Part 3

The house of hopes. Thus--cold of mood, He, loving wholly, could but choose To deem her heart as his subdued;

While she, as maidens oft-times use, Denied sweet proofs of love, was fain To gain them by the world-old ruse;

And failing, vexed to find that vain Was all her pretty reticence, She happed upon a worthless swain

On whom, reserved the gold, the pence Of liberal smiles she flung away, Till, snared by her own innocence,

She fell--Ah, God! how far that day She fell--from hope and promise plumb, To deeps where lips forget to pray.

But he, apart, with sorrow dumb, Beheld, scarce conscious of the strife, Himself in her by fate o'ercome;

And as she passed to her new life, Righted by still more wrong, divined Her hate for him who called her wife,

And on the hoarded knowledge pined And starved, till he, as she, was dead, And nought remained but to unwind

His coil of days. So with slow tread He goes his way through Roosevelt Street At night and morn, nor turns his head

When past him comes the sound of feet-- Of ghostly feet that long ago In life had made his pulses beat.

For, mark you, both are dead, and so Small wonder is it nought should pass Betwixt them in the street, I trow.

Yet still they move with that huge mass Of life unpurposeful that reaps The corn in season, mows the grass,

And then by right of labour sleeps With privilege of dreams that ape Fulfilment, whereby each may creep

From pain through doors of dear escape; Save such, unhappy, as would win Some respite for themselves, and shape

Those passionate, deep appeals that din The Powers, ere season due, to stay The long slow tragedies of sin.

THE HAUNTED FIELDS

I know of fields by voices haunted still That years ago grew hushed; Whose buttercups are brushed By feet that long have ceased to climb the hill.

On whose green slopes the happy children play As on a mother's lap, Then steal through gate and gap, And by strange hedge-rows make their wondering way.

Sometimes great seas of ripening corn they spy Across whose rippling face The shadowy billows race And round the gate, forlornly whispering, die;

Or in dark rutted lanes by weeds o'ergrown, Round-eyed they watch a thrush That breaks the noonday hush Dashing with zest a snail against a stone;

At others, on an impulse waxing brave, They climb the churchyard wall And, marvelling at it all, See strange black people gathered round a grave.

Then, without question, hurrying up the lane, They seek once more their own-- That world in which is known No fear of death, nor thought of change or pain.

Where still they call and answer, still they play, And summer is ever there; But I--I never dare Pass through those fields, retrace the well-known way,

Lest I might meet a lad whom once I knew, Whose eyes accusingly Should make demand of me: "Where are those dreams I left in charge with you?"

CAPTIVE IN LONDON TOWN

There comes a ghostly space 'Twixt midnight and the dawn, When from the heart of London Town The tides of life are drawn.

What time, when Spring is due, The captives dungeoned deep Beneath the stones of London Town Grow troubled in their sleep,

And wake--mint, mallow, dock, Brambles in bondage sore, And grasses shut in London Town A thousand years and more.

Yet though beneath the stones They starve, and overhead The countless feet pace London Town Of men who hold them dead,

Like Samson, blind and scorned, In pain their time they bide To seize the roots of London Town And tumble down its pride.

Now well by proof and sign, By men unheard, unseen, They know that far from London Town The woods once more are green.

But theirs is still to wait, Deaf to the myriad hum, Beneath the stones of London Town A Spring that needs must come.

LAURENCE HOUSMAN

THE FELLOW-TRAVELLERS

Fellow-travellers here with me, Loose for good each other's loads! Here we come to the cross-roads: Here must parting be.

Where will you five be to-night? Where shall I? we little know: Loosed from you, I let you go Utterly from sight.

Far away go taste and touch, Far go sight, and sound, and smell. Fellow-Travellers, fare you well,-- You I loved so much.

THE SETTLERS

How green the earth, how blue the sky, How pleasant all the days that pass, Here where the British settlers lie Beneath their cloaks of grass!

Here ancient peace resumes her round, And rich from toil stand hill and plain; Men reap and store; but they sleep sound, The men who sowed the grain.

Hard to the plough their hands they put, And wheresoe'er the soil had need The furrow drave, and underfoot They sowed themselves for seed.

