A A W: T {) ^^^^ 3; ^^^= 3D b ^ ■ 9 — ^ ' 1 33 ( 8 =^^^ J. ' C 1 ^^^— > =^=^= o b ILITY 1 6 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY 0F CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE 'he Wanderer id other Poems nry Bryan Binns don: A.C.Fifield 2 Shilling net The Wanderer Other Poems By the Same Writer. The Great Companions. 1908. A Life of Walt Whitman. 1905. Abraham Lincoln. 1907. In Preparation. The Adventure : a Play. The Wanderer and other Poems Henry Bryan Binns With a photograv- ure after BotticelH London : 19 lo A. C. Fifield 13 Clifford's Inn All rights reserved Contents Is it Knowledge that Wakens Song ? Wind and Rain . An Apollo at the Vatican The Building of the City The Spanish Gipsy Deeming Dale An Old Woman . The Coppice Wood The Wanderer . November . The Sea-Change The Mirrors The Wind in the Door Doubt Advent At Nightfall For Two Pictures Lucifer Triumphing 7 8 9 lo 12 15 i6 17 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 Note. — The Wanderer was first printed in The Albany Review; a few of the poems made a first appearance in The Academy, The New Age, and other periodicals, and I thank the editors for allowing me to republish them. I have reprinted three from an earlier volume (now out of print) which was accredited to " Richard Askham." Mr. Rutland Boughton has written choral music for The Building of the City. Is it Knowledge that Wakens Song T S it knowledge that wakens Song, -* Or wisdom bred of the Past ? — Though her eyes are eagle-strong, And her flying eagle-vast, Is it knowledge that wakens Song, Or wisdom out of the Past ? Nay, hut Thou that hast wings, Thou that hast eyes for far, Spirit of Living Things Who singest and lo, they are — Nay, it is Thou hast wings, Thou that hast eyes for far ! 8 The Wanderer Wind and Rain Written during a storm in the Jura WHO would not ride on the Shadowy Plain Horsed with the Host of the galloping Rain ? Ride, ride Over the wide Leagues of the forest, the corn-land, the meadows. Blotting together the lights and the shadows ? With the wind, the wind in his heart, in his brain, Who would not ride ? Into the dark that is black, that is blind, Sped by the tempest that thunders behind — (Hark, hark ! Loud through the dark Roaring, he urges us into the denser Thick of the pines where the night is intenser !) With the Rain, the Rain on the galloping Wind Who would not ride ? An Apollo at the Vatican 9 An Apollo at the Vatican I SAW the eagle joy of things A captive, drooping down his wings. While his dawn-enkindled eyes Sickened for forgotten skies. I felt the godlike heart of man — Ceasing from its stellar span — Draw instead a broken breath And resign itself to death. Strode of a sudden, summer-bright As a towering cloud of light, Through that drear imprisonment, Apollo, playing as he went. He is Manhood, setting forth With his face toward the north, With his radiant head on high. And his feet upon the sky, Mirth of morning for his mien ; While the exultant strings, between His divine young fingers, play The beginning of the Day. lo The Wanderer The Building of the City I SEE a City being wrought Upon the rock of Living Thought. It was a bloodless dream until It quickened in a good man's will, Became a hope, became a vow. For one, for many, until now Upon the rock of Living Thought I see the City being wrought. City of Thought, City of Dream, Standing beside the ancient stream Of Progress, all thy fields are free To the wide winds of Liberty ! Builded thou art, but yet forever We build thee with our heart's endeavour Upon the border of that Stream Beautiful City of our Dream ! Colour and music, fancy, song. To our enduring toil belong : Naught shall be wanting that can free Our spirit : there shall ever be Goblets of laughter at the lip Of this exultant fellowship. Because our hands together frame A City unbedimmed by shame. Foursquare our City, taking all The winds with heart heroical : Ay, blow or buffet, groan or gride. She takes them, for she is the bride Of a free people who have sold No liberty of hers for gold. Nor for poor prudence did transgress The pure love of her loveliness. The Building of the City 1 1 She is our faith ! How