Poems of To-Day: an Anthology

51. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL

 A naked house, a naked moor,

A shivering pool before the door,

A garden bare of flowers and fruit

And poplars at the garden foot.

Such is the place that I live in,

Bleak without and bare within.

 
  Yet shall your ragged moor receive
  The incomparable pomp of eve,
  And the cold glories of the dawn
  Behind your shivering trees be drawn;
  And when the wind from place to place
  Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase,
  Your garden gloom and gleam again,
  With leaping sun, with glancing rain.
  Here shall the wizard moon ascend
  The heavens, in the crimson end
  Of day's declining splendour; here
  The army of the stars appear.
  The neighbour hollows dry or wet,
  Spring shall with tender flowers beset;
  And oft the morning muser see
  Larks rising from the broomy lea,
  And every fairy wheel and thread
  Of cobweb dew-bediamonded.
  When daisies go, shall winter time
  Silver the simple grass with rime;
  Autumnal frosts enchant the pool
  And make the cart-ruts beautiful;
  And when snow-bright the moor expands,
  How shall your children clap their hands!
  To make this earth our hermitage,
  A cheerful and a changeful page,
  God's bright and intricate device
  Of days and seasons doth suffice.
 

Robert Louis Stevenson.

52. THE OLD LOVE

 
  Out of my door I step into
  The country, all her scent and dew,
  Nor travel there by a hard road,
  Dusty and far from my abode.
 
 
  The country washes to my door
  Green miles on miles in soft uproar,
  The thunder of the woods, and then
  The backwash of green surf again.
 
 
  Beyond the feverfew and stocks,
  The guelder-rose and hollyhocks;
  Outside my trellised porch a tree
  Of lilac frames a sky for me.
 
 
  A stretch of primrose and pale green
  To hold the tender Hesper in;
  Hesper that by the moon makes pale
  Her silver keel and silver sail.
 
 
  The country silence wraps me quite,
  Silence and song and pure delight;
  The country beckons all the day
  Smiling, and but a step away.
 
 
  This is that country seen across
  How many a league of love and loss,
  Prayed for and longed for, and as far
  As fountains in the desert are.
 
 
  This is that country at my door,
  Whose fragrant airs run on before,
  And call me when the first birds stir
  In the green wood to walk with her.
 

Katharine Tynan.

53. EARLY MORN

 
  When I did wake this morn from sleep,
    It seemed I heard birds in a dream;
  Then I arose to take the air—
    The lovely air that made birds scream;
  Just as a green hill launched the ship
  Of gold, to take its first clear dip.
 
 
  And it began its journey then,
    As I came forth to take the air;
  The timid Stars had vanished quite,
    The Moon was dying with a stare;
  Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen,
  As still as pictures, in fields green.
 
 
  It seemed as though I had surprised
    And trespassed in a golden world
  That should have passed while men still slept!
    The joyful birds, the ship of gold,
  The horses, kine, and sheep did seem
  As they would vanish for a dream.
 

William H. Davies.

54. THE HILL PINES WERE SIGHING

 
  The hill pines were sighing,
  O'ercast and chill was the day:
  A mist in the valley lying
  Blotted the pleasant May.
 
 
  But deep in the glen's bosom
  Summer slept in the fire
  Of the odorous gorse-blossom
  And the hot scent of the brier.
 
 
  A ribald cuckoo clamoured,
  And out of the copse the stroke
  Of the iron axe that hammered
  The iron heart of the oak.
 
 
  Anon a sound appalling,
  As a hundred years of pride
  Crashed, in the silence falling;
  And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
 

Robert Bridges.

55. THE CHOICE

 
  When skies are blue and days are bright
  A kitchen-garden's my delight,
  Set round with rows of decent box
  And blowsy girls of hollyhocks.
 
 
  Before the lark his Lauds hath done
  And ere the corncrake's southward gone;
  Before the thrush good-night hath said
  And the young Summer's put to bed.
 
 
  The currant-bushes' spicy smell,
  Homely and honest, likes me well,
  The while on strawberries I feast,
  And raspberries the sun hath kissed.
 
 
  Beans all a-blowing by a row.
  Of hives that great with honey go,
  With mignonette and heaths to yield
  The plundering bee his honey-field.
 
 
  Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage
  And the delicious mint and sage,
  Rosemary, marjoram, and rue,
  And thyme to scent the winter through.
 
 
  Here are small apples growing round,
  And apricots all golden-gowned,
  And plums that presently will flush
  And show their bush a Burning Bush.
 
 
  Cherries in nets against the wall,
  Where Master Thrush his madrigal
  Sings, and makes oath a churl is he
  Who grudges cherries for a fee.
 
 
  Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here
  Shall Beauty make her pomander,
  Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes
  That wrap her as the leaves the rose.
 
