Part 2

Beauty such as mine, my lover, (This I know is right) Even thou wilt soon discover Is more meet for night (This I know is right).

THE SONG-MAKER:

In the daytime chirp the thrushes; But the nightingale Waits until the moonlit hushes To pour forth her tale; Wiser nightingale!

JEWELS

O! Gold I lack; I am a man Who cannot give as others can; No costly gems of value rare Are mine to give, my Lady Fair!

Yet would I give, and of my best, So delve the kingdom of mine eyes: What say'st thou to a rope of pearls Strung from the cirro-clouded skies?

A sunlit beck, just after rain, Should from its ripples lend a chain Of sparkling diamonds, very meet To grace thy wrist, my Lady Sweet.

A peaty tarn, lost 'mong the hills, Of beryl tint should make a ring; The moors should yield a coronet Of amethyst, from summer ling. * * * * * _Rubies?_ Already thou hast two! They are the gems for which I sue.

RIBBLESDALE.

BARGAINING

There are many, many forests lying north, south, east, and west, There are many, many rivers moving slowly to the sea, But there's a wood of budding beech that claims the heart of me, And there's a little singing beck that falls from heathered crest.

O! I would give the universe to own that singing stream, And watch the stars a-hiding from the rosy-fingered morn, While cuckoos wake the fellside, and daffodils are born-- O! any one can have the world, so I may keep my stream--

Yet would I barter beechen wood and little singing beck If I could fold my arms once more around my sweetheart's neck.

NIDDERDALE.

SONG OF GOOD-BYE

The ship is speeding fast from out the bay, Instead of thine, I feel a kiss of spray; My face is lashed by salt winds from the sea, My eyes are wet with parting now from thee. O Husband Sweetheart! send to me a thought-- Some loving word, perchance my lips have taught!

The evening fades to purple, darkly blue, The air is chill, a few white stars creep through The steely buckler of the northern sky; One lonely sound recurs--a sew-mew's cry. O Husband Sweetheart! send thy heart to me Across this tireless, surging, tossing sea!

To-night we're severed, many miles apart: I wonder, canst thou rest, my Dearest Heart? In Court of Dreams perhaps we'll briefly meet And kiss upon the Borderland of Sleep. O Husband Sweetheart! say for me a prayer-- God give you peace, and have you in His care!

OFF THE YORKSHIRE COAST.

KING YESTERDAY

You and King Yesterday both have fled To the Land-of-the-beautiful-days-that-are-dead.

How full of bird music the dewy-fair Morn When Yesterday, King of the Past, was born;

How rosy with roses the passionate noon When you and King Yesterday ruled sweet June;

How royal with splendour the crimsoning west As Yesterday bravely grew old with zest;

And eve was a glamour of emerald light When Yesterday greeted the world "Good-night."

Oh! You and King Yesterday gently wean My thoughts to the Country-it-might-have-been.

KISSING

Thou canst not kiss without consent, For know, dear Thief, a kiss is lent; And if thou takest one to-day, With interest must thou repay: One now, next week I'll count in fives,-- Thou'lt owe some scores in Paradise!

TANFIELD, WENSLEYDALE.

PHILOSOPHY

Some tell me "_Life is a weariful thing, That Sorrow remains, while joy takes wing._" But Sorrow and I already have met: His face is wan and his lips are set; He cometh and goeth on silent feet, Yet between his visits are moments sweet, Moments that come like a blackbird's dart, When Happiness holds me close to his heart; When I sense the rapture of swinging skies And know the thrill of the spring's surprise, As I lie on the mothering Earth's deep breast And clasp my tremulous bosom, lest Some unknown loveliness I might miss, Or forgetful be of the West Wind's kiss.

Like the blackbird's notes in the early hours Which fall like a peal of silver flowers, Joy rings his bells in my waiting ears, And Sorrow departs to his silent meres. "_And if he returns?_"--my soul will sing Remembering Joy who has taken wing!

RILSTONE FELL.

A THRUSH'S SONG

(To My First Love, Daddy)

A thrush's call Has chanced to fall Into my heart Where dwell apart Dear memories Of summer skies, Of heartsome days, Of flower-fair ways, Of kisses shy With people high. What did I ken Of lovers then, Of lover-laws, Of lover-saws? The sweet, sweet earth Was giving birth To lovely things With songs and wings; And yonder thrush On yonder bush Brings home to me The little years of memory.

