MANY VOICES
Many Voices
To my dear Daughter in law and Daughter in love,
GERTRUDE BLAND I, E. Nesbit, dedicate this book
CONTENTS
|
PAGE |
THE RETURN |
9
|
FOR DOLLY |
12
|
QUESTIONS |
13
|
THE DAISIES |
14
|
THE TOUCHSTONE |
16
|
THE DECEMBER ROSE |
17
|
THE FIRE |
18
|
SONG |
21
|
A PARTING |
22
|
THE GIFT OF LIFE |
23
|
INCOMPATIBILITIES |
24
|
THE STOLEN GOD |
25
|
WINTER |
28
|
SEA-SHELLS |
29
|
HOPE |
30
|
THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN |
31
|
THE SKYLARK |
32
|
SATURDAY SONG |
33
|
THE CHAMPION |
35
|
THE GARDEN REFUSED |
37
|
THESE LITTLE ONES |
38
|
THE DESPOT |
39
|
THE MAGIC RING |
40
|
p. viPHILOSOPHY
|
41
|
THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME |
42
|
MAGIC |
43
|
WINDFLOWERS |
44
|
AS IT IS |
45
|
BEFORE WINTER |
46
|
THE VAULT |
47
|
SURRENDER |
49
|
VALUES |
50
|
IN THE PEOPLE'S PARK |
51
|
WEDDING DAY |
52
|
THE LAST DEFEAT |
53
|
MAY DAY |
54
|
GRETNA GREEN |
55
|
THE ETERNAL |
57
|
THE POINT OF VIEW: I |
58
|
THE POINT OF VIEW: II |
59
|
MARY OF MAGDALA |
60
|
THE HOME-COMING |
62
|
AGE TO YOUTH |
63
|
IN AGE |
64
|
WHITE MAGIC |
65
|
FROM THE PORTUGUESE. I. |
66
|
FROM THE PORTUGUESE. II. |
68
|
THE NEST |
70
|
THE OLD MAGIC |
71
|
FAITH |
72
|
THE DEATH OF AGNES |
73
|
IN TROUBLE |
74
|
GRATITUDE |
76
|
p. viiAT THE
LAST |
77
|
FEAR |
78
|
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT |
79
|
A FAREWELL |
80
|
IN HOSPITAL |
81
|
PRAYER IN TIME OF WAR |
82
|
AT PARTING |
83
|
INVOCATION |
84
|
TO HER: IN TIME OF WAR |
85
|
THE FIELDS OF FLANDERS |
86
|
SPRING IN WAR-TIME |
87
|
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER |
88
|
"INASMUCH AS YE DID IT NOT" |
91
|
p. 9THE RETURN
The grass was gray with the moonlit
dew, The stones were white as I came through; I came down the path by the
thirteen yews, Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews. And
when I came to the high lych-gate I waited awhile where the corpses wait;
Then I came down the road where the moonlight lay Like the fallen ghost of
the light of day.
The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight, The owls'
spread wings were quiet and white, The wind and the poplar gave sigh for
sigh, And all about were the rustling shy Little live creatures that love
the night- Little wild creatures timid and free. I passed, and they were
not afraid of me.
It was over the meadow and down the lane The way to come to
my house again: Through the wood where the lovers talk, And the ghosts,
they say, get leave to walk. I wore the clothes that we all must wear, And
no one saw me walking there, No one saw my pale feet pass By my garden
path to my garden grass. p.
10My garden was hung with the veil of spring- Plum-tree and pear-tree
blossoming; It lay in the moon's cold sheet of light In garlands and
silence, wondrous and white As a dead bride decked for her burying.
Then I saw the face of my house Held close in the arms of
the blossomed boughs: I leaned my face to the window bright To feel if the
heart of my house beat right. The firelight hung it with fitful gold; It
was warm as the house of the dead is cold. I saw the settles, the candles
tall, The black-faced presses against the wall, Polished beechwood and
shining brass, The gleam of china, the glitter of glass, All the little
things that were home to me- Everything as it used to be.
Then I said, "The fire of life still burns, And I have
returned whence none returns: I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,
I will warm my heart in the heart of it!" So I called aloud to the one
within: "Open, open, and let me in! Let me in to the fire and the
light- It is very cold out here in the night!" There was never a stir or
an answering breath- Only a silence as deep as death.
Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried. No one
heard me, and none replied. The golden silence lay warm and deep, And I
wept as the dead, forgotten, weep; And there was no one to hear or see- To
comfort me, to have pity on me.
p. 11But
deep in the silence something stirred- Something that had not seen or
heard- And two drew near to the window-pane, Kissed in the moonlight and
kissed again, And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spread Over
the garlanded garden bed; And-"How ghostly the moonlight is!" she said.
Back through the garden, the wood, the lane, I came to mine
own place again. I wore the garments we all must wear, And no one saw me
walking there. No one heard my thin feet pass Through the white of the
stones and the gray of the grass, Along the path where the moonlight hews
Slabs of shadow for thirteen yews.
In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deep It is good to
sleep: it was good to sleep: But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the
dew, And I cannot sleep as I used to do.
p. 12FOR DOLLY WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER LESSONS
You see the fairies dancing in the
fountain, Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray; You
see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain, Make gold and
silver and diamonds every day; You see the angels, sliding down the
moonbeams, Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair;
You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams, Rise from
the bonfire's blue and liquid air.
All the enchantment, all the magic there is
Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true. Dewdrops in lupin leaves
are jewels for the fairies; Every flower that blows is a miracle
for you. Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you.
Millions of magics beseech your little looks; Every soul your
winged soul meets, loves you and cares for you. Ah! why must we
clip those wings and dim those eyes with books?
Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer,
Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky, Dust of hard
highways will veil the starry glimmer, Tired hands will lay the
folded magic by. Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes,
Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong . . . Leave
her her crown of magic stars and roses, Leave her her
kingdom-she will not keep it long!
p. 13QUESTIONS
What do the roses do, mother,
Now that the summer's done? They lie in the bed that is hung
with red And dream about the sun.
What do the lilies do, mother, Now that
there's no more June? Each one lies down in her white nightgown
And dreams about the moon.
What can I dream of, mother, With the moon and
the sun away? Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn, And a
lily that lives a day!
p. 14THE DAISIES
In the great green park with the
wooden palings- The wooden palings so hard to climb, There are fern and
foxglove, primrose and violet, And green things growing all the time; And
out in the open the daisies grow, Pretty and proud in their proper
places, Millions of white-frilled daisy faces, Millions and millions-not
one or two. And they call to the bluebells down in the wood: "Are you
out-are you in? We have been so good All the school-time winter
through, But now it's playtime, The gay time, the May time; We are out
and at play. Where are you?"
