 | Songs and poems (1909) |  |
177
POEMS
1893–1905
179
THE COMING OF LOVE
In and out the osier beds, all along the shallows
Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses.
But ah, whose following feet are these that bend the mauve marsh-mallows,
Who laughs so low and sweet?—who sighs—and passes?
Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses.
But ah, whose following feet are these that bend the mauve marsh-mallows,
Who laughs so low and sweet?—who sighs—and passes?
Flower of my heart, my darling, why so slowly
Lift'st thou thine eyes to mine, deep wells of gladness?
Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy—
Or is there dread in thy heart of this divinest madness?
Lift'st thou thine eyes to mine, deep wells of gladness?
Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy—
Or is there dread in thy heart of this divinest madness?
Who sighs with longing there?—who laughs alow—and passes?
Whose following feet are these that bend the mauve marsh-mallows?
Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy seeding grasses,
In and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?
Whose following feet are these that bend the mauve marsh-mallows?
180
In and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?
Flower of my heart, my dream—who whispers near so gladly?
Whose is the golden sunshine-net o'erspread for capture?
Lift, lift thine eyes to mine who love so wildly, madly—
Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o'erbrimmed with rapture!
Whose is the golden sunshine-net o'erspread for capture?
Lift, lift thine eyes to mine who love so wildly, madly—
Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o'erbrimmed with rapture!
181
FROM OVERSEA
From oversea—
Violets for memories,
I send to thee,
Violets for memories,
I send to thee,
Let them bear thoughts of me,
With pleasant memories
To touch the heart of thee,
Far oversea.
With pleasant memories
To touch the heart of thee,
Far oversea.
A little way it is for love to flee,
Love wing'd with memories,
Hither to thither oversea.
Love wing'd with memories,
Hither to thither oversea.
182
THE WHITE FLOWERS OF JANUARY
“The aconites, and other white flowers of January, the spirits of
the dead blooms of summer.”
—H. P. Siwäarmill.
The woodland ways were white: the boughs swung low
With weight of snow:
There was a shimmer of dancing golden light,
And through the glow
The goddess Flora moved in sudden flight.
With weight of snow:
There was a shimmer of dancing golden light,
And through the glow
The goddess Flora moved in sudden flight.
But when she saw the dead blooms everywhere
Laid low i' the mould,
Her sunny wings she did enfold.
Long did she brood amid that woodland bare
And the blooms wither'd there.
Laid low i' the mould,
Her sunny wings she did enfold.
Long did she brood amid that woodland bare
And the blooms wither'd there.
Then with a smile she called the snows to her
There was a stir
A falling rustle, as when bird-wings whirr
Aloud i' the thickets in the twilight hour:
And next, a glimmering shower.
There was a stir
A falling rustle, as when bird-wings whirr
Aloud i' the thickets in the twilight hour:
And next, a glimmering shower.
Swift mid the green-gloom fleckt with white, she fled:
But where each snowflake fell
There was a happy miracle:
Dead pansies, wind-flowers, violets, once more rose,
But now in white each petal did unclose.
But where each snowflake fell
There was a happy miracle:
Dead pansies, wind-flowers, violets, once more rose,
But now in white each petal did unclose.
183
THE LUTE-PLAYER
O Day, come unto me,
Fair and so sweet!
Crown'd shalt thou be,
And with wing'd feet
Escape the invading sea,
Whose bitter line
Follows o'erfleet.
What joy thou would'st is thine:
Life is divine,
O Fair and Sweet!
Fair and so sweet!
Crown'd shalt thou be,
And with wing'd feet
Escape the invading sea,
Whose bitter line
Follows o'erfleet.
What joy thou would'st is thine:
Life is divine,
O Fair and Sweet!
Death is a paltry thought:
A little troublous thing—
An insect's sting!
Beautiful Day, oh, heed it not!
Surely I hear the rumour of thy feet,
And Death is vain—draw near, draw near!—
Alas! and is it so? Farewell, O Fair and Sweet,
For Death is here.
A little troublous thing—
An insect's sting!
Beautiful Day, oh, heed it not!
Surely I hear the rumour of thy feet,
And Death is vain—draw near, draw near!—
Alas! and is it so? Farewell, O Fair and Sweet,
For Death is here.
184
WHITE VIOLETS
White dreams,
White thoughts,
White hopes!
Shy violets,
White violets,
In woodland ways, by the brook side, on the hill-slopes!
White thoughts,
White hopes!
Shy violets,
White violets,
In woodland ways, by the brook side, on the hill-slopes!
Strange joys,
New thrills,
Vague fears:
Violets,
White violets,
White kisses from the lips of Spring, white dewy tears.
New thrills,
Vague fears:
Violets,
White violets,
White kisses from the lips of Spring, white dewy tears.
White hands,
O lead me where
The white Spring strays
'Mid violets,
White violets,
On the hill-slopes, by the brook side, in woodland ways.
O lead me where
The white Spring strays
'Mid violets,
White violets,
On the hill-slopes, by the brook side, in woodland ways.
185
THE SUN LORD
Low laughing, blithely scorning—
Beware, beware, of flaming wings,
Love hunts thee down the morning!
Beware, beware, of flaming wings,
Love hunts thee down the morning!
His white feet dip i' the hillside springs,
He mocks thy flying terror!
The woodland with his laughter rings!
He mocks thy flying terror!
The woodland with his laughter rings!
He'll make thee his slave to follow,
Nor shall he forgive thee, maid, thine error,
Who spied thee hid in the hollow.
Nor shall he forgive thee, maid, thine error,
Who spied thee hid in the hollow.
Too late, too late the warning!
Behold the flash of flaming wings—
Love hath thee now i' the morning!
Behold the flash of flaming wings—
Love hath thee now i' the morning!