Ah! not like him whose hand made yield The brazen kine with fiery breath, And over all the Colchian field Strewed far the seeds of death;

Till, as day sank, awoke to war The seedlings of the dragon's teeth, And death ran multiplied once more Across the hideous heath.

But rich in flocks be all these farms, And fruitful be the fields which hide Brave eyes that loved the light, and arms That never clasped a bride!

O willing hearts turned quick to clay, Glad lovers holding death in scorn, Out of the lives ye cast away The coming race is born.

SONG

Sleep lies in every cup Of land or flower: Look how the earth drains up Her evening hour!

Each face that once so laughed, Now fain would lift Lips to Life's sleeping-draught, The goodlier gift.

Oh, whence this overflow, This flood of rest? What vale of healing so Unlocks her breast?

What land, to give us right Of refuge, yields To the sharp scythes of light Her poppied fields?

Nay, wait! our turn to make Amends grows due! Another day will break, We must give too!

EMILIA STUART LORIMER

LOVE SONGS

I

White-dreaming face of my dear, Waken; the dawn is here.

Ope, oh so misty eyes; Keep ope, and recognize!

Mouth, o'er the far sleep-sea Spread now thy smile-wings for me.

II

Take from me the little flowers And the bright-eyed beasts and the birds; And the babies, oh God, take away; Hearken my praying-words; Empty my road of them, Empty my house and my arm, For black is my heart with hate, And I would not these come to harm.

STORM

Twigs of despair on the high trees uplifted, Torn cloud flying behind; Whistling wind through the dead leaves drifted; Oho! my mind With you is racked and ruined and rifted.

Waves of the angry firth high-flying, Rainstorm striping the sea, Sleet-mist shrouding the hills; day dying; Now around me Closes the darkness of night in, wild crying.

God of the storm, in thy storm's heart unmeted My shallop-soul rideth where roars The swirling water-spout--rides undefeated; No rudder, no oars; Only within, thy small image seated.

JAMES A. MACKERETH

TO A BLACKBIRD ON NEW YEAR'S DAY

Hail, truant with song-troubled breast-- Thou welcome and bewildering guest! Blithe troubadour, whose laughing note Brings Spring into a poet's throat,-- Flute, feathered joy! thy painted bill Foretells the daffodil.

Enchanter, 'gainst the evening star Singing to worlds where dreamers are, That makes upon the leafless bough A solitary vernal vow-- Sing, lyric soul! within thy song The love that lures the rose along!

The snowdrop, hearing, in the dell Doth tremble for its virgin bell; The crocus feels within its frame The magic of its folded flame; And many a listening patience lies And pushes toward its paradise.

Young love again on golden gales Scents hawthorn blown down happy dales; The phantom cuckoo calls forlorn From limits of the haunted morn;-- Sing, elfin heart! thy notes to me Are bells that ring in Faery!

Again the world is young, is young, And silence takes a silver tongue; The echoes catch the lyric mood Of laughing children in the wood: Blithe April trips in winter's way And nature, wondering, dreams of May.

Sing on, thou dusky fount of life! God love thee for a merry sprite! Sing on! for though the sun be coy I sense with thee a budding joy, And all my heart with ranging rhyme Is poet for the prime!

LA DANSEUSE

She moved like silence swathed in light, Like mists at morning clear; A music that enamoured sight Yet did elude the ear.

A rapture and a spirit clad In motion soft as sleep; The epitome of all things glad, The sum of all that weep;

Her form was like a poet's mind-- By all sensations sought; She seemed the substance of the wind, The shape of lyric thought,--

A being 'mid terrestrial things Transcendently forlorn, From time bound far on filmy wings For some diviner bourne.

The rhythms of the raptured heart Swayed to her sweet control; Life in her keeping all was art, And all of body soul.

Lone-shimmering in the roseate air She seemed to ebb and flow, A memory, perilously fair, And pale from long ago.

She stooped to time's remembered tears, Yearned to undawned delight. Ah beauty, passionate from the years! Oh body wise and white!

She vanished like an evening cloud, A sunset's radiant gleam. She vanished ... Life awhile endowed The darkness with a dream.