Hke a star Mocking the dark she shines afar ! Our Hght, she writes upon the wall Of darkness challenges to all The drear and dread and doleful powers, That they release the golden hours They squander, and give back again The glory of the day to men. To every citadel of wrong Her stones cry out a battle-song : She is so wrought of manly stuff The nations have not power enough To silence her : her heart is free From any fear of any : She Can take the world's assaulting shock Builded so on the Living Rock. I see the City being wrought Upon the rock of Living Thought : Upon her rising walls I look. And every stone is like a book Of many milk-white pages, fair Imprinted, with a loving care ; While on each lovely page is set Word of a wisdom lovelier yet. City of Thought, City of Dream, Standing beside the cosmic stream Of Progress, all thy fields are free To the wide winds of Liberty ! Builded thou art, but yet forever We build thee with our heart's endeavour, Upon the borders of that Stream, Beautiful City of our Dream ! 12 The Wanderer The Spanish Gipsy : Suggested by Ignacio Zuloaga's Lucienne Breval. AS the night fell, I found her on the hills. Great-shouldered she — with one hand on her hip, Her chin upon the other hand — her gaze Sibylline. When I came into her gaze Still had it been as though I stood afar, So far she shot her sight ; but that its shaft — How far soe'er across the hills it flew — Was fire-tipped, to burn inward, suddenly. A gold snake circled round her swart forearm : Upon her fingers gleamed the night-dark stone : Deep down upon her brow the forest-dark Of her tumultuous hair hung heavily ; And thereunder, but darklier, for there pulsed Her living blood within it, shone her gaze. Her heart stood watching at its open port : The night fell on the hills : she drew the night In and about her : she was one with it. Mystical was her mouth, as Freedom's mouth Whose lips awake the morning from his sleep With clarion call : her dread and silent face More silent than the hills, because it was Yet mightier than they, yet mightier Than the last mountain, merging in the night. The Spanish Gipsy 13 Bred of the mountain night and dread with power. Prophetic, masterful, indifferent. The daughter of the Night, and doorkeeper Of that yet unimaginable Day That every night, descending on the land, Presages, and that every evening sees Waiting at droop of dusk upon the hills, — As darkness fell upon the hills, I met The challenge of the Gipsy-woman's gaze. The Wanderer Deeming Dale WHO is it knocks at my window ? Ho, Who is it rides the gale ? " Yonder the Pitiless Ladies go Adown the Deeming Dale : " The cold of a cloud is over them, Open the pane and see ; All the women of perilous dream Go drifting drearily, " One by one on the bitter wind Companionless and grey. With the empty sound of a host behind To bring them on their way. " But yonder, yonder comes the Moon, And yonder see them turn : Jewelled and fierce their hunting shoon Fly flashing through the fern." Now whither do they ride so fast Upon the whirling wind ? " Fasten the pane against the blast ! Hasten and draw the blind." Who is it knocks at my window ? Ho, Who is it rides the gale ? " And who would join the hosts that go Adown the Deeming Dale ? " An Old Woman 15 An Old Woman UPON my hills, upon my heart The purple evening shadows lie, My thoughts leap like the olive sprays That shimmer up against the sky. About me blows the floweriness Of summer and the young green corn ; And in my heart dances a sheen Of dark and silver, night and morn. O, like an olive, old am I, Fantastic, thwarted, whimsical ; But then my thoughts are olive sprays, Lissom, and mystical, and tall. Gnarly and grey and old I am, As Mother Earth, Great-mother Night ; And up against the blue I dance. Lilac and silver in the^light. 