Poems of To-Day: an Anthology

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;
 
 
  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.

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.

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,
  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!"
 
 
  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.
 
 
  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?"
  "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.

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,
  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,
  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,
  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,
  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.
  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.

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
  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
  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,
  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.
  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.

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.

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.
 
 
  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.