Part 1
OXFORD POETRY
1917
EDITED BY
W. R. C., T. W. E., AND D. L. S.
(_SECOND IMPRESSION_)
OXFORD B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET 1918
OXFORD POETRY SERIES
OXFORD POETRY 1910-1913. Edited by G. D. H. C., G. P. D., and W. S. V. With an Introduction by GILBERT MURRAY. Cloth boards, 4s. net.
OXFORD POETRY 1914. Edited by G. D. H. C. and W. S. V. With a Preface by Sir WALTER RALEIGH. [_Out of print._
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OXFORD POETRY 1916. Edited by T. W. E., W R. C., and A. L. H. Uniform with the above.
OXFORD POETRY 1914-1916. Uniform with the 1910-1913 volume. Now ready. 4s. net.
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CONTENTS
P. BLOOMFIELD (BALLIOL) PAGE SECOND-BEST 1
M. ST. CLARE BYRNE (SOMERVILLE) FAVETE LINGUIS 2
J. E. A. CARVER (MAGDALEN) TINTAGIL 3
EUGENE PARKER CHASE (MAGDALEN) ON SUSSEX DOWNS 4
W. R. CHILDE (MAGDALEN) THE LAST ABBOT OF GLOUCESTER 5 THE GOTHIC ROSE 6
GERALD H. CROW (HERTFORD) AD DOMINAM SUAM MARIAM VIRGINEM 7 DESIDERIO DESIDERAVI 8 HUMILITY 9
D. N. DALGLISH (ST. HILDA'S) OTMOOR 10
E. C. DICKINSON (NON-COLL.) A CHILD'S VOICE 12 RIVER SONG 14
E. R. DODDS (UNIVERSITY) MEASURE 15
C. J. DRUCE (NON-COLL.) THE MEETING 16
T. W. EARP (EXETER) THE CANAL 18 SOLITUDE 19
U. ELLIS-FERMOR (SOMERVILLE) SED MILES 20
JOAN EVANS (ST. HUGH'S) THE HAMADRYAD 21
FLORA FORSTER (SOMERVILLE) DUCKLINGTON 22
L. GIELGUD (MAGDALEN) SUMMER DEVILRY 23
ROBERT GRAVES (ST. JOHN'S) DOUBLE RED DAISIES 24 DEAD COW FARM 25
RUSSELL GREEN (QUEEN'S) DE MUNDO 26
MERCY HARVEY (ST. HILDA'S) SONG 28
H. C. HARWOOD (BALLIOL) CALL OF THE DEAD 29 RETURN 30
E. E. ST. L. HILL (KEBLE) DIFFIDENCE 32
A. L. HUXLEY (BALLIOL) L'APRÈS-MIDI D'UN FAUNE 33
C. R. JURY (MAGDALEN) LOVE 37 SONNET 38
CHAMAN LALL (JESUS) "THIRTY YEARS AFTER" 39
M. LEIGH (SOMERVILLE) TWO EPITAPHS 41
E. H. W. MEYERSTEIN (MAGDALEN) THE FINGER 42 LONDON 43
EVAN MORGAN (CHRIST CHURCH) IN OLDEN DAYS 45 A SERENADE 46
F. ST. V. MORRIS (WADHAM) LAST POEM 47
ROBERT NICHOLS (TRINITY) THE MAN OF HONOUR 48
ELIZABETH RENDALL (HOME STUDENT) MY SOUL IS AN INFANTA 50
D. L. SAYERS (SOMERVILLE) FAIR EREMBOURS 52
H. SIMPSON (HOME STUDENT) "THERE ARE QUANTITIES OF THINGS" 54
E. E. SMITH (UNIVERSITY) THE VOYAGE 55
L. A. G. STRONG (WADHAM) THE MAD MAN 56 THE BAIT-DIGGER'S SON 57
D. E. A. WALLACE (SOMERVILLE) SONNET IN CONTEMPT OF DEATH 59
LEO WARD (CHRIST CHURCH) THE LAST COMMUNION 60
_P. BLOOMFIELD_
(_BALLIOL_)
SECOND-BEST
I would sail all alone up the stream, Since you are far away, dear brother; I would sail alone, and rather dream Of you, than change thoughts with another.
