Part 2

And nights of blue and pearl; and long smooth beaches, Yellow as sunburnt wheat, Edged with a line of foam that creams and hisses, Enticing weary feet; And emeralds, and sunset-hearted opals, And Asian marble, veined With scarlet flame; and cool green jade, and moonstones, Misty and azure-stained;

And almond trees in bloom, and oleanders, Or a wide purple sea Of plain-land gorgeous with a lovely poison-- The evil Darling pea:--

If I am tired I call on these to help me To dream--and dawn-lit skies, Lemon and pink, or faintest, coolest lilac, Float on my soothéd eyes.

There is no night so black but you shine through it, There is no morn so drear, O Colour of the World, but I can find you, Most tender, pure, and clear.

Thanks be to God who gave this gift of colour Which who shall seek shall find; Thanks be to God who gives me strength to hold it, Though I were stricken blind.

AUSTRALIA.

NON PENSO A LEI

(_Canzone Ferrandini_)

When I pass by below your window, singing, Never by any chance I think of you; And jealousy your hard heart may be wringing-- I go that way because I’ve work to do. And if you think, beneath the gay voice throbbing, You hear the sound of one in sorrow sobbing-- I sing thus since my mood is thus. Believe me, Madame, no hopeless love of you shall grieve me.

If they have said that I look pale and worn, Time is at fault, not any woman’s scorn. If they have said I daily seek Death’s doors, What’s that to you? Am I a love of yours?

_But if I see you smiling at Gigi that sweet way, Then I go to the galleys and you to churchyard clay._

THE ROAD TO RONDA

Along the road to Ronda Grow rosemary and thyme, And trails of periwinkle Among the brambles climb; But ’tis the broom the paths along That lifts the traveller’s heart to song.

The broom its royal treasure Spills lavish, far and wide, No stone but has its banner Of cloth-of-gold beside, No weed but bears its nodding plume, Its careless bravery of bloom.

The purple spears of lavender Smell sweet as charity, And amaryllis blossoms By grey-flowered rosemary; It’s worth a year of suffering To walk the Ronda road in spring.

There grows a gallant army Of blossoms great and small Along the road to Ronda-- The broom is lord of all. O fair and fair and wonder-fair, Spilt like the sunshine everywhere!

RONDA, SPAIN.

THE MOON AND THE MORNING

The moon is riding high, the stars are shining But very palely, through the clear blue light; The plain is empty, and the circling mountains Rise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night.

There is no wind astir, the serried rushes Stand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon; Within still waters grows a single lily, A great white flower of solitude, the moon.

My shadow that seemed taller than the mountains Lies gathered at my feet, a pool of ink, And as I move towards the sombre reed-beds I watch it spill and trickle, spread and shrink.

Here in the moon-blanched pasture wide and silent With no voice waking and no foot astir Save mine, the lovely sleeping night surrounds me And naught is real save the thought of her.

And yet the plain will wake to green and golden Within a few still hours; a breath will pass Crisping the mirror-surface of the water; The larks will start up from the dewy grass;

The proud far sky will smile and grow more kindly; The gauzy wisps of cloud that float in it-- The small pale frightened clouds that cast no shadow Since they dim not the starshine as they flit--

Will mass to eastward like a host with banners, Dawn’s dazzling banners streaming out unfurled Above the dayspring’s golden fountain welling Up from beneath the dark rim of the world.

FLOWER AND THORN

Black the storm-wind rides the sky, all the leaves are torn, Briers upon the common stand stripped to stick and thorn; Thorny is the brier, thorny is the brier, Mother Mary, keep me safe, give me my desire!

Now the winter rains have gone, Heaven’s washed and clean, All the brooks are laughing sweet, all the trees are green; Leafy is the brier, leafy is the brier, Mother Mary in the sky, grant me my desire!

Summer’s yellow on the land, throbbing warm and live, Hear her million voices hum like a lucky hive; Blossom of the brier, blossom of the brier, Mary in the summertime, give me my desire!

