroft ere eyelid eyelid meets.
Through the small hours roar on and morning greets
The weary eyes o'eroft ere eyelid eyelid meets.
With streams
Of unrelenting noise the night-air teems;
And if one doze, the streets roar through his restless dreams.
Of unrelenting noise the night-air teems;
And if one doze, the streets roar through his restless dreams.
Lost sleep
Who shall restore to him who needs must keep
The vigil of the dark by London's raging deep.
Who shall restore to him who needs must keep
The vigil of the dark by London's raging deep.
What hope?
Need hems our lives about with iron cope
And still our feet are fast in habit's hobbling-rope.
Need hems our lives about with iron cope
And still our feet are fast in habit's hobbling-rope.
On man
Man over-straitly presses, clan on clan;
One scarce can breathe for crowds in this our Babel's span.
Man over-straitly presses, clan on clan;
One scarce can breathe for crowds in this our Babel's span.
Sick Life
Drags drowsing on through hells of din and strife:
Yonder the Surgeon stands and holds the healing knife.
Drags drowsing on through hells of din and strife:
Yonder the Surgeon stands and holds the healing knife.
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But Death
Succour and hope of solace proffereth.
Nay, is there 'scape from Life to find in 'scape of breath?
Succour and hope of solace proffereth.
Nay, is there 'scape from Life to find in 'scape of breath?
Who knows?
What we call Life, with all its cares and woes,
Belike is Death and Death the flower of Life that blows.
What we call Life, with all its cares and woes,
Belike is Death and Death the flower of Life that blows.
No need
For Hell to seek there is. If Hell indeed
There be, this mortal life it is of grief and greed.
For Hell to seek there is. If Hell indeed
There be, this mortal life it is of grief and greed.
And yet,
If sleep beyond the gate of Death be set,
How many an aeon sleep must we, ere we forget!
If sleep beyond the gate of Death be set,
How many an aeon sleep must we, ere we forget!
Enough
Is there in Lethe of narcotic stuff
To salve the soul storm-tossed in Life's tempestuous trough?
Is there in Lethe of narcotic stuff
To salve the soul storm-tossed in Life's tempestuous trough?
What seas
Of sleep were needed for their solace, these
Who by Life's turmoil robbed have lifelong been of ease?
Of sleep were needed for their solace, these
Who by Life's turmoil robbed have lifelong been of ease?
Alas!
When 'tis their turn to lie beneath the grass,
Will they not be o'ertired the gates of rest to pass?
When 'tis their turn to lie beneath the grass,
Will they not be o'ertired the gates of rest to pass?
| Carol and Cadence | |