<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h1><i>Many Voices</i></h1>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>POEMS: By E.
NESBIT</i></p>
<h2><SPAN name="page9"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE RETURN</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> grass was gray
with the moonlit dew,<br/>
The stones were white as I came through;<br/>
I came down the path by the thirteen yews,<br/>
Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews.<br/>
And when I came to the high lych-gate<br/>
I waited awhile where the corpses wait;<br/>
Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay<br/>
Like the fallen ghost of the light of day.</p>
<p class="poetry">The bats shrieked high in their zigzag
flight,<br/>
The owls’ spread wings were quiet and white,<br/>
The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh,<br/>
And all about were the rustling shy<br/>
Little live creatures that love the night—<br/>
Little wild creatures timid and free.<br/>
I passed, and they were not afraid of me.</p>
<p class="poetry">It was over the meadow and down the lane<br/>
The way to come to my house again:<br/>
Through the wood where the lovers talk,<br/>
And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk.<br/>
I wore the clothes that we all must wear,<br/>
And no one saw me walking there,<br/>
No one saw my pale feet pass<br/>
By my garden path to my garden grass.<br/>
<SPAN name="page10"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>My garden
was hung with the veil of spring—<br/>
Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming;<br/>
It lay in the moon’s cold sheet of light<br/>
In garlands and silence, wondrous and white<br/>
As a dead bride decked for her burying.</p>
<p class="poetry">Then I saw the face of my house<br/>
Held close in the arms of the blossomed boughs:<br/>
I leaned my face to the window bright<br/>
To feel if the heart of my house beat right.<br/>
The firelight hung it with fitful gold;<br/>
It was warm as the house of the dead is cold.<br/>
I saw the settles, the candles tall,<br/>
The black-faced presses against the wall,<br/>
Polished beechwood and shining brass,<br/>
The gleam of china, the glitter of glass,<br/>
All the little things that were home to me—<br/>
Everything as it used to be.</p>
<p class="poetry">Then I said, “The fire of life still
burns,<br/>
And I have returned whence none returns:<br/>
I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,<br/>
I will warm my heart in the heart of it!”<br/>
So I called aloud to the one within:<br/>
“Open, open, and let me in!<br/>
Let me in to the fire and the light—<br/>
It is very cold out here in the night!”<br/>
There was never a stir or an answering breath—<br/>
Only a silence as deep as death.</p>
<p class="poetry">Then I beat on the window, and called, and
cried.<br/>
No one heard me, and none replied.<br/>
The golden silence lay warm and deep,<br/>
And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep;<br/>
And there was no one to hear or see—<br/>
To comfort me, to have pity on me.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page11"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
11</span>But deep in the silence something stirred—<br/>
Something that had not seen or heard—<br/>
And two drew near to the window-pane,<br/>
Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again,<br/>
And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread<br/>
Over the garlanded garden bed;<br/>
And—“How ghostly the moonlight is!” she
said.</p>
<p class="poetry">Back through the garden, the wood, the lane,<br
/>
I came to mine own place again.<br/>
I wore the garments we all must wear,<br/>
And no one saw me walking there.<br/>
No one heard my thin feet pass<br/>
Through the white of the stones and the gray of the grass,<br/>
Along the path where the moonlight hews<br/>
Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.</p>
<p class="poetry">In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep<br
/>
It is good to sleep: it was good to sleep:<br/>
But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew,<br/>
And I cannot sleep as I used to do.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page12"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>FOR DOLLY<br/> <span class="GutSmall">WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER LESSONS</span></h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> see the fairies
dancing in the fountain,<br/>
Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray;<br/>
You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain,<br/>
Make gold and silver and diamonds every day;<br/>
You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams,<br/>
Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair;<br
/>
You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams,<br/>
Rise from the bonfire’s blue and liquid
air.</p>
<p class="poetry">All the enchantment, all the magic there is<br
/>
Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and
true.<br/>
Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies;<br/>
Every flower that blows is a miracle for you.<br/>
Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you.<br
/>
Millions of magics beseech your little looks;<br/>
Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for
you.<br/>
Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes
with books?</p>
<p class="poetry">Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow
dimmer,<br/>
Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky,<br/>
Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer,<br/>
Tired hands will lay the folded magic by.<br/>
Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes,<br/>
Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong
. . .<br/>
Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses,<br/>
Leave her her kingdom—she will not keep it
long!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page13"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>QUESTIONS</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> do the roses
do, mother,<br/>
Now that the summer’s done?<br/>
They lie in the bed that is hung with red<br/>
And dream about the sun.</p>
<p class="poetry">What do the lilies do, mother,<br/>
Now that there’s no more June?<br/>
Each one lies down in her white nightgown<br/>
And dreams about the moon.</p>
<p class="poetry">What can I dream of, mother,<br/>
With the moon and the sun away?<br/>
Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn,<br/>
And a lily that lives a day!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page14"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE DAISIES</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the great green
park with the wooden palings—<br/>
The wooden palings so hard to climb,<br/>
There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet,<br/>
And green things growing all the time;<br/>
And out in the open the daisies grow,<br/>
Pretty and proud in their proper places,<br/>
Millions of white-frilled daisy faces,<br/>
Millions and millions—not one or two.<br/>
And they call to the bluebells down in the wood:<br/>
“Are you out—are you in? We have been so
good<br/>
All the school-time winter through,<br/>
But now it’s playtime,<br/>
The gay time, the May time;<br/>
We are out and at play. Where are you?”</p>
<p class="poetry">In the gritty garden inside the railings,<br/>
The spiky railings all painted green,<br/>
There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsia<br/>
With never a happy weed between.<br/>
There’s a neat little grass plot, bald in places,<br/>
And very dusty to touch;<br/>
A respectable man comes once a week<br/>
To keep the garden weeded and swept,<br/>
To keep it as we don’t want it kept.<br/>
He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine,<br/>
And we think he cuts it too much.<br/>
But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty,<br/>
The daisies play about.<br/>
They are so brave as well as so pretty,<br/>
You cannot keep them out.<br/>
<SPAN name="page15"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>I love
them, I want to let them grow,<br/>
But that respectable man says no.<br/>
He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machine<br/>
Like the French Revolution guillotine.<br/>
He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces,<br/>
The dear little white-frilled daisy faces;<br/>
Says things must be kept in their proper places<br/>
He has no frill round his ugly face—<br/>
I wish I could find his proper place!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page16"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE TOUCHSTONE</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a garden,
very strange and fair<br/>
With all the roses summer never brings.<br/>
The snowy blossom of immortal Springs<br/>
Lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there.<br/>
There were new heavens, and the earth was new,<br/>
And still I told my heart the dream was true.</p>
<p class="poetry">But when the sun stood still, and Time went
out<br/>
Like a blown candle—when she came to me<br/>
Under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree,<br/>
Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt,<br/>
And when, with starry eyes, and lips too near,<br/>
She leaned to me, my heart knew what to fear.</p>
<p class="poetry">“It is no dream,” she said.
