Part 5

Now all the world is carrying hay And all the world is wise, And O to trudge it once again There in the wake of a green wain That over-tops the rustling lane Beneath familiar skies!

FIRST SNOW

Now Hertha hath, without a doubt, Got all her winter peltry out; And, for the weeds dispersèd show Dark through that field of fallen snow, We may felicitate in her The happy choice of minever.

The well beside the rusty shed Hath screened his pent-house lapt in lead In candour of Carthusian cowl, (Soft as the plumage of white owl), Whose pail, for all the long night’s drouth, Hath foam about his sable mouth.

How dark my cottage window eyes Her wonted landscape’s white disguise— Ho, Sulky-face, thine own brick ledge Beareth such burden as the hedge, And thatch, for all the warmth within, Is bearded like a Capuchin!

TO A CHILD RETURNING HOME UPON A WINDY DAY

Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find, Rosy-cheeked Betsey, in this blust’rous wind Loved of thy Babyhood? Without the door His leaves as running footmen go before Thy lagging feet who with compliant grace Smilest, his kisses mantling on thy face.

Go back and bid him use while yet he may His favour brief and pre-determined day; Bear with his wooing, nor forbid him now Lift the light hair from thine untroubled brow, Whom thou shalt dub a churl, when thou art grown A woman, but for ruffling of thy gown.

THE DEATH OF SIR MATHO

[“Nam quis iniquæ Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se Causidici nova cum veniat lectica Mathonis Plena ipso.”—_Juvenal_, I. 30.]

When Sir Matho lay a-dying and his feet were growing cold, For the fire was out and left the place in gloom, And he could not see the night-light on his cornices of gold And the nurses that were hired for him some grisly gossip told As they lingered in the little dressing-room, There was none to light him candles or to kneel by him and pray And the youth that fed the fire-dogs had packed up and gone away— For where’s the sense of waiting on a man whose days are done? _And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

As Sir Matho lay a-shivering, for Death crept on apace, Came an agèd woman in the flickering light; Like the women of the village, but he didn’t know her face, For his 50-h.p. Panhard used to go at such a pace That he never knew his cottagers by sight. He saw her twist her apron in her ugly withered hands As the poor did who awaited, while he lived, his high commands And Sir Matho blinked upon her like an old dog in the sun. _And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

Then Sir Matho saw she looked on him and waited his desire And he conjured the poor mis-shapen witch To bring some logs of cedar and of oak to light his fire, For he counted on the pity that is never had for hire And is all the poor possess to give the rich. But she wrung her hands and cried to him, “Ah, Sir, I’ve done the oil Wherewith upon a little stove my mess of greens I boil; And coal is dear, and very dear, and fuel have we none.” _And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

She knelt her at his couch’s foot, he saw her sorrow rise, Her tears bestarred his fair embroidered sheet, She pierced his silken coverlid with pity of her eyes, Her tenderness descended, like the dews of Paradise Or grace of shining chrism, upon his feet— The feet that trod the russet woods and broke the bracken curls; And crushed the purple whinberries, that grow for little girls, When the silly foreign feathers fell a-screaming to his gun. _And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

And her tears recalled Sir Matho to a Woman ’neath a Tree, ’Twas an old pietà in his hall below (Bought to pass the time at Christie’s for a song) wherein you see How a Mother holds the Body of her Son upon her knee, But her eyes are red for them that dealt the blow. “This woman has forgiven me, and You forgive,” he cried. “So He may still be merciful.” With that Sir Matho died. But Satan ceased to blow the fire that he had well begun. _And the faggots lie a-rotting where the brown pheasants run._

THE PETALS

Yourself in bed (My lovely Drowsy-head) Your garments lie like petals shed

Upon the floor Whose carpet is strewn o’er With little things that late you wore.

For the morrow’s wear I fold them neat and fair And lay them on the nursery chair;

And round them lie Airs of the hours that die With all their stored-up fragrancy.

As a flower might Give out to the cool night The warmth it drank in day-long light

So wool and lawn From your soft skin withdrawn (Whereon they were assumed at dawn)

Breathe the spent mood, Lost act and attitude, Of the small sweetness they endued.

Ere all turn cold No garment that I hold But shakes a vision from its fold

Of little feet That vainly would be fleet, Tangled about with meadow-sweet,

And of bent knees When Betsey kneeling sees, In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.