In the gritty garden inside the railings, The spiky
railings all painted green, There are neat little beds of geraniums and
fuchsia With never a happy weed between. There's a neat little grass plot,
bald in places, And very dusty to touch; A respectable man comes once a
week To keep the garden weeded and swept, To keep it as we don't want it
kept. He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine, And we think he cuts it
too much. But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty, The daisies play
about. They are so brave as well as so pretty, You cannot keep them
out. p. 15I love them, I
want to let them grow, But that respectable man says no. He cuts off their
heads with his mowing-machine Like the French Revolution guillotine. He
sweeps up the poor little pretty faces, The dear little white-frilled daisy
faces; Says things must be kept in their proper places He has no frill
round his ugly face- I wish I could find his proper place!
p. 16THE TOUCHSTONE
There was a garden, very strange
and fair With all the roses summer never brings.
The snowy blossom of immortal Springs Lighted its boughs, and I, even I, was
there. There were new heavens, and the earth was new,
And still I told my heart the dream was true.
But when the sun stood still, and Time went out
Like a blown candle-when she came to me Under the
bride-veil of the blossomed tree, Chill through the garden blew the winds of
doubt, And when, with starry eyes, and lips too near,
She leaned to me, my heart knew what to fear.
"It is no dream," she said. "What dream had stayed
So long? It is the blessed isle that lies
Between the tides of twin eternities. It is our island; do not be
afraid!" Then, then at last my heart was well deceived;
I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed.
Her real presence sanctified my faith, Her
very voice my restless fears beguiled, And it was Life that
clasped me when she smiled, But when she said "I love you!" it was Death.
That, that at least could neither be nor seem- Oh,
then, indeed, I knew it was a dream!
p. 17THE DECEMBER
ROSE
Here's a rose that blows for
Chloe, Fair as ever a rose in June was, Now the garden's
silent, snowy, Where the burning summer noon was.
In your garden's summer glory One poor corner,
shelved and shady, Told no rosy, radiant story, Grew no rose
to grace its lady.
What shuts sun out shuts out snow too; From
his nook your secret lover Shows what slighted roses grow to
When the rose you chose is over.
p. 18THE FIRE
I was picking raspberries, my head
was in the canes, And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his
pains. Says he, "You take it easy! That ain't the way to do! I love
you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too. So won't you name the
day?" But I said, "That I will not." And I pushed him away, Out among
the raspberries all on a summer day. And I says, "You ask in winter, if your
love's so hot, For it's summer now, and sunny, and my hands is full," says
I, "With the fair by and by, And the village dance and all; And the
turkey poults is small, And so's the ducks and chicks, And the hay not yet
in ricks, And the flower-show'll be presently and hop-picking's to come,
And the fruiting and the harvest home, And my new white gown to make, and the
jam all to be done. Can't you leave a girl alone? Your love's too hot for
me! Can't you leave a girl be Till the evenings do draw in, Till the
leaves be getting thin, p.
19Till the fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea?
That's the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting me!"
. . . . .
And he took it as I said it, an' not as it was meant. And
he went.
. . . . .
The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the hops were dry
and brown, And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down,
And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit, And he'd never come
anigh again, and all my life was sick. And I was cold alone, with nought to
do but sit With my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick. For
father, he lay dead With the candles at his head, And his coffin was that
black I could see it through the wall; And I'd sent them all away, Though
they'd offered for to stay. I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it
all. Then I heard him. I'd a-known it for his footstep just as
plain If he'd brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen lane. And
I hadn't drawed the curtains, and I see him through the pane; And I jumped up
in my blacks and I threw the door back wide. Says I, "You come inside; For
it's cold outside for you, p.
20And it's cold here too; And I haven't no more pride- It's too
cold for that," I cried.
. . . . .
Then I saw in his face The fear of death, and desire.
And oh, I took and kissed him again and again, And I clipped him close and
all, In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place, With the coffin
lying black and full the other side the wall; And "You warm my heart,"
I told him, "if there's any fire in men!" And he got his two arms round me,
and I felt the fire then. And I warmed my heart at the fire.
p. 21SONG
Now the Spring is waking,
Very shy as yet, Busy mending, making Grass and
violet. Frowsy Winter's over: See the budding lane! Go and
meet your lover: Spring is here again!
Every day is longer Than the day before;
Lambs are whiter, stronger, Birds sing more and more; Woods
are less than shady, Griefs are more than vain- Go and kiss
your lady: Spring is here again!
p. 22A PARTING
So good-bye! This is where we end it, you and I.
Life's to live, you know, and death's to die;
So good-bye!
I was
yours For the love in life that loves while life endures, For the
earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures
I was yours.
You were
mine For the moment that a garland takes to twine, For the human hour that
sorcery shews divine You
were mine.
All is
over. You and I no more are love and lover; Nought's to seek now, gain,
attain, discover. All is
over.
p. 23THE GIFT OF LIFE
Life is a night all dark and
wild, Yet still stars shine: This moment is a star, my
child- Your star and mine.
Life is a desert dry and drear, Undewed,
unblest; This hour is an oasis, dear; Here let us rest.
Life is a sea of windy spray, Cold, fierce and
free: An isle enchanted is to-day For you and me.
Forget night, sea, and desert: take The gift
supreme, And, of life's brief relenting, make A deathless
dream.
p.
24INCOMPATIBILITIES
If you loved me I could trust you
to your fancy's furthest bound While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the
world went round, To the utmost of the meshes of the devil's strongest net .
. . If you loved me, if you loved me-but you do not love me yet!
I love you-and I cannot trust you further than the door!
But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me more And
more-until I trust you, dear, as women do trust men- I shall trust you, I
shall trust you, but I shall not love you then!
p. 25THE STOLEN GOD
LAZARUS TO DIVES
We do not clamour for
vengeance, We do not whine for fear; We have cried in the
outer darkness Where was no man to hear. We cried to man and
he heard not; Yet we thought God heard us pray; But our God,
who loved and was sorry- Our God is taken away.
Ours were the stream and the pasture, Forest
and fen were ours; Ours were the wild wood-creatures, The
wild sweet berries and flowers. You have taken our heirlooms from us,
And hardly you let us save Enough of our woods for a cradle,
Enough of our earth for a grave.
You took the wood and the cornland, Where
still we tilled and felled; You took the mine and quarry, And
all you took you held. The limbs of our weanling children You
crushed in your mills of power; And you made our bearing women toil
To the very bearing hour.
p. 26You
have taken our clean quick longings, Our joy in lover and
wife, Our hope of the sunset quiet At the evening end of
life; You have taken the land that bore us, Its soil and
stone and sod; You have taken our faith in each other- And
now you have taken our God.
When our God came down from Heaven He came
among men, a Man, Eating and drinking and working As common
people can; And the common people received Him While the rich
men turned away. But what have we to do with a God To whom
the rich men pray?
He hangs, a dead God, on your altars, Who
lived a Man among men, You have taken away our Lord And we
cannot find Him again. You have not left us a handful Of even
the earth He trod . . . You have made Him a rich man's idol
Who came as a poor man's God.
