For truth only is living, Truth only is whole, And the love of his giving Man's polestar and pole; Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul.

One birth of my bosom; One beam of mine eye; One topmost blossom That scales the sky; Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

810. Ave atque Vale (IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE)

SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat And full of bitter summer, but more sweet To thee than gleanings of a northern shore Trod by no tropic feet?

For always thee the fervid languid glories Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave That knows not where is that Leucadian grave Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, Blind gods that cannot spare.

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; The hidden harvest of luxurious time, Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, Seeing as men sow men reap.

O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, That were athirst for sleep and no more life And no more love, for peace and no more strife! Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping Spirit and body and all the springs of song, Is it well now where love can do no wrong, Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang Behind the unopening closure of her lips? Is it not well where soul from body slips And flesh from bone divides without a pang As dew from flower-bell drips?

It is enough; the end and the beginning Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. O hand unclasp'd of unbeholden friend, For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, No triumph and no labour and no lust, Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night With obscure finger silences your sight, Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, Sleep, and have sleep for light.

Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, Such as thy vision here solicited, Under the shadow of her fair vast head, The deep division of prodigious breasts, The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, The weight of awful tresses that still keep The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests Where the wet hill-winds weep?

Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom? What of despair, of rapture, of derision, What of life is there, what of ill or good? Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, The faint fields quicken any terrene root, In low lands where the sun and moon are mute And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers At all, or any fruit?

Alas, but though my flying song flies after, O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, Some dim derision of mysterious laughter From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veil'd head, Some little sound of unregarded tears Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs— These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, Sees only such things rise.

Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, Far too far off for thought or any prayer. What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, The low light fails us in elusive skies, Still the foil'd earnest ear is deaf, and blind Are still the eluded eyes.

Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll I lay my hand on, and not death estranges My spirit from communion of thy song— These memories and these melodies that throng Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal— These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold As though a hand were in my hand to hold, Or through mine ears a mourning musical Of many mourners roll'd.

I among these, I also, in such station As when the pyre was charr'd, and piled the sods. And offering to the dead made, and their gods, The old mourners had, standing to make libation, I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, And what I may of fruits in this chill'd air, And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb A curl of sever'd hair.

But by no hand nor any treason stricken, Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; But bending us-ward with memorial urns The most high Muses that fulfil all ages Weep, and our God's heart yearns.

For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often Among us darkling here the lord of light Makes manifest his music and his might In hearts that open and in lips that soften With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. Thy lips indeed he touch'd with bitter wine, And nourish'd them indeed with bitter bread; Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, The fire that scarr'd thy spirit at his flame Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed Who feeds our hearts with fame.

Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, God of all suns and songs, he too bends down To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, And hollows with strange tears and alien sighs Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, And over thine irrevocable head Sheds light from the under skies.

And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, That thing transform'd which was the Cytherean, With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine Long since, and face no more call'd Erycine— A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell Did she, a sad and second prey, compel Into the footless places once more trod, And shadows hot from hell.

And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, No choral salutation lure to light A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. There is no help for these things; none to mend, And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, Will make death clear or make life durable. Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine And with wild notes about this dust of thine At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell And wreathe an unseen shrine.

Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. Out of the mystic and the mournful garden Where all day through thine hands in barren braid Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, Shall death not bring us all as thee one day Among the days departed?

For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, With sadder than the Niobean womb, And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; There lies not any troublous thing before, Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, All waters as the shore.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

811. Itylus

SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow, How can thine heart be full of the spring? A thousand summers are over and dead. What hast thou found in the spring to follow? What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?

O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south, The soft south whither thine heart is set? Shall not the grief of the old time follow? Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, Thy way is long to the sun and the south; But I, fulfill'd of my heart's desire, Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, From tawny body and sweet small mouth Feed the heart of the night with fire.

I the nightingale all spring through, O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, All spring through till the spring be done, Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, Take fight and follow and find the sun.

Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? For where thou fliest I shall not follow, Till life forget and death remember, Till thou remember and I forget.

Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, I know not how thou hast heart to sing. Hast thou the heart? is it all past over? Thy lord the summer is good to follow, And fair the feet of thy lover the spring: But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?

O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, My heart in me is a molten ember And over my head the waves have met. But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow Could I forget or thou remember, Couldst thou remember and I forget.

O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, The heart's division divideth us. Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow To the place of the slaying of Itylus, The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.

O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, I pray thee sing not a little space. Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? The woven web that was plain to follow, The small slain body, the flower-like face, Can I remember if thou forget?

