—Thou fool! See how the steady dark Is filled with eyes— Eyes that smile, Hot, then how cool! Eyes that were stars till thou Mad'st them eyes. O, the tormenting Look, the unrelenting Passionate kiss Of their wild light on thine— Light of thine eyes!

As if one could Loathe the world for too much sweetness! All the air's a flame, Wonderful—yet the same Thou'st hated, Being briefly sated With sweet of sweetness.

Forgive a heart whose madness Was not of madness born, But of mere wild Waste of desire.... Who does not know One speaks so, or so, Out of mere passion That sees not love From hate, nor life from death, Nor hell from heaven?

In the East—oh, that flashed Brightness, past The loveliness even Of sunset's flush!



THE HOLY MOUNTAINS

The holy mountains, The gay streams, Heavy shadows, And tall, trembling trees; The light that sleeps Between the heavy shadows, Wind that creeps Faintly, from far-off seas——

The mountains' light, Waters' noise, Trees' shadows, Clear, slow, calm air, Are dreams, dreams, And far, far-fallen echoes Of secret worlds And inconceivable dark seas.



RAPTURE

If thou hast grief And passion vex the spirit that is in thee—

There was a stony beach Where the heat flickered and the little waves Whispered each to each. Dove-coloured was that stony beach, And white birds hungering hovered over The shining waves; And men had kindled there A great fierce heap of golden flame— Spoiled grasses with dead buttercups and pale clover. The agonising flame Yearned in its vitals towards the quiet air And died in a little smoke. And on the coloured beach the black warm ash Remained.

Then on that warm ash Another heap of grasses was outpoured, And instant came Another knot of struggling yellow smoke That burst into new agonies of flame, Dying into a drift of smoke; And on the coloured beach the black cold ash Remained.

Or is thy grief too deep, Passion too dear, the spirit in thee asleep?—

Twelve deep and sombre, still, Expectant, hushed, The miles-long crowd stood—and then listening. The nervous drums, The unendurable, low reeds: Silence—and then the nearing drums Again, again the thrilling reeds, And then (The deep crowd hushed) Following an almightier King That rode unseen, Drew near the tributary magnificence.... Hushed, hushed, The deep crowd stood, devouring, listening; But a child on his father's shoulder cried, "Hurrah, hurrah!"—

Only have thou no fear Pride, but no fear.



MUSIC COMES

Music comes Sweetly from the trembling string When wizard fingers sweep Dreamily, half asleep; When through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep, Oboe oboe following, Flute answering clear high flute, Voices, voices—falling mute, And the jarring drums.

At night I heard First a waking bird Out of the quiet darkness sing.... Music comes Strangely to the brain asleep! And I heard Soft, wizard fingers sweep Music from the trembling string, And through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep; Oboe oboe following, Flute calling clear high flute, Voices faint, falling mute, And low jarring drums; Then all those airs Sweetly jangled—newly strange, Rich with change.... Was it the wind in the reeds? Did the wind range Over the trembling string; Into flute and oboe pouring Solemn music; sinking, soaring Low to high, Up and down the sky? Was it the wind jarring Drowsy far-off drums?

Strangely to the brain asleep Music comes.



THE IDIOT

He stands on the kerb Watching the street. He's always watching there, Listening to the beat Of time in the street, Listening to the thronging feet, Laughing at the world that goes Scowling or laughing by.

He sees Time go by, An old lonely man, Crooked and furtive and slow. He laughs as he sees Time shambling by While he stands at his ease, Until Time smiles wanly back At his laughing eye.

Greed's great paunch, Lean Envy's ill looks, Fond forgetful Love, He reads them like books: Whatever their tongue He reads them like children's books, Stands staring and laughing there As all they go by.

O, he laughs as he sees The fat and the thin, The simple, the solemn and wise Nod-nodding by. He stares in their eyes, Till they're angry and murmur, Poor fool! And he hears and he laughs again From the depth of his folly.

Even when with heavy Plume and pall The sleeky coaches roll by, Coffin, flowers and all, He laughs, for he sees Crouched on the coffin a small Yellowy shape go by— Death, uneasy and melancholy.



THE MOUSE

Standing close by you In the cold light Of two tall candles That measure the dark of night, I hear the mouse, The only thing that's moving In the quiet house.

Don't you hear it, That furious mouse? How can you sleep so deep And that noise in the house? Won't you stir At the furious scratching In the cupboard there?

No! a sharper sound Would wake you not; Not the sweetest fluting Tease you back to thought. Yet the scratching mouse Makes all my flesh a nervous Haunted house.

O, the dream, the dream Must be sweet and deep If life's scratching's heard not On your cold sleep. Yet if you should hear it, So furious and fretful— How could you bear it?



HAPPINESS

I have found happiness who looked not for it. There was a green fresh hedge, And willows by the river side, And whistling sedge.

The heaviness I felt was all around. No joy sang in the wind. Only dull slow life everywhere, And in my mind.

Then from the sedge a bird cried; and all changed. Heaviness turned to mirth: The willows the stream's cheek caressed, The sun the earth.

What was it in the bird's song worked such change? The grass was wonderful. I did not dream such beauty was In things so dull.

What was it in the bird's song gave the water That living, sentient look? Lent the rare brightness to the hedge? That sweetness shook

Down on the green path by the running water? Or the small daisies lit With light of the white northern stars In dark skies set?

What was it made the whole world marvellous? Mere common things were joys. The cloud running upon the grass, Children's faint noise,

The trees that grow straight up and stretch wide arms, The snow heaped in the skies, The light falling so simply on all; My lifted eyes

That all this startling aching beauty saw? I felt the sharp excess Of joy like the strong sun at noon— Insupportable bliss!



COMFORTABLE LIGHT

Most comfortable Light, Light of the small lamp burning up the night, With dawn enleagued against the beaten dark; Pure golden perfect spark;

Or sudden wind-bright flame, That but the strong-handed wind can urge or tame; Chill loveliest light the kneeling clouds between, Silverly serene;

Comfort of happy light, That mouse-like leaps amid brown leaves, cheating sight; Clear naked stars, burning with swift intense Earthward intelligence;—

Sensitive, single Points in the dark inane that purely tingle With eager fire, pouring night's circles through Their living blue;

Dark light still waters hold; Broad silver moonpath trodden into gold: Candle-flame glittering through the traveller's night— Most comfortable light....

And lovelier, the eye Where light from darkness shines unfathomably, Light secret, clear, shallow, profound, known, strange, Constant alone in change:—

Not that wild light that turns Hunted from dying eyes when the last fire burns; O, not that bitter light of wounded things, When bony anguish springs

Sudden, intolerable; Nor light of mad eyes gleaming up from hell.... Come not again, wild light! Shine not again, Hill-flare of pain!

But thou, most holy light.... Not the noon blaze that stings, too fiercely bright, Not that unwinking stare of shameless day; But thou, the gray,

Nun-like and silent, still, Fine-breathed on many an eastern bare green hill; Keen light of gray eyes, cool rain, and stern spears; Sad light, but not to tears:—

—O, comfort thou of eyes Watching expectant from chill northern skies, Excellent joy for lids heavy with night— Strange with delight!



HALLO!

"Hallo, hallo!" impatiently he cried, And I replied, Sleepily, "Hallo—hallo!" No sound then; and I stretched My hand for the receiver, all my nerves Tingling and listening. My hand clutched nothing, and I lit The candle—strange! I could have sworn it was the shouting wire.... But no! Besides, a bare and unfamiliar room And he, why, long-forgotten, maybe dead. Yet all around, Filling the silence up with tiny sound, A million tremulous thin echoings, "Hallo—hallo— Hallo!"