A FEBRUARY DAY

(_There is a country saying that spring has not come until you can set your foot on seven daisies at once_)

"_O! How do you know When spring has come? Still falls the snow And the birds are dumb._"

The grass will wear A greener tone, The thrush will dare To carol alone.

The silver rain Will warmly fall, The woods will gain The blackbird's call.

But the way to tell, And the only way, Is to find a dell Where the breezes play,

And seek and seek Where the daisy-bloom Shows white and meek Like a baby moon.

And when your foot treads With tender fear On seven white heads,-- Then spring is here.

COXWOLD.

LAUS DEO

(For My Little God-son)

God Darling! Listen to my song, The one I sing the whole day long, Of thanks to Thee for every good, Whether at home, in field, or wood.

I thank Thee for the lovely spring, And for Thy little birds that sing; I thank Thee for the summer's sun, When 'mong the roses I can run.

I thank Thee for the sickle time, When corn is ripe, and apples prime. I thank Thee for the deep white snow, When I tobogganing can go.

I thank Thee for the bright sweet day, For hours of love and work and play; I thank Thee for the deep blue night When I and flower-buds fold up tight.

NIDDERDALE.

"PAST-TEN-O'CLOCK-LAND"

"_It was Moonlight Land and Past-ten-o'clock Land and we were in it and of it._"--KENNETH GRAHAM.

There's a lovely land that is all your own, If your years but number ten, Where the cherryblossom's ever in flower, And found in "Past-ten-o'clock Glen."

There's a river with musical water-falls, You paddle as long as you please, And the daisies don't die as you pick them, When found on "Past-ten-o'clock Leas."

And the rivulet leads to a harbour, Full of the quaintest of ships, One wish will transport you to China, Or other "Past-ten-o'clock Trips."

Away in dim mountains of amber, Which drop sheer down to the waves, Fierce brigands, be-weaponed and ear-ringed, Live in "Past-ten-o'clock Caves."

O! the folk understand you and love you, You never can do any wrong-- You can shoot the cat with a catapult, Or shout the "Past-ten-o'clock Song."

You can play you are really an otter, And get as wet as you like; You can lie in wait as a Redskin does, In a deep "Past-ten-o'clock Dyke."

It's a lovely land that is all your own, If you're only ten years old, But when you are more, you are apt to forget "Past-Ten-o'clock-Dreams of Gold!"

BARDEN FELL, WHARFEDALE.

TO MEMORY

Mem'ry, sweet witch! you brought him to my door. I heard you knock, and saw your fingers ope The rosy gateway of a lingering hope, And I beheld his dear face as of yore. You held him by the hand I oft caressed, And seemed so small a sprite by his tall side, As in his leathern coat you tried to hide, The same old coat my cheek so often pressed.

Then searchingly his deep blue eyes found mine, As if to plead against forgetfulness, With all the old-time loving kindliness: And then you led him back without one sign. Sweet little Mem'ry, lead him back once more, And, knocking, bring him in, and close the door.

A WAR PRAYER FOR A LITTLE BOY

Morning

The day is just beginning, But all the long night through, The sailor-men were watching Out in the dark night blue. Dear God! when my turn comes, May my watch be as true.

Evening

The long, still night is coming, But whilst I've been at play, The soldier-men were fighting Thro' all the live-long day. Dear God! when my turn comes, Please keep me brave as they.

ROBIN HOOD'S BAY.

STAR-SCANDAL

One summer eve, my own dear love and I Sat arm-entwined beneath a rowan-tree. A little wind flew past us with a sigh, And all the velvet leaves waved merrily. Then, as mine eyes escaped his ardent glance, I saw a star peep o'er the purple hill And climb up to the topmost branch and dance, And wink at its reflection in the rill. "_Come, kiss me once, O timorous-hearted Love. Full many thousand kisses dost thou owe. Prithee but one, thy pretty love to prove; No one in all the world shall ever know._" No one? That spying star but told a poet, And in a song he let the whole world know it.

THE FIRST OF JULY 1916

For the Mothers, Wives, and Sweethearts of the 15th West Yorks ("Leeds Pals")

I

'Tis passing wonderful that they, The little boys of yesterday, Should suddenly become such men That England rings with praise of them. But tho' their names are writ in blood --Deepening crimson flood on flood-- Their impositions writ awry And copybooks are hardly dry; And Sweetheart Life had scarcely kissed The boy to man, when the blue mist Of twilight lifted; and the dawn Announced that rosy day was born.

