Part 3

O little isle amid unquiet seas, Though grisly messengers knock on many doors, Though there be many storms among your trees And all your banners rent with ancient wars; Yet such a grace and majesty are yours There be still some, whose glad heart suffereth All hate can bring from her misgotten stores, Telling themselves, so England's self draw breath, That's all the happiness on this side death.

"Over the Hills and Hollows Green"

_Over_ the hills and hollows green The springtide air goes valiantly, Where many sainted singing larks And blessed primaveras be:

But bitterly the springtide air Over the desert towns doth blow, About whose torn and shattered streets No more shall children's footsteps go.

Sonnet

_To-night_ the world is but a prison house, And kindly ways, and all the springing grass Are dungeon stones to him that may not pass Among them, save with anguish on his brows: And any wretched husbandman that ploughs The upland acres in his habit spare Is king, to those in palaces of glass Who sit with grief and weariness for spouse.

O God, who madest first the world that we Might happy live, and praise its pleasantness In such wise as the angels never could, Wherefore are hearts, fashioned so wondrously, All spoiled and changed by human bitterness Into the likenesses of stone and wood?

"O Long the Fiends of War shall dance"

_O long_ the fiends of war shall dance Upon the stricken fields of France: And long and long their grisly cry Shall echo up and smite the sky: O long and long the tears of God Shall fall upon a barren sod, Save when, of His great clemency, He gives men's hearts in custody Of grim old kindly Death, who knows The mould is better than the rose.

For R. Q. G.

July 1916

_O God,_ whose great inscrutable purposes (Seen only of the one all-seeing eye) Are as unchangeable as the azure sky, And as fulfilled of infinite mysteries: Are like a fast-locked castle without keys Whereof the gates are very strong and high, Impenetrable, and we poor fools die Nor even know what thing beyond them is: O God, by whom men's lives are multiplied, Are scattered broadcast in the world like grain, And after long time reaped again and stored, O Thou who only canst be glorified By man's own passion and the supreme pain, Accept this sacrifice of blood outpoured.

"Sun and Shadow and Winds of Spring"

_Sun_ and shadow and winds of spring, Love and laughter and hope and fame, Cloud and storm-light over the hills, Tears and passion and sordid shame:

All, all are but as quenched fire And vanish'd smoke to him that lies Amid the silence of the trees Under the silence of the skies.

"Let us tell Quiet Stories of Kind Eyes"

_Let_ us tell quiet stories of kind eyes And placid brows where peace and learning sate: Of misty gardens under evening skies Where four would walk of old, with steps sedate.

Let's have no word of all the sweat and blood, Of all the noise and strife and dust and smoke (We who have seen Death surging like a flood, Wave upon wave, that leaped and raced and broke).

Or let's sit silently, we three together, Around a wide hearth-fire that's glowing red, Giving no thought to all the stormy weather That flies above the roof-tree overhead.

And he, the fourth, that lies all silently In some far-distant and untended grave, Under the shadow of a shattered tree, Shall leave the company of the hapless brave,

And draw nigh unto us for memory's sake, Because a look, a word, a deed, a friend, Are bound with cords that never a man may break, Unto his heart for ever, until the end.

"Save that Poetic Fire"

_Save_ that poetic fire Burns in the hidden heart, Save that the full-voiced choir Sings in a place apart,

Man that's of woman born, With all his imaginings, Were less than the dew of morn, Less than the least of things.

The Burial of Sophocles

The First Verses

_Gather_ great store of roses, crimson-red From ancient gardens under summer skies: New opened buds, and some that soon must shed Their leaves to earth, that all expectant lies; Some from the paths of poets' wandering, Some from the places where young lovers meet, Some from the seats of dreamers pondering, And all most richly red, and honey-sweet.

For in the splendour of the afternoon, When sunshine lingers on the glittering town And glorifies the temples wondrous-hewn All set about it like a deathless crown, We will go mingle with the solemn throng, With neither eyes that weep, nor hearts that bleed, That to his grave with slow, majestic song Bears down the latest of the godlike seed.

Many a singer lies on distant isle Beneath the canopy of changing sky: Around them waves innumerable smile, And o'er their head the restless seabirds cry: But we will lay him far from sound of seas, Far from the jutting crags' unhopeful gloom, Where there blows never wind save summer breeze, And where the growing rose may clasp his tomb.