He promised the poor His heaven, He loved and
lived with the poor; He said that the rich man's shadow
Should never darken His door: But bishops and priests lie softly,
Drink full and are fully fed In the Name of the Lord, who had
not Where to lay His head.
p. 27This is
the God you have stolen, As you steal all else-in His name.
You have taken the ease and the honour, Left us the toil and the
shame. You have chosen the seat of Dives, We lie where
Lazarus lay; But, by God, we will not yield you our God, You
shall not take Him away.
All else we had you have taken; All else, but
not this, not this. The God of Heaven is ours, is ours, And
the poor are His, are His. Is He ours? Is He yours? Give
answer! For both He cannot be. And if He is ours-O you rich
men, Then whose, in God's name, are ye?
p. 28WINTER
Hold your hands to the blaze;
Winter is here With the short cold days, Bleak,
keen and drear. Was there ever a day With hawthorn along the way Where
you wandered in mild mid-May With your dear?
That was when you were young And the world was
gold; Now all the songs are sung, The tales all told. You
shiver now by the fire Where the last red sparks expire; Dead are delight
and desire: You are old.
p. 29SEA-SHELLS
I gathered shells upon the
sand, Each shell a little perfect thing, So frail, yet potent
to withstand The mountain-waves' wild buffeting. Through
storms no ship could dare to brave The little shells float lightly, save
All that they might have lost of fine Shape and soft colour crystalline.
Yet I amid the world's wild surge Doubt if my
soul can face the strife, The waves of circumstance that urge
That slight ship on the rocks of life. O soul, be brave, for He who saves
The frail shell in the giant waves, Will bring thy puny bark to land Safe
in the hollow of His hand.
p. 30HOPE
O thrush, is it true?
Your song tells Of a world born anew, Of fields gold with
buttercups, woodlands all blue With hyacinth bells; Of
primroses deep In the moss of the lane, Of a Princess
asleep And dear magic to do. Will the sun wake the princess? O
thrush, is it true? Will Spring come again?
Will Spring come again? Now at last With
soft shine and rain Will the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have
lain? Will Winter be past? In the brown of the copse
Will white wind-flowers star through Where the last oak-leaf
drops? Will the daisies come too, And the may and the
lilac? Will Spring come again? O thrush, is it true?
p. 31THE PRODIGAL'S
RETURN
I reach my hand to thee!
Stoop; take my hand in thine; Lead me where I would be,
Father divine. I do not even know The way I want to go,
The way that leads to rest: But, Thou who knowest me, Lead
where I cannot see, Thou knowest best.
Toys, worthless, yet desired, Drew me afar to
roam. Father, I am so tired; I am come home. The love I
held so cheap I see, so dear, so deep, So almost
understood. Life is so cold and wild, I am thy little child-
I will be good.
p. 32THE SKYLARK
". . . a dripping shower of notes from the softening blue. It is the
skylark come."-Robert à Field, in the New
Age.
"It is the skylark come." For
shame! Robert-à-Cockney is thy name: Robert-à-Field would surely know
That skylarks, bless them, never go!
. . . . .
Love of my life, bear witness here How we have heard them
all the year; How to the skylark's song are set The days we never can
forget. At Rustington, do you remember? We heard the skylarks in
December; In January above the snow They sang to us by Hurstmonceux
Once in the keenest airs of March We heard them near the Marble Arch;
Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air; May found them singing
everywhere; And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune Rhymed with the bean-flower
scent in June. One unforgotten day at Rye They sang a love-song in
July; In August, hard by Lewes town, They sang of joy 'twixt sky and
down; And in September's golden spell We heard them singing on Scaw
Fell. October's leaves were brown and sere, But skylarks sang by Teston
Weir; And in November, at Mount's Bay, They sang upon our wedding day!
. . . . .
Mr.-à-Field, go forth, go forth, Go east and west and south
and north; You'll always find the furze in flower, Find every hour the
lovers' hour, And, by my faith in love and rhyme, The skylark singing all
the time!
p. 33SATURDAY SONG
They talk about gardens of
roses, And moonlight over the sea, And mountains and snow
And sunsetty glow, But I know what is best for me. The
prettiest sight I know, Worth all your roses and snow, Is the
blaze of light on a Saturday night, When the barrows are set in
a row.
I've heard of bazaars in India All glitter and
spices and smells, But they don't compare With the naphtha flare
And the herrings the coster sells; And the oranges piled like
gold, The cucumbers lean and cold, And the red and white
block-trimmings And the strawberries fresh and ripe, And the
peas and beans, And the sprouts and greens, And the 'taters
and trotters and tripe.
And the shops where they sell the chairs, The
mangles and tables and bedding, And the lovers go by in pairs,
And look-and think of the wedding. And your girl has her arm in
yours, And you whisper and make her blush. Oh! the snap in
her eyes-and her smiles and her sighs As she fancies the purple
plush!
p. 34And you
haven't a penny to spend, But you dream that you've pounds and
pounds; And arm in arm with your only friend You make your
Saturday rounds: And you see the cradle bright With
ribbon-lace-pink and white; And she stops her laugh And you drop your
chaff In the light of the Saturday night. And the world is
new For her and you- A little bit of all-right.
p. 35THE CHAMPION
Young and a conqueror, once on a
day, Wild white Winter rode out this way; With his sword of ice and his
banner of snow Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong; Now he is old, he
has reigned too long. He shall be routed, he shall be slain; Summer shall
come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake Little armies in field and
brake: "Cruel and cold has King Winter been; Fight for the Summer, fight
for the Queen!"
First the aconite dots the mould With little round
cannon-balls of gold; Then, to help in the winter's rout, Regiments of
crocuses march out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine; See the shield of
the celandine, And daffodil lances green and keen, To fight for the
Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings Banners that mock at
defeated kings; And wherever the green of the new grass peers, See the
array of victorious spears.
p.
36Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound Over the garden's
battle-ground, And lovely ladies crowd out to see The long procession of
victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills, Courtly tulips and sweet
jonquils, Primrose and cowslip, friends well met With white wood-sorrel
and violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold; Thousands of
buttercups licked with gold; Budding hedges and woods and trees- Spring
brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride Over the happy
countryside; Deep in the woods the birds shall sing: "The King is
dead-long live the King!"
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight; He will ride
on through the meadows bright Till at Summer's feet he shall light him
down And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine Between the
may-trees' silver shine, And look in the eyes of the dying knight Who led
his army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say, "Oh, live, O
love! O my true love, stay!" While he smiles and sighs her arms
between And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.
p. 37THE GARDEN
REFUSED
There is a garden made for our
delight, Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true.
I know it, but I do not know the way. We slip
and tumble in the doubtful night, Where everything is difficult
and new, And clouds our breath has made
obscure the day.
The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive,
Still doing work that yet is never done;
The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate
voice; The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive, The
black injustice that puts out the sun: These
are our portion, since they are our choice.
Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose,
The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there;
There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet. O roses, that for us shall not
unclose! O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear!
O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet!
p. 38THESE LITTLE
ONES
"What of the garden I gave?"