FEAR

There was a child that screamed, And if it was the gathering tingling dark, Or if it was the tingling silences Between few words, Or if the water's drip and quivering drip— Who knows? Or if the child half sleeping suddenly dreamed—

Who knows? for she knew not, but was afraid, And then angry with fear, And then it seemed afraid of all the voices Echoing hers. And then afraid again of that drip, drip Of water somewhere near.

Yet a man dying would not with such fear Scream out at hell. Easier it were to die than to endure, Unless death brought the instant consciousness Of all the wrongs of all lost years Falling like water, drip after trembling drip Upon the naked anguish of the soul.

But death's stupidity Is gentle to the lunatic last wits. Little of terror, little of consciousness, But stupor, a great ease, Narrowing silences, And silence; And then no more the drip, drip of the years, No more the strangeness, agonies and fears; No more the noise, but one imponderable unhaunted Hush....

I heard the child that cried Chattering a moment after in the light, And singing out of such contentment as Lamps and familiar voices bring. She needs must sing Now that sharp, spiny agony thrust no more, Nor water fell, drip, drip by quivering drip; Her face was bright, Unapprehensive as a day in spring.



WAKING

Lying beneath a hundred seas of sleep With all those heavy waves flowing over me, And I unconscious of the rolling night Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deep Risen, I felt the wandering seas no longer cover me But only air and light....

It was a sleep So dark and so bewilderingly deep That only death's were deeper or completer, And none when I awoke stranger or sweeter. Awake, the strangeness still hung over me As I with far-strayed senses stared at the light.

I—and who was I? Saw—oh, with what unaccustomed eye! The room was strange and everything was strange Like a strange room entered by wild moonlight; And yet familiar as the light swept over me And I rose from the night.

Strange—yet stranger I. And as one climbs from water up to land Fumbling for weedy steps with foot and hand, So I for yesterdays whereon to climb To this remote and new-struck isle of time. But I found not myself nor yesterday—

Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deep Risen, I felt the seas no longer over me But only air and light. Yes, like one clutching at a ring I heard The household noises as they stirred, And holding fast I wondered. What were they?

I felt a strange hand lying at my side, Limp and cool. I touched it and knew it mine. A murmur, and I remembered how the wind died In the near aspens. Then Strange things were no more strange. I travelled among common thoughts again;

And felt the new forged links of that strong chain That binds me to myself, and this to-day To yesterday. I heard it rattling near With a no more astonished ear. And I had lost the strangeness of that sleep, No more the long night rolled its great seas over me.

—O, too anxious I! For in this press of things familiar I have lost all that clung Round me awaking of strangeness and such sweetness Nothing now is strange Except the man that woke and then was I.



THE FALL

From that warm height and pure, The peak undreamed of out of heavy air Rising to heaven more strange and rare; From that amazed brief sojourn, exquisite, insecure;

Fallen from thence to this, From all immortal sunk to mortal sweet, To slow gross joys from joy so fleet, Fallen to mere remembrance of unsustainable bliss....

O harsh, O heavy air, Difficult endurance, pain of common things! The slow sun east to westward swings, The flat-faced moon climbs labouring with a senseless stare.

From that inconceivable height—— O inward eyes that saw and ears that heard, Spiritual swift wings that stirred In that warm-flushing air and unendurable light;

When I was as mere down On a swift-running youthful wind uptaken Over tall trees, white mountains, shaken, Into the uttermost azure lifted, lifted alone.

From that peak can it be That I am fallen, fallen that was so high? Or was that truly, surely I? Who is it crawls here now, sad, uncontentedly?

Fallen from that high content, —Fool, thou that wast content merely with bliss! Happy those lovers that will not kiss; Never to be fulfilled was the heart's endless passion meant.

Never on joys attainable To linger, never on easy near delight— O bitter, unreached infinite, Merciful defeat, availless anguish, hunger unendurable!

O who shall be in longing wise, Skilled in refusal, in embracing free, Glad with earth's innocent ecstasy, Yet all the uncomprehended heaven in his eyes!



STAY

Stay, thou desired one, stay! Brighten the curious darkness of the world. Cold through the chill dark swings the sleeping world, Sense-heavy, dreaming dully of clear day. No moon, no stars, no sound of wind or seas: Wearily sleeping in immense unease, Dreams, dreams the world of day. Stay, thou adored one, stay, Who on the dark hang'st lamps of gold delight, Gold flames amid the purple pit of night. Stay, stay, Who the cool dawn's most lovely gray Mak'st lovelier with rose of far away. Stay, thou, who buildest wonder of things mean (More truly so they're seen). Stay—nay, fly not, nay—stay; Youth gone, remain thou yet and yet. Though the world spin in darkness and forget The light, Stay thou, whose coming's joy and flight despair. Thou unimaginably more than fair, Brief unsustainable strange dream, stay yet! Lamping the world's close unsustainable dark With golden unimaginable day.



SHADOWS

The shadow of the lantern on the wall, The lantern hanging from the twisted beam, The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all.

The crackle of the sinking fire in the grate, The far train, the slow echo in the coombe, The ear that hears fire, train and echo and all.

The loveliness that is the secret shape Of once-seen, sweet and oft-dreamed loveliness, The brain that builds shape, memory, dream and all....

A white moon stares Time's thinning fabric through, And makes substantial insubstantial seem, And shapes immortal mortal as a dream; And eye and brain flicker as shadows do Restlessly dancing on a cloudy wall.



WALKING AT EVE

Walking at eve I met a little child Running beside a tragic-featured dame, Who checked his blitheness with a quick "For shame!" And seemed by sharp caprice froward and mild. Scarce heeding her the sweet one ran, beguiled By the lit street, and his eyes too aflame; Only, at whiles, into his eyes there came Bewilderment and grief with terror wild.

So, Beauty, dost thou run with tragic life; So, with the curious world's caress enchanted, Even of ill things thine ecstasy dost make; Yet at the touch of fear and vital strife The splendours thy young innocency forsake, And with thy foster-mother's woe thou art haunted.



THE PHYSICIAN

She comes when I am grieving and doth say, "Child, here is that shall drive your grief away." When I am hopeless, kisses me and stirs My breast with the strong lively courage of hers. Proud—she will humble me with but a word, Or with mild mockery at my folly gird; Fickle—she holds me with her loyal eyes; Remorseful—tells of neighbouring Paradise; Envious—"Be not so mad, so mad," she saith, "Envied and envier both race with Death" She my good Angel is: and who is she?— The soul's divine Physician, Memory.



VISION AND ECHO

I have seen that which sweeter is Than happy dreams come true. I have heard that which echo is Of speech past all I ever knew. Vision and echo, come again, Nor let me grieve in easeless pain!

It was a hill I saw, that rose Like smoke over the street, Whose greening rampires were upreared Suddenly almost at my feet; And tall trees nodded tremblingly Making the plain day visionary.

But ah, the song, the song I heard And grieve to hear no more! It was not angel-voice, nor child's Singing alone and happy, nor Note of the wise prophetic thrush As lonely in the leafless bush.

It was not these, and yet I knew That song; but now, alas, My unpurged ears prove all too gross To keep the nameless air that was And is not; and my eyes forget The vision that I follow yet.

Yet though forgetful I did see. And heard, but cannot tell, And on my forehead felt an air Unearthly, on my heart a spell. I have seen that which deathless is, And heard—what I for ever miss!



REVISITATION

It is here—the lime-tree in the garden path, The lilac by the wall, the ivied wall That was so high, the heavy, close-leaved creeper, The harsh gate jarring on its hinges still, The echoing clean flags—all The same, the same, and never more the same.

That mound was once a hill, The old lime-tree a forest (now as small As the poor lilac by the ivied wall), And this neglected narrow greenery A wilderness, and I its king and keeper; Lying upon the grass I saw the sky And all its clouds: the garden edged the sky.

The harsh gate jars upon its hinges still.



