Part 4

The fresh green smell of inland groves, The pureness of the upper air, Are poorer than his pungent coves That hold strange spices everywhere.

Strong is the salt of open sea; Far out, the virgin brine is keen: No home is there for such as he, Out of the beach he is not seen.

By shallows and capricious foams Are the queer corners he frequents, And in an idle humour roams The borderland of elements.

THE DROMEDARY

In dreams I see the Dromedary still, As once in a gay park, l saw him stand i A thousand eyes in vulgar wonder scanned His humps and hairy neck, and gazed their fill At his lank shanks and mocked with laughter shrill. He never moved: and if his Eastern land Flashed on his eye with stretches of hot sand, It wrung no mute appeal from his proud will. He blinked upon the rabble lazily; And still some trace of majesty forlorn And a coarse grace remained: his head was high, Though his gaunt flanks with a great mange were worn: There was not any yearning in his eye, But on his lips and nostril infinite scorn.

THE PANIC

Pale in her evening silks she sat That but a week had been my bride; Then, while the stars we wondered at, Without a word she left my side; Devious and silent as a bat, I watched her round the garden glide.

Soon o'er the moonlit lawn she streamed, Then floated idly down the glade; Now like a forest nymph she seemed, Now like a light within a shade: She turned, and for a moment gleamed, And suddenly I saw her fade.

I had been held in tranced stare Till she had vanished from my sight; Then did I start in wild despair, And followed fast in mad affright; What if herself a spirit were And had so soon rejoined the night?

G. K. CHESTERTON

WINE AND WATER

Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest scale, He ate his egg with a ladle in an egg-cup big as a pail, And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and the fish he took was Whale, But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out to sail, And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine, "I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine."

The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding off the brink As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink, The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of hell to drink, And Noah he cocked his eye and said, "It looks like rain, I think, The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip mine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine."

But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we trod, Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod, And you can't get wine at a P.S.A., or chapel, or Eisteddfod, But the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath of God, And water is on the Bishop's board and the Higher Thinker's shrine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.

THE ROLLING ENGLISH ROAD

Before the Roman came to Rye or out of Severn strode, The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire; A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread, The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire, And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire; But I did bash their bagginets because they came arrayed To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made, When you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands, The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun? The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which, But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch. God pardon us, nor harden us: we did not see so clear The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage, Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age, But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth, And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death; But there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen, Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

THE DONKEY

When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, The devil's walking parody On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet _i_ There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet.

THE SECRET PEOPLE

Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget, For we are the people of England, that never has spoken yet. There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully, There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we. There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise. There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes; You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet: Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.

The fine French kings came over in a nutter of flags and dames. We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names. The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down; There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown. And the eyes of the King's Servants turned terribly every way, And the gold of the King's Servants rose higher every day. They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind, Till there was no bed in a monk's house, nor food that man could find. The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak, The King's Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.

And the face of the King's Servants grew greater than the King: He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring. The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey's fruits, And the men of the new religion, with their Bibles in their boots, We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss, And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us. We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale; And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

A war that we understood not came over the world and woke Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke. They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people's reign: And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and never scorned us again. Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then; Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men. In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains, We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains, We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not The strange fierce face of the Frenchmen who knew for what they fought, And the man who seemed to be more than man we strained against and broke; And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke.

Our path of glory ended; we never heard guns again. But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew, He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo. Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house, Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse _i_ We only know the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea, And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.

They have given us into the hands of the new unhappy lords, Lords without anger and honour, who dare not carry their swords. They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes; They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies. And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs, Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet, Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street. It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first, Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst. It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best. But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet. Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.

FROM THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE

Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the comers of the sky.

But dark and thick as thronged the host, With drum and torch and blade, The still-eyed King sat pondering, As one that watches a live thing, The scoured chalk; and he said,

"Though I give this land to Our Lady, That helped me in Athelney, Though lordlier trees and lustier sod And happier hills hath no flesh trod Than the garden of the Mother of God Between Thames side and the sea,

"I know that weeds shall grow in it Faster than men can burn; And though they scatter now and go, In some far century, sad and slow, I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return.

"They shall not come with warships, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands.

"Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds And wheels of wind and star.

"They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men.

"The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, --These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk.

"But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing--Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king;

"By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And Man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord.

"Yea, this shall be the sign of them, The sign of the dying fire; And Man made like a half-wit, That knows not of his sire.

