Part 2

April, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears! April, that mine ears If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears.

WILLIAM WATSON

THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney, Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, My brother in Moharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin: They read in their books of prayer; I read in my book of songs I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time, To Peter sitting in state, He will smile on the three old spirits, But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry, Save by an evil chance, And the merry love the fiddle, And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me, They will all come up to me, With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!" And dance like a wave of the sea.

W. B. YEATS

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

W. B. YEATS

CRADLE-SONG

From groves of spice, O'er fields of rice, Athwart the lotus-stream, I bring for you, Aglint with dew, A little lovely dream.

Sweet, shut your eyes, The wild fire-flies Dance through the fairy neem;[1] From the poppy-bole For you I stole A little lovely dream.

Dear eyes, good-night, In golden light The stars around you gleam; On you I press With soft caress A little lovely dream.

SAROJINI NAIDU

[Footnote 1: A lilac-tree (Hindustani).]

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: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet.

G. K. CHESTERTON

THE EARLY MORNING

The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother. The moon on my left and the dawn on my right. My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.

HILAIRE BELLOC

THE SOUTH COUNTRY

When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And it's there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom, at her feet, She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will be there to comfort me Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told.

I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me.

HILAIRE BELLOC

SEA FEVER

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray "and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life, To the gull's, way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

JOHN MASEFIELD

TEWKESBURY ROAD

It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white; Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.

O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.

JOHN MASEFIELD

THE WEST WIND

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.

It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

"Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away. It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?

The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run; It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes," Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

JOHN MASEFIELD

A BALLAD OF THE CAPTAINS

Where are now the Captains Of the narrow ships of old-- Who with valiant souls went seeking For the Fabled Fleece of Gold; In the clouded Dusk of Ages, In the Dawn of History; When the ringing songs of Homer First re-echoed o'er the Sea?

Oh, the Captains lie a-sleeping Where great iron hulls are sweeping Out of Suez in their pride; And they hear not, and they heed not, And they know not, and they need not In their deep graves far and wide.

Where are now the Captains Who went blindly through the Strait, With a tribute to Poseidon, A libation poured to Fate? They were heroes giant-hearted, That with Terrors, told and sung, Like blindfolded lions grappled, When the World was strange and young.

Oh, the Captains brave and daring, With their grim old crews are faring Where our guiding beacons gleam; And the homeward liners o'er them-- All the charted seas before them-- Shall not wake them as they dream.

Where are now the Captains From bold Nelson back to Drake, Who came drumming up the Channel, Haling prizes in their wake? Where are England's fighting Captains Who, with battle-flags unfurled, Went a-rieving all the rievers O'er the waves of all the world?

Oh, these Captains, all confiding In the strong right hand, are biding In the margins, on the Main; They are shining bright in story, They are sleeping deep in glory, On the silken lap of Fame.

Where are now the Captains Who regarded not the tears Of the captured Christian maidens Carried, weeping, to Algiers? Yes, the swarthy Moorish Captains, Storming wildly 'cross the Bay, With a dead hidalgo's daughter. As a dower for the Dey?

Oh, those cruel Captains never Shall sweet lovers more dissever, On their forays as they roll; Or the mad Dons curse them vainly, As their baffled ships, ungainly, Heel them, jeering, to the Mole.

Where are now the Captains Of those racing, roaring days, Who of knowledge and of courage, Drove the clippers on their ways-- To the furthest ounce of pressure, To the latest stitch of sail, 'Carried on' before the tempest Till the waters lapped the rail?

Oh, the merry, manly skippers Of the traders and the clippers, They are sleeping East and West, And the brave blue seas shall hold them, And the oceans five enfold them In the havens where they rest.

Where are now the Captains Of the gallant days agone? They are biding in their places, And the Great Deep bears no traces Of their good ships passed and gone. They are biding in their places, Where the light of God's own grace is, And the Great Deep thunders on.

Yea, with never port to steer for, And with never storm to fear for, They are waiting wan and white, And they hear no more the calling Of the watches, or the falling Of the sea rain in the night.

E. J. BRADY

ARABIA

Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars Pale in the noonday skies.

Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night.

They haunt me--her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say-- "He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away."

WALTER DE LA MARE

FULL MOON

One night as Dick lay half asleep, Into his drowsy eyes A great still light began to creep From out the silent skies. It was the lovely moon's, for when He raised his dreamy head, Her rays of silver filled the pane And streamed across his bed. So, for awhile, each gazed at each-- Dick and the solemn moon-- Till, climbing slowly on her way, She vanished, and was gone.

WALTER DE LA MARE

NOD

Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep; And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain, His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, "Rest, rest, and rest again."

WALTER DE LA MARE

THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE

Who said, "Peacock Pie"? The old King to the sparrow: Who said, "Crops are ripe"? Rust to the harrow: Who said, "Where sleeps she now? Where rests she now her head, Bathed in eve's loveliness"? That's what I said.

Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"? Sexton to willow: Who said, "Green dusk for dreams, Moss for a pillow"? Who said, "All Time's delight Hath she for narrow bed; Life's troubled bubble broken"? That's what I said.

WALTER DE LA MARE

A DEAD HARVEST

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

Along the graceless grass of town They rake the rows of red and brown,-- Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay Delicate, touched with gold and grey, Raked long ago and far away.

A narrow silence in the park, Between the lights a narrow dark. One street rolls on the north; and one, Muffled, upon the south doth run; Amid the mist the work is done.

A futile crop! for it the fire Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. So go the town's lives on the breeze, Even as the sheddings of the trees; Bosom nor barn is filled with these.

ALICE MEYNELL

NOVEMBER BLUE

/$ The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary colour to the air in the early evening. _Essay on London_ $/

O heavenly colour, London town Has blurred it from her skies; And, hooded in an earthly brown, Unheaven'd the city lies. No longer standard-like this hue Above the broad road flies; Nor does the narrow street the blue Wear, slender pennon-wise.

But when the gold and silver lamps Colour the London dew, And, misted by the winter damps, The shops shine bright anew-- Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, It dyes the wide air through; A mimic sky about their feet, The throng go crowned with blue.

ALICE MEYNELL

THE SHEPHERDESS

She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep; She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep, Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep. She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

ALICE MEYNELL

THE DEAD

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage.

RUPERT BROOKE

THE GREAT LOVER

I have been so great a lover: filled my days So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise, The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, Desire illimitable, and still content, And all dear names men use, to cheat despair, For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear Our hearts at random down the dark of life. Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, My night shall be remembered for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days. Shall I not crown them with immortal praise Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see The inenarrable godhead of delight? Love is a flame;--we have beaconed the world's night. A city:--and we have built it, these and I. An emperor:--we have taught the world to die. So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, And the high cause of Love's magnificence, And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, And set them as a banner, that men may know, To dare the generations, burn, and blow Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming.... These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes; and other such-- The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns....

Dear names, And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames; Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing; Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould; Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew; And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;-- And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;-- All these have been my loves. And these shall pass. Whatever passes not, in the great hour, Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power To hold them with me through the gate of Death. They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust And sacramented covenant to the dust. --Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, And give what's left of love again, and make New friends, now strangers.... But the best I've known, Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies. Nothing remains.

O dear my loves, O faithless, once again This one last gift I give: that after men Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."

RUPERT BROOKE

THE SOLDIER

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

RUPERT BROOKE

BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS

Sombre and rich, the skies; Great glooms, and starry plains. Gently the night wind sighs; Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall: Only the night wind glides: No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court; and yet, The stars his courtiers are: Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?

Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy: Never was face so stern With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends.