M«MMn**uit«Mi 
 
 SONQS OF 
 
 MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL 
 
 THREE COUNTIES 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 SONGS OF 
 THREE COUNTIES
 
 SONGS OF 
 THREE COUNTIES 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 R. B. CUNNINGHAME-GRAHAM 
 
 By 
 MARGUERITE RADCLYFFE-HALL 
 
 LONDON 
 CHAPMAN & HALL, Ltd. 
 
 1913-
 
 J
 
 4 3b 
 \\0 2.to 
 
 Dedicated 
 to 
 The Marchioness of Anglesey 
 
 S24700
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Introduction by R. B. Cunninghame 
 
 Graham ix 
 
 Walking Out i 
 
 The Shadow of Raggedstone 3 
 
 The Long Green Lanes of England 5 
 
 The Hills 7 
 
 Eastnor Churchyard 8 
 
 The Malvern Hills 9 
 
 The First Cuckoo ii 
 
 Dusk in the Lane 12 
 
 The Meeting Place 13 
 
 By the Avon 15 
 
 Jealousy 16 
 
 In the City 18 
 
 I BE Thinkin' 19 
 
 Sunday Evening 20 
 
 The Ledbury Train 21 
 
 Jilted 22 
 
 Casend Hill 23 
 
 The Ledbury Road 24 
 
 The Call to London 25 
 
 Bredon 27 
 
 Our Dead 28 
 
 Primrose Flowers 29 
 
 Tramping 30 
 
 The Blind Ploughman 3?
 
 Miscellaneous Poems : 
 
 
 When the Wind comes up the Hill 
 
 35 
 
 Peace 
 
 36 
 
 Lime Trees 
 
 37 
 
 A Little Song 
 
 38 
 
 The Song of the Watcher 
 
 39 
 
 By the River 
 
 41 
 
 The Road to Colla 
 
 42 
 
 Prayer 
 
 43 
 
 Dawn 
 
 45 
 
 To the Earth 
 
 46 
 
 Dawn Among the Olive Groves 
 
 48 
 
 Silent Places 
 
 49 
 
 One Evening near Nice 
 
 50 
 
 Thoughts at Ajaccio 
 
 51 
 
 Three Child Songs : 
 
 
 The Thrush's Song 
 
 52 
 
 Willow Wand 
 
 53 
 
 A Winter Song 
 
 55 
 
 Autumn in Sussex 
 
 56 
 
 Si Parva Licet Componere Magnis 
 
 57 
 
 To Italy 
 
 59 
 
 Sunday in Liguria 
 
 60 
 
 Georgetown, U.S.A. 
 
 61 
 
 On the Potomac River, U.S.A. 
 
 63 
 
 The Lost Word 
 
 65 
 
 Comparisons 
 
 66 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 67 
 
 Appreciations 
 
 69 
 
 Press Notices 
 
 73
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 WITH as much grace as if a monoplanist 
 should attempt to write a preface to a 
 book on flying for an albatross, so may a 
 writer of mere prose attempt to pen an 
 introduction to a book of poetry. 
 
 The bird and man both use the air, but with 
 a difference. So do the poet and the man of 
 prose use pen and ink. 
 
 Familiarity with tools, used in two branches 
 of one art (or trade) , is apt to prove a snare. 
 
 Music and poetry, the most ethereal of the 
 arts upon the face of them, are in a way more 
 mathematical than prose, for both have for- 
 mulae. Hence, their appeal goes quicker to 
 men's minds, and oversteps countries and 
 languages to some degree, and makes it difficult 
 to write about them. Of late, young poets, 
 those who have bulked the largest in the public 
 
 ix
 
 eye, those that the world has hailed as modern, 
 have often been obscure. What is modernity ? 
 To be modern is to touch the senses of the age 
 you write for. To me, a fool who owns a 
 motor-car is just as great a fool as was a fool 
 of the stone age. 
 
 The only true modernity is talent, and Lucian 
 of Samosata was as modern to the full as Guy 
 de Maupassant. The poet for whose verses 
 I am writing this my introduction, preface, 
 foreword, call it what you will, is one of those 
 whose meaning he who runs may read. 
 
 Does she do well in making herself clear ? 
 I think so, for though there are those who prefer 
 a mist of words, holding apparently that 
 poetry should be written in Chinook, or 
 Malagasy, this opinion must of necessity be of 
 the nature of what Ben Jonson called a 
 " humour." 
 
 Few men to-day read Eupheus and fewer 
 Gongora. Yet in their time their concepts were 
 considered to be fine flowers of poetry. Those 
 who wrote so that all men could understand,
 
 as Sapho, Campion, Jorge Maurique, Petrarca, 
 Villon, and their fellow-singers in the celestial 
 spheres where poets sing, crowned with the bays 
 of the approval of countless generations, all 
 wrote clearly. Their verses all were clear as is 
 the water running over chalk in a south country 
 trout-stream, such as the Itchin or the Test. 
 
 I take two specimens of Miss Radclyffe- 
 Hall's poetry to illustrate what I have said. 
 She writes of a blind ploughman, whose 
 prayer is to his friend to set him in the sun. 
 
 " Turn my face towards the East 
 And praise be to God." 
 
 One sees him sitting, wrinkled and bent, and 
 ploughworn in the sun, and thanking God 
 according to his faith, for light interior, for that 
 interior vision which all the mystics claim. 
 
 " God who made His sun to shine 
 On both you and me, 
 God who took away my eyes, 
 That my soul might see." 
 xi
 
 This shows the poet in an unusual Hght, for 
 most poets write on far different subjects ; but 
 here is one which is eternal, and has been 
 eternal since the time of (Edipus. 
 
 Again in the verses, " Thoughts at Ajaccio," 
 she shows a love of the earth and of its fulness, 
 a feeling which has been the birthright of all 
 English writers of good verse from the remotest 
 times. 
 
 " Fill me with scent of upturned ground. 
 Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn." 
 
 This is the feeling that has inspired so many 
 poets, and shows the writer not striving to be 
 modern or filled with strange conceits ; but with 
 a love and trust of the brown earth, from which 
 all poets take their birth, and into which they 
 all return. 
 
 R. B. CUNNINGHAME GrAHAM. 
 
 Xll
 
 RUSTIC COURTING 
 I 
 WALKING OUT 
 
 Upon a Sunday afternoon, 
 
 When no one else was by, 
 The httle girl from Hanley way. 
 
 She came and walked with I. 
 
 We climbed nigh to the Beacon top, 
 
 And never word spoke we, 
 But oh ! we heard the thrushes sing 
 
 Within the cherry tree. 
 
 The cherry tree was all a-bloom, 
 
 And Malvern lay below. 
 And far away the Severn wound — 
 
 'Twas like a silver bow. 
 
 She took my arm, I took her hand. 
 
 And never word we said, 
 But oh ! I knew her eyes were brown, 
 
 Her lips were sweet and red. 
 
 I B
 
 And when I brought her home again, 
 
 The stars were up above, 
 And 'twas the nightingale that swelled 
 
 His little throat with love !
 
 II 
 
 THE SHADOW OF RAGGEDSTONE 
 
 O Raggedstone, you darksome hiU, 
 
 Your shadow fell for sure 
 Upon my own dear love and I, 
 
 Across the purple moor. 
 
 For we were such a happy pair, 
 The day we climbed your crest ; 
 
 And now my love she lays her head 
 Upon another's breast. 
 
 She sits beside another man, 
 And walks abroad with he, 
 
 And never sheds a single tear. 
 Or thinks a thought o' me ! 
 
 My mind it seems a-fire like, 
 
 My heart's as cold as lead, 
 My prayers they dry upon my lips 
 
 And somehow won't get said.
 
 I wish that I could lay me down, 
 
 Upon the dreary plain 
 That stretches out to Raggedstone,* 
 
 And never rise again ! 
 
 * A legend is attached to Raggedstone Hill in 
 Worcestershire. The Hill was cursed by a Benedictine 
 Monk. From time to time a great shadow rises up from 
 it, spreading across the surrounding country. Woe 
 betide those on whom the shadow falls, as it brings with 
 it terrible misfortune ! Many of the people living near 
 Raggedstone still firmly believe in this legend.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE LONG GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND 
 
 Oh ! the long green lanes of England ! 
 They be very far away, 
 And it's there that I'd be walking, 
 'Mid the hawthorn and the may. 
 
 Where the trees are all in blossom, 
 And the mating birds they sing 
 Fit to bust their little bodies. 
 Out of joy because it's Spring. 
 
 I'd be courting of my true love, 
 She'd be in her Sunday best. 
 With my arm around hei shoulder 
 And her head upon my breast. 
 
 For the new land it's a fine land, 
 Where a man can get a start ; 
 But there's that about the old land 
 That will grip his very heart : 
 
 5
 
 For he'll mind him o' the cowslips. 
 Coming up all fresh and new 
 In the fields of early mornings, 
 Where the grass is white with dew. 
 
 Oh ! it's money, money, money, 
 " Go and try to earn a bit ;" 
 And " America's the country 
 For the lad as doesn't quit." 
 
 Seems that folks go mad on money. 
 Well, I'll have enough some day, 
 But the long green lanes of England 
 They be Oh ! so far away !
 
 IV 
 THE HILLS 
 
 When I the hills of Malvern see, 
 There comes a sadness over me. 
 
 The reason why, I cannot tell, 
 Perhaps I love those hills too well. 
 
 But this I know, when I behold 
 
 Their springtime green, and autumn gold, 
 
 And see that year by year they bear 
 Such witness that God's earth is fair, 
 
 I'm happy for their beauty's sake, 
 And yet my heart begins to ache.
 
 V 
 EASTNOR CHURCHYARD 
 
 I BE hopin' you remember, 
 Now the Spring has come again, 
 How we used to gather violets 
 By the Uttle church at Eastnor, 
 For we were so happy then ! 
 
 my love, do you remember 
 Kisses that you took and gave ? 
 There be violets now in plenty 
 By the little church at Eastnor, 
 But they're growing on your grave.
 
 VI 
 
 THE MALVERN HILLS 
 
 The Malvern Hills be green some days. 
 And some days purple-blue, 
 There never was the like of them 
 The whole of England through. 
 
 From Hanley straight into the Wells 
 The road runs long and white. 
 And there the hills they meet your gaze 
 Against the evening light. 
 
 Against the evening light they stand, 
 So proud, and dark, and old, 
 The Raggedstone and Hollybush, 
 And Worcester Beacon bold. 
 
 No matter where you chance to be, 
 However far away. 
 You'll see the hills awaiting you 
 At close of every day.
 
 Oh ! it's a lovely sight to see 
 The twihght stealing down 
 Their steepish banks and little paths. 
 Along to Malvern town. 
 
 And maybe on the Severn side. 
 Hung low on Bredon's mound, 
 The big red harvest moon will rise, 
 So lazy-like and round. 
 
 They talks a lot o' foreign parts, 
 Them as has seen them do, 
 But give me Malvern Hills at dusk 
 All green or purple-blue ! 
 
 10
 
 VII 
 
 THE FIRST CUCKOO 
 
 To-day I heard the cuckoo call. 
 Atop of Bredon Hill, 
 I heard him near the blackthorn bush, 
 And Oh ! my heart stood still ! 
 
 For it was just a year ago, 
 
 That to my love I said, 
 
 " When next we hear the cuckoo call. 
 
 Then you and. I will wed." 
 
 My love and I we still be two. 
 And will be, many Springs ; 
 I think the saddest sound on earth 
 Is when the cuckoo sings. 
 
 II
 
 VIII 
 DUSK IN THE LANE 
 
 Come, put yer little hand in mine. 
 
 And let it be at rest. 
 
 It minds me of a tired bird 
 
 Within a warm brown nest ; 
 
 And bend that pretty head o' your'n, 
 
 And lay it on my breast. 
 
 The lambs they all be wearied out, 
 I penned them in the fold ; 
 The lights along the Malvern Hills 
 They shine like stars o' gold ; 
 And yonder rises up the moon. 
 All round, and big, and bold. 
 
 There's not a single passer-by. 
 
 Nor sound along the lane, 
 
 And Oh ! the earth be smelhng sweet. 
 
 Like meadows after rain. 
 
 Then come a little closer, maid, 
 
 And kiss me once again. 
 
 12
 
 IX 
 THE MEETING-PLACE 
 
 I MIND me of the hawthorn trees, 
 
 With cuckoos flying near ; 
 The hawthorn blossoms smelt so sweet, 
 
 The cuckoo called so clear ! 
 
 The hill was steep enough to climb. 
 It seemed to touch the sky ! 
 
 You saw two valleys from the top, 
 The Severn and the Wye. 
 
 The Severn and the Wye you saw, 
 And they were always green ; 
 
 I think it was the prettiest sight 
 That I have ever seen. 
 
 And there, so far above the town. 
 
 With not a soul to see. 
 Whenever she could slip away 
 My love would come to me ! 
 
 13
 
 I never smell the hawthorn bloom, 
 Or hear the cuckoo sing, 
 
 But I am minded of my love. 
 And Malvern Hills in Spring ! 
 
 14
 
 X 
 
 BY THE AVON 
 
 In the meadows by the Avon, 
 Underneath the slope of Bredon, 
 There we often used to wander, 
 My girl and I. 
 
 All around the thrushes singing. 
 And on Sunday, church bells ringing, 
 Overhead the soft clouds floating. 
 White in the sky. 
 
 Still the waters of the Avon 
 Flow so gently under Bredon, 
 And on Sunday bells be ringing. 
 Clouds floating high. 
 
 But I'm sick at heart and lonely. 
 Nothing here has changed, save only 
 Just we two, who once were courting. 
 My girl and I. 
 
 15
 
 XI 
 JEALOUSY 
 
 I see'd yer turn the other day 
 To watch a chap go by, 
 Because he wore a uniform, 
 And held his shoulders high. 
 And then yer wouldn't even smile. 
 Or say a word to I ! 
 
 A kid he was, all pink and white, 
 
 And strutting like a chick, 
 
 A tassel at his silly side. 
 
 And carrying a stick. 
 
 And yet yer thought the world o' him. 
 
 And started breathin' quick — 
 
 The same as when I kissed yer first, 
 
 Oh ! maybe you forget ! 
 
 But you was desperate sweet on I, 
 
 I mind yer blushes yet. 
 
 But now yer says me hands are rough. 
 
 Me coat will never set. 
 
 i6
 
 Me hands they bean't lily white, 
 
 Me coat may not be trim, 
 
 But you may know, if fightin' comes, 
 
 I'll fight as well as him, 
 
 Although they pad his shoulders out 
 
 To make his waist look slim. 
 
 I haven't got no buttons on 
 
 A showy coat of red ; 
 
 I haven't got no soldier's cap 
 
 To wear upon me head. 
 
 But I can love yer just the same. 
 
 When all be done and said !
 
 XII 
 IN THE CITY 
 
 Oh ! City girls are pale-like, 
 And proud-like, and cold-like. 
 And nineteen out of twenty 
 Have never been our way. 
 I tells them of the tall hills. 
 The green hills, the old hills, 
 Where hawthorns are a-blossoming, 
 And thrushes call all day. 
 
 Oh ! London is a fine place, 
 A big place, a rich place. 
 Where nineteen out of twenty 
 Of all the girls are fair. 
 But well I knows a white road, 
 A long road, a straight road. 
 That leads me into Bosbury ; 
 I'm wishing I was there ! 
 
 i8
 
 XIII 
 
 I BE THINKIN' 
 
 The hillside green with bracken. 
 And the red plough land, 
 The brownish hurrying rivers, 
 Where the willows stand. 
 The thickets and the meadows. 
 And the strong oak trees ; 
 O, tell me traveller, have yer 
 Seen the like o' these ? 
 
 The mists along the common. 
 At the close of day. 
 They're lovely when the twilight 
 Makes the vale look grey. 
 The lanes be long and lonely, 
 But they all lead home ; 
 I be thinkin' lads are foolish 
 When they wants to roam ! 
 
 19
 
 XIV 
 SUNDAY EVENING 
 
 The noontide showers have drifted past. 
 The sunset's on the hill, 
 The lights be gleaming through the dusk, 
 Adown by Clincher's Mill. 
 
 It's such a pretty evening, maid. 
 All quiet-hke, and blue ; 
 With here and there a darksome cloud 
 That lets the silver through. 
 
 The folk be all in Sunday best, 
 I see'd 'em passing by ; 
 Then come along the quiet lane. 
 And walk a bit with I. 
 
 20
 
 XV 
 
 THE LEDBURY TRAIN 
 
 From Wind's Point hill at eventide, 
 I see the train go by ; 
 The train that goes to Ledbury, 
 Along the vale of Wye. 
 
 It wanders through the clustered hops, 
 And through the green hedgerows, 
 It minds me of a fairy thing, 
 So gliding-like it goes. 
 
 And standing there on Wind's Point hill. 
 Within the sunset glow, 
 The purple shadows over Wales, 
 The Httle train below. 
 
 With all the pine trees whispering. 
 And turning softly blue ; 
 I feel as though I were a child. 
 With fairy tales come true ! 
 
 21
 
 XVI 
 JILTED 
 
 Oh ! golden is the gorse-bush. 
 
 Beneath an April sky, 
 The lark is full of singing, 
 The clouds are white and high ; 
 But my love, my love is faithless. 
 
 And she cares no more for I ! 
 
 Then what's the good of living. 
 
 With the bright sun overhead. 
 When the earth is always ready 
 And will give a kinder bed, 
 Where no vows be made or broken. 
 And no bitter words are said ! 
 
 22
 
 XVII 
 CASEND HILL 
 
 Casend Hill, I be so heavy-hearted. 
 
 So lonesome-hke since from my love I parted, 
 That when the bracken on your sides is springing. 
 And aU the mating thrushes start a-singing, 
 A kind of fear across my mind comes creeping, 
 
 1 feel as though I'd surely fall a-weeping ! 
 
 O Casend Hill, the Spring does not forsake you. 
 At winter's close the sun comes back to wake you ; 
 And year by year the same sweet wind it passes. 
 To stir the lark that's nesting in your grasses ; 
 But no one comes to ask me how I'm faring, 
 In all the world there's not a soul that's caring ! 
 
 23
 
 XVIII 
 
 THE LEDBURY ROAD 
 
 The road that leads to Ledbury 
 Oh ! it be such a pretty way. 
 As far as Wales you'll likely see. 
 Suppose the month be May. 
 
 The little birds they sing and sing, 
 The blackbirds and the thrushes do, 
 And after rain in early Spring 
 The grass looks green and new. 
 
 I wish that I were walking there, 
 Along that road so still and wide, 
 A lad without a thought or care. 
 My true-love at my side ! 
 
 24
 
 XIX 
 THE CALL TO LONDON 
 
 Oh ! come to London, young lad, 
 Lots is to be seen ! 
 
 But he said : " I cannot come, maid. 
 Till the cuckoos all be dumb, maid. 
 On the hills of green." 
 
 Oh ! come to London, brave lad. 
 
 Come and leave the plough. 
 
 But he said : " The blackthorn's springing. 
 
 And a mottled thrush is singing 
 
 In the cherry bough." 
 
 Oh ! come to London, fine lad. 
 Here's where money flows. 
 But he said : " There's gold in plenty. 
 Gold enough and more for twenty. 
 Where the kingcup grows." 
 
 25
 
 Oh ! come to London, strong lad, 
 I am wanting you. 
 But he said : " It be a grand sight. 
 When the stars at midnight 
 Stretch along the blue." 
 
 Oh ! come to London, dear lad, 
 I am fair to see ! 
 But he said : " Along of our way 
 Trees are thick with white may. 
 Wonderful they be ! " 
 
 26
 
 XX 
 
 BREDON 
 
 Bredon is a lonesome hill, 
 It hasn't any brothers ; 
 It stands within the Severn vale, 
 Apart from all the others. 
 
 The Cotswold Hills go hand in hand. 
 The Malverns touching shoulder ; 
 But Bredon all alone does stand. 
 More proud than they, and bolder. 
 
 Then it's on Bredon I will roam 
 The Uvelong summer through ; 
 For I've no brothers, I've no mate. 
 And I be lonesome too 1 
 
 27
 
 XXI 
 OUR DEAD 
 
 The day our dead are laid to rest 
 We heap the earth upon their breast ; 
 Upon the earth we set a stone. 
 And then we leave them all alone. 
 
 Some folks they weep, and some they pray, 
 But from the grave they'll turn away. 
 There's wood to chop, and fires to make, 
 And food to cook, and bread to bake. 
 
 Another takes the empty seat. 
 For men who live must drink and eat ; 
 And work is waiting to be done. 
 The work of two, that's now for one. 
 
 We sometimes speak of folks that's dead. 
 Of what they did, and what they said ; 
 We sometimes think of them at night, 
 But sometimes we forget them quite. 
 
 28
 
 XXII 
 PRIMROSE FLOWERS 
 
 I RODE through Eastnor woods to-day. 
 And all the air did promise May, 
 Did promise May till every tree 
 Found voice to make much melody. 
 
 And oh, the primi-ose flowers ! they glowed 
 In thousands all along the road, 
 Spreading their magic through the grove. 
 Like countless hoards of treasure-trove. 
 
 I said, " Perchance 'tis God who threw 
 These golden coins from out the blue, 
 That with such bounty He might buy 
 The thoughts of one so poor as I ! " 
 
 29
 
 XXIII 
 TRAMPING 
 
 Oh ! it's good to be alive, man. 
 Good to take the road and tramp. 
 When the morning smells of meadows, 
 And the lanes are cool and damp. 
 
 And the little furry creatures 
 Think the world is theirs for play. 
 Sitting stiU to watch you coming. 
 Half afraid to run away. 
 
 There's just hght enough to see by. 
 Growing stronger as you go ; 
 And the air is sort o' hushed-like. 
 Breathing very long and slow. 
 
 And the mountains near by Monmouth 
 Seem to melt into the sky ; 
 And the banks along of Ross way 
 Seem to melt into the Wye. 
 
 30
 
 And there's not a human stirring, 
 To disturb the field or fen. 
 Oh ! you'll never find your God, man, 
 If you do not find Him then 1 
 
 31
 
 XXIV 
 THE BLIND PLOUGHMAN 
 
 Set my hands upon the plough. 
 
 My feet upon the sod ; 
 Turn my face towards the east, 
 
 And praise be to God ! 
 
 Every year the rains do fall, 
 The seeds they stir and spring ; 
 
 Every year the spreading trees 
 Shelter birds that sing. 
 
 From the shelter of j^'our heart. 
 Brother — drive out sin. 
 
 Let the little birds of faith 
 Come and nest therein, 
 
 God has made His sun to shine 
 
 On both you and'me ; 
 God, who took away my eyes. 
 
 That my soul might see ! 
 
 32
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
 
 WHEN THE WIND COMES UP 
 THE HILL 
 
 Oh ! the wind among the trees, 
 How it stirs their wood to song ! 
 Little whispered melodies. 
 All the winding road along. 
 
 Was there ever such a sound, 
 Breaking through a noontide still, 
 As this tune the trees have found. 
 When the wind comes up the hill ! 
 
 35
 
 PEACE 
 
 (Sidmouth) 
 
 Evening upon the calm sweet sea, 
 A little wind asleep, 
 Dim sails that drift as tranquilly 
 As dreams in slumber deep. 
 A seagull on the water's breast 
 Folds up his wings of white ; 
 As peaceful and as much at rest 
 As is my heart to-night. 
 
 36
 
 LIME-TREES 
 
 Lime-trees meeting overhead, 
 Many lovers cold and dead. 
 Kissed and loved, and kissed again, 
 In the sunshine and the rain. 
 Underneath your scented green. 
 
 When we two, in Earth's kind breast, 
 Fall a-sleeping with the rest. 
 Then to us, who loved our fill, 
 Sweet to know you whisper still, 
 Happy leaves — of all that's been ! 
 
 37
 
 A LITTLE SONG 
 
 A RIPPLE and a rush, and a mating thrash, 
 And, oh ! the month must be at May. 
 A blossom and a tree, and a honey-bee, 
 And, oh ! it's such a perfect day ! 
 
 A meeting and a smile, and a sunlit mile. 
 
 And, oh ! the world is very young. 
 
 Come winter, storm or cold. 
 
 Love never can grow old. 
 
 And oh ! my little song is sung ! 
 
 38
 
 THE SONG OF THE WATCHER 
 
 At the early break of day, 
 
 When the river mists grow pink. 
 
 And the moon begins to sink, 
 
 Down along the southern way ; 
 
 When the gold mimosa tree 
 
 Rustles low and pleasantly. 
 
 To the little singing bird 
 
 That within her heart has stirred ; 
 
 I, the watcher at the window, 
 
 Thank the gods who made dawn lovely, 
 
 By creating you for me ! 
 
 When the stately night steps down. 
 Silent footed, from the west, 
 With the moon against her breast 
 Folded in her cloudy gown ; 
 When the endless, sighing sea 
 Stretches to eternity. 
 Yearning for the pale-eyed star, 
 
 39
 
 Long beloved, and yet so far ; 
 I, the watcher at the window, 
 Thank the gods who made night lovely, 
 By creating you for me ! 
 