Now May is come so beautiful, so blue, And the chestnuts and the willows are green Again ... then, since I may not be near you, Dear brother, let me sail alone, unseen, 'Neath the overhanging buds, past rushes Where the white, graceful swan sits on her nest, Hear the song of the ripples and thrushes And be with solitude ... the second-best.
All alone up the stream would I sail, Think of your smile, and your voice, and eyes, Fear you were out of a fairy-tale, Paint your vision, brother, in the skies.
_M. ST. CLARE BYRNE_
(_SOMERVILLE_)
FAVETE LINGUIS
There are few people, being by, That leave me peacefully to lie: Mostly their restless brains, or mine, Seek each the other to divine: Silence, that rightfully should be Clear-hearted as a stretch of sea That runs far inland, luminous, To rest in still shades verdurous, Becomes instead a thwarted thing, With only waywardness to bring.
All otherwise in you I find The inner places of the mind: The gift of quiet on your brow Like some long benediction now Closes upon me: spirit-born Tranquillity enfolds each worn Wan thought, with slender fingers cool Drawing away from off the pool Of night the mists that hide a star, Dreaming wondrously afar: Till vision cometh down for me In gracious white serenity.
_J. E. A. CARVER_
(_MAGDALEN_)
TINTAGIL
I lay on the verge of a Western cliff On a waning Summer's day, And watched the seagulls' skimming flight As their shrill call filled the bay.
The waves rolled on from pool to pool To the end of the rock-strewn lea: Where a glistening stream through a vale sped on, With its leaping trout, to the sea.
The wind rose, too, from a breath to a blast As the rising tide drew near, And the rain-clouds swelled from the distant deep, So I knew 'twas a storm to fear.
I've lived on that coast for years now, And I love the roar of the waves As they lash the seaweed on the shore, And the cold grey rocks and the caves.
_EUGENE PARKER CHASE_
(_MAGDALEN_)
ON SUSSEX DOWNS
A boy stood on the windy Sussex downs, Resting a moment in his lonely walk To gaze at the fresh fields, and their neighbour towns Sunk in the valleys watered by thin streams And sheltered by the pallid hills of chalk.
It seemed a land for slow and leisured dreams, For fantasy, vague and cool as the mist. The church there in the field, with yew-trees round Should send across the air a silver sound Of holy bells. The loud rooks should desist A moment from their cawing; the dim sun Brighten his face, the rounded meadows glisten, And all the windswept grassy hillsides listen And then take up the sound the bells begun.
Slowly, at length, rounding the hill, a white, Long, slender, floating airship flies. It, of this quiet landscape, is the sight Most peaceful--white splash on the blue spring skies. It passes over the church-crowned slope, it blends Its whiteness for a moment with the cloud, And finally, with nose a little bowed, Off towards the distant sea its course it bends.
The watching boy beheld no other change In all the placid, comfortable scene, And yet he deeply realized what mean The airships and the other things that are strange, But form a living part of England now; And when he left the place where he had been, He seemed to have become a man somehow.
_W. R. CHILDE_
(_MAGDALEN_)
THE LAST ABBOT OF GLOUCESTER
The Middle Ages sleep in alabaster A delicate fine sleep. They never knew The irreparable hell of that disaster, That broke with hammers Heaven's fragile blue.
Yea, crowned and robed and silent he abides, Last of the Romans and that ivory calm, Beneath whose wings august the minster-sides Trembled like virgins to the perfect Psalm.
Yea, it is gone with him, yea, it returns not; The gilt proud sanctuaries are dust, the high Steam of the violet fragrant frankincense burns not: All gone; it was too beautiful to die.
It was too beautiful to live; the world Ne'er rotted it with her slow-creeping hells: Men shall not see the Vision crowned and pearled, When Jerusalem blossomed in the noontide bells!