O sister, sister, thy first-begotten! The hands that cling and the feet that follow, The voice of the child's blood crying yet, Who hath remember'd me? who hath forgotten? Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, But the world shall end when I forget.

William Dean Howells. b. 1837

812. Earliest Spring

TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, Through all the moaning chimneys, and 'thwart all the hollows and angles Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift.

Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes— Rapture of life ineffable, perfect—as if in the brier, Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.

Bret Harte. 1839-1902

813. What the Bullet sang

O JOY of creation, To be! O rapture, to fly And be free! Be the battle lost or won, Though its smoke shall hide the sun, I shall find my love—the one Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands All alone, With the power in his hands Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, By his godlike front and grace; I shall hold him for a space All my own!

It is he—O my love! So bold! It is I—all thy love Foretold! It is I—O love, what bliss! Dost thou answer to my kiss? O sweetheart! what is this Lieth there so cold?

John Todhunter. 1839-1916

814. Maureen

O, YOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen! Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, Maureen?

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen: For it 's pale you are, and the fear that 's on you is over me too, Maureen!

Sure it 's one complaint that 's on us, asthore, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen: The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, Maureen!

I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, Mavourneen, my own Maureen! When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace, Maureen!

O where was the King o' the World that day—only me? My one true love, Maureen! And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, Maureen!

John Todhunter. 1839-1916

815. Aghadoe

THERE 's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There 's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

There 's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There 's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies, That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, On Shaun Dhu, my mother's son in Aghadoe! When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth, For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

For they track'd me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, When the price was on his head in Aghadoe: O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food, Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where 'twould rest, Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!

I walk'd to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe; Then I cover'd him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn, Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.

O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe! There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe! Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

816. Song

O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: For my heart no measure Knows, nor other treasure To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away: For I fain would borrow Thy sad weeds to-morrow, To make a mourning for love's yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity, Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay, But passed forth from the city, Making thus my ditty Of fair love lost for ever and a day.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

817. The Desolate City

DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars? Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city. A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.

Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen'd to their chaunting; Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.

This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure. Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, Each in another's eyes finds light, the light of compassion, This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.

Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness! Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul? Where are those passionate eyes that appeal'd to my eyes in passion? Where is the mouth that kiss'd me, the breast I laid to my own?

Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled. Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear? See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, See, my desire is fulfill'd in thee, for it fills the earth.

Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn'd I from the window, Turn'd to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.

Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my beloved's. There I stopp'd at the silent door, and listen'd and tried the latch. Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber, This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.

I knew the house, with its windows barr'd, and its leafless fig-tree, Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; I knew where my hope had climb'd to its goal and there encircled All that those desolate walls once held, my beloved's heart.

There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not. She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips. She told me all her pain and show'd me all her trouble. I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return'd her kiss.

Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them. Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life. Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance; This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.

Weeping strangled my voice. I call'd out, but none answer'd; Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door; See whom I love, who loved me, look'd not on my yearning, Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show'd me no more her soul.

Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness, Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day; Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty, A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain!

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

818. With Esther

HE who has once been happy is for aye Out of destruction's reach. His fortune then Holds nothing secret; and Eternity, Which is a mystery to other men, Has like a woman given him its joy. Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret. Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die, He who has once been happy! When I set The world before me and survey its range, Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies, The shreds of pleasure which for lack of change Men wrap around them and call happiness, The poor delights which are the tale and sum Of the world's courage in its martyrdom;

When I hear laughter from a tavern door, When I see crowds agape and in the rain Watching on tiptoe and with stifled roar To see a rocket fired or a bull slain, When misers handle gold, when orators Touch strong men's hearts with glory till they weep, When cities deck their streets for barren wars Which have laid waste their youth, and when I keep Calmly the count of my own life and see On what poor stuff my manhood's dreams were fed Till I too learn'd what dole of vanity Will serve a human soul for daily bread, —Then I remember that I once was young And lived with Esther the world's gods among.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

819. To Manon, on his Fortune in loving Her

I DID not choose thee, dearest. It was Love That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove His offering brings and cares not at what shrine He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine; The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand, And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine, And spoke the words I might not understand. I was unwise in all but the dear chance Which was my fortune, and the blind desire Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode, And youth's sublime unreason'd prescience Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire Its dedication To the Unknown God.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

820. St. Valentine's Day

TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down, With hounds and horsemen, a brave company On this side in its glory lay the sea, On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown. The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse: And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown. I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even Better than all by this, that through my chase In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven I seem'd to see and follow still your face. Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

821. Gibraltar

SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more We ride into still water and the calm Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill!