 
  Take roses red and lilies white,
  A kitchen garden's my delight;
  Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves,
  And its tall cote of irised doves.
 

Katharine Tynan.

56. THERE IS A HILL

 
  There is a hill beside the silver Thames,
  Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine
  And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems
  Steeply the thickets to his floods decline.
    Straight trees in every place
    Their thick tops interlace,
  And pendent branches trail their foliage fine
    Upon his watery face.
 
 
  Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows:
  His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade,
  Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes
  Straight to the caverned pool his toil has made.
    His winter floods lay bare
    The stout roots in the air:
  His summer streams are cool, when they have played
    Among their fibrous hair.
 
 
  A rushy island guards the sacred bower,
  And hides it from the meadow, where in peace
  The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower,
  Robbing the golden market of the bees:
    And laden barges float
    By banks of myosote;
  And scented flag and golden flower-de-lys
    Delay the loitering boat.
 
 
  And on this side the island, where the pool
  Eddies away, are tangled mass on mass
  The water-weeds, that net the fishes cool,
  And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass;
    Where spreading crowfoot mars
    The drowning nenuphars,
  Waving the tassels of her silken grass
    Below her silver stars.
 
 
  But in the purple pool there nothing grows,
  Not the white water-lily spoked with gold;
  Though best she loves the hollows, and well knows
  On quiet streams her broad shields to unfold:
    Yet should her roots but try
    Within these deeps to lie,
  Not her long-reaching stalk could ever hold
    Her waxen head so high.
 
 
  Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook
  Within its hidden depths, and 'gainst a tree
  Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book,
  Forgetting soon his pride of fishery;
    And dreams, or falls asleep,
    While curious fishes peep
  About his nibbled bait, or scornfully
    Dart off and rise and leap.
 
 
  And sometimes a slow figure 'neath the trees,
  In ancient-fashioned smock, with tottering care
  Upon a staff propping his weary knees.
  May by the pathway of the forest fare:
    As from a buried day
    Across the mind will stray
  Some perishing mute shadow,—and unaware
    He passeth on his way.
 
 
  Else, he that wishes solitude is safe,
  Whether he bathe at morning in the stream:
  Or lead his love there when the hot hours chafe
  The meadows, busy with a blurring steam;
    Or watch, as fades the light,
    The gibbous moon grow bright,
  Until her magic rays dance in a dream,
    And glorify the night.
 
 
  Where is this bower beside the silver Thames?
  O pool and flowery thickets, hear my vow!
  O trees of freshest foliage and straight stems,
  No sharer of my secret I allow:
    Lest ere I come the while
    Strange feet your shades defile;
  Or lest the burly oarsman turn his prow
    Within your guardian isle.
 

Robert Bridges.

57. BAB-LOCK-HYTHE

 
  In the time of wild roses
  As up Thames we travelled
  Where 'mid water-weeds ravelled
  The lily uncloses,
 
 
  To his old shores the river
  A new song was singing,
  And young shoots were springing
  On old roots for ever.
 
 
  Dog-daisies were dancing,
  And flags flamed in cluster,
  On the dark stream a lustre
  Now blurred and now glancing.
 
 
  A tall reed down-weighing
  The sedge-warbler fluttered;
  One sweet note he uttered,
  Then left it soft-swaying.
 
 
  By the bank's sandy hollow
  My dipt oars went beating,
  And past our bows fleeting
  Blue-backed shone the swallow.
 
 
  High woods, heron-haunted,
  Rose, changed, as we rounded
  Old hills greenly mounded,
  To meadows enchanted.
 
 
  A dream ever moulded
  Afresh for our wonder,
  Still opening asunder
  For the stream many-folded;
 
 
  Till sunset was rimming
  The West with pale flushes;
  Behind the black rushes
  The last light was dimming;
 
 
  And the lonely stream, hiding
  Shy birds, grew more lonely,
  And with us was only
  The noise of our gliding.
 
 
  In cloud of gray weather
  The evening o'erdarkened,
  In the stillness we hearkened;
  Our hearts sang together.
 

Laurence Binyon.

58. ROWER'S CHANT

 
  Row till the land dip 'neath
  The sea from view.
  Row till a land peep up,
  A home for you.
 
 
  Row till the mast sing songs
  Welcome and sweet.
  Row till the waves, out-stripped,
  Give up dead beat.
 
 
  Row till the sea-nymphs rise
  To ask you why
  Rowing you tarry not
  To hear them sigh.
 
 
  Row till the stars grow bright
  Like certain eyes.
  Row till the noon be high
  As hopes you prize.
 
 
  Row till you harbour in
  All longing's port.
  Row till you find all things
  For which you sought.
 

