Part 3

Brief life and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. _Speak after sentence?_ Yea: And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face.

Yet when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will.

LIONEL JOHNSON

CHECK

The night was creeping on the ground; She crept and did not make a sound Until she reached the tree, and then She covered it, and stole again Along the grass beside the wall.

I heard the rustle of her shawl As she threw blackness everywhere Upon the sky and ground and air, And in the room where I was hid: But no matter what she did To everything that was without, She could not put my candle out.

So I stared at the night, and she Stared back solemnly at me.

JAMES STEPHENS

WHEN THE LEAVES FALL

When the leaves fall off the trees Everybody walks on them: Once they had a time of ease High above, and every breeze Used to stay and talk to them.

Then they were so debonair As they fluttered up and down; Dancing in the sunny air, Dancing without knowing there Was a gutter in the town.

Now they have no place at all! All the home that they can find Is a gutter by a wall, And the wind that waits their fall Is an apache of a wind.

JAMES STEPHENS

IN FRANCE

The poplars in the fields of France Are golden ladies come to dance; But yet to see them there is none But I and the September sun.

The girl who in their shadow sits Can only see the sock she knits; Her dog is watching all the day That not a cow shall go astray.

The leisurely contented cows Can only see the earth they browse; Their piebald bodies through the grass With busy, munching noses pass.

Alone the sun and I behold Processions crowned with shining gold-- The poplars in the fields of France, Like glorious ladies come to dance.

FRANCES CORNFORD

THE RAGWORT

The thistles on the sandy flats Are courtiers with crimson hats; The ragworts, growing up so straight, Are emperors who stand in state, And march about, so proud and bold, In crowns of fairy-story gold.

The people passing home at night Rejoice to see the shining sight, They quite forget the sands and sea Which are as grey as grey can be, Nor ever heed the gulls who cry Like peevish children in the sky.

FRANCES CORNFORD

LONE DOG

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff, and kick, and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, Wide wind, and wild stars, and the hunger of the quest!

IRENE R. McLEOD

IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK

If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it, I'd fly through the windows when Jane goes to tea, And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide it, To lands where no children are cripples like me; I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the sea, Where soft red anemones close when you touch; If I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it, If I had a broomstick--instead of a crutch!

PATRICK R. CHALMERS

ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS

It was early last September nigh to Framlin'amon-Sea, An''twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea, An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane, A Pharaoh with his waggons cornin' jolt an' creak an' strain; A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up, An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup, An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings Was joggin' in the dust along is roundabouts and swings.

"Goo'-day," said'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go, An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?" "I find," said'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found, For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round." Said'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were, It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a'are; But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's, What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!

"Goo' luck," said'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt; An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out"; 'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane; An' the moon she climbed the'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, is sooth of lose-and-win; For "up an' down an' round," said'e, "goes all appointed things, An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!"

PATRICK R. CHALMERS

A TOWN WINDOW

Beyond my window in the night Is but a drab inglorious street, Yet there the frost and clean starlight As over Warwick woods are sweet.

Under the grey drift of the town The crocus works among the mould As eagerly as those that crown The Warwick spring in flame and gold.

And when the tramway down the hill Across the cobbles moans and rings, There is about my window-sill The tumult of a thousand wings.

JOHN DRINKWATER

BRUMANA

Oh shall I never never be home again? Meadows of England shining in the rain Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green With briar fortify, with blossom screen Till my far morning--and O streams that slow And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, For me your love and all your kingcups store, And--dark militia of the southern shore, Old fragrant friends--preserve me the last lines Of that long saga which you sung me, pines, When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree I listened, with my eyes upon the sea.

[Continued]

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

THE DYING PATRIOT

Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills, Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, Day of my dreams, O day! I saw them march from Dover, long ago, With a silver cross before them, singing low, Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam, Augustine with his feet of snow.

Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, --Beauty she was statue cold--there's blood upon her gown: Noon of my dreams, O noon! Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, And the streets where the great men go.

Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, When the first star shivers and the last wave pales: O evening dreams! There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead Sway when the long winds blow.

Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: Fire in the night, O dreams! Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow.

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

NOVEMBER EVES

November Evenings! Damp and still They used to cloak Leckhampton hill, And lie down close on the grey plain, And dim the dripping window-pane, And send queer winds like Harlequins That seized our elms for violins And struck a note so sharp and low Even a child could feel the woe.

Now fire chased shadow round the room; Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom: We crept about like mice, while Nurse Sat mending, solemn as a hearse, And even our unlearned eyes Half closed with choking memories.

Is it the mist or the dead leaves, Or the dead men--November eves?

JAMES ELROY FLECKER

STAR-TALK

"Are you awake, Gemelli, This frosty night?" "We'll be awake till reveille, Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli, "It's no good trying to go to sleep: If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, But rest is hopeless to-night, But rest is hopeless to-night."

'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, This frosty night?" "Yes, and so are the Hyads: See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: We huddle together like birds in a storm: It's bitter weather to-night, It's bitter weather to-night."

"What do you hunt, Orion, This starry night?" "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, And the Great Bear," says Orion,

"With my starry quiver and beautiful belt I am trying to find a good thick pelt To warm my shoulders to-night, To warm my shoulders to-night."

"Did you hear that, Great She-bear, This frosty night?" "Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare, Of my own big fur," says the She-bear. "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, And the frost so cruel to-night! And the frost so cruel to-night!"

"How is your trade, Aquarius, This frosty night?" "Complaints is many and various, And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, And the pump has frozen to-night, And the pump has frozen to-night."

ROBERT GRAVES

THE KINGFISHER

It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep.

Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass, Let every feather show its mark; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings.

Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; Thou hast no proud ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That's green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

SHEEP

When I was once in Baltimore A man came up to me and cried, "Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep, And we will sail on Tuesday's tide.

"If you will sail with me, young man, I'll pay you fifty shillings down; These eighteen hundred sheep I take From Baltimore to Glasgow town."

He paid me fifty shillings down, I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep; We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth, We soon were in the salt sea deep.

The first night we were out at sea Those sheep were quiet in their mind; The second night they cried with fear-- They smelt no pastures in the wind.

They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, They cried so loud I could not sleep: For fifty thousand shillings down I would not sail again with sheep.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE

Green gardens in Laventie! Soldiers only know the street Where the mud is churned and splashed about By battle-wending feet; And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass, Look for it when you pass.

Beyond the Church whose pitted spire Seems balanced on a strand Of swaying stone and tottering brick Two roofless ruins stand, And here behind the wreckage where the back-wall should have been We found a garden green.

The grass was never trodden on, The little path of gravel Was overgrown with celandine, No other folk did travel Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse Running from house to house.

So all among the vivid blades Of soft and tender grass We lay, nor heard the limber wheels That pass and ever pass, In noisy continuity, until their stony rattle Seems in itself a battle.

At length we rose up from our ease Of tranquil happy mind, And searched the garden's little length A fresh pleasaunce to find; And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high Did rest the tired eye.

The fairest and most fragrant Of the many sweets we found, Was a little bush of Daphne flower Upon a grassy mound, And so thick were the blossoms set, and so divine the scent, That we were well content.

Hungry for Spring I bent my head, The perfume fanned my face, And all my soul was dancing In that lovely little place, Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and shattered towns Away . . . upon the Downs.

I saw green banks of daffodil, Slim poplars in the breeze, Great tan-brown hares in gusty March A-courting on the leas; And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver scurrying dace, Home--what a perfect place!

EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT

INTO BATTLE

The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight; And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run, And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth.

All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend, They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges' end.

The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing."

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy of Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind--

Though joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still, Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will.

The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

JULIAN GRENFELL

OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads. I desire them.

No.

I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them.

No.

HAROLD MONRO

A FLOWER IS LOOKING THROUGH THE GROUND

A flower is looking through the ground, Blinking at the April weather; Now a child has seen the flower: Now they go and play together.

