Part 2

"For if you choose the mountain streams And barley-bread to eat, Your heart will be free as the birds in the tree, But the stones will cut your feet.

"The mud will spoil your silken gown, And stain your insteps high; The dogs in the farm will wish you harm And bark as you go by.

"And though your heart grow deep and gay, And your heart grow wise and rich, The cold will make your bones to ache And you will die in a ditch."

"O gentle, gentle gipsies, That roam the wide world through, Although I praise your wandering ways, I dare not come with you."

I hung about their fingers brown My ruby rings and chain, And with my head as heavy as lead, I turned me back again.

As I went up the palace steps, I heard the gipsies laugh; The birds of Spring so sweet did sing; My heart it broke in half.

THE DANDELION

The dandelion is brave and gay, And loves to grow beside the way; A braver thing was never seen To praise the grass for growing green; You never saw a gayer thing, To sit and smile and praise the Spring.

The children with their simple hearts, The lazy men that come in carts, The little dogs that lollop by, They all have seen its shining eye: And every one of them would say, They never saw a thing so gay.

SOCIAL INTERCOURSE

Like to islands in the seas, Stand our personalities-- Islands where we always face One another's watering-place. When we promenade our sands We can hear each other's bands, We can see on festal nights Red and green and purple lights, Gilt pavilions in a row, Stucco houses built for show.

But our eyes can never reach Further than the tawdry beach, Never can they hope to win To the wonders far within: Jagged rocks against the sky Where the eagles haunt and cry, Forests full of running rills, Darkest forests, sunny hills, Hollows where a dragon lowers, Sweet and unimagined flowers.

WALTER DE LA MARE

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?

ARABIA

Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple, Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars, Pale in the noonday skies.

Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians, In the brooding silence of night.

They haunt me--her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say-- "He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away."

NOD

Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep; And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no more pain, His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, "Rest, rest, and rest again."

JOHN GALSWORTHY

THE DOWNS.

Oh! the downs high to the cool sky; And the feel of the sun-warmed moss; And each cardoon, like a full moon, Fairy-spun of the thistle floss; And the beech grove, and a wood dove, And the trail where the shepherds pass; And the lark's song, and the wind-song, And the scent of the parching grass!

THE PRAYER.

If on a Spring night I went by And God were standing there, What is the prayer that I would cry To Him? This is the prayer: O Lord of Courage grave, O Master of this night of Spring! Make firm in me a heart too brave To ask Thee anything!

DEVON TO ME.

Where my fathers stood, watching the sea, Gale-spent herring boats hugging the lea; There my Mother lives, moorland and tree. Sight o' the blossoms! Devon to me!

Where my fathers walked, driving the plough; Whistled their hearts out--who whistles now?-- There my Mother burns fire faggots free. Scent o' the wood-smoke! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sat, passing their bowls; --They've no cider now, God rest their souls! There my Mother feeds red cattle three. Sup o' the cream-pan! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sleep, turning to dust, This old body throw when die I must! There my Mother calls, wakeful is she! Sound o' the West-wind! Devon to me!

Where my fathers lie, when I am gone, Who need pity me, dead? Never one! There my Mother clasps me. Let me be! Feel o' the red earth! Devon to me!

EVA GORE-BOOTH

MAEVE OF THE BATTLES

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill, And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed, And my soul is blown about by the wild wind of her will, For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace-- A dream of light on the mountains, and calm on the restless sea; A dream of the gentle days of the world when battle shall cease And the things that are in hatred and wrath no longer shall be. I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace.

The foamless waves are falling soft on the sands of Lissadil And the world is wrapped in quiet and a floating dream of grey; But the wild winds of the twilight blow straight from the haunted hill And the stars come out of the darkness and shine over Knocknarea-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve; No rest for the heart once caught in the net of her yellow hair-- No quiet for the fallen wind, no peace for the broken wave; Rising and falling, falling and rising with soft sounds everywhere, There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve.

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed; And my soul is blown about by the wild winds of her will, For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

RE-INCARNATION

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep Forlorn beyond receding rings of light, The torrents of the earth's desires sweep My soul through twilight downward into night.

Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades, Myself seems to myself a distant goal, I grope among the bodies' drowsy shades, Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.

Once more the Manifold in shadowy streams Of falling waters murmurs in my ears, The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreams That crowd the narrow pathway of the years.

I go to seek the starshine on the waves, To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill, I go to gather flowers that grow on graves, The worlds' wall closes round my prisoned will.

Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne, Because of primroses, time out of mind, The Lonely turns away from the Alone.

Who once has loved the cornfield's rustling sheaves, Who once has heard the gentle Irish rain Murmur low music in the growing leaves, Though he were god, comes back to earth again.

Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would break The tower of my soul's initiate pride For a grey field and a star-haunted lake, And those wet winds that roam the country side.

I who have seen am glad to close my eyes, I who have soared am weary of my wings, I seek no more the secret of the wise, Safe among shadowy, unreal human things.

Blind to the gleam of those wild violet rays That burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim, Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days, The sightless slave of Time's imperious whim;

Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divine That surge outside the closed gates of birth, The rhythms of eternity, too fine To touch with music the dull ears of earth--

I go to seek with humble care and toil The dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone, To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil, Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun.

Content in winter if the fire burns clear And cottage walls keep out the creeping damp, Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear, The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

LEONARDO DA VINCI

He in his deepest mind That inner harmony divined That lit the soul of John And in the glad eyes shone Of Dionysos, and dwelt Where Angel Gabriel knelt Under the dark cypress spires; And thrilled with flameless fires Of Secret Wisdom's rays The Giaconda's smiling gaze; Curving with delicate care The pearls in Beatrice d'Este's hair; Hiding behind the veil Of eyelids long and pale, In the strange gentle vision dim Of the unknown Christ who smiled on him. His was no vain dream Of the things that seem, Of date and name. He overcame The Outer False with the Inner True, And overthrew The empty show and thin deceits of sex, Pale nightmares of this barren world that vex The soul of man, shaken by every breeze Too faint to stir the silver olive trees Or lift the Dryad's smallest straying tress Frozen in her clear marble loveliness.

He, in curved lips and smiling eyes, Hid the last secret's faint surprise Of one who dies in fear and pain And lives and knows herself again. He, in his dreaming under the sun, Saw change and the unchanging One, And built in grottoes blue a shrine To hold Reality Divine.

JOHN GURDON

SURRENDER

Like the diamond spark of the morning star When night grows pale Love gleams in the depths of thine eyes afar Through the rifted veil Of thy cloudy dreams.

I saw in the glint of thy wavy hair His splendour shine A moment, and now thy cheeks declare The fire divine In their rosy streams.

It leaps from thy face to mine, and flushes From brow to chin. The hot blood sings in my ears and gushes With surge and spin Through my tingling veins.

I lift up my heart for thy fervent lips To kiss, my sweet. I would lift up my soul, but she swooning slips Down at thy feet, And the rainbow stains.

Brighten and cloud on her wings that close And open slow, As a butterfly's move, on the breast of a rose Rocked to and fro By a crooning wind.

O star! O blossom! I faint for bliss. I faint for thee; For the kiss on my closed eyes, thy kiss In ecstasy That leaves me blind.

Me has love molten for thee to mould. Ah, shape me fair As the crown of thy life, as a crown of gold In thy flame-like hair Worn for a sign!

Nay, rather my life be a wind-flower Slow kissed to death, Petal by petal, on lips that stir With love's own breath. Dear life, take mine!

BEFORE THE FATES

I cannot sing, So weary of life my heart is and so sore Afraid. What harp-playing Back from the land whose name is Never More My lost desire will bring?

* * * * *

These words she said Before the Pheidian Fates. "There comes an end Of love, and mine is fled: But, if you let me, I will be your friend, A better friend, instead."

Was it her own, The voice I heard, marmoreal, strange, remote, As though from yonder throne Clotho had spoken, and the headless throat Had uttered words of stone?

I sought her face; It was a mask inscrutable, a screen Baffling all hope to trace The woman whose passionate loveliness had been Mine for a little space.