Such things I see Folding your clothes, which be Weeds of the dead day’s comedy.

The while I pray Your part may be alway So simple and so good to play,

And do desire Your life may still respire Such sweetness as your cast attire.

POST-COMMUNION

Lord, when to Thine embrace I run Gathered like waters to the Sun, Shape me to such celestial mirth As may go back and glad the earth. Let Thy rays compass me, and crowd Into the semblance of a cloud Mine idle and dispersèd powers; That I, the casket of Thy showers, May, for my closeness, coloured be (Howe’er so faintly) like to Thee,

And when Thou loosest me to go Diffused into Thy world below, May I, till drip of words shall cease, Sing of Refreshment, Light and Peace; And, poured into the Time’s abyss, Revive one blossom for Thy bliss.

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

PAGE The brook along the Romsey road 3 A portly Wood-louse, full of cares 5 When the wind blows without the garden walls 7 How late in the wet twilight doth that bird 8 Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said 9 Within our garden walls you see 10 The fuchsias dangle on their stem 11 My night-dress hangs on fire-guard rail 12 While I stand upon the pavement and I dress the dusty stall 13 When by the fire-light Dulcibel 15 Whom meet we, Betsey, in the wood? 16 How few alack 17 ’Tis the old wife at Rickling, she 19 Pull out my couch across the fire 21 When the Wind comes up the lane 22 What dusky branches fret the yellow sky 23 Three candles had her cake 25 The Baby slumbers through the night 26 With a full house of other folks 27 He who a mangold-patch doth hoe 30 Throw up the cinders, let the night wear through 31 When elm-buds turn from red to green 32 Vainly, my Betsey, to the weeping day 34 O the trucks that leave Southampton bring a smell of twine and tar 36 When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers sets 38 Permit, Dear Sir, that the judicious grieve 39 ’Twas bought in Bruges, the shop was poor 41 The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose note 43 My Betsey-Jane it would not do 45 In Bethlehem Town by lantern light 46 Playthings my Betsey hath, the snail’s cast shell 48 I am not lightly moved, my grief was dumb 49 You taught me ways of gracefulness and fashions of address 51 You that have fenced about my storm-swept ways 52 Pardon, Dear Sir, if with intrusive pen 53 When I was small, great joy it was to see 56 We came on Christmas Day 57 On the high frosty fields afoot at dawn 59 Now night hath fallen on the little town 60 Dear, the delightful world I see 61 So ’tis your will to have a cell 63 My Sorrow diligent would sweep 65 Here lies A. B. who, four years from her birth 67 On the painted bridge at Mottisfont above the Test I’ve stood 70 It is told of the painter Da Vinci 72 Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can 75 Scarce hath the crookèd scythe 77 Four-paws, the kitten from the farm 79 Four-paws, we know the sun is white 81 Time, cunning smith, hath set you in my heart 83 I saw myself encircled in the grey 84 Now candle-flames disperse the rout 86 In Sarum Close, when she had said her say 87 O thou who ’neath the umbrageous trees 88 The world’s a quarry for whose spoils 89 Whiffin, with all thy faults, I love thee still 90 An old white Jocko, kindly and urbane 91 By brook and bent 98 So now my Thames is fairly on the turn 100 So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired 101 Four alders guard a bridge of planks 103 Quite given o’er to shameful destinies 105 O valiant reach of land that doth include 105 The shop-girl in my fingers laid 107 The common pavement dull and grey 108 She ate her oat-cake by the fire 109 Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows 110 You to whose soul a death propitious brings 112 The mallow blooms in late July 117 Now Hertha hath, without a doubt 118 Prythee what mad contentments canst thou find 119 When Sir Matho lay a-dying and his feet were growing cold 120 Yourself in bed 124 Lord, when to Thine embrace I run 126

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

“A poem by Mrs. Helen Parry Eden, ‘A Suburban Night’s Entertainment,’ is in itself good enough to sustain the Englishwoman’s reputation as a judge of verse.”

“A delightful fable.”

“The most sensational feature of this number.” _The Westminster Gazette._

“A very pretty and finished piece of descriptive verse.” _The Queen._

“A little masterpiece.” “JACOB TONSON” in _The New Age_.

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Typographical errors have been silently corrected.

The corrections in the ERRATA have been applied to the text.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.