UNPARDONED

Gentle as the air that kisses The splendid and ignoble with one breath, Gentle as obliterating Death— Though you be gentler yet, In days when the old, old things begin to fret The backward-looking consciousness, Will you forget? Or if remembering, will you forgive?

But there is one severer. Stung by your forgivingness so great Shall I forgive you then?— Basest of men Would rise in bitterness and sting again. Not if you should forget Could I forget: Or if remembering, myself could I forgive?

Never! And yet such things have been, And ills as dark forgiven or forgot. But in those black hours when the heart burns hot And there's no nerve that's not Quick with the sense of things unheard, unseen— A terrible voice that's mine yet not mine cries, "Can that Eternal Righteousness Remembering forgive?"



SOME HURT THING

I came to you quietly when you were lying In perfect midnight sleep. Your dark soft hair was all about your pillow, So black upon the white. I could not see your face except the lovely Curve of the pale cheek; Your head was bent as though your stirless slumber Was sea-like heavy and deep. The wind came gently in at the wide window, Shaking the candle-light And shadows on the wall; and there was silence, Or sound but far and weak. By the bedside your daytime toys were gathered: The bright bell-ringing wheel, Dolls clad in violent yellow and vermilion, Strings of gay-coloured beads.... But you were far and far from these beside you, Entranced with other joys In fresh fields, among other children running: Your voice, I knew, must peal Purely among their high unearthly voices Over green daisied meads, While I stood watching your scarce-heaving slumber Beside your human toys—— And heard, faint from the woods all through the night, The cry of some hurt thing that moaned for light.



THE WAITS

Frost in the air and music in the air, And the singing is sweet in the street. She wakes from a dream to a dream—O hark! The singing so faint in the dark.

The musicians come and stand at the door, A fiddler and singers three, And one with a bright lamp thrusts at the dark, And the music comes sudden—O hark!

She hears the singing as sweet as a dream And the fiddle that climbs to the sky, With head 'neath the curtain she stares out—O hark! The music so strange in the dark.

She listens and looks and sees but the sky, While the fiddle is sweet in the porch, And she sings back into the singing dark Hark, herald angels, hark!



IN THE LANE

The birds return, The blossom brightens again the cherry bough. The hedges are green again In the airless lane, And hedge and blossom and bird call, Now, now, now!

O birds, return! Who will care if the blossom die on the bough, Or the hedge be bare again In the screaming lane? For what they were these are not, are not now.

The one gone makes All that remain seem strange and lonely now. She will not walk here again In the blossoming lane:— And there's a dead bough in every blossoming bough.



THE LAST TIME

For the last time, The last, last time, The last ... All those last times have I lived through again, And every "last" renews itself in pain— Yes, each returns, and each returns in vain: You return not, the last remains the last, And I remain to cast Weak anchors of my love in shifting sands Of faith:— The anchors drag, nothing I see save death.

Together we Talked and were glad. I could not see That one black gesture menaced you and me! We kissed, and parted; I left you, and was even merry-hearted.... And now my love is thwarted That reaches back to you and searches round, And dares not look on that harsh turfless mound.

And that last time We walked together and the air acold Hummed shrill around; the time that you Walked heavily, And I dared not to see, Nor dared you then to speak of what must be. We knew not what the shut days would unfold— Nay, could not know till all the days were told.... But that last time we walked together, and —And walk no more together, nor clasp hand In hand, just stiffly as we used to do.

Never in dreams, O happy, never in stealing dreams We meet; never again I live by night the day's slow-dying pain ... The last, last time, The last— That time is past; yet in too-golden day My heart goes from me whispering, "Where are you—you—you—you?" And comes back easeless to an easeless breast. But at night I rest Dreamless as derelict ships ride out to sea Empty, and no bird even on the snapp'd mast Pauses: into oblivion her shadow's cast; Into the empty night goes lonely she, And into sleep go—oh, more lonely I.



YOU THAT WERE

You that were Half my life ere life was mine; You that on my shape the sign Set of yours; You that my young lips did kiss When your kiss summed up my bliss.... Ah, once more You to kiss were all my bliss!

You whom I Could forget—strange, could forget Even for days (ah, now the fret Of my grief!); You who loved me though forgot; Welcomed still, reproaching not.... Ah, that now That forgetting were forgot!

You that now On my shoulder as I go Put your hand that wounds me so; You that brush Yet my lips with that one last Kiss that bitters all things past.... How shall I Yet endure that kiss the last?

You that are Where the feet of my blind grief Find you not, nor find relief; You that are Where my thought flying after you Broken falls and flies anew, Now you're gone My love accusing aches for you.

March 4, 1911.



"THE LIGHT THAT NEVER WAS ON SEA OR LAND"

O gone are now those eager great glad days of days, but I remember Yet even yet the light that turned the saddest of sad hours to mirth; I remember how elate I swung upon the thrusting bowsprits, And how the sun in setting burned and made the earth all unlike earth.

O gone are now those mighty ships I haunted days and days together, And gone the mighty men that sang as crawled the tall craft out to sea; And fallen ev'n the forest tips and changed the eyes that watched their burning, But still I hear that shout and clang, and still the old spell stirs in me.

And as to some poor ship close locked in water dense and dark and vile The wind comes garrulous from afar and sets the idle masts a-quiver; And ev'n to her so foully docked, swift as the sun's first beam at dawn The sea-bird comes and like a star wheels by and down along the river;—

So to me the full wind blows from far strange waters echoingly, And faint forgotten longings break the fast-sealed pools within my breast; So to me when sunset glows the scream comes of the white sea-bird, And all those ancient raptures wake and wakes again the old unrest.

I see again the masts that crowd and part lie trees in living wind, I hear again the shouts and cries and lip-lap of the waveless pool; I see again the smalling cloud of sail that into distance fades, I am again the boy whose eyes with tears of grief and hope are full.



AT EVENING'S HUSH

Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd, Your joys from this fair hill Through golden eves and still: There sounds from yon dense quarry A burden harsh and sorry.

No piping now, poor Shepherd. Men strive with violent hand, And anger stirs the bland Blithe heaven that ne'er yet trembled, Save with great spirits assembled.

No more, no more, sad Shepherd, Let thy bright fingers stray Idly in the old way; No more their nimble glancing Set gleeful spirits a-dancing.

Put by thy pipe, O Shepherd! There needs no note of thine For men deaf, undivine.... And lest brute hands should take it, O sorrowful Shepherd, break it!



HAPPY DEATH

Bugle and battle-cry are still, The long strife's over; Low o'er the corpse-encumbered hill The sad stars hover.

It is in vain, O stars! you look On these forsaken: Awhile with blows on blows they shook, Or struck unshaken.

Needs now no pity of God or man ... Tears for the living! They have 'scaped the confines of life's plan That holds us grieving.

The unperturbed soft moon, the stars, The breeze that lingers, Wake not to ineffectual wars Their hearts and fingers.

Warriors o'ercoming and o'ercome, Alike contented, Have marched now to the last far drum, Praised, unlamented.

Bugle and battle-cry are still, The long strife's over; Oh, that with them I had fought my fill And found like cover!



WISDOM AND A MOTHER

Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor see The heavenly Earth's felicity?

I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost, Who lived a frail life at my cost.

A grief like yours how many have known!

Were that a balm to ease my own! Or rather might I not accuse The Hand that does not even choose, But, taking blindly, took my best, And as indifferently takes the rest ... Like mine? Is there denied to me Even Sorrow's singularity?



THE THRUSH SINGS

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead.... How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead? Or though forgetting, sing—and she is dead? O hush, Untimely, truant Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, "I sing that she is dead!" Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead, Singeth the Thrush, "I sing her praise though dead." O hush, Untimely, grievous Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, "I sing your happy dead, I sing her who is living, and no more dead, I sing her joy—she is no longer dead." O hush, Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!