“What dream had stayed<br/>
So long? It is the blessed isle that lies<br
/>
Between the tides of twin eternities.<br/>
It is our island; do not be afraid!”<br/>
Then, then at last my heart was well deceived;<br/>
I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed.</p>
<p class="poetry">Her real presence sanctified my faith,<br/>
Her very voice my restless fears beguiled,<br/>
And it was Life that clasped me when she smiled,<br
/>
But when she said “I love you!” it was Death.<br/>
That, that at least could neither be nor
seem—<br/>
Oh, then, indeed, I knew it was a dream!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page17"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE DECEMBER ROSE</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here’s</span> a rose
that blows for Chloe,<br/>
Fair as ever a rose in June was,<br/>
Now the garden’s silent, snowy,<br/>
Where the burning summer noon was.</p>
<p class="poetry">In your garden’s summer glory<br/>
One poor corner, shelved and shady,<br/>
Told no rosy, radiant story,<br/>
Grew no rose to grace its lady.</p>
<p class="poetry">What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;<br/>
From his nook your secret lover<br/>
Shows what slighted roses grow to<br/>
When the rose you chose is over.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page18"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE FIRE</h2>
<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">was</span> picking
raspberries, my head was in the canes,<br/>
And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his
pains.<br/>
Says he, “You take it easy! That ain’t the way
to do!<br/>
I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too.<br
/>
So won’t you name the day?”<br/>
But I said, “That I will not.”<br/>
And I pushed him away,<br/>
Out among the raspberries all on a summer day.<br/>
And I says, “You ask in winter, if your love’s so
hot,<br/>
For it’s summer now, and sunny, and my hands is
full,” says I,<br/>
“With the fair by and by,<br/>
And the village dance and all;<br/>
And the turkey poults is small,<br/>
And so’s the ducks and chicks,<br/>
And the hay not yet in ricks,<br/>
And the flower-show’ll be presently and hop-picking’s
to come,<br/>
And the fruiting and the harvest home,<br/>
And my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done.<br/>
Can’t you leave a girl alone?<br/>
Your love’s too hot for me!<br/>
Can’t you leave a girl be<br/>
Till the evenings do draw in,<br/>
Till the leaves be getting thin,<br/>
<SPAN name="page19"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>Till the
fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea?<br/>
That’s the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting
me!”</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p>
<p class="poetry">And he took it as I said it, an’ not as
it was meant.<br/>
And he went.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p>
<p class="poetry">The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the
hops were dry and brown,<br/>
And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down,<br
/>
And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit,<br/>
And he’d never come anigh again, and all my life was
sick.<br/>
And I was cold alone, with nought to do but sit<br/>
With my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick.<br/>
For father, he lay dead<br/>
With the candles at his head,<br/>
And his coffin was that black I could see it through the wall;<br
/>
And I’d sent them all away,<br/>
Though they’d offered for to stay.<br/>
I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it all.<br/>
Then I heard him. I’d a-known it for his footstep
just as plain<br/>
If he’d brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen
lane.<br/>
And I hadn’t drawed the curtains, and I see him through the
pane;<br/>
And I jumped up in my blacks and I threw the door back wide.<br
/>
Says I, “You come inside;<br/>
For it’s cold outside for you,<br/>
<SPAN name="page20"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>And
it’s cold here too;<br/>
And I haven’t no more pride—<br/>
It’s too cold for that,” I cried.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p>
<p class="poetry">Then I saw in his face<br/>
The fear of death, and desire.<br/>
And oh, I took and kissed him again and again,<br/>
And I clipped him close and all,<br/>
In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place,<br/>
With the coffin lying black and full the other side the wall;<br
/>
And “<i>You</i> warm my heart,” I told him, “if
there’s any fire in men!”<br/>
And he got his two arms round me, and I felt the fire then.<br/>
And I warmed my heart at the fire.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page21"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>SONG</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the Spring is
waking,<br/>
Very shy as yet,<br/>
Busy mending, making<br/>
Grass and violet.<br/>
Frowsy Winter’s over:<br/>
See the budding lane!<br/>
Go and meet your lover:<br/>
Spring is here again!</p>
<p class="poetry">Every day is longer<br/>
Than the day before;<br/>
Lambs are whiter, stronger,<br/>
Birds sing more and more;<br/>
Woods are less than shady,<br/>
Griefs are more than vain—<br/>
Go and kiss your lady:<br/>
Spring is here again!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page22"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>A PARTING</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">So</span> good-bye!<br/>
This is where we end it, you and I.<br/>
Life’s to live, you know, and death’s to die;<br/>
So good-bye!</p>
<p class="poetry"> I
was yours<br/>
For the love in life that loves while life endures,<br/>
For the earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures<br/>
I was yours.</p>
<p class="poetry"> You
were mine<br/>
For the moment that a garland takes to twine,<br/>
For the human hour that sorcery shews divine<br/>
You were
mine.</p>
<p class="poetry"> All
is over.<br/>
You and I no more are love and lover;<br/>
Nought’s to seek now, gain, attain, discover.<br/>
All is over.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page23"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE GIFT OF LIFE</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Life</span> is a night all
dark and wild,<br/>
Yet still stars shine:<br/>
This moment is a star, my child—<br/>
Your star and mine.</p>
<p class="poetry">Life is a desert dry and drear,<br/>
Undewed, unblest;<br/>
This hour is an oasis, dear;<br/>
Here let us rest.</p>
<p class="poetry">Life is a sea of windy spray,<br/>
Cold, fierce and free:<br/>
An isle enchanted is to-day<br/>
For you and me.</p>
<p class="poetry">Forget night, sea, and desert: take<br/>
The gift supreme,<br/>
And, of life’s brief relenting, make<br/>
A deathless dream.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page24"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>INCOMPATIBILITIES</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> you loved me I
could trust you to your fancy’s furthest bound<br/>
While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went
round,<br/>
To the utmost of the meshes of the devil’s strongest net .
. .<br/>
If you loved me, if you loved me—but you do not love me
yet!</p>
<p class="poetry">I love you—and I cannot trust you further
than the door!<br/>
But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me
more<br/>
And more—until I trust you, dear, as women do trust
men—<br/>
I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you
then!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page25"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE STOLEN GOD<br/> <span class="GutSmall">LAZARUS TO DIVES</span></h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> do not clamour
for vengeance,<br/>
We do not whine for fear;<br/>
We have cried in the outer darkness<br/>
Where was no man to hear.<br/>
We cried to man and he heard not;<br/>
Yet we thought God heard us pray;<br/>
But our God, who loved and was sorry—<br/>
Our God is taken away.</p>
<p class="poetry">Ours were the stream and the pasture,<br/>
Forest and fen were ours;<br/>
Ours were the wild wood-creatures,<br/>
The wild sweet berries and flowers.<br/>
You have taken our heirlooms from us,<br/>
And hardly you let us save<br/>
Enough of our woods for a cradle,<br/>
Enough of our earth for a grave.</p>
<p class="poetry">You took the wood and the cornland,<br/>
Where still we tilled and felled;<br/>
You took the mine and quarry,<br/>
And all you took you held.<br/>
The limbs of our weanling children<br/>
You crushed in your mills of power;<br/>
And you made our bearing women toil<br/>
To the very bearing hour.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page26"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
26</span>You have taken our clean quick longings,<br/>
Our joy in lover and wife,<br/>
Our hope of the sunset quiet<br/>
At the evening end of life;<br/>
You have taken the land that bore us,<br/>
Its soil and stone and sod;<br/>
You have taken our faith in each other—<br/>
And now you have taken our God.</p>
<p class="poetry">When our God came down from Heaven<br/>
He came among men, a Man,<br/>
Eating and drinking and working<br/>
As common people can;<br/>
And the common people received Him<br/>
While the rich men turned away.<br/>
But what have we to do with a God<br/>
To whom the rich men pray?</p>
<p class="poetry">He hangs, a dead God, on your altars,<br/>
Who lived a Man among men,<br/>
You have taken away our Lord<br/>
And we cannot find Him again.<br/>
You have not left us a handful<br/>
Of even the earth He trod . . .<br/>
You have made Him a rich man’s idol<br/>
Who came as a poor man’s God.</p>
<p class="poetry">He promised the poor His heaven,<br/>
He loved and lived with the poor;<br/>
He said that the rich man’s shadow<br/>
Should never darken His door:<br/>
But bishops and priests lie softly,<br/>
Drink full and are fully fed<br/>
In the Name of the Lord, who had not<br/>
Where to lay His head.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page27"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
27</span>This is the God you have stolen,<br/>
As you steal all else—in His name.<br/>
You have taken the ease and the honour,<br/>
Left us the toil and the shame.<br/>
You have chosen the seat of Dives,<br/>
We lie where Lazarus lay;<br/>
But, by God, we will not yield you our God,<br/>
You shall not take Him away.</p>
<p class="poetry">All else we had you have taken;<br/>
All else, but not this, not this.<br/>
The God of Heaven is ours, is ours,<br/>
And the poor are His, are His.<br/>
Is He ours? Is He yours? Give answer!<br/>
For both He cannot be.<br/>
And if He is ours—O you rich men,<br/>
Then whose, in God’s name, are ye?</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page28"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>WINTER</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hold</span> your hands to
the blaze;<br/>
