Poems of To-Day: an Anthology

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,
 
 
  "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,
  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.

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

Robert Louis Stevenson.

136. 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,
  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.

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.
 
 
  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.
 
 
      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.
 
 
      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.
 
 
  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
        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.
 
 
  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.

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.
 
 
  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!
 
 
  "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.

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