TO MY MOTHER

No foreign tribute from a stranger-hand, Mother, I bring thee, whom not Heaven's songs Would as an alien reach.... Ah, but how far From Heaven's least heavenly is the changing note And changing fancy of these fitful cries! Mother, forgive them, as the best of me Has ever pleaded only for thy pardon, Not for thy praise. Mother, there is a love Men give to wives and children, lovers, friends; There is a love which some men give to God. Ah! between this, I think, and that last love, Last and too-late-discovered love of God, There shines—and nearer to the love of God— The love a man gives only to his mother, Whose travail of dear thought has never end Until the End. Oh that my mouth had words Comfortable as thy kisses to the boy Who loved while he forgot thee! Now I love, Sundered and far, with daily heart's remembrance The face the wind brings to me, the sun lights, The birds and waters sing; the face of thee Whom I love with a love like love of God.



THE UNUTTERED

For so long and so long had I forgot, Serenely busied With thousand things; at whiles desire grew hot And my soul dizzied With hapless and insatiable salt thirst. Nor was I humbled Saving with shame that, running with the worst My feet yet stumbled. Pride and delight of life enchained my heart, My heart enchanted, And oh, soft subtle fingers had their part, And eyes love-haunted. But while my busy mind was thus intent, Or thus surrendered, What was it, oh what strange thing was it sent Through all that hindered A thrill that woke the buried soul in me?— It seemed there fluttered A thought—or was it a sudden fear?—of Thee, Remote, unuttered.



FAIR EVE

Fair Eve, as fair and still As fairest thought, climbs the high sheltering hill; As still and fair As the white cloud asleep in the deep air.

As cool, as fair and cool, As starlight swimming in a lonely pool; Subtle and mild As through her eyes the soul looks of a child.

A linnet sings and sings, A shrill swift cleaves the air with blackest wings; White twinkletails Run frankly in their meadow as day fails.

On such a night, a night That seems but the full sleep of tired light, I look and wait For what I know not, looking long and late.

Is it for a dream I look, A vision from the Tree of Heaven shook, As sweetness shaken From the fresh limes on lonely ways forsaken?

A dream of one, maybe, Who comes like sudden wind from oversea? Or most loved swallow Whom all fair days and golden musics follow?—

More sudden yet, more strange Than magic airs on magic hills that range:— Of one who'll steep The soul in soft forgetfulness ere it sleep.

Yes, down the hillside road, Where Eve's unhasty feet so gently trod, Follow His feet Whose leaf-like echoes make even spring more sweet.



THE SNARE

Loose me and let me go! I am not yours. I do not know Your dark name ev'n, O Powers That out of the deep rise And wave your arms To weave strange charms.

Though the snare of eyes You weave for me, As a pool lies In wait for the moon when she Out of the deep will rise; And though you set Like mist your net;

And though my feet you catch, O dark, strange Powers, You may not snatch My soul, or call it yours. Out of your snare I rise And pass your charms, Nor feel your harms.

You loose me and I go: O see the arms Spread for me! lo, His lips break your charms. From the deep did He rise And round me set His Love for net.



O HIDE ME IN THY LOVE

O hide me in Thy love, secure From this earth-clinging meanness. Lave my uncleanness In Thy compassionating love!

Bury this treachery as deep As mercy is enrooted. My days ill-fruited Shake till the shrivelled burden fall.

Put by those righteous arrows, Lord, Put even Thy justice by Thee; So I come nigh Thee As came the Magdalen to Thy feet.

And like a heavy stone that's cast In a pool, on Thee I throw me, And feel o'erflow me Ripples of pity, deep waves of love.



PRAYER TO MY LORD

If ever Thou didst love me, love me now, When round me beat the flattering vans of life, Kissing with rapid breath my lifted brow. Love me, if ever, when the murmur of strife, In each dark byway of my being creeps, When pity and pride, passion and passion's loss Wash wavelike round the world's eternal cross, Till 'mid my fears a new-born love indignant leaps.

If ever Thou canst love me, love me yet, When sweet, impetuous loves within me stir And the frail portals of my spirit fret— The love of love, that makes Heaven heavenlier, The love of earth, of birds, children and light, Love of this bitter, lovely native land.... O, love me when sick with all these I stand And Death's far-rumoured wings beat on the lonely night.



THE TREE

Oh, like a tree Let me grow up to Thee! And like a Tree Send down my roots to Thee.

Let my leaves stir In each sigh of the air, My branches be Lively and glad in Thee;

Each leaf a prayer, And green fire everywhere ... And all from Thee The sap within the Tree.

And let Thy rain Fall—or as joy or pain So that I be Yet unforgot of Thee.

Then shall I sing The new song of Thy Spring, Every leaf of me Whispering Love in Thee!



EARTH TO EARTH

What is the soul? Is it the wind Among the branches of the mind? Is it the sea against Time's shore Breaking and broken evermore? Is it the shore that breaks Time's sea, The verge of vast Eternity? And in the night is it the soul Sleep needs must hush, must needs kiss whole? Or does the soul, secure from sleep, Safe its bright sanctities yet keep? And oh, before the body's death Shall the confined soul ne'er gain breath, But ever to this serpent flesh Subdue its alien self afresh? Is it a bird that shuns earth's night, Or makes with song earth's darkness bright? Is it indeed a thought of God, Or merest clod-fellow to clod? A thought of God, and yet subdued To any passion's apish mood? Itself a God—and yet, O God, As like to earth as clod to clod?



ON A PIECE OF SILVER

So! the fierce acid licks the silver clean, Unwonted plain the superscription's seen Round the cleared head; the metal, virgin-bright, Shines a mild Moon to the Sun candle-light. And in these floating stains, this evil murk, All your change-crowded, moment-histories lurk, Voluble Silverling! Dost yield me now Your chance-illumined record, and allow Prying of idle eyes?... you came a boon To men as weary as any the weak moon Shines on but cheers not; you were life in death; Almost a God to give the prize of breath, Almost a God to give the prize of joy, Almost a God—but God! the veriest toy Child's fingers break, from death to buy back life, Turn the keen trouble of grief's eager knife, Or sense-confounded hearts heal of the ancient strife. O Coin that men have toiled for, lacked and mourned, Sold life for and sold honour, won and scorned; O Coin that oft hast been a spinning Fate, Yet impotent her bitterness to abate; O Coin that Love contemns, reckoning nought (But with you, ah, Love's best is sold and bought)— Heart of the harlot, you; the Judas blood Hell's devils leech on; you the Price of God!



THE ESCAPE

Like one who runs Fearful at night, he knows not why, Dreading the loneliness, yet shuns The highway's casual company;

Wherefore he hastes, The friendly gloom of ancient trees Unheeding, and the shining wastes Lying broad and quiet as the seas;

The beauty of night Hating for very fear, until Beyond the bend a lowly light Beams single from a lowly sill;

And the poor fool, Flying the sacred, solemn dark, Leaves gladly the large, cool Night for that serviceable spark;

And thankful then To have 'scaped the peril of the way, Turns not his timid steps again That night, but waits the common day;—

So I, as weak, Have fled the great hills of Thy love, Too faint to hear what Thou dost speak, Too feeble with fear to look above,

And hasten to win Some flickering, brief security, In sinful sleep or waking sin, From the enfolding thought of Thee!



WONDER

Following upon the faint wind's fickle courses A feather drifts and strays. My thought after her thought Floated—how many ways and days!

She swayed me as the wind swayeth a feather. I was a leaf upon Her breath, a dream within Her dream. The dream how soon was done!

For now all's changed, not Time's change more wondrous, I am her sun, and she (Herself doth swear) the moon; Or she the ship upon my sea.

How should this be? I know not; I so grossly Mastering her spirit pure. O, how can her bird's breast My nervous and harsh hand endure?

Tell me if this be love indeed, fond lovers, That high stoop to low, Soul be to flesh subdued; That the sun around the earth should go?