Winter is here<br/>
With the short cold days,<br/>
Bleak, keen and drear.<br/>
Was there ever a day<br/>
With hawthorn along the way<br/>
Where you wandered in mild mid-May<br/>
With your dear?</p>
<p class="poetry">That was when you were young<br/>
And the world was gold;<br/>
Now all the songs are sung,<br/>
The tales all told.<br/>
You shiver now by the fire<br/>
Where the last red sparks expire;<br/>
Dead are delight and desire:<br/>
You are old.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page29"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>SEA-SHELLS</h2>
<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">gathered</span> shells
upon the sand,<br/>
Each shell a little perfect thing,<br/>
So frail, yet potent to withstand<br/>
The mountain-waves’ wild buffeting.<br/>
Through storms no ship could dare to brave<br/>
The little shells float lightly, save<br/>
All that they might have lost of fine<br/>
Shape and soft colour crystalline.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet I amid the world’s wild surge<br/>
Doubt if my soul can face the strife,<br/>
The waves of circumstance that urge<br/>
That slight ship on the rocks of life.<br/>
O soul, be brave, for He who saves<br/>
The frail shell in the giant waves,<br/>
Will bring thy puny bark to land<br/>
Safe in the hollow of His hand.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page30"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>HOPE</h2>
<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">thrush</span>, is it
true?<br/>
Your song tells<br/>
Of a world born anew,<br/>
Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue<br/>
With hyacinth bells;<br/>
Of primroses deep<br/>
In the moss of the lane,<br/>
Of a Princess asleep<br/>
And dear magic to do.<br/>
Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true?<br/>
Will Spring come again?</p>
<p class="poetry">Will Spring come again?<br/>
Now at last<br/>
With soft shine and rain<br/>
Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain?<br/>
Will Winter be past?<br/>
In the brown of the copse<br/>
Will white wind-flowers star through<br/>
Where the last oak-leaf drops?<br/>
Will the daisies come too,<br/>
And the may and the lilac? Will Spring come again?<br/>
O thrush, is it true?</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page31"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN</h2>
<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">reach</span> my hand to
thee!<br/>
Stoop; take my hand in thine;<br/>
Lead me where I would be,<br/>
Father divine.<br/>
I do not even know<br/>
The way I want to go,<br/>
The way that leads to rest:<br/>
But, Thou who knowest me,<br/>
Lead where I cannot see,<br/>
Thou knowest best.</p>
<p class="poetry">Toys, worthless, yet desired,<br/>
Drew me afar to roam.<br/>
Father, I am so tired;<br/>
I am come home.<br/>
The love I held so cheap<br/>
I see, so dear, so deep,<br/>
So almost understood.<br/>
Life is so cold and wild,<br/>
I am thy little child—<br/>
I <i>will</i> be good.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page32"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE SKYLARK</h2>
<blockquote><p>“. . . a dripping shower of notes from the
softening blue. It is the skylark come.”—<span class="smcap">Robert à Field</span>, in the <i>New
Age</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">It</span> is the
skylark come.” For shame!<br/>
Robert-à-Cockney is thy name:<br/>
Robert-à-Field would surely know<br/>
That skylarks, bless them, never go!</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p>
<p class="poetry">Love of my life, bear witness here<br/>
How we have heard them all the year;<br/>
How to the skylark’s song are set<br/>
The days we never can forget.<br/>
At Rustington, do you remember?<br/>
We heard the skylarks in December;<br/>
In January above the snow<br/>
They sang to us by Hurstmonceux<br/>
Once in the keenest airs of March<br/>
We heard them near the Marble Arch;<br/>
Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air;<br/>
May found them singing everywhere;<br/>
And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune<br/>
Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June.<br/>
One unforgotten day at Rye<br/>
They sang a love-song in July;<br/>
In August, hard by Lewes town,<br/>
They sang of joy ’twixt sky and down;<br/>
And in September’s golden spell<br/>
We heard them singing on Scaw Fell.<br/>
October’s leaves were brown and sere,<br/>
But skylarks sang by Teston Weir;<br/>
And in November, at Mount’s Bay,<br/>
They sang upon our wedding day!</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">. . . . .</p>
<p class="poetry">Mr.-à-Field, go forth, go forth,<br/>
Go east and west and south and north;<br/>
You’ll always find the furze in flower,<br/>
Find every hour the lovers’ hour,<br/>
And, by my faith in love and rhyme,<br/>
The skylark singing all the time!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page33"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>SATURDAY SONG</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">They</span> talk about
gardens of roses,<br/>
And moonlight over the sea,<br/>
And mountains and snow<br/>
And sunsetty glow,<br/>
But I know what is best for me.<br/>
The prettiest sight I know,<br/>
Worth all your roses and snow,<br/>
Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night,<br/>
When the barrows are set in a row.</p>
<p class="poetry">I’ve heard of bazaars in India<br/>
All glitter and spices and smells,<br/>
But they don’t compare<br/>
With the naphtha flare<br/>
And the herrings the coster sells;<br/>
And the oranges piled like gold,<br/>
The cucumbers lean and cold,<br/>
And the red and white block-trimmings<br/>
And the strawberries fresh and ripe,<br/>
And the peas and beans,<br/>
And the sprouts and greens,<br/>
And the ’taters and trotters and tripe.</p>
<p class="poetry">And the shops where they sell the chairs,<br/>
The mangles and tables and bedding,<br/>
And the lovers go by in pairs,<br/>
And look—and think of the wedding.<br/>
And your girl has her arm in yours,<br/>
And you whisper and make her blush.<br/>
Oh! the snap in her eyes—and her smiles and her sighs<br/>
As she fancies the purple plush!</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page34"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
34</span>And you haven’t a penny to spend,<br/>
But you dream that you’ve pounds and
pounds;<br/>
And arm in arm with your only friend<br/>
You make your Saturday rounds:<br/>
And you see the cradle bright<br/>
With ribbon—lace—pink and white;<br/>
And she stops her laugh<br/>
And you drop your chaff<br/>
In the light of the Saturday night.<br/>
And the world is new<br/>
For her and you—<br/>
A little bit of all-right.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page35"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE CHAMPION</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Young</span> and a
conqueror, once on a day,<br/>
Wild white Winter rode out this way;<br/>
With his sword of ice and his banner of snow<br/>
Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.</p>
<p class="poetry">Winter was young then, young and strong;<br/>
Now he is old, he has reigned too long.<br/>
He shall be routed, he shall be slain;<br/>
Summer shall come to her own again!</p>
<p class="poetry">See the champion of Summer wake<br/>
Little armies in field and brake:<br/>
“Cruel and cold has King Winter been;<br/>
Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!”</p>
<p class="poetry">First the aconite dots the mould<br/>
With little round cannon-balls of gold;<br/>
Then, to help in the winter’s rout,<br/>
Regiments of crocuses march out.</p>
<p class="poetry">See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;<br/>
See the shield of the celandine,<br/>
And daffodil lances green and keen,<br/>
To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.</p>
<p class="poetry">Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings<br/>
Banners that mock at defeated kings;<br/>
And wherever the green of the new grass peers,<br/>
See the array of victorious spears.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page36"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
36</span>Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound<br/>
Over the garden’s battle-ground,<br/>
And lovely ladies crowd out to see<br/>
The long procession of victory.</p>
<p class="poetry">Little daisies with snowy frills,<br/>
Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,<br/>
Primrose and cowslip, friends well met<br/>
With white wood-sorrel and violet.</p>
<p class="poetry">Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;<br/>
Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;<br/>
Budding hedges and woods and trees—<br/>
Spring brings freedom and life to these.</p>
<p class="poetry">Then the triumphant Spring shall ride<br/>
Over the happy countryside;<br/>
Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:<br/>
“The King is dead—long live the King!”</p>
<p class="poetry">But Spring is no king, but a faithful
knight;<br/>
He will ride on through the meadows bright<br/>
Till at Summer’s feet he shall light him down<br/>
And lay at her feet the royal crown.</p>
<p class="poetry">She will lean down where the roses twine<br/>
Between the may-trees’ silver shine,<br/>
And look in the eyes of the dying knight<br/>
Who led his army and won her fight.</p>
<p class="poetry">She will stoop to his lips and say,<br/>
“Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!”<br/>
While he smiles and sighs her arms between<br/>
And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page37"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE GARDEN REFUSED</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is a garden
made for our delight,<br/>
Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true.<br
/>
I know it, but I do not know the
way.<br/>
We slip and tumble in the doubtful night,<br/>
Where everything is difficult and new,<br/>
And clouds our breath has made
obscure the day.</p>
<p class="poetry">The blank unhappy towns, where sick men
strive,<br/>
Still doing work that yet is never done;<br/>
The hymns to Gold that drown their
desperate voice;<br/>
The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive,<br/>
The black injustice that puts out the sun:<br/>
These are our portion, since they
are our choice.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet there the garden blows with rose on
rose,<br/>
The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there;<br/>
There the immortal lilies,
heavenly sweet.<br/>
O roses, that for us shall not unclose!<br/>
O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear!<br/>
O dewy lawns untrodden by our
feet!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page38"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THESE LITTLE ONES</h2>
<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">What</span> of the