As pink-curled clouds lit up the sky A little gentle breeze whisked by Caressing all the poppy-heads-- Rippling fields of budding reds-- Splashes of yellow sunned the earth Where mustard meadows flowered mirth; And cornflowers blue ran out to meet The blue around God's Mercy-seat. O! all the world and all the sky Made it a sacrifice to die.

II

'Tis passing wonderful that they, The little boys of yesterday, Who cuddled to dear Mother-hearts With darling rosy-fingered arts, Did cheer with strong expectancy The shattering artillery; And smilingly went o'er the top Unflinchingly without a stop Into the poppied "No Man's Land." Wave after wave, band after band, Through the terror of bursting shells, Through the noise of a thousand hells, Through th' unmanning groans of pain, Through the blood of the splendid slain Lying under a blue-cupped sky, As wave after wave swept bravely by. From flowers of blue to the Endless Blue Hundreds of souls are passing thro', And the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives: O! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives.

III

'Tis passing wonderful that they, The little boys of yesterday Who played with us, who teased us too, Should such tremendous actions do. No praise, no honour is too high For those who gave so cheerfully: Gave up the wonder of the spring, Gave up the wealth that summers bring, Gave up the gold of autumn's store, Leaving us richer than before.

Unflinching bravery of soul! Ring out your splendid deathless toll, Ring down the years untiringly In the hearts of the children-yet-to-be. The carillon of your ideals You'll hear again in their sweet peals; God grant that we may squarely fight For all you held to be upright.

LEEDS, _July 1st, 1917_.

"THE IDEAL MAN"

He should be strong--as strong as Thor of old; And faults of strength 'twere better he possessed Than quavering mind or any lack of zest When the time needs a right arm coolly bold. Truth should to him be what the unpent song Is to the soaring lark; with kindly thought For everything that cold Misfortune's sought; With earnest faith to fight a cause proved wrong.

A heart that finds the best in every man; Impatient he should be at all delay Or if not giv'n at once his own sweet way-- (But then a fault or two is Nature's plan), Yet I would wish his chiefest fault should be A wilfulness to see no fault in me!

SEMER WATER.

TO THE COMING SPRING

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

In my woodlands The primroses are peeping With pale, sweet golden eyes, In spite of Winter's weeping.

In my woodlands A thrush has just swung, dipping, In search of his spring voice; The trees stand dripping, dripping.

In my woodlands Harsh Winter coldly shivers; The windflower, white adventurer, With hope of springtime quivers.

Soon my woodlands, Bearing bannerets of Spring, Will be every moment musical With birds that, mating, sing.

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

Oh, Spring! Spring! Since the Autumn died in glory, How I have yearned for your coming Thro' the cloistral fog-bound days, Your beauty seemed a story That would never be told again. Spring! of the pearly cloud-skies Soft-curled as a baby's hand, Turquoise as children's eyes, Of rainbow-tinctured days And twittering song of the eaves!

Spring! You desired vision, The wind in your primrose hair, Your eyes, too, weepingly ready, Your face, an anemone fair; Your train, a burgeoning pattern Be-sprent with woodland flowers, Blackthorn, daffies, bluebells, Marking the flight of our hours.

Spring! Tho' it still is Winter, In your mystic sleep you smile, Yet the primroses and the thrush on wing Know that even in sleep you sing; You wondrous, envassaling, longed-for Maid! Oh! If Death came now I should be afraid: I have longed for you so the dark months thro', That I must see the pulsing glory of you; And your little hand-maidens in their turn-- For each at their 'pointed times I yearn.

Virginal snowdrop, Firstling of Spring! Crocus, herald of purple and gold, Wistful windflowers, Celandined stars, Every one to my heart I fold.

Snow-soft blackthorn, You wild, fair sweet, The scent of you brings A flutter of wings; And, almond blossom, You stole at dawn The pale dream vest Of the infant morn.

Of a pool of blue I dream-- Hyacinths, waving in ripples of blue. There is nothing so fair the whole world thro' As when quivering sun and quivering wind Jocundly, joyously, leapingly find A young green wood in a lazuli dream.