God said to me; "Hast thou been diligent to foster and save
The life of flower and tree? How have the roses thriven, The
lilies I have given, The pretty scented miracles that Spring And Summer
come to bring?
"My garden is fair and dear," I said to
God; "From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.
Green-trimmed its sod. The rose is red and bright, The lily a live
delight; I have not lost a flower of all the flowers That blessed my
hours."
"What of the child I gave?" God said to
me; "The little, little one I died to save And gave in trust
to thee? How have the flowers grown That in its soul were sown, The
lovely living miracles of youth And hope and joy and truth?"
"The child's face is all white," I said to
God; "It cries for cold and hunger in the night: Its little
feet have trod The pavement muddy and cold. It has no flowers to hold,
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead." "Thou fool!" God said.
p. 39THE DESPOT
The garden mould was damp and
chill; Winter had had his brutal will Since over all the year's
content His devastating legions went.
The Spring's bright banners came: there woke Millions of
little growing folk Who thrilled to know the winter done, Gave thanks, and
strove towards the sun.
Not so the elect; reserved, and slow To trust a
stranger-sun and grow, They hesitated, cowered and hid, Waiting to see
what others did.
Yet even they, a little, grew, Put out prim leaves to day
and dew, And lifted level formal heads In their appointed garden beds.
The gardener came: he coldly loved The flowers that lived
as he approved, That duly, decorously grew As he, the despot, meant them
to.
He saw the wildlings flower more brave And bright than any
cultured slave; Yet, since he had not set them there, He hated them for
being fair.
So he uprooted, one by one, The free things that had loved
the sun, The happy, eager, fruitful seeds Who had not known that they were
weeds.
p. 40THE MAGIC RING
Your touch on my hand is fire,
Your lips on my lips are flowers. My darling, my one desire,
Dear crown of my days and hours. Dear crown of each hour and
day Since ever my life began. Ah! leave me-ah! go away-
We two are woman and man.
To lie in your arms and see The stars melt
into the sun; Till there is no you and me, Since you and I
are one. To loose my soul to your breath, To bare my heart to
your life- It is death, it is death, it is death! I am not
your wife.
The hours will come and will go, But never
again such an hour When the tides immortal flow And life is a
flood, a flower . . . Wait for the ring; it is strong, It has
a magic of might To make all that was splendid and wrong
Sordid and right.
p. 41PHILOSOPHY
The sulky sage scarce condescends
to see This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves; To him
'tis all illusion-only he Is real amid the visions he
perceives.
No sage am I, and yet, by Love's decree, To me
the world's a masque of shadows too, And I a shadow also-since to me
The only real thing in life is-you.
p. 42THE WHIRLIGIG OF
TIME
Before your feet, My love, my
sweet, Behold! your slave bows down; And in his hands From
other lands Brings you another crown.
For in far climes, In bygone times, Myself
was royal too: Oh, I have been A king, my queen, Who am a
slave for you!
p. 43MAGIC
What was the spell she wove for
me? Life was a common useful thing,
An eligible building site To hold a house to
shelter me. There were no woodlands whispering;
No unimagined dreams at night
About that house had folded wing, Disordering my life for me.
I was so safe until she came With starry
secrets in her eyes, And on her lips the word
of power. -Like to the moon of May she came, That makes men
mad who were born wise- Within her hand the
only flower Man ever plucked from Paradise; So to my
half-built house she came.
She turned my useful plot of land Into a
garden wild and fair, Where stars in garlands
hung like flowers: A moonlit, lonely, lovely land. Dim groves
and glimmering fountains there Embraced a
secret bower of bowers, And in its rose-ringed heart we were
Alone in that enchanted land.
What was the spell I wove for her, Her mad
dear magic to undo? The red rose dies, the
white rose dies, The garden spits me forth with her On the
old suburban road I knew. My house is gone,
and by my side A stranger stands with angry eyes And lips
that swear I ruined her.
p. 44WINDFLOWERS
When I was little and good I
walked in the dappled wood Where light white windflowers grew, And
hyacinths heavy and blue.
The windflowers fluttered light, Like butterflies white and
bright; The bluebells tremulous stood Deep in the heart of the wood.
I gathered the white and the blue, The wild wet woodland
through, With hands too silly and small To clasp and carry them all.
Some dropped from my hands and died By the home-road's
grassy side; And those that my fond hands pressed Died even before the
rest.
p. 45AS IT IS
Ifyou and I
Had wings to fly- Great wings like seagulls' wings-
How would we soar Above the roar Of loud
unneeded things!
We two would rise Through
changing skies To blue unclouded space, And undismayed
And unafraid Meet the sun face to face.
But wings we know not; The
feathers grow not To carry us so high; And low in the
gloom Of a little room We weep and say good-bye.
p. 46BEFORE WINTER
The wind is crying in the
night, Like a lost child; The waves break wonderful and
white And wild. The drenched sea-poppies swoon along
The drenched sea-wall, And there's an end of summer and of
song- An end of all.
The fingers of the tortured boughs Gripped by
the blast Clutch at the windows of your house Closed
fast. And the lost child of love, despair, Cries in the
night, Remembering how once those windows were Open and
bright.
p. 47THE VAULT AFTER SEDGMOOR
You need not call at the Inn;
I have ordered my bed: Fair linen sheets therein
And a tester of lead. No musty fusty scents Such as inn
chambers keep, But tapestried with content And hung with
sleep.
My Inn door bears no bar Set up against
fear. The guests have journeyed far, They are glad to be
here. Where the damp arch curves up grey, Long, long shall we
lie; Good King's men all are they, A King's man I.
Old Giles, in his stone asleep, Fought at
Poictiers. Piers Ralph and Roger keep The spoil of their
fighting years. I shall lie with my folk at last In a quiet
bed; I shall dream of the sword held fast In a round-capped
head.
p. 48Good
tale of men all told My Inn affords; And their hands peace
shall hold That once held swords. And we who rode and ran
On many a loyal quest Shall find the goal of man-
A bed, and rest.
We shall not stand to the toast Of Love or
King; We be all too tired to boast About anything. We be
dumb that did jest and sing; We rest who laboured and warred . .
. Shout once, shout once for the King. Shout once for the
sword!
p. 49SURRENDER
Oh, the nights were dark and
cold, When my love was gone. And life was hard to hold
When my love was gone. I was wise, I never gave What they
teach a girl to save, But I wished myself his slave When my
love was gone.
I was all alone at night When my love came
home. Oh, what thought of wrong or right When my love came
home? I flung the door back wide And I pulled my love inside; There was
no more shame or pride When my love came home.
p. 50VALUES
Did you deceive me? Did I
trust A heart of fire to a heart of dust? What matter? Since once
the world was fair, And you gave me the rose of the world to wear.
That was the time to live for! Flowers, Sunshine and
starshine and magic hours, Summer about me, Heaven above, And all seemed
immortal, even Love.