I know not: I but know that love is misery, O'erfilled with delight. Day follows night: her love Is gay as day, yet strange as night.



LAMBOURN TOWN

The rain beat on me as I walked, In the roadside it ran and muttered. It seemed the rain to the wind talked Of storm: in the wind the wild cloud fluttered.

Across the down, now bleak and loud, I went and the rain ran with me. How swift the rain, how low the cloud! No heavenly comfort could I see,

Nor comfort of low beaming light From any casement creeping out. The swift rain on the patient night Swept, and anon would great winds shout.

Rain, rain, nought else, until I turned The thrusting shoulder of the down, And through the mist of rain there burned The few green lanterns of the town.

And in the rain the night was lit With my love's eyes burning for me; Her white face in the dark was sweet, Her hands like moonflowers quiveringly

Fell upon mine, and each was dashed With rain blown in from streaming eaves, While overhead the broad flood plashed Noisily on the broad plane leaves.

Within we heard the gurgle-glock In the pipe, the tip-tap on the sill Like the same ticking of the clock; We heard the water-butt o'erspill,

The wind come blustering at the door, The whipped white lilac thrash the wall; The candle flame upon the floor Crept between shadows magical....

In the black east a pallid ray Rose high; and sweeping o'er the down The slow increase of stormless day Lit the wet roofs of Lambourn town.



THE LAMP

The lamp shone golden where she slept, Shining against deep-folded shadows. There was no stir but her slow breathing Save when a long sigh crept Between her lips.

Her hair spread dark in that faint light, Her shut eyes showed the long dark lashes— Still now, that with her laughter quivered. On the white sheet lay white And limp her hands.

Golden against the shadow shone The lamp's small flame, till dawn was brightening, And on the flame a gold beam slanted. The shadows lingering on Grew faint and thin.

Sleeping she murmured, stirred and sighed, A dream from her sleep-vision faded. Her earthly eyes 'neath languid eyelids Wakened: her bosom cried, "Come back, come back,

"Come back, my dream!" Rising she drest Her beauty's lamp with cunning fingers. She had the look of birds a-flutter Round dewy trees with breast Throbbing with song.



WHO IS IT THAT ANSWERS?

The clouds no more are flocking After the flushing sun; Bees end their long droning, The bat's hunt is begun; And the tired wind that went flittering Up and down the hill Lies like a shadow still, Like a shadow still.

Who is it that's calling Out of the deepening dark, Calling, calling, calling?— No!—yet hark! The sleepy wind wakes, carrying Up and down the hill A voice how small and still, How sweet and still!

Who is it that answers Out of a quiet cloud— "Stay, oh stay! I come, I come!" Cried at last aloud? My voice, my heart went answering Up and down the hill— Mine so strange and still, Mine grave and still.



WAITING

Rich in the waning light she sat While the fierce rain on the window spat. The yellow lamp-glow lit her face, Shadows cloaked the narrow place She sat adream in. Then she'd look Idly upon an idle book; Anon would rise and musing peer Out at the misty street and drear; Or with her loosened dark hair play, Hiding her fingers' snow away; And, singing softly, would sing on When the desire of song had gone. "O lingering day!" her bosom sighed, "O laggard Time!" each motion cried. Last she took the lamp and stood Rich in its flood, And looked and looked again at what Her longing fingers' zeal had wrought; And turning then did nothing say, Hiding her thoughts away.



ABSENCE

Distance no grace can lend you, but for me Distance yet magnifies your mystery. With you, and soon content, I ask how should In your two eyes be hid my heaven of good? How should your own mere voice the strange words speak That tease me with the sense of what's to seek In all the world beside? How your brown hair, That simply and neglectfully you wear, Bind my wild thoughts in its abundant snare? With you, I wonder how you're stranger than Another woman to another man; But parted—and you're as a ship unknown That to poor castaways at dawn is shown As strange as dawn, so strange they fear a trick Of eyes long-vexed and hope with falseness sick. Parted, and like the riddle of a dream, Dark with rich promise, does your beauty seem. I wonder at your patience, stirless peace, Your subtle pride, mute pity's quick release. Then are you strange to me and sweet as light Or dew; as strange and dark as starless night. Then let this restless parting be forgiven: I go from you to find in you strange heaven.



SLEEP

Not a dream brush your sleep, Not a thought wake and creep In upon your spirit's slumber; Not a memory encumber, Nor a thievish care unbar Sleep's portcullis that no star Nor sentry hath. I'll not speak With my soul even: no, nor seek Other happiness for you When you this happy sleep sleep through. Let no least desire waver Between us, nor impatience quaver; No sudden nearness of me flush Your veins with welcome.... Hush, hush! Be still, my thoughts, lest you creep Unawares into her sleep.



YOUR SHADOW

From Swindon out to White Horse Hill I walked, in morning rain, And saw your shadow lying there. As clear and plain As lies the White Horse on the Hill I saw your shadow lying there.

Over the wide green downs and bleak, Unthinking, free I walked, And saw your shadow fluttering by. Almost it talked, Answering what I dared not speak While thoughts of you ran fluttering by....

So on to Baydon sauntered, teased With that pure native air. Sometimes the sweetness of wild thyme The strings of care Did pluck; sometimes my soul was eased With more than sweetness of wild thyme.

Sometimes within a pool I caught Your face, upturned to mine. And where sits Chilton by the waters Your look did shine Wildly in the mill foam that sought To hide you in those angry waters.

And yet, O Sweet, you never knew Those downs, the thymy air That with your spirit haunted is— Yes, everywhere! Ah, but my heart is full of you, And with your shadow haunted is.



THE FULL TIDE

Now speaks the wave, whispering me of you; In all his murmur your music murmurs too. O 'tis your voice, my love, whispering in The wave's voice, even your voice so far and thin; And mine to yours answering clear is heard In the high lonely voice of the last bird.

And when, my love, the full tide runneth again, Shall yet the seabird call, call, call in vain? Will not the tide wake in my heart and stir The old rich happiness that's sunken there? Thou moon of love, bid the retreated tide Return, for which the wandering bird has cried.



HANDS

Your hands, your hands, Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands. O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose, That but to moonlight will its sweet unclose, Your hands, your hands, Fall upon mine, and my hands open as That evening primrose opens when the hot hours pass.

Your hands, your hands, They are like towers that in far southern lands Look at pale dawn over gloom-valley'd miles, White temple towers that gleam through mist at whiles. Your hands, your hands, With the south wind fall kissing on my brow, And all past joy and future is summed in this great "Now!"



THE NIGHT WATCH

Beneath the trees with heedful step and slow At night I go, Fearful upon their whispering to break Lest they awake Out of those dreams of heavenly light that fill Their branches still With a soft murmur of memoried ecstasy. There 'neath each tree Nightlong a spirit watches, and I feel His breath unseal The fast-shut thoughts and longings of tired day, That flutter away Mothlike on luminous soft wings and frail And moonlike pale. There in the flowering chestnuts' bowering gloom And limes' perfume Wandering wavelike through the moondrawn night That heaves toward light, There hang I my dark thoughts and deeper prayers; And as the airs Of star-kissed dawn come stirring and o'er-creep The ford of sleep, Thy shape, great Love, grows shadowy in the East, Thine accents least Of all those warring voices of false morn: And oh, forlorn Thy hope, thy courage vanishing, thine eyes Sad with surprise. Oh, with the dawn I know, I know how vain Is love that's fain To beat and beat against her obstinate door. For as once more It groans, she passes out not heeding me, Nay, will not see:— As when a man, rich and of high estate, Sees at his gate (Or will not see) a famishing poor wretch, Whose longings fetch Old anger from his pain-imprisoning breast, Till sad despair his anger puts to rest.