186
THE SUMMER WOMAN
O wild bee humming in the gorse,
O wild dove croodling in the woods,
Know ye not she is false as fair,
A sweet Caprice with bitter moods?
O wild dove croodling in the woods,
Know ye not she is false as fair,
A sweet Caprice with bitter moods?
For bitter-sweet her wild kiss is,
And bitter-sweet her haunting voice:
How oft my eyes have filled with tears
When she hath bid me to rejoice!
And bitter-sweet her haunting voice:
How oft my eyes have filled with tears
When she hath bid me to rejoice!
O loved Caprice, is thine the fault
Or is the bitterness all mine!
Art thou the quenchless Thirst of Joy
And I the lees of thy spilt wine?
Or is the bitterness all mine!
Art thou the quenchless Thirst of Joy
And I the lees of thy spilt wine?
Oh, greenness, greenness everywhere,
Oh, whisper of green leaves, green grass,
Surely the glory is not gone,
Surely the glory shall not pass?
Oh, whisper of green leaves, green grass,
Surely the glory is not gone,
Surely the glory shall not pass?
I long for some lost magic thing,
A voice, a gleam, a joy, a pain:
Wild doves, your old-time strain once more,
Wild bees, wild bees, come back again!
A voice, a gleam, a joy, a pain:
Wild doves, your old-time strain once more,
Wild bees, wild bees, come back again!
187
SYCAMORES IN BLOOM
Like flame-wing'd harps the seed blooms lie
Amid the shadowy sycamores.
The music of each leaflet's sigh
Thrills them continually,
The small harps of the sycamores.
Amid the shadowy sycamores.
The music of each leaflet's sigh
Thrills them continually,
The small harps of the sycamores.
Small birds innumerable find rest
And shelter 'midst the sycamores.
Their songs (of love in a warm soft nest)
Are faintly echoed east and west
By the red harps o' the sycamores.
And shelter 'midst the sycamores.
Their songs (of love in a warm soft nest)
Are faintly echoed east and west
By the red harps o' the sycamores.
The dewfall and the starshine make
Amidst the shadowy sycamores
Sweet delicate strains; the gold beams shake
The leaves at morn, and swift awake
The small harps of the sycamores.
Amidst the shadowy sycamores
Sweet delicate strains; the gold beams shake
The leaves at morn, and swift awake
The small harps of the sycamores.
O sweet Earth's music everywhere,
Though faint as in the sycamores:
Sweet when buds burst, birds pair;
Sweet when as thus there wave in the air
The red harps of the sycamores.
Though faint as in the sycamores:
Sweet when buds burst, birds pair;
Sweet when as thus there wave in the air
The red harps of the sycamores.
188
THE NORLAND WIND
The south wind on the hill,
And the west wind on the lea,
But better than these I love
The north wind on the sea!
And the west wind on the lea,
But better than these I love
The north wind on the sea!
For the north wind on the sea
Is fearless and elate:
The ocean vast and free
Is not more great.
Is fearless and elate:
The ocean vast and free
Is not more great.
On the hill the south wind laughs
Where the blue cloud-shadows flee:
The west wind takes the mead
With a ripple of glee:
Where the blue cloud-shadows flee:
The west wind takes the mead
With a ripple of glee:
But the north wind on the deep
Is the wind of winds for me,
Spirit of dauntless life
And Lord of Liberty!
Is the wind of winds for me,
Spirit of dauntless life
And Lord of Liberty!
189
SPRING'S ADVENT
The Spirit of Spring is in the air;
The daffodils wave blithe and free
To the wind's minstrelsy,
And everywhere
A green rebirth involves each branchlet bare.
The daffodils wave blithe and free
To the wind's minstrelsy,
And everywhere
A green rebirth involves each branchlet bare.
Already from the elm-tree boughs
The jubilant thrush doth cry aloud;
From fallow fields new ploughed
The plovers rouse;
In hollow boles no more the squirrels drowse.
The jubilant thrush doth cry aloud;
From fallow fields new ploughed
The plovers rouse;
In hollow boles no more the squirrels drowse.
The blackbird calls his thrilling note;
And by each field, and copse, and glade
The leverets race, the rabbits raid;
Where gorse-blooms float
The yellow-yite pipes o'er and o'er by rote.
And by each field, and copse, and glade
The leverets race, the rabbits raid;
Where gorse-blooms float
The yellow-yite pipes o'er and o'er by rote.
In the blue arch of sky, cloud-swept,
The unseen larks are singing;
The green grass is springing:
While nature slept,
Leaf-crown'd, bird-haunted Spring hath hither leapt.
The unseen larks are singing;
The green grass is springing:
While nature slept,
Leaf-crown'd, bird-haunted Spring hath hither leapt.
190
O joy of winds, and birds, and flowers,
Of growing grass, of budding leaves,
Of green and sappy sheaves,
Of rustling showers,
Sunshine, and plenitude of marvellous hours.
Of growing grass, of budding leaves,
Of green and sappy sheaves,
Of rustling showers,
Sunshine, and plenitude of marvellous hours.
Thrilled Earth beholds her golden prime
Returned again; her heart beats swift.
Low-laughing, as the spring winds lift
Their songs sublime,
Mocking, she dares the circling Shadow of Time.
Returned again; her heart beats swift.
Low-laughing, as the spring winds lift
Their songs sublime,
Mocking, she dares the circling Shadow of Time.
191
THE SUMMER WIND
The bugling of the summer wind
Is sweet upon the hill:
I love to hear its eddies
The heather-crannies fill.
Is sweet upon the hill:
I love to hear its eddies
The heather-crannies fill.
It plays upon the bracken
A blithe fanfarronade:
And thro' the moss-cups whistleth
“The Fairy Raid.”
A blithe fanfarronade:
And thro' the moss-cups whistleth
“The Fairy Raid.”