All the talking winds are stilled in the autumn pause, Redder far than blood or fire blaze the hips and haws; Fruiting of the brier, fruiting of the brier-- Mother Mary, must I die starved of my desire?

THE GREY LAKE

(_Lake Eyre, South Australia_)

Far away to southward The grey lake lies, Thirty leagues of mud, bare To turquoise skies.

Shallow, sluggish water, Warm--warm as blood; Not enough to cover The quaking mud.

Hot winds drive the water In summer time Southward--and behind them There lies grey slime.

Forty miles to westward, A hundred north, Wind-fiends hunt the water Back--back and forth.

There are reed-grown islands The eye scarce sees, Grey ooze guarding grimly Their mysteries.

Strange Things may survive there, What, who can tell? Monsters old--the lake-slime Can guard them well.

No one knows those islands,-- The gulls that fly May go near, but others Would surely die.

For the wind-scourged water Would flee the ships, And the mud would open Her soft smooth lips.

So the isles are sacred From alien tread, Since the slime can swallow And keep her dead.

Who can know her secrets? The blue sky might-- (Cloudless-hot in daytime, Star-gemmed at night).

To and fro for ever The water swings, And the gulls fly over, For _they_ have wings.

BURNING OFF

They’re burning off at the Rampadells, The tawny flames uprise With greedy licking around the trees: The hot breath sears our eyes

From cores already grown furnace-hot; The logs are well alight; We fling more wood where the flameless heart Is throbbing red and white.

The fire bites deep in that beating heart, The creamy smoke-wreaths ooze From cracks and knot-holes along the trunk To melt in greys and blues.

* * * * *

The young horned moon has gone from the sky, And night has settled down; A red glare shows from the Rampadells, Grim as a burning town.

Full seven fathoms above the rest A tree stands, great and old, A red-hot column whence fly the sparks, One ceaseless shower of gold.

All hail the king of the fire before He sway and crack and crash To earth!--for surely to-morrow’s sun Will see him fine white ash.

The king in his robe of falling stars No trace shall leave behind, And where he stood with his silent court The wheat shall bow to the wind.

AUSTRALIA.

AN OLD SONG

The almond bloom is overpast, the apple blossoms blow. I never loved but one man, and I never told him so.

My flowers will never come to fruit, but I have kept my pride-- A little, cold, and lonely thing, and I have naught beside.

The spring-wind caught my flowering dreams, they lightly blew away. I never had but one true love, and he died yesterday.

BAZAR

Dive in from the sunlight smiting like a falchion Underneath the awnings to the sudden shade, Saunter through the packed lane Many-voiced, colourful, Rippling with the currents of the south and eastern trade.

Here are Persian carpets, ivory, and peachbloom, Tints to fill the heart of any child of man; Here are copper rose-bowls, Leopard-skins, emeralds, Scarlet slippers curly-toed and beads from Kordofan.

Water-sellers pass with brazen saucers tinkling, Hajjis in the doorways tell their amber beads; Buy a lump of turquoise, A scimitar, a neckerchief Worked with rose and saffron for a lovely lady’s needs?

Here we pass the goldsmiths, copper-, brass-, and silversmiths, All a-clang and jingle, all a-glint and gleam; Here the silken webs hang, Shimmering, delicate, Soft-hued as an afterglow and melting as a dream.

Buy a little blue god brandishing a sceptre, Buy a dove with coral feet and pearly breast; Buy some ostrich-feathers, Silver shawls, perfume-jars, Buy a stick of incense for the shrine that you love best.

ASSUAN.

SPRING ON THE PLAINS

Spring has come to the plains, And, following close behind, Green of the welcome rains, And spice of the first warm wind; Beating of wings on high, For, overhead in the blue, Southward the brolgas fly, The cranes and pelicans too, Ibis, and proud black swan-- And quivering cries float clear, After the birds are gone, Still lingering in the ear.

Everywhere we pass The horses tread soft and deep; Clover and young green grass-- Hark to the grazing sheep, Cropping steady and slow-- A peaceful, satisfied sound; Thick on the paths we go Gold flowers are starring the ground. Spring! and the world’s astir, And everything gives praise, Singing the strength of her These lovely lengthening days.