 40
 
 BY THE RIVER 
 
 Through the rustling river grasses 
 Warm and sweet the young wind passes. 
 Blowing shyly soft caresses 
 To their dewy emerald tresses. 
 
 All along the silver sands 
 Little ripples joining hands, 
 Dance a quaint fantastic measure. 
 Making liquid sounds of pleasure. 
 
 While away beyond the weir 
 Calls the cuckoo loud and clear, 
 Something mystic and remote, 
 Ringing in his fairy note. 
 
 How I wish that I were small, 
 Swinging on the rushes tall, 
 Just a humble happy thing. 
 Born to hve a while in Spring ! 
 
 41
 
 THE ROAD TO COLLA 
 
 The blossoms of a Judas tree 
 Deep pink against an azure sea, 
 A silver moth on thoughtless vving, 
 A hidden bird that hghts to sing, 
 A little cloud that wanders by. 
 Across the endless field of sky. 
 
 A city in the far away, 
 
 Upon the hills beyond the bay, 
 
 And over all, the sun divine. 
 
 Pouring his stream of burning wine 
 
 Like nectar strong with youth and mirth, 
 
 Into this goblet of the earth ! 
 
 42
 
 PRAYER 
 
 If I should pray, my prayer would be 
 For gratitude unlimited : 
 For gratitude so vast and deep, 
 That it would move my soul to weep 
 Great tears, and all the words I said 
 To be as organ notes sublime, 
 FuU-throati d flowing words of rhyme, 
 Whose like no mortal eye hath read. 
 
 Then would I kneel before the God 
 Whose matchless genius made the earth ; 
 The Poet-God, who sows the hours 
 With all the scented hosts of flowers. 
 Who gives the little winds their birth, 
 Who doth unloose the sea-song's might 
 To shake the very stars at night. 
 And fling the foam-flakes high in mirth. 
 
 Whose mind is fragrant as a grove 
 Of cedar trees in summer rain, 
 
 43
 
 Whose thoughts dead poets gathered up, 
 And poured within the brimming cup 
 They offered to the world in vain. 
 Whose whisper masters caught, and wrote 
 Into their music note by note, 
 Immortal, haunting, strain on strain. 
 
 Whose image is revealed to all 
 Great lovers in the loved one's face. 
 Whose passion mystical and deep 
 Kindles the holy fires that sleep 
 Within the heart's most secret place. 
 Whose breath is incense on the shrine 
 Of earthly love, burning divine 
 And changeless, through all time and space ! 
 
 44
 
 DAWN 
 
 It is the dawn, that wondrous fateful hour 
 
 Of strange desires, of thoughts and deeds that stir 
 
 Within the womb of possibihty. 
 
 A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea. 
 
 Lifting the foam hke some unearthlj' flower. 
 
 The Hghts still glimmer all along the quay : 
 
 And overhead a flight of hurried stars 
 
 Seek hiding swiftly, e'er the day shall be. 
 
 Ships pass like spectres, little white-sailed ships. 
 
 Gliding away towards their destiny. 
 
 The earth, expectant, seems to thrill and wait 
 
 For some loved being ; through the eastern gate 
 
 Red clouds come floating. Oh ! that I were day. 
 
 Resplendent, bountiful, a heaven-born fire. 
 
 Filled with the glory of my own desire, 
 
 And thou, the trembling earth awaiting me ! 
 
 45
 
 TO THE EARTH 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou kindly arms that could enfold me 
 While yet I live, sweet Earth, console and hold me 
 Unto thy bosom, thou, my fruitful Mother. 
 Oh ! hadst thou human lips for soft caresses. 
 To meet mine own in some pure kiss that blesses. 
 Whose spell thou knowest, thou dear Earth, none 
 other. 
 
 For I am weary of the city's sorrow. 
 
 Captive and weary, longing for a morrow 
 
 That shall release me from these walls, my prison ; 
 
 My eyes are sickened with the surging faces, 
 
 And fain would gaze across thy sunlit spaces, 
 
 Seeking the happy lark but newly risen. 
 
 My ears are deafened by the great pulse beating 
 
 Along the streets, monotonous, repeating 
 
 Its throbs of toil, futile yet never ending. 
 
 Would I could hear cool water running seaward. 
 
 Or sigh of wind at daybreak sweeping leeward. 
 
 Through purple pines whose happy boughs are 
 
 bending. 
 
 46
 
 O Earth, dear Mother, as my spirit passes. 
 
 Make thou sweet fetters of thy flowers and grasses, 
 
 To bind it surely, lest it wander lonely 
 
 In some far sphere where never wild bird singeth. 
 
 Where never leaf at breath of Summer springeth, 
 
 For thou indeed art Heaven, O Earth, thou only ! 
 
 47
 
 DAWN AMONG THE OLIVE GROVES 
 
 Along the hills the olives grow. 
 And almonds bloom in early Spring, 
 And many are the streams that flow, 
 And countless are the birds that sing ; 
 The air is cool with distant snow, 
 And musical with bells that ring. 
 
 Beneath my feet the road winds down 
 
 In deepening shadow, far away 
 
 To where a little peaceful town 
 
 Lies sleeping by the quiet bay ; 
 
 A distant sail, now white, now brown, 
 
 Shows phantomlike against the day. 
 
 While gradually the Eastern skies 
 Grow flushed and bright, the late stars flee. 
 And eager clouds appear, and rise 
 Above the waves expectantly ; 
 Till lo ! before my wondering eyes. 
 The great sun steps from out the sea ! 
 
 48
 
 SILENT PLACES 
 
 Sweet are the silent places of the earth, 
 
 Green heart of woods through which no wind doth 
 
 pass, 
 Long sloping meadows sown with silken grass, 
 Old gardens thick with scents of death, and birth. 
 
 Pale dome of morning, ere the first bird sings. 
 Stretching above the silent palisade, 
 Vague and unearthly, wrought of light and shade. 
 O'er which the dusk still hangs with starht wings. 
 
 The hush of mid-day in the languid south. 
 Where marble borders rim the limpid pools. 
 In whose blue depths the ardent noontide cools 
 Her burning limbs, and bathes her sun-kissed mouth. 
 
 And above all things, silent and at rest, 
 
 I mind me of a little quiet bay, 
 
 Set like a sapphire in the golden day. 
 
 With never ship to scourge its tranquil breast. 
 
 Oh ! happy waters of that quiet bay. 
 So near my heart — and yet so far away ! 
 