T. Sturge Moore.

59. FAREWELL

 
  Not soon shall I forget—a sheet
  Of golden water, cold and sweet,
  The young moon with her head in veils
  Of silver, and the nightingales.
 
 
  A wain of hay came up the lane—
  O fields I shall not walk again,
  And trees I shall not see, so still
  Against a sky of daffodil!
 
 
  Fields where my happy heart had rest,
  And where my heart was heaviest,
  I shall remember them at peace
  Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece.
 
 
  The golden water sweet and cold,
  The moon of silver and of gold,
  The dew upon the gray grass-spears,
  I shall remember them with tears.
 

Katharine Tynan.

60. A SHIP, AN ISLE, A SICKLE MOON

 
  A ship, an isle, a sickle moon—
  With few but with how splendid stars
  The mirrors of the sea are strewn
  Between their silver bars!
 
 
* * * * * *
 
 
  An isle beside an isle she lay,
  The pale ship anchored in the bay,
  While in the young moon's port of gold
  A star-ship—as the mirrors told—
  Put forth its great and lonely light
  To the unreflecting Ocean, Night.
  And still, a ship upon her seas,
  The isle and the island cypresses
  Went sailing on without the gale:
  And still there moved the moon so pale,
  A crescent ship without a sail!
 

James Elroy Flecker.

61. NOD

 
  Softly along the road of evening,
    In a twilight dim with rose,
  Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
    Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.
 
 
  His drowsy flock streams on before him,
    Their fleeces charged with gold,
  To where the sun's last beam leans low
    On Nod the shepherd's fold.
 
 
  The hedge is quick and green with briar,
    From their sand the conies creep;
  And all the birds that fly in heaven
    Flock singing home to sleep.
 
 
  His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
    Yet, when night's shadows fall,
  His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
    Misses not one of all.
 
 
  His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
    The waters of no-more-pain,
  His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
    "Rest, rest, and rest again."
 

Walter de la Mare.

62. CHIMES

 
  Brief, on a flying night,
    From the shaken tower,
  A flock of bells take flight,
    And go with the hour.
 
 
  Like birds from the cote to the gales,
    Abrupt—O hark!
  A fleet of bells set sails,
    And go to the dark.
 
 
  Sudden the cold airs swing.
    Alone, aloud,
  A verse of bells takes wing
    And flies with the cloud.
 

Alice Meynell.

63. SPRING GOETH ALL IN WHITE

 
  Spring goeth all in white,
  Crowned with milk-white may:
  In fleecy flocks of light
  O'er heaven the white clouds stray:
 
 
  White butterflies in the air;
  White daisies prank the ground:
  The cherry and hoary pear
  Scatter their snow around.
 

Robert Bridges.

64. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY

 
  To-day, all day, I rode upon the down,
  With hounds and horsemen, a brave company.
  On this side in its glory lay the sea,
  On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.
  The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,
  And still we galloped on from gorse to gorse.
  And once, when checked, a thrush sang, and my horse
  Pricked his quick ears as to a sound unknown.
  I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even
  Better than all by this, that through my chase
  In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven
  I seemed to see and follow still your face.
  Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,
  My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.
 

Wilfrid Blunt.

65. A DAY IN SUSSEX

 
  The dove did lend me wings. I fled away
  From the loud world which long had troubled me.
  Oh lightly did I flee when hoyden May
  Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn-tree.
  I left the dusty high-road, and my way
  Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair.
  A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay
  From every hedge and every thicket there.
  Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the grass
  All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve.
  And hares unwitting close to me did pass,
  And still the birds sang, and I could not grieve.
  Oh what a blessed thing that evening was!
  Peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive
  A soul to joy or lull a heart to peace.
  It glimmers yet across whole years like these.
 

Wilfrid Blunt.

66. ODE IN MAY

 
  Let me go forth, and share
    The overflowing Sun
    With one wise friend, or one
  Better than wise, being fair,
  Where the pewit wheels and dips
    On heights of bracken and ling,
  And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,
    Tingles with the Spring.
 
 
  What is so sweet and dear
    As a prosperous morn in May,
    The confident prime of the day,
  And the dauntless youth of the year,
  When nothing that asks for bliss,
    Asking aright, is denied,
  And half of the world a bridegroom is,
    And half of the world a bride?
 
 
  The Song of Mingling flows,
    Grave, ceremonial, pure,
    As once, from lips that endure,
  The cosmic descant rose,
  When the temporal lord of life,
    Going his golden way,
  Had taken a wondrous maid to wife
    That long had said him nay.
 
 
  For of old the Sun, our sire,
    Came wooing the mother of men,
    Earth, that was virginal then,
  Vestal fire to his fire.
  Silent her bosom and coy,
    But the strong god sued and pressed;
  And born of their starry nuptial joy
    Are all that drink of her breast.
 