AUSTRALIA.

PILGRIM SONG

My feet are grey with the roadside dust, My hair is wet with the dew, My heart is flagging with weariness And faint with the want of you.

You are as young as the breaking buds, You are as old as the sea; My soul burns white in the flame of you-- Love, open your door to me!...

I sought my love in the noontide heat, I sought in the bitter wind, And found her house--and the doors were shut, And the windows were barred and blind.

THE COORONG SANDHILLS

(_South Australia_)

Over the Coorong sandhills only the wild duck fly, Naught is there but the knot-grass rank, and the sea, and the sky; Redder than cooling lava, slow heave the hills to the blue, Splendid, dazzling, and stainless, of sky and of ocean too.

South to the frozen mountains faces the last red hill, Only the sea between them; almost as lone and still Shows the sand as the ice-peaks, but it has heat and light, Set against the aurora that shatters the polar night.

If the sands have a language, healing it is and kind, Clean and strong like the sea-roar or the glad shout of the wind; If you but face them bravely, lost in a barren land, Never will they betray you, the sky and the sea and sand.

Blue burns the sky above me, red the sand at my feet, Near and far on the sandhills shimmers the living heat; Hill after hill I conquer, changing yet still the same, Still flows the sand together and covers the way I came.

Stretched in a warm sand-hollow late in the afternoon Watch I the wild duck flying back to the long lagoon; Black on an amber sunset passes the last of the flight-- Over the Coorong sandhills quiver the pinions of night.

TWO JAPANESE SONGS

I

THE HEART OF A BIRD

_What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird?_

There was a bird in a cage of gold, a small red bird in a cage of gold; The sun shone through the bars of the cage, out of the wide heaven; The depths of the sky were soft and blue, greatly to be longed for. The bird sang for desire of the sky, and her feathers shone redder for sorrow; And many passed in the street below, and they said one to another: “Ah, that we had hearts as light as a bird’s!”

_But what does the passer-by know of the heart of a bird?_

_What does the bird-seller know of the heart of a bird?_

“I have given grain for you to eat and water that you may bathe.” Shall not this bird be content? is there need to clip her wings? No, for her cage is very strong, the golden bars are set close; Yet the real bird has flown away, very far away over the rice-fields; There is only the shadow-body in the cage.

_What does the bird-seller care for the heart of a bird?_

II

A SMOKE SONG

There is a grey plume of smoke on the horizon, The smoke of a steamer that has departed over the edge of the world. There is the smoke of a dying fire in my heart, The smoke has hurt my eyes, they ache with tears.

AN AFTERGLOW ON THE NILE

Silver and misty rose And iris-flushed mother-of-pearl Is the world at the clear day’s close, River and sky and sand: Into a land we sail Soft-hued like the dreams of a girl, Vaguely outlined and bubble-frail-- Into a mystic land.

Speak, and the vision breaks, Yea, feel but too strongly, it flies From the tumult its beauty wakes Deep in our hearts’ stronghold; We can but stand and gaze, With all our souls’ life in our eyes, As we spin out this day of days Thin to a thread of gold.

* * * * *

Life has a flagon tall O’erbrimming with beauty’s clear wine, We only can sip at it all-- If we could lay it by, Treasure it, hold it fast, And revel in colour divine When the grey days come past, Then we should never die.

That is for gods alone, For beauty has butterfly wings, And we never can make it our own, Bloom unscattered, unless We are as gods, apart-- And not one of these wonderful things May I ever set down, though my heart Break in its helplessness.

THE EXPLORER

Had I been Adam in Eden-glade _I_ should have climbed the wall Or ever the Woman found the fruit, Crimson and ripe to fall.

For though the garden be Paradise, Gardens are little worth To one who thirsts for the wilderness Lonely in all the earth.

So out of the garden greenery Heavy with jasmine scent And past the slumbering gentle beasts I would go forth content.