It leaps from birch to rowan,
And laugheth long and loud,
Then with a spring is vanished,
And rideth on a cloud!
And laugheth long and loud,
Then with a spring is vanished,
And rideth on a cloud!
192
THE HILL WATER
There is a little brook,
I love it well:
It hath so sweet a sound
That even in dreams my ears could tell
Its music anywhere.
Often I wander there,
And leave my book
Unread upon the ground,
Eager to quell
In the hush'd air
That haunts its flowing forehead fair
All that about my heart hath wound
A trouble of care:
Or, it may be, idly to spell
Its runic music rare
And with its singing soul to share
Its ancient lore profound:
For sweet it is to be the echoing shell
That lists and inly keeps that murmurous miracle.
About it all day long
In this June-tide
There is a myriad song.
From every side
There comes a breath, a hum, a voice:
The hill-wind fans it with a pleasant noise
As of sweet rustling things
That move on unseen wings,
And from the pinewood near
A floating whisper oftentimes I hear,
As when, o'er pastoral meadows wide,
Stealeth the drowsy music of a weir.
The green reeds bend above it,
The soft green grasses stoop and trail therein:
The minnows dart and spin:
The purple-gleaming swallows love it:
And, hush, its innermost depth within,
The vague prophetic murmur of the lime.
I love it well:
It hath so sweet a sound
That even in dreams my ears could tell
Its music anywhere.
Often I wander there,
And leave my book
Unread upon the ground,
Eager to quell
In the hush'd air
That haunts its flowing forehead fair
All that about my heart hath wound
A trouble of care:
Or, it may be, idly to spell
Its runic music rare
And with its singing soul to share
Its ancient lore profound:
For sweet it is to be the echoing shell
That lists and inly keeps that murmurous miracle.
193
In this June-tide
There is a myriad song.
From every side
There comes a breath, a hum, a voice:
The hill-wind fans it with a pleasant noise
As of sweet rustling things
That move on unseen wings,
And from the pinewood near
A floating whisper oftentimes I hear,
As when, o'er pastoral meadows wide,
Stealeth the drowsy music of a weir.
The green reeds bend above it,
The soft green grasses stoop and trail therein:
The minnows dart and spin:
The purple-gleaming swallows love it:
And, hush, its innermost depth within,
The vague prophetic murmur of the lime.
But not in summer-tide alone
I love to look
Upon this rippling water in my glen:
Most sweet, most dear, my brook,
And most my own,
When the grey mists shroud every ben,
And in its quiet place
The stream doth bare her face,
And lets me pore deep down into her eyes,
Her eyes of shadowy grey,
Wherein from day to day
My soul is startled with a new surmise,
Or doth some subtler meaning trace
Reflected from unseen invisible skies.
I love to look
Upon this rippling water in my glen:
Most sweet, most dear, my brook,
And most my own,
When the grey mists shroud every ben,
And in its quiet place
The stream doth bare her face,
And lets me pore deep down into her eyes,
Her eyes of shadowy grey,
Wherein from day to day
194
Or doth some subtler meaning trace
Reflected from unseen invisible skies.
Dear mountain-solitary, dear lonely brook,
Of hillside rains and dews the vagrant daughter,
Sweet, sweet, thy music when I bend above thee,
When in thy fugitive face I look;
Yet not the less I love thee,
When, far away, and absent from thee long,
I yearn, my dark hill-water,
I yearn, I strain to hear thy song,
Brown, wandering water,
Dear, murmuring water!
Of hillside rains and dews the vagrant daughter,
Sweet, sweet, thy music when I bend above thee,
When in thy fugitive face I look;
Yet not the less I love thee,
When, far away, and absent from thee long,
I yearn, my dark hill-water,
I yearn, I strain to hear thy song,
Brown, wandering water,
Dear, murmuring water!
195
RAINBOW-SHIMMER
To-day upon the hillside
I saw a golden fairy;
Her name is Rainbow-Shimmer,
But for you and me she's Mary.
I saw a golden fairy;
Her name is Rainbow-Shimmer,
But for you and me she's Mary.
For Mary is the mother
Of all sweet souls that be,
From the angels in heaven
To the best fish in the sea.
Of all sweet souls that be,
From the angels in heaven
To the best fish in the sea.
And of all sweet souls that are,
Fairies are the rarest,
And Mary was a star
Among the fairest.
Fairies are the rarest,
And Mary was a star
Among the fairest.
She had a golden kingcup
Her little golden head,
For dress she had a daisy white
Just tipped with red.
Her little golden head,
For dress she had a daisy white
Just tipped with red.
She danced upon a clover leaf
Still ashine with dew
And the blue sky above was not
As her blue eyes so blue.
Still ashine with dew
And the blue sky above was not
As her blue eyes so blue.
196
Her partner was a sunbeam,
A partner wild and wary,
Whose reel might even tire
The patience of a fairy.
A partner wild and wary,
Whose reel might even tire
The patience of a fairy.
Ah, how the two went dancing
Among the dewy clover;
I would that you were Mary
And I your sunbeam lover!
Among the dewy clover;
I would that you were Mary
And I your sunbeam lover!
“Stop, Mary, stop,” I whispered,
“Be not so wild and wary,
I know a little lassie
Who'd dearly love a fairy!”
“Be not so wild and wary,
I know a little lassie
Who'd dearly love a fairy!”
But in a twink she vanished,
The dewshine dance was over!
Ah, her twinkling laughter
With her sunbeam lover!
The dewshine dance was over!
Ah, her twinkling laughter
With her sunbeam lover!
But, hush! Her hiding-place
Is not so far apart:
I'll tell you where it is, dear,
Its deep in Mother's heart.
Is not so far apart:
I'll tell you where it is, dear,
Its deep in Mother's heart.
