I've murdered insects with mock thunder: Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. I've made bread from the bump of wonder: That's my business, and there's my tale.

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Fashion and rank all praised the professor: Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain't this a sermon on that scene?

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two. But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race, And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face.

We two were married, due and legal: Honest we've lived since we've been one. Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old girl he's juggled away.

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!—don't they love rarely, Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly, Then see how the rascal yields!

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I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But your old Jerry you never forsook.

Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let's have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. Maybe—for none see in that black hollow— It's just a place where we're held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It's just the sword-trick—I ain't quite gone!

Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May Better than mortar, brick and putty, Is God's house on a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change.

I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once—it's long gone—when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swelled.

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Crack went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeled round him, twice, and was off for new luck; There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:— Drop me a kiss—I'm the bird dead-struck!

George Meredith.



73. REQUIEM

Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson.



74. A DEAD HARVEST

In Kensington Gardens

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

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

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

Alice Meynell.



75. THE LITTLE DANCERS

Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat; And all is dark, save where come flooding rays From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, Two children, all alone and no one by, Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet, Dance sedately: face to face they gaze, Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.

Laurence Binyon.



76. LONDON SNOW

When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;

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Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snow-balling; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, "O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!" With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder: When now already the sun, in pale display Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go;

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But even for them awhile no cares encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

Robert Bridges.



77. THE ROAD MENDERS

How solitary gleams the lamplit street Waiting the far-off morn! How softly from the unresting city blows The murmur borne Down this deserted way! Dim loiterers pass home with stealthy feet. Now only, sudden at their interval, The lofty chimes awaken and let fall Deep thrills of ordered sound; Subsiding echoes gradually drowned In a great stillness, that creeps up around, And darkly grows Profounder over all Like a strong frost, hushing a stormy day.

But who is this, that by the brazier red Encamped in his rude hut, With many a sack about his shoulder spread Watches with eyes unshut? The burning brazier flushes his old face, Illumining the old thoughts in his eyes. Surely the Night doth to her secrecies Admit him, and the watching stars attune {94}

To their high patience, who so lightly seems To bear the weight of many thousand dreams (Dark hosts around him sleeping numberless); He surely hath unbuilt all walls of thought To reach an air-wide wisdom, past access Of us, who labour in the noisy noon, The noon that knows him not.

For lo, at last the gloom slowly retreats, And swiftly, like an army, comes the Day, All bright and loud through the awakened streets Sending a cheerful hum. And he has stolen away. Now, with the morning shining round them, come Young men, and strip their coats And loose the shirts about their throats, And lightly up their ponderous hammers lift, Each in his turn descending swift With triple strokes that answer and begin Duly, and quiver in repeated change, Marrying the eager echoes that weave in A music clear and strange. But pausing soon, each lays his hammer down And deeply breathing bares His chest, stalwart and brown, To the sunny airs. Laughing one to another, limber hand On limber hip, flushed in a group they stand, And now untired renew their ringing toil. The sun stands high, and ever a fresh throng Comes murmuring; but that eddying turmoil

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Leaves many a loiterer, prosperous or unfed, On easy or unhappy ways At idle gaze, Charmed in the sunshine and the rhythm enthralling, As of unwearied Fates, for ever young, That on the anvil of necessity From measureless desire and quivering fear, With musical sure lifting and downfalling Of arm and hammer driven perpetually, Beat out in obscure span The fiery destiny of man.

Laurence Binyon.



78. STREET LANTERNS

Country roads are yellow and brown. We mend the roads in London town.

Never a hansom dare come nigh, Never a cart goes rolling by.

An unwonted silence steals In between the turning wheels.

Quickly ends the autumn day, And the workman goes his way,

Leaving, midst the traffic rude, One small isle of solitude,

Lit, throughout the lengthy night, By the little lantern's light.

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Jewels of the dark have we, Brighter than the rustic's be.

Over the dull earth are thrown Topaz, and the ruby stone.

Mary E. Coleridge.



79. O SUMMER SUM

O summer sun, O moving trees! O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street! What hour shall Fate in all the future find, Or what delights, ever to equal these: Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind, Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet?

Laurence Binyon.



80. LONDON

Athwart the sky a lowly sigh From west to east the sweet wind carried; The sun stood still on Primrose Hill; His light in all the city tarried: The clouds on viewless columns bloomed Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.

"Oh sweetheart, see! how shadowy, Of some occult magician's rearing, Or swung in space of heaven's grace Dissolving, dimly reappearing, Afloat upon ethereal tides St. Paul's above the city rides!"

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A rumour broke through the thin smoke Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace, The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, The million-peopled lanes and alleys, An ever-muttering prisoned storm, The heart of London beating warm.

John Davidson.



81. NOVEMBER BLUE

The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary colour to the air in the early evening.—Essay on London.

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

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

Alice Meynell.

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82. PHILOMEL IN LONDON

Not within a granite pass, Dim with flowers and soft with grass— Nay, but doubly, trebly sweet In a poplared London street, While below my windows go Noiseless barges, to and fro, Through the night's calm deep, Ah! what breaks the bonds of sleep?

No steps on the pavement fall, Soundless swings the dark canal; From a church-tower out of sight Clangs the central hour of night. Hark! the Dorian nightingale! Pan's voice melted to a wail! Such another bird Attic Tereus never heard.

Hung above the gloom and stain— London's squalid cope of pain— Pure as starlight, bold as love, Honouring our scant poplar-grove, That most heavenly voice of earth Thrills in passion, grief or mirth, Laves our poison'd air Life's best song-bath crystal-fair.

While the starry minstrel sings Little matters what he brings, Be it sorrow, be it pain, Let him sing and sing again,

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Till, with dawn, poor souls rejoice, Wakening, once to hear his voice, Ere afar he flies, Bound for purer woods and skies.

Edmund Gosse.



83. ANNUS MIRABILIS (1902)

Daylight was down, and up the cool Bare heaven the moon, o'er roof and elm, Daughter of dusk most wonderful, Went mounting to her realm: And night was only half begun Round Edwardes Square in Kensington.

A Sabbath-calm possessed her face, An even glow her bosom filled; High in her solitary place The huntress-heart was stilled: With bow and arrows all laid down She stood and looked on London town.

Nay, how can sight of us give rest To that far-travelled heart, or draw The musings of that tranquil breast? I thought—and gazing, saw Far up above me, high, oh, high, From south to north a heron fly!

Oh, swiftly answered! yonder flew The wings of freedom and of hope! Little of London town he knew, The far horizon was his scope.