I’d think of naught save the wall, but gain Over the other side A fair mixed world of evil and good, Chancy and wild and wide.

Sorrow and hunger and pain and fear, Peace that is won through strife, The changing luck of the changing year Giving its zest to life.

Had _I_ been Adam in Eden-close Never was wall so high ’Could keep me out of the lean brown earth, Though it might reach the sky!

_Had I been Adam in Paradise I should ha’ climbed the wall, I want not only the sweet of life But all--all--all!_

SEPTEMBER

The morns are growing misty, the nights are turning cold, The linden leaves are falling like a shower of gold; _And over where my heart is, beneath the southern sun, The shearing’s nearly over and the spring’s begun_.

_The crying flocks are driven to feed in peace again, They stream and spread and scatter on the smooth green plain, And in the sky above them the soft spring breezes keep A flock of clouds as snowy as the new-shorn sheep._

Now later comes the sunshine and sooner comes the dark, The barefoot newsboys shiver, the ladies in the Park Wear furs about their shoulders, for autumn winds are keen, And rusty curling edges fleck the chestnuts’ green.

The mists hang gauzy curtains of pearl and pigeon-blue Between us and the distance, the street-lamps shining through Wear each a golden halo diaphanous and fair-- But not one whit more lovely than my own clear air.

_More clear than you can dream it, as bright as diamond It bathes the plains and ridges and the hills beyond, It bathes the pillared woodlands that ring with bellbird notes, With mating calls and answers from a thousand throats._

The lamps are lit in London, beneath their searching light The smiling anxious faces look strained and very white; _And over where my heart is, twelve thousand miles away, The dewy grass is glinting at the break of day_.

LONDON.

RIDING RHYME

Mount, mount in the morning dew; A man loved me when the world was new.

Ride, ride while the dawn is cool: I was angry and he was a fool.

Ride, ride through the shadows grey: I told him to go and he went away.

Ride, ride through the sun’s first gold; I go alone now the world is old.

Ride, ride, for your horse is good; He never came to me or understood.

Ride, ride, and you’ll travel far; I tore my heart out and hid the scar.

Ride with a man at your bridle-rein-- My man never will come again.

Ride, ride, for the sun is strong: O but a lonely road can be long!

Ride, ride, for the light grows dim: What of the others? I wanted him.

Home, home, for the tale is told: I was young and now I am old.

FOUR TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN

I

(_Writer unknown_)

I heard a sickle sighing, Yea, sighing through the corn, I heard a maiden crying That was for love forlorn.

“Give over, love, give over! I care not what may pass, For in the green, green clover I’ve found another lass.”

“If in the green, green clover The while I stand apart You’ve found another lover I well may break my heart.”

II

(_Keller_)

I was a master-weaver To weave my grief and care, And day and night I fashioned A heavy robe to wear.

I trailed it on the highway Dust-grey, with weary pride, I set upon my forehead A wreath of thorns beside.

The sun on high in Heaven Looked down and loud laughed he: “What little dwarf goes yonder In robes of majesty?”

Ashamed I laid my mantle And crown upon the sod, And sorrowless and joyless The dusty road I plod.

III

(_Storm_)

Out of my slumber I woke in affright; Why does the lark sing so deep in the night?

The day is gone, the morning is far, Down on my pillow shines many a star;

And ever the song of the lark I hear; Oh, voice of the dawning, I shrink in fear.

IV

(_Hofmannsthal_)

She bore the beaker o’er to him-- Her chin was rounded like its rim-- So light and steady was her tread, Not one drop of the wine was shed.

So light and sinewy his hand, He rode his young horse carelessly, And with an easy mastery He forced it to a quivering stand.

And yet when from her hand the light Small beaker he must take, they found That it was all too hard, for lo, Both he and she did tremble so Their two hands never met aright, And dark wine trickled on the ground.

CHÂTEAU D’ESPAGNE

Castle-of-Spain is builded high, Thrusting its towers towards the sky, With its shot-windows looking down Over the ribbed roofs of the town That like a cat, her mousing done, Stretches at ease there in the sun.