197
THE YELLOWHAMMER'S SONG
Out on the waste, a little lonely bird, I flit and I sing;
My breast is yellow as sunshine, and light as the wind my wing.
My breast is yellow as sunshine, and light as the wind my wing.
The golden gorse me shelters, in the tufted grass is my nest,
And Sweet, sweet, sweet the world, though the wind blow east or west.
And Sweet, sweet, sweet the world, though the wind blow east or west.
The harebells chime their music, the canna floats white in the breeze:
But as for me, I flit to and fro and I sing at my ease.
But as for me, I flit to and fro and I sing at my ease.
When the thyme is dripping with dew, and the hill-wind beareth along
The pungent scent of the gale, loudly I sing my morning song.
The pungent scent of the gale, loudly I sing my morning song.
When the sun beats on the gorse, the broom, and the budding heather,
I flit from spray to spray, and my song is of the golden weather.
I flit from spray to spray, and my song is of the golden weather.
198
When the moor-fowl sink to their rest, and the sky is soft rose-red,
I sing of the crescent moon and the single star overhead.
I sing of the crescent moon and the single star overhead.
Out on the waste, out on the waste, I flit all day as I sing,
Sweet, sweet, sweet is the world—dear world—how beautiful everything!
Sweet, sweet, sweet is the world—dear world—how beautiful everything!
Only a little lonely bird that loveth the moorland waste,
And little perhaps of the joy of the world is that which I taste;
And little perhaps of the joy of the world is that which I taste;
But out on the wild, free moorlands or the gold gorse-bows I swing,
And Sweet, sweet, sweet the world; oh, sweet! ah, sweet! the song that I sing.
And Sweet, sweet, sweet the world; oh, sweet! ah, sweet! the song that I sing.
199
VESPER
The wind of evening stealeth hushfully
Where the high poplar trees gleam silver-grey:
Born of the quiet hour, the sleep o' the day,
Old memories throng upon me mournfully.
Where the high poplar trees gleam silver-grey:
Born of the quiet hour, the sleep o' the day,
Old memories throng upon me mournfully.
Against the paling width of the clear sky
The dark-green hill inclines its tree-clad height;
The air is full of vaporous, tender light,
The solitude is broken by no cry.
The dark-green hill inclines its tree-clad height;
The air is full of vaporous, tender light,
The solitude is broken by no cry.
The green-gold disc of the moon doth slowly rise
Out of the dusk whence sounds the Angelus;
O memories of hours long lost to us!
Oh, bitterness of unavailing sighs!
Out of the dusk whence sounds the Angelus;
O memories of hours long lost to us!
Oh, bitterness of unavailing sighs!
200
THE SONG OF THE SEA-WIND
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea,
When thou sweepest abroad thy voice crieth,
Crieth the anguish of living souls
As with the wild storm-rapt soughing of the oaks.
When thou sweepest abroad thy voice crieth,
Crieth the anguish of living souls
As with the wild storm-rapt soughing of the oaks.
Breath of the world, O bitter breath,
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea!
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea!
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea,
Hitherward blow, by our doors, through our souls.
Blow, blow, Eurocyldon ... and as dead leaves
Whirl seaward vain hopes and perishing dreams.
Hitherward blow, by our doors, through our souls.
Blow, blow, Eurocyldon ... and as dead leaves
Whirl seaward vain hopes and perishing dreams.
Breath of the world, O bitter breath,
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea!
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea!
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea,
Uplift us, resurge us out with thy waves,
Out on thine infinite heaving breast
Where not a wave breaks but is higher than hope.
Uplift us, resurge us out with thy waves,
Out on thine infinite heaving breast
Where not a wave breaks but is higher than hope.
Breath of the world, O bitter breath,
King of the winds, O Wind of the sea!
King of the winds, O Wind of the sea!
201
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea,
In the sweep and shadow of mighty wings
Whirl far this Dream that is life, afar
To the Shores of Joy or the Coasts of Night.
In the sweep and shadow of mighty wings
Whirl far this Dream that is life, afar
To the Shores of Joy or the Coasts of Night.
Breath of the worlds, O bitter breath,
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea!
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea!
King of the winds, O Wind of the Sea,
Before thee my heart bows, for it may be that God—
Yea, that it is Thee, O God, who passeth by,
Voicing Thy Word to our souls out of infinite space—
Before thee my heart bows, for it may be that God—
Yea, that it is Thee, O God, who passeth by,
Voicing Thy Word to our souls out of infinite space—
Eternal Breath, O bitter-sweet Breath,
Lord of all winds, O Wind of the Sea!
Lord of all winds, O Wind of the Sea!
202
THE BALLAD OF THE RAM.
Who 'as 'eard the Ram a-callin' on the green fields o' the sea,
Let 'em wander east or west an' mighty fast:
For it's bad to 'ear the Ram when he's up an' runnin' free
With the angry bit o' ribbon at the mast.
Let 'em wander east or west an' mighty fast:
For it's bad to 'ear the Ram when he's up an' runnin' free
With the angry bit o' ribbon at the mast.
It's rush an' serge an' dash when the Ram is on the leap,
But smash an' crash for them as stops the way:
The biggest ship goes down right there that ain't got sense to keep
The shore-walk o' the werry nearest bay.
But smash an' crash for them as stops the way:
The biggest ship goes down right there that ain't got sense to keep
The shore-walk o' the werry nearest bay.
For Frenchy ships, an' German too, an' Russian, you may bet,
It's safer for to land an' 'ome by tram,
Than out to come an' gallivant an' risk the kind o' wet
That follers runnin' counter to a Ram.
It's safer for to land an' 'ome by tram,
Than out to come an' gallivant an' risk the kind o' wet
That follers runnin' counter to a Ram.