1 6 The Wanderer The Coppice Wood WHO is it haunts the coppice wood — Draws the thicket hke a hood Primrose-broidered round her face — Sudden through the hazel boughs Glances her bewildering grace ? Who is it haunts the coppice wood ? Who is it haunts the coppice wood ? Wonder wakens in my blood ; For her sake the song is fain That among the hazel boughs All the birds begin again. Who is it coming through the wood ? I saw the Maiden where she stood Ankle deep amid the flood Of the cuckoo blossom ; all About her, through the hazel boughs. Rang the call and counter- call — " Who is it coming through the wood ? " " May Morning in the coppice wood ! " The Wanderer 1 7 The Wanderer : Being Words for Botticelli's Voyage of Venus An Earth Spirit, watching : WHAT car is this ye blow ? And what is this white Blossom of the cool grey Sea That worshipping ye hasten Her, and throw Flowers after Her in glee ? And wherefore is She inwardly so bright That, all and every whit. Her iDody with delight Illumined is, and like a pearl is it ? And tell me, tell me, wherefore are Her eyes Purposeful, infinite. Transcending any thought, As though unto the Sea the streams had brought, From the mountains where they rise. High ultimate passion Of tempest and of stress, Out of its wonder, in the deeps, to fashion This loveliness ? The West Wind : Blessed, blessed, are we. Children of the South and of the West, 1 8 The Wanderer Whose blithe young windy faces Follow Her through the morning spaces Of the quiet Sea ! Of all things She is loveliest : And we, we blow Her bark where She would go ! The South Wind : Softly we blow ! She is most pale and rare — Venus, the daughter of the Sea — • And we have roses, and strow Them, that there be A richness in the air : Laughing, we blow The long, long tresses of Her languorous hair ! To Her body pale She doth catch them with Her hand As we blow them : With the dawn-gleam in and thro' them They become Her golden sail And bear Her to the land ! West Wind : Wistful, She enters the ripples and the foam That keep the shore : Ocean is Her home — As a stranger Stands She at your door. The Wanderer 19 Wistful, She comes, as one that bringeth danger, Once the sea is left behind. To whosoe'er shall meet Her : She seeks if She may go unseen : And see, breasting our merry wind. Come ye to greet Her, And bring a flowered robe meet for our Queen ! Earth Spirit, offering the Robe : How it is vain ! Those feet, where'er they pass, To sweet rebellious pain Must wake the ungovernable grass . Out of this very robe the air shall learn Proud and implacable insurgencies To whisper to the unforgetting trees ! And wheresoe'er She glances. Stern, without ruth. On errands far, and never to return. Her eyes will bid the adventurous heart of youth ! Sung in the Grove : Needs must we pause amid our maiden dances : Across their calm control Wakes the new gladness That begins to stir Confusedly within our Soul : Some passion of Immortal Madness Shaking its sleep away to welcome Her ! Ah, we delay. Attendant on the pleasure 20 The Wanderer Of this tall Stranger, that ye blow Hither across the Sea : Amid our play, Her ocean-stepping feet bring in a measure Of world-perplexity : Yea, yea ! For She whose bark ye bring, Cometh to carry away, Upon some wayward rhythm of wandering, Our ancient treasure. The old sweet steps we know, That flow together, and flow In the stately dances of virginity. Earth Spirit : Ah, whither, whither, whither, White Bird that wendest hither. White Dove across the Sea ? Venus answers nothing, always looking wistfully before Her. Earth Spirit, aside : As in a dream, Moving She doth not move : The ages stream By Her — She stems their tide Poised on a shell — doth prove Their murmuring flow, and silent doth abide. The Wanderer 2 i South Wind : Maiden, Ask Her not whither ! About Her feet Invisibly, Her httle bark is laden With mystery, With all that is not born And is to be. West Wind : From far beyond the Past, By paths untried, With empty hands, as one forlorn. Mere jetsam of the wanton tide. Naked, and carried on a shell, at last She is come hither, — She, Immortal Wanderer through Time, Child of Eternity ! Sung in the Grove : Are Thy feet wandering feet ? Are Thy hands vain ? Heavy Thy flight — Burdened with bitter-sweet Of night and day. Promise obscure of pain And ever-incomplete Delight ? Snatchest Thou hence for aye Peace from our silences, Shadowy blossoming ? 