Castle-of-Spain upon the crest Thrones like an eagle come to rest; Shut wings ready to spread once more And great and still in the blue to soar:-- On that day you will turn to find Your castle gone with no wrack behind!

Castle-of-Spain is hard to take. Your feet will bleed and your heart may break Long ere that stony height you gain-- Better the safe and pleasant plain! For, reach the summit, nothing’s there Save mocking sun and empty air Or a tall cloud-tower in the heaven’s span-- Small comfort that to an earthly man! Castle-of-Spain is builded high Up above us, beyond the sky....

_Easy we build you, hardly we gain, Castle-of-Spain, Castle-of-Spain!_

SAN PABLO, ANDALUSIA.

BATHING RHYME

Turquoise-green the laughing sea And the beach is ivory, Creamy-yellow, creamy-smooth-- How the small waves lisp and soothe! Those grave woods will not betray, All the shore is ours to-day, There’s no soul for many a mile And the curved waves call and smile, Coax and whisper and beguile ... Quick, your garments cast aside Go to meet the rising tide!

Childlike run we hand in hand Down the slope of hard smooth sand, From the kissing sun’s embrace To the kissing waves that race Frothing rainbows round our feet-- O the cool shock sharp and sweet! O the healing of the sea, Clearer than it seemed to be! Even clearer--lucent green Like the eyes of some sea queen.

Looking through the water’s shimmer Can you see a moving glimmer Whiter than the rippled sand, White as snow--a beckoning hand? Dive, and lo! it swings from sight, Vanishing in broken light. She is gone, but memories stay And transfigure all the day; In the waves’ soft touch there lingers Something of her cool white fingers; Is that shell her gleaming throat, That dark weed, her hair afloat?... So her troubling beauty’s power Like the perfume of a flower Penetrates the sea and air Making everything more fair: Pleasure stabbing to the brain With the joy that touches pain.

Of the water’s strength made free, We’re a part of all the sea; Close its clean caress enfolds, And each joy that motion holds Taste we--glad to be alive-- Race the curling waves, or dive To green dusk, and meet the day Swift before has passed away All our crystal pathway thick With the bubbles rising quick; Or when that is done we lie Rocking, gazing at the sky, Blue and sweet and purely lit That we gasp to look on it....

Looking through the sunshot deep, Where our sea-maid lies asleep, Throat upflung, as white as lime, With the clear waves keeping time To the heaving of her breast-- Here we see to veil her rest Every jewel-tint of green: Jade, smaragdus, tourmaline, Beryl and green sapphire’s light, Streaky solid malachite, Chrysoprase and peacock-sheen Of the opal’s shifting green-- Patched and barred with purple dye Where the rocks like watch-dogs lie, Waiting crouched beneath the wave, Hungry, cruel as the grave....

Colour floods our souls until They must brim and overspill, Cups too small to bear away Half the beauty of the day. But when walking bound with heat Shackled in the airless street, When the sky has lost its light And o’er all the dust is white-- We shall turn to dreams of this As a damned soul thinks of bliss, And the loveliness we fail Now to grasp shall count full tale.

MONTORO’S SONG AGAINST COUNT ALVARO DE LUNA, HIGH CONSTABLE OF CASTILE

(_From the Spanish of E. Marquina_)

“King, a flock is feeding down the cliff unheeding and upon the hill, with your crook to shepherd it....” --It is yours, O Favourite. Ask for what you will.

“In your crown a jewel blazes fierce and cruel-- kingship to fulfil. Such a royal stone is it....” --It is yours, O Favourite. Ask for what you will.

“King, see, your rejected sceptre lies neglected on the throne-steps still. Long you have forgotten it....” --It is yours, O Favourite. Ask for what you will.

“King, in kingly measure I have spent my treasure, haste my stores to fill! Be my Envoy leal and fit--” --I shall do so, Favourite. Ask for what you will.

“King, tell me I am dreaming; I see the tapers gleaming; a scaffold boding ill with the headsman swart by it--” --It is yours, O Favourite, ask for what you will.

SEA-FOG