O Spring, if I lay on my dying bed I should wait to die, till your glory had fled, I could not go ere the cuckoo had cried His impudent call to the countryside: Not till the swallows had loyally come To their nesting place, in my liefest home, And then I should wait for the blackbird's note To leap from his melody-stirring throat. Ah! And to feel the April rain Pattering on my face again. God grant that I do not die in the Spring, When my whole soul rebels to live and sing; As we all must die, so let me die When the grey November fogs are nigh; Not for a longer space of heaven Would I forfeit one day, nay, one single hour, One sweet bird-cry, or one haunting flower, Of my beautiful, longed-for, fleeting Spring.

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

'Tis Winter still, But you stir in sleep Tho' the cold gusts blow And the bare trees weep.

But the early primrose And flitting thrush Have watched you smile And have seen you blush.

And tho' it is long Ere yet you rise, And the blue of your glance Reflect in the skies;

My heart is awake And ready to sing The moment you beckon, Sweet, glorious Spring!

Hope and Spring! You are sisters!

PATELEY BRIDGE, NIDDERDALE,

QUESTION

O Seats of ancient learning, Philosophers and Sages! A child has put a question, which I cannot find in pages Of any tome in any land: and so the answer's missed. "_Where do all the kisses go, after they are kissed?_"

THE DALES OF ARCADY

FIRST DAY

Hearken! The South Wind's voice. My lover returns, and the valleys rejoice. The bees fly upward to watch his flight, The butterflies quiver with glad delight, As he teasingly touches their jewelled wings. O! at his bidding the whitethroat swings In thrillant blue. A thrush's call Blends with a blackbird's madrigal.

I steadily gazed at my silent pen, Attempting to keep from my straying ken An Eden of woods, of bosoming hills, Of verdant hedges, of wandering rills. How can one work When a Lover amid the flowers will lurk? He tip-toes in thro' the window-door, And whisks my papers on to the floor; With flower-steeped hands he caresses my hair, And whispers alluringly,

"_Fair, most Fair, Slip your slender hand in mine, my Sweeting, Hear! the skylarks cleave the blue with greeting, Hear the blackcap on the thorn at even Trill truths that echo to the highest heaven, Leave your world of carking care, time-haunted, For a country ever spring-enchaunted._"

He leads me on to the dewy grass, Where maiden primroses troop and pass; With a gleesome kiss in his arms he swings Me up 'twixt his eagle-wide rainbow wings: Over a willowy coppice he goes Flicking the hedges of milk-white sloes, Over the blazon of heralding gorse, Deftly he steers his ethereal course Over anemone hillocks, o'er leas, Hyacinth-dimpled, o'er buttercupped leas, Over the ings where forget-me-not eyes Borrow the blue of azureal skies; Over the meadow-flats, higher and higher, Sweeping the strings of the cloud-strung lyre. The lilt of the planets is in mine ear, Crystal dropping on crystal clear: "O Wind, my Lover, My mortal eyes must you surely cover: Such beauty will make me beauty-blind, Protect mine eyes, O my Lover Wind." Then, as I lost my indrawn breath, He swirled me down to the earth beneath, Down thro' the depths of a forest of pine, On to a carpet of celandine. The goldcrests twittered, the squirrels chased, While the lofty pines, brown arms enlaced, Lisped a dryad-taught melody, sung by the sea. Known in the valleys of Arcady.

For a little space did my Lover sleep, While the gold-mailed sun with me did keep A radiant watch; but when Eventide In saffron-rose wrapped the woodland side, He started up, and he kissed my neck, Then, bidding me rise at his instant beck, We passed where the sovran oak-trees nod, Where never a human foot has trod, Where birches sway in slenderest grace, That never have seen a mortal's face; Where rivulets hasten in sweet surprise, A wonder beneath my wond'ring eyes; A lakelet trembled beneath my glance, The lily-white elfins ceased their dance; A cherry-tree flung confetti down, And framed for my head a loving crown. Soft-toned bells Called to each other across the fells. While music played on a reeded flute Stilled the air, and the birds were mute.

"O leaf-loving Zephyr, whence cometh the mirth Of this melody? Owns my mothering Earth A piper who pipes so alluringly Of beauty that is, of beauty to be? Onward! o'er thousands of blushet-shy daisies, To find this piper of beautiful phrases."