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

822. Written at Florence

O WORLD, in very truth thou art too young; When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age? World, with thy covering of yellow flowers, Hast thou forgot what generations sprung Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone? Hast thou no place in all their heritage Where thou dost only weep, that I may come Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers? O world, in very truth thou art too young. The heroic wealth of passionate emprize Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains: How hast thou set thy summer growth among The broken stones which were their palaces! Hast thou forgot the darkness where he lies Who made thee beautiful, or have thy bees Found out his grave to build their honeycombs?

O world, in very truth thou art too young: They gave thee love who measured out thy skies, And, when they found for thee another star, Who made a festival and straightway hung The jewel on thy neck. O merry world, Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes Which first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'd One banner of thy bridal car for them. O world, in very truth thou art too young. There was a voice which sang about thy spring, Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips, And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue Before thy nightingales were come again. O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing? Say, has thy merriment no secret pain, No sudden weariness that thou art young?

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

823. The Two Highwaymen

I LONG have had a quarrel set with Time Because he robb'd me. Every day of life Was wrested from me after bitter strife: I never yet could see the sun go down But I was angry in my heart, nor hear The leaves fall in the wind without a tear Over the dying summer. I have known No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death. The fair world is the witness of a crime Repeated every hour. For life and breath Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly The voices of these robbers of the heath Sound in each ear and chill the passer-by. —What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time? What have we done to Death that we must die?

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

824. A Garden Song

HERE in this sequester'd close Bloom the hyacinth and rose, Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus,— More had not Alcinos!

Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else—afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,— Now that mood and moment please,— Find the fair Pierides!

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

825. Urceus Exit Triolet

I INTENDED an Ode, And it turn'd to a Sonnet It began a la mode, I intended an Ode; But Rose cross'd the road In her latest new bonnet; I intended an Ode; And it turn'd to a Sonnet.

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

826. In After Days Rondeau

IN after days when grasses high O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honour'd dust, I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky; I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days!

But yet, now living, fain would I That some one then should testify, Saying—'He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust.' Will none?—Then let my memory die In after days!

Henry Clarence Kendall. 1841-1882

827. Mooni

HE that is by Mooni now Sees the water-sapphires gleaming Where the River Spirit, dreaming, Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming Under lute of leaf and bough!— Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is, Psalms from unseen wildernesses Deep amongst far hill-recesses— He that is by Mooni now.

Yea, for him by Mooni's marge Sings the yellow-hair'd September, With the face the gods remember, When the ridge is burnt to ember, And the dumb sea chains the barge! Where the mount like molten brass is, Down beneath fern-feather'd passes Noonday dew in cool green grasses Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.

Who that dwells by Mooni yet, Feels in flowerful forest arches Smiting wings and breath that parches Where strong Summer's path of march is, And the suns in thunder set! Housed beneath the gracious kirtle Of the shadowy water-myrtle— Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle, He is safe by Mooni yet!

Days there were when he who sings (Dumb so long through passion's losses) Stood where Mooni's water crosses Shining tracks of green-hair'd mosses, Like a soul with radiant wings: Then the psalm the wind rehearses— Then the song the stream disperses— Lent a beauty to his verses, Who to-night of Mooni sings.

Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme! Certain days are not above me, Certain hearts have ceased to love me, Certain fancies fail to move me, Like the effluent morning dream. Head whereon the white is stealing, Heart whose hurts are past all healing, Where is now the first, pure feeling? Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme! . . . Still to be by Mooni cool— Where the water-blossoms glister, And by gleaming vale and vista Sits the English April's sister, Soft and sweet and wonderful! Just to rest beneath the burning Outer world—its sneers and spurning— Ah, my heart—my heart is yearning Still to be by Mooni cool!

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

828. Ode

WE are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

829. Song

I MADE another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above. Why did my Summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old Love came and walk'd therein, And laid the garden waste.

She enter'd with her weary smile, Just as of old; She look'd around a little while And shiver'd with the cold: Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turn'd the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass Seem'd like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate, And then, just as of yore, She turn'd back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

830. The Fountain of Tears

IF you go over desert and mountain, Far into the country of Sorrow, To-day and to-night and to-morrow, And maybe for months and for years; You shall come with a heart that is bursting For trouble and toiling and thirsting, You shall certainly come to the fountain At length,—to the Fountain of Tears.

Very peaceful the place is, and solely For piteous lamenting and sighing, And those who come living or dying Alike from their hopes and their fears; Full of cypress-like shadows the place is, And statues that cover their faces: But out of the gloom springs the holy And beautiful Fountain of Tears.