Thereat I rose, Smiling, and said--"The dream is past and gone. Surely Love comes and goes Even as he will. And who shall thwart him? None. Only, while water flows

And night and day Chase one another round the rolling sphere, Henceforth our destined way Divides. Fare onward, then, and leave me, dear. There is no more to say."

* * * * *

Harsh songs and sweet Come to me still, but as a tale twice told. The throb, the quivering beat Harry my blood no longer as of old, Nor stir my wayworn feet.

Yet for a threne Once more I wear the purple robe and make Sad music and serene For pity's sake, ah me, and the old time's sake, And all that might have been.

For Love lies dead. Love, the immortal, the victorious, Is fallen and vanquished. What charm can raise, what incantation rouse That lowly, piteous head?

Why should I weep My triumph? 'Twas my life or his. Behold The wound, how wide and deep Which in my side the arrow tipped with gold Smote as I lay asleep!

Across thy way I came not, Love, nor ever sought thy face; But me, who dreaming lay Peaceful within my quiet lurking-place, Thy shaft was sped to slay.

When hadst thou ruth, That I should sorrow o'er thee and forgive? Why should I grieve, forsooth? Art thou not dead for ever, and I live? And yet--and yet, in truth

Almost I would That I had perished, and beside my bier Thou and thy mother stood, And from relenting eyes let fall a tear Upon me, and my blood

Changed to a flower Imperishable, a hyacinthine bloom, In memory of an hour Splendidly lived between Delight and Doom Once when I wandered from my ivory tower.

THOMAS HARDY

A TRAMPWOMAN'S TRAGEDY (182-)

I

From Wynyard's Gap the livelong day, The livelong day, We beat afoot the northward way We had travelled times before. The sun-blaze burning on our backs, Our shoulders sticking to our packs, By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks We skirted sad Sedge Moor.

II

Full twenty miles we jaunted on, We jaunted on-- My fancy-man, and jeering John, And Mother Lee, and I. And, as the sun drew down to west, We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest, And saw, of landskip sights the best, The inn that beamed thereby.

III

For months we had padded side by side, Ay, side by side Through the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide, And where the Parret ran. We'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge, Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge, Been stung by every Marshwood midge, I and my fancy man.

IV

Lone inns we loved, my man and I, My man and I; "King's Stag," "Windwhistle" high and dry, "The Horse" on Hintock Green, The cosy house at Wynyard's Gap, "The Hut" renowned on Bredy Knap, And many another wayside tap Where folk might sit unseen.

V

Now as we trudged--O deadly day, O deadly day!-- I teased my fancy-man in play And wanton idleness. I walked alongside jeering John, I laid his hand my waist upon; I would not bend my glances on My lover's dark distress.

VI

Thus Poldon top at last we won, At last we won, And gained the inn at sink of sun Far famed as "Marshall's Elm." Beneath us figured tor and lea, From Mendip to the western sea-- I doubt if finer sight there be Within this royal realm.

VII

Inside the settle all a-row-- All four a-row We sat, I next to John, to show That he had wooed and won. And then he took me on his knee, And swore it was his turn to be My favoured mate, and Mother Lee Passed to my former one.

VIII

Then in a voice I had never heard, I had never heard, My only Love to me: "One word, My lady, if you please! Whose is the child you are like to bear?-- _His?_ After all my months of care?" God knows 'twas not! But, O despair! I nodded--still to tease.

IX

Then up he sprung, and with his knife-- And with his knife He let out jeering Johnny's life, Yes; there, at set of sun. The slant ray through the window nigh Gilded John's blood and glazing eye, Ere scarcely Mother Lee and I Knew that the deed was done.

X

The taverns tell the gloomy tale, The gloomy tale, How that at Ivel-chester jail My Love, my sweetheart swung; Though stained till now by no misdeed Save one horse ta'en in time o' need; (Blue Jimmy stole right many a steed Ere his last fling he flung.)

XI

Thereaft I walked the world alone, Alone, alone! On his death-day I gave my groan And dropped his dead-born child. 'Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree, None tending me; for Mother Lee Had died at Glaston, leaving me Unfriended on the wild.

