Chapter 2
What happy hearts those feathered mortals have, That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring! For in that month of May when leaves are young, Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing.
And when the spring has gone and they are dumb, Is it not fine to watch them at their play: Is it not fine to see a bird that tries To stand upon the end of every spray?
See how they tilt their pretty heads aside: When women make that move they always please. What cosy homes birds make in leafy walls That Nature's love has ruined--and the trees.
Oft have I seen in fields the little birds Go in between a bullock's legs to eat; But what gives me most joy is when I see Snow on my doorstep, printed by their feet.
OH, SWEET CONTENT!
Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweat To tears of joy, and shines the roughest face; How often have I sought you high and low, And found you still in some lone quiet place;
Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams, With no life heard beyond that merry sound Of moths that on my lighted ceiling kiss Their shadows as they dance and dance around;
Or in a garden, on a summer's night, When I have seen the dark and solemn air Blink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright face Twitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.
A CHILD'S PET
When I sailed out of Baltimore With twice a thousand head of sheep, They would not eat, they would not drink, But bleated o'er the deep.
Inside the pens we crawled each day, To sort the living from the dead; And when we reached the Mersey's mouth Had lost five hundred head.
Yet every night and day one sheep, That had no fear of man or sea, Stuck through the bars its pleading face, And it was stroked by me.
And to the sheep-men standing near, 'You see,' I said, 'this one tame sheep: It seems a child has lost her pet, And cried herself to sleep.'
So every time we passed it by, Sailing to England's slaughter-house, Eight ragged sheep-men--tramps and thieves-- Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
ENGLAND
We have no grass locked up in ice so fast That cattle cut their faces and at last, When it is reached, must lie them down and starve, With bleeding mouths that freeze too hard to move. We have not that delirious state of cold That makes men warm and sing when in Death's hold. We have no roaring floods whose angry shocks Can kill the fishes dashed against their rocks. We have no winds that cut down street by street, As easy as our scythes can cut down wheat. No mountains here to spew their burning hearts Into the valleys, on our human parts. No earthquakes here, that ring church bells afar, A hundred miles from where those earthquakes are. We have no cause to set our dreaming eyes, Like Arabs, on fresh streams in Paradise. We have no wilds to harbour men that tell More murders than they can remember well. No woman here shall wake from her night's rest, To find a snake is sucking at her breast. Though I have travelled many and many a mile, And had a man to clean my boots and smile With teeth that had less bone in them than gold-- Give me this England now for all my world.
THE BELL
It is the bell of death I hear, Which tells me my own time is near, When I must join those quiet souls Where nothing lives but worms and moles; And not come through the grass again, Like worms and moles, for breath or rain; Yet let none weep when my life's through, For I myself have wept for few.
The only things that knew me well Were children, dogs, and girls that fell; I bought poor children cakes and sweets, Dogs heard my voice and danced the streets; And, gentle to a fallen lass, I made her weep for what she was. Good men and women know not me. Nor love nor hate the mystery.
* * * * *
WALTER DE LA MARE
THE SUNKEN GARDEN
Speak not--whisper not; Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; Softly on the evening hour, Secret herbs their spices shower, Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh, Lean-stalked, purple lavender; Hides within her bosom, too, All her sorrows, bitter rue.
Breathe not--trespass not; Of this green and darkling spot, Latticed from the moon's beams, Perchance a distant dreamer dreams; Perchance upon its darkening air, The unseen ghosts of children fare, Faintly swinging, sway and sweep, Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep; While, unmoved, to watch and ward, 'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward, Stands with bowed and dewy head That one little leaden Lad.
MOONLIGHT
The far moon maketh lovers wise In her pale beauty trembling down, Lending curved cheeks, dark lips, dark eyes, A strangeness not their own. And, though they shut their lids to kiss, In starless darkness peace to win, Even on that secret world from this Her twilight enters in.
THE TRYST
Flee into some forgotten night and be Of all dark long my moon-bright company: Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come, There, out of all remembrance, make our home: Seek we some close hid shadow for our lair, Hollowed by Noah's mouse beneath the chair Wherein the Omnipotent, in slumber bound, Nods till the piteous Trump of Judgment sound. Perchance Leviathan of the deep sea Would lease a lost mermaiden's grot to me, There of your beauty we would joyance make-- A music wistful for the sea-nymph's sake: Haply Elijah, o'er his spokes of fire, Cresting steep Leo, or the heavenly Lyre, Spied, tranced in azure of inanest space, Some eyrie hostel, meet for human grace, Where two might happy be--just you and I-- Lost in the uttermost of Eternity. Think! in Time's smallest clock's minutest beat Might there not rest be found for wandering feet? Or, 'twixt the sleep and wake of Helen's dream, Silence wherein to sing love's requiem?