THE GOTHIC ROSE
Amid the blue smoke of gem-glassed chapels You shall find Me, the white five-wounded Flower, The Rose of Sarras. Yea, the moths have eaten, And fretted the gold cloths of the duke of York, And lost is the scarlet cloak of the cardinal Beaufort; Tapers are quencht and rods of silver broken, Where once king Richard dined beneath the leopards: But think you that any beautifulness is wasted, Wherewith Mine angels have blessed the blue-eyed English, Twining into stone an obscure dream of Heaven, A crown of flinty spines about the Rose, A slim flame blessing the coronal of thorns? And York is for ever the White Rose of Mary, And Lancaster is dipt in the Precious Blood, Though the high shrine that was built by the king of the Romans Be down at Hayles, and the abbey of saint Mary Be shattered now in three-towered Eboracum.
_GERALD H. CROW_
(_HERTFORD_)
AD DOMINAM SUAM MARIAM VIRGINEM
O lily Lady of loveliness, O tender-hearted, marvellous-eyed, Bend from Thine aureate throne and bless The lonely people and comfortless At Jesu-Mass and Vespertide.
And bless the mighty and proud of mien, The scornful folk that pity and pass,-- For they are lonely as none have been, The proud that lack on whom to lean-- At Vespertide and Jesu-Mass.
And bless before Thou makest end Both me and mine in sorrow and pride, Where frankincense and prayer ascend And kneeling lilies whisper and bend At Jesu-Mass and Vespertide.
DESIDERIO DESIDERAVI
Dear Father God, I want but one thing now. Because I have been heart-proud all my days, And given and asked all proudly for Love's sake, In search of some lost tenderness out of the world, And somehow never found it, I want this. I want to choose my death as I have chosen Mine other lovers proudly, and cleave to him. I do not want to die afraid and failing Some king that trusted me; nor yet to leave This beautiful bright-coloured world in anguish, Dirt, ugliness, old age, or shamefully Eaten up with lust. I want to make myself Lovelier on that last day than any of these My lovers yet have found me, and so to die Calmly by mine own hand and follow after That tenderness that somehow passed me by, That tenderness that will not let me be.
HUMILITY
Take counsel, O my friend, of your heart's pride, And choose the proud thing alway. Never heed The "wretched, rash, intruding fools" of the world, Nor take the half-truths that life brings old men For wisdom: nor the naked indecencies That purity-mongers have shamed children with For goodness: nor the silly hypocrisies Of mean men for humility. But say, "God is my Father. Christ was young and died To comfort me. The towering archangels With all their blue and gold and steely mail Are my strong helpers and mine elder brothers. The sweet white virgins gone to martyrdom Calm-eyed and singing are my sisters." Yea, Because of all these things keep your heart proud. Be proud enough to serve the poor, too proud To attend the rich: enough to love, not hate, And give, not sell. Remember gentleness Is the heart's pride of understanding, truth Her greatness that will not be afraid for wrath Nor flatter favour. This remember also, The pure in heart shall walk like fierce white flames Questing across the world in goodlier hope And knightlier courtesy than they of the Graal, For these are they in the end that shall see God.
_D. N. DALGLISH_
(_ST. HILDA'S_)
OTMOOR
The armies take the field in May, And trees go marching all the day On Otmoor, where the winds are strong And mornings are a season long; Where shining clouds halt for a pace, Idling behind out of the race. On Otmoor, hedges never die Once spring has flung her tapestry; And there most kindly summer throws The lightest snowflakes of the rose, And buttercups grow tall and straight In fields that keep an open gate, And daisies make a frosty gleam; And yet you may not sleep nor dream, Though field and road and wood are blessed, Touched by the peaceful hands of rest. On Otmoor, you may hear the voice Of living green things that rejoice-- Hedges that boast defended fields, And green seclusions proud of shields; Great open deserts in the sky, Cool icebergs slowly riding by In the unruffled sea of blue; Branches that let the sun pass through, The cuckoo and the ecstatic lark, Shadows that play at being dark-- In every leaf and stem and flower There throbs a kindly, silent power, And energies of being pass From every breeze that stirs the grass, And close around, with friendly care, I feel the encircling sky and air, That keep me safe, that hold without Each shuddering fear, each traitorous doubt. So am I safe and fenced around; Boundless themselves, they set my bound, For, should I make the ring less wide, My fears start up on every side; And only in unmeasured space Can lives meet Life with braver face. Here I may watch the silent earth Consuming what shall come to birth; For every leaf that falls and dies Unbounded woodlands shall arise, And though the roadside stream be dead, New springs leap at the mountain head.
