Part 2

_Like_ smoke that vanishes on the morning breeze Are passed the first beginnings of the world, When time was even as a bud still curled, And scarce the limit set of lands and seas; Like smoke, like smoke the composite auguries Of Hebrew and of Hellene are all furled, Fulfilled or else forgot, and idly hurled This way or that way, as the great winds please: Aye, and like smoke of this delicious herb Brought by strange ways the curious mind may guess, From where the parrot and the leopard be, My thoughts, that should be strong, the years to curb Go up, and vanish into nothingness On a blue cloud of exquisite fragrancy.

A Preface for a Tale I have never told

_Herein_ is nought of windy citadels Where proud kings dwell, that with an iron hand Deal war or justice: here no history Of valiant ships upon the wine-dark seas Passing strange lands and threading channels strait Between embalmed islands: here no song That men shall sing in battle and remember When they are old and grey beside the fire: Only a story gathered from the hills And the wind crying of forgotten days, A story that shall whisper, "All things change-- For friends do grow indifferent, and loves Die like a dream at morning: bitterness Is the sure heritage of all men born, And he alone sees truly, who looks out From some huge aery peak, considering not Fast-walled cities, or the works of men, But turns his gaze unto the mountain-tops And the unfathomable blue of heaven That only change not with the changing years"---- A tale that shod itself with ancient shoon And wrapped its cloak, and wandered from the west.

A Sonnet

_There_ is a wind that takes the heart of a man, A fresh wind in the latter days of spring, When hate and war and every evil thing That the wide arches of high Heaven span Seems dust, and less to be accounted than The omened touches of a passing wing: When Destiny, that calls himself a king, Goes all forgotten for the song of Pan: For why? Because the twittering of birds Is the best music that was ever sung, Because the voice of trees finds better words Than ever poet from his heartstrings wrung: Because all wisdom and all gramarye Are writ in fields, O very plain to see.

"It was all in the Black Countree"

_It_ was all in the Black Countree, What time the sweet o' the year should be, I saw a tree, all gaunt and grey, As mindful of a winter's day: And that a lonely bird did sit Upon the topmost branch of it, Who to my thought did sweeter sing Than any minstrel of a king.

To a Pianist

_When_ others' fingers touch the keys Then most doleful threnodies Chase about the air, and run Like Pandaemonium begun. Rhythm strained and false accord In a ceaseless stream are poured; Then sighs are heard, and men depart To seek the sage physician's art, Or silence, and a little ease, When others' fingers touch the keys.

When your fingers touch the keys Hark, soft sounds of summer seas In a melody most fair Whisper through the pleasant air, Or a winding mountain stream Glitters to the pale moonbeam, Or a breeze doth stir the tops Of springtime larches in a copse, Or the winds are loosed and hurled About the wonder-stricken world With immortal harmonies, When your fingers touch the keys.

A Fragment

----

_And_ some came down in a great wind Under grey scurrying skies To where the long wave-beaten shore For ever shrieks and cries.

O, fling aside your toil, your care, When one cries of the sea, And the great waves that foam and toss, And the white clouds that flee: Let us forget our weariness, Forget that we have sinned, So we but sail, what matters it If Death ride on the wind?

Storm from the sky, storm from the sea Beat on them as they stood, And a great longing sprang in them To cross the roaring flood. . . .

Sea Poppies

_'Twixt_ lonely lands and desert beach, Where no wind blows and no waves reach, A sunken precinct here we keep, With woven wiles of endless sleep; Our twisted stems of sere-hued green, Our pallid blooms what sun has seen? And he that tastes our magic breath Shall sleep that sleep whose name is death.

Wild clouds are scurrying overhead, The wild wind's voice is loud and dread, Sounding the knell of the dying day, Yet here is silence and gloom alway. And a great longing seizes me To burst my bondage and be free, To look on winds' and waters' strife, And breathe in my nostrils the breath of life. Give me not dim and slumbrous ease, But sounding storm and labouring seas, Not peaceful and untroubled years, But toil and warfare and passion and tears. And I would fall in valorous fight, And lie on lofty far-seen height.