And it flows and it flows with a motion So gentle and lovely and listless, And murmurs a tune so resistless To him who hath suffer'd and hears— You shall surely—without a word spoken, Kneel down there and know your heart broken, And yield to the long-curb'd emotion That day by the Fountain of Tears.

For it grows and it grows, as though leaping Up higher the more one is thinking; And ever its tunes go on sinking More poignantly into the ears: Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain, Reach'd after dry desert and mountain, You shall fall down at length in your weeping And bathe your sad face in the tears.

Then alas! while you lie there a season And sob between living and dying, And give up the land you were trying To find 'mid your hopes and your fears; —O the world shall come up and pass o'er you, Strong men shall not stay to care for you, Nor wonder indeed for what reason Your way should seem harder than theirs.

But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, Nor caring to raise your wet tresses And look how the cold world appears— O perhaps the mere silences round you— All things in that place Grief hath found you— Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting, May soothe you somewhat through your tears.

You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes Your face, as though some one had kiss'd you, Or think at least some one who miss'd you Had sent you a thought,—if that cheers; Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken: —Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears.

And the tears shall flow faster and faster, Brim over and baffle resistance, And roll down blear'd roads to each distance Of past desolation and years; Till they cover the place of each sorrow, And leave you no past and no morrow: For what man is able to master And stem the great Fountain of Tears?

But the floods and the tears meet and gather; The sound of them all grows like thunder: —O into what bosom, I wonder, Is pour'd the whole sorrow of years? For Eternity only seems keeping Account of the great human weeping: May God, then, the Maker and Father— May He find a place for the tears!

John Boyle O'Reilly. 1844-1890

831. A White Rose

THE red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

832. My Delight and Thy Delight

MY delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night:

My desire and thy desire Twining to a tongue of fire, Leaping live, and laughing higher:

Thro' the everlasting strife In the mystery of life.

Love, from whom the world begun, Hath the secret of the sun.

Love can tell, and love alone, Whence the million stars were strewn, Why each atom knows its own, How, in spite of woe and death, Gay is life, and sweet is breath:

This he taught us, this we knew, Happy in his science true, Hand in hand as we stood 'Neath the shadows of the wood, Heart to heart as we lay In the dawning of the day.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

833. Spirits

ANGEL spirits of sleep, White-robed, with silver hair, In your meadows fair, Where the willows weep, And the sad moonbeam On the gliding stream Writes her scatter'd dream:

Angel spirits of sleep, Dancing to the weir In the hollow roar Of its waters deep; Know ye how men say That ye haunt no more Isle and grassy shore With your moonlit play; That ye dance not here, White-robed spirits of sleep, All the summer night Threading dances light?

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

834. Nightingales

BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

835. A Passer-by

WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, Wilt thou glde on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

836. Absence

WHEN my love was away, Full three days were not sped, I caught my fancy astray Thinking if she were dead,

And I alone, alone: It seem'd in my misery In all the world was none Ever so lone as I.

I wept; but it did not shame Nor comfort my heart: away I rode as I might, and came To my love at close of day.

The sight of her still'd my fears, My fairest-hearted love: And yet in her eyes were tears: Which when I question'd of,

'O now thou art come,' she cried, ''Tis fled: but I thought to-day I never could here abide, If thou wert longer away.'

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

837. On a Dead Child

PERFECT little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

Thy mother's treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride:—ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.

Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,— Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!— Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

838. Pater Filio

SENSE with keenest edge unused, Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire; Lovely feet as yet unbruised On the ways of dark desire; Sweetest hope that lookest smiling O'er the wilderness defiling!

Why such beauty, to be blighted By the swarm of foul destruction? Why such innocence delighted, When sin stalks to thy seduction? All the litanies e'er chaunted Shall not keep thy faith undaunted.

I have pray'd the sainted Morning To unclasp her hands to hold thee; From resignful Eve's adorning Stol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee; With all charms of man's contriving Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving.

Me too once unthinking Nature, —Whence Love's timeless mockery took me,— Fashion'd so divine a creature, Yea, and like a beast forsook me. I forgave, but tell the measure Of her crime in thee, my treasure.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

839. Winter Nightfall

THE day begins to droop,— Its course is done: But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun.

The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain.

An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky.

The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue.

A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air:

His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick:

He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

840. When Death to Either shall come

WHEN Death to either shall come,— I pray it be first to me,— Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to the child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.

Andrew Lang. 1844-1912

841. The Odyssey

AS one that for a weary space has lain Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine— As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again— So gladly from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours They hear like Ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

842. Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

843. Margaritae Sorori

A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies: And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace.