203
For when the Terror lifts 'is 'ead an' goes for wot is near,
I'm sorry for them ships wot sail so free;
It's best to up an' elsewhere, an' be werry far from 'ere
When Rams 'ave took to bleatin' on the sea!
I'm sorry for them ships wot sail so free;
It's best to up an' elsewhere, an' be werry far from 'ere
When Rams 'ave took to bleatin' on the sea!
204
CAP'N GOLDSACK
Down in the yellow bay where the scows are sleeping,
Where among the dead men the sharks flit to and fro—
There Cap'n Goldsack goes, creeping, creeping, creeping,
Looking for his treasure down below!
Yeo, yeo, heave-a-yeo!
Creeping, creeping, creeping down below—
Yo! ho!
Where among the dead men the sharks flit to and fro—
There Cap'n Goldsack goes, creeping, creeping, creeping,
Looking for his treasure down below!
Yeo, yeo, heave-a-yeo!
Creeping, creeping, creeping down below—
Yo! ho!
Down among the tangleweed where the dead are leaking
With the ebb an' flow o' water through their ribs an' hollow bones,
Isaac Goldsack stoops alow, seeking, seeking, seeking.
What's he seeking there amidst a lot o' dead men's bones?
Yeo, Yeo, heave-a-yeo!
Seeking, seeking, seeking down below—
Yo! ho!
With the ebb an' flow o' water through their ribs an' hollow bones,
Isaac Goldsack stoops alow, seeking, seeking, seeking.
What's he seeking there amidst a lot o' dead men's bones?
Yeo, Yeo, heave-a-yeo!
Seeking, seeking, seeking down below—
Yo! ho!
205
Twice a hundred year an' more are gone acrost the bay,
Down acrost the yellow bay where the dead are sleeping:
But Cap'n Goldsack gropes an' gropes from yearlong day to day—
Cap'n Goldsack gropes below, creeping, creeping, creeping:
Yeo, Yeo, heave-a-yeo!
Creeping, creeping, creeping down below—
Yo! ho!
Down acrost the yellow bay where the dead are sleeping:
But Cap'n Goldsack gropes an' gropes from yearlong day to day—
Cap'n Goldsack gropes below, creeping, creeping, creeping:
Yeo, Yeo, heave-a-yeo!
Creeping, creeping, creeping down below—
Yo! ho!
206
A CAVALRY CATCH
Up! for the bugles are calling,
Saddle, to boot, and away!
Sabres are clanking, and lances are glancing,
The colonel is swearing and horses are prancing,
So up with the sabres and lances,
Up and away!
Saddle, to boot, and away!
Sabres are clanking, and lances are glancing,
The colonel is swearing and horses are prancing,
So up with the sabres and lances,
Up and away!
Where are we off to, say?
Saddle, and boot, and away!
With a thunder of hoofs in a rush we go past,
In a whirlwind of dust we are gone as a blast—
For we're off with the sabres and lances,
Off and away!
Saddle, and boot, and away!
With a thunder of hoofs in a rush we go past,
In a whirlwind of dust we are gone as a blast—
For we're off with the sabres and lances,
Off and away!
207
SPANISH ROSES
Roses, roses,
Yellow and red;
A rose for the living,
A rose for the dead!
Who'll sip their dew?
There are only a few
Of the yellow and red:
Youth sells its roses
Ere youth is sped.
Yellow and red;
A rose for the living,
A rose for the dead!
Who'll sip their dew?
There are only a few
Of the yellow and red:
Youth sells its roses
Ere youth is sped.
Roses, roses,
All for delight;
What of the night?
Hark, the tramp, tramp,
The scabbard's clamp,
The flaring lamp!
Where is the morning dew?
Ah, only a few
Drank ere the yellow and red
Lay shrivelled, shrivelled,
Over the dead.
All for delight;
What of the night?
Hark, the tramp, tramp,
The scabbard's clamp,
The flaring lamp!
Where is the morning dew?
Ah, only a few
Drank ere the yellow and red
Lay shrivelled, shrivelled,
Over the dead.
208
Roses, roses,
Buy, oh buy.
The years fly,
'Tis the time of roses.
Here are posies
For one and all,
For lovers that sigh
And for lovers that die:
And for Love's pall
And burial!
Buy, oh buy.
The years fly,
'Tis the time of roses.
Here are posies
For one and all,
For lovers that sigh
And for lovers that die:
And for Love's pall
And burial!
Roses, roses, roses, buy, buy, oh buy!
Why delay, why delay, roses also die.
Pink and yellow, blood-red, snow-white,
Roses for dayspring, roses for night!
Why delay, why delay, roses also die.
Pink and yellow, blood-red, snow-white,
Roses for dayspring, roses for night!
Buy, buy, oh my roses buy!
A kiss for a kiss, and a sigh for a sigh!
A kiss for a kiss, and a sigh for a sigh!
209
THE SEA-BORN VINE
(A Dionysiac Legend)
The sun leapt up the rose-flushed sky
And yellowed all the sea's pale blue;
The Tyrrhene crew
Uprose and hailed the God on high.
And yellowed all the sea's pale blue;
The Tyrrhene crew
Uprose and hailed the God on high.
But Dionysos made no sign:
The shipmen hailed their Lord again,
Acclaimed His reign,
Then stared upon their guest divine.
The shipmen hailed their Lord again,
Acclaimed His reign,
Then stared upon their guest divine.
“The deep shall swallow thee, fair sir:
The sea-things shall make thee their prey—
The God obey
Or meet swift death ere thou canst stir!”
The sea-things shall make thee their prey—
The God obey
Or meet swift death ere thou canst stir!”
“Ere ye arose, my spirit bowed
To the Great God unrisen then:—
Take heed, O men,
Your clamour grow not overloud.”
To the Great God unrisen then:—
Take heed, O men,
Your clamour grow not overloud.”