garden I gave?”<br/>
God said to me;<br/>
“Hast thou been diligent to foster and save<br/>
The life of flower and tree?<br/>
How have the roses thriven,<br/>
The lilies I have given,<br/>
The pretty scented miracles that Spring<br/>
And Summer come to bring?</p>
<p class="poetry">“My garden is fair and dear,”<br/>
I said to God;<br/>
“From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.<br/>
Green-trimmed its sod.<br/>
The rose is red and bright,<br/>
The lily a live delight;<br/>
I have not lost a flower of all the flowers<br/>
That blessed my hours.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“What of the child I gave?”<br/>
God said to me;<br/>
“The little, little one I died to save<br/>
And gave in trust to thee?<br/>
How have the flowers grown<br/>
That in its soul were sown,<br/>
The lovely living miracles of youth<br/>
And hope and joy and truth?”</p>
<p class="poetry">“The child’s face is all
white,”<br/>
I said to God;<br/>
“It cries for cold and hunger in the night:<br/>
Its little feet have trod<br/>
The pavement muddy and cold.<br/>
It has no flowers to hold,<br/>
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.”<br/>
“Thou fool!” God said.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page39"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE DESPOT</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> garden mould was
damp and chill;<br/>
Winter had had his brutal will<br/>
Since over all the year’s content<br/>
His devastating legions went.</p>
<p class="poetry">The Spring’s bright banners came: there
woke<br/>
Millions of little growing folk<br/>
Who thrilled to know the winter done,<br/>
Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.</p>
<p class="poetry">Not so the elect; reserved, and slow<br/>
To trust a stranger-sun and grow,<br/>
They hesitated, cowered and hid,<br/>
Waiting to see what others did.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet even they, a little, grew,<br/>
Put out prim leaves to day and dew,<br/>
And lifted level formal heads<br/>
In their appointed garden beds.</p>
<p class="poetry">The gardener came: he coldly loved<br/>
The flowers that lived as he approved,<br/>
That duly, decorously grew<br/>
As he, the despot, meant them to.</p>
<p class="poetry">He saw the wildlings flower more brave<br/>
And bright than any cultured slave;<br/>
Yet, since he had not set them there,<br/>
He hated them for being fair.</p>
<p class="poetry">So he uprooted, one by one,<br/>
The free things that had loved the sun,<br/>
The happy, eager, fruitful seeds<br/>
Who had not known that they were weeds.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page40"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE MAGIC RING</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Your</span> touch on my
hand is fire,<br/>
Your lips on my lips are flowers.<br/>
My darling, my one desire,<br/>
Dear crown of my days and hours.<br/>
Dear crown of each hour and day<br/>
Since ever my life began.<br/>
Ah! leave me—ah! go away—<br/>
We two are woman and man.</p>
<p class="poetry">To lie in your arms and see<br/>
The stars melt into the sun;<br/>
Till there is no you and me,<br/>
Since you and I are one.<br/>
To loose my soul to your breath,<br/>
To bare my heart to your life—<br/>
It is death, it is death, it is death!<br/>
I am not your wife.</p>
<p class="poetry">The hours will come and will go,<br/>
But never again such an hour<br/>
When the tides immortal flow<br/>
And life is a flood, a flower . . .<br/>
Wait for the ring; it is strong,<br/>
It has a magic of might<br/>
To make all that was splendid and wrong<br/>
Sordid and right.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page41"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>PHILOSOPHY</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sulky sage
scarce condescends to see<br/>
This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves;<br/>
To him ’tis all illusion—only he<br/>
Is real amid the visions he perceives.</p>
<p class="poetry">No sage am I, and yet, by Love’s
decree,<br/>
To me the world’s a masque of shadows too,<br
/>
And I a shadow also—since to me<br/>
The only real thing in life is—you.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page42"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Before</span> your feet,<br
/>
My love, my sweet,<br/>
Behold! your slave bows down;<br/>
And in his hands<br/>
From other lands<br/>
Brings you another crown.</p>
<p class="poetry">For in far climes,<br/>
In bygone times,<br/>
Myself was royal too:<br/>
Oh, I have been<br/>
A king, my queen,<br/>
Who am a slave for you!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page43"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>MAGIC</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> was the spell
she wove for me?<br/>
Life was a common useful thing,<br/>
An eligible building site<br/>
To hold a house to shelter me.<br/>
There were no woodlands whispering;<br/>
No unimagined dreams at night<br
/>
About that house had folded wing,<br/>
Disordering my life for me.</p>
<p class="poetry">I was so safe until she came<br/>
With starry secrets in her eyes,<br/>
And on her lips the word of
power.<br/>
—Like to the moon of May she came,<br/>
That makes men mad who were born wise—<br/>
Within her hand the only flower<br
/>
Man ever plucked from Paradise;<br/>
So to my half-built house she came.</p>
<p class="poetry">She turned my useful plot of land<br/>
Into a garden wild and fair,<br/>
Where stars in garlands hung like
flowers:<br/>
A moonlit, lonely, lovely land.<br/>
Dim groves and glimmering fountains there<br/>
Embraced a secret bower of
bowers,<br/>
And in its rose-ringed heart we were<br/>
Alone in that enchanted land.</p>
<p class="poetry">What was the spell I wove for her,<br/>
Her mad dear magic to undo?<br/>
The red rose dies, the white rose
dies,<br/>
The garden spits me forth with her<br/>
On the old suburban road I knew.<br/>
My house is gone, and by my
side<br/>
A stranger stands with angry eyes<br/>
And lips that swear I ruined her.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page44"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>WINDFLOWERS</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I was little
and good<br/>
I walked in the dappled wood<br/>
Where light white windflowers grew,<br/>
And hyacinths heavy and blue.</p>
<p class="poetry">The windflowers fluttered light,<br/>
Like butterflies white and bright;<br/>
The bluebells tremulous stood<br/>
Deep in the heart of the wood.</p>
<p class="poetry">I gathered the white and the blue,<br/>
The wild wet woodland through,<br/>
With hands too silly and small<br/>
To clasp and carry them all.</p>
<p class="poetry">Some dropped from my hands and died<br/>
By the home-road’s grassy side;<br/>
And those that my fond hands pressed<br/>
Died even before the rest.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page45"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>AS IT IS</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">If</span>
you and I<br/>
Had wings to fly—<br/>
Great wings like seagulls’ wings—<br/>
How would we soar<br/>
Above the roar<br/>
Of loud unneeded things!</p>
<p class="poetry"> We two would rise<br/>
Through changing skies<br/>
To blue unclouded space,<br/>
And undismayed<br/>
And unafraid<br/>
Meet the sun face to face.</p>
<p class="poetry"> But wings we know not;<br/>
The feathers grow not<br/>
To carry us so high;<br/>
And low in the gloom<br/>
Of a little room<br/>
We weep and say good-bye.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page46"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>BEFORE WINTER</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wind is crying
in the night,<br/>
Like a lost child;<br/>
The waves break wonderful and white<br/>
And wild.<br/>
The drenched sea-poppies swoon along<br/>
The drenched sea-wall,<br/>
And there’s an end of summer and of song—<br/>
An end of all.</p>
<p class="poetry">The fingers of the tortured boughs<br/>
Gripped by the blast<br/>
Clutch at the windows of your house<br/>
Closed fast.<br/>
And the lost child of love, despair,<br/>
Cries in the night,<br/>
Remembering how once those windows were<br/>
Open and bright.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page47"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE VAULT<br/> <span class="GutSmall">AFTER SEDGMOOR</span></h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> need not call at
the Inn;<br/>
I have ordered my bed:<br/>
Fair linen sheets therein<br/>
And a tester of lead.<br/>
No musty fusty scents<br/>
Such as inn chambers keep,<br/>
But tapestried with content<br/>
And hung with sleep.</p>
<p class="poetry">My Inn door bears no bar<br/>
Set up against fear.<br/>
The guests have journeyed far,<br/>
They are glad to be here.<br/>
Where the damp arch curves up grey,<br/>
Long, long shall we lie;<br/>
Good King’s men all are they,<br/>
A King’s man I.</p>
<p class="poetry">Old Giles, in his stone asleep,<br/>
Fought at Poictiers.<br/>
Piers Ralph and Roger keep<br/>
The spoil of their fighting years.<br/>
I shall lie with my folk at last<br/>
In a quiet bed;<br/>
I shall dream of the sword held fast<br/>
In a round-capped head.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page48"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
48</span>Good tale of men all told<br/>
My Inn affords;<br/>
And their hands peace shall hold<br/>
That once held swords.<br/>
And we who rode and ran<br/>
On many a loyal quest<br/>
Shall find the goal of man—<br/>
A bed, and rest.</p>
<p class="poetry">We shall not stand to the toast<br/>
Of Love or King;<br/>
We be all too tired to boast<br/>
About anything.<br/>
We be dumb that did jest and sing;<br/>
We rest who laboured and warred . . .<br/>
Shout once, shout once for the King.<br/>
Shout once for the sword!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page49"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>SURRENDER</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, the nights were
dark and cold,<br/>
When my love was gone.<br/>
And life was hard to hold<br/>
When my love was gone.<br/>
I was wise, I never gave<br/>
What they teach a girl to save,<br/>
But I wished myself his slave<br/>
When my love was gone.</p>
<p class="poetry">I was all alone at night<br/>
When my love came home.<br/>
Oh, what thought of wrong or right<br/>
When my love came home?<br/>
I flung the door back wide<br/>
And I pulled my love inside;<br/>
There was no more shame or pride<br/>
When my love came home.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page50"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>VALUES</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Did</span> you deceive
me? Did I trust<br/>
A heart of fire to a heart of dust?<br/>
What matter? Since once the world was fair,<br/>
And you gave me the rose of the world to wear.</p>
<p class="poetry">That was the time to live for!