Yet how to burst these prison-bands, Forged by unseen spirit-hands?

O seek not to burst our prison bands Forged by unseen spirit-hands. Clashing battle and labouring sea, These be for others, not for thee. Thou lover of storm and passion and war Break'st our charmed circle never more.

"O, sing me a Song of the Wild West Wind"

_O, sing_ me a song of the wild west wind, And his great sea-harrying flail, Of hardy mariners, copper skinned, That fly with a bursting sail. They see the clouds of crisped white That shadow the distant hills, And filled are they with a strange delight As shaking away old ills.

O, give me a boat that is sure and stark, And swift as a slinger's stone, With a sail of canvas bronzed dark, And I will go out alone: Nor fear nor sorrow my soul shall keep When around me lies the sea, And I will return with the night, and sleep In the wind's wild harmony.

AEre Perennius

Written on Commemoration Sunday, Corpus Christi College, Oxford

_We_ praise, we praise the immortal dead, Who strove beneath unheeding skies For truth that raised the drooping head, For light that gladdened weary eyes:

The martyr's cross, the warrior's sword, How should they be of lesser worth Than some unprofitable hoard In ancient mines below the earth?

The song that one alone has sung, The great uncompromising page, Are these but glittering baubles, flung About the world from age to age?

But ruin'd columns, wondrous tall, Built in old time with labour sore, The mighty deeds done once for all, The voice heard once, and heard no more?

Rather they shine as doth the star About the close of winter's day, That cheers the traveller afar And draws him on, and points the way.

----

We praise, we praise the immortal dead. Do they not verily wait till we Of the spoilt years unharvested Be also of their company?

The Old Kings

_Far_ away from sunny rills, Far away from golden broom, Far away from any town Whither merchants travel down-- In a hollow of the hills In impenetrable gloom Sit the old forgotten kings Unto whom no poet sings, Unto whom none makes bequest, Unto whom no kingdoms rest,---- Only wayward shreds of dreams, And the sound of ancient streams, And the shock of ancient strife On the further shore of life.

----

When our days are done, shall we Enter their pale company?

"O there be Kings whose Treasuries"

_O there_ be kings whose treasuries Are rich with pearls and gold And silks and bales of cramasy And spices manifold: Gardens they have with marble stairs And streams than life more fair, With roses set and lavender That do enchant the air.

O there be many ships that sail The sea-ways wide and blue, And there be master-mariners To sail them straight and true: And there be many women fair Who watch out anxiously, And are enamoured of the day Their dear ones come from sea:

But riches I can find enow All in a barren land, Where sombre lakes shine wondrously With rocks on either hand: And I can find enow of love Up there, alone, alone, With none beside me save the wind, Nor speech except his moan.

For there far up among the hills The great storms come and go In a most proud processional Of cloud and rain and snow: There light and darkness only are A changing benison Of the old gods who wrought the world And shaped the moon and sun.

A Study

_In_ chamber hung with white, Lit by the dawning light,

Upon a slender bed She lies, as she were dead:

Most carven-ivory fair, And palely gold her hair.

Lo, the sun's yellow ray, That, with the rise of day,

Through quartered casement came To wake her life's pale flame.

The Eremite

_When_ the world is still in the hush of dawn, And yet fast sleeping are hate and scorn, From my grey lodging under the hill I do go out, and wander at will.

Of nights when the riven clouds are hurled, And strife and rancour possess the world, I sit alone, with thoughts that are chill, In my grey lodging under the hill.

The House of Eld

_Now_ the old winds are wild about the house, And the old ghosts cry to me from the air Of a far isle set in the western sea, And of the evening sunlight lingering there.

Ah! I am bound here, bound and fettered, The dark house crumbles, and the woods decay, I was too fain of life, that bound me here; Away, old long-loved ghosts, away, away!

The South-west Wind

_The_ south-west wind has blown his fill, And vanished with departing day: The air is warm, and very still, And soft as silks of far Cathay.

This is a night when spirits stray. Their wan limbs bear them where they will; They wring their pallid hands alway, Seeing the lights upon the hill.