And thither in the splendid nights of spring, When stars in legions over heaven are flung, Shall come the ancient gods, all wondering Why he sings not that had so richly sung: There Heracles with peaceful foot shall press The springing herbage, and Hephaestus strong, Hera and Aphrodite's loveliness, And the great giver of the choric song.

And thither, after weary pilgrimage, From unknown lands beyond the hoary wave, Shall travellers through every coming age Approach to pluck a blossom from his grave: Some in the flush of youth, or in the prime, Whose life is still as heaped gold to spend, And some who have drunk deep of grief and time, And who yet linger half-afraid the end.

The Interlude

It was upon a night of spring, Even the time when first do sing The new-returned nightingales; Whenas all hills and woods and dales Are resonant with melody Of songs that die not, but shall be Unto the latest hour of time Beyond the life of word or rime-- Whenas all brooks more softly flow Remembering lovers long ago That stood upon their banks and vowed, And love was with them like a cloud: There came one out of Athens town In a spun robe, with sandals brown, Just when the white ship of the moon Had first set sail, and many a rune Was written in the argent stars; His feet were set towards the hills Because he knew that there the rills Ran down like jewels, and fairy cars Galloped, maybe, among the dells, And airy sprites wove fitful spells Of gossamer and cold moonshine Which do most mistily entwine: And ever the hills called, and a voice Cried: "Soon, maybe, comes thy choice Twixt mortal immortality Such as shall never be again, 'Twixt the most passionate-pleasant pain And all the quiet, barren joys That old men prate about to boys."

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He wandered many nights and days-- Whose morns were always crystal clear, As lay the world in still amaze Enchanted of the springing year, And all the nights with wakeful eyes Watched for another dawn to rise-- Till at the last the mountain tops Received him, which like giant props Stand, lest the all-encircling sky Fall down, and men be crushed and die. And so he reached a curved hill Whereon the horned moon did seem Her richest radiance to spill In an inestimable stream, Like jewels rare of countless price, Or wizard magic turned to ice.

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And as he reached the topmost crest of it, Lo! the Olympian majesties did sit In a most high and passionless conclave: They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips, And ever and anon the golden wave Flowed of the drink divine, which only strips This mortal frame of its mortality. And there, and there was Aphrodite, she That is more lovely than the golden dawn And from a ripple of the sea was born: And there was Hera, the imperious queen, And Dian's chastity, that hunts unseen What time with spring the woodland boughs are green: And there was Pan with mirth and pleasantness, And Eros' self that never knew distress Save for the love of the fair Cretan maid; There Hermes with the wings of speed arrayed, And awful Zeus, the king of gods and men, And ever at his feet Apollo sang A measure of changing harmonies that rang From that high mountain over all the world, And all the sails of fighting ships were furled, And men drew breath, and there was peace again. But him that saw, the sight like flame Or depths of waters overcame: He swooned, nor heard how ceased the choir Of strings upon Apollo's lyre, Nor saw he how the sweet god stood And smiled on him in kindly mood, And stooped, and kissed him as he lay; Then lightly rose and turned away To join the bright immortal throng And make for them another song.

The Last Verses

O ageless nonpareil of stars That shinest through a mist of cloud, O light beyond the prison bars Remote, unwavering, and proud; Fortunate star and happy light, Ye benison the gloom of night.

All hail, unfailing eye and hand, All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice, That makest dead men understand, The very dead in graves rejoice: Whose utterance, writ in ancient books, Shall always live, for him that looks.

Many as leaves from autumn trees The years shall flutter from on high, And with their multiple decease The souls of men shall fall and die, Yet, while the empires turn to dust, You shall live on, because you must.

O seven times happy he that dies After the splendid harvest-tide, When strong barns shield from winter skies The grain that's rightly stored inside: There death shall scatter no more tears Than o'er the falling of the years:

Aye, happy seven times is he Who enters not the silent doors Before his time, but tenderly Death beckons unto him, because There's rest within for weary feet Now all the journey is complete.

"So we lay down the Pen"

_So_ we lay down the pen, So we forbear the building of the rime, And bid our hearts be steel for times and a time Till ends the strife, and then, When the New Age is verily begun, God grant that we may do the things undone.

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_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._