Chapter 3
The roaming sheep, forbidden to roam far, Were stayed within the shadow of his eye. The sheep-dog on that unseen shadow's edge Moved, halted, barked, while the tall shepherd stood Unmoving, leaned upon a sarsen stone, Looking at the rain that curtained the bare hills And drew the smoking curtain near and near!-- Tawny, bush-faced, with cloak and staff, and flask And bright brass-ribb'd umbrella, standing stone Against the veinless, senseless sarsen stone. The Roman Road hard by, the green Ridge Way, Not older seemed, nor calmer the long barrows Of bones and memories of ancient days Than the tall shepherd with his craft of days Older than Roman or the oldest caveman, When, in the generation of all living, Sheep and kine flocked in the Aryan valley and The first herd with his voice and skill of water Fleetest of foot, led them into green pastures, From perished pastures to new green. I saw The herdsmen everywhere about the world, And herdsmen of all time, fierce, lonely, wise, Herds of Arabia and Syria And Thessaly, and longer-winter'd climes; And this lone herd, ages before England was, Pelt-clad, and armed with flint-tipped ashen sap, Watching his flocks, and those far flocks of stars Slow moving as the heavenly shepherd willed And at dawn shut into the sunny fold.
* * * * *
WILFRID WILSON GIBSON
WINGS
As a blue-necked mallard alighting in a pool Among marsh-marigolds and splashing wet Green leaves and yellow blooms, like jewels set In bright, black mud, with clear drops crystal-cool, Bringing keen savours of the sea and stir Of windy spaces where wild sunsets flame To that dark inland dyke, the thought of her Into my brooding stagnant being came.
And all my senses quickened into life, Tingling and glittering, and the salt and fire Sang through my singing blood in eager strife Until through crystal airs we seemed to be Soaring together, one fleet-winged desire Of windy sunsets and the wandering sea.
THE PARROTS
Somewhere, somewhen I've seen, But where or when I'll never know, Parrots of shrilly green With crests of shriller scarlet flying Out of black cedars as the sun was dying Against cold peaks of snow.
From what forgotten life Of other worlds I cannot tell Flashes that screeching strife; Yet the shrill colour and shrill crying Sing through my blood and set my heart replying And jangling like a bell.
THE CAKEWALK
In smoky lamplight of a Smyrna Cafe, He saw them, seven solemn negroes dancing, With faces rapt and out-thrust bellies prancing In a slow solemn ceremonial cakewalk, Dancing and prancing to the sombre tom-tom Thumped by a crookbacked grizzled negro squatting. And as he watched ... within the steamy twilight Of swampy forest in rank greenness rotting, That sombre tom-tom at his heartstrings strumming Set all his sinews twitching, and a singing Of cold fire through his blood--and he was dancing Among his fellows in the dank green twilight With naked, oiled, bronze-gleaming bodies swinging In a rapt holy everlasting cakewalk For evermore in slow procession prancing.
DRIFTWOOD
Black spars of driftwood burn to peacock flames, Sea-emeralds and sea-purples and sea-blues, And all the innumerable ever-changing hues That haunt the changeless deeps but have no names, Flicker and spire in our enchanted sight: And as we gaze, the unsearchable mystery, The unfathomed cold salt magic of the sea, Shines clear before us in the quiet night.
We know the secret that Ulysses sought, That moonstruck mariners since time began Snatched at a drowning hazard---strangely brought To our homekeeping hearts in drifting spars We chanced to kindle under the cold stars-- The secret in the ocean-heart of man.
QUIET
Only the footprints of the partridge run Over the billowy drifts on the mountain-side; And now on level wings the brown birds glide Following the snowy curves, and in the sun Bright birds of gold above the stainless white They move, and as the pale blue shadows move, With them my heart glides on in golden flight Over the hills of quiet to my love.
Storm-shaken, racked with terror through the long Tempestuous night, in the quiet blue of morn Love drinks the crystal airs, and peace newborn Within his troubled heart, on wings aglow Soars into rapture, as from the quiet snow The golden birds; and out of silence, song.
REVEILLE
Still bathed in its moonlight slumber, the little white house by the cedar Stands silent against the red dawn; And nothing I know of who sleeps there, to the travail of day yet unwakened, Behind the blue curtains undrawn:
But I dream as we march down the roadway, ringing loud and white-rimed in the moonlight, Of a little dark house on a hill Wherein when the battle is over, to the rapture of day yet unwakened, We shall slumber as dreamless and still.
* * * * *
ROBERT GRAVES
A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME
Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine.
No need for bowl or silver spoon, Sugar or spice or cream, Has the wild berry plucked in June Beside the trickling stream.
One such to melt at the tongue's root, Confounding taste with scent, Beats a full peck of garden fruit: Which points my argument.