Well, the mortal rose of your love was worth The pains of
death and the pains of birth; And the thorns may be sharper than death-who
knows?- That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose.
p. 51IN THE PEOPLE'S
PARK
Many's the time I've found your
face Fresh as a bunch of flowers in May, Waiting for me at
our own old place At the end of the working day. Many's the
time I've held your hand On the shady seat in the People's
Park, And blessed the blaring row of the band And kissed you
there in the dark.
Many's the time you promised true, Swore it
with kisses, swore it with tears: "I'll marry no one without it's you-
If we have to wait for years." And now it's another chap in the
Park That holds your hand like I used to do; And I kiss
another girl in the dark, And try to fancy it's you!
p. 52WEDDING DAY
The enchanted hour, The magic
bower, Where, crowned with roses, Love love discloses.
"Kiss me, my lover; Doubting is over, Over is
waiting; Love lights our mating!"
"But roses wither, Chill winds blow hither, One thing
all say, dear, Love lives a day, dear!"
"Heed those old stories? New glowing glories Blot out
those lies, love! Look in my eyes, love!
"Ah, but the world knows- Naught of the true rose; Back
the world slips, love! Give me your lips, love!
"Even were their lies true, Yet were you wise to Swear,
at Love's portal, The god's immortal."
p. 53THE LAST DEFEAT
Across the field of day In
sudden blazon lay The pallid bar of gold Borne on the shield of day.
Night had endured so long, And now the Day grew strong With lance of light
to hold The Night at bay.
So on my life's dull night The splendour of your light
Traversed the dusky shield And shone forth golden bright. Your colours I
have worn Through all the fight forlorn, And these, with life, I
yield, To-night, to Night.
p. 54MAY DAY
"Will you go a-maying, a-maying,
a-maying, Come and be my Queen of May and pluck the may with
me? The fields are full of daisy buds and new lambs playing,
The bird is on the nest, dear, the blossom's on the tree."
"If I go with you, if I go a-maying, To be
your Queen and wear my crown this May-day bright, Hand in hand straying, it
must be only playing, And playtime ends at sunset, and then
good-night.
"For I have heard of maidens who laughed and went
a-maying, Went out queens and lost their crowns and came back
slaves. I will be no young man's slave, submitting and obeying,
Bearing chains as those did, even to their graves."
"If you come a-maying, a-straying, a-playing,
We will pluck the little flowers, enough for you and me; And when the day
dies, end our one day's playing, Give a kiss and take a kiss and
go home free."
p. 55GRETNA GREEN
Last night when I kissed you,
My soul caught alight; And oh! how I missed you
The rest of the night- Till Love in derision Smote sleep with
his wings, And gave me in vision Impossible things.
A night that was clouded, Long windows
asleep; Dark avenues crowded With secrets to keep. A
terrace, a lover, A foot on the stair; The waiting was
over, The lady was there.
What a flight, what a night! The hoofs
splashed and pounded. Dark fainted in light And the first
bird-notes sounded. You slept on my shoulder, Shy night hid
your face; But dawn, bolder, colder, Beheld our embrace.
p. 56Your
lips of vermilion, Your ravishing shape, The flogging
postillion, The village agape, The rattle and thunder
Of postchaise a-speed . . . My woman, my wonder,
My ultimate need!
We two matched for mating Came, handclasped,
at last, Where the blacksmith was waiting To fetter us fast .
. . At the touch of the fetter The dream snapped and
fell- And I woke to your letter That bade me farewell.
p. 57THE ETERNAL
Your dear desired grace,
Your hands, your lips of red, The wonder of your perfect
face Will fade, like sweet rose-petals shed,
When you are dead.
Your beautiful hair Dust in the dust will
lie- But not the light I worship there, The gold the sunshine
crowns you by- This will not
die.
Your beautiful eyes Will be closed up with
clay; But all the magic they comprise, The hopes, the dreams,
the ecstasies Pass not
away.
All I desire and see Will be a carrion
thing; But all that you have been to me Is, and can never cease to be.
O Grave! where is thy victory? Where, Death, thy sting?
p. 58THE POINT OF VIEW:
I.
I
There was never winter, summer
only: roses, Pink and white and red, Shining down the warm
rich garden closes; Quiet trees and lawns of
dappled shadow, Silver lilies, whisper of mignonette,
Cloth-of-gold of buttercups outspread; Good gold sun that kissed me when we
met, Shadows of floating clouds on sunny
meadow. In the hay-field, scented, grey, Loving life and love, I lay;
By fresh airs blown, drifted into sleep; Slept and dreamed there.
Winter was the dream.
II
Summer never was, was always winter only; Cold
and ice and frost Only, driven by the ice-wind, lonely,
In a world of strangers, in the welter Of the
puddles and the spiteful wind and sleet, Blinded by the spitting
hailstones, lost In a bitter unfamiliar street,
I found a doorway, crouched there for just
shelter, Crouched and fought in vain for breath, Cursed the cold and
wished for death; Crouched there, gathered somehow warmth to sleep; Slept
and dreamed there. Summer was the dream.
p. 59THE POINT OF VIEW:
II.
I
In the wood of lost causes, the
valley of tears, Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the
difficult way; Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:
"It is night, it is night, it has never been day; Thou hast
dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight; It was always dead leaves and the
heart of the night. Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,
For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands."
II
Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie
In the arms of despair that is masked as delight, You thrill to
the rush of white wings, and you hear: "It is day, it is day, it
has never been night! Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost
leaves; It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves, Unlock the
blind lids, and behold the light-bearer Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun
in his hands."
p. 60MARY OF MAGDALA
Mary of Magdala came to bed;
There were no soft curtains round her head; She had no mother to hold of
worth The little baby she brought to birth.
Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed: "O God, I am very much
afraid; For out of my body, by sin defiled, Thou biddest me make a little
child.
"O God, I have turned my face from Thee To that which the
angels may not see; How can I make, from my deep disgrace, A child whose
angel shall see Thy face?
"O God, I have sinned, and I know well That the pains I
bear are the pains of hell; But the thought of the child that sin has
given Is like the thought of the airs of Heaven."
Mary of Magdala held her breath In the clutch of pain like
the pains of Death, And through her heart, like the mortal knife, Went the
pang of joy and the pang of life.
"We two are two alone," said she, "And we are two who
should be three; Now who will clothe my baby fair In the little garments
that babies wear?"
p. 61There
came two angels with quiet wings And hands that were full of baby things;
And the new-born child was bathed and dressed And laid again on his mother's
breast.
"Now who will sign on his brow the mark To keep him safe
from the Powers of the Dark? Who will my baby's sponsor be?" "I, the Lord
God, who died for thee."
"Now who will comfort him if he cry; And who will suckle
him by and bye? For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry, And I think
that my time has come to die."
"I will dandle thy son as a mother may; And his lips shall
lie where my own Son's lay. Come, dear little one, come to me; The Mother
of God shall suckle thee."
Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed; "I never deserved a
child," she cried. "Dear God, I am ready to go to hell, Since with my
little one all is well."