210
“A priest of Bacchus thou! Behold:
One sea-wave here could whelm thy God—
His mystic rod
Would float foam-crown'd 'mid this wave-gold.
One sea-wave here could whelm thy God—
His mystic rod
Would float foam-crown'd 'mid this wave-gold.
“Ai Evoë! thy voice might fill
The waste of sea, the waste of sky,
Yet thou wouldst die,
Thy god supine on some green hill!”
The waste of sea, the waste of sky,
Yet thou wouldst die,
Thy god supine on some green hill!”
Ai Evoë! the cry thrilled wide:
The startled rowers shrank—they saw
With trembling awe
The conscious waters surge aside.
The startled rowers shrank—they saw
With trembling awe
The conscious waters surge aside.
Ai Evoë! The waves turn green;
In tendril masses twist and twine:
A mighty vine
Uprises and o'erhead doth lean:
In tendril masses twist and twine:
A mighty vine
Uprises and o'erhead doth lean:
Ai Evoë! The tendrils cling
About the shipmen as they swim:
The Bacchic hymn
The waves chant and the wild winds sing.
About the shipmen as they swim:
The Bacchic hymn
The waves chant and the wild winds sing.
Evoë! Dionysos cries,
The seamen and the boat no more
The shingly shore
Shall feel 'neath known or alien skies.
The seamen and the boat no more
The shingly shore
Shall feel 'neath known or alien skies.
211
Blue dolphins guide the wave-born vine
To caves near mystic Ind:
Only the wind
Murmurs for aye the tale divine.
To caves near mystic Ind:
Only the wind
Murmurs for aye the tale divine.
Ye who deride the gods, beware:
They are with us evermore; they brook
No scornful look;
Their vengeance fills our mortal air.
They are with us evermore; they brook
No scornful look;
Their vengeance fills our mortal air.
Yea, of the jealous gods, take heed:
One day the earth or sea shall ope
And vanquish hope—
An Evoë be vain indeed!
One day the earth or sea shall ope
And vanquish hope—
An Evoë be vain indeed!
212
VENILIA
“Exspirare rosas, decrescere lilia vidi” ...
—Claudian.
Along the faint shores of the foamless gulf
I see pale lilies droop, wan roses fall,
And Silence stilling the uplifted wave.
I see pale lilies droop, wan roses fall,
And Silence stilling the uplifted wave.
And in the movement of the uplifted wave,
And ere the rose fall, or the lily breathe,
Silence becomes a lonely voice, like hers,
Venilia's, who when love was given wings
And far off flight, mourned ceaseless as a dove,
Till bitter Circe made her but a voice
Still lingering as a fragrance in dimwoods
When on the gay wind swims the yellow leaf.
And ere the rose fall, or the lily breathe,
Silence becomes a lonely voice, like hers,
Venilia's, who when love was given wings
And far off flight, mourned ceaseless as a dove,
Till bitter Circe made her but a voice
Still lingering as a fragrance in dimwoods
When on the gay wind swims the yellow leaf.
213
ON A NIGHTINGALE IN APRIL
The yellow moon is a dancing phantom
Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wave.
Down secret ways of the flowing shade;
And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wave.
Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper:
Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
To a phantom raid.
Only the moon is a dancing blade
That leads a host of the Crescent warriors
To a phantom raid.
Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons,
A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:—
The grey-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
Newly afraid.
A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:—
The grey-green glooms of the elm are stirring,
Newly afraid.
Last heard, white music, under the olives
Where once Theocritus sang and played—
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder
O moon-white maid!
Where once Theocritus sang and played—
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder
O moon-white maid!
214
THE DIRGE OF THE REPUBLIC
(In Memoriam.—E. Z.)
In the great days men heard afar the clarions of Hope rejoice:
The hearts of men were shaken as reeds by the wind of a Voice.
But now the roll of muffled drums drowns 'mid the last Retreat
The wild fanfare of perishing hopes, the tramp of passing feet.
The hearts of men were shaken as reeds by the wind of a Voice.
But now the roll of muffled drums drowns 'mid the last Retreat
The wild fanfare of perishing hopes, the tramp of passing feet.
The winds of heaven are banners lost, are pennons of dismay;
The innumerous legion of the sun toils on in disarray;
The moon that carries freight of gold to ranson forth the morn
Sails desolate beneath a myriad starry eyes of scorn.
The innumerous legion of the sun toils on in disarray;
The moon that carries freight of gold to ranson forth the morn
Sails desolate beneath a myriad starry eyes of scorn.
Wild rhetoric, yes: but who shall say what metaphors of pain
Are fit for the funeral dirge of a Republic slain?
High hopes, faiths, dreams, great passions, aspirations,
Prove but the trodden, useless, bitter dust of weary nations!
Are fit for the funeral dirge of a Republic slain?
High hopes, faiths, dreams, great passions, aspirations,
Prove but the trodden, useless, bitter dust of weary nations!
215
That which was great is fallen, that which was high is low:
The rising star has sunk again, but in a blood-red glow:
The hundred thousand souls that died before the golden prime
Did well, for it is well to miss the Ironies of Time.
The rising star has sunk again, but in a blood-red glow:
The hundred thousand souls that died before the golden prime
Did well, for it is well to miss the Ironies of Time.
Faith, Honour, Love, the Noble and the True,
These lofty words are pawns of an ignoble crew:
How better far to light the Torch with flames of cheap desire
Than thus to mock the eyes of man with stolen fire!
These lofty words are pawns of an ignoble crew:
How better far to light the Torch with flames of cheap desire
Than thus to mock the eyes of man with stolen fire!
There is no State broad-based enough upon the People's heart
That some day may not hunted be by the People's dart:
The rebel nerves, the rebel lusts, the rebel hounds of life—
If these be loosened from the whip they turn to fratricidal strife.
