Czytaj książkę: «The Wild Knight and Other Poems»

NOTE

My thanks are due to the Editors of the Outlook and the Speaker for the kind permission they have given me to reprint a considerable number of the following poems. They have been selected and arranged rather with a view to unity of spirit than to unity of time or value; many of them being juvenile.

 
_Another tattered rhymster in the ring,
  With but the old plea to the sneering schools,
That on him too, some secret night in spring
  Came the old frenzy of a hundred fools
 
 
To make some thing: the old want dark and deep,
  The thirst of men, the hunger of the stars,
Since first it tinged even the Eternal's sleep,
  With monstrous dreams of trees and towns and mars.
 
 
When all He made for the first time He saw,
  Scattering stars as misers shake their pelf.
Then in the last strange wrath broke His own law,
  And made a graven image of Himself._
 

BY THE BABE UNBORN

 
If trees were tall and grasses short,
  As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
  Beyond the breaking pale,
 
 
If a fixed fire hung in the air
  To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
  I know what I should do.
 
 
In dark I lie: dreaming that there
  Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
  And living men behind.
 
 
Let storm-clouds come: better an hour,
  And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
  The empires of the night.
 
 
I think that if they gave me leave
  Within that world to stand,
I would be good through all the day
  I spent in fairyland.
 
 
They should not hear a word from me
  Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
  If only I were born.
 

THE WORLD'S LOVER

 
My eyes are full of lonely mirth:
  Reeling with want and worn with scars,
For pride of every stone on earth,
  I shake my spear at all the stars.
 
 
A live bat beats my crest above,
  Lean foxes nose where I have trod,
And on my naked face the love
  Which is the loneliness of God.
 
 
Outlawed: since that great day gone by —
  When before prince and pope and queen
I stood and spoke a blasphemy —
  'Behold the summer leaves are green.'
 
 
They cursed me: what was that to me
  Who in that summer darkness furled,
With but an owl and snail to see,
  Had blessed and conquered all the world?
 
 
They bound me to the scourging-stake,
  They laid their whips of thorn on me;
I wept to see the green rods break,
  Though blood be beautiful to see.
 
 
Beneath the gallows' foot abhorred
  The crowds cry 'Crucify!' and 'Kill!'
Higher the priests sing, 'Praise the Lord,
  The warlock dies'; and higher still
 
 
Shall heaven and earth hear one cry sent
  Even from the hideous gibbet height,
'Praise to the Lord Omnipotent,
  The vultures have a feast to-night.'
 

THE SKELETON

 
Chattering finch and water-fly
Are not merrier than I;
Here among the flowers I lie
Laughing everlastingly.
No: I may not tell the best;
Surely, friends, I might have guessed
Death was but the good King's jest,
  It was hid so carefully.
 

A CHORD OF COLOUR

 
My Lady clad herself in grey,
  That caught and clung about her throat;
Then all the long grey winter day
  On me a living splendour smote;
And why grey palmers holy are,
  And why grey minsters great in story,
And grey skies ring the morning star,
  And grey hairs are a crown of glory.
 
 
My Lady clad herself in green,
  Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;
Then round my spirit spread, I ween,
  A splendour of forgotten grass.
Then all that dropped of stem or sod,
  Hoarded as emeralds might be,
I bowed to every bush, and trod
  Amid the live grass fearfully.
 
 
My Lady clad herself in blue,
  Then on me, like the seer long gone,
The likeness of a sapphire grew,
  The throne of him that sat thereon.
Then knew I why the Fashioner
  Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;
And ere 'twas good enough for her,
  He tried it on Eternity.
 
 
Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree
  Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:
'The World's a bubble,' solemnly
  He read, and turned a second page.
'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,
  'God keep you in your weary wit!
'A bubble – have you ever spied
  'The colours I have seen on it?'
 

THE HAPPY MAN

 
To teach the grey earth like a child,
  To bid the heavens repent,
I only ask from Fate the gift
  Of one man well content.
 
 
Him will I find: though when in vain
  I search the feast and mart,
The fading flowers of liberty,
  The painted masks of art.
 