THE HAUNTED SHADOW

Fair Trees, O keep from chattering so When I with my more fair do go Beneath your branches; For if I laugh with her your sigh Her rare and sudden mirth puts by, Or your too noisy glee will take Persuasion from my lips and make Her deaf as winter.

O be not as the pines—that keep The shadow-charmed light asleep— Perverse and sombre! For when we in the pinewood walked And of young love and far age talked, Their solemn haunted shadow broke Her peace—ah, how the sharp sob shook Her shadowed bosom!



ALONE AND COLD

Do not, O do not use me As you have used others. Better you did refuse me: You have refused others. Better, far better hope to banish A small child than, grown old, Hope should decay, his vigour vanish, And I be left alone and Cold, cold.

Ah, use no guile nor cunning If you should even yet love me. Hark, Time with Love is running, Death cloud-like floats above me. Love me with such simplicity As children, frankly bold, Do love with; oh, never pity me, Though I be left alone and Cold, cold.



INEVITABLE CHANGE

Young as the Spring seemed life when she Came from her silent East to me; Unquiet as Autumn was my breast When she declined into her West.

Such tender, such untroubling things She taught me, daughter of all Springs; Such dusty deathly lore I learned When her last embers redly burned.

How should it hap (Love, canst thou say?) Such end should be to so pure day? Such shining chastity give place To this annulling grave's disgrace?

Such hopes be quenched in this despair, Grace chilled to granite everywhere? How should—in vain I cry—how should That be, alas, which only could!



LONELINESS

How green and strange the light is, Creeping through the window. Lying alone in bed, How strange the night is!

How still and chill the air is. It seems no sound could live Here in my room That now so bare is.

All bright and still the room is, But easeless here am I. Deep in my heart Cold lonely gloom is!



I HEARD A VOICE UPON THE WINDOW BEAT

I heard a voice upon the window beat And then grow dim, grow still. Opening I saw the snowy sill Marked with the robin's feet. Chill was the air and chill The thoughts that in my bosom beat.

I thought of all that wide and hopeless snow Crusting the frozen lands. Of small birds that in famished bands A-chill and silent grow. And how Earth's myriad hands Clutched only hills of frosted snow.

And then I thought of Love that beat and cried Famishing at my breast; How I, by chilling care distrest, Denied him, and Love died.... O, with what sore unrest Love's ghost woke with the bird that cried!



FIRST LOVE



I

"No, no! Leave me not in this dark hour," She cried. And I, "Thou foolish dear, but call not dark this hour; What night doth lour?" And nought did she reply, But in her eye The clamorous trouble spoke, and then was still.

O that I heard her once more speak, Or even with troubled eye Teach me her fear, that I might seek Poppies for misery. The hour was dark, although I knew it not, But when the livid dawn broke then I knew, How while I slept the dense night through Treachery's worm her fainting fealty slew.

O that I heard her once more speak As then—so weak— "No, no! Leave me not in this dark hour." That I might answer her, "Love, be at rest, for nothing now shall stir Thy heart, but my heart beating there."



II

Come back, come back—ah, never more to leave me! Come back, even though your constant longing grieve me, Longing for other looks and hands than mine. By all that's most divine In your frank human beauty, come and cover With that deceiving smile the love your lover Has taught you, and the light that in your eyes Tells of the painful joys that make your ruinous Paradise.



Come back, that so, upon the shining meadow When the sun draws the magic of your shadow, Or when the red fire's gradual sinking light Yields up the room to night; Seeing you thus or thus I may recapture The very sharpness of remembered rapture:— So it may seem, by exquisite deceit, You are yet mine, I yours, and life yet rare and sweet.

Come back—no, come not back now, come back never; That day you went I knew it was for ever. I know you, how the spectre of cold shame Would chill you if you came. Lo, here first love's first memory abideth; Here in my heart the image of you yet hideth. But though you should come back and hope thrilled me anew, First love would yet be dead—oh, it would not be you!



III

O but what grace if I could but forget you! You have made league with all familiar things— The thrush that still, evening and morning, sings, The aspen leaves that sigh "My dear!" with your true voice when I pass by.... O, and that too-long-dying flush of tender sky That minds me, and with sense too grave for tears, Of those forever dead too-blissful years.

Yet 'twere a miracle could I forget you, Since even dead things, once sensible of you, Yield up your ghost; as all the garden through Murmurs the rose, "'Twas she Shook in her palm the dew that shone in me;" And on the stairs your recent footstep echoingly Sounds yet again, and each dark doorway speaks Of you toward whom my sharpened longing seeks.

O that I could forget or not regret you! Could I but see you as I have seen a fair Child under apple-burdened boughs that bear Morn's autumn beauty, and Seeing her saw all heaven at my hand, And all day long that happy child before me stand.... Not thus I see you, but as one drowning sees Home, friends—and loves his very enemies!



THE CALL

Is it the wind that stirs the trees, Is it the trees that scratch the wall, Is it the wall that shakes and mutters, Is it a dumb ghost's call?

The wind steals in and twirls the candle, The branches heave and brush the wall, But more than tree or wild wind mutters This night, this night of all.

"Open!" a cry sounds, and I gasp. "Open!" and hands beat door and wall. "Open!" and each dark echo mutters. I rise, a shape and shadow tall.

"Open!" Across the room I falter, And near the door crouch by the wall; Thrice bolt the door as the voice mutters "Open!" and frail strokes fall.

"Open!" The light's out, and I shrink Quaking and blind against the wall; "Open!" no sound is, yet it mutters Within me now, this night of all.

Was it the wind that stirred the trees, Was it the trees that scratched the wall, Was it the wall that shook and muttered. Or Love's last, ghostly call?



THE SHADE

I saw him as he went With merry voice and eye.

I met him when he came Back, tired but the same— The same clear voice, bright eye, Merry laugh, quick reply.

And now, if I but look Unnoting at a book, Or from the window stare At dark woods newly bare, I see that shining eye, The same as when he went:

—But whose is the low sigh, The cold shade o'er me bent?



HAPPY IS ENGLAND NOW

There is not anything more wonderful Than a great people moving towards the deep Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor Is aught so dear of all held dear before As the new passion stirring in their veins When the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.

Happy is England now, as never yet! And though the sorrows of the slow days fret Her faithfullest children, grief itself is proud. Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summer That turns to bitterness turns then to gladness Since for this England the beloved ones died.

Happy is England in the brave that die For wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers; Happy in those that give, give, and endure The pain that never the new years may cure; Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns, Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea.

Whate'er was dear before is dearer now. There's not a bird singing upon his bough But sings the sweeter in our English ears: There's not a nobleness of heart, hand, brain But shines the purer; happiest is England now In those that fight, and watch with pride and tears.



THE STARS IN THEIR COURSES

And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks In this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks, How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?— Venus, that brushes with her shining lips (Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocks With hers its all ungentle wantonness?— Or the large moon (pricked by the spars of ships Creeping and creeping in their restlessness), The moon pouring strange light on things more strange, Looks she unheedfully on seas and lands Trembling with change and fear of counterchange?

O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars! The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering. I cannot look up to the crowded height And see the fair stars trembling in their light, For thinking of the starlike spirits of men Crowding the earth and with great passion quivering:— Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity. I cannot look up to the naked skies Because a sorrow on dark midnight lies, Death, on the living world of sense; Because on my own land a shadow lies That may not rise; Because from bare grey hillside and rich city Streams of uncomprehending sadness pour, Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence ... How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?

Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity. An hour to dawn I looked. Beside the trees Wet mist shaped other trees that branching rose, Covering the woods and putting out the stars. There was no murmur on the seas, No wind blew—only the wandering air that grows With dawn, then murmurs, sighs, And dies. The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars, And the earth trembled when the stars were gone; And moving strangely everywhere upon The trembling earth, thickened the watery mist.