Schumann: Erstes Verlust

_O, dreary_ fall the leaves, The withered leaves; Among the trees Complains the breeze, That still bereaves.

All silent lies the mere, The silver mere, In saddest wise Reflecting skies Forlorn and sere.

Would autumn had not claimed its own And would the swallows had not flown.

Skies overcast! Leaves falling fast! And she has passed And left the woodland strown, The woodland strown, The silver mere, The dying year, And me alone.

Skies overcast! Leaves falling fast! Does she that passed Dream of the woodland strown, The woodland strown, The silver mere, The dying year, And me alone?

"Dark Boughs against a Golden Sky"

_Dark_ boughs against a golden sky, And crying of the winter wind: And sweet it is, for hope is high, And sad it is, for we have sinned.

Perfect is nature's every part In sunny rest, or windy strife: But never yet the perfect heart, And never yet the perfect life!

Dark boughs against a golden sky, And crying of the winter wind: And in the cold earth we must lie, What matter then if we have sinned?

For evermore and evermore Shall the great river onward roll: And ever winding streams and poor Shall lose them in the mighty whole.

"Wind of the Darkness"

_Wind_ of the darkness, breathing round us, Wind from the never-resting sea, Lo, you have loosed the cords that bound us, Lo, you have set our spirits free:

Free to take wings, like the sea-bird lonely Beating hardily up the wind: Fixed are his eyes on the waters only, Never a glance for the land behind.

Wind of the darkness, breathing round us, Wind from the never-resting sea. Was it the old gods' voice that found us Here, where the bars of prison be?

From the far isle that neither knoweth Change of season, nor time's increase, Where is plenty, and no man soweth: Calling to strife that shall end in peace.

Creator Spiritus

_The_ wind that scatters dying leaves And whirls them from the autumn tree Is grateful to the ship that cleaves With stately prow the scurrying sea.

Heedless about the world we play Like children in a garden close: A postern bars the outward way And what's beyond it no man knows:

For careless days, a life at will, A little laughter, and some tears, These are sufficiency to fill The early, vain, untroubled years,

Till at the last the wind upheaves His unimagined strength, and we Are scattered far, like autumn leaves, Or proudly sail, like ships at sea.

Wind over the Sea

_Only_ a grey sea, and a long grey shore, And the grey heavens brooding over them. Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot, Twilight of ceaseless eld, and when was youth? Is it not lonely here, beyond the years?

Out of the gathering darkness crashes a wind from the ocean, Rushing with league-long paces over the plain of the waters, Driving the clouds and the breakers before it in sudden commotion.

Who are these on the wind, riders and riderless horses? Riders the great ones that have been and are, and those to come shall be: These are the children of might, life's champions and history's forces.

Might I but grasp at a bridle, and fear not to be trodden under, Swing myself into a saddle, and ride on greatly, exulting On down the long straight road of the wind, a galloping thunder!

Only a grey sea, and a long grey shore, And the grey heavens brooding over them, Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot, Twilight of ceaseless eld, for when was youth? Is it not lonely here, beyond the years?

Songs on the Downs

1

_This_ is the road the Romans made, This track half lost in the green hills, Or fading in a forest-glade 'Mid violets and daffodils.

The years have fallen like dead leaves, Unwept, uncounted, and unstayed (Such as the autumn tempest thieves), Since first this road the Romans made.

2

A miser lives within this house, His patron saint's the gnawing mouse, And there's no peace upon his brows.

A many ancient trees and thin Do fold the place their shade within, And moan, as for remembered sin.

III. Last Poems and "The Burial of Sophocles"

"We who have bowed ourselves to Time"

_We_ who have bowed ourselves to time Now arm an uneventful rime With panoply of flowers Through the long summer hours. . . .

But now our fierce and warlike Muse Doth soft companionship refuse, And we must mount and ride Upon a steed untried. . . .