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High up he sails, and sees beneath The glimmering ponds of Hampstead Heath,

Hendon, and farther out afield Low water-meads are in his ken, And lonely pools by Harrow Weald, And solitudes unloved of men, Where he his fisher's spear dips down: Little he knows of London town.

So small, with all its miles of sin, Is London to the grey-winged bird, A cuckoo called at Lincoln's Inn Last April; in Soho was heard The missel-thrush with throat of glee, And nightingales at Battersea!

Laurence Housman.



84. FLEET STREET

I never see the newsboys run Amid the whirling street, With swift untiring feet, To cry the latest venture done, But I expect one day to hear Them cry the crack of doom And risings from the tomb, With great Archangel Michael near; And see them running from the Fleet As messengers of God, With Heaven's tidings shod About their brave unwearied feet.

Shane Leslie.

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86. IN THE MEADOWS AT MANTUA

But to have lain upon the grass One perfect day, one perfect hour, Beholding all things mortal pass Into the quiet of green grass;

But to have lain and loved the sun, Under the shadow of the trees, To have been found in unison, Once only, with the blessed sun;

Ah! in these flaring London nights, Where midnight withers into morn, How quiet a rebuke it writes Across the sky of London nights!

Upon the grass at Mantua These London nights were all forgot. They wake for me again: but ah, The meadow-grass at Mantua!

Arthur Symons.



86. LEISURE

What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

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No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

William H. Davies.



87. LYING IN THE GRASS

Between two russet tufts of summer grass, I watch the world through hot air as through glass, And by my face sweet lights and colours pass.

Before me, dark against the fading sky, I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, Rich glowing colour on bare throat and head, My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

And in my strong young living as I lie, I seem to move with them in harmony,— A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I.

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The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,

The weary butterflies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all the lassitude of happy things

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood That gushes through my veins a languid flood, And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air, A dark-green beech-wood rises, still and fair, A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, And clean white apron on her gown of red,— Her even-song of love is but half-said:

She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; Her cheeks are redder than the wild blush-rose; They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pass and vanish, I am there; I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair, Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer

Ah! now the rosy children come to play, And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; Their clear high voices sound from far away.

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They know so little why the world is sad, They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad; Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad!

I long to go and play among them there, Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.

The happy children! full of frank surprise, And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies; What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays That Tuscan potters fashion'd in old days, And coloured like the torrid earth ablaze,

We find the little gods and loves portray'd Through ancient forests wandering undismay'd, Or gathered, whispering, in some pleasant glade.

They knew, as I do now, what keen delight A strong man feels to watch the tender flight Of little children playing in his sight.

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind, I only wish to live my life, and find My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,— A microcosm where all things living are.

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And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death Should come behind and take away my breath, I should not rise as one who sorroweth,

For I should pass, but all the world would be Full of desire and young delight and glee, And why should men be sad through loss of me?

The light is dying; in the silver-blue The young moon shines from her bright window through: The mowers all are gone, and I go too.

Edmund Gosse.



88. DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

W. B. Yeats.

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89. RENAISSANCE

O happy soul, forget thy self! This that has haunted all the past, That conjured disappointments fast, That never could let well alone; That, climbing to achievement's throne, Slipped on the last step; this that wove Dissatisfaction's clinging net, And ran through life like squandered pelf:— This that till now has been thy self Forget, O happy soul, forget.

If ever thou didst aught commence,— Set'st forth in springtide woods to rove,— Or, when the sun in July throve, Didst plunge into calm bay of ocean With fine felicity in motion,— Or, having climbed some high hill's brow, Thy toil behind thee like the night, Stoodst in the chill dawn's air intense;— Commence thus now, thus recommence:

Take to the future as to light. Not as a bather on the shore Strips of his clothes, glad soul, strip thou: He throws them off, but folds them now; Although he for the billows yearns, To weight them down with stones he turns; To mark the spot he scans the shore; Of his return he thinks before. Do thou forget

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All that, until this joy franchised thee, Tainted thee, stained thee, or disguised thee; For gladness, henceforth without let, Be thou a body, naked, fair; And be thy kingdom all the air Which the noon fills with light; And be thine actions every one, Like to a dawn or set of sun, Robed in an ample glory's peace; Since thou hast tasted this great glee Whose virtue prophesies in thee That wrong is wholly doomed, is doomed and bound to cease.

T. Sturge Moore.



90. TO WILL. H. LOW

Youth now flees on feathered foot Faint and fainter sounds the flute, Rarer songs of gods; and still Somewhere on the sunny hill, Or along the winding stream, Through the willows, flits a dream; Flits but shows a smiling face, Flees but with so quaint a grace, None can choose to stay at home, All must follow, all must roam.

This is unborn beauty: she Now in air floats high and free, Takes the sun and breaks the blue;— Late with stooping pinion flew

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Raking hedgerow trees, and wet Her wing in silver streams, and set Shining foot on temple roof: Now again she flies aloof, Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't By the evening's amethyst.

In wet wood and miry lane, Still we pant and pound in vain; Still with leaden foot we chase Waning pinion, fainting face; Still with gray hair we stumble on, Till, behold, the vision gone! Where hath fleeting beauty led? To the doorway of the dead. Life is over, life was gay: We have come the primrose way.

Robert Louis Stevenson.



81. GAUDEAMUS IGITUR

Come, no more of grief and dying! Sing the time too swiftly flying. Just an hour Youth's in flower, Give me roses to remember In the shadow of December.

Fie on steeds with leaden paces! Winds shall bear us on our races, Speed, O speed, Wind, my steed, Beat the lightning for your master, Yet my Fancy shall fly faster.

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Give me music, give me rapture, Youth that's fled can none recapture; Not with thought Wisdom's bought. Out on pride and scorn and sadness! Give me laughter, give me gladness.

Sweetest Earth, I love and love thee, Seas about thee, skies above thee, Sun and storms, Hues and forms Of the clouds with floating shadows On thy mountains and thy meadows.

Earth, there's none that can enslave thee, Not thy lords it is that have thee; Not for gold Art thou sold, But thy lovers at their pleasure Take thy beauty and thy treasure.

While sweet fancies meet me singing, While the April blood is springing In my breast, While a jest And my youth thou yet must leave me, Fortune, 'tis not thou canst grieve me.

When at length the grasses cover Me, the world's unwearied lover, If regret Haunt me yet,

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It shall be for joys untasted, Nature lent and folly wasted.

Youth and jests and summer weather, Goods that kings and clowns together Waste or use As they choose, These, the best, we miss pursuing Sullen shades that mock our wooing.

Feigning Age will not delay it— When the reckoning comes we'll pay it, Own our mirth Has been worth All the forfeit light or heavy Wintry Time and Fortune levy.