"What though they come with scroll and pen, And grave as a shaven clerk, By this sign you shall know them, That they ruin and make dark;

"By all men bond to Nothing, Being slaves without a lord, By one blind idiot world obeyed, Too blind to be abhorred;

"By terror and the cruel tales Of curse in bone and kin, By weird and weakness winning, Accursed from the beginning, By detail of the sinning, And denial of the sin;

"By thought a crawling ruin, By life a leaping mire, By a broken heart in the breast of the world, And the end of the world's desire;

"By God and man dishonoured, By death and life made vain, Know ye the old barbarian, The barbarian come again again--

"When is great talk of trend and tide, And wisdom and destiny, Hail that undying heathen That is sadder than the sea.

"In what wise men shall smite him, Or the Cross stand up again, Or charity, or chivalry, My vision saith not; and I see No more; but now ride doubtfully To the battle of the plain."

And the grass-edge of the great down Was clean cut as a lawn, While the levies thronged from near and far, From the warm woods of the western star, And the King went out to his last war On a tall grey horse at dawn.

And news of his far-off fighting Came slowly and brokenly From the land of the East Saxons, From the sunrise and the sea,

From the plains of the white sunrise, And sad St. Edmund's crown, Where the pools of Essex pale and gleam Out beyond London Town--

In mighty and doubtful fragments, Like faint or fabled wars, Climbed the old hills of his renown, Where the bald brow of White Horse Down Is close to the cold stars.

But away in the eastern places The wind of death walked high, And a raid was driven athwart the raid, The sky reddened and the smoke swayed, And the tall grey horse went by.

The gates of the great river Were breached as with a barge, The walls sank crowded, say the scribes, And high towers populous with tribes Seemed leaning from the charge.

Smoke like rebellious heavens rolled Curled over coloured flames, Billowed in monstrous purple dreams In the mighty pools of Thames.

Loud was the war on London wall, And loud in London gates, And loud the sea-kings in the cloud Broke through their dreaming gods, and loud Cried on their dreadful fates.

And all the while on White Horse Hill The horse lay long and wan, The turf crawled and the fungus crept, And the little sorrel, while all men slept, Unwrought the work of man.

With velvet finger, velvet foot, The fierce soft mosses then Crept on the large white commonweal All folk had striven to strip and peel, And the grass, like a great green witch's wheel, Unwound the toils of men.

And clover and silent thistle throve, And buds burst silently, With little care for the Thames Valley Or what things there might be--

That away on the widening river, In the eastern plains for crown Stood up in the pale purple sky One turret of smoke like ivory; And the smoke changed and the wind went by, And the King took London Town.

PADRAIC COLUM

THE OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS

O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! The heaped up sods upon the fire The pile of turf again' the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains, And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled with white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day Cleaning and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed, and loth to leave The ticking clock and shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there's never a house or bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house--a house of my own--Out of the wind's and rain's way.

FRANCES CORNFORD

AUTUMN EVENING

The shadows flickering, the daylight dying, And I upon the old red sofa lying, The great brown shadows leaping up the wall, The sparrows twittering; and that is all.

I thought to send my soul to far-off lands, Where fairies scamper on the windy sands, Or where the autumn rain comes drumming down On huddled roofs in an enchanted town.

But O my sleepy soul, it will not roam, It is too happy and too warm at home: With just the shadows leaping up the wall, The sparrows twittering; and that is all.

W. H. DAVIES

DAYS TOO SHORT

When Primroses are out in Spring, And small, blue violets come between; When merry birds sing on boughs green, And rills, as soon as born, must sing;

When butterflies will make side-leaps, As though escaped from Nature's hand Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;

When small clouds are so silvery white Each seems a broken rimmed moon--When such things are, this world too soon, For me, doth wear the veil of Night.

THE EXAMPLE

Here's an example from A Butterfly; That on a rough, hard rock Happy can lie; Friendless and all alone On this unsweetened stone.

Now let my bed be hard No care take I; I'll make my joy like this Small Butterfly; Whose happy heart has power To make a stone a flower.

THE EAST IN GOLD

Somehow this world is wonderful at times, As it has been from early morn in May; Since I first heard the cock-a-doodle-do, Timekeeper on green farms--at break of day.

Soon after that I heard ten thousand birds, Which made me think an angel brought a bin Of golden grain, and none was scattered yet-- To rouse those birds to make that merry din.