Flowers,<br/>
Sunshine and starshine and magic hours,<br/>
Summer about me, Heaven above,<br/>
And all seemed immortal, even Love.</p>
<p class="poetry">Well, the mortal rose of your love was worth<br
/>
The pains of death and the pains of birth;<br/>
And the thorns may be sharper than death—who
knows?—<br/>
That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page51"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>IN THE PEOPLE’S PARK</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Many’s</span> the
time I’ve found your face<br/>
Fresh as a bunch of flowers in May,<br/>
Waiting for me at our own old place<br/>
At the end of the working day.<br/>
Many’s the time I’ve held your hand<br/>
On the shady seat in the People’s Park,<br/>
And blessed the blaring row of the band<br/>
And kissed you there in the dark.</p>
<p class="poetry">Many’s the time you promised true,<br/>
Swore it with kisses, swore it with tears:<br/>
“I’ll marry no one without it’s you—<br
/>
If we have to wait for years.”<br/>
And now it’s another chap in the Park<br/>
That holds your hand like I used to do;<br/>
And I kiss another girl in the dark,<br/>
And try to fancy it’s you!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page52"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>WEDDING DAY</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> enchanted
hour,<br/>
The magic bower,<br/>
Where, crowned with roses,<br/>
Love love discloses.</p>
<p class="poetry">“Kiss me, my lover;<br/>
Doubting is over,<br/>
Over is waiting;<br/>
Love lights our mating!”</p>
<p class="poetry">“But roses wither,<br/>
Chill winds blow hither,<br/>
One thing all say, dear,<br/>
Love lives a day, dear!”</p>
<p class="poetry">“Heed those old stories?<br/>
New glowing glories<br/>
Blot out those lies, love!<br/>
Look in my eyes, love!</p>
<p class="poetry">“Ah, but the world knows—<br/>
Naught of the true rose;<br/>
Back the world slips, love!<br/>
Give me your lips, love!</p>
<p class="poetry">“Even were their lies true,<br/>
Yet were you wise to<br/>
Swear, at Love’s portal,<br/>
The god’s immortal.”</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page53"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE LAST DEFEAT</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Across</span> the field of
day<br/>
In sudden blazon lay<br/>
The pallid bar of gold<br/>
Borne on the shield of day.<br/>
Night had endured so long,<br/>
And now the Day grew strong<br/>
With lance of light to hold<br/>
The Night at bay.</p>
<p class="poetry">So on my life’s dull night<br/>
The splendour of your light<br/>
Traversed the dusky shield<br/>
And shone forth golden bright.<br/>
Your colours I have worn<br/>
Through all the fight forlorn,<br/>
And these, with life, I yield,<br/>
To-night, to Night.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page54"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>MAY DAY</h2>
<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Will</span> you go
a-maying, a-maying, a-maying,<br/>
Come and be my Queen of May and pluck the may with
me?<br/>
The fields are full of daisy buds and new lambs playing,<br/>
The bird is on the nest, dear, the blossom’s
on the tree.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“If I go with you, if I go a-maying,<br
/>
To be your Queen and wear my crown this May-day
bright,<br/>
Hand in hand straying, it must be only playing,<br/>
And playtime ends at sunset, and then
good-night.</p>
<p class="poetry">“For I have heard of maidens who laughed
and went a-maying,<br/>
Went out queens and lost their crowns and came back
slaves.<br/>
I will be no young man’s slave, submitting and obeying,<br
/>
Bearing chains as those did, even to their
graves.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“If you come a-maying, a-straying,
a-playing,<br/>
We will pluck the little flowers, enough for you and
me;<br/>
And when the day dies, end our one day’s playing,<br/>
Give a kiss and take a kiss and go home
free.”</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page55"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>GRETNA GREEN</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Last</span> night when I
kissed you,<br/>
My soul caught alight;<br/>
And oh! how I missed you<br/>
The rest of the night—<br/>
Till Love in derision<br/>
Smote sleep with his wings,<br/>
And gave me in vision<br/>
Impossible things.</p>
<p class="poetry">A night that was clouded,<br/>
Long windows asleep;<br/>
Dark avenues crowded<br/>
With secrets to keep.<br/>
A terrace, a lover,<br/>
A foot on the stair;<br/>
The waiting was over,<br/>
The lady was there.</p>
<p class="poetry">What a flight, what a night!<br/>
The hoofs splashed and pounded.<br/>
Dark fainted in light<br/>
And the first bird-notes sounded.<br/>
You slept on my shoulder,<br/>
Shy night hid your face;<br/>
But dawn, bolder, colder,<br/>
Beheld our embrace.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page56"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
56</span>Your lips of vermilion,<br/>
Your ravishing shape,<br/>
The flogging postillion,<br/>
The village agape,<br/>
The rattle and thunder<br/>
Of postchaise a-speed . . .<br/>
My woman, my wonder,<br/>
My ultimate need!</p>
<p class="poetry">We two matched for mating<br/>
Came, handclasped, at last,<br/>
Where the blacksmith was waiting<br/>
To fetter us fast . . .<br/>
At the touch of the fetter<br/>
The dream snapped and fell—<br/>
And I woke to your letter<br/>
That bade me farewell.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page57"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE ETERNAL</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Your</span> dear desired
grace,<br/>
Your hands, your lips of red,<br/>
The wonder of your perfect face<br/>
Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed,<br/>
When you are
dead.</p>
<p class="poetry">Your beautiful hair<br/>
Dust in the dust will lie—<br/>
But not the light I worship there,<br/>
The gold the sunshine crowns you by—<br/>
This will not
die.</p>
<p class="poetry">Your beautiful eyes<br/>
Will be closed up with clay;<br/>
But all the magic they comprise,<br/>
The hopes, the dreams, the ecstasies<br/>
Pass not
away.</p>
<p class="poetry">All I desire and see<br/>
Will be a carrion thing;<br/>
But all that you have been to me<br/>
Is, and can never cease to be.<br/>
O Grave! where is thy victory?<br/>
Where, Death, thy sting?</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page58"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE POINT OF VIEW: I.</h2>
<h3>I</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was never
winter, summer only: roses,<br/>
Pink and white and red,<br/>
Shining down the warm rich garden closes;<br/>
Quiet trees and lawns of dappled
shadow,<br/>
Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,<br/>
Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread;<br/>
Good gold sun that kissed me when we met,<br/>
Shadows of floating clouds on
sunny meadow.<br/>
In the hay-field, scented, grey,<br/>
Loving life and love, I lay;<br/>
By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep;<br/>
Slept and dreamed there. Winter was the dream.</p>
<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">II</p>
<p class="poetry">Summer never was, was always winter only;<br/>
Cold and ice and frost<br/>
Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,<br/>
In a world of strangers, in the
welter<br/>
Of the puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet,<br/>
Blinded by the spitting hailstones, lost<br/>
In a bitter unfamiliar street,<br/>
I found a doorway, crouched there
for just shelter,<br/>
Crouched and fought in vain for breath,<br/>
Cursed the cold and wished for death;<br/>
Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep;<br/>
Slept and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page59"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE POINT OF VIEW: II.</h2>
<h3>I</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the wood of lost
causes, the valley of tears,<br/>
Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult
way;<br/>
Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:<br/>
“It is night, it is night, it has never been
day;<br/>
Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;<br/>
It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.<br/>
Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,<br/>
For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her
hands.”</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p class="poetry">Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged
as you lie<br/>
In the arms of despair that is masked as delight,<br
/>
You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:<br/>
“It is day, it is day, it has never been
night!<br/>
Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;<br/>
It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves,<br/>
Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer<br/>
Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.”</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page60"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>MARY OF MAGDALA</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mary</span> of Magdala came
to bed;<br/>
There were no soft curtains round her head;<br/>
She had no mother to hold of worth<br/>
The little baby she brought to birth.</p>
<p class="poetry">Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed:<br/>
“O God, I am very much afraid;<br/>
For out of my body, by sin defiled,<br/>
Thou biddest me make a little child.</p>
<p class="poetry">“O God, I have turned my face from
Thee<br/>
To that which the angels may not see;<br/>
How can I make, from my deep disgrace,<br/>
A child whose angel shall see Thy face?</p>
<p class="poetry">“O God, I have sinned, and I know well<br
/>
That the pains I bear are the pains of hell;<br/>
But the thought of the child that sin has given<br/>
Is like the thought of the airs of Heaven.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Mary of Magdala held her breath<br/>
In the clutch of pain like the pains of Death,<br/>
And through her heart, like the mortal knife,<br/>
Went the pang of joy and the pang of life.</p>
<p class="poetry">“We two are two alone,” said
she,<br/>
“And we are two who should be three;<br/>
Now who will clothe my baby fair<br/>
In the little garments that babies wear?”</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page61"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
61</span>There came two angels with quiet wings<br/>
And hands that were full of baby things;<br/>
And the new-born child was bathed and dressed<br/>
And laid again on his mother’s breast.</p>
<p class="poetry">“Now who will sign on his brow the
mark<br/>
To keep him safe from the Powers of the Dark?<br/>
Who will my baby’s sponsor be?”<br/>