May sudden justice overtake And snap the froward pen, That old and palsied poets shake Against the minds of men;
Blasphemers trusting to hold caught In far-flung webs of ink The utmost ends of human thought, Till nothing's left to think.
But may the gift of heavenly peace And glory for all time Keep the boy Tom who tending geese First made the nursery rhyme.
By the brookside one August day, Using the sun for clock, Tom whiled the languid hours away Beside his scattering flock,
Carving with a sharp pointed stone On a broad slab of slate The famous lives of Jumping Joan, Dan Fox and Greedy Kate;
Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds, Spain, Scotland, Babylon, That sister Kate might learn the words To tell to Toddling John.
But Kate, who could not stay content To learn her lesson pat, New beauty to the rough lines lent By changing this or that;
And she herself set fresh things down In corners of her slate, Of lambs and lanes and London Town. God's blessing fall on Kate!
The baby loved the simple sound, With jolly glee he shook, And soon the lines grew smooth and round Like pebbles in Tom's brook,
From mouth to mouth told and retold By children sprawled at ease Before the fire in winter's cold, In June beneath tall trees;
Till though long lost are stone and slate, Though the brook no more runs, And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate, Their sons and their sons' sons;
Yet, as when Time with stealthy tread Lays the rich garden waste, The woodland berry ripe and red Fails not in scent or taste,
So these same rhymes shall still be told To children yet unborn, While false philosophy growing old Fades and is killed by scorn.
A FROSTY NIGHT
Mother: Alice, dear, what ails you, Dazed and white and shaken? Has the chill night numbed you? Is it fright you have taken?
Alice: Mother I am very well, I felt never better; Mother, do not hold me so, Let me write my letter.
Mother: Sweet, my dear, what ails you?
Alice: No, but I am well. The night was cold and frosty, There's no more to tell.
Mother: Ay, the night was frosty, Coldly gaped the moon, Yet the birds seemed twittering Through green boughs of June.
Soft and thick the snow lay, Stars danced in the sky. Not all the lambs of May-day Skip so bold and high.
Your feet were dancing, Alice, Seemed to dance on air, You looked a ghost or angel In the starlight there.
Your eyes were frosted starlight, Your heart, fire, and snow. Who was it said 'I love you?'
Alice: Mother, let me go!
TRUE JOHNNY
Mary: Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true To all those famous vows you've made? Will you love me as I love you Until we both in earth are laid? Or shall the old wives nod and say 'His love was only for a day, The mood goes by, His fancies fly, And Mary's left to sigh.'
Johnny: Mary, alas, you've hit the truth, And I with grief can but admit Hot-blooded haste controls my youth, My idle fancies veer and flit From flower to flower, from tree to tree, And when the moment catches me Oh, love goes by, Away I fly, And leave my girl to sigh.
Mary: Could you but now foretell the day, Johnny, when this sad thing must be, When light and gay you'll turn away And laugh and break the heart in me? For like a nut for true love's sake My empty heart shall crack and break, When fancies fly And love goes by And Mary's left to die.
Johnny: When the sun turns against the clock, When Avon waters upward flow, When eggs are laid by barn-door cock, When dusty hens do strut and crow, When up is down, when left is right, Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight, With careless eye Away I'll fly And Mary here shall die.
THE CUPBOARD
Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary: Which cupboard, mother dear?
Mother: The cupboard of red mahogany With handles shining clear.
Mary: That cupboard, dearest mother, With shining crystal handles? There's nought inside but rags and jags And yellow tallow candles.
Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary: Which cupboard, mother mine?
Mother: That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber, The silver corners shine.
Mary: There's nothing there inside, mother, But wool and thread and flax, And bits of faded silk and velvet And candles of white wax.
Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary? And this time tell me true.
Mary: White clothes for an unborn baby, mother.. But what's the truth to you?
THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED
'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!' The other birds woke all around; Rising with toot and howl they stirred Their plumage, broke the trembling sound, They craned their necks, they fluttered wings, 'While we are silent no one sings, And while we sing you hush your throat, Or tune your melody to our note.'
'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!' The screams and hootings rose again: They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred Their noisy plumage; small but plain The lonely hidden singer made A well of grief within the glade. 'Whist, silly fool, be off,' they shout, 'Or we'll come pluck your feathers out.'
'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!' Slight and small the lovely cry Came trickling down, but no one heard; Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie, Jarred horrid notes, the jangling jay Ripped the fine threads of song away; For why should peeping chick aspire To challenge their loud woodland choir?
Cried it so sweet, that unseen bird? Lovelier could no music be, Clearer than water, soft as curd, Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree. How sang the others all around? Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound, With 'Pretty Poll, Tuwit-tuwoo Peewit, Caw Caw, Cuckoo-Cuckoo.'