And for a time the holy things are veiled. England's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hours Are trodden underfoot like wayside flowers, And every English heart is England's wholly. In starless night A serious passion streams the heaven with light. A common beating is in the air— The heart of England throbbing everywhere. And all her roads are nerves of noble thought, And all her people's brain is but her brain; And all her history, less her shame, Is part of her requickened consciousness. Her courage rises clean again.

Even in victory there hides defeat; The spirit's murdered though the body survives, Except the cause for which, a people strives Burn with no covetous, foul heat. Fights she against herself who infamously draws The sword against man's secret spiritual laws. But thou, England, because a bitter heel Hath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will, The conscience of the world, For this, England, art risen, and shalt fight Purely through long profoundest night, Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee; And (if to thee the stars yield victory) Tempering their hate of the great foe that hurled Vainly her strength against the conscience of the world.

I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and saw The stars again and all their peace again. The moving mist had gone, and shining still The moon went high and pale above the hill. Not now those lights were trembling in the vast Ways of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth: Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours passed. And with less fear (not with less awe, Remembering, England, all the blood and pain) How look, I cried, you stern and solitary stars On these disastrous wars!

August, 1914.



SWEET ENGLAND

I heard a boy that climbed up Dover's Hill Singing Sweet England, sweeter for his song. The notes crept muffled through the copse, but still Sharply recalled the things forgotten long, The music that my own boy's lips had known, Singing, and old airs on a wild flute blown;

And other hills, more grim and lonely far, And valleys empty of these orchard trees; A sheep-pond filled with the moon, a single star I had watched by night searching the wreckful seas; And all the streets and streets that childhood knew In years when London streets were all my view.

And I remembered how that song I heard, Sweet England, sung by children on May-day, Nor any song was sweeter of a bird Than that half-grievous air from children gay— For then, as now, youth made the sadness bright, Till the words, Sweet, Sweet England, shone with light.

Now, listening, I forgot how men yet fought For this same England, till the song was done And no sound lingered but the lark's, that brought New music down from fields of cloud and sun, Or the sad lapwing's over fields of green Crying beneath the copse, near but unseen.

Then I remembered. All wide England spread Before me, hill and wood and meadow and stream And ancient roads and homes of men long dead, And all the beauty a familiar dream. On the green hills a cloud of silver grey Gave gentle light stranger than light of day.

And clear between the hills, past the near crest And many hills, the hungry cities crept, Noble and mean, oppressive and oppressed, Where dreams unrealized of England slept: And they too England, packed in dusty street With men that half forgot England was sweet.

Now men were far, but like a living brain Quick with their thought, the earth, hills, air and light Were quivering as though a shining rain Falling all round made even the light more bright; And trees and water and heath and hedge-flowers fair With more than natural sweetness washed the air.

From hill to hill a sparkling web it swung, A snare for happiness, lit with lovely dews. The very smoke of cities now was hung But like a grave girl's dress of tranquil hues: And how (I thought) can England, seen thus bright, Lifting her clear frank head, but love the light?—

No, not her brain! that bright web was the shadow Of the high spirit in their spirit shining Who on scarred foreign hill and trenched meadow Kept the faith yet, unfearful, unrepining;— Her faith that with the dark world's liberty Mingles as earth's great rivers with the sea.

O with what gilding ray was the land agleam! It was not sun and dew, bush, bough and leaf, But human spirits visible as in a dream That turns from glad to aching, being too brief: Courage and beauty shining in such brightness That all the thoughtful woods were no more lightless.

But most the hills a splendour had put on Of golden honour, bright and high and calm And like old heroes young men dream upon When midnight stirs with magic sword and palm;— With the fled mist all meanness put away And the air clear and keen as salt sea-spray....

And yet no dream; no dream! I saw the whole, The reap'd fields, idle kine and wandering sheep. A weak wind through the near tall hedge-tree stole, And died where Dover's Hill rose bare and steep; I saw yet what I saw an hour ago, But knew what save by dreams I did not know—

Sweet England!—wild proud heart of things unspoken Spirit that men bear shyly and love purely; That dies to live anew a life unbroken As spring from every winter rising surely: Sweet England unto generations sped, Now bitter-sweetest for her daily dead.

September, 1916.



PRESAGE OF VICTORY



I

Then first I knew, seeing that bent grey head, How England honours all her thousand dead. Then first I knew how faith through black grief burns, Until the ruined heart glows while it yearns For one that never more returns— Glows in the spent embers of its pride For one that careless lived and fearless died. And then I knew, then first, How everywhere Hope from her prison had burst— On every hill, wide dale, soft valley's lap, In lonely cottage clutch'd between huge downs, And streets confused with streets in clanging towns— Like spring from winter's jail pouring her sap Into the idle wood of last year's trees. Then first I knew how the vast world-disease Would die away, and England upon her seas Shake every scab of sickness; toward new skies Lifting a little holier her head, With honesty the brighter in her eyes, And all that urgent horror well forgot, The dark remembered not; Only remembered then, with bosom yet hot, The blood that on how many a far field lies, The bones enriching not our English earth That brought them to such splendid birth And the last sacrifice.



II

Then first I knew, seeing that head bent low, How gravely all her days she needs must go, Bearing an image in her faded breast....

O, the dark unrest Of thoughts that never cease their flight, Never vanishing, yet never still, Like birds that wail round the bewildering nest! But other nestlings never shall be hers, Only a painful image his place fill, Only a memory remain for her thin bosom to nurse In all that dark unrest Of sleepless and tormented night.



III

Yet from her eyes presage of victory Looked steadfast out at mine. It is not to be thought of (said her eyes) That only a foul blotch the sun may shine On England, through low poisonous thick skies! Never, O never again This pain, this pain! Else from that foreign earth his bones would rise And thrust in anger at the bitter skies. It is not to be thought of that such prayer Should fall unheeded back through heavy air. But I have heard, in the night I have heard, When not a leaf in all the orchard stirred, And even the water of the bourne hung still, And the old twitching, creaking house was still, And all was still, What was it I heard? It could not be his voice, come from so far; I know 'twas not a bird. It was his voice, or that lone watchful star Creeping above the casement bar, Saying: Fear thou no ill, No ill! Then all the silence was an echoing round, The water and dumb trees their antique murmur found, And clear as music came the repeated Sound: Fear thou no ill, no ill!

Was it her eyes or her tongue told me this?



IV

Yet but sad comfort from such pain is caught.... I went out from the house and climbed the coombe, And where the first light of sweet morning hung I found the light I sought. From somewhere south a bugle's note was flung, From somewhere north a sombre boom; On the opposing hills white flecks and grey Spotted the misty green, And blue smoke wraiths around the tall trees clung. Presently rose thick dust clouds from the green: Came up, or seemed to come, the instant beat Of marching feet; Then with the clouds the beating died away, And nothing was seen But broken hills and the new flush of day.



V

All round the folding hills were like green waves, Tossing awhile together ere they fall And fling their salt on the steep stony beach. The sound I heard was sound of Roman feet— I saw the sparkling light on Roman glaives, I heard the Roman speech Answering the wild Iberian battle-call: They passed from sight on the long street. And I saw then the Mercian Kings that strode Proudly from the small city of grey stone And climbed the folding hills, Past the full springs that bubbled and flowed Through the soft valley and on to Avon stream. They passed—as all things pass and seem No other than a dream, All but the shining and the echo gone. But still I listened and looked. Their voice it was Blown through the valley grass; Their dust it was that sprang from the hard road Where now these English legions flowed, Waking the quiet like a steady wind. That ancient soldiery before me passed With all that followed them, and these the last Of my own generation, my own mind; Their strength and courage rooted deep in the earth That brings men to such splendid birth And no vain sacrifice ... It was as when the land all darkness lies, And shades, nor only shades, move freely out And through the trees are heard and all about Their ancient ways, 'neath the old stars and skies. So now in morning's light I knew them there Leading the men that marched and marched away, And mounted up the hill, and down the hill Passed from my eyes and ears, and left the air Trembling everywhere, And then how still!