The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night— Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing! My task accomplish'd and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gather'd to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

844. England, My England

WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England— Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own? When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England— Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures, England, my England:— 'Take and break us: we are yours, England, my own! Life is good, and joy runs high Between English earth and sky: Death is death; but we shall die To the Song on your bugles blown, England— To the stars on your bugles blown!'

They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own! You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies, You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England, Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might, England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea's delight, England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, There 's the menace of the Word In the Song on your bugles blown, England— Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

Edmund Gosse. b. 1849

845. Revelation

INTO the silver night She brought with her pale hand The topaz lanthorn-light, And darted splendour o'er the land; Around her in a band, Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying, And flapping with their mad wings, fann'd The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.

Behind the thorny pink Close wall of blossom'd may, I gazed thro' one green chink And saw no more than thousands may,— Saw sweetness, tender and gay,— Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry, Saw braided locks more dark than bay, And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.

With food for furry friends She pass'd, her lamp and she, Till eaves and gable-ends Hid all that saffron sheen from me: Around my rosy tree Once more the silver-starry night was shining, With depths of heaven, dewy and free, And crystals of a carven moon declining.

Alas! for him who dwells In frigid air of thought, When warmer light dispels The frozen calm his spirit sought; By life too lately taught He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing; Reels from the joy experience brought, And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

846. Romance

I WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me, Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

847. In the Highlands

IN the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses, And for ever in the hill-recesses Her more lovely music Broods and dies—

O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarr'd!

O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath! Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only winds and rivers, Life and death.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

848. Requiem

UNDER the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie: Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he long'd to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

T. W. Rolleston. b. 1857

849. The Dead at Clonmacnois FROM THE IRISH OF ANGUS O'GILLAN

IN a quiet water'd land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbre sleep— Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.

John Davidson. 1857-1909

850. Song

THE boat is chafing at our long delay, And we must leave too soon The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray, The tawny sands, the moon.

Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight! Watch from thy pearly throne Our vessel, plunging deeper into night To reach a land unknown.

John Davidson. 1857-1909

851. The Last Rose

'O WHICH is the last rose?' A blossom of no name. At midnight the snow came; At daybreak a vast rose, In darkness unfurl'd, O'er-petall'd the world.

Its odourless pallor Blossom'd forlorn, Till radiant valour Establish'd the morn— Till the night Was undone In her fight With the sun.

The brave orb in state rose, And crimson he shone first; While from the high vine Of heaven the dawn burst, Staining the great rose From sky-line to sky-line.

The red rose of morn A white rose at noon turn'd; But at sunset reborn All red again soon burn'd. Then the pale rose of noonday Rebloom'd in the night, And spectrally white In the light Of the moon lay.

But the vast rose Was scentless, And this is the reason: When the blast rose Relentless, And brought in due season The snow rose, the last rose Congeal'd in its breath, Then came with it treason; The traitor was Death.

In lee-valleys crowded, The sheep and the birds Were frozen and shrouded In flights and in herds. In highways And byways The young and the old Were tortured and madden'd And kill'd by the cold. But many were gladden'd By the beautiful last rose, The blossom of no name That came when the snow came, In darkness unfurl'd— The wonderful vast rose That fill'd all the world.

William Watson. b. 1858

852. Song

APRIL, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears! April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears!

William Watson. b. 1858

853. Ode in May

LET me go forth, and share The overflowing Sun With one wise friend, or one Better than wise, being fair, Where the pewit wheels and dips On heights of bracken and ling, And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, Tingles with the Spring.

What is so sweet and dear As a prosperous morn in May, The confident prime of the day, And the dauntless youth of the year, When nothing that asks for bliss, Asking aright, is denied, And half of the world a bridegroom is, And half of the world a bride?

The Song of Mingling flows, Grave, ceremonial, pure, As once, from lips that endure, The cosmic descant rose, When the temporal lord of life, Going his golden way, Had taken a wondrous maid to wife That long had said him nay.

For of old the Sun, our sire, Came wooing the mother of men, Earth, that was virginal then, Vestal fire to his fire. Silent her bosom and coy, But the strong god sued and press'd; And born of their starry nuptial joy Are all that drink of her breast.

And the triumph of him that begot, And the travail of her that bore, Behold they are evermore As warp and weft in our lot. We are children of splendour and flame, Of shuddering, also, and tears. Magnificent out of the dust we came, And abject from the Spheres.

O bright irresistible lord! We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, Whence first was the seed outpour'd. To thee as our Father we bow, Forbidden thy Father to see, Who is older and greater than thou, as thou Art greater and older than we.