No, no. Nor earth, nor air, nor fire, nor deep Could lull poor mortal longingness asleep. Somewhere there nothing is; and there lost Man Shall win what changeless vague of peace he can.
THE LINNET
Upon this leafy bush With thorns and roses in it, Flutters a thing of light, A twittering linnet. And all the throbbing world Of dew and sun and air By this small parcel of life Is made more fair; As if each bramble-spray And mounded gold-wreathed furze, Harebell and little thyme, Were only hers; As if this beauty and grace Did to one bird belong, And, at a flutter of wing, Might vanish in song.
THE VEIL
I think and think: yet still I fail-- Why must this lady wear a veil? Why thus elect to mask her face Beneath that dainty web of lace? The tip of a small nose I see, And two red lips, set curiously Like twin-born berries on one stem, And yet, she has netted even them. Her eyes, 'tis plain, survey with ease Whate'er to glance upon they please. Yet, whether hazel, gray, or blue, Or that even lovelier lilac hue, I cannot guess: why--why deny Such beauty to the passer-by? Out of a bush a nightingale May expound his song; from 'neath that veil A happy mouth no doubt can make English sound sweeter for its sake. But then, why muffle in like this What every blossomy wind would kiss? Why in that little night disguise A daybreak face, those starry eyes?
THE THREE STRANGERS
Far are those tranquil hills, Dyed with fair evening's rose; On urgent, secret errand bent, A traveller goes.
Approach him strangers three, Barefooted, cowled; their eyes Scan the lone, hastening solitary With dumb surmise.
One instant in close speech With them he doth confer: God-sped, he hasteneth on, That anxious traveller....
I was that man--in a dream: And each world's night in vain I patient wait on sleep to unveil Those vivid hills again.
Would that they three could know How yet burns on in me Love--from one lost in Paradise-- For their grave courtesy.
THE OLD MEN
Old and alone, sit we, Caged, riddle-rid men; Lost to earth's 'Listen!' and 'See!' Thought's 'Wherefore?' and 'When?'
Only far memories stray Of a past once lovely, but now Wasted and faded away, Like green leaves from the bough.
Vast broods the silence of night, The ruinous moon Lifts on our faces her light, Whence all dreaming is gone.
We speak not; trembles each head; In their sockets our eyes are still; Desire as cold as the dead; Without wonder or will.
And One, with a lanthorn, draws near, At clash with the moon in our eyes: 'Where art thou?' he asks: 'I am here,' One by one we arise.
And none lifts a hand to withhold A friend from the touch of that foe: Heart cries unto heart, 'Thou art old!' Yet reluctant, we go.
FARE WELL
When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me? Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be?
Oh, when this my dust surrenders Hand, foot, lip, to dust again, May those loved and loving faces Please other men! May the rusting harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller's Joy entwine, And as happy children gather Posies once mine.
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days.
* * * * *
JOHN DRINKWATER
DEER
Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer. They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody near Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live, Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive Treading as in jungles free leopards do, Printless as evelight, instant as dew. The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheep Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep Delicate and far their counsels wild, Never to be folded reconciled To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are; Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar, These you may not hinder, unconfined Beautiful flocks of the mind.
MOONLIT APPLES
At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows, And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then There is no sound at the top of the house of men Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams; On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams, And quiet is the steep stair under.
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep. And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep On moon-washed apples of wonder.
SOUTHAMPTON BELLS
I
Long ago some builder thrust Heavenward in Southampton town His spire and beamed his bells, Largely conceiving from the dust That pinnacle for ringing down Orisons and Noels.
In his imagination rang, Through generations challenging His peal on simple men, Who, as the heart within him sang, In daily townfaring should sing By year and year again.
II
Now often to their ringing go The bellmen with lean Time at heel, Intent on daily cares; The bells ring high, the bells ring low, The ringers ring the builder's peal Of tidings unawares.