We who have led by gradual ways Our placid life to sterner days And for old quiet things Have set the strife of kings,

Who battled have with bloody hands Through evil times in barren lands, To whom the voice of guns Speaks and no longer stuns,

Calm, though with death encompassed, That watch the hours go overhead Knowing too well we must With all men come to dust. . . .

Crave of our masters' clemency Silence a little space that we Upon their ear may force Tales of our trodden course.

Anglia Valida in Senectute

(On the Declaration of War)

_Not_ like to those who find untrodden ways; But down the weary paths we know, Through every change of sky and change of days Silent, processional we go.

Not unto us the soft, unlaboured breath Of children's hopes and children's fears: We are not sworn to battle to the death With all the wrongs of all the years:

We are old, we are old, and worn and school'd with ills, Maybe our road is almost done, Maybe we are drawn near unto the hills Where rest is and the setting sun:

But yet a pride is ours that will not brook The taunts of fools too saucy grown, He that is rash to prove it, let him look He kindle not a fire unknown.

Since first we flung our gauntlet to the skies And dared the high Gods' will to bend, A fire that still may burn deceit and lies Burn and consume them to the end.

"Dark is the World our Fathers left us"

_Dark_ is the world our fathers left us, Wearily, greyly the long years flow, Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us, Far is the high gods' song and low:

Sombre the crests of the mountains lonely, Leafless, wind-ridden, moan the trees: Down in the valleys is twilight only, Twilight over the mourning seas:

Time was when earth was always golden, Time was when skies were always clear: Spirits and souls of the heroes olden, Faint are cries from the darkness, hear!

Tear ye the veil of time asunder Tear the veil, 'tis the gods' command, Hear we the sun-stricken breakers thunder Over the shore where the heroes stand.

----

Dark is the world our fathers left us, Heavily, greyly the long years flow, Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us, Far is the high gods' song and low.

Awakening

_Gold-crested_ towers against the veiled skies, Sere branches of the winter trees beneath, And a low song, and heavy-lidded eyes;

Is there aught else in all the world beside? Is not time stilled and ended in this hour?

----

Up, and away! the belted squadrons ride!

Ave atque Vale

_In_ Oxford, evermore the same Unto the uttermost verge of time, Though grave-dust choke the sons of men, And silence wait upon the rime,

At evening now the skies set forth Last glories of the dying year: The wind gives chase to relict leaves: And we, we may not linger here.

A little while, and we are gone: God knows if it be ours to see Again the earliest hoar-frost white On the long lawns of Trinity.

In Merton, of the many courts And doorways good to wander through, Gable and spire shall glitter white Or tawny gold against the blue:

And still the winter sun shall smile At noonday, or at sunset hour On Magdalen, girt with ancient trees, Beneath her bright immortal tower.

Though nevermore we tread the ways That our returning feet have known Past Oriel, and Christ Church gate Unto those dearer walls, our own.

----

Oxford is evermore the same, Unto the uttermost verge of time, Though grave-dust choke the sons of men, And silence wait upon the rime.

"O, one came down from Seven Hills"

_O, one_ came down from seven hills And crossed seven streams: All in his hands were thyme and grass And in his eyes were dreams: He passed by a seven fields With early dews all grey And entered in the stricken town About the break of day.

"O you old men that stand and talk About the market-place, There is much trouble in your eyes And anguish in your face: O woman in a silent room Within a silent house, There is no pleasure in your voice Or peace upon your brows."

"O how should such as we rejoice Who weep that others die, Who quake, and curse ourselves, and watch The vengeful hours go by? O better far to fly the grief That wounds, and never kills; O better far to fly the town And seek the seven hills----"

"I will go pray the seven gods Who keep the seven hills That they do grant your city peace, And easement of her ills." "Nay, rather pray the seven gods To launch the latest pain; For there be many things to do Ere we see peace again."

"Then I'll go praise the seven gods With hymns and chauntings seven, Such as shall split the mountain-tops And shrivel up blue heaven: That there be men who mock at threats And wag their heads at strife, Love home above their own hearts' blood And honour more than life."