That some day may not hunted be by the People's dart:
The rebel nerves, the rebel lusts, the rebel hounds of life—
If these be loosened from the whip they turn to fratricidal strife.
Is this the end of all high dreams above thrones trampled under?
Is this the tinsel chorus left after the noble thunder?
'Twere better, then, than thus to live, thus forfeit high renown,
To be true men, and free, “beneath the shadow of a Crown”!
Is this the tinsel chorus left after the noble thunder?
'Twere better, then, than thus to live, thus forfeit high renown,
To be true men, and free, “beneath the shadow of a Crown”!
216
INTO THE SILENCE
(A Death in the West Highlands)
Ungather'd lie the peats upon the moss;
No more is heard the shaggy pony's hoof;
The thin smoke curls no more above the roof;
Unused the brown-sailed boat doth idly toss
At anchor in the Kyle; and all across
The strath the collie scours without reproof;
The gather'd sheep stand wonderingly aloof;
And everywhere there is a sense of loss.
No more is heard the shaggy pony's hoof;
The thin smoke curls no more above the roof;
Unused the brown-sailed boat doth idly toss
At anchor in the Kyle; and all across
The strath the collie scours without reproof;
The gather'd sheep stand wonderingly aloof;
And everywhere there is a sense of loss.
“Has Sheumais left for over sea? Nay, sir,
A se'nnight since a gloom came over him;
He sicken'd, and his gaze grew vague and dim;
Three days ago we found he did not stir.
He has gone into the Silence. 'Neath yon fir
He lies, and waits the Lord in darkness grim.”
A se'nnight since a gloom came over him;
He sicken'd, and his gaze grew vague and dim;
Three days ago we found he did not stir.
He has gone into the Silence. 'Neath yon fir
He lies, and waits the Lord in darkness grim.”
217
THE HILL-ROAD TO ARDMORE
There's the hill-road to Ardmore, Mary,
Here's the glen-road to Ardstrae:
Your home is younder, Mary,
And mine lies this way.
Here's the glen-road to Ardstrae:
Your home is younder, Mary,
And mine lies this way.
Will you come by the glen, Mary,
Or go the hill-road to Ardmore?
It is now and as you will, Mary,
For I will ask no more.
Or go the hill-road to Ardmore?
It is now and as you will, Mary,
For I will ask no more.
'Tis but a score years, Mary,
Since I bade you to Ardstrae;
And now you are not there, Mary,
Nor walk the hill-side way.
Since I bade you to Ardstrae;
And now you are not there, Mary,
Nor walk the hill-side way.
Is it only a score years, Mary,
Since we parted by the shore,
And I watched you go, Mary,
By the hill-road to Ardmore?
Since we parted by the shore,
And I watched you go, Mary,
By the hill-road to Ardmore?
218
WHITE ROSE
Far in the inland valleys
The Spring her secret tells;
The roses lift on the bushes,
The lilies shake their bells.
The Spring her secret tells;
The roses lift on the bushes,
The lilies shake their bells.
To a lily of the valley
A white rose leans from above:
“Little white flower o' the valley,
Come up and be my love.”
A white rose leans from above:
“Little white flower o' the valley,
Come up and be my love.”
To the lily of the valley
A speedwell whispers, “No!
Where the roses live are thorns,
'Tis safe below.”
A speedwell whispers, “No!
Where the roses live are thorns,
'Tis safe below.”
The lily clomb to the rose-bush,
A thorn in her side:
The white rose had wedded a red rose,
And the lily died.
A thorn in her side:
The white rose had wedded a red rose,
And the lily died.
219
ECHOES OF JOY
Only a song of joy
Wind-blown over the heather,
Somewhere two little hearts
Thrill and throb together.
Wind-blown over the heather,
Somewhere two little hearts
Thrill and throb together.
Ah, far mid the nethermost spheres
Life and Death live together;
And deep is their love, without tears,
For they laugh at the shadows of years—
And yet there rings in my ears
Only a song of joy
Wind-blown over the heather.
Life and Death live together;
And deep is their love, without tears,
For they laugh at the shadows of years—
And yet there rings in my ears
Only a song of joy
Wind-blown over the heather.
220
WHEN THE GREENNESS IS COME AGAIN
The west wind lifts the plumes of the fir,
The west wind swings on the pine;
In the sun-and-shadow the cushats stir;
For the breath of Spring is a wine
That fills the wood,
That thrills the blood,
When the glad March sun doth shine,
Once more,
When the glad March sun doth shine.
The west wind swings on the pine;
In the sun-and-shadow the cushats stir;
For the breath of Spring is a wine
That fills the wood,
That thrills the blood,
When the glad March sun doth shine,
Once more,
When the glad March sun doth shine.
When the strong May sun is a song, a song,
A song in the good green world,
Then the little green leaves wax long
And the little fern-fronds are uncurl'd;
The banners of green are all unfurl'd,
And the wind goes marching along, along
The wind goes marching along
The good green world.
A song in the good green world,
Then the little green leaves wax long
And the little fern-fronds are uncurl'd;
The banners of green are all unfurl'd,
And the wind goes marching along, along
The wind goes marching along
The good green world.
221
A HAZARD OF LOVE
I count my gain a loss,
If that should be to thee
The shadow of a cross
On thy felicity.
If that should be to thee
The shadow of a cross
On thy felicity.
But if, dear saint, there be
In loss of mine thy gain,
How sweet it were for me
To please thee with my pain!
In loss of mine thy gain,
How sweet it were for me
To please thee with my pain!
Let, then, my loss be thine,
My loss thy gain, sweet nun;
Yet, dear, were 't not divine
If gain and loss were one?
My loss thy gain, sweet nun;
Yet, dear, were 't not divine
If gain and loss were one?