_E. C. DICKINSON_
(_NON-COLL._)
A CHILD'S VOICE
'Twas in a far back swallow-time When the air was filled with chime Of Sunday bells that danced in tune With Eastern phantasies, A child within a garden's boon Oft sighed with saddened eyes.
A swallow screamed and wheeled at him Beside the greenhouse door; It knew that there he strove to limn The need in his soul's core: And he is lonely and sad who tells His need to Sunday bells.
Of playfellows there was not one To whom at wake of sun The child might turn to speak a dream Of lazy summer seas O'er which a ship rode fair of beam Bringing his soul's keys;
And how a wondrous alien boy Trod proud that ship of Fate. There mid the bells of Sunday joy He whispered, "Come not late Within my longing, for my play Won't keep for any day."
"The greenhouse tank is stagnant now Under the cherry bough; And there a ship is by the quay, The joy of my Baghdad. Oh come, oh come and play with me That I should not be sad."
The jewelled shade of evening's hood Held many Eastern tales; And cinnamon and sandalwood Lurked in his camels' bales. But then a swallow harshly screamed And tumbled what he dreamed.
And that was back in swallow-time With life a child's rhyme. And some came true of what he dreamed, And some has been forgot. But life with sadness still is seamed, And thorns take long to rot.
RIVER SONG
One day I would be glad And with all quiet be Except your cadenced murmur Beside the willow-tree.
One day I would be glad With fields of king-cup gold: One day of dancing water Below the cuckoo-fold.
One day I would be glad With crowned vermilion kings Whose scarves are lilies blowing Where youth for ever sings.
One day I would be glad With Oxford's poplared grace: One day with love between us And then--to lose your face.
_E. R. DODDS_
(_UNIVERSITY_)
MEASURE
I think we are made the prisoners of the sun, Snared in the waxing and the waning passion, Lest life should grow intense To burn up sense And lose life's fashion in the unfashioned One.
I believe the cool unlabouring dark is sent Swift on the wildness of the day's mad ending Lest the delight of fire Consume desire And in Love's spending Love itself be spent.
I believe the rain-soft autumn has its task To curb the stretched importunate flame of summer, For fear too strong a fever Should quite dissever The invisible murmur from the coloured mask.
This is the sun's wisdom: that change and rest And change, the embodied world's recurrent measure, In check and counterpoise Contain all joys Lest the one treasure perish, being possessed.
_C. J. DRUCE_
(_NON-COLL._)
THE MEETING
But we should meet in very different wise-- On some clear-lifted crest when sunset stills Wide cleansing winds, and transient beauty lies Immortal in the moment it fulfils:
Or down a deep glade you should come to me, Moving your limbs with slow primordial ease, With eyes whose calm has caught the mystery That walks at dawn beneath the gloom of trees:
Or by the tenderness of a placid stream: Or anywhere where trivial clamours cease, And things irrelevant fade like a dream, That souls may grow articulate in peace.
Instead of this, I know what will befall:-- The seething station where, urged and confined, Chaotic energies interweave and brawl, And confused sights and sounds beat on my mind;
There I shall wait, and feel my spirit's flame (Trained upwards, purged, for that white moment's sake) Flicker, burn thickly, bowing to the claim Of alien currents that I cannot break.
For all the folk who come and go, or stand With strained expectant eyes, or talk with those From whom they soon must part, have at command Some part of my unwilling brain, impose
Conjectured joys and griefs upon my sense, As they, perhaps, guess at my purpose here; And jealous egotisms feed suspense As the desired, half-dreaded hour draws near.
At last a rumble, distant, ominous, hoarse, Swells to a shattering roar that daunts the world; And round the curve, a black embodied force Triumphantly increases, and is hurled
Like a great wave upon us, swallowing all. Vague figures wax and wane and fluctuate In the inane, till one, more steadfast-small, Persists, grows luminous, letting penetrate
Some likeness of your shape, and of your face Some strange reflected charm: I grope to find A hand with mine in the resisting space, Hear my tongue utter what no thought designed,
Weak ineffectual words, unheedful of replies-- Questions of tickets, luggage, urge and swarm-- But far beneath all this, in secret lies An infant consciousness, yet feebly warm
With life, and promise that the time is nigh That crowds or things no longer may subdue, When the dull futile body that is I Shall feel the quickening spirit that is you.