Thou art but as a word of his speech; Thou art but as a wave of his hand; Thou art brief as a glitter of sand 'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; Thou art less than a spark of his fire, Or a moment's mood of his soul: Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir That chant the chant of the Whole.

William Watson. b. 1858

854. The Great Misgiving

'NOT ours,' say some, 'the thought of death to dread; Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell: Life is a feast, and we have banqueted— Shall not the worms as well?

'The after-silence, when the feast is o'er, And void the places where the minstrels stood, Differs in nought from what hath been before, And is nor ill nor good.'

Ah, but the Apparition—the dumb sign— The beckoning finger bidding me forgo The fellowship, the converse, and the wine, The songs, the festal glow!

And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit, And while the purple joy is pass'd about, Whether 'tis ampler day divinelier lit Or homeless night without;

And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall see New prospects, or fall sheer—a blinded thing! There is, O grave, thy hourly victory, And there, O death, thy sting.

Henry Charles Beeching. 1859-1919

855. Prayers

GOD who created me Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free, To run, to ride, to swim: Not when the sense is dim, But now from the heart of joy, I would remember Him: Take the thanks of a boy.

Jesu, King and Lord, Whose are my foes to fight, Gird me with Thy sword Swift and sharp and bright. Thee would I serve if I might; And conquer if I can, From day-dawn till night, Take the strength of a man.

Spirit of Love and Truth, Breathing in grosser clay, The light and flame of youth, Delight of men in the fray, Wisdom in strength's decay; From pain, strife, wrong to be free, This best gift I pray, Take my spirit to Thee.

Henry Charles Beeching. 1859-1919

856. Going down Hill on a Bicycle A BOY'S SONG

WITH lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:— 'O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

'Is this, is this your joy? O bird, then I, though a boy For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!'

Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss? 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.

Bliss Carman. b. 1861

857. Why

FOR a name unknown, Whose fame unblown Sleeps in the hills For ever and aye;

For her who hears The stir of the years Go by on the wind By night and day;

And heeds no thing Of the needs of spring, Of autumn's wonder Or winter's chill;

For one who sees The great sun freeze, As he wanders a-cold From hill to hill;

And all her heart Is a woven part Of the flurry and drift Of whirling snow;

For the sake of two Sad eyes and true, And the old, old love So long ago.

Douglas Hyde. b. 1861

858. My Grief on the Sea FROM THE IRISH

MY grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! For they heave between me And the love of my soul!

Abandon'd, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair?

My grief and my trouble! Would he and I were, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare!

Were I and my darling— O heart-bitter wound!— On board of the ship For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day.

And my Love came behind me, He came from the South; His breast to my bosom, His mouth to my mouth.

Arthur Christopher Benson. b. 1862

859. The Phoenix

BY feathers green, across Casbeen The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown, By gems he strew'd in waste and wood, And jewell'd plumes at random thrown.

Till wandering far, by moon and star, They stand beside the fruitful pyre, Where breaking bright with sanguine light The impulsive bird forgets his sire.

Those ashes shine like ruby wine, Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt, The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl Are with the glorious anguish gilt.

So rare the light, so rich the sight, Those pilgrim men, on profit bent, Drop hands and eyes and merchandise, And are with gazing most content.

Henry Newbolt. b. 1862

860. He fell among Thieves

'YE have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?' 'Blood for our blood,' they said.

He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.' 'You shall die at dawn,' said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassn river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the das serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white; He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.

'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.' A sword swept. Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.

Gilbert Parker. b. 1862

861. Reunited

WHEN you and I have play'd the little hour, Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath, The first long breath of freedom; when the flower Of Recompense hath flutter'd to our feet, As to an actor's; and, the curtain down, We turn to face each other all alone— Alone, we two, who never yet did meet, Alone, and absolute, and free: O then, O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale? Clasp'd hands, press'd lips, and so clasp'd hands again; No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail, My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan Of joy, and then our infinite Alone.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

862. Where My Books go

ALL the words that I utter, And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring, And never rest in their flight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, And sing to you in the night, Beyond where the waters are moving, Storm-darken'd or starry bright.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

863. When You are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

864. The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight 's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

865. A Dedication

MY new-cut ashlar takes the light Where crimson-blank the windows flare; By my own work, before the night, Great Overseer, I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought, Thy hand compell'd it, Master, Thine; Where I have fail'd to meet Thy thought I know, through Thee, the blame if mine.

One instant's toil to Thee denied Stands all Eternity's offence; Of that I did with Thee to guide To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade, Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain, Godlike to muse o'er his own trade And manlike stand with God again.