XII

And in the night as I lay weak, As I lay weak, The leaves a-falling on my cheek, The red moon low declined-- The ghost of him I'd die to kiss Rose up and said: "Ah, tell me this! Was the child mine, or was it his? Speak, that I rest may find!"

XIII

O doubt not but I told him then, I told him then, That I had kept me from all men Since we joined lips and swore. Whereat he smiled, and thinned away As the wind stirred to call up day ... --'Tis past! And here alone I stray Haunting the Western Moor.

1902.

CHORUS FROM "THE DYNASTS"

(Part III).

Last as first the question rings Of the Will's long travailings; Why the All-mover, Why the All-prover Ever urges on and measures out the droning tune of Things.

Heaving dumbly As we deem, Moulding numbly As in dream, Apprehending not how fare the sentient subjects of Its scheme.

Nay;--shall not Its blindness break? Yea, must not Its heart awake, Promptly tending To Its mending In a genial germing purpose, and for loving-kindness' sake?

Should It never Curb or cure Aught whatever Those endure Whom It quickens, let them darkle to extinction swift and sure.

But a stirring thrills the air, Like to sounds of joyance there That the rages Of the ages Shall be cancelled, and deliverance offered from the darts that were, Consciousness the Will informing, till It fashion all things fair!

1907.

THE BALLAD SINGER

Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune; Make me forget that there was ever a one I walked with in the meek light of the moon When the day's work was done.

Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song; Make me forget that she whom I loved well Swore she would love me dearly, love me long, Then--what I cannot tell!

Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book; Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears; Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look-- Make me forget her tears.

RALPH HODGSON

THE MOOR

The world's gone forward to its latest fair And dropt an old man done with by the way, To sit alone among the bats and stare At miles and miles and miles of moorland bare Lit only with last shreds of dying day.

Not all the world, not all the world's gone by; Old man, you're like to meet one traveller still, A journeyman well kenned for courtesy To all that walk at odds with life and limb; If this be he now riding up the hill Maybe he'll stop and take you up with him....

"But thou art Death?" "Of Heavenly Seraphim None else to seek thee out and bid thee come." "I only care that thou art come from Him, Unbody me--I'm tired--and get me home."

TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN

Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?

All things I'll give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may, Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein, Only a moment And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?

GHOUL CARE

Sour fiend, go home and tell the Pit: For once you met your master, A man who carried in his soul Three charms against disaster, The Devil and disaster.

Away, away, and tell the tale And start your whelps a-whining, Say "In the greenwood of his soul A lizard's eye was shining, A little eye kept shining."

Away, away, and salve your sores, And set your hags a-groaning, Say "In the greenwood of his soul A drowsy bee was droning, A dreamy bee was droning."

Prodigious Bat! Go start the walls Of Hell with horror ringing, Say "In the greenwood of his soul There was a goldfinch singing, A pretty goldfinch singing."

And then come back, come, if you please, A fiercer ghoul and ghaster, With all the glooms and smuts of Hell Behind you, I'm your master! You know I'm still your master.

W. G. HOLE

ROOSEVELT-VILLAGE STREET

Nought is there here the eye to strike-- Uncurved canals where barges ply; A hundred hamlets all alike;

Flat fields that cut an arc of sky With men and women o'er them bent Who needs must labour lest they die.

Would any say that lives so spent Might break, spurred on by love and pride, Their bars of animal content?

Nay, here live men unvexed, untried-- I mused. Yet pacing Roosevelt street In idle humour I espied

A village man and woman meet, And pass with never word or sign-- So strange in neighbour-folk whose feet

Haunt the same fields in rain and shine That, curious eyed, in either face, In curve of lip, or graven line,

I sought for hints of pain or trace Of harsh resolve, and so grew ware That hers was as a hiding place

Where lurked the kinship of despair; While his bore record deeply wrought That life for him had but one care,

And that--to mesh re-iterant thought In labour, till at last his soul Should find the anodyne it sought.

Hence now with dreary face he stole Through Roosevelt Street, nor stretched his hand To beg from life its smallest dole.

And yet these two had loved and planned To happiest end, but for the flood That wrecks, upreared on rock or sand,