“I, the Lord God, who died for thee.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“Now who will comfort him if he cry;<br
/>
And who will suckle him by and bye?<br/>
For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry,<br/>
And I think that my time has come to die.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“I will dandle thy son as a mother
may;<br/>
And his lips shall lie where my own Son’s lay.<br/>
Come, dear little one, come to me;<br/>
The Mother of God shall suckle thee.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed;<br/>
“I never deserved a child,” she cried.<br/>
“Dear God, I am ready to go to hell,<br/>
Since with my little one all is well.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Then the Son of Mary did o’er her
lean.<br/>
“Poor mother, thy tears have washed thee clean.<br/>
Thy last poor pains, they will soon be done,<br/>
And My Mother shall give thee back thy son.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Frozen grass for a bearing bed,<br/>
A halo of frost round a woman’s head,<br/>
And pious folks who looked and said:<br/>
“A drab and her brat that are better dead.”</p>
<h1><SPAN name="page62"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE HOME-COMING</h1>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> was our
house. To this we came<br/>
Lighted by love with torch aflame,<br/>
And in this chamber, door locked fast,<br/>
I held you to my heart at last.</p>
<p class="poetry">This was our house. In this we knew<br/>
The worst that Time and Fate can do.<br/>
You left the room bare, wide the door;<br/>
You did not love me any more.</p>
<p class="poetry">Where once the kind warm curtain hung<br/>
The spider’s ghostly cloth is flung;<br/>
The beetle and the woodlouse creep<br/>
Where once I loved your lovely sleep.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet so the vanished spell endures,<br/>
That this, our house, still, still is yours.<br/>
Here, spite of all these years apart,<br/>
I still can hold you to my heart!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page63"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>AGE TO YOUTH</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sunrise</span> is in your
eyes, and in your heart<br/>
The hope and bright desire of morn and May.<br/>
My eyes are full of shadow, and my part<br/>
Of life is yesterday.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet lend my hand your hand, and let us sit<br
/>
And see your life unfolding like a scroll,<br/>
Rich with illuminated blazon, fit<br/>
For your arm-bearing soul.</p>
<p class="poetry">My soul bears arms too, but the scroll’s
rolled tight,<br/>
Yet the one strip of faded brightness shown<br/>
Proclaims that when ’twas splendid in the light<br/>
Its blazon matched your own.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page64"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>IN AGE</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wine of life was
rough and new,<br/>
But sweet beyond belief,<br/>
And wrong was false, and right was true—<br/>
The rose was in the leaf.</p>
<p class="poetry">In that good sunlight well we knew<br/>
The hues of wrong and right;<br/>
We slept among the roses through<br/>
The long enchanted night.</p>
<p class="poetry">Now to our eyes, made dim with years,<br/>
Right intertwines with wrong.<br/>
How can we hear, with these tired ears,<br/>
The old, the magic song?</p>
<p class="poetry">But this we know—wine once was red,<br/>
Roses were red and dear;<br/>
Once in our ears the truths were said<br/>
That now the young men hear!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page65"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>WHITE MAGIC</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> is the room to
which she came,<br/>
And Spring itself came with her;<br/>
She stirred the fire of life to flame,<br/>
She called all music hither.<br/>
Her glance upon the lean white walls<br/>
Hung them with cloth of splendour,<br/>
And still the rose she dropped recalls<br/>
The graces that attend her.</p>
<p class="poetry">The same poor room, so dull and bare<br/>
Before, in consecration,<br/>
She breathed upon its common air<br/>
The true transfiguration . . .?<br/>
This room the same to which she came<br/>
For one immortal minute?—<br/>
How can it ever be the same<br/>
Since she has once been in it!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page66"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>FROM THE PORTUGUESE</h2>
<h3>I</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I lived in the
village of youth<br/>
There were lilies in all the orchards,<br/>
Flowers in the orange-gardens<br/>
For brides to wear in their hair.<br/>
It was always sunshine and summer,<br/>
Roses at every lattice,<br/>
Dreams in the eyes of maidens,<br/>
Love in the eyes of men.</p>
<p class="poetry">When I lived in the village of youth<br/>
The doors, all the doors, stood open;<br/>
We went in and out of them laughing,<br/>
Laughing and calling each other<br/>
To shew each other our fairings,<br/>
The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,<br/>
The new rose, the new lover.</p>
<p class="poetry">Now I live in the town of age<br/>
Where are no orchards, no gardens.<br/>
Here, too, all the doors stand open,<br/>
But no one goes in or goes out.<br/>
We sit alone by the hearthstone<br/>
Where memories lie like ashes<br/>
Upon a hearth that is cold;</p>
<p class="poetry">And they from the village of youth<br/>
Run by our doorsteps laughing,<br/>
Calling, to shew each other<br/>
The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,<br/>
The new rose, the new lover.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page67"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
67</span>Once we had all these things—<br/>
We kept them from the old people,<br/>
And now the young people have them<br/>
And will not shew them to us—<br/>
To us who are old and have nothing<br/>
But the white, still, heaped-up ashes<br/>
On the hearth where the fire went out<br/>
A very long time ago.</p>
<h3><SPAN name="page68"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>II</h3>
<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">had</span> a mistress; I
loved her.<br/>
She left me with memories bitter,<br/>
Corroding, eating my heart<br/>
As the acid eats into the steel<br/>
Etching the portrait triumphant.<br/>
Intolerable, indelible,<br/>
Never to be effaced.</p>
<p class="poetry">A wife was mine to my heart,<br/>
Beautiful flower of my garden,<br/>
Lily I worshipped by day,<br/>
Scented rose of my nights.<br/>
Now the night wind sighing<br/>
Blows white rose petals only<br/>
Over the bed where she sleeps<br/>
Dreamless alone.</p>
<p class="poetry">I had a son; I loved him.<br/>
Mother of God, bear witness<br/>
How all my manhood loved him<br/>
As thy womanhood loved thy Son!<br/>
When he was grown to his manhood<br/>
He crucified my heart,<br/>
And even as it hung bleeding<br/>
He laughed with his bold companions,<br/>
Mocked and turned away<br/>
With laughter into the night.</p>
<p class="poetry">Those three I loved and lost;<br/>
But there was one who loved me<br/>
With all the fire of her heart.<br/>
Mine was the sacred altar<br/>
<SPAN name="page69"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>Where she
burnt her life for my worship.<br/>
She was my slave, my servant;<br/>
Mine all she had, all she was,<br/>
All she could suffer, could be.<br/>
That was the love of my life,<br/>
I did not say, “She loves me”;<br/>
I was so used to her love<br/>
I never asked its name,<br/>
Till, feeling the wind blow cold<br/>
Where all the doors were left open,<br/>
And seeing a fireless hearth<br/>
And the garden deserted and weed-grown<br/>
That once was full of flowers for me,<br/>
I said, “What has changed? What is it<br/>
That has made all the clocks stop?”<br/>
Thus I asked and they answered:<br/>
“It is thy mother who is dead.”</p>
<p class="poetry">And now I am alone.<br/>
My son, too, some day will stand<br/>
Here, where I stand and weep.<br/>
He too will weep, knowing too late<br/>
The love that wrapped round his life.<br/>
Dear God spare him this:<br/>
Let him never know how I loved him,<br/>
For he was always weak.<br/>
He could not endure as I can.<br/>
Mother, my dear, ask God<br/>
To grant me this, for my son!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page70"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE NEST</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">That</span> was the skylark
we heard<br/>
Singing so high,<br/>
The little quivering bird<br/>
We saw, and the sky.<br/>
The earth was drenched with sun,<br/>
The sky was drenched with song;<br/>
We lay in the grass and listened,<br/>
Long and long and long.</p>
<p class="poetry">I said, “What a spell it is<br/>
Has made her rise<br/>
To pour out her world of bliss<br/>
In that world of skies!”<br/>
You said, “What a spell must pass<br/>
Between sky and plain,<br/>
Since she finds in this world of grass<br/>
Her nest again!”</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page71"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE OLD MAGIC</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Gray</span> is the sea, and
the skies are gray;<br/>
They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday;<br/>
And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream<br/>
Like tortured souls in an evil dream.</p>
<p class="poetry">There is white on the wings of the sea and
sky,<br/>
And white are the gulls’ wings wheeling by,<br/>
And white, like snow, is the pall that lies<br/>
Where love weeps over his memories.</p>
<p class="poetry">For the dead is dead, and its shroud is
wrought<br/>
Of good unfound and of wrong unsought;<br/>
Yet from God’s good magic there ever springs<br/>
The resurrection of holy things.</p>
<p class="poetry">See—the gold and blue of our yesterday<br
/>
In the eyes and the hair of a child at play;<br/>
And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled<br/>
Is woven anew in the laugh of the child.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page72"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>FAITH</h2>
<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">wall</span><br/>
Gray and tall,<br/>
And a sky of gray,<br/>
And a twilight cold;<br/>
And that is all<br/>
That my eyes behold.<br/>
But I know that unseen,<br/>
Beyond the wall,<br/>
On a lawn of green<br/>
White blossoms fall<br/>
In the waning light;<br/>
And beyond the lawn<br/>
Curtains are drawn<br/>
From windows bright.<br/>
And within she moves with her gracious hands<br/>
And the heart that loves and that understands,<br/>
Waiting to succour poor souls in need,<br/>
And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed.</p>
<p class="poetry">I know it all, though I cannot see;<br/>
But the tired-out tramp,<br/>
Dirty and ill,<br/>
In the evening’s damp,<br/>