Feigning grief will not escape it, What though ne'er so well you ape it— Age and care All must share, All alike must pay hereafter, Some for sighs and some for laughter.

Know, ye sons of Melancholy, To be young and wise is folly. 'Tis the weak Fear to wreak On this clay of life their fancies, Shaping battles, shaping dances.

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While ye scorn our names unspoken, Roses dead and garlands broken, O ye wise, We arise, Out of failures, dreams, disasters, We arise to be your masters.

Margaret L. Woods.



92. O DREAMY, GLOOMY, FRIENDLY TREES!

O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, I came along your narrow track To bring my gifts unto your knees And gifts did you give back; For when I brought this heart that burns— These thoughts that bitterly repine— And laid them here among the ferns And the hum of boughs divine, Ye, vastest breathers of the air, Shook down with slow and mighty poise Your coolness on the human care, Your wonder on its toys, Your greenness on the heart's despair, Your darkness on its noise.

Herbert Trench.



93. IDLENESS

O idleness, too fond of me, Begone, I know and hate thee! Nothing canst thou of pleasure see In one that so doth rate thee;

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For empty are both mind and heart While thou with me dost linger; More profit would to thee impart A babe that sucks its finger.

I know thou hast a better way To spend these hours thou squand'rest; Some lad toils in the trough to-day Who groans because thou wand'rest;

A bleating sheep he dowses now Or wrestles with ram's terror; Ah, 'mid the washing's hubbub, how His sighs reproach thine error!

He knows and loves thee, Idleness; For when his sheep are browsing, His open eyes enchant and bless A mind divinely drowsing;

No slave to sleep, he wills and sees From hill-lawns the brown tillage; Green winding lanes and clumps of trees, Far town or nearer village,

The sea itself; the fishing feet Where more, thine idle lovers, Heark'ning to sea-mews find thee sweet Like him who hears the plovers.

Begone; those haul their ropes at sea, These plunge sheep in yon river: Free, free from toil thy friends, and me From Idleness deliver!

T. Sturge Moore.

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84. YOUTH AND LOVE

To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside. Passing for ever, he fares; and on either hand, Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide, Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide.

Thick as the stars at night when the moon is down, Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate Fares; and but waves a hand as he passes on, Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate, Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone.

Robert Louis Stevenson.



95. THE PRECEPT OF SILENCE

I know you: solitary griefs, Desolate passions, aching hours! I know you: tremulous beliefs, Agonised hopes, and ashen flowers!

The winds are sometimes sad to me; The starry spaces, full of fear: Mine is the sorrow on the sea, And mine the sigh of places drear.

Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad: I have not spoken of these things, Save to one man, and unto God.

Lionel Johnson.

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96. IF THIS WERE FAITH

God, if this were enough, That I see things bare to the buff And up to the buttocks in mire; That I ask nor hope nor hire, Nut in the husk, Nor dawn beyond the dusk, Nor life beyond death: God, if this were faith?

Having felt thy wind in my face Spit sorrow and disgrace, Having seen thine evil doom In Golgotha and Khartoum, And the brutes, the work of thine hands, Fill with injustice lands And stain with blood the sea: If still in my veins the glee Of the black night and the sun And the lost battle, run: If, an adept, The iniquitous lists I still accept With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood, And still to battle and perish for a dream of good God, if that were enough?

If to feel, in the ink of the slough, And the sink of the mire, Veins of glory and fire Run through and transpierce and transpire, And a secret purpose of glory in every part,

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And the answering glory of battle fill my heart; To thrill with the joy of girded men, To go on for ever and fail and go on again, And be mauled to the earth and arise, And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not seen with the eyes: With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night That somehow the right is the right And the smooth shall bloom from the rough: Lord, if that were enough?

Robert Louis Stevenson.



97. VITAI LAMPADA

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night— Ten to make and the match to win— A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red,— Red with the wreck of a square that broke;— The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks; "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

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This is the word that year by year, While in her place the School is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind— "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

Henry Newbolt.



98. LAUGH AND BE MERRY

Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song, Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong. Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span. Laugh, and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant of man.

Laugh and be merry: remember, in olden time, God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme, Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine of His mirth, The splendid joy of the stars: the joy of the earth.

So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of the sky, Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by, Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine outpoured In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.

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Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin, Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn, Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends. Laugh till the game is played; and be you merry, my friends.

John Masefield.



99. ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS

It was early last September nigh to Framlin'am-on-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 comin' 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?"

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"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 nightjar 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.

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100. THE LARK ASCENDING

He rises and begins to round, He drops the silver chain of sound, Of many links without a break, In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake, All intervolved and spreading wide, Like water-dimples down a tide Where ripple ripple overcurls And eddy into eddy whirls; A press of hurried notes that run So fleet they scarce are more than one, Yet changeingly the trills repeat And linger ringing while they fleet, Sweet to the quick o' the ear, and dear To her beyond the handmaid ear, Who sits beside our inner springs, Too often dry for this he brings, Which seems the very jet of earth At sight of sun, her music's mirth, As up he wings the spiral stair, A song of light, and pierces air With fountain ardour, fountain play, To reach the shining tops of day, And drink in everything discerned An ecstasy to music turned, Impelled by what his happy bill Disperses; drinking, showering still, Unthinking save that he may give His voice the outlet, there to live Renewed in endless notes of glee, So thirsty of his voice is he,

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For all to hear and all to know That he is joy, awake, aglow, The tumult of the heart to hear Through pureness filtered crystal-clear, And know the pleasure sprinkled bright By simple singing of delight, Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained, Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained Without a break, without a fall, Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical, Perennial, quavering up the chord Like myriad dews of sunny sward That trembling into fulness shine, And sparkle dropping argentine; Such wooing as the ear receives From zephyr caught in choric leaves Of aspens when their chattering net Is flushed to white with shivers wet; And such the water-spirit's chime On mountain heights in morning's prime, Too freshly sweet to seem excess, Too animate to need a stress; But wider over many heads The starry voice ascending spreads, Awakening, as it waxes thin, The best in us to him akin; And every face, to watch him raised, Puts on the light of children praised, So rich our human pleasure ripes When sweetness on sincereness pipes, Though nought be promised from the seas,

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But only a soft-ruffling breeze Sweep glittering on a still content, Serenity in ravishment.

For singing till his heaven fills, 'Tis love of earth that he instils, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows To lift us with him as he goes: The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine, He is, the hills, the human line, The meadows green, the fallows brown, The dreams of labour in the town; He sings the sap, the quickened veins; The wedding song of sun and rains He is, the dance of children, thanks Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks, And eye of violets while they breathe; All these the circling song will wreathe, And you shall hear the herb and tree, The better heart of men shall see, Shall feel celestially, as long As you crave nothing save the song.