 49 E
 
 ONE EVENING NEAR NICE 
 
 Pale depth of sky, serene and wonderful, 
 
 Within whose fold the lamps of early stars 
 
 Shine far away and faintly luminous ; 
 
 Whose pensive tones merge from the afterglow 
 
 Into this colour indescribable ; 
 
 This blending of the sea and earth and clouds. 
 
 Soft and yet poignant, passionate yet calm. 
 
 I know not what the spirit in me feels, 
 
 When it beholds thee through my human eyes 
 
 Nor what strange craving for forgotten things 
 
 Has stirred my soul to this disquietude ! 
 
 50
 
 THOUGHTS AT AJACCIO 
 
 Kind Earth, upon whose mother breast 
 The fruitful trees in time of spring, 
 Put forth their endless blossoming 
 From North to South, from East to West, 
 Whose sweet deep-furrowed soil is blest 
 With striving seeds and budding flowers, 
 And all the potent toil of hours. 
 From sunrise until even's rest — 
 
 Stretch forth thy leafy arms at dawn, 
 And touch me, compass me around. 
 Fill me with scent of upturned ground. 
 Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn. 
 The gifts I bring thou wilt not scorn, 
 Poor though they must be while I live, 
 For in my hour of death I give 
 My heart, that one rose may be bom ! 
 
 51
 
 THREE CHILD-SONGS 
 
 I 
 
 THE THRUSH'S SONG 
 
 " Oh ! bother," sang the thrush, 
 
 " I'm in an awful rush, 
 
 For I've got to get ready for the Spring. 
 
 With feathers from my breast, 
 
 m Hne a cosy nest, 
 
 A teiTibly difficult thing ! 
 
 " Before it is too late, 
 
 I'll have to find a mate, 
 
 And she must be dainty and small. 
 
 Obedient and sweet. 
 
 In jacket brown and neat, 
 
 And ready to come when I call. 
 
 " The robins are all wed 
 
 (Or so I've heard it said). 
 
 And the wind from the South it does blow. 
 
 The ice has felt the sun. 
 
 And winter must be done, 
 
 For a primrose is growing in the snow ! " 
 
 52
 
 II 
 
 WILLOW WAND 
 
 Willow wand, willow wand, 
 Change this little slender frond 
 To a Princess tall and fair. 
 With a mass of golden hair. 
 Of golden hair. 
 
 Willow wand, willow wand. 
 Change this shallow meadow pond 
 To a deep and crystal pool. 
 Where she bathes at even cool. 
 At even cool. 
 
 Wand cut from the willow tree. 
 Build a fairy home for me, 
 Build a home of light and shade, 
 Sun and shadow deftly made. 
 Most deftly made. 
 
 53
 
 There where nothing comes to part, 
 With the ladye of my heart 
 I will dwell for ever — ever ; 
 We will quarrel never — ^never. 
 Oh ! never — never I 
 
 54
 
 Ill 
 
 A WINTER SONG 
 
 " Swift away, swift away," 
 Sang the fickle swallow, 
 Oh ! the fickle swallow, 
 Flying to the sun ! 
 " Come, my little brothers, 
 Bring your feathered mothers, 
 Come away, come away. 
 Each and every one." 
 
 " Only stay, only stay," 
 
 Sang the lonely poet. 
 
 Oh ! the lonely poet, 
 
 All among the snow ! 
 
 Robin Redbreast heard, and said, 
 
 " I am here though summer's dead ; 
 
 Cheer up, cheer up, 
 
 I will never go!" 
 
 55
 
 AUTUMN IN SUSSEX 
 
 A GLORY is this autumn day. 
 That stretches far across the land, 
 To where the sea along the sand 
 Sings kindly, with a gentle lay 
 Upon its lips. The gleam and sway 
 Of burning leaves ignites the air 
 To strange soft fire ; serene and bare 
 The wide fields lie on either hand. 
 
 More lovely than the timid Spring 
 Who tells her beads of humble flowers, 
 More perfect than the sun-warmed hours 
 Of summer, gay with birds that sing. 
 Is this fulfilment earth doth bring 
 To offer up to God ; this deep 
 Vast prayer before the winter sleep. 
 This final tribute to His powers ! 
 
 56
 
 SI PARVA LICET COMPONERE 
 MAGNIS 
 
 In the bowl of a shell 
 
 Sings the wonderful song of the sea, 
 
 All the ebb and the swell, 
 
 In the bowl of a shell. 
 
 In the heart; of a pool 
 
 Drifts the fathomless smile of the sky, 
 
 All the clouds white and cool, 
 
 In the heart of a pool. 
 
 In the beam of a star 
 
 Shines the Hght of a far away world. 
 
 Out of space, dim and far. 
 
 In the beam of a star. 
 
 In the cup of a rose 
 
 Dwells the languor and passion of June, 
 
 Eager life, warm repose. 
 
 In the cup of a rose. 
 
 57
 
 In the throat of a bird 
 
 Lives the message of God to His earth, 
 
 Lo ! the mystical word 
 
 In the throat of a bird ! 
 
 58
 
 TO ITALY 
 
 O Italy of chiming bells, 
 Of pilgrim shrines and holy wells, 
 Of incense mist and secret prayers, 
 Profound and sweet as scented airs 
 Blown from a field of lily flowers ! 
 
 O Italy of pagan vine, 
 That thrills with sap of sun-born wine, 
 Drenching the Christian soul with red 
 Warm liquid of a faith long dead, 
 Wafting it back to sensuous hours. 
 
 No mortal woman ever held 
 Such sweet inconstancies, or welled 
 With such hot springs of turbid fire ; 
 No being throbbed with such desire, 
 Thy very air is ecstacy ! 
 
 pagan goddess, from whose lips 
 The gentle Christian worship slips, 
 
 1 fear thee, knowing what thou art 
 Yet I adore thee ; take my heart 
 
 I am thy lover, Italy ! 
 
 59
 
 SUNDAY IN LIGURIA 
 
 This is the Sabbath day, the day of rest, 
 That breathes so gently in this quiet place, 
 With such insistent peace that for a space 
 The silver olives on the mountain's crest 
 Forget to whisper, folded in the grace 
 Of lengthening shadows gathered from the noon. 
 The clouds are golden, yet a placid moon 
 Slips out among them, calm and pale of face. 
 