Sonnet to the British Navy

_Lest_ force aspire to brand an alien name Upon the immortal empire of the free: Lest fire and sword and slaughter strive to tame This isle, was ne'er so tamed, and ne'er shall be. Ye guard the ocean barrier, undismayed 'Midst hidden perils for a brave man's fears, In iron craft that many smiths have made With peaceful labour in the old, dead years. In a small vessel, of one Smith ill-wrought I must soon venture on another deep, And dare, with little hope, and little thought Of praise and honour and untroubled sleep: So, as each sails upon his perilous sea, I pray High God He strengthen you, and me.

The Last Meeting

_We_ who are young, and have caught the splendour of life, Hunting it down the forested ways of the world, Do we not wear our hearts like a banner unfurled (Crowned with a chaplet of love, shod with the sandals of strife)?

Now not a lustre of pain, nor an ocean of tears Nor pangs of death, nor any other thing That the old tristful gods on our heads may bring Can rob us of this one hour in the midst of the years.

The New Age and the Old

_Like_ the small source of a smooth-flowing river, Like the pale dawn of a wonderful day, Comes the New Age, from High God, the good giver, Comes with the shouts of the children at play:

As an old leaf whirls faster and faster From the sere branch that once gave it fair birth, Into the arms of the devil, its master, Be the old age swept away from the earth!

To the Cultured

_Sons_ of culture, God-given, First offspring of Heaven, Athletic and tanned, Well-built and not nervous, With your golf and your tweeds And your "noble editions," Quiet lives and few needs (Say a thousand a year For your earthly career) Who can't understand Discontent and seditions, May Heaven preserve us From being like you.

What are we, what am I? Poor rough creatures, whose life Is "depressing" and "grey," Is a heart-breaking strife With death and with shame And your polite laughter, Till--the world pass away In smoke and in flame, And some of us die, And some live on after To build it anew.

Afterwards

_Afterwards,_ when The old Gods' hate On the riven earth No more is poured:

When weapons of war Are all outworn What shall become Of the race of men?

One shall go forth In the likeness of a child: Under sere skies Of a grey dawning:

One shall go forth In the likeness of a child, And desolate places Shall spring and blossom:

One shall go forth In the likeness of a child: And men shall sing And greatly rejoice:

All men shall sing For the love that is in them, And he shall behold it And sing also.

Domum redit Poeta

_O much_ desired from far away And long, I hold thee once again, Thou undiminished treasury Of small delights, yet nowise vain:

The cat curled on the cosy hearth, The thrushes in the garden trees, The memories of younger years, The quiet voices, and the peace.

Memories

_Shapes_ in the mist, it is long since I saw you, Pale hands and faces, and quiet eyes, Crowned with a garland the dead years wrought you Out of remembrance that never dies:

One among you is tall and supple Good to fight or to love beside, Only the stain of a deadly quarrel, Only that and the years divide:

One there is with a face as honest, Heart as true, as the open sea, One who never betrayed a comrade-- Death stands now betwixt him and me.

One I loved with a passionate longing Born of worship and fierce despair, Dreamed that Heaven were only happy If at length I should find him there.

Shapes in the mist, ye see me lonely, Lonely and sad in the dim firelight: How far now to the last of all battles? (Listen, the guns are loud to-night!)

Whatever comes, I will strike once surely, Once because of an ancient tryst, Once for love of your dear dead faces Ere I come unto you, Shapes in the mist.

Intercessional

_There_ is a place where voices Of great guns do not come, Where rifle, mine, and mortar For evermore are dumb: Where there is only silence, And peace eternal and rest, Set somewhere in the quiet isles Beyond Death's starry West.

O God, the God of battles, To us who intercede, Give only strength to follow Until there's no more need, And grant us at that ending Of the unkindly quest To come unto the quiet isles Beyond Death's starry West.

April 1916

_Now_ spring is come upon the hills in France, And all the trees are delicately fair, As heeding not the great guns' voice, by chance Brought down the valley on a wandering air: Now day by day upon the uplands bare Do gentle, toiling horses draw the plough, And birds sing often in the orchards where Spring wantons it with blossoms on her brow-- Aye! but there is no peace in England now.