Was never voice of ours could say Our inmost in the sweetest way, Like yonder voice aloft, and link All hearers in the song they drink. Our wisdom speaks from failing blood, Our passion is too full in flood,

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We want the key of his wild note Of truthful in a tuneful throat, The song seraphically free Of taint of personality, So pure that it salutes the suns The voice of one for millions, In whom the millions rejoice For giving their one spirit voice.

Yet men have we, whom we revere, Now names, and men still housing here, Whose lives, by many a battle-dint Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint, Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet For song our highest heaven to greet: Whom heavenly singing gives us new, Enspheres them brilliant in our blue, From firmest base to farthest leap, Because their love of Earth is deep, And they are warriors in accord With life to serve, and pass reward, So touching purest and so heard In the brain's reflex of yon bird: Wherefore their soul in me or mine, Through self-forgetfulness divine, In them, that song aloft maintains To fill the sky and thrill the plains With showerings drawn from human stores, As he to silence nearer soars, Extends the world at wings and dome, More spacious making more our home,

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Till lost on aerial rings In light, and then the fancy sings.

George Meredith.



101. INTO THE TWILIGHT

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn, Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight; Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young, Dew ever shining and twilight gray; Though hope fall from you and love decay Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill; For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn; And time and the world are ever in flight, And love is less kind than the gray twilight, And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

W. B. Yeats.



102. BY A BIER-SIDE

This is a sacred city built of marvellous earth. Life was lived nobly here to give such beauty birth.

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Beauty was in this brain and in this eager hand: Death is so blind and dumb Death does not understand. Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs' glory, Death makes justice a dream, and strength a traveller's story. Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky. Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.

John Masefield.



103. 'TIS BUT A WEEK

'Tis but a week since down the glen The trampling horses came —Half a hundred fighting men With all their spears aflame! They laughed and clattered as they went, And round about their way The blackbirds sang with one consent In the green leaves of May.

Never again shall I see them pass; They'll come victorious never; Their spears are withered all as grass, Their laughter's laid for ever; And where they clattered as they went, And where their hearts were gay, The blackbirds sing with one consent In the green leaves of May.

Gerald Gould.

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104. I LOVE ALL BEAUTEOUS THINGS

I love all beauteous things, I seek and adore them; God hath no better praise, And man in his hasty days Is honoured for them.

I too will something make And joy in the making; Altho' to-morrow it seem Like the empty words of a dream Remembered on waking.

Robert Bridges.



105. ALL FLESH

I do not need the skies' Pomp, when I would be wise; For pleasaunce nor to use Heaven's champaign when I muse. One grass-blade in its veins Wisdom's whole flood contains; Thereon my foundering mind Odyssean fate can find.

O little blade, now vaunt Thee, and be arrogant! Tell the proud sun that he Sweated in shaping thee; Night, that she did unvest Her mooned and argent breast To suckle thee. Heaven fain

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Yearned over thee in rain, And with wide parent wing Shadowed thee, nested thing, Fed thee, and slaved for thy Impotent tyranny. Nature's broad thews bent Meek for thy content. Mastering littleness Which the wise heavens confess, The frailty which doth draw Magnipotence to its law— These were, O happy one, these Thy laughing puissances!

Be confident of thought, Seeing that thou art naught; And be thy pride thou'rt all Delectably safe and small. Epitomized in thee Was the mystery Which shakes the spheres conjoint— God focussed to a point.

All thy fine mouths shout Scorn upon dull-eyed doubt. Impenetrable fool Is he thou canst not school To the humility By which the angels see! Unfathomably framed Sister, I am not shamed

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Before the cherubin To vaunt my flesh thy kin. My one hand thine, and one Imprisoned in God's own, I am as God; alas, And such a god of grass! A little root clay-caught, A wind, a flame, a thought, Inestimably naught!

Francis Thompson.



106. TO A SNOWFLAKE

What heart could have thought you?— Past our devisal (O filigree petal!) Fashioned so purely, Fragilely, surely, From what Paradisal Imagineless metal, Too costly for cost? Who hammered you, wrought you, From argentine vapour?— "God was my shaper. Passing surmisal, He hammered, He wrought me, From curled silver vapour, To lust of His mind:— Thou couldst not have thought me! So purely, so palely, Tinily, surely, Mightily, frailly,

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Insculped and embossed, With His hammer of wind, And His graver of frost."

Francis Thompson.



107. TO A DAISY

Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide, Like all created things, secrets from me, And stand a barrier to eternity. And I, how can I praise thee well and wide

From where I dwell—upon the hither side? Thou little veil for so great mystery, When shall I penetrate all things and thee, And then look back? For this I must abide,

Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled Literally between me and the world. Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring,

And from a poet's side shall read his book. O daisy mine, what will it be to look From God's side even of such a simple thing?

Alice Meynell.



108. LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.

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Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his western wing he leaned, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened, Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

George Meredith.



109. THE CELESTIAL SURGEON

If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:— Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!

Robert Louis Stevenson.

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110. THE KINGDOM OF GOD

'In no Strange Land'

O world invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean, The eagle plunge to find the air— That we ask of the stars in motion If they have rumour of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken, And our benumbed conceiving soars!— The drift of pinions, would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places;— Turn but a stone, and start a wing! 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendoured thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems; And lo, Christ walking on the water Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!

Francis Thompson.

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111. THE LADY POVERTY

The Lady Poverty was fair: But she has lost her looks of late, With change of times and change of air. Ah slattern! she neglects her hair, Her gown, her shoes; she keeps no state As once when her pure feet were bare.

Or—almost worse, if worse can be— She scolds in parlours, dusts and trims, Watches and counts. Oh, is this she Whom Francis met, whose step was free, Who with Obedience carolled hymns, In Umbria walked with Chastity?

Where is her ladyhood? Not here, Not among modern kinds of men; But in the stony fields, where clear Through the thin trees the skies appear, In delicate spare soil and fen, And slender landscape and austere.

Alice Meynell.



112. COURTESY

Of Courtesy it is much less Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, Yet in my Walks it seems to me That the Grace of God is in Courtesy.

On Monks I did in Storrington fall, They took me straight into their Hall; I saw Three Pictures on a wall, And Courtesy was in them all.

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The first the Annunciation; The second the Visitation; The third the Consolation, Of God that was Our Lady's Son.

The first was of Saint Gabriel; On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; And as he went upon one knee He shone with Heavenly Courtesy.

Our Lady out of Nazareth rode— It was her month of heavy load; Yet was Her face both great and kind, For Courtesy was in Her Mind.