VI

Then first I knew the joy that yet should be Ringing from camped hill and guarded sea With England's victory. The dust had stirred, the infinite dust had stirred, It was the courage of the past I heard, The virtue of those buried bones again Animate in these marching Englishmen; And nothing wanted if the dead but nerved The living hands that the same England served. With new-washed eyes I saw as I went down On the hill crest the oak-grove's crown, With new delighted ear heard the lark sing— That mad delighted thing; The very smoke that rose was strangely blue, But most the orchard brightened wonderfully new, Where the wild spring, ere winter snow well gone, Scattered her whiter, briefer snow-cloud down. And England lovelier looked than when Her dead roused not her living men.

May, 1916.



THE RETURN

I heard the rumbling guns. I saw the smoke, The unintelligible shock of hosts that still, Far off, unseeing, strove and strove again: And Beauty flying naked down the hill.

From morn to eve: and then stern night cried Peace! And shut the strife in darkness; all was still. Then slowly crept a triumph on the dark— And I heard Beauty singing up the hill.



ENGLISH HILLS

O that I were Where breaks the pure cold light On English hills, And peewits rising cry, And gray is all the sky.

Or at evening there When the faint slow light stays, And far below Sleeps the last lingering sound, And night leans all round.

O then, O there 'Tis English haunted ground. The diligent stars Creep out, watch, and smile; The wise moon lingers awhile.

For surely there Heroic shapes are moving, Visible thoughts, Passions, things divine, Clear beneath clear star-shine.

O that I were Again on English hills, Seeing between Laborious villages Her cool dark loveliness.



HOMECOMING

When I came home from wanderings In a tall chattering ship, I thought a hundred happy things, Of people, places, and such things As I came sailing home.

The tall ship moved how slowly on With me and hundreds more, That thought not then of wanderings, But of unwhispered, longed-for things, Familiar things of home.

For not in miles seemed other lands Far off, but in long years As we came near to England then; Even the tall ship heard secret things As she moved trembling home.

It was at dawn. The chattering ship Was strangely hushed; faint mist Crept everywhere, and we crept on, And every eye was creeping on The mist, as we moved home....

Until we saw, far, very far, Or dreamed we saw, her cliffs, And thought of sweet, intolerable things, Of England—dark, unwhispered things, Such things, as we crept home.



ENGLAND'S ENEMY

She stands like one with mazy cares distraught. Around her sudden angry storm-clouds rise, Dark, dark! and comes the look into her eyes Of eld. All that herself herself hath taught She cons anew, that courage new be caught Of courage old. Yet comfortless still lies Snake-like in her warm bosom (vexed with sighs) Fear of the greatness that herself hath wrought.

No glory but her memory teems with it, No beauty that's not hers; more nobly none Of all her sisters runs with her; but she For her old destiny dreams herself unfit, And fumbling at the future doubtfully Muses how Rome of Romans was undone.



FROM PICCADILLY IN AUGUST

Now the trees rest: the moon has taught them sleep, Like drowsy wings of bats are all their leaves, Clinging together. Girls at ease who fold Fair hands upon white necks and through dusk fields Walk all content,—of them the trees have taken Their way of evening rest; the yellow moon With her pale gold has lit their dreams that lisp On the wind's murmuring lips. And low beyond Burn those bright lamps beneath the moon more bright, Lamps that but flash and sparkle and light not The inward eye and musing thought, nor reach Where, poplar-like, that tall-built campanile Lifts to the neighbouring moon her head and feels The pale gold like an ocean laving her.



EVENING BEAUTY: BLACKFRIARS

Nought is but beauty weareth, near and far, Under the pale, blue sky and lonely star. This is that quick hour when the city turns Her troubled harsh distortion and blind care Into brief loveliness seen everywhere, While in the fuming west the low sun smouldering burns.

Not brick nor marble the rich beauty owns, Not this is held in starward-pointing stones. Sun, wind and smoke the threefold magic stir, Kissing each favourless poor ruin with kiss Like that when lovers lovers lure to bliss, And earth than towered heaven awhile is heavenlier.

Tall shafts that show the sky how far away! The thousand-window'd house gilded with day That fades to night; the arches low, the streamer Everywhere of the ruddy'd smoke.... Is aught Of loveliness so rich e'er sold and bought? Look visions fairer in the eyes of any dreamer?

Needs must so rare a beauty be so brief! Night comes, of this delight the subtle thief. Thou canst not, Night, this same rich thievery keep; Seize it and look! 'tis gone, ere seized is gone— Only in our warm bosoms lingering on, A nest of precious dreams when our lids droop in sleep.

So in her darkening loveliness is she seen Like an autumnal passion-haunted queen, Who hears, "A captain-king is at the gate"— "'Tis Antony, Antony!" Then hastens she, Beauty to beauty adding yet, till—see, A queen within the queen perilous with love and fate!



SAILING OF THE GLORY

Merrily shouted all the sailors As they left the town behind; Merrily shouted they and gladdened At the slip-slap of the wind. But envious were those faint home-keepers, Faint land-lovers, as they saw How the Glory dipped and staggered— Envying saw Pass the ship while all her sailors Merrily shouted.

Far and far on eastern waters Sailed the ship and yet sailed on, While the townsmen, faint land-lovers, Thought, "How long is't now she's gone? Now, maybe, Bombay she touches, Now strange craft about her throng"; Till she grew but half-remembered, Gone so long: Quite forgot how all her sailors Merrily shouted.

Far in unfamiliar waters Ship and shipmen harbourage found, Where the rocks creep out like robbers After travellers tempest-bound. Then those faint land-lovers murmured Doleful thanks not dead were they:— Ah, yet envious, though the Glory Sunken lay, Hearing again those farewell voices Merrily shouting.



AT THE DOCK

They loiter round the Dock that holds yon Ship Shuddering at the dark pool's defiled lip From springing bows to foam-deriding stern; They have left her, and await her call "Return!" Like any human mistress she has cast Careless her ancient lovers, till at last Perforce she calls them, and perforce they come Like any human lovers.... Ah, what home Know these, save in the Ship, the Ship! She groans Day and night with travail of their strenuous bones. They know her for their mother, sister, spouse, Heart of their passion, idol of their vows; They ward her, and she is their sure defence 'Gainst the sad waters' leagued malevolence. The Ship, the Ship: they are her slaves, and she Their Liege, their Faith, their Fate, their History. Lo! they have bought her buoyancy with their blood And their ribs cling the keel that cleaves the flood. Their watches in the night, their loneliness, Their toil, hunger and thirst, their heart's distress, Their hands, their feet, far eye and smitten head Whereon the Sea's upgathered weight is shed; With these the Ship, the Ship is laid and rigged, Launched and steered out; with these her living grave is digged,

They lean close over her—and long, perhaps, For the broad seas and the loud wind that claps Boisterous hands on the Ship's course; and wait Her call who calls them with the voice of Fate.



"THE MEN WHO LOVED THE CAUSE THAT NEVER DIES"

O come you down from the far hills Whereon you fought, triumphed and died, Men at whose names the quick blood thrills And the heart's troubled in our side.

Your shadows o'er our fields ere night Draw from the shadow of old trees; Ghost-hallowed run the streams, and light Hangs halo-wise in the great peace.

Warriors of England whom we praise (Ah, vain all praise!), your spirit is not Lost in the meanness of these days, Not wholly is your charge forgot.

And this perplexity of strife Not all estranged leaves our heart; England is ours yet, and her life Has yet in ours the purest part.

But come you down and stand you yet A little closer to our side, Or in the darkness we forget The cause for which Earth's noblest died.



Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.

THE END