 
I only find him at the last,
  On one old hill where nod
Golgotha's ghastly trinity —
  Three persons and one god.
 

THE UNPARDONABLE SIN

 
I do not cry, beloved, neither curse.
  Silence and strength, these two at least are good.
  He gave me sun and stars and ought He could,
But not a woman's love; for that is hers.
 
 
He sealed her heart from sage and questioner —
  Yea, with seven seals, as he has sealed the grave.
  And if she give it to a drunken slave,
The Day of Judgment shall not challenge her.
 
 
Only this much: if one, deserving well,
  Touching your thin young hands and making suit,
  Feel not himself a crawling thing, a brute,
Buried and bricked in a forgotten hell;
 
 
Prophet and poet be he over sod,
  Prince among angels in the highest place,
  God help me, I will smite him on the face,
Before the glory of the face of God.
 

A NOVELTY

 
Why should I care for the Ages
  Because they are old and grey?
To me, like sudden laughter,
  The stars are fresh and gay;
The world is a daring fancy,
  And finished yesterday.
 
 
Why should I bow to the Ages
  Because they were drear and dry?
Slow trees and ripening meadows
  For me go roaring by,
A living charge, a struggle
  To escalade the sky.
 
 
The eternal suns and systems,
  Solid and silent all,
To me are stars of an instant,
  Only the fires that fall
From God's good rocket, rising
  On this night of carnival.
 

ULTIMATE

 
The vision of a haloed host
  That weep around an empty throne;
And, aureoles dark and angels dead,
  Man with his own life stands alone.
 
 
'I am,' he says his bankrupt creed:
  'I am,' and is again a clod:
The sparrow starts, the grasses stir,
  For he has said the name of God.
 

THE DONKEY

 
When fishes flew and forests walked
  And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
  Then surely I was born;
 
 
With monstrous head and sickening cry
  And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
  On all four-footed things.
 
 
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
  Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
  I keep my secret still.
 
 
Fools! For I also had my hour;
  One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
  And palms before my feet.
 

THE BEATIFIC VISION

 
Through what fierce incarnations, furled
  In fire and darkness, did I go,
Ere I was worthy in the world
  To see a dandelion grow?
 
 
Well, if in any woes or wars
  I bought my naked right to be,
Grew worthy of the grass, nor gave
  The wren, my brother, shame for me.
 
 
But what shall God not ask of him
  In the last time when all is told,
Who saw her stand beside the hearth,
  The firelight garbing her in gold?
 

THE HOPE OF THE STREETS

 
The still sweet meadows shimmered: and I stood
  And cursed them, bloom of hedge and bird of tree,
And bright and high beyond the hunch-backed wood
  The thunder and the splendour of the sea.
 
 
Give back the Babylon where I was born,
  The lips that gape give back, the hands that grope,
And noise and blood and suffocating scorn
  An eddy of fierce faces – and a hope
 
 
That 'mid those myriad heads one head find place,
  With brown hair curled like breakers of the sea,
And two eyes set so strangely in the face
  That all things else are nothing suddenly.
 

ECCLESIASTES

 
There is one sin: to call a green leaf grey,
  Whereat the sun in heaven shuddereth.
There is one blasphemy: for death to pray,
  For God alone knoweth the praise of death.
 
 
There is one creed: 'neath no world-terror's wing
  Apples forget to grow on apple-trees.
There is one thing is needful – everything —
  The rest is vanity of vanities.
 

THE SONG OF THE CHILDREN

 
The World is ours till sunset,
  Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead brother
  Who loved us long ago.
 
 
The grown folk mighty and cunning,
  They write his name in gold;
But we can tell a little
  Of the million tales he told.
 
 
He taught them laws and watchwords,
  To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
  The games that the angels play.
 
 
Had he stayed here for ever,
  Their world would be wise as ours —
And the king be cutting capers,
  And the priest be picking flowers.
 
 
But the dark day came: they gathered:
  On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
  And hanged him on a tree.