In the Spring’s clean chill,<br/>
Knows not that there<br/>
Is the heart to care<br/>
For such as I and for such as he.<br/>
He slouches along, and sees alone<br/>
The gray of the sky and the gray of the stone.</p>
<p class="poetry">Lord, when my eyes see nothing but grey<br/>
In all Thy world that is now so green,<br/>
I will bethink me of this spring day<br/>
And the house of welcome, known yet unseen;<br/>
The wall that conceals<br/>
And the faith that reveals.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page73"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE DEATH OF AGNES</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> that the
sunlight dies in my eyes,<br/>
And the moonlight grows in my hair,<br/>
I who was never very wise,<br/>
Never was very fair,<br/>
Virgin and martyr all my life,<br/>
What has life left to give<br/>
Me—who was never mother nor wife,<br/>
Never got leave to live?</p>
<p class="poetry">Nothing of life could I clasp or claim,<br/>
Nothing could steal or save.<br/>
So when you come to carve my name,<br/>
Give me life in my grave.<br/>
To keep me warm when I sleep alone<br/>
A lie is little to give;<br/>
Call me “Magdalen” on my stone,<br/>
Though I died and did not live.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page74"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>IN TROUBLE</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It’s</span> all for
nothing: I’ve lost him now.<br/>
I suppose it had to be;<br/>
But oh, I never thought it of him,<br/>
Nor he never thought it of me.<br/>
And all for a kiss on your evening out,<br/>
And a field where the grass was down . . .<br/>
And he ’as gone to God-knows-where,<br/>
And I may go on the town.</p>
<p class="poetry">The worst of all was the thing he said<br/>
The night that he went away;<br/>
He said he’d ’a married me right enough<br/>
If I hadn’t ’a been so gay.<br/>
Me—gay! When I’d cried, and I’d asked him
not,<br/>
But he said he loved me so;<br/>
An’ whatever he wanted seemed right to me . . .<br/>
An’ how was a girl to know?</p>
<p class="poetry">Well, the river is deep, and drowned folk sleep
sound,<br/>
An’ it might be the best to do;<br/>
But when he made me a light-o’-love<br/>
He made me a mother too.<br/>
I’ve had enough sin to last my time,<br/>
If ’twas sin as I got it by,<br/>
But it ain’t no sin to stand by his kid<br/>
And work for it till I die.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page75"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
75</span>But oh! the long days and the death-long nights<br/>
When I feel it move and turn,<br/>
And cry alone in my single bed<br/>
And count what a girl can earn<br/>
To buy the baby the bits of things<br/>
<i>He</i> ought to ha’ bought, by rights;<br
/>
And wonder whether he thinks of Us . . .<br/>
And if he sleeps sound o’ nights.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page76"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>GRATITUDE</h2>
<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">found</span> a starving
cat in the street:<br/>
It cried for food and a place by the fire.<br/>
I carried it home, and I strove to meet<br/>
The claims of its desire.</p>
<p class="poetry">And since its desire was a little fish,<br/>
A little hay and a little milk,<br/>
I gave it cream in a silver dish<br/>
And a basket lined with silk.</p>
<p class="poetry">And when we came to the grateful pause<br/>
When it should have fawned on the hand that fed,<br
/>
It turned to a devil all teeth and claws,<br/>
Scratched me and bit me and fled.</p>
<p class="poetry">To pay for the fish and the milk and the hay<br
/>
With a purr had been an easy task:<br/>
But its hate and my blood were required to pay<br/>
For the gifts that it did not ask.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page77"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>AT THE LAST</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> are
you—you whose loving breath<br/>
Alone can stay my soul from death?<br/>
The world’s so wide, I seek it through,<br/>
Yet—dare I dream to win to you?<br/>
Perhaps your dear desirèd feet<br/>
Pass me in this grey muddy street.<br/>
Your face, it may be, has its shrine<br/>
In that dull house that’s next to mine.<br/>
But I believe, O Life, O Fate,<br/>
That when I call on Death and wait<br/>
One moment at the unclosing gate<br/>
I shall turn back for one last gaze<br/>
Along the trampled, sordid ways,<br/>
And in the sunset see at last,<br/>
Just as the barred gate holds me fast,<br/>
Your face, your face, too late.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page78"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>FEAR</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> you were here,<br
/>
Hopes, dreams, ambitions, faith would disappear,<br/>
Drowned in your eyes; and I should touch your hand,<br/>
Forgetting all that now I understand.<br/>
For you confuse my life with memories<br/>
Of unrememberable ecstasies<br/>
Which were, and are not, and can never be; . . .<br/>
Ah! keep the whole earth between you and me.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page79"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE DAY OF JUDGMENT</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> the bearing and
doing are over,<br/>
And no more is to do or bear,<br/>
God will see us and judge us<br/>
The kind of men we were;<br/>
And our sins, so ugly and heavy,<br/>
We shall drag them into His sight,<br/>
And throw them down at the foot of the throne,<br/>
Foul on the steps of light.</p>
<p class="poetry">We shall not be shamed or frightened,<br/>
Though the angels are all at hand,<br/>
For He will look at our burden,<br/>
And He will understand.<br/>
He will turn to the little angels,<br/>
Agog to hear and obey,<br/>
And point to the festering sin-loads<br/>
With, “Take that rubbish away!”</p>
<p class="poetry">Then the steps will be cleared of the
burdens<br/>
That we threw down at His feet;<br/>
And we shall be washed in the tears of Christ,<br/>
And our tears bathe His feet.<br/>
And the harvest of all our sinning<br/>
That moment’s shame will reap—<br/>
When we look in the eyes that love us<br/>
And know we have made them weep.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page80"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>A FAREWELL</h2>
<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">Good-bye</span>, good-bye; it is not hard to
part!<br/>
You have my heart—the heart that leaps to hear<br/>
Your name called by an echo in a
dream;<br/>
You have my soul that, like an
untroubled stream,<br/>
Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near—<br/>
Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart.</p>
<p class="poetry"> What more could Life give if
we gave her leave<br/>
To give, and Life should give us leave to take?<br/>
Only each other’s arms, each
other’s eyes,<br/>
Each other’s lips, the
clinging secrecies<br/>
That are but as the written words to make<br/>
Records of what the heart and soul achieve.</p>
<p class="poetry"> This, only this we yield, my
love, my friend,<br/>
To Fate’s implacable eyes and withering breath.<br/>
We still are yours and mine,
though, by Time’s theft,<br/>
My arms are empty and your arms
bereft.<br/>
It is not hard to part—not harder than Death;<br/>
And each of us must face Death in the end!</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page81"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>IN HOSPITAL</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Under</span> the shadow of
a hawthorn brake,<br/>
Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood,<br/>
Where, ’mid brown leaves, the primroses awake<br/>
And hidden violets smell of solitude;<br/>
Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing<br/>
Of fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring,<br/>
I should have said, “I love you,” and your eyes<br/>
Have said, “I, too . . . ” The gods saw
otherwise.</p>
<p class="poetry">For this is winter, and the London streets<br
/>
Are full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray<br
/>
Where life knows death, and where poor glory meets<br/>
Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns away.<br
/>
And in the broken, trampled foreign wood<br/>
Is horror, and the terrible scent of blood,<br/>
And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star,<br/>
Under the shadow of the wings of war.</p>
<p>1916.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page82"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> Death is near,
and very near,<br/>
In this wild whirl of horror and fear,<br/>
When round the vessel of our State<br/>
Roll the great mountain waves of hate.<br/>
God! We have but one prayer to-day—<br/>
O Father, teach us how to pray.</p>
<p class="poetry">For prayer is strong, and very strong;<br/>
But we have turned from Thee so long<br/>
To follow gods that have no power<br/>
Save in the safe and sordid hour,<br/>
That to Thy feet we have lost the way . . .<br/>
O Father, teach us how to pray.</p>
<p class="poetry">We have done ill, and very ill,<br/>
Set up our will against Thy will.<br/>
That our soft lives might gorge, full-fed,<br/>
We stole our brothers’ daily bread.<br/>
Lord, we are sorry we went astray—<br/>
O Father, teach us how to pray.</p>
<p class="poetry">Now in this hour of desperate strife<br/>
For England’s life, her very life,<br/>
Teach us to pray that life may be<br/>
A new life, beautiful to Thee,<br/>
And in Thy hands that life to lay.<br/>
O Father, teach us how to pray.</p>
<p>1915.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page83"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>AT PARTING</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Go</span>, since you must,
but, Dearest, know<br/>
That, Honour having bid you go,<br/>
Your honour, if your life be spent,<br/>
Shall have a costly monument.</p>
<p class="poetry">This heart, that fire and roses is<br/>
Beneath the magic of your kiss,<br/>
Shall turn to marble if you die<br/>
And be your deathless effigy.</p>
<p>1914.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page84"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>INVOCATION</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Spirit of
Darkness, the Prince of the Power of the Air,<br/>
The terror that walketh by night, and the horror by
day,<br/>
The legions of Evil, alert and awake and aware,<br/>
Press round him each hour; and I pray here alone,
far away.</p>
<p class="poetry">God! call up Thy legions to fight on the side
of my love,<br/>
Let the seats of the mighty be cast down before him,
O Lord,<br/>
Send strong wings of angels to shield him beneath and above,<br
/>
Let glorious Michael unsheath his implacable
sword.</p>
<p class="poetry">Let the whole host of Heaven take part with my
dear in his fight,<br/>
That the armies of Hell may be scattered like chaff