GOD RETURNS

Dear God, before Thee many weep And bow the solemn knee; But I who have thy joy to keep Will sing and dance for Thee.

Come, lilt ye, lilt ye, lightsome birds, For ye are glad as I; Come frisk, ye sunlit flocks and herds And cherubs of the sky;

Sweet elfin mischief of the hill, We'll share a laugh together-- Oh half the world is hoyden still, And waits for whistling weather!

The God of age is staid and old, And asks a sober tongue; But till the heart of youth is cold The God of youth is young!

Then kiss, blithe lass and happy lad! The rainbow passes over, And love and life, the leal and glad, Must step with time the rover.

Trip buds and bells in spangled ways! Leap, leaves in every tree! Ye winds and waters, nights and days, Dance, dance for Deity.

On every hand is elfin land, And faery gifts are falling; Across the world, a twinkling band, The elves are calling--calling.

In welcome smile the witching skies, And with a jocund train, With dancing joy-light in His eyes, God, God comes home again!

ALICE MEYNELL

TO THE BODY

Thou inmost, ultimate Council of judgment, palace of decrees, Where the high senses hold their spiritual state, Sued by earth's embassies, And sign, approve, accept, conceive, create;

Create--thy senses close With the world's pleas. The random odours reach Their sweetness in the place of thy repose, Upon thy tongue the peach, And in thy nostrils breathes the breathing rose.

To thee, secluded one, The dark vibrations of the sightless skies, The lovely inexplicit colours run; The light gropes for those eyes. O thou august! thou dost command the sun.

Music, all dumb, hath trod Into thine ear her one effectual way; And fire and cold approach to gain thy nod, Where thou call'st up the day, Where thou await'st the appeal of God.

CHRIST IN THE UNIVERSE

With this ambiguous earth His dealings have been told us. These abide: The signal to a maid, the human birth, The lesson, and the young Man crucified.

But not a star of all The innumerable host of stars has heard How He administered this terrestrial ball. Our race have kept their Lord's entrusted Word.

Of His earth-visiting feet None knows the secret, cherished, perilous, The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet, Heart-shattering secret of His way with us.

No planet knows that this Our wayside planet, carrying land and wave, Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss, Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave.

Nor, in our little day, May His devices with the heavens be guessed, His pilgrimage to thread the Milky Way Or His bestowals there be manifest.

But in the eternities, Doubtless we shall compare together, hear A million alien Gospels, in what guise He trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear.

O, be prepared, my soul! To read the inconceivable, to scan The million forms of God those stars unroll When, in our turn, we show to them a Man.

MATERNITY

One wept whose only child was dead, New-born, ten years ago. "Weep not; he is in bliss," they said. She answered, "Even so.

"Ten years ago was born in pain A child, not now forlorn. But oh, ten years ago, in vain, A mother, a mother was born."

WILL H. OGILVIE

THERE'S A CLEAN WIND BLOWING

There's a clean wind blowing Over hill-flower and peat, Where the bell heather's growing, And the brown burn flowing, And the ghost-shadows going Down the glen on stealthy feet. There's a clean wind blowing, And the breath of it is sweet.

There's a clean wind blowing, And the world holds but three: The purple peak against the sky, The master wind, and me. The moor birds are tossing Like ships upon the sea; There's a clean wind blowing Free.

There's a clean wind blowing, Untainted of the town, A fair-hitting foeman With his glove flung down. Will ye take his lordly challenge And the gauntlet that he throws, And come forth among the heather Where the clean wind blows!

THE GARDEN OF THE NIGHT

The Night is a far-spreading garden, and all through the hours Glisten and glitter and sparkle her wonderful flowers. First the great moon-rose full blooming; the great bed of stars Touching with restful gold petals the woodland's dark bars; Then arc-lights like asters that blossom in street and in square, And lamps like primroses beyond them in planted parterre; Great tulips of crimson that rise from the factory towers; White lilies that drop from deep windows: all flowers, the Night's flowers!