_T. W. EARP_
(_EXETER_)
THE CANAL
When you're tired of books and the dusty, well-known room It's good to put on a gown and go for a walk, Taking deep breaths and smelling the hawthorn bloom By the canal, where shadowy lovers talk.
They are far too happy to care if anyone passes, And you envy a little, as you go along, Those happy lovers of the lower classes Whose emotions are like the rhythm of a rag-time song.
The breath of the summer night is about your head, Burdened with fragrance, lulling the brain to sleep, You begin to forget the dull things you have read, And just go walking on and breathing deep.
SOLITUDE
They have been sitting here until eleven, The loud and the quiet and the one who is never shocked, And we talked of most of the things between hell and heaven, But now the last friend has gone and the door is locked.
And I cannot help feeling, though it's rather silly, A little afraid to be left so quiet and alone; I can hear a petal drop from the tiger-lily, So complete and awful has the silence grown.
I long to hear that tramp of the policeman's Outside the shutters, but the night is dumb, And in a state of tension unknown to Huysmans I wait and wait for the sound that will not come.
_U. ELLIS-FERMOR_
(_SOMERVILLE_)
SED MILES...
Bear the hearse, bear the pall, We shall fare forward, We have answered the problem, We have closed the volume.
In the doubt, in the strife, We chose the giving, We have had light for doubt, We have had our answer.
Doubts of the end of life, We have been spared them; We have given the tangled skein To be cut by the shearers.
Violet scent, flower of broom, We have foregone them, We have given the morning, The gods have accepted, They have pardoned the reckoning.
_JOAN EVANS_
(_ST. HUGH'S_)
THE HAMADRYAD
Her flitting form is slim and pale As beechen stems at night, Her hair is dark as barren trees Against the moon's pale light. Her dreadful seeking hands are curved Like chestnut buds in spring; Against her bosom close she holds A dove with frightened wing. We may not see her as she goes Over the leaf-strewn moss; But see the russet leaves are stirred, Feel some strange sense of loss. We cannot see her cold sad eyes Filled with a craving pain-- We only hear upon the leaves Patter of April rain.
_FLORA FORSTER_
(_SOMERVILLE_)
DUCKLINGTON
Down there at Ducklington The ducks are never old; The geese are always goslings, The catkins always gold. The orchards blossom ever Like foam heaped on a cup, Down there at Ducklington Where never a duck grows up!
Down there at Ducklington The years linger yet At April, with its little leaves And ash-buds of jet. And I could be a child again And drink, as from a cup, Youth, down at Ducklington, Where never a duck grows up!
Down there at Ducklington, With its ducklings ever young, With its year ever at April, And the songs of June unsung-- The potion of eternal youth Is brewed there in a cup-- Down there at Ducklington Where never a duck grows up!
_L. GIELGUD_
(_MAGDALEN_)
SUMMER DEVILRY
The sky is very near to me to-night: It breathes, as from a throat of molten lead, A damnèd effluence about my head, An effluence of hell, a fœtid blight: Dark visions break on my distorted sight Of bloody lust and cruelty and dread, Devils unnamed in their own likeness tread The ways of earth, and are not put to flight. In rifts of voiceless lightning, such as breaks This goitrous firmament, have stood revealed Over the dead in some old battlefield The ghastly dogs of death, and bloated snakes Dripping the slime of Acherontian lakes On some dead sovereign's blood-emblazoned shield.
_ROBERT GRAVES_
(_ST. JOHN'S_)
DOUBLE RED DAISIES
Double red daisies, they're my flowers Which nobody else may grow In a big quarrelsome house like ours They try it sometimes, but no, I root them up because they're my flowers Which nobody else may grow. _Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it. Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifullest flowers in the garden._
Double red daisy, that's my mark: I paint it in all my books. It's carved high up on the beech-tree bark-- How neat and lovely it looks! So don't forget that it's my trademark; Don't copy it in your books. _Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn't plant it; Ben has an iris, but I don't want it. Daisies, double red daisies for me, The beautifullest flowers in the garden._
DEAD COW FARM