The third, it was our Little Lord, Whom all the Kings in arms adored; He was so small you could not see His large intent of Courtesy.

Our Lord, that was Our Lady's Son, Go bless you, People, one by one; My Rhyme is written, my work is done.

Hilaire Belloc.



113. MONTSERRAT

Peace waits among the hills; I have drunk peace, Here, where the blue air fills The great cup of the hills, And fills with peace.

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Between the earth and sky, I have seen the earth Like a dark cloud go by, And fade out of the sky; There was no more earth.

Here, where the Holy Graal Brought secret light Once, from beyond the veil, I, seeing no Holy Graal, See divine light.

Light fills the hills with God, Wind with his breath, And here, in his abode, Light, wind, and air praise God, And this poor breath.

Arthur Symons.



114. PRAYERS

God who created me Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free, To run, to ride, to swim: Not when the sense is dim, But now from the heart of joy, I would remember Him: Take the thanks of a boy.

Jesu, King and Lord, Whose are my foes to fight,

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Gird me with Thy sword, Swift and sharp and bright. Thee would I serve if I might; And conquer if I can, From day-dawn till night, Take the strength of a man.

Spirit of Love and Truth, Breathing in grosser clay, The light and flame of youth, Delight of men in the fray, Wisdom in strength's decay; From pain, strife, wrong to be free, This best gift I pray, Take my spirit to Thee.

Henry Charles Beeching.



115. THE SHEPHERDESS

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

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

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

Alice Meynell.



116. GIBBERISH

Many a flower have I seen blossom, Many a bird for me will sing. Never heard I so sweet a singer, Never saw I so fair a thing.

She is a bird, a bird that blossoms, She is a flower, a flower that sings; And I a flower when I behold her, And when I hear her, I have wings.

Mary E. Coleridge.



117. MARTHA

"Once . . . once upon a time . . ." Over and over again, Martha would tell us her stories, In the hazel glen.

Hers were those clear grey eyes You watch, and the story seems Told by their beautifulness Tranquil as dreams.

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She'd sit with her two slim hands Clasped round her bended knees; While we on our elbows lolled, And stared at ease.

Her voice and her narrow chin, Her grave small lovely head, Seemed half the meaning Of the words she said.

"Once . . . once upon a time . . ." Like a dream you dream in the night, Fairies and gnomes stole out In the leaf-green light.

And her beauty far away Would fade, as her voice ran on, Till hazel and summer sun And all were gone:—

All fordone and forgot; And like clouds in the height of the sky, Our hearts stood still in the hush Of an age gone by.

Walter de la Mare.



118. A FRIEND

All, that he came to give, He gave, and went again: I have seen one man live, I have seen one man reign, With all the graces in his train.

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As one of us, he wrought Things of the common hour: Whence was the charmed soul brought, That gave each act such power; The natural beauty of a flower?

Magnificence and grace, Excellent courtesy: A brightness on the face, Airs of high memory: Whence came all these, to such as he?

Like young Shakespearian kings, He won the adoring throng: And, as Apollo sings, He triumphed with a song: Triumphed, and sang, and passed along.

With a light word, he took The hearts of men in thrall: And, with a golden look, Welcomed them, at his call Giving their love, their strength, their all.

No man less proud than he, Nor cared for homage less: Only, he could not be Far off from happiness: Nature was bound to his success.

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Weary, the cares, the jars, The lets, of every day, But the heavens filled with stars, Chanced he upon the way: And where he stayed, all joy would stay.

Now, when sad night draws down, When the austere stars burn: Roaming the vast live town, My thoughts and memories yearn Toward him, who never will return.

Yet have I seen him live, And owned my friend, a king: All that he came to give He gave: and I, who sing His praise, bring all I have to bring.

Lionel Johnson.



118. TWILIGHT

Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call. Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all, There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.

I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past, Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last;

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Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled, Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.

John Masefield.



120. ON THE DEATH OF ARNOLD TOYNBEE

Good-bye; no tears nor cries Are fitting here, and long lament were vain. Only the last low words be softly said, And the last greeting given above the dead; For soul more pure and beautiful our eyes Never shall see again.

Alas! what help is it, What consolation in this heavy chance, That to the blameless life so soon laid low This was the end appointed long ago, This the allotted space, the measure fit Of endless ordinance?

Thus were the ancient days Made like our own monotonous with grief; From unassuaged lips even thus hath flown Perpetually the immemorial moan Of those that weeping went on desolate ways, Nor found in tears relief.

For faces yet grow pale, Tears rise at fortune, and true hearts take fire In all who hear, with quickening pulse's stroke, That cry that from the infinite people broke, When third among them Helen led the wail At Hector's funeral pyre.

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And by the Latin beach At rise of dawn such piteous tears were shed, When Troy and Arcady in long array Followed the princely body on its way, And Lord Aeneas spoke the last sad speech Above young Pallas dead.

Even in this English clime The same sweet cry no circling seas can drown, In melancholy cadence rose to swell Some dirge of Lycidas or Astrophel When lovely souls and pure before their time Into the dusk went down.

These Earth, the bounteous nurse, Hath long ago lapped in deep peace divine. Lips that made musical their old-world woe Themselves have gone to silence long ago, And left a weaker voice and wearier verse, O royal soul, for thine.

Beyond our life how far Soars his new life through radiant orb and zone, While we in impotency of the night Walk dumbly, and the path is hard, and light Fails, and for sun and moon the single star Honour is left alone.

The star that knows no set, But circles ever with a fixed desire, Watching Orion's armour all of gold; Watching and wearying not, till pale and cold Dawn breaks, and the first shafts of morning fret The east with lines of fire.

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But on the broad low plain When night is clear and windy, with hard frost, Such as had once the morning in their eyes, Watching and wearying, gaze upon the skies, And cannot see that star for their great pain Because the sun is lost.

Alas, how all our love Is scant at best to fill so ample room! Image and influence fall too fast away And fading memory cries at dusk of day Deem'st thou the dust recks aught at all thereof, The ghost within the tomb?

For even o'er lives like his The slumberous river washes soft and slow; The lapping water rises wearily, Numbing the nerve and will to sleep; and we Before the goal and crown of mysteries Fall back, and dare not know.

Only at times we know, In gyres convolved and luminous orbits whirled The soul beyond her knowing seems to sweep Out of the deep, fire-winged, into the deep; As two, who loved each other here below Better than all the world,

Yet ever held apart, And never knew their own hearts' deepest things, After long lapse of periods, wandering far Beyond the pathways of the furthest star, Into communicable space might dart With tremor of thunderous wings;

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Across the void might call Each unto each past worlds that raced and ran, And flash through galaxies, and clasp and kiss In some slant chasm and infinite abyss Far in the faint sidereal interval Between the Lyre and Swan.