Blooms on the highway that twinkle and fade like the stars, Golden and red on the vans and the carts and the cars; Clusters of bloom in the village; lone homesteads a-light, Decking the lawns of the darkness, the plots of the Night. Then the bright blossoms of platform and signal that shine By the iron-paved path of the garden--the lights of the Line; The gold flowers of comfort and caution; the buds of dull red, Sombre with warning; the green leaves that say "Right ahead!"

Then the flowers in the harbour that low to the tide of it lean; The lights on the port and the starboard, the red and the green, Mixing and mingling with mast lights that move in the air, And deck lights and wharf lights and lights upon pier-head and stair; An edging of gold where a liner steals by like a thief; The giant grey gleam of a searchlight that swings like a leaf; And far out to seaward faint petals that flutter and fall Against the white flower of the Lighthouse that gathers them all.

Then flower lights all golden with welcome--the lights of the inn; And poisonous hell-flowers, lit doorways that beckon to sin; Soft vesper flowers of the Churches with dark stems above; Gold flowers of court and of cottage made one flower by love; Beacons of windows on hillside and cliff to recall Some wanderer lost for a season--Night's flowers one and all! In the street, in the lane, on the Line, on the ships and the towers, In the windows of cottage and palace--all flowers, the Night's flowers!

THE CROSSING SWORDS

As I lay dreaming in the grass I saw a Knight of Tourney pass-- All conquering Summer. Twilit hours Made soft light round him, rainbow flowers Hung on his harness.

Down the dells The fairy heralds rang blue-bells, And even as they rocked and rang Into the lists, full-armed, there sprang Autumn, his helm the harvest moon, His sword a sickle, the gleaner's tune His hymn of battle.

Each bowed full low, Knight to knight as to worthy foe, Then Autumn tossed as his gauntlet down-- A leaf of the lime tree, golden brown-- And Summer bound it above the green Of his shining breast-plate's verdant sheen.

--They closed. Above them the driving mists Stooped and feathered--and hid the lists. Later the cloud mist rolled away But dead in his harness the Green Knight lay.

STEPHEN PHILLIPS

LURES IMMORTAL

Sadly, apparently frustrate, life hangs above us, Cruel, dark unexplained; Yet still the immortal through mortal incessantly pierces With calls, with appeals, and with lures. Lure of the sinking sun, into undreamed islands, Fortunate, far in the West; Lure of the star, with speechless news o'er brimming, With language of darted light; Of the sea-glory of opening lids of Aurora, Ushering eyes of the dawn; Of the callow bird in the matin darkness calling, Chorus of drowsy charm; Of the wind, south-west, with whispering leaves illumined, Solemn gold of the woods; Of the intimate breeze of noon, deep-charged with a message, How near, at times, unto speech! Of the sea, that soul of a poet a-yearn for expression, For ever yearning in vain! Hoarse o'er the shingle with loud, unuttered meanings, Hurling on caverns his heart. Of the summer night, what to communicate, eager? Perchance the secret of peace. The lure of the silver to gold, of the pale unto colour, Of the seen to the real unseen; Of voices away to the voiceless, of sound unto silence, Of words to a wordless calm; Of music doomed unto wandering, still returning, Ever to heaven and home. The lure of the beautiful woman through flesh unto spirit, Through a smile unto endless light; Of the flight of a bird thro' evening over the marsh-land, Lingering in Heaven alone; Of the vessel disappearing over the sea-marge, With him or with her that we love; Of the sudden touch in the hand of a friend or a maiden, Thrilling up to the stars. The appealing death of a soldier, the moon just rising, Kindling the battle-field; Of the cup of water, refused by the thirsting Sidney, Parched with the final pang: Of the crucified Christ, yet lo, those arms extended, Wide, as a world to embrace; And last, and grandest, the lure, the invitation, And sacred wooing of death; Unto what regions, or heavens, or solemn spaces, Who, but by dying, can tell?

BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD

Beautiful lie the dead; Clear comes each feature; Satisfied not to be, Strangely contented.

Like ships, the anchor dropped, Furled every sail is Mirrored with all their masts In a deep water.

A LYRIC FROM "THE SIN OF DAVID"

I

Red skies above a level land And thoughts of thee; Sinking Sun on reedy strand, And alder tree.

II

Only the heron sailing home With heavy flight! Ocean afar in silent foam, And coming night!