 O soul of mine, breathe in this holy thing 
 That steeps the hills down to the dreaming sea ; 
 This endless prayer, this silent ecstacy, 
 That like a great white bird on sunlit wing 
 Hovers above the world ; 'tis given thee 
 To merge thyself in this harmonious whole. 
 And be content, seeking no higher goal ; 
 The earth is God's, to-day eternity ! 
 
 60
 
 GEORGETOWN. 
 U.S.A. 
 
 If you would hear the thrushes sing, 
 Then go to Georgetown in the spring, 
 And wander slowly at your ease 
 Along the avenues of trees. 
 
 The sunshine and the shadows meet 
 To weave a web across the street. 
 And in and out its magic strands 
 Play httle children, joining hands. 
 
 The sky is washed with showers and dew. 
 Until it looks the palest blue, 
 And in the gardens down below 
 You almost see the grasses grow. 
 
 There's something very very old 
 About the place, so we are told. 
 And yet it's marvellously gay 
 And young, when seen on such a day ! 
 
 6i
 
 The silent comers all around 
 Break up in waves of pleasant sound, 
 The mansions of Colonial days 
 Allow the sun to gild their greys. 
 
 The paving-stones, with earth between. 
 Are fringed with shoots of emerald green, 
 And oh ! the song the thrushes sing 
 In Georgetown, when the year's at spring ! 
 
 62
 
 ON THE POTOMAC RIVER 
 
 U.S.A. 
 
 At close of June's most burning day, 
 We took a ship and sailed away : 
 In mid-Potomac stream sailed we. 
 To Old Point Comfort by the sea. 
 
 The heavy hanging air of dusk 
 Was thick with scent of fainting musk. 
 And through the tired willow trees 
 Stirred never sound or breath of breeze. 
 
 So still it was, that from afar 
 We seemed to hear a falling star, 
 And every drop we heard, that dript 
 From off the paddle as it dipped. 
 
 The fireflies lit their yellow lamps. 
 And danced along the marshy damps ; 
 They skimmed and shot, and skimmed again. 
 While beetles droned a dance-refrain. 
 
 63
 
 The old ship pushed the mists apart, 
 And crawled along with throbbing heart, 
 Pausing from time to time for breath 
 Beside some jetty, still as death. 
 
 The moon rose up all reddish gold. 
 
 And lit the swirhng misty fold 
 
 Of fog along the river bank, 
 
 Where grew the creepers dark and rank. 
 
 Sometimes the lonely " look-out " cried 
 " All's well " : the water swished and sighed 
 An endless and protesting song, 
 As stealthily we crept along. 
 
 Until at last the wind blew free. 
 Where the Potomac met the sea ; 
 And not so very far away 
 The shores of Old Point Comfort lav. 
 
 64
 
 THE LOST WORD 
 
 High above a waveless sea, 
 On the hills of long ago. 
 There you lived awhile with me. 
 And we loved — I know. 
 
 For your hair I made a crown, 
 Twined it with these hands of mine, 
 Sun-warmed leaves and tendrils brown, 
 From the happy vine. 
 
 You were like some woodland thing, 
 Fear and rapture in your eyes, 
 Tender as a breath of Spring 
 Blown from April skies. 
 
 Then I called you, and you heard. 
 To your lover's arms you came : 
 Ah ! what was that magic word. 
 Your forgotten name ! 
 
 6=;
 
 COMPARISONS 
 
 A FIELD of scented clover 
 That honey-bees hang over, 
 A hazel-wood in Spring, 
 Where thrush and robin sing. 
 A stream that seaward flows. 
 Rejoicing as it goes, 
 A little tower where dwells 
 The sound of happy bells. 
 A morning fresh and blue, 
 Flower-decked, and wet with dew, 
 All these my love she minds me of- 
 And other sweet things too. 
 
 66
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 The clustering grapes of purple vine 
 Are crushed to make the crimson wine. 
 
 The poppies in the grasses deep 
 
 Are crushed to brew the draught of sleep. 
 
 The roses, when their glories bloom 
 
 Are crushed to yield their soul's perfume. 
 
 And hearts, perchance of these the least. 
 Are crushed for nectar at Love's feast ! 
 
 67
 
 APPRECIATIONS 
 
 The following poems from " 'Twixt Earth and 
 Stars," by Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall, 
 have been set to music : 
 
 By Mr. HUBERT BATH 
 " A Song." Chappell and Co. 
 " Italian Spring." Boosey and Co. 
 " On the Lagoon." Boosey and Co. 
 " A Sea Cycle." (No. XV.) Chappell and Co. 
 
 By Mr. CUTHBERT WYNNE 
 " Let not the Morning Break," etc. The John 
 Church Co., Ltd. 
 
 By Mr. EASTHROPE MARTIN 
 
 " Shall I Complain ? " Metzler and Co. 
 
 By Mr. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE 
 " Gentle Dame Priscilla." Chappell and Co. 
 
 69
 
 The following poems from " A Sheaf of Verses " 
 are set to music : 
 By Mr. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE 
 
 " In Couples." Chappell and Co. 
 
 " To My Little Cousin." Chappell and Co. 
 
 " To A Baby." Chappell and Co. 
 
 " Butterfly." Chappell and Co. 
 
 "Our Little Love is Newly Born." Chappell 
 
 and Co. 
 " Hands and Lips." Chappell and Co. 
 
 70
 
 The following poems from " Poems of the Past 
 AND Present," by Marguerite Radclyffe- 
 Hall, have been set to music : 
 
 By the late Mr. COLERIDGE TAYLOR. 
 
 " The Birth of the Rainbow." Boosey and Co. 
 " On the Hill-side." Boosey and Co. 
 Fruit of the Nispero, Nos. IIL, XL, XXIV. 
 Boosey and Co. 
 
 By Madame LIZA LEHMANN. 
 
 " The Silver Rose " (From Three Songs of 
 Nowhere Town). The fohn Church Co., Lid. 
 
 By Mr. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE 
 
 " The Garden." Chappell and Co. 
 
 " To A Lily." Chappell and Co. 
 
 " A Farewell." Chappell and Co. 
 
 " ' Good Morning,' said the Thrush." Chappell 
 
 and Co. 
 " The Hills of By and Bye." Chappell and Co. 
 " The Rhyme of the Shepherd." Chappell and 
 
 Co. 
 " The White Bird." Chappell and Co. 
 " Fruit of the Nispero," Nos. L, VIII. , XIV., 
 
 XX., XXIII. Chappell and Co. 
 
 By Mrs. GEORGE BATTEN. 
 
 " A Song of Youth." 
 
 " To A Child." 
 