Then the Son of Mary did o'er her lean. "Poor mother, thy
tears have washed thee clean. Thy last poor pains, they will soon be
done, And My Mother shall give thee back thy son."
Frozen grass for a bearing bed, A halo of frost round a
woman's head, And pious folks who looked and said: "A drab and her brat
that are better dead."
p. 62THE HOME-COMING
This was our house. To this
we came Lighted by love with torch aflame, And in this chamber, door
locked fast, I held you to my heart at last.
This was our house. In this we knew The worst that
Time and Fate can do. You left the room bare, wide the door; You did not
love me any more.
Where once the kind warm curtain hung The spider's ghostly
cloth is flung; The beetle and the woodlouse creep Where once I loved your
lovely sleep.
Yet so the vanished spell endures, That this, our house,
still, still is yours. Here, spite of all these years apart, I still can
hold you to my heart!
p. 63AGE TO YOUTH
Sunrise is in your eyes, and in
your heart The hope and bright desire of morn and May. My
eyes are full of shadow, and my part Of life is yesterday.
Yet lend my hand your hand, and let us sit And
see your life unfolding like a scroll, Rich with illuminated blazon, fit
For your arm-bearing soul.
My soul bears arms too, but the scroll's rolled tight,
Yet the one strip of faded brightness shown Proclaims that when
'twas splendid in the light Its blazon matched your own.
p. 64IN AGE
The wine of life was rough and
new, But sweet beyond belief, And wrong was false, and right
was true- The rose was in the leaf.
In that good sunlight well we knew The hues of
wrong and right; We slept among the roses through The long
enchanted night.
Now to our eyes, made dim with years, Right
intertwines with wrong. How can we hear, with these tired ears,
The old, the magic song?
But this we know-wine once was red, Roses were
red and dear; Once in our ears the truths were said That now
the young men hear!
p. 65WHITE MAGIC
This is the room to which she
came, And Spring itself came with her; She stirred the fire
of life to flame, She called all music hither. Her glance
upon the lean white walls Hung them with cloth of splendour,
And still the rose she dropped recalls The graces that attend
her.
The same poor room, so dull and bare Before,
in consecration, She breathed upon its common air The true
transfiguration . . .? This room the same to which she came
For one immortal minute?- How can it ever be the same Since
she has once been in it!
p. 66FROM THE
PORTUGUESE
I
When I lived in the village of
youth There were lilies in all the orchards, Flowers in the
orange-gardens For brides to wear in their hair. It was always sunshine
and summer, Roses at every lattice, Dreams in the eyes of maidens, Love
in the eyes of men.
When I lived in the village of youth The doors, all the
doors, stood open; We went in and out of them laughing, Laughing and
calling each other To shew each other our fairings, The new shawl, the new
comb, the new fan, The new rose, the new lover.
Now I live in the town of age Where are no orchards, no
gardens. Here, too, all the doors stand open, But no one goes in or goes
out. We sit alone by the hearthstone Where memories lie like ashes Upon
a hearth that is cold;
And they from the village of youth Run by our doorsteps
laughing, Calling, to shew each other The new shawl, the new comb, the new
fan, The new rose, the new lover.
p. 67Once we
had all these things- We kept them from the old people, And now the young
people have them And will not shew them to us- To us who are old and have
nothing But the white, still, heaped-up ashes On the hearth where the fire
went out A very long time ago.
p. 68II
I had a mistress; I loved her.
She left me with memories bitter, Corroding, eating my heart As the acid
eats into the steel Etching the portrait triumphant. Intolerable,
indelible, Never to be effaced.
A wife was mine to my heart, Beautiful flower of my
garden, Lily I worshipped by day, Scented rose of my nights. Now the
night wind sighing Blows white rose petals only Over the bed where she
sleeps Dreamless alone.
I had a son; I loved him. Mother of God, bear witness
How all my manhood loved him As thy womanhood loved thy Son! When he was
grown to his manhood He crucified my heart, And even as it hung
bleeding He laughed with his bold companions, Mocked and turned away
With laughter into the night.
Those three I loved and lost; But there was one who loved
me With all the fire of her heart. Mine was the sacred altar p. 69Where she burnt her life for my worship. She was
my slave, my servant; Mine all she had, all she was, All she could suffer,
could be. That was the love of my life, I did not say, "She loves me";
I was so used to her love I never asked its name, Till, feeling the wind
blow cold Where all the doors were left open, And seeing a fireless
hearth And the garden deserted and weed-grown That once was full of
flowers for me, I said, "What has changed? What is it That has made
all the clocks stop?" Thus I asked and they answered: "It is thy mother
who is dead."
And now I am alone. My son, too, some day will stand
Here, where I stand and weep. He too will weep, knowing too late The love
that wrapped round his life. Dear God spare him this: Let him never know
how I loved him, For he was always weak. He could not endure as I can.
Mother, my dear, ask God To grant me this, for my son!
p. 70THE NEST
That was the skylark we heard
Singing so high, The little quivering bird We
saw, and the sky. The earth was drenched with sun, The sky
was drenched with song; We lay in the grass and listened,
Long and long and long.
I said, "What a spell it is Has made her
rise To pour out her world of bliss In that world of
skies!" You said, "What a spell must pass Between sky and
plain, Since she finds in this world of grass Her nest
again!"
p. 71THE OLD MAGIC
Gray is the sea, and the skies are
gray; They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday; And gray are the
breasts of the gulls that scream Like tortured souls in an evil dream.
There is white on the wings of the sea and sky, And white
are the gulls' wings wheeling by, And white, like snow, is the pall that
lies Where love weeps over his memories.
For the dead is dead, and its shroud is wrought Of good
unfound and of wrong unsought; Yet from God's good magic there ever
springs The resurrection of holy things.
See-the gold and blue of our yesterday In the eyes and the
hair of a child at play; And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled Is
woven anew in the laugh of the child.
p. 72FAITH
A wall Gray and tall, And a
sky of gray, And a twilight cold; And that is all That my eyes
behold. But I know that unseen, Beyond the wall, On a lawn of green
White blossoms fall In the waning light; And beyond the lawn Curtains
are drawn From windows bright. And within she moves with her gracious
hands And the heart that loves and that understands, Waiting to succour
poor souls in need, And to bind with her blessing the hearts that bleed.
I know it all, though I cannot see; But the tired-out
tramp, Dirty and ill, In the evening's damp, In the Spring's clean
chill, Knows not that there Is the heart to care For such as I and for
such as he. He slouches along, and sees alone The gray of the sky and the
gray of the stone.
Lord, when my eyes see nothing but grey In all Thy world
that is now so green, I will bethink me of this spring day And the house
of welcome, known yet unseen; The wall that conceals And the faith that
reveals.
p. 73THE DEATH OF
AGNES
Now that the sunlight dies in my
eyes, And the moonlight grows in my hair, I who was never
very wise, Never was very fair, Virgin and martyr all my
life, What has life left to give Me-who was never mother nor
wife, Never got leave to live?