III

Dwindling day and drowsing birds, O my child! Dimness and returning herds, Memory wild.

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

A DEVON COURTING

Birds gived over singin' Flitter-mice was wingin' Mist lay on the meadows-- A purty sight to see. Downling in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy-- Downling in the dimpsy Theer went a maid wi' me.

Two gude mile o' walkin' Not wan word o' talkin', Then I axed a question An' put the same to she. Uplong in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light-- Uplong in the owl-light Theer come my maid wi' me.

A LITANY TO PAN

By the abortions of the teeming Spring, By Summer's starved and withered offering, By Autumn's stricken hope and Winter's sting, Oh, hear!

By the ichneumon on the writhing worm, By the swift, far-flung poison of the germ, By soft and foul brought out of hard and firm, Oh, hear!

By the fierce battle under every blade, By the etiolation of the shade, By drouth and thirst and things undone half made, Oh, hear!

By all the horrors of re-quickened dust, By the eternal waste of baffled lust, By mildews and by cankers and by rust, Oh, hear!

By the fierce scythe of Spring upon the wold, By the dead eaning mother in the fold, By stillborn, stricken young and tortured old, Oh, hear!

By fading eyes pecked from a dying head, By the hot mouthful of a thing not dead, By all thy bleeding, struggling, shrieking red, Oh, hear!

By madness caged and madness running free, Through this our conscious race that heeds not thee, In its concept insane of Liberty, Oh, hear!

By all the agonies of all the past, By earth's cold dust and ashes at the last, By her return to the unconscious vast, Oh, hear!

SWINBURNE

Children and lovers and the cloud-robed sea Shall mourn him first; and then the mother land Weeping in silence by his empty hand And fallen sword that flashed for Liberty. Song-bringer of a glad new minstrelsy, He came and found joy sleeping and swift fanned Old pagan fires, then snatched an altar brand And wrote, "The fearless only shall be free!" Oh, by the flame that made thine heart a home, By the wild surges of thy silver song, Seer before the sunrise, may there come Spirits of dawn to light this aching wrong Called Earth! Thou saw'st them in the foreglow roam; But we still wait and watch, still thirst and long.

DORA SIGERSON SHORTER

THE WATCHER IN THE WOOD

Deep in the wood's recesses cool I see the fairy dancers glide, In cloth of gold, in gown of green, My lord and lady side by side.

But who has hung from leaf to leaf, From flower to flower, a silken twine-- A cloud of grey that holds the dew In globes of clear enchanted wine.

Or stretches far from branch to branch, From thorn to thorn, in diamond rain, Who caught the cup of crystal pine And hung so fair the shining chain?

'Tis Death, the spider, in his net Who lures the dancers as they glide In cloth of gold, in gown of green, My lord and lady side by side.

THE NAMELESS ONE

Last night a hand pushed on the door And tirled at the pin. I turned my face unto the wall, And could not cry, "Come in!" I dared not cry "Come in!"

Last night a voice wailed round the house And called my name upon, And bitter, bitter did it mourn: "Where is my mother gone? Where is my mother gone?"

From saintly arms I slipped and flew Adown the moon-lit skies, I weary of the paths of Heav'n And flowers of Paradise-- Sweet scents of Paradise!

"For little children prattle there, And whisper all the day Of lovely mothers on the earth, Where once they used to play, Who used with them to play.

"They linger laughing by the door, And wait the threshold on; I have no memory so fair, Where is my mother gone? Where is my mother gone?"

Thrice pushed the hand upon the door And tirled at the pin. I turned my face unto the wall, And could not cry, "Come in!" I dared not cry, "Come in!"

WHEN I SHALL RISE

When I shall rise, and full of many fears, Set forth upon my last long journey lone, And leave behind the circling earth to go Amongst the countless stars to seek God's throne.

When in the vapourish blue, I wander, lost, Let some fair paradise reward my eyes-- Hill after hill, and green and sunny vale, As I have known beneath the Irish skies.

So on the far horizon I shall see No alien land but this I hold so dear-- Killiney's silver sands, and Wicklow hills, Dawn on my frightened eyes as I draw near.