I could not sleep again, for such wild cries, And went out early into their green world; And then I saw what set their little tongues To scream for joy--they saw the East in gold.

THE HAPPY CHILD

I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick-- But not one like the child did pick.

I heard the packhounds in green park-- But no dog like the child heard bark.

I heard this day bird after bird--But not one like the child has heard.

A hundred butterflies saw I--But not one like the child saw fly.

I saw the horses roll in grass-- But no horse like the child saw pass.

My world this day has lovely been-- But not like what the child has seen.

A GREAT TIME

Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad, Beyond the town, where wild flowers grow-- A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord, How rich and great the times are now! Know, all ye sheep And cows, that keep On staring that I stand so long In grass that's wet from heavy rain-- A rainbow and a cuckoo's song May never come together again; May never come This side the tomb.

THE WHITE CASCADE

What happy mortal sees that mountain now, The white cascade that's shining on its brow;

The white cascade that's both a bird and star, That has a ten-mile voice and shines as far?

Though I may never leave this land again, Yet every spring my mind must cross the main

To hear and see that water-bird and star That on the mountain sings, and shines so far.

IN MAY

Yes, I will spend the livelong day With Nature in this month of May; And sit beneath the trees, and share My bread with birds whose homes are there; While cows lie down to eat, and sheep Stand to their necks in grass so deep; While birds do sing with all their might, As though they felt the earth in flight. This is the hour I dreamed of, when I sat surrounded by poor men; And thought of how the Arab sat Alone at evening, gazing at The stars that bubbled in clear skies;

And of young dreamers, when their eyes Enjoyed methought a precious boon In the adventures of the Moon Whose light, behind the Clouds' dark bars, Searched for her stolen flocks of stars. When I, hemmed in by wrecks of men, Thought of some lonely cottage then, Full of sweet books; and miles of sea, With passing ships, in front of me; And having, on the other hand, A flowery, green, bird-singing land.

THUNDERSTORMS

My mind has thunderstorms, That brood for heavy hours: Until they rain me words, My thoughts are drooping flowers And sulking, silent birds.

Yet come, dark thunderstorms, And brood your heavy hours; For when you rain me words My thoughts are dancing flowers And joyful singing birds.

SWEET STAY-AT-HOME

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent: Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze. Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow For miles, as far as eyes can go; Thou hast not seen a summer's night When maids could sew by a worm's light; Nor the North Sea in spring send out Bright trees that like birds flit about In solid cages of white ice-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place. Thou hast not seen black fingers pick White cotton when the bloom is thick, Nor heard black throats in harmony; Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie Flat on the earth, that once did rise To hide proud kings from common eyes. Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom Where green things had such little room They pleased the eye like fairer flowers-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours. Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place, Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face; For thou hast made more homely stuff Nurture thy gentle self enough; I love thee for a heart that's kind-- Not for the knowledge in thy mind.

EDWARD L. DAVISON

THE TREES

I did not know your names and yet I saw The handiwork of Beauty in your boughs, I worshipped as the Druids did, in awe, Feeling at Spring my pagan soul arouse To see your leaf-buds open to the day, And dull green moss upon your ragged girth, The hoary sanctity of your decay, Life and Death glimmering upon the Earth.

IN THIS DARK HOUSE

I shall come back to die From a far place at last After my life's carouse In the old bed to lie, Remembering the past In this dark house.

Because of a clock's chime In the long waste of night I shall awake and wait At that calm lonely time Each smell and sound and sight Mysterious and innate: Some shadow on the wall When curtains by the door Move in a draught of wind; Or else a light footfall In a near corridor; Even to feel the kind Caress of a cool hand Smoothing the draggled hair Back from my shrunken brow, And strive to understand The woman's presence there, And whence she came, and how.

What gust of wind that night Shall mutter her lost name Through windows open wide, And twist the nickering light Of a sole candle's flame Smoking from side to side, Till the last spark it blows Sets a moth's wings aflare As the faint flame goes out?

Some distant door may close; Perhaps a heavy chair On bare floors dragged about O'er the low ceiling sound, And the thin twig of a tree Knock on my window-pane Till all the night around Is listening with me, While like a noise of rain Leaves rustle in the wind.

Then from the inner gloom The scratching of a mouse May echo down my mind And sound around the room In this dark house.

The vague scent of a flower, Smelt then in that warm air From gardens drifting in, May slowly overpower The vapid lavender, Till feebly I begin To count the scents I knew And name them one by one, And search the names for this.