And all the bells might well be dumb For any quickening in the street Of customary ears; And so at last proud builders come With dreams and virtues to defeat Among the clouding years.
III
Now, waiting on Southampton sea For exile, through the silver night I hear Noel! Noel! Through generations down to me Your challenge, builder, comes aright, Bell by obedient bell.
You wake an hour with me; then wide Though be the lapses of your sleep You yet shall wake again; And thus, old builder, on the tide Of immortality you keep Your way from brain to brain.
CHORUS FROM 'LINCOLN'
You who have gone gathering Cornflowers and meadowsweet, Heard the hazels glancing down On September eves, Seen the homeward rooks on wing Over fields of golden wheat, And the silver cups that crown Water-lily leaves;
You who know the tenderness Of old men at eve-tide, Coming from the hedgerows, Coming from the plough, And the wandering caress Of winds upon the woodside, When the crying yaffle goes Underneath the bough;
You who mark the flowing Of sap upon the May-time, And the waters welling From the watershed, You who count the growing Of harvest and hay-time, Knowing these the telling Of your daily bread;
You who cherish courtesy With your fellows at your gate, And about your hearthstone sit Under love's decrees, You who know that death will be Speaking with you soon or late, Kinsmen, what is mother-wit But the light of these?
Knowing these, what is there more For learning in your little years? Are not these all gospels bright Shining on your day? How then shall your hearts be sore With envy and her brood of fears, How forget the words of light From the mountain-way ...
Blessed are the merciful ... Does not every threshold seek Meadows and the flight of birds For compassion still? Blessed are the merciful ... Are we pilgrims yet to speak Out of Olivet the words Of knowledge and good-will?
HABITATION
High up in the sky there, now, you know, In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep, Tenantless, and no creature there to go Near it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheep Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hears Under that cherry-tree the night-jars yet, The windows are uncurtained; on the stairs Silence is but by tip-toe silence met. All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put by From use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.
Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May-- Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep, With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day To the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep, This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives, Breathing upon that still, insensible place, Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives, And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace, That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this, One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they, Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May, Signs that even the curious man would miss, Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour, Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ... The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb-- But we are there--we are waiting ourselves who come.
PASSAGE
When you deliberate the page Of Alexander's pilgrimage, Or say--'It is three years, or ten, Since Easter slew Connolly's men,' Or prudently to judgment come Of Antony or Absalom, And think how duly are designed Case and instruction for the mind, Remember then that also we, In a moon's course, are history.
* * * * *
JOHN FREEMAN
O MUSE DIVINE
O thou, my Muse, Beside the Kentish River running Through water-meads where dews Tossed flashing at thy feet And tossing flashed again When the timid herd By thy swift passing stirred Up-leapt and ran;
Thou that didst fleet Thy shadow over dark October hills By Aston, Weston, Saintbury, Willersey, Winchcombe, and all the combes and hills Of the green lonely land;
Thou that in May Once when I saw thee sunning Thyself so lovely there Than the flushed flower more fair Fallen from the wild apple spray, Didst rise and sprinkling sunlight with thy hand Shadow-like disappear in the deep-shadowy hedges Between forsaken Buckle Street and the sparse sedges Of young twin-breasted Honeybourne;--
O thou, my Muse, Scarce longer seen than the brief hues Of winter cloud that flames Over the tarnished silver Thames; So often nearing, As often disappearing, With thy body's shadow brushing My brain at midnight, lightly touching; O yield thee, Muse, to me, No more in dream delights and morn forgettings, But in a ferny hollow I know well And thou know'st well, warm-proof'd 'gainst the wind's frettings. ... Bring thou thyself, and there In that warm ferny hollow where the sun Slants one gold beam and no light else but thine And my eyes' happy shine-- There, O lovely Muse, Shall on thy shining body be begot, Fruit of delights a many mingling in one, Thy child and mine, a lovely shape and thought; My child and thine, O Muse divine!
THE WAKERS
The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair, And cried, 'Before thy flowers are well awake Rise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.
'Before the daisy and the sorrel buy Their brightness back from that close-folding night, Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake, Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!'
Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirred Above the Roman bones that may not stir Though joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang: The grass stirred as that happy music rang.
O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere! The steady shadows shook and thinned and died, The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness, And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.
As if she had found wings, light as the wind, The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west, Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing all Her dews for happiness to hear morning call....