'Mong flocks of goats, and of leaping lambs, The piper sat. Two fierce-horned rams Made a fleecy cushion whereon he sat, And a sleeping ewe made a creamy mat For his hoofed feet. His music ceased. Green were his eyes, and they seemed well pleased As they lit on our forms:

"_O! Pan, great Pan! This mortal thy kingdom of beauty would span, And she would learn of the singing seasons' Wonderful featness; of all the reasons. The hill and the wood and the rippling rill The air with different melodies fill; Where bonnibel April latest was sent, When May filled the world with her wonderment! Who teaches the cuckoo his twin-bell call? The opening notes of a festival To jubilate the reign of the summer Beauteous, queenliest, rosy-robed comer. O Pan! I bring A mortal whose soul is afire to sing._"

Pan smiled--a smile like a twisted oak-- Then beckoned to me, while the forest spoke, "Evoe, great Pan," sang the lark on high, "Evoe, great Pan," from the uttermost sky; I drew near and stood beside his knee: He handed his reeded flute to me, And kept his eyes, of a forest green, On my trembling hands. O! well, I ween, He knew that my amateur hands were weak, For the spirit of me was meek, so meek, And his green eyes glimmered with rising glee. My masterful Lover whispered to me, "_Put your lips to the flute with mine, Heedless of self-hood, in song be divine._" And placing near mine his golden-sweet mouth, A rondeau he sang of the forest's youth.

Pan spoke at last: "Child! wander and learn The lilt of the bird and the song of the burn: And when thou hast learned from the burn and the bird Thou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred). "Hail! child from the plaintful Kingdom of Man." The mountain-tops shouted, "Evoe, great Pan!" The rivers sang deeply, "Evoe, great Pan!" And whisperingly I, "Evoe, great Pan!"

SECOND DAY

The rose-trees show but a tuft of green Where a stern, cold pruning-knife has been, But they promise a summer of fragrant wealth: How the small buds come to the light by stealth Like pixies shy; yet a pruning knife Leads every browny-bare branch to life. Slowly I passed thro' the rustic gate, Where wine-red roses will hold June fete; The wind stole out from the blossoming row Of the cherry-trees, and he whispered low:

"_Are you content to be bound by a wall, E'en tho' it boundeth things beautiful? Tho' cherry and apple bloom over it fall, Always it is, and it hath been, a wall. 'Tis true that thro' it there is a wicket, But what can it know of the wild grown thicket That grows where its pathway may never wander: Out of this garden--the blue land yonder?_"

And a cuckoo called; and the echo ran, "Evoe, Evoe, Evoe, great Pan!"

Then my Lover lifted me up in his arms, And swiftly arose. How the grey-roofed farms Receded into the cup-like earth! And I chanted a canzone of Springtime and Birth, Which called o'er the sea to the firstling swallow, Who flew beside us o'er height and hollow, Till others came from their home of the Sun, And the farm-folk cried, "Dear Summer's begun." Hundreds and thousands followed our flight-- ALL ENGLAND WILL HAVE A SWALLOW TO-NIGHT.

By the old elm's portal of Arcady My Lover alighted and whispered to me, "O lily of laughter! O sister of flowers! Wander alone in Arcadian bowers, And I will return when the sun goes down, And wing you home to your grey, grey town. I kiss your little white hands and feet: Farewell!" And he rose, on wings so fleet Over the nests in the cradling larch, Over the bow of the rainbow's arch.

Where conifers grow in fine profusion, And birches quiver in sweet confusion, Where hawthorn waits with a danseuse grace To burst on the scene with her milk-white face, And pirouette near some stately spruce, Scattering around him pearly dews, Where rabbits scamper thro' grasses lush, And a pheasant's screech breaks the noon-day hush, I journeyed on, till the sun began His westering course.

"Evoe, great Pan! Never a note of your pipings to-day Has guided my steps thro' the sylvan way. O! where must I seek in this Paradise?" "Evoe, Evoe," a linnet sighs, "Seek where the sisterly marshes are, Where the marigold twinkles, a golden star, Where willow and alder hide the river, Where timid reed-warblers tremble and shiver." The sky showed pink thro' the branches grey, And then I heard, as if far away, A tremulous song, a music of fears That was strung together by trills of tears, A quivering star glowed, curtained by leaves, And the hullets called from some distant eaves.

I found Pan crouched by the river's edge, His hoofed feet hid by the rushy sedge, And I listened his plaint.