 
  And the triumph of him that begot,
    And the travail of her that bore,
    Behold they are evermore
  As warp and weft in our lot.
  We are children of splendour and flame,
    Of shuddering, also, and tears.
  Magnificent out of the dust we came,
    And abject from the Spheres.
 
 
  O bright irresistible lord!
    We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one,
    And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,
  Whence first was the seed outpoured.
  To thee as our Father we bow,
    Forbidden thy Father to see,
  Who is older and greater than thou, as thou
    Art greater and older than we.
 
 
  Thou art but as a word of his speech,
    Thou art but as a wave of his hand;
    Thou art brief as a glitter of sand
  'Twixt tide and tide on his beach;
  Thou art less than a spark of his fire,
    Or a moment's mood of his soul:
  Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir
    That chant the chant of the Whole.
 

William Watson.

67. THE SCARECROW

 
  All winter through I bow my head
    Beneath the driving rain;
  The North wind powders me with snow
    And blows me black again;
  At midnight 'neath a maze of stars
    I flame with glittering rime,
  And stand, above the stubble, stiff
    As mail at morning-prime.
  But when that child, called Spring, and all
    His host of children, come,
  Scattering their buds and dew upon
    These acres of my home,
  Some rapture in my rags awakes;
    I lift void eyes and scan
  The skies for crows, those ravening foes,
    Of my strange master, Man.
  I watch him striding lank behind
    His clashing team, and know
  Soon will the wheat swish body high
    Where once lay sterile snow;
  Soon shall I gaze across a sea
    Of sun-begotten grain,
  Which my unflinching watch hath sealed
    For harvest once again.
 

Walter de la Mare.

68. THE VAGABOND

 
  Give to me the life I love,
    Let the lave go by me,
  Give the jolly heaven above
    And the byway nigh me.
  Bed in the bush with stars to see,
    Bread I dip in the river—
  There's the life for a man like me,
    There's the life for ever.
 
 
  Let the blow fall soon or late,
    Let what will be o'er me;
  Give the face of earth around
    And the road before me.
  Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
    Nor a friend to know me;
  All I seek, the heaven above
    And the road below me.
 
 
  Or let autumn fall on me
    Where afield I linger,
  Silencing the bird on tree,
    Biting the blue finger.
  White as meal the frosty field—
    Warm the fireside haven—
  Not to autumn will I yield,
    Not to winter even!
 
 
  Let the blow fall soon or late,
    Let what will be o'er me;
  Give the face of earth around
    And the road before me.
  Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
    Nor a friend to know me;
  All I ask, the heaven above
    And the road below me.
 

Robert Louis Stevenson.

69. TEWKESBURY ROAD

 
  It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where,
    Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why;
  Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool
        rush of the air,
    Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.
 
 
  And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern
        at the brink
    Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves
        purple and white;
  Where, the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink
    When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.
 
 
  O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth,
    Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words;
  And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth
    At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry
        of the birds.
 

John Masefield.

70. TO A LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN

 
  O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
  Missing so much and so much?
  O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
  Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
  When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
    And shivering-sweet to the touch?
  O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
    Missing so much and so much?
 

Frances Cornford.

71. I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES

 
  I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
  Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
  I will make a palace fit for you and me
  Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
 
 
  I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
  Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
  And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
  In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
 
 
  And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
  The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
  That only I remember, that only you admire,
  Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.
 

Robert Louis Stevenson.

72. JUGGLING JERRY

 
  Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes!
    By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage.
  It's nigh my last above the daisies:
    My next leaf 'll be man's blank page.
  Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying:
    Juggler, constable, king, must bow.
  One that outjuggles all 's been spying
    Long to have me, and he has me now.
 
 
  We've travelled times to this old common:
    Often we've hung our pots in the gorse.
  We've had a stirring life, old woman!
    You, and I, and the old grey horse,
  Races, and fairs, and royal occasions,
    Found us coming to their call:
  Now they'll miss us at our stations:
    There's a Juggler outjuggles all!
 
 
  Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!
    Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.
  Easy to think that grieving's folly,
    When the hand's firm as driven stakes!
  Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful,
    Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch
  Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful;
    Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.
 
 
  Here's where the lads of the village cricket:
    I was a lad not wide from here:
  Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket?
    Like an old world those days appear!
  Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house—I know them!
    They are old friends of my halts, and seem,
  Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them:
    Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.
 
 
  Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual:
    Nature allows us to bait for the fool.
  Holding one's own makes us juggle no little;
    But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule.
  You that are sneering at my profession,
    Haven't you juggled a vast amount?
  There's the Prime Minister, in one Session,
    Juggles more games than my sins'll count.
 
 
  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.
  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!
 
 
  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.
  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.