 " Fruit of the Nispero," No. XVI. 
 
 71
 
 The following poems from " Songs of Three 
 Counties and Other Poems," have been set 
 to music. 
 
 By Mr. ROBERT CONNINGSBY CLARKE 
 
 " Walking Out." Chappell and Co. 
 
 " Eastnor Churchyard." Chappell and Co. 
 
 By Mrs. WOODFORDE FINDEN. 
 
 " Willow Wand." Boosey and Co. 
 
 72
 
 PRESS NOTICES 
 
 " Poems of the Past and Present." 
 
 " Miss Radclyffe-Hall has an exceptional gift 
 for enshrining a single thought or fancy in a little 
 lyric or a song. The little pieces . . . most of 
 them catch a real thought, and sometimes — as in 
 " A Reflection " — one which makes the reader 
 pause and meditate. Many of her pieces seem 
 to have been put to music, and they deserve it." — 
 The Times, October 6th, 1910, 
 
 " Miss Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall is already 
 known to many readers as the author of some sweet 
 and dainty verses. Her latest book should widen 
 the circle of those acquainted with her work, ior 
 it shows her once more as a tender singer of the 
 spells of love, the beauty of Nature. There is in 
 many of her poems a wistfulness that is of beauty 
 rather than of sadness, while her power of express- 
 ing her moods and thoughts in simple and melo- 
 dious rhythms is, perhaps, more markedly shown 
 here than in her earlier work. Here is a haunting 
 little piece from a trio of ' Stuart Songs ' (quotation). 
 Part of the charm of this lies no doubt in the trick 
 
 73 G
 
 of refrain, but, with her few simply chosen words, 
 the writer has suggested much of tenderness and 
 tragedy. Many of the pieces seem to have been 
 written with a view to musical setting, and express 
 a mood, a sentiment, in tuneful fashion, and with 
 a note of true sincerity. Here is a beautiful 
 picture, ' In Liguria " (quotation). — Daily Tele- 
 graph, November i6th, 1910. 
 
 " Poems of the Past and Present, notwithstanding 
 their number, maintain a standard consistently 
 high. Fastidious workmanship, and an instinct 
 towards poetical grace in language and rhythm, 
 are, apart from inspiration, the two essentials for 
 the writing of lyrics ; and the volume possesses 
 both in a marked degree, besides an appreciable 
 share of the rarer quality. Though the personal 
 note is seldom absent, and the dominance of love 
 as a theme makes more than ever for monotony 
 nowadays, these potential drawbacks are to a great 
 extent redeemed by the freshness and fancy which 
 go to the painting of, among many others, such 
 a haunting little picture as the following from 
 ' In Liguria ' (quotation). With her power of 
 delicate visualization, her keen sense of colour 
 and music, and a technique almost flawless, the 
 author should, as her poetical horizon broadens, 
 produce valuable results." — The AtJienceum, Dec- 
 ember yd, 1910. 
 
 " One meets with many excellent lyrics scattered 
 through the pages. What is characteristic of the 
 
 74
 
 best of them, which are to be found among the 
 unrhymed verses, is a certain Southern, almost 
 Oriental atmosphere, like the scent at dawn of 
 those strange blossoms of which she sings. This 
 is the appropriate setting, sometimes of a happy 
 licence of imagination, in a set of verses which will 
 repay perusal by a reader of poetic sympathies." 
 — The Scotsman, October i^th, 1910. 
 
 " A poetess with a very charming gift . . . her 
 little book should have a great vogue as a Christmas 
 gift-book." — Daily Express, July yth, 1910. 
 
 " Miss Radclyffe-Hall is facile, flowing, and 
 often really musical ; it is not surprising that so 
 many of her verses have been used by composers. 
 Such a lyric as ' A Farewell,' calls aloud for set- 
 ting." — Pall Mall Gazette, December 2nd, 1910. 
 
 " Many fair and gentle thoughts are gracefully 
 expressed by Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall. Especi- 
 ally charming are the lyrics in the song sequence, 
 'Fruit of the Nispero, and the three little ' Stuart 
 Songs ' of Mary the Queen." — The Lady, December 
 2gth, 1910. 
 
 " There are a great many poems in this little 
 volume, all showing evidence of considerable 
 facility' and talent." — Evening Standard, September 
 22nd, 1910. 
 
 75
 
 " A book of verse that appeared lately, by Miss 
 Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall, will, I know, delight you, 
 for it is written with true poetical feeling, and 
 touches on so many subjects besides that of love, 
 that it is sure to please the taste of many and various 
 readers. Amongst the poems that I recommend 
 to your notice are ' An Italian Garden,' ' A Sonnet 
 to Elizabeth Barrett Browning,' which breathes 
 a deep and reverential appreciation of our great 
 poetess's worth, ' The Voice,' and several numbers 
 in a series called ' Fruit of the Nispero.' It is 
 easy to imagine that many of these tuneful numbers 
 should have been set to music, for there are in them 
 such* tender harmonies as must appeal to musical 
 people. — The Lady, November lyth, 1910. 
 
 " Her volume is full of pearls ; they are to be 
 gathered from every page, and sometime^ they are 
 very brilliant. ' The Hills of By and Bye,' ' Before 
 Sunrise,' ' A Little Child,' ' In Liguria,' and others 
 are beautiful poems ; and ' The Graveyard at 
 Orotava ' is based on an exquisitely poetic senti- 
 ment, the last two verses showing a high quality 
 of imaginative power. Miss Radclyffe-Hall's style 
 is individual and remarkable for combined force 
 and clarity. Very few living women poets are 
 at all her equal." — Sussex Daily News, October 
 26th, 1910. 
 
 " This is a book of really good verse. All its 
 ' small songs ' are musical and delicate, but in 
 
 76
 
 addition it has the rarer virtue of complete sin- 
 cerity , . . There is no striving after effect by- 
 phrase or artifice. Every lyric is the simple 
 melodious expression of a poetic thought." — 
 Evening News, October igth, 1910. 
 
 " Miss Radclyffe-Hall's latest book should widen 
 the circle of those acquainted with her work, 
 for it shows her once more as a tender singer of 
 the spells of love, the beauty of Nature." — 
 Liverpool Express, November 22nd, 1910. 
 
 " Many of her pieces are just adapted to musical 
 setting, for they express a mood, a sentiment, a 
 graceful fancy, Nnth a note of real sincerity." — 
 Christian E?ideavoiir Times, December 22nd, 1910. 
 
 77
 
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