How went the song, how looked the bird? If I could tell, if I could show With one quick phrase, one lightning word, I'd learn you more than poets know; For poets, could they only catch Of that forgotten tune one snatch, Would build it up in song or sonnet, And found their whole life's fame upon it.
ROCKY ACRES
This is a wild land, country of my choice, With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. Seldom in these acres is heard any voice But voice of cold water that runs here and there Through rocks and lank heather growing without care. No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky.
He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings, He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye, He catches the trembling of small hidden things, He tears them in pieces dropping from the sky: Tenderness and pity the land will deny, Where life is but nourished from water and rock, A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock.
Time has never journeyed to this lost land, Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date, The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand, Careless if the season be early or late. The skies wander overhead, now blue now slate: Winter would be known by his cold cutting snow If June did not borrow his armour also.
Yet this is my country beloved by me best, The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood, Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest, Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood Bold immortal country whose hill-tops have stood Strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go, Terror for fat burghers in far plains below.
* * * * *
D.H. LAWRENCE
SEVEN SEALS
Since this is the last night I keep you home, Come, I will consecrate you for the journey.
Rather I had you would not go. Nay come, I will not again reproach you. Lie back And let me love you a long time ere you go. For you are sullen-hearted still, and lack The will to love me. But even so I will set a seal upon you from my lip, Will set a guard of honour at each door, Seal up each channel out of which might slip Your love for me.
I kiss your mouth. Ah, love, Could I but seal its ruddy, shining spring Of passion, parch it up, destroy, remove Its softly-stirring, crimson welling-up Of kisses! Oh, help me, God! Here at the source I'd lie for ever drinking and drawing in Your fountains, as heaven drinks from out their course The floods.
I close your ears with kisses And seal your nostrils; and round your neck you'll wear-- Nay, let me work--a delicate chain of kisses. Like beads they go around, and not one misses To touch its fellow on either side.
And there Full mid-between the champaign of your breast I place a great and burning seal of love Like a dark rose, a mystery of rest On the slow bubbling of your rhythmic heart. Nay, I persist, and very faith shall keep You integral to me. Each door, each mystic port Of egress from you I will seal and steep In perfect chrism.
Now it is done. The mort Will sound in heaven before it is undone.
But let me finish what I have begun And shirt you now invulnerable in the mail Of iron kisses, kisses linked like steel. Put greaves upon your thighs and knees, and frail Webbing of steel on your feet. So you shall feel Ensheathed invulnerable with me, with seven Great seals upon your outgoings, and woven Chain of my mystic will wrapped perfectly Upon you, wrapped in indomitable me.
* * * * *
HAROLD MONRO
GRAVITY
I
Fit for perpetual worship is the power That holds our bodies safely to the earth.
When people talk of their domestic gods, Then privately I think of You.
We ride through space upon your shoulders Conveniently and lightly set, And, so accustomed, we relax our hold, Forget the gentle motion of your body-- But You do not forget.
Sometimes you breathe a little faster, Or move a muscle: Then we remember you, O Master.
II
When people meet in reverent groups And sing to their domestic God, You, all the time, dear tyrant, (How I laugh!) Could, without effort, place your hand among them, And sprinkle them about the desert.
But all your ways are carefully ordered, For you have never questioned duty. We watch your everlasting combinations; We call them Fate; we turn them to our pleasure, And when they most delight us, call them beauty.
III
I rest my body on your grass, And let my brain repose in you; I feel these living moments pass, And, from within myself to those far places To be imagined in your times and spaces, Deliberate the various acts you do:--
Sorting and re-arranging worlds of Matter Keenly and wisely. Thus you brought our earth Through stages, and from purpose back to purpose, From fire to fog, to dust, to birth Through beast to man, who led himself to brain-- Then you invoked him back to dust again.
By leave of you he places stone on stone; He scatters seed: you are at once the prop Among the long roots of his fragile crop. You manufacture for him, and insure House, harvest, implement and furniture, And hold them all secure.
IV
The hill ... The trees ... From underneath I feel You pull me with your hand: Through my firm feet up to my heart You hold me,--You are in the land, Reposing underneath the hill.
You keep my balance and my growth. I lift a foot, but where I go You follow: you, the ever-strong, Control the smallest thing I do.
I have some little human power To turn your purpose to my end, For which I thank you every hour. I stand at worship, while you send Thrills up my body to my heart, And I am all in love to know How by your strength you keep me part Of earth, which cannot let me go; How everything I see around, Whether it can or cannot move, Is granted liberty of ground, And freedom to enjoy your love;
Though you are silent always, and, alone To You yourself, your power remains unknown.