The depth and dream of my desire, The bitter paths wherein I stray, Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

One stone the more swings to her place In that dread Temple of Thy worth— It is enough that through Thy grace I saw naught common on Thy earth.

Take not that vision from my ken; O, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, Help me to need no aid from men, That I may help such men as need!

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

866. L'Envoi

THERE 's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield And the ricks stand gray to the sun, Singing:—'Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover And your English summer 's done.' You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song—how long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it 's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

It 's North you may run to the rime-ring'd sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade. Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It 's 'Gang-plank up and in,' dear lass, It 's 'Hawsers warp her through!' And it 's 'All clear aft' on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread! When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! It 's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake 's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder'd floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are scarr'd by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue. They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start— We're steaming all too slow, And it 's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song—how long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And the deuce knows what we may do— But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

867. Recessional June 22, 1897

GOD of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far-flung battle-line— Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies— The captains and the kings depart— Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-call'd our navies melt away— On dune and headland sinks the fire— Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard— For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866

868. Song

SHE 's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.

Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866

869. The Second Crucifixion

LOUD mockers in the roaring street Say Christ is crucified again: Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet, Twice broken His great heart in vain.

I hear, and to myself I smile, For Christ talks with me all the while.

No angel now to roll the stone From off His unawaking sleep, In vain shall Mary watch alone, In vain the soldiers vigil keep.

Yet while they deem my Lord is dead My eyes are on His shining head.

Ah! never more shall Mary hear That voice exceeding sweet and low Within the garden calling clear: Her Lord is gone, and she must go.

Yet all the while my Lord I meet In every London lane and street.

Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain, And Bartimaeus still go blind; The healing hem shall ne'er again Be touch'd by suffering humankind.

Yet all the while I see them rest, The poor and outcast, on His breast.

No more unto the stubborn heart With gentle knocking shall He plead, No more the mystic pity start, For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.

So in the street I hear men say, Yet Christ is with me all the day.

Laurence Binyon. b. 1869

870. Invocation to Youth

COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning! Joyous, O Youth, in the aged world renew Freshness to feel the eternities around it, Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew. The strong sun shines above thee: That strength, that radiance bring! If Winter come to Winter, When shall men hope for Spring?

Laurence Binyon. b. 1869

871. O World, be Nobler

O WORLD, be nobler, for her sake! If she but knew thee what thou art, What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done In thee, beneath thy daily sun, Know'st thou not that her tender heart For pain and very shame would break? O World, be nobler, for her sake!

George William Russell ('A. E.'). b. 1853

872. By the Margin of the Great Deep

WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam, With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes; I am one with the twilight's dream.

When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood, Every heart of man is rapt within the mother's breast: Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude, I am one with their hearts at rest.

From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love Stray'd away along the margin of the unknown tide, All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above Word or touch from the lips beside.

Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream, Such primaeval being as o'erfills the heart with awe, Growing one with its silent stream.

George William Russell ('A. E.'). b. 1853

873. The Great Breath

ITS edges foam'd with amethyst and rose, Withers once more the old blue flower of day: There where the ether like a diamond glows, Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; The great deep thrills—for through it everywhere The breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death.

T. Sturge Moore. b. 1870

874. A Duet

'FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air, Flowers posied, flowers for the hair, Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare——' 'O pick me some!'

'Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum, Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper Come, Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb——' 'O let me hear.'

'Eyes so black they draw one trembling near, Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear, Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear——' 'O look at me!'

'Kisses sadly blown across the sea, Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free, Bob-a-cherry kisses 'neath a tree——' 'O give me one!'

Thus sand a king and queen in Babylon.

Francis Thompson. 1859-1907

875. The Poppy

SUMMER set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flush'd print in a poppy there; Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puff'd it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughter'd sank, And dipp'd its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, And hot as a swinked gipsy is, And drowsed in sleepy savageries, With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.

A child and man paced side by side, Treading the skirts of eventide; But between the clasp of his hand and hers Lay, felt not, twenty wither'd years.

She turn'd, with the rout of her dusk South hair, And saw the sleeping gipsy there; And snatch'd and snapp'd it in swift child's whim, With—'Keep it, long as you live!'—to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, Trembled up from a bath of tears; And joy, like a mew sea-rock'd apart, Toss'd on the wave of his troubled heart.

For he saw what she did not see, That—as kindled by its own fervency— The verge shrivell'd inward smoulderingly:

And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers He knew the twenty wither'd years— No flower, but twenty shrivell'd years.