22 The Wanderer Plantest Thou fierce and bright Wonders instead of peace ? — Thou comest, and — Whatso Thou bring, Whatso Thou take away, — We reck not anything So Thou but stay ! We^t Wind, : Fair Though ye greet Her, yet in vain your prayer ! Her feet that are the New Life's Messengers Know not delaying. Whenas our singing stirs About Her head. Through the long strands of Her hair. Those idle fingers, playing, In every golden thread Catch a sure murmuring Of voices far away. Bidding Her feet depart ! South Wind : Together, when we snatch Her robe, and blow Her body clean of care. Fragrance of orchard blossoming Fulfils Her, She is all Odour and murmur and desire of Spring. Then wandering grows fair, With eagerness, Her heart Making reply, The Wanderer 23 She hears the unvisited, The untrodden islands call, And She forgets to stay. Voyager, She, Her errand still achieving ; She lingers whiles She may, With mystic fingers and that golden thread The enkindling wonder weaving, Her fabric of far vision, floating, to lie outspread Luminous, over all the earth and sky. West Wind : Sure as ye think to hold Her, so Certain your undeceiving ! Some dawn or evening from the hills Down to Her scallop, unobserved She'll go : Our breezes begin stirring, and below Her feet the ripple trills : Ye call : She doth not answer : She is sped. The Winds, together : Laughing, we blow Her bark where it would go ! 24 The Wanderer November FAR inland, and a sky Like a sea-rippled strand, With cold pale pools left by the far-spent tide — A limpid east-wind blowing. Marching against the sky, horses and men, A team goes, sowing in the corn Into the gleaming many-furrowed field. The harrows dragging after. And the Earth gladdens quietly in the clean cold light As one that bathes at a salt pool on the strand And hears the sea afar — the old, wild sea — The haunting of the sea along the margin. The Sea-Change 25 The Sea-Change IF when I yield my spirit to the Sea, When the still silent tide of Death receives me, I shall depart out of this life of forms Whose Here is but a point, whose Now is but a moment, Whose Me is but a sense- constricted soul, — If I depart, giving myself up wholly To the receiving waters infinite, Surely my spirit shall therein discover New and unmeasured being. I will take such a body as the Light has, Or Music. — ay, or other finer Force That runs unhindered through the fields of Space — I will exchange this Here, this Now, this Me, For other, vaster ; that I may pass out By open doors into the open air, And be at large with God. Even now, whenso I love, Whenso my narrowed Me eludes its bonds And, reaching out and over, loosens, loses Itself to Life — even now, whenso I love. Surely there leaps beneath my heart the Immortal That shall go out into the Deeps with God. 26 The Wanderer The Mirrors THOU lookest in this mirror that displays A face, a form that answers thee and says " Behold thyself," and thou believest it : But when some other comes to thee and cries " Behold thyself ! " thou thinkest thyself wise Denying, O thou man of little wit ! Art thou this thing of mouth and nose and eyes This vested presence that upon thee cries With too familiar greeting from the glass ? I thought thee something nobler, for I heard The woodland call thee with its leafy word The field with its innumerable grass. This bald five feet or more, is't all thou art ? Or is it haply but a little part. Whereof thou know'st not the mysterious Whole Whereof there is no thing but whispers thee " Behold thyself " : whereof the stars and sea, Future and Past are mirrors to thy Soul ? Wind in the Door 27 Wind in the Door SHRIEKS the \vild wind i* the bolted door— That treacherous wind ! But hsten, unconfmed, He is all mirth across the open moor. Haunted, confused with pent-up sound, This barren shell ; But plain each syllable Of all the shouting waves beyond its bound. And so shrieks Fate i' the soul confined — Ah, treacherous Fate ! The heart emancipate Hears her all laughter like the moorland wind. And so, confused as in a shell The pent-up sound. Goes thought, till all around He feels the Ocean, and breaks through the spell. 