in the blast,<br/>
And the trumpets of Heaven blow fair for the triumph of Right.<br
/>
Inspire him, protect him, and bring him home victor
at last.</p>
<p class="poetry">But if—ah, dear God, give me strength to
withhold nothing now!—<br/>
If the life of my life be required for Thy splendid
design,<br/>
Give his country the laurels, though cold and uncrowned be his
brow . . .<br/>
Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, and shall
<i>I</i> not give mine?</p>
<p>1914.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page85"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Once</span> I made for you
songs,<br/>
Rondels, triolets, sonnets;<br/>
Verse that my love deemed due,<br/>
Verse that your love found fair.<br/>
Now the wide wings of war<br/>
Hang, like a hawk’s, over England,<br/>
Shadowing meadows and groves;<br/>
And the birds and the lovers are mute.</p>
<p class="poetry">Yet there’s a thing to say<br/>
Before I go into battle,<br/>
Not now a poet’s word<br/>
But a man’s word to his mate:<br/>
Dear, if I come back never,<br/>
Be it your pride that we gave<br/>
The hope of our hearts, each other,<br/>
For the sake of the Hope of the World.</p>
<p>1915.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page86"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Last</span> year the fields
were all glad and gay<br/>
With silver daisies and silver may;<br/>
There were kingcups gold by the river’s edge<br/>
And primrose stars under every hedge.</p>
<p class="poetry">This year the fields are trampled and brown,<br
/>
The hedges are broken and beaten down,<br/>
And where the primroses used to grow<br/>
Are little black crosses set in a row.</p>
<p class="poetry">And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of
dreams,<br/>
The noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes,<br/>
The tree of life with its fruit and bud,<br/>
Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.</p>
<p class="poetry">The changing seasons will bring again<br/>
The magic of Spring to our wood and plain:<br/>
Though the Spring be so green as never was seen<br/>
The crosses will still be black in the green.</p>
<p class="poetry">The God of battles shall judge the foe<br/>
Who trampled our country and laid her low . . .<br/>
God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,<br/>
Lest all we owe them we should repay.</p>
<p>1915.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page87"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>SPRING IN WAR-TIME</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the sprinkled
blackthorn snow<br/>
Lies along the lovers’ lane<br/>
Where last year we used to go—<br/>
Where we shall not go again.</p>
<p class="poetry">In the hedge the buds are new,<br/>
By our wood the violets peer—<br/>
Just like last year’s violets, too,<br/>
But they have no scent this year.</p>
<p class="poetry">Every bird has heart to sing<br/>
Of its nest, warmed by its breast;<br/>
We had heart to sing last spring,<br/>
But we never built our nest.</p>
<p class="poetry">Presently red roses blown<br/>
Will make all the garden gay . . .<br/>
Not yet have the daisies grown<br/>
On your clay.</p>
<p>1916.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page88"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE MOTHER’S PRAYER</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> was my little
son<br/>
Who leapt and laughed on my knee:<br/>
Body we made with love,<br/>
Soul made with love by Thee.<br/>
This was the mystery<br/>
In which I worshipped Thy grace;<br/>
This was the sign to me—<br/>
The unveiling of Thy face . . .<br/>
This, that lies under Thy skies<br/>
Naked as on that day<br/>
When the floor of heaven gave way<br/>
And the glory of God shone through,<br/>
When the world was made new<br/>
And Thy word was made flesh for me . . .<br/>
He lies there, bare to Thy skies,<br/>
O Lord God,
see!</p>
<p class="poetry">Body that was in mine<br/>
A secret, sacred spell,<br/>
Little hands I have kissed<br/>
Trampled by beasts in Hell . . .<br/>
Growing beauty and grace . . .<br/>
Oh, head that lay on my bosom . . .<br/>
Broken, battered, shattered . . .<br/>
Body that grew like a blossom!<br/>
All that was promised me<br/>
On my life’s royal day.<br/>
Every promise broken—<br/>
Only a ghost, and clay!</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page89"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
89</span>O God, I kneel at Thy feet;<br/>
I lay my hands in Thine:<br/>
Thou gavest Thy Son for the world,<br/>
And shall <i>I</i> not give mine?<br/>
Only—O God, have pity!<br/>
All my defences are down:<br/>
God, I accept the Cross,<br/>
Let <i>him</i> have the Crown!</p>
<p class="poetry">By all that my love has borne,<br/>
By all that all mothers bear,<br/>
By the infinite patient anguish,<br/>
By the never-ceasing prayer,<br/>
By the thoughts that cut like a living knife,<br/>
By the tears that are never dry,<br/>
Take what he died to win You—<br/>
God, take Your victory!</p>
<p class="poetry">We have watched on till the light burned
low,<br/>
And watched the dawn awake;<br/>
We have lived hardly and hardly fared<br/>
For our sons’ sake.<br/>
All that was good in Thy earth,<br/>
All that taught us of Heaven,<br/>
All that we had in the world<br/>
We have given.<br/>
We pray with empty hands<br/>
And hearts that are stiff with pain.<br/>
O God! O God! O God!<br/>
Let the sacrifice not be vain.<br/>
This is his blood, Lord, see!<br/>
His blood that was shed for Thee;<br/>
Thy banner is dyed in that red tide<br/>
Lord, take Thy victory!</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page90"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
90</span>God! give Thine angels power<br/>
To fight as he fought,<br/>
To scatter the hosts of evil,<br/>
To bring their boastings to naught—<br/>
Gabriel with trumpet of battle . . .<br/>
Michael, who wields Thy sword . . .<br/>
Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them,<br/>
Put forth Thy strength, O Lord.<br/>
See, Lord, this is his body,<br/>
Broken for Thee, for Thee . . .<br/>
My son, my little son,<br/>
Who leapt and laughed on my knee.</p>
<h2><SPAN name="page91"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>“INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT . . . ”</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> Jesus came to
London,<br/>
Came to London to-day,<br/>
He would not go to the West End,<br/>
He would come down our way;<br/>
He’d talk with the children dancing<br/>
To the organ out in the street,<br/>
And say he was their big Brother,<br/>
And give them something to eat.</p>
<p class="poetry">He wouldn’t go to the mansions<br/>
Where the charitable live;<br/>
He’d come to the tenement houses<br/>
Where we ain’t got nothing to give.<br/>
He’d come so kind and so homely,<br/>
And treat us to beer and bread,<br/>
And tell us how we ought to behave;<br/>
And we’d try to mind what He said.</p>
<p class="poetry">In the warm bright West End churches<br/>
They sing and preach and pray,<br/>
They call us “Beloved brethren,”<br/>
But they do not act that way.<br/>
And when He came to the church door<br/>
He’d call out loud and free,<br/>
“You stop that preaching and praying<br/>
And show what you’ve done for Me.”</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page92"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
92</span>Then they’d say, “O Lord, we have given<br
/>
To the poor both blankets and tracts,<br/>
And we’ve tried to make them sober,<br/>
And we’ve tried to teach them facts.<br/>
But they will sneak round to the drink-shop,<br/>
And pawn the blankets for beer,<br/>
And we find them very ungrateful,<br/>
But still we persevere.”</p>
<p class="poetry">Then He would say, “I told you<br/>
The time I was here before,<br/>
That you were all of you brothers,<br/>
All you that I suffered for.<br/>
I won’t go into your churches,<br/>
I’ll stop in the sun outside.<br/>
You bring out the men your brothers,<br/>
The men for whom I died!”</p>
<p class="poetry">Out of our beastly lodgings,<br/>
From arches and doorways about,<br/>
They’d have to do as He told them,<br/>
They’d have to call us out.<br/>
Millions and millions and millions,<br/>
Thick and crawling like flies,<br/>
We should creep out to the sunshine<br/>
And not be afraid of His eyes.</p>
<p class="poetry">He’d see what God’s image looks
like<br/>
When men have dealt with the same,<br/>
Wrinkled with work that is never done,<br/>
Swollen and dirty with shame.<br/>
He’d see on the children’s forehead<br/>
The branded gutter-sign<br/>
That marks the girls to be harlots,<br/>
That dooms the boys to be swine.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page93"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
93</span>Then He’d say, “What’s the good of
churches<br/>
When these have nowhere to sleep?<br/>
And how can I hear you praying<br/>
When they are cursing so deep?<br/>
I gave My Blood and My Body<br/>
That they might have bread and wine,<br/>
And you have taken your share and theirs<br/>
Of these good gifts of mine!”</p>
<p class="poetry">Then some of the rich would be sorry,<br/>
And all would be very scared,<br/>
And they’d say, “But we never knew, Lord!”<br
/>
And He’d say, “You never
cared!”<br/>
And some would be sick and shameful<br/>
Because they’d know that they knew,<br/>
And the best would say, “We were wrong, Lord.<br/>
Now tell us what to do!”</p>
<p class="poetry">I think He’d be sitting, likely,<br/>
For someone ’ud bring Him a chair,<br/>
With a common kid cuddled up on His knee<br/>
And the common sun on His hair;<br/>
And they’d be standing before Him,<br/>
And He’d say, “You know that you
knew.<br/>
Why haven’t you worked for your brothers<br/>
The same as I worked for you?</p>
<p class="poetry">“For since you’re all of you
brothers<br/>
It’s clear as God’s blessed sun<br/>
That each must work for the others,<br/>
Not thousands work for one.<br/>
And the ones that have lived bone-idle<br/>
If they want Me to hear them pray,<br/>
Let them go and work for their livings<br/>
The only honest way!</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page94"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
94</span>“I’ve got nothing new to tell you,<br/>
You know what I always said—<br/>
But you’ve built their bones into churches<br/>
And stolen their wine and bread;<br/>
You with My Name on your foreheads,<br/>
Liar, and traitor, and knave,<br/>
You have lived by the death of your brothers,<br/>
These whom I died to save!”</p>
<p class="poetry">I wish He would come and say it;<br/>
Perhaps they’d believe it then,<br/>
And work like men for their livings<br/>
And let us work like men.<br/>
Brothers? They don’t believe it,<br/>
The lie on their lips is red.<br/>
They’ll never believe till He comes again,<br/>
Or till we rise from the dead!</p>
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