Nothing of life could I clasp or claim,
Nothing could steal or save. So when you come to carve my name,
Give me life in my grave. To keep me warm when I sleep alone
A lie is little to give; Call me "Magdalen" on my stone,
Though I died and did not live.
p. 74IN TROUBLE
It's all for nothing: I've lost him
now. I suppose it had to be; But oh, I never thought it of
him, Nor he never thought it of me. And all for a kiss on
your evening out, And a field where the grass was down . . .
And he 'as gone to God-knows-where, And I may go on the
town.
The worst of all was the thing he said The
night that he went away; He said he'd 'a married me right enough
If I hadn't 'a been so gay. Me-gay! When I'd cried, and
I'd asked him not, But he said he loved me so; An' whatever
he wanted seemed right to me . . . An' how was a girl to
know?
Well, the river is deep, and drowned folk sleep sound,
An' it might be the best to do; But when he made me a
light-o'-love He made me a mother too. I've had enough sin to
last my time, If 'twas sin as I got it by, But it ain't no
sin to stand by his kid And work for it till I die.
p. 75But oh!
the long days and the death-long nights When I feel it move and
turn, And cry alone in my single bed And count what a girl
can earn To buy the baby the bits of things He ought
to ha' bought, by rights; And wonder whether he thinks of Us . . .
And if he sleeps sound o' nights.
p. 76GRATITUDE
I found a starving cat in the
street: It cried for food and a place by the fire. I carried
it home, and I strove to meet The claims of its desire.
And since its desire was a little fish, A
little hay and a little milk, I gave it cream in a silver dish
And a basket lined with silk.
And when we came to the grateful pause When it
should have fawned on the hand that fed, It turned to a devil all teeth and
claws, Scratched me and bit me and fled.
To pay for the fish and the milk and the hay
With a purr had been an easy task: But its hate and my blood were required to
pay For the gifts that it did not ask.
p. 77AT THE LAST
Where are you-you whose loving
breath Alone can stay my soul from death? The world's so wide, I seek it
through, Yet-dare I dream to win to you? Perhaps your dear desirèd
feet Pass me in this grey muddy street. Your face, it may be, has its
shrine In that dull house that's next to mine. But I believe, O Life, O
Fate, That when I call on Death and wait One moment at the unclosing
gate I shall turn back for one last gaze Along the trampled, sordid
ways, And in the sunset see at last, Just as the barred gate holds me
fast, Your face, your face, too late.
p. 78FEAR
If you were here, Hopes, dreams,
ambitions, faith would disappear, Drowned in your eyes; and I should touch
your hand, Forgetting all that now I understand. For you confuse my life
with memories Of unrememberable ecstasies Which were, and are not, and can
never be; . . . Ah! keep the whole earth between you and me.
p. 79THE DAY OF
JUDGMENT
When the bearing and doing are
over, And no more is to do or bear, God will see us and judge
us The kind of men we were; And our sins, so ugly and
heavy, We shall drag them into His sight, And throw them down
at the foot of the throne, Foul on the steps of light.
We shall not be shamed or frightened, Though
the angels are all at hand, For He will look at our burden,
And He will understand. He will turn to the little angels,
Agog to hear and obey, And point to the festering sin-loads
With, "Take that rubbish away!"
Then the steps will be cleared of the burdens
That we threw down at His feet; And we shall be washed in the tears of
Christ, And our tears bathe His feet. And the harvest of all
our sinning That moment's shame will reap- When we look in
the eyes that love us And know we have made them weep.
p. 80A FAREWELL
Good-bye,
good-bye; it is not hard to part! You have my heart-the heart that leaps to
hear Your name called by an echo in a
dream; You have my soul that, like an
untroubled stream, Reflects your soul that leans so dear, so near-
Your heartbeats set the rhythm for my heart.
What more could Life give if we gave her
leave To give, and Life should give us leave to take?
Only each other's arms, each other's eyes,
Each other's lips, the clinging secrecies That
are but as the written words to make Records of what the heart
and soul achieve.
This, only this we yield, my love, my
friend, To Fate's implacable eyes and withering breath.
We still are yours and mine, though, by Time's
theft, My arms are empty and your arms
bereft. It is not hard to part-not harder than Death; And
each of us must face Death in the end!
p. 81IN HOSPITAL
Under the shadow of a hawthorn
brake, Where bluebells draw the sky down to the wood, Where,
'mid brown leaves, the primroses awake And hidden violets smell
of solitude; Beneath green leaves bright-fluttered by the wing Of
fleeting, beautiful, immortal Spring, I should have said, "I love you," and
your eyes Have said, "I, too . . . " The gods saw otherwise.
For this is winter, and the London streets Are
full of soldiers from that far, fierce fray Where life knows death, and where
poor glory meets Full-face with shame, and weeps and turns
away. And in the broken, trampled foreign wood Is horror, and the terrible
scent of blood, And love shines tremulous, like a drowning star, Under the
shadow of the wings of war.
1916.
p. 82PRAYER IN TIME OF
WAR
Now Death is near, and very
near, In this wild whirl of horror and fear, When round the vessel of our
State Roll the great mountain waves of hate. God! We have but one
prayer to-day- O Father, teach us how to pray.
For prayer is strong, and very strong; But we have turned
from Thee so long To follow gods that have no power Save in the safe and
sordid hour, That to Thy feet we have lost the way . . . O Father, teach
us how to pray.
We have done ill, and very ill, Set up our will against Thy
will. That our soft lives might gorge, full-fed, We stole our brothers'
daily bread. Lord, we are sorry we went astray- O Father, teach us how to
pray.
Now in this hour of desperate strife For England's life,
her very life, Teach us to pray that life may be A new life, beautiful to
Thee, And in Thy hands that life to lay. O Father, teach us how to
pray.
1915.
p. 83AT PARTING
Go, since you must, but, Dearest,
know That, Honour having bid you go, Your honour, if your life be
spent, Shall have a costly monument.
This heart, that fire and roses is Beneath the magic of
your kiss, Shall turn to marble if you die And be your deathless
effigy.
1914.
p. 84INVOCATION
The Spirit of Darkness, the Prince
of the Power of the Air, The terror that walketh by night, and
the horror by day, The legions of Evil, alert and awake and aware,
Press round him each hour; and I pray here alone, far away.
God! call up Thy legions to fight on the side of my love,
Let the seats of the mighty be cast down before him, O Lord,
Send strong wings of angels to shield him beneath and above, Let
glorious Michael unsheath his implacable sword.
Let the whole host of Heaven take part with my dear in his
fight, That the armies of Hell may be scattered like chaff in
the blast, And the trumpets of Heaven blow fair for the triumph of Right.
Inspire him, protect him, and bring him home victor at last.
But if-ah, dear God, give me strength to withhold nothing
now!- If the life of my life be required for Thy splendid
design, Give his country the laurels, though cold and uncrowned be his brow
. . . Thou gavest Thy Son for the world, and shallI not
give mine?