2 8 The Wanderer Doubt MY mind is full of twisted ways. Of passages that wind about, And, turning, hide them from the blaze Of light that fills the world without. In these recesses of my brain. Beyond the range of sun or star, Harbour darkness, doubt and pain : Light cannot reach them where they are. Unless, long-beating like a flood, It burst the barriers of my will. Enter the channels of my blood. And with its life my life fulfil. Then, then before it Doubt would die Out of its crannies, and be done ; Thought would forget uncertainty, And find the glory of the sun. Advent 29 Advent I WAITED : he is come. Oh, I have dreamed Of him and doubted ; now I understand, — In all the day it was his glory gleamed, In all the darkness I have touched his hand. 'Tis the new life beginning ; now I see This cell is grown too small to hold me : I Am driven out by joy's necessity, For if I were to linger, joy must die. So I must out and on. Fling the door wide. Good Porter, whether thou be life or death ! These narrow walls are not for me ; outside The whole world breathes the wonder of his breath. 30 The Wanderer At Nightfall NOW let the thoughts of Time go by- Needs of the body and the mind ;- The busy sun is lost behind The hills, and all the meadows lie Under the eternal sky. Now banish fancy, thought and care — Into their woods bid them begone ; Their busy day is out and done : For silence now must thou prepare Breathing the immortal air. Thy cares go, giving thee release Into the silence of the night. While star and star across the height Measure the spaces of thy peace When thy cares go by and cease. But when thy heart is free from stain, Washed as in waters infinite From every care that clouded it, With the morning thou wilt fain Take the thoughts of time again. For Two Pictures 31 For Two Pictures by Mary MacRae White /. The Clearing. CLEAR me a little space among the trees, April will brim it up with primroses. Nay, as with ruthless axe you pluck adown This coppice, silver-grey and purple-brown, Ere yet the January sun hath found Time to evoke a new leaf from the ground, Even already then, your clearing fills With blossom delicate as the blue hills And sweet as the wild wisdom that distils Among the old leaves sodden in tlie mire, — — The wayward smoke of the woodcutter's fire. //. The Gipsy's Looking-Glass. For you, it is a pool among the trees That you could scoop (almost) between your hands, A little black pool, bordered with green grass : But some who look upon it as they pass, And how it opens inward and expands Wizardly, — cross themselves : for unto these It hath a magic mightier than the sea's, Old witchcrafts manier than the moonlit sands. And it is called " The Gipsy's Looking-Glass." 32 The Wanderer Lucifer Triumphing : Suggested by William Blake's Picture UPON the dust her loveliness is spread — Eve's yellow hair : her foolish fingers rest Upon the fruit forbid her : on her breast. Crushing its petals, lolls the cunning head. And, loop on scaly loop, obscene and dread Locking her, gloating over her, possessed Of her, the whole black serpent. With what zest He feels the flame lap-lapping, hot and red ! She faints : while, stretched above her and the snake, Potent to save, and slay that shameful thing, Saving her not, but (for the hidden sake Of some wild hope that is not yet awake) Enduring with her, waits on weariless wing Lucifer, Son of the Morning, triumphing ! WILLIAM BRBNDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH The Great Companions By Henry Bryan Binns Bi)ardst2s. net; post-freey 2s > "^d. ** Filled with that understanding which is the rarest of the gifts of the gods. ... A book pf* infinite riches in little room.' "—Boston Transcript {U.S. J.). " The sort of food which nourishes and stimulates imaginative youth." — Manchester Gtiardian. "This vivid and glowing book, breathing in every sentence the passion of nature and humanity."— -O^r^rc^r. " In the great passages he is irresistible." — Inquirer, " One of the pioneers of the ne)v purpose." — N^teAge. "A freedom and breadth in the diction which would have been sadly lirnited within the bounds of rhyming verse." Western Daily Press. " A strange haunting rhythm." — British Friend. London : A, C. Fi field, 13 CUfFord*s Inn, E.C uc souTHrHN p,i r.HiNAi I ii*''';f;/,[^2',l|j| AA 000 591 815 6 ^kM/'