'Was never such thing until this hour,' Low to his heart he said; 'the flower Of sleep brings wakening to me, And of oblivion memory.'

'Was never this thing to me,' he said, 'Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!' And again to his own heart very low: 'O child! I love, for I love and know;

'But you, who love nor know at all The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall, Where some rise early, few sit long: In how differing accents hear the throng His great Pentecostal tongue;

'Who know not love from amity, Nor my reported self from me; A fair fit gift is this, meseems, You give—this withering flower of dreams.

'O frankly fickle, and fickly true, Do you know what the days will do to you? To your Love and you what the days will do, O frankly fickle, and fickly true?

'You have loved me, Fair, three lives—or days: 'Twill pass with the passing of my face. But where I go, your face goes too, To watch lest I play false to you.

'I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, Knowing well when certain years are over You vanish from me to another; Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.

'So frankly fickle, and fickly true! For my brief life-while I take from you This token, fair and fit, meseems, For me—this withering flower of dreams.' . . . The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: The goodly grain and the sun-flush'd sleeper The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.

I hang 'mid men my needless head, And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper Time shall reap, but after the reaper The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!

Love! love! your flower of wither'd dream In leaved rhyme lies safe, I deem, Shelter'd and shut in a nook of rhyme, From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.

Love! I fall into the claws of Time: But lasts within a leaved rhyme All that the world of me esteems— My wither'd dreams, my wither'd dreams.

Henry Cust. 1861-1917

876. Non Nobis

NOT unto us, O Lord, Not unto us the rapture of the day, The peace of night, or love's divine surprise, High heart, high speech, high deeds 'mid honouring eyes; For at Thy word All these are taken away.

Not unto us, O Lord: To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar, The ache of life, the loneliness of death, The insufferable sufficiency of breath; And with Thy sword Thou piercest very far.

Not unto us, O Lord: Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given— My light and life and earth and sky be blasted— But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted: Let Hell afford The pavement of her Heaven!

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. b. 1861

877. Sheep and Lambs

ALL in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.

Rest for the Lamb of God Up on the hill-top green, Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God.

Frances Bannerman.

878. An Upper Chamber

I CAME into the City and none knew me; None came forth, none shouted 'He is here! Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me, All the way by which I drew anear— Night my banner, and my herald Fear.

But I knew where one so long had waited In the low room at the stairway's height, Trembling lest my foot should be belated, Singing, sighing for the long hours' flight Towards the moment of our dear delight.

I came into the City when you hail'd me Saviour, and again your chosen Lord:— Not one guessing what it was that fail'd me, While along the way as they adored Thousands, thousands, shouted in accord.

But through all the joy I knew—I only— How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold, Silent of its music, and how lonely! Never, though you crown me with your gold, Shall I find that little chamber as of old!

Alice Meynell. b. 1850

879. Renouncement

I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the love that lurks in all delight— The love of thee—and in the blue heaven's height, And in the dearest passage of a song. Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright; But it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long. But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, Must doff my will as raiment laid away,— With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.

Alice Meynell. b. 1850

880. The Lady of the Lambs

SHE walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Her dreams are innocent at night; The chastest stars may peep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.

Dora Sigerson. d. 1918

881. Ireland

'TWAS the dream of a God, And the mould of His hand, That you shook 'neath His stroke, That you trembled and broke To this beautiful land.

Here He loosed from His hold A brown tumult of wings, Till the wind on the sea Bore the strange melody Of an island that sings.

He made you all fair, You in purple and gold, You in silver and green, Till no eye that has seen Without love can behold.

I have left you behind In the path of the past, With the white breath of flowers, With the best of God's hours, I have left you at last.

Margaret L. Woods. b. 1856

882. Genius Loci

PEACE, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on? Since long ago grace-giving Phoebus died, And all the train that loved the stream-bright side Of the poetic mount with him are gone Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron, In unexplored realms of night to hide. The clouds that strew their shadows far and wide Are all of Heaven that visits Helicon. Yet here, where never muse or god did haunt, Still may some nameless power of Nature stray, Pleased with the reedy stream's continual chant And purple pomp of these broad fields in May. The shepherds meet him where he herds the kine, And careless pass him by whose is the gift divine.

Anonymous. c. 19th Cent.

883. Dominus Illuminatio Mea

IN the hour of death, after this life's whim, When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, And pain has exhausted every limb— The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim, And the mind can only disgrace its fame, And a man is uncertain of his own name— The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed, And the coffin is waiting beside the bed, And the widow and child forsake the dead— The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall, And power must fail, and the pride must fall, And the love of the dearest friends grow small— But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

THE END