1914.
p. 85TO HER: IN TIME OF
WAR
Once I made for you songs,
Rondels, triolets, sonnets; Verse that my love deemed due, Verse that your
love found fair. Now the wide wings of war Hang, like a hawk's, over
England, Shadowing meadows and groves; And the birds and the lovers are
mute.
Yet there's a thing to say Before I go into battle, Not
now a poet's word But a man's word to his mate: Dear, if I come back
never, Be it your pride that we gave The hope of our hearts, each
other, For the sake of the Hope of the World.
1915.
p. 86THE FIELDS OF
FLANDERS
Last year the fields were all glad
and gay With silver daisies and silver may; There were kingcups gold by
the river's edge And primrose stars under every hedge.
This year the fields are trampled and brown, The hedges are
broken and beaten down, And where the primroses used to grow Are little
black crosses set in a row.
And the flower of hopes, and the flowers of dreams, The
noble, fruitful, beautiful schemes, The tree of life with its fruit and
bud, Are trampled down in the mud and the blood.
The changing seasons will bring again The magic of Spring
to our wood and plain: Though the Spring be so green as never was seen The
crosses will still be black in the green.
The God of battles shall judge the foe Who trampled our
country and laid her low . . . God! hold our hands on the reckoning day,
Lest all we owe them we should repay.
1915.
p. 87SPRING IN
WAR-TIME
Now the sprinkled blackthorn
snow Lies along the lovers' lane Where last year we used to
go- Where we shall not go again.
In the hedge the buds are new, By our wood the
violets peer- Just like last year's violets, too, But they
have no scent this year.
Every bird has heart to sing Of its nest,
warmed by its breast; We had heart to sing last spring, But
we never built our nest.
Presently red roses blown Will make all the
garden gay . . . Not yet have the daisies grown On your
clay.
1916.
p. 88THE MOTHER'S
PRAYER
This was my little son
Who leapt and laughed on my knee: Body we made with love,
Soul made with love by Thee. This was the mystery
In which I worshipped Thy grace; This was the sign to me-
The unveiling of Thy face . . . This, that lies under Thy
skies Naked as on that day When the floor of
heaven gave way And the glory of God shone through,
When the world was made new And Thy word was made flesh for me .
. . He lies there, bare to Thy skies,
O Lord God, see!
Body that was in mine A secret, sacred
spell, Little hands I have kissed Trampled by beasts in Hell
. . . Growing beauty and grace . . . Oh, head that lay on my
bosom . . . Broken, battered, shattered . . . Body that grew
like a blossom! All that was promised me On my life's royal
day. Every promise broken- Only a ghost, and clay!
p. 89O God,
I kneel at Thy feet; I lay my hands in Thine: Thou gavest Thy
Son for the world, And shall I not give mine? Only-O
God, have pity! All my defences are down: God, I accept the
Cross, Let him have the Crown!
By all that my love has borne, By all that all
mothers bear, By the infinite patient anguish, By the
never-ceasing prayer, By the thoughts that cut like a living knife,
By the tears that are never dry, Take what he died to win
You- God, take Your victory!
We have watched on till the light burned low,
And watched the dawn awake; We have lived hardly and hardly fared
For our sons' sake. All that was good in Thy earth,
All that taught us of Heaven, All that we had in the world
We have given. We pray with empty hands And
hearts that are stiff with pain. O God! O God! O God!
Let the sacrifice not be vain. This is his blood, Lord, see!
His blood that was shed for Thee; Thy banner is dyed in that red tide
Lord, take Thy victory!
p. 90God!
give Thine angels power To fight as he fought, To scatter the
hosts of evil, To bring their boastings to naught- Gabriel
with trumpet of battle . . . Michael, who wields Thy sword . .
. Breathe Thou Thy spirit upon them, Put forth Thy strength,
O Lord. See, Lord, this is his body, Broken for Thee, for
Thee . . . My son, my little son, Who leapt and laughed on my
knee.
p. 91"INASMUCH AS YE DID
IT NOT . . . "
If Jesus came to London,
Came to London to-day, He would not go to the West End,
He would come down our way; He'd talk with the children
dancing To the organ out in the street, And say he was their
big Brother, And give them something to eat.
He wouldn't go to the mansions Where the
charitable live; He'd come to the tenement houses Where we
ain't got nothing to give. He'd come so kind and so homely,
And treat us to beer and bread, And tell us how we ought to behave;
And we'd try to mind what He said.
In the warm bright West End churches They sing
and preach and pray, They call us "Beloved brethren," But
they do not act that way. And when He came to the church door
He'd call out loud and free, "You stop that preaching and praying
And show what you've done for Me."
p. 92Then
they'd say, "O Lord, we have given To the poor both blankets and
tracts, And we've tried to make them sober, And we've tried
to teach them facts. But they will sneak round to the drink-shop,
And pawn the blankets for beer, And we find them very
ungrateful, But still we persevere."
Then He would say, "I told you The time I was
here before, That you were all of you brothers, All you that
I suffered for. I won't go into your churches, I'll stop in
the sun outside. You bring out the men your brothers, The men
for whom I died!"
Out of our beastly lodgings, From arches and
doorways about, They'd have to do as He told them, They'd
have to call us out. Millions and millions and millions,
Thick and crawling like flies, We should creep out to the sunshine
And not be afraid of His eyes.
He'd see what God's image looks like When men
have dealt with the same, Wrinkled with work that is never done,
Swollen and dirty with shame. He'd see on the children's
forehead The branded gutter-sign That marks the girls to be
harlots, That dooms the boys to be swine.
p. 93Then
He'd say, "What's the good of churches When these have nowhere
to sleep? And how can I hear you praying When they are
cursing so deep? I gave My Blood and My Body That they might
have bread and wine, And you have taken your share and theirs
Of these good gifts of mine!"
Then some of the rich would be sorry, And all
would be very scared, And they'd say, "But we never knew, Lord!"
And He'd say, "You never cared!" And some would be sick and
shameful Because they'd know that they knew, And the best
would say, "We were wrong, Lord. Now tell us what to do!"
I think He'd be sitting, likely, For someone
'ud bring Him a chair, With a common kid cuddled up on His knee
And the common sun on His hair; And they'd be standing before
Him, And He'd say, "You know that you knew. Why haven't you
worked for your brothers The same as I worked for you?
"For since you're all of you brothers It's
clear as God's blessed sun That each must work for the others,
Not thousands work for one. And the ones that have lived
bone-idle If they want Me to hear them pray, Let them go and
work for their livings The only honest way!
p. 94"I've
got nothing new to tell you, You know what I always said- But
you've built their bones into churches And stolen their wine and
bread; You with My Name on your foreheads, Liar, and traitor,
and knave, You have lived by the death of your brothers,
These whom I died to save!"
I wish He would come and say it; Perhaps
they'd believe it then, And work like men for their livings
And let us work like men. Brothers? They don't believe it,
The lie on their lips is red. They'll never believe till He
comes again, Or till we rise from the dead!
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