But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed, I saw the fading edge of all delight. The sober morning waked the drowsy herds, And there was the old scolding of the birds.
THE BODY
When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was, And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed, I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping saw no more: My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed.
'I did not think!' I cried, seeing that wavering shape That steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in June Lifts and falls in the wind--each fruit a fruit of light; And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.
As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near; I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away. Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still, Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.
Water falling, falling with the curve of time Over green-hued rock, then plunging to its pool Far, far below, a falling spear of light; Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:
Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast, Water falls as straight as her body rose, Water her brightness has from neck to still feet, Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.
But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed, Nor water such strength has. I joyed to behold How the blood lit her body with lamps of fire And made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold,
A flame in her arms and in each finger flame, And flame in her bosom, flame above, below, The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs; From foot to head did flame into red flame flow.
I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise, How the body's joy for more than body's use was made. I knew then how the body is the body of the mind, And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.
O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore, Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind, Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world, Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!
If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen-- The inward vision clear--how should I look, for joy, Knowing that beauty's self rose visible in the world Over age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?
TEN O'CLOCK NO MORE [1]
The wind has thrown The boldest of trees down. Now disgraced it lies, Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies, Naked and still.
It was the wind So furious and blind That scourged half England through, Ruining the fairest where most fair it grew By dell and hill,
And springing here, The black clouds dragging near, Against this lonely elm Thrust all his strength to maim and overwhelm In one wild shock.
As in the deep Satisfaction of dark sleep The tree her dream dreamed on, And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrown And her head rock.
And the wind raught Her ageing boughs and caught Her body fast again. Then in one agony of age, grief, pain, She fell and died.
Her noble height, Branches that loved the light, Her music and cool shade, Her memories and all of her is dead On the hill side.
But the wind stooped, With madness tired, and drooped In the soft valley and slept, While morning strangely round the hush'd tree crept And called in vain.
The birds fed where The roots uptorn and bare Thrust shameful at the sky; And pewits round the tree would dip and cry With the old pain.
'Ten o'clock's gone!' Said sadly every one. And mothers looking thought Of sons and husbands far away that fought:-- And looked again.
[Footnote 1: "Ten o'clock" is the name of a tall tree that crowned the eastern Cotswolds.]
THE FUGITIVE
In the hush of early even The clouds came flocking over, Till the last wind fell from heaven And no bird cried.
Darkly the clouds were flocking, Shadows moved and deepened, Then paused; the poplar's rocking Ceased; the light hung still
Like a painted thing, and deadly. Then from the cloud's side flickered Sharp lightning, thrusting madly At the cowering fields.
Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd, Down the hill slow thunder trembled Day in her cave grew frightened, Crept away, and died.
THE ALDE
How near I walked to Love, How long, I cannot tell. I was like the Alde that flows Quietly through green level lands, So quietly, it knows Their shape, their greenness and their shadows well; And then undreamingly for miles it goes And silently, beside the sea.
Seamews circle over, The winter wildfowl wings, Long and green the grasses wave Between the river and the sea. The sea's cry, wild or grave, From bank to low bank of the river rings; But the uncertain river though it crave The sea, knows not the sea.
Was that indeed salt wind? Came that noise from falling Wild waters on a stony shore? Oh, what is this new troubling tide Of eager waves that pour Around and over, leaping, parting, recalling?... How near I moved (as day to same day wore) And silently, beside the sea!
NEARNESS
Thy hand my hand, Thine eyes my eyes, All of thee Caught and confused with me: My hand thy hand, My eyes thine eyes, All of me Sunken and discovered anew in thee....
No: still A foreign mind, A thought By other yet uncaught; A secret will Strange as the wind: The heart of thee Bewildering with strange fire the heart in me.
Hand touches hand, Eye to eye beckons, But who shall guess Another's loneliness? Though hand grasp hand, Though the eye quickens, Still lone as night Remain thy spirit and mine, past touch and sight.
NIGHT AND NIGHT
The earth is purple in the evening light, The grass is graver green. The gold among the meadows darker glows, In the quieted air the blackbird sings more loud. The sky has lost its rose-- Nothing more than this candle now shines bright.
Were there but natural night, how easy were The putting-by of sense At the day's end, and if no heavier air Came o'er the mind in a thick-falling cloud. But now there is no light Within; and to this innocent night how dark my night!
THE HERD