222
THE HONEYMOON ROSE
To pluck the wild rose in the morning dew,
And dream of another Rose to wear it soon ...
Oh! will she never come?—the morn's half through,
And dews don't keep until the afternoon!
Sweetheart, do you wish that roses only grew
In secret places in the dusks of June?
And dream of another Rose to wear it soon ...
Oh! will she never come?—the morn's half through,
And dews don't keep until the afternoon!
Sweetheart, do you wish that roses only grew
In secret places in the dusks of June?
Ah! here's my dew-wet Rose,
Since here are you,
Rose of my Honeymoon!
Since here are you,
Rose of my Honeymoon!
223
IT HAPPENED IN MAY
A maid forsaken
A white prayer offered
Under the snow of the apple-blossom:
To whom was it proffered?
By whom was it taken?
Well, I suppose
Nobody knows.
A white prayer offered
Under the snow of the apple-blossom:
To whom was it proffered?
By whom was it taken?
Well, I suppose
Nobody knows.
But somehow, the snows
Of the apple-blossom
Were changed one day.
A kiss was offered,
A kiss was taken:
And lo! when the maiden looked shyly away,
Of bloom of the apple the boughs were forsaken!
But whiter and sweeter grew orange-blossom!
Now this is quite true, I say,
And it happened in May.
Of the apple-blossom
Were changed one day.
A kiss was offered,
A kiss was taken:
And lo! when the maiden looked shyly away,
Of bloom of the apple the boughs were forsaken!
But whiter and sweeter grew orange-blossom!
Now this is quite true, I say,
And it happened in May.
224
NIGHTINGALE LANE
Down through the thicket, out of the hedges,A ripple of music singeth a tune ...
Like water that falls
From mossy ledges
With a soft low croon:
Soon
It will cease!
No, it falls but to rise—but to rise—but to rise!
It is over the thickets, it leaps in the trees,
It swims like a star in the purple-black skies!
Ah, once again,
With its rapture and pain,
The nightingale singeth under the moon!
225
BLOSSOM OF SNOW
“Sing a song of blossom,”
Said little Marjory Brown:
“Why won't it come down,
Here in the town,
Please?”
Said little Marjory Brown.
Said little Marjory Brown:
“Why won't it come down,
Here in the town,
Please?”
Said little Marjory Brown.
“Please,
Wind, blow just a breath, for me
To see
The great white apple-blossoms blow
Just like snow—
Just like snow in our garden before we
Came back to town,”
Said little Marjory Brown.
Wind, blow just a breath, for me
To see
The great white apple-blossoms blow
Just like snow—
Just like snow in our garden before we
Came back to town,”
Said little Marjory Brown.
All day and all night
A wind did blow,
Marjory laughed at the flying snow
And its whirling riot:
But at dawn she grew wan and white,
And was quiet.
And the doctor said,
With his hand on a bowed sobbing head,
“Too late you came up to town
With little Marjory Brown.”
A wind did blow,
Marjory laughed at the flying snow
And its whirling riot:
But at dawn she grew wan and white,
And was quiet.
And the doctor said,
With his hand on a bowed sobbing head,
“Too late you came up to town
With little Marjory Brown.”
226
THE DANDELION
A thousand poets have sung the Rose,
The daisy white, the heather,
The green grass we lie on
In summer weather ...
Of almost every flower that grows,
But never of the Dandelion,
That the winds of Spring have scattered hither and thither!
The daisy white, the heather,
The green grass we lie on
In summer weather ...
Of almost every flower that grows,
But never of the Dandelion,
That the winds of Spring have scattered hither and thither!
Is there any more fair to see
Than this bright fellow
Who, also, “takes the winds of March with beauty”?
True his coat is a vulgar yellow,
And his is a very humble duty . .
Merely to be
As joyous as a wave on the sea,
A wave dancing on the great sea,—
Merely to be bright, sunshiny, glad, strong, and free,
As free as a beggar, as proud as a king!
Than this bright fellow
Who, also, “takes the winds of March with beauty”?
True his coat is a vulgar yellow,
And his is a very humble duty . .
Merely to be
As joyous as a wave on the sea,
A wave dancing on the great sea,—
Merely to be bright, sunshiny, glad, strong, and free,
As free as a beggar, as proud as a king!
And so, quite as good as the Rose,
The daisy white, the heather,
The green grass we lie on
In summer weather,
Is that flame of the feet of Spring,
The Dandelion!
The daisy white, the heather,
The green grass we lie on
In summer weather,
Is that flame of the feet of Spring,
The Dandelion!
227
THE DREAM-WIND
When, like a sleeping child
Or a bird in the nest,
The day is gathered
To the earth's breast ...
Hush! ... 'tis the Dream-Wind,
Breathing peace,
Breathing rest,
Out of the Gardens of Sleep in the West.
Or a bird in the nest,
The day is gathered
To the earth's breast ...
Hush! ... 'tis the Dream-Wind,
Breathing peace,
Breathing rest,
Out of the Gardens of Sleep in the West.
Oh, come to me, wandering
Wind of the West!
Grey doves of slumber
Come hither to rest! ...
Hush! ... now the wings cease
Below the dim trees ...
And the White Rose of Rest
Breathes low in the Gardens of Sleep in the West.
Wind of the West!
Grey doves of slumber
Come hither to rest! ...
Hush! ... now the wings cease
Below the dim trees ...
And the White Rose of Rest
Breathes low in the Gardens of Sleep in the West.
228
TRIAD
From the Silence of Time, Time's Silence borrow.In the heart of To-day is the word of To-morrow.
The Builders of Joy are the Children of Sorrow.
IN MEMORIAM
(To Walt Whitman)
He laughed at Life's Sunset Gates
With vanishing breath:
Glad soul, who went with the Sun
To the Sunrise of Death.
| Songs and poems (1909) | |