J. W. Mackail.



121. ESTRANGEMENT

So, without overt breach, we fall apart, Tacitly sunder—neither you nor I Conscious of one intelligible Why, And both, from severance, winning equal smart. So, with resigned and acquiescent heart, Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie, I seem to see an alien shade pass by, A spirit wherein I have no lot or part. Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim, From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn That June on her triumphant progress goes Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him She is a legend emptied of concern, And idle is the rumour of the rose.

William Watson.



122. FATHERHOOD

A kiss, a word of thanks, away They're gone, and you forsaken learn The blessedness of giving; they (So Nature bids) forget, nor turn To where you sit, and watch, and yearn.

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And you (so Nature bids) would go Through fire and water for their sake; Rise early, late take rest, to sow Their wealth, and lie all night awake If but their little finger ache.

The storied prince with wondrous hair Which stole men's hearts and wrought his bale, Rebelling, since he had no heir, Built him a pillar in the vale, —Absalom's—lest his name should fail.

It fails not, though the pillar lies In dust, because the outraged one, His father, with strong agonies Cried it until the day was done— "O Absalom, my son, my son!"

So Nature bade; or might it be God, who in Jewry once (they say) Cried with a great cry, "Come to me, Children," who still held on their way, Though He spread out His hands all day?

Henry Charles Beeching.



123. DAISY

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill— O the breath of the distant surf!—

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The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine; Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day.

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face; She gave me tokens three:— A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.

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For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close; But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose.

She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:— The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes.

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Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in other's pain, And perish in our own.

Francis Thompson.



124. A CRADLE SONG

O, men from the fields! Come gently within. Tread softly, softly, O! men coming in.

Mavourneen is going From me and from you, Where Mary will fold him With mantle of blue!

From reek of the smoke And cold of the floor, And the peering of things Across the half-door.

O, men from the fields! Soft, softly come thro'. Mary puts round him Her mantle of blue.

Padraic Colum.



136. ON A DEAD CHILD

Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!

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Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

Thy mother's treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride;—ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.

Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,— Go, lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!— Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?

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The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

Robert Bridges.



126. I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAIN

I never shall love the snow again Since Maurice died: With corniced drift it blocked the lane, And sheeted in a desolate plain The country side.

The trees with silvery rime bedight Their branches bare. By day no sun appeared; by night The hidden moon shed thievish light In the misty air.

We fed the birds that flew around In flocks to be fed: No shelter in holly or brake they found, The speckled thrush on the frozen ground Lay frozen and dead.

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We skated on stream and pond; we cut The crinching snow To Doric temple or Arctic hut; We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut By the fireside glow.

Yet grudged we our keen delights before Maurice should come. We said, "In-door or out-of-door We shall love life for a month or more, When he is home."

They brought him home; 'twas two days late For Christmas Day: Wrapped in white, in solemn state, A flower in his hand, all still and straight Our Maurice lay.

And two days ere the year outgave We laid him low. The best of us truly were not brave, When we laid Maurice down in his grave Under the snow.

Robert Bridges.



127. TO MY GODCHILD

Francis M. W. M.

This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to space Down some frore Arctic of the aerial ways:

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And now, back warping from the inclement main, Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, It swung into its azure roads again; When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew.

To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, Giver of golden days and golden song; Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. Yet ah! from any other that it came, Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. When at the first those tidings did they bring, My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: Though well may such a title him endower, For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty, (In two alone of whom most singers prove A fatal faithfulness of during love!) He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken How God he could love more, he so loved men; The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; And Fletcher's fellow—from these, and not from me, Take you your name, and take your legacy!

Or, if a right successive you declare When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, Take but this Poesy that now followeth My clayey best with sullen servile breath, Made then your happy freedman by testating death.

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My song I do but hold for you in trust, I ask you but to blossom from my dust. When you have compassed all weak I began, Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man; The man at feud with the perduring child In you before Song's altar nobly reconciled; From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see How little a world, which owned you, needed me. If, while you keep the vigils of the night, For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, As it played lover over your sweet sleeps; Think it a golden crevice in the sky, Which I have pierced but to behold you by!

And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod Among the bearded counsellors of God; For if in Eden as on earth are we, I sure shall keep a younger company: Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, The dreadful mass of their enridged spears; Pass where majestical the eternal peers, The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet— A silvern segregation, globed complete In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet; Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer,

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Your cousined clusters, emulous to share With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair; Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:— Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

Francis Thompson.



128. WHEN JUNE IS COME

When June is come, then all the day I'll sit with my love in the scented hay And watch the sunshot palaces high, That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.

She singeth, and I do make her a song, And read sweet poems the whole day long: Unseen as we lie in our hay-built home. Oh, life is delight when June is come.

Robert Bridges.



129. IN MISTY BLUE

In misty blue the lark is heard Above the silent homes of men; The bright-eyed thrush, the little wren, The yellow-billed sweet-voiced blackbird Mid sallow blossoms blond as curd Or silver oak boughs, carolling With happy throat from tree to tree, Sing into light this morn of spring That sang my dear love home to me.

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Be starry, buds of clustered white, Around the dark waves of her hair! The young fresh glory you prepare Is like my ever-fresh delight When she comes shining on my sight With meeting eyes, with such a cheek As colours fair like flushing tips Of shoots, and music ere she speak Lies in the wonder of her lips.

Airs of the morning, breathe about Keen faint scents of the wild wood side From thickets where primroses hide Mid the brown leaves of winter's rout. Chestnut and willow, beacon out For joy of her, from far and nigh, Your English green on English hills: Above her head, song-quivering sky, And at her feet, the daffodils.

Because she breathed, the world was more, And breath a finer soul to use, And life held lovelier hopes to choose; But O, to-day my heart brims o'er, Earth glows as from a kindled core, Like shadows of diviner things Are hill and cloud and flower and tree— A splendour that is hers and spring's,—- The day my love came home to me.

Laurence Binyon.

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130. IN FOUNTAIN COURT

The fountain murmuring of sleep, A drowsy tune; The flickering green of leaves that keep The light of June; Peace, through a slumbering afternoon, The peace of June.

A waiting ghost, in the blue sky, The white curved moon; June, hushed and breathless, waits, and I Wait, too, with June; Come, through the lingering afternoon, Soon, love, come soon.

Arthur Symons.



131. THE PRAISE OF DUST

"What of vile dust?" the preacher said. Methought the whole world woke, The dead stone lived beneath my foot, And my whole body spoke.

