Part 2

IF I should pray, my prayer would be For gratitude unlimited: For gratitude so vast and deep, That it would move my soul to weep Great tears, and all the words I said To be as organ notes sublime, Full-throated flowing words of rhyme, Whose like no mortal eye hath read.

Then would I kneel before the God Whose matchless genius made the earth; The Poet-God, who sows the hours With all the scented hosts of flowers, Who gives the little winds their birth, Who doth unloose the sea-song’s might To shake the very stars at night, And fling the foam-flakes high in mirth.

Whose mind is fragrant as a grove Of cedar trees in summer rain, Whose thoughts dead poets gathered up, And poured within the brimming cup They offered to the world in vain. Whose whisper masters caught, and wrote Into their music note by note, Immortal, haunting, strain on strain.

Whose image is revealed to all Great lovers in the loved one’s face, Whose passion mystical and deep Kindles the holy fires that sleep Within the heart’s most secret place. Whose breath is incense on the shrine Of earthly love, burning divine And changeless, through all time and space!

DAWN

IT is the dawn, that wondrous fateful hour Of strange desires, of thoughts and deeds that stir Within the womb of possibility. A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea, Lifting the foam like some unearthly flower. The lights still glimmer all along the quay: And overhead a flight of hurried stars Seek hiding swiftly, e’er the day shall be. Ships pass like spectres, little white-sailed ships, Gliding away towards their destiny. The earth, expectant, seems to thrill and wait For some loved being; through the eastern gate Red clouds come floating. Oh! that I were day, Resplendent, bountiful, a heaven-born fire, Filled with the glory of my own desire, And thou, the trembling earth awaiting me!

TO THE EARTH

OH! hadst thou kindly arms that could enfold me While yet I live, sweet Earth, console and hold me Unto thy bosom, thou, my fruitful Mother. Oh! hadst thou human lips for soft caresses, To meet mine own in some pure kiss that blesses, Whose spell thou knowest, thou dear Earth, none other.

For I am weary of the city’s sorrow, Captive and weary, longing for a morrow That shall release me from these walls, my prison; My eyes are sickened with the surging faces, And fain would gaze across thy sunlit spaces, Seeking the happy lark but newly risen.

My ears are deafened by the great pulse beating Along the streets, monotonous, repeating Its throbs of toil, futile yet never ending. Would I could hear cool water running seaward, Or sigh of wind at daybreak sweeping leeward, Through purple pines whose happy boughs are bending.

O Earth, dear Mother, as my spirit passes, Make thou sweet fetters of thy flowers and grasses, To bind it surely, lest it wander lonely In some far sphere where never wild bird singeth, Where never leaf at breath of Summer springeth, For thou indeed art Heaven, O Earth, thou only!

DAWN AMONG THE OLIVE GROVES

ALONG the hills the olives grow, And almonds bloom in early Spring, And many are the streams that flow, And countless are the birds that sing; The air is cool with distant snow, And musical with bells that ring.

Beneath my feet the road winds down In deepening shadow, far away To where a little peaceful town Lies sleeping by the quiet bay; A distant sail, now white, now brown, Shows phantomlike against the day.

While gradually the Eastern skies Grow flushed and bright, the late stars flee, And eager clouds appear, and rise Above the waves expectantly; Till lo! before my wondering eyes, The great sun steps from out the sea!

SILENT PLACES

SWEET are the silent places of the earth, Green heart of woods through which no wind doth pass, Long sloping meadows sown with silken grass, Old gardens thick with scents of death, and birth.

Pale dome of morning, ere the first bird sings, Stretching above the silent palisade, Vague and unearthly, wrought of light and shade. O’er which the dusk still hangs with starlit wings.

The hush of mid-day in the languid south, Where marble borders rim the limpid pools, In whose blue depths the ardent noontide cools Her burning limbs, and bathes her sun-kissed mouth.

And above all things, silent and at rest, I mind me of a little quiet bay, Set like a sapphire in the golden day, With never ship to scourge its tranquil breast.

Oh! happy waters of that quiet bay, So near my heart—and yet so far away!