GOLDFISH
Harold Monro
They are the angels of that watery world, With so much knowledge that they just aspire To move themselves on golden fins, Or fill their paradise with fire By darting suddenly from end to end.
Glowing a thousand centuries behind In pools half-recollected of the mind, Their large eyes stare and stare, but do not see Beyond those curtains of Eternity.
When twilight flows into the room And air becomes like water, you can feel Their movements growing larger in the gloom, And you are led Backward to where they live beyond the dead.
But in the morning, when the seven rays Of London sunlight one by one incline, They glide to meet them, and their gulping lips Suck the light in, so they are caught and played Like salmon on a heavenly fishing line.
* * * *
Ghosts on a twilight floor, Moving about behind their watery door, Breathing and yet not breathing day and night, They give the house some gleam of faint delight.
DOG
You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff, Asking for that expected walk, (Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff) And almost talk.
And so the moment becomes a moving force; Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark; The sticks grow live to the stride of their vagrant course. You scamper the stairs, Your body informed with the scent and the track and the mark Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares.
We are going OUT. You know the pitch of the word, Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard) The four-legged brain of a walk-ecstatic dog.
Out in the garden your head is already low. (Can you smell the rose? Ah, no.) But your limbs can draw Life from the earth through the touch of your padded paw.
Now, sending a little look to us behind, Who follow slowly the track of your lovely play, You carry our bodies forward away from mind Into the light and fun of your useless day.
* * * * *
Thus, for your walk, we took ourselves, and went Out by the hedge and the tree to the open ground. You ran, in delightful strata of wafted scent, Over the hill without seeing the view; Beauty is smell upon primitive smell to you: To you, as to us, it is distant and rarely found.
Home ... and further joy will be surely there: Supper waiting full of the taste of bone. You throw up your nose again, and sniff, and stare For the rapture known Of the quick wild gorge of food and the still lie-down While your people talk above you in the light Of candles, and your dreams will merge and drown Into the bed-delicious hours of night.
THE NIGHTINGALE NEAR THE HOUSE
Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn: It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond Stares. And you sing, you sing.
That star-enchanted song falls through the air From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound, Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground; And all the night you sing.
My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee As all night long I listen, and my brain Receives your song, then loses it again In moonlight on the lawn.
Now is your voice a marble high and white, Then like a mist on fields of paradise, Now is a raging fire, then is like ice, Then breaks, and it is dawn.
MAN CARRYING BALE
The tough hand closes gently on the load; Out of the mind, a voice Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well their work, Lengthen and pause for help. Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot While all the muscles call to one another: 'Lift! 'and the bulging bale Floats like a butterfly in June.
So moved the earliest carrier of bales, And the same watchful sun Glowed through his body feeding it with light. So will the last one move, And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble. Earth, you designed your man Beautiful both in labour and repose.
THOMAS MOULT
FOR BESSIE, SEATED BY ME IN THE GARDEN
To the heart, to the heart the white petals Quietly fall. Memory is a little wind, and magical The dreaming hours. As a breath they fall, as a sigh; Green garden hours too langorous to waken, White leaves of blossomy tree wind-shaken: As a breath, a sigh, As the slow white drift Of a butterfly. Flower-wings falling, wings of branches One after one at wind's droop dipping; Then with the lift Of the air's soft breath, in sudden avalanches Slipping. Quietly, quietly the June wind flings White wings, White petals, past the footpath flowers Adown my dreaming hours. At the heart, at the heart the butterfly settles. As a breath, a sigh Fall the petals of hours, of the white-leafed flowers, Fall the petalled wings of the butterfly. To my heart, to my heart the white petals Quietly fall.
To the years, other years, old and wistful Drifts my dream. Petal-patined the dream, white-mistful As the dew-sweet haunt of the dim whitebeam Because of memory, a little wind ... It is the gossamer-float of the butterfly This drift of dream From the sweet of to-day to the sweet Of days long drifted by. It is the drift of the butterfly, it is the fleet Drift of petals which my noon has thinned, It is the ebbing out of my life, of the petals of days. To the years, other years, drifts my dream.... Through the haze Of summers long ago Love's entrancements flow, A blue-green pageant of earth, A green-blue pageant of sky, As a stream, Flooding back with lovely delta to my heart. Lo the petalled leafage is finer, under the feet The coarse soil with a rainbow's worth Of delicate colours lies enamelled, Translucently glowing, shining. Each balmy breath of the hours From eastern gleam to westward gloam Is meaning-full as the falling flowers: It is a crystal syllable For love's defining, It is love alone can spell---- Yea, Love remains: after this drift of days Love is here, Love is not dumb. The touch of a silken hand, comradely, untrammelled Is in the sunlight, a bright glance On every ripple of yonder waterways, A whisper in the dance Of green shadows; Nor shall the sunlight be shut out even from the dark.