Now it seems the flower will speak, And will call the child its brother-- But, oh strange forgetfulness!-- They don't recognize each other.

HAROLD MONRO

MAN CARRYING BALE

The tough hand closes gently on the load; Out of the mind, a voice Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well their work, Lengthen and pause for help. Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot While all the muscles call to one another: 'Lift!' and the bulging bale Floats like a butterfly in June.

So moved the earliest carrier of bales, And the same watchful sun Glowed through his body feeding it with light. So will the last one move, And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble. Earth, you designed your man Beautiful both in labour and repose.

HAROLD MONRO

THE CHERRY TREES

The cherry trees bend over and are shedding On the old road where all that passed are dead, Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding This early May morn when there is none to wed.

EDWARD THOMAS

THE BELLS OF HEAVEN

'T Would ring the bells of Heaven The wildest peal for years, If Parson lost his senses And people came to theirs, And he and they together Knelt down with angry prayers For tamed and shabby tigers And dancing dogs and bears, And wretched, blind pit ponies, And little hunted hares.

RALPH HODGSON

THE SONG OF HONOUR

I climbed a hill as light fell short, And rooks came home in scramble sort, And filled the trees and flapped and fought And sang themselves to sleep; An owl from nowhere with no sound Swung by and soon was nowhere found, I heard him calling half-way round, Holloing loud and deep; A pair of stars, faint pins of light, Then many a star, sailed into sight, And all the stars, the flower of night, Were round me at a leap; To tell how still the valleys lay I heard a watch-dog miles away, And bells of distant sheep.

I heard no more of bird or bell, The mastiff in a slumber fell, I stared into the sky, As wondering men have always done Since beauty and the stars were one, Though none so hard as I.

It seemed, so still the valleys were, As if the whole world knelt at prayer, Save me and me alone; So pure and wide that silence was I feared to bend a blade of grass, And there I stood like stone.

[Continued] RALPH HODGSON

STUPIDITY STREET

I saw with open eyes Singing birds sweet Sold in the shops For the people to eat, Sold in the shops of Stupidity Street. I saw in vision The worm in the wheat, And in the shops nothing For people to eat; Nothing for sale in Stupidity Street.

RALPH HODGSON

TO THE COMING SPRING

O punctual Spring! We had forgotten in this winter town The days of Summer and the long, long eves. But now you come on airy wing, With busy fingers spilling baby-leaves On all the bushes, and a faint green down On ancient trees, and everywhere Your warm breath soft with kisses Stirs the wintry air, And waking us to unimagined blisses. Your lightest footprints in the grass Are marked by painted crocus-flowers And heavy-headed daffodils, While little trees blush faintly as you pass. The morning and the night You bathe with heavenly showers, And scatter scentless violets on the rounded hills, Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose posies. With magic key, in the new evening light, You are unlocking buds that keep the roses; The purple lilac soon will blow above the wall And bended boughs in orchards whitely bloom-- We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom . . . Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call!

MARGARET MACKENZIE

ALMS IN AUTUMN

Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way? The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen, And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again. Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night.

Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please, Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys. I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past. I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song.

Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask : A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands). So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight.

ROSE FYLEMAN

I DON'T LIKE BEETLES

I don't like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good, I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should; I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play, And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away. I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk, And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk; I don't like tigers, not even in a book, And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook!

ROSE FYLEMAN

WISHES

I wish I liked rice pudding, I wish I were a twin, I wish some day a real live fairy Would just come walking in.

I wish when I'm at table My feet would touch the floor, I wish our pipes would burst next winter, Just like they did next door.

I wish that I could whistle Real proper grown-up tunes, I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys On rainy afternoons.

I've got such heaps of wishes, I've only said a few; I wish that I could wake some morning And find they'd all come true!

ROSE FYLEMAN

VERY NEARLY!

I never quite saw fairy-folk A-dancing in the glade, Where, just beyond the hollow oak, Their broad green rings are laid: But, while behind that oak I hid, _One day I very nearly did!_