ONE EVENING NEAR NICE

PALE depth of sky, serene and wonderful, Within whose fold the lamps of early stars Shine far away and faintly luminous; Whose pensive tones merge from the afterglow Into this colour indescribable; This blending of the sea and earth and clouds, Soft and yet poignant, passionate yet calm. I know not what the spirit in me feels, When it beholds thee through my human eyes: Nor what strange craving for forgotten things Has stirred my soul to this disquietude!

THOUGHTS AT AJACCIO

KIND Earth, upon whose mother breast The fruitful trees in time of spring, Put forth their endless blossoming From North to South, from East to West, Whose sweet deep-furrowed soil is blest With striving seeds and budding flowers, And all the potent toil of hours, From sunrise until even’s rest—

Stretch forth thy leafy arms at dawn, And touch me, compass me around, Fill me with scent of upturned ground, Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn. The gifts I bring thou wilt not scorn, Poor though they must be while I live, For in my hour of death I give My heart, that one rose may be born!

THREE CHILD-SONGS

I

THE THRUSH’S SONG

“OH! bother,” sang the thrush, “I’m in an awful rush, For I’ve got to get ready for the Spring. With feathers from my breast, I’ll line a cosy nest, A terribly difficult thing!

“Before it is too late, I’ll have to find a mate, And she must be dainty and small, Obedient and sweet, In jacket brown and neat, And ready to come when I call.

“The robins are all wed (Or so I’ve heard it said), And the wind from the South it does blow. The ice has felt the sun, And winter must be done, For a primrose is growing in the snow!”

II

WILLOW WAND

WILLOW wand, willow wand, Change this little slender frond To a Princess tall and fair, With a mass of golden hair, Of golden hair.

Willow wand, willow wand, Change this shallow meadow pond To a deep and crystal pool, Where she bathes at even cool, At even cool.

Wand cut from the willow tree, Build a fairy home for me, Build a home of light and shade, Sun and shadow deftly made, Most deftly made.

There where nothing comes to part, With the ladye of my heart I will dwell for ever—ever; We will quarrel never—never, Oh! never—_never!_

III

A WINTER SONG

“SWIFT away, swift away,” Sang the fickle swallow, Oh! the fickle swallow, Flying to the sun! “Come, my little brothers, Bring your feathered mothers, Come away, come away, Each and every one.”

“Only stay, only stay,” Sang the lonely poet, Oh! the lonely poet, All among the snow! Robin Redbreast heard, and said, “I am here though summer’s dead; Cheer up, cheer up, I will never go!”

AUTUMN IN SUSSEX

A GLORY is this autumn day, That stretches far across the land, To where the sea along the sand Sings kindly, with a gentle lay Upon its lips. The gleam and sway Of burning leaves ignites the air To strange soft fire; serene and bare The wide fields lie on either hand.

More lovely than the timid Spring Who tells her beads of humble flowers, More perfect than the sun-warmed hours Of summer, gay with birds that sing, Is this fulfilment earth doth bring To offer up to God; this deep Vast prayer before the winter sleep, This final tribute to His powers!

SI PARVA LICET COMPONERE MAGNIS

IN the bowl of a shell Sings the wonderful song of the sea, All the ebb and the swell, In the bowl of a shell.

In the heart of a pool Drifts the fathomless smile of the sky, All the clouds white and cool, In the heart of a pool.

In the beam of a star Shines the light of a far away world, Out of space, dim and far, In the beam of a star.

In the cup of a rose Dwells the languor and passion of June, Eager life, warm repose, In the cup of a rose.

In the throat of a bird Lives the message of God to His earth, Lo! the mystical word In the throat of a bird!

TO ITALY

O ITALY of chiming bells, Of pilgrim shrines and holy wells, Of incense mist and secret prayers, Profound and sweet as scented airs Blown from a field of lily flowers!

O Italy of pagan vine, That thrills with sap of sun-born wine, Drenching the Christian soul with red Warm liquid of a faith long dead, Wafting it back to sensuous hours.

No mortal woman ever held Such sweet inconstancies, or welled With such hot springs of turbid fire; No being throbbed with such desire, Thy very air is ecstacy!

O pagan goddess, from whose lips The gentle Christian worship slips, I fear thee, knowing what thou art Yet I adore thee; take my heart I am thy lover, Italy!

SUNDAY IN LIGURIA

THIS is the Sabbath day, the day of rest, That breathes so gently in this quiet place, With such insistent peace that for a space The silver olives on the mountain’s crest Forget to whisper, folded in the grace Of lengthening shadows gathered from the noon. The clouds are golden, yet a placid moon Slips out among them, calm and pale of face.

O soul of mine, breathe in this holy thing That steeps the hills down to the dreaming sea; This endless prayer, this silent ecstacy, That like a great white bird on sunlit wing Hovers above the world; ’tis given thee To merge thyself in this harmonious whole, And be content, seeking no higher goal; The earth is God’s, to-day eternity!

GEORGETOWN, U.S.A.

IF you would hear the thrushes sing, Then go to Georgetown in the spring, And wander slowly at your ease Along the avenues of trees.

The sunshine and the shadows meet To weave a web across the street, And in and out its magic strands Play little children, joining hands.

The sky is washed with showers and dew, Until it looks the palest blue, And in the gardens down below You almost _see_ the grasses grow.

There’s something very very old About the place, so we are told, And yet it’s marvellously gay And young, when seen on such a day!

The silent corners all around Break up in waves of pleasant sound, The mansions of Colonial days Allow the sun to gild their greys.

The paving-stones, with earth between, Are fringed with shoots of emerald green, And oh! the song the thrushes sing In Georgetown, when the year’s at spring!

ON THE POTOMAC RIVER, U.S.A.

AT close of June’s most burning day, We took a ship and sailed away: In mid-Potomac stream sailed we, To Old Point Comfort by the sea.

The heavy hanging air of dusk Was thick with scent of fainting musk, And through the tired willow trees Stirred never sound or breath of breeze.

So still it was, that from afar We seemed to hear a falling star, And every drop we heard, that dript From off the paddle as it dipped.

The fireflies lit their yellow lamps, And danced along the marshy damps; They skimmed and shot, and skimmed again, While beetles droned a dance-refrain.

The old ship pushed the mists apart, And crawled along with throbbing heart, Pausing from time to time for breath Beside some jetty, still as death.

The moon rose up all reddish gold, And lit the swirling misty fold Of fog along the river bank, Where grew the creepers dark and rank.

Sometimes the lonely “look-out” cried “All’s well”: the water swished and sighed An endless and protesting song, As stealthily we crept along.

Until at last the wind blew free, Where the Potomac met the sea; And not so very far away The shores of Old Point Comfort lay.

THE LOST WORD

HIGH above a waveless sea, On the hills of long ago, There you lived awhile with me, And we loved—I know.

For your hair I made a crown, Twined it with these hands of mine, Sun-warmed leaves and tendrils brown, From the happy vine.

You were like some woodland thing, Fear and rapture in your eyes, Tender as a breath of Spring Blown from April skies.

Then I called you, and you heard, To your lover’s arms you came: Ah! what was that magic word, Your forgotten name!

COMPARISONS

A FIELD of scented clover That honey-bees hang over, A hazel-wood in Spring, Where thrush and robin sing. A stream that seaward flows, Rejoicing as it goes, A little tower where dwells The sound of happy bells. A morning fresh and blue, Flower-decked, and wet with dew, All these my love she minds me of— And other sweet things too.

A FRAGMENT

THE clustering grapes of purple vine Are crushed to make the crimson wine.

The poppies in the grasses deep Are crushed to brew the draught of sleep.

The roses, when their glories bloom Are crushed to yield their soul’s perfume.

And hearts, perchance of these the least, Are crushed for nectar at Love’s feast!