"You that play tyrant to the dust, And stamp its wrinkled face, This patient star that flings you not Far into homeless space,

"Come down out of your dusty shrine The living dust to see, The flowers that at your sermon's end Stand blazing silently,

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"Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones, Lichens like fire encrust; A gleam of blue, a glare of gold, The vision of the dust.

"Pass them all by; till, as you come Where, at a city's edge, Under a tree—I know it well—. Under a lattice ledge,

"The sunshine falls on one brown head. You, too, O cold of clay, Eater of stones, may haply hear The trumpets of that day

"When God to all his paladins By his own splendour swore To make a fairer face than heaven, Of dust and nothing more."

G. K. Chesterton.



132. AWAKE, MY HEART, TO BE LOVED

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee; Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,

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Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her,—if this could be,— She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!

Awake! the land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree: And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake; Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me. Come more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!"

Robert Bridges.



133. AEDH WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W. B. Yeats.

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134. BEAUTY

I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain: I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.

I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea, And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships; But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me, Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips.

John Masefield.



135. MY WIFE

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true, With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel-true and blade-straight, The great artificer Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire; A love that life could never tire, Death quench or evil stir, The mighty master Gave to her.

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Teacher, tender, comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life, Heart-whole and soul-free The august father Gave to me.

Robert Louis Stevenson.



138. FROM "LOVE IN THE VALLEY"

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

* * * * * *

Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.

* * * * * *

Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West,

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Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whispered the world was; morning light is she. Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.

* * * * * *

Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens, Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.

* * * * * *

Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.

George Meredith.

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137. TO THE BELOVED

Oh, not more subtly silence strays Amongst the winds, between the voices, Mingling alike with pensive lays, And with the music that rejoices, Than thou art present in my days.

My silence, life returns to thee In all the pauses of her breath, Hush back to rest the melody That out of thee awakeneth; And thou, wake ever, wake for me!

Thou art like silence all unvexed, Though wild words part my soul from thee. Thou art like silence unperplexed, A secret and a mystery Between one footfall and the next.

Most dear pause in a mellow lay! Thou art inwoven with every air. With thee the wildest tempests play, And snatches of thee everywhere Make little heavens throughout a day.

Darkness and solitude shine, for me. For life's fair outward part are rife The silver noises; let them be. It is the very soul of life Listens for thee, listens for thee.

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O pause between the sobs of cares; O thought within all thought that is; Trance between laughters unawares: Thou art the shape of melodies, And thou the ecstasy of prayers!

Alice Meynell.



138. WHEN YOU ARE OLD

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

W. B. Yeats



139. I WILL NOT LET THEE GO

I will not let thee go. Ends all our month-long love in this? Can it be summed up so, Quit in a single kiss? I will not let thee go.

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I will not let thee go. If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds, As the soft south can blow And toss the feathered seeds, Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go. Had not the great sun seen, I might: Or were he reckoned slow To bring the false to light, Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go. The stars that crowd the summer skies Have watched us so below With all their million eyes, I dare not let thee go.

I will not let thee go. Have we not chid the changeful moon, Now rising late, and now Because she set too soon, And shall I let thee go?

I will not let thee go. Have not the young flowers been content, Plucked ere their buds could blow, To seal our sacrament? I cannot let thee go.

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I will not let thee go. I hold thee by too many bands: Thou sayest farewell, and lo! I have thee by the hands, And will not let thee go.

Robert Bridges.



140. PARTED

Farewell to one now silenced quite, Sent out of hearing, out of sight,— My friend of friends, whom I shall miss. He is not banished, though, for this,— Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.

Though I shall talk with him no more, A low voice sounds upon the shore. He must not watch my resting-place, But who shall drive a mournful face From the sad winds about my door?

I shall not hear his voice complain, But who shall stop the patient rain? His tears must not disturb my heart, But who shall change the years, and part The world from every thought of pain?

Although my life is left so dim, The morning crowns the mountain-rim; Joy is not gone from summer skies, Nor innocence from children's eyes, And all these things are part of him.

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He is not banished, for the showers Yet wake this green warm earth of ours. How can the summer but be sweet? I shall not have him at my feet, And yet my feet are on the flowers.

Alice Meynell.



141. ELEGY ON A LADY, WHOM GRIEF FOR THE DEATH OF HER BETROTHED KILLED

Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door, And all ye loves, assemble; far and wide Proclaim the bridal, that proclaimed before Has been deferred to this late eventide: For on this night the bride, The days of her betrothal over, Leaves the parental hearth for evermore; To-night the bride goes forth to meet her lover.

Reach down the wedding vesture, that has lain Yet all unvisited, the silken gown: Bring out the bracelets, and the golden chain Her dearer friends provided: sere and brown Bring out the festal crown, And set it on her forehead lightly: Though it be withered, twine no wreath again; This only is the crown she can wear rightly.

Cloak her in ermine, for the night is cold, And wrap her warmly, for the night is long; In pious hands the flaming torches hold, While her attendants, chosen from among

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Her faithful virgin throng, May lay her in her cedar litter, Decking her coverlet with sprigs of gold, Roses, and lilies white that best befit her.

Sound flute and tabor, that the bridal be Not without music, nor with these alone; But let the viol lead the melody, With lesser intervals, and plaintive moan Of sinking semitone; And, all in choir, the virgin voices Rest not from singing in skilled harmony The song that aye the bridegroom's ear rejoices.

Let the priests go before, arrayed in white, And let the dark-stoled minstrels follow slow, Next they that bear her, honoured on this night, And then the maidens, in a double row, Each singing soft and low, And each on high a torch upstaying: Unto her lover lead her forth with light, With music, and with singing, and with praying.

'Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came, And found her trusty window open wide, And knew the signal of the timorous flame, That long the restless curtain would not hide Her form that stood beside; As scarce she dared to be delighted, Listening to that sweet tale, that is no shame To faithful lovers, that their hearts have plighted.

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But now for many days the dewy grass Has shown no markings of his feet at morn: And watching she has seen no shadow pass The moonlit walk, and heard no music borne Upon her ear forlorn. In vain she has looked out to greet him; He has not come, he will not come, alas! So let us bear her out where she must meet him.

Now to the river bank the priests are come: The bark is ready to receive its freight: Let some prepare her place therein, and some Embark the litter with its slender weight: The rest stand by in state, And sing her a safe passage over; While she is oared across to her new home, Into the arms of her expectant lover.

And thou, O lover, that art on the watch, Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams, The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatch The sweeter moments of their broken dreams,— Thou, when the torchlight gleams, When thou shalt see the slow procession, And when thine ears the fitful music catch, Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession.

Robert Bridges.

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142. AN EPITAPH

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare—rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

Walter de la Mare.



143. A DREAM OF DEATH

I dreamed that one had died in a strange place Near no accustomed hand; And they had nailed the boards above her face, The peasants of that land, And, wondering, planted by her solitude A cypress and a yew: I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood, Man had no more to do: She was more beautiful than thy first love, This lady by the trees: And gazed upon the mournful stars above, And heard the mournful breeze.

W. B. Yeats.



144. A DREAM Of A BLESSED SPIRIT

All the heavy days are over; Leave the body's coloured pride Underneath the grass and clover, With the feet laid side by side.

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One with her are mirth and duty; Bear the gold embroidered dress, For she needs not her sad beauty, To the scented oaken press.

Hers the kiss of Mother Mary, The long hair is on her face; Still she goes with footsteps wary, Full of earth's old timid grace:

With white feet of angels seven Her white feet go glimmering; And above the deep of heaven, Flame on flame and wing on wing.

W. B. Yeats.



145. MESSAGES

What shall I your true-love tell, Earth-forsaking maid? What shall I your true-love tell, When life's spectre's laid?

"Tell him that, our side the grave, Maid may not conceive Life should be so sad to have, That's so sad to leave!"

What shall I your true-love tell, When I come to him? What shall I your true-love tell— Eyes growing dim!

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"Tell him this, when you shall part From a maiden pined; That I see him with my heart, Now my eyes are blind."

What shall I your true-love tell? Speaking-while is scant. What shall I your true-love tell, Death's white postulant?

"Tell him—love, with speech at strife, For last utterance saith: I, who loved with all my life, Love with all my death."

Francis Thompson.



146. THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED

One that is ever kind said yesterday: "Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey, And little shadows come about her eyes; Time can but make it easier to be wise, Though now it's hard, till trouble is at an end; And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend." But, heart, there is no comfort, not a grain; Time can but make her beauty over again, Because of that great nobleness of hers; The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways, When all the wild summer was in her gaze. O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head, You'd know the folly of being comforted.

W. B. Yeats.

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147. AT NIGHT

To W. M.

Home, home from the horizon far and clear, Hither the soft wings sweep; Flocks of the memories of the day draw near The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light Of all these homing birds? Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight? Your words to me, your words!

Alice Meynell

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INDEX OF FIRST LINES

PAGE

A kiss, a word of thanks, away (H. C. Beeching). . . . . . . 142 A naked house, a naked moor (R. L. Stevenson) . . . . . . . 65 A ship, an isle, a sickle moon (J. E. Flecker) . . . . . . . 76 All that he came to give (L. Johnson) . . . . . . . . . . . 136 All the heavy days are over (W. B. Yeats) . . . . . . . . . 167 All winter through I bow my head (W. de la Mare) . . . . . . 82 Along the graceless grass of town (A. Meynell) . . . . . . . 90 As I went down to Dymchurch wall (J. Davidson) . . . . . . . 45 Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door (B. Bridges) . . . . . 164 Athwart the sky a lowly sigh (J. Davidson) . . . . . . . . . 96 Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! (B. Bridges) . . 155

Below the down the stranded town (J. Davidson) . . . . . . . 47 Between two russet tufts of summer grass (E. Gosse) . . . . 102 Beyond my window in the night (J. Drinkwater) . . . . . . . 49 Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying (R. L. Stevenson) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Brief, on a flying night (A. Meynell) . . . . . . . . . . . 78 But to have lain upon the grass (A. Symons) . . . . . . . . 101 Buy my English posies! (R. Kipling) . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

Cambridge town is a beleaguered city (R. Macaulay) . . . . . 54 Can I forget the sweet days that have been (W. H. Davies) . 60 Come, no more of grief and dying! (M. L. Woods) . . . . . . 108 Country roads are yellow and brown (M. E. Coleridge) . . . . 95 Daylight was down, and up the cool (L. Housman) . . . . . . 99 Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet (W. B. Yeats) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away (H. Newbolt) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Farewell to one now silenced quite (A. Meynell) . . . . . . 163 Fear? Yes . . . I heard you saying (H. Trench) . . . . . . 16

Give to me the life I love (R. L. Stevenson) . . . . . . . . 83 God gave all men all earth to love (R. Kipling) . . . . . . 39 God, if this were enough (R. L. Stevenson) . . . . . . . . . 114 God who created me (H. C. Beeching) . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Good-bye; no tears nor cries (J. W. Mackail) . . . . . . . . 139 Grow old and die, rich Day (A. S. Cripps) . . . . . . . . . 32

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Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths (W. B. Yeats) . . . . 156 He leapt to arms unbidden (H. Newbolt) . . . . . . . . . . . 22 He rises and begins to round (G. Meredith) . . . . . . . . . 119 He walked in glory on the hills (W. Canton) . . . . . . . . 34 Here lies a most beautiful lady (W. de la Mare) . . . . . . 167 His wage of rest at nightfall still (J. Drinkwater) . . . . 24 Home, home from the horizon far and clear (A. Meynell) . . . 170 How solitary gleams the lamplit street (L. Binyon) . . . . . 93

I came to Oxford in the light (G. Gould) . . . . . . . . . . 51 I do not need the skies (F. Thompson) . . . . . . . . . . . 125 I dreamed that one had died in a strange place (W. B. Yeats) 167 I gathered with a careless hand (G. Gould) . . . . . . . . . 6 I go through the fields of blue water (A. S. Cripps) . . . . 48 I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills (J. Masefield) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157

I know you; solitary griefs (L. Johnson) . . . . . . . . . . 113 I laid me down upon the shore (F. Cornford) . . . . . . . . 2 I love all beauteous things (R. Bridges) . . . . . . . . . . 125 I never see the newsboys run (S. Leslie) . . . . . . . . . . 100 I never shall love the snow again (R. Bridges) . . . . . . . 148 I never went to Mamble (J. Drinkwater) . . . . . . . . . . . 49 I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree (W. B. Yeats) . 61 I will make you brooches and toys for your delight (R. L. Stevenson) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 I will not let thee go (R. Bridges) . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 I will not try the reach again (H. Belloc) . . . . . . . . . 54 If I have faltered more or less (R. L. Stevenson) . . . . . 129 If I should die, think only this of me (R. Brooke) . . . . . 25 In misty blue the lark is heard (L. Binyon) . . . . . . . . 152 In the highlands, in the country places (R. L. Stevenson) . 34 In the time of wild roses (L. Binyon) . . . . . . . . . . . 73 It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where (J. Masefield) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 It was early last September, nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea (P. R. Chalmers) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117