APPRECIATIONS

_The following poems from_ “’TWIXT EARTH AND STARS,” _by_ MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL, _have been set to music:_

BY MR. HUBERT BATH

“A SONG.” _Chappell and Co._

“ITALIAN SPRING.” _Boosey and Co._

“ON THE LAGOON.” _Boosey and Co._

“A SEA CYCLE.” (NO. XV.) _Chappell and Co._

BY MR. CUTHBERT WYNNE

“LET NOT THE MORNING BREAK,” ETC. _The John Church Co., Ltd._

BY MR. EASTHROPE MARTIN

“SHALL I COMPLAIN?” _Metzler and Co._

BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE

“GENTLE DAME PRISCILLA.” _Chappell and Co._

_The following poems from_ “A SHEAF OF VERSES” _are set to music:_

BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE

“IN COUPLES.” _Chappell and Co._

“TO MY LITTLE COUSIN.” _Chappell and Co._

“TO A BABY.” _Chappell and Co._

“BUTTERFLY.” _Chappell and Co._

“OUR LITTLE LOVE IS NEWLY BORN.” _Chappell and Co._

“HANDS AND LIPS.” _Chappell and Co._

_The following poems from “POEMS OF THE PAST AND PRESENT,” by MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL, have been set to music:_

BY THE LATE MR. COLERIDGE TAYLOR.

“THE BIRTH OF THE RAINBOW.” _Boosey and Co._

“ON THE HILL-SIDE.” _Boosey and Co._

FRUIT OF THE NISPERO, NOS. III., XI., XXIV. _Boosey and Co._

BY MADAME LIZA LEHMANN.

“THE SILVER ROSE” (From Three Songs of Nowhere Town). _The John Church Co., Ltd._

BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE

“THE GARDEN.” _Chappell and Co._

“TO A LILY.” _Chappell and Co._

“A FAREWELL.” _Chappell and Co._

“‘GOOD MORNING,’ SAID THE THRUSH.” _Chappell and Co._

“THE HILLS OF BY AND BYE.” _Chappell and Co._

“THE RHYME OF THE SHEPHERD.” _Chappell and Co._

“THE WHITE BIRD.” _Chappell and Co._

“FRUIT OF THE NISPERO,” NOS. I., VIII., XIV., XX., XXIII. _Chappell and Co._

BY MRS. GEORGE BATTEN.

“A SONG OF YOUTH.”

“TO A CHILD.”

“FRUIT OF THE NISPERO,” NO. XVI.

_The following poems from_ “SONGS OF THREE COUNTIES AND OTHER POEMS,” _have been set to music._

BY MR. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE

“WALKING OUT.” _Chappell and Co._

“EASTNOR CHURCHYARD.” _Chappell and Co._

BY MRS. WOODFORDE FINDEN.

“WILLOW WAND.” _Boosey and Co._

PRESS NOTICES

“POEMS OF THE PAST AND PRESENT.”

“Miss Radclyffe-Hall has an exceptional gift for enshrining a single thought or fancy in a little lyric or a song. The little pieces ... most of them catch a real thought, and sometimes—as in “A Reflection”—one which makes the reader pause and meditate. Many of her pieces seem to have been put to music, and they deserve it.”—_The Times, October 6th, 1910._

“Miss Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall is already known to many readers as the author of some sweet and dainty verses. Her latest book should widen the circle of those acquainted with her work, for it shows her once more as a tender singer of the spells of love, the beauty of Nature. There is in many of her poems a wistfulness that is of beauty rather than of sadness, while her power of expressing her moods and thoughts in simple and melodious rhythms is, perhaps, more markedly shown here than in her earlier work. Here is a haunting little piece from a trio of ‘Stuart Songs’ (quotation). Part of the charm of this lies no doubt in the trick of refrain, but, with her few simply chosen words, the writer has suggested much of tenderness and tragedy. Many of the pieces seem to have been written with a view to musical setting, and express a mood, a sentiment, in tuneful fashion, and with a note of true sincerity. Here is a beautiful picture, ‘In Liguria’” (quotation).—_Daily Telegraph, November 16th, 1910._

“_Poems of the Past and Present_, notwithstanding their number, maintain a standard consistently high. Fastidious workmanship, and an instinct towards poetical grace in language and rhythm, are, apart from inspiration, the two essentials for the writing of lyrics; and the volume possesses both in a marked degree, besides an appreciable share of the rarer quality. Though the personal note is seldom absent, and the dominance of love as a theme makes more than ever for monotony nowadays, these potential drawbacks are to a great extent redeemed by the freshness and fancy which go to the painting of, among many others, such a haunting little picture as the following from ‘In Liguria’ (quotation). With her power of delicate visualization, her keen sense of colour and music, and a technique almost flawless, the author should, as her poetical horizon broadens, produce valuable results.”—_The Athenæum, December 3rd, 1910._

“One meets with many excellent lyrics scattered through the pages. What is characteristic of the best of them, which are to be found among the unrhymed verses, is a certain Southern, almost Oriental atmosphere, like the scent at dawn of those strange blossoms of which she sings. This is the appropriate setting, sometimes of a happy licence of imagination, in a set of verses which will repay perusal by a reader of poetic sympathies.”—_The Scotsman, October 13th, 1910._

“A poetess with a very charming gift ... her little book should have a great vogue as a Christmas gift-book.”—_Daily Express, July 7th, 1910._

“Miss Radclyffe-Hall is facile, flowing, and often really musical; it is not surprising that so many of her verses have been used by composers. Such a lyric as ‘A Farewell,’ calls aloud for setting.”—_Pall Mall Gazette, December 2nd, 1910._

“Many fair and gentle thoughts are gracefully expressed by Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall. Especially charming are the lyrics in the song sequence, ‘Fruit of the Nispero,’ and the three little ‘Stuart Songs’ of Mary the Queen.”—_The Lady, December 29th, 1910._

“There are a great many poems in this little volume, all showing evidence of considerable facility and talent.”—_Evening Standard, September 22nd, 1910._

“A book of verse that appeared lately, by Miss Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall, will, I know, delight you, for it is written with true poetical feeling, and touches on so many subjects besides that of love, that it is sure to please the taste of many and various readers. Amongst the poems that I recommend to your notice are ‘An Italian Garden,’ ‘A Sonnet to Elizabeth Barrett Browning,’ which breathes a deep and reverential appreciation of our great poetess’s worth, ‘The Voice,’ and several numbers in a series called ‘Fruit of the Nispero.’ It is easy to imagine that many of these tuneful numbers should have been set to music, for there are in them such tender harmonies as must appeal to musical people.”—_The Lady, November 17th, 1910._

“Her volume is full of pearls; they are to be gathered from every page, and sometimes they are very brilliant. ‘The Hills of By and Bye,’ ‘Before Sunrise,’ ‘A Little Child,’ ‘In Liguria,’ and others are beautiful poems; and ‘The Graveyard at Orotava’ is based on an exquisitely poetic sentiment, the last two verses showing a high quality of imaginative power. Miss Radclyffe-Hall’s style is individual and remarkable for combined force and clarity. Very few living women poets are at all her equal.”—_Sussex Daily News, October 26th, 1910._

“This is a book of really good verse. All its ‘small songs’ are musical and delicate, but in addition it has the rarer virtue of complete sincerity.... There is no striving after effect by phrase or artifice. Every lyric is the simple melodious expression of a poetic thought.”—_Evening News, October 19th, 1910_.

“Miss Radclyffe-Hall’s latest book should widen the circle of those acquainted with her work, for it shows her once more as a tender singer of the spells of love, the beauty of Nature.”—_Liverpool Express, November 22nd, 1910._

“Many of her pieces are just adapted to musical setting, for they express a mood, a sentiment, a graceful fancy, with a note of real sincerity.”—_Christian Endeavour Times, December 22nd, 1910._

PRINTED BY THE WESTMINSTER PRESS 411A HARROW ROAD LONDON W.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Italicized phrases are presented by surrounding the text with _underscores_.

Mixed-case small capital letters are represented by all-capital letters.

Repeating titles have been removed from the front of the book.

Punctuation has been normalized, including standardization of hyphenation and punctuation between poem titles within the book and those in the Table of Contents.

The division “Rustic Courting” as placed before the first poem has been added to the Table of Contents.

The contributor R. B. Cunninghame-Graham, as presented on the book’s original title page, is otherwise presented as R. B. Cunninghame Graham.

In the poem “The Meeting-Place”, the line “My love would come to me!” has been retained non-indented as in the original, however, there is a possibility this is a printer’s error, as that line does not follow the pattern of indentation of the rest of the poem.