fl^t) BY JOHN DRINKWATER r Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN [HE 1 IBRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CAL [FORNIA LOS ANGELES POEMS OF LOVE AND EARTH POEMS OF LOVE AND EARTH BY JOHN DRINKWATER AUTHOR OF ' LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS* ' POEMS OF MEN AND HOURS* 'COPHETUA ' ETC. LONDON DAVID NUTT, 57-59 LONG ACRE 1912 Certain of the following poems are reprinted by courteous permission from : The Academy ; Country Life ; The Englishwoman ; The Nation ; The Poetry Review ; The Spectator ; The West- minster Gazette ; and The Windsor Magazine. *c~ DEDICATION TO MY WIFE My words are here of immemorial things, The labouring earth, the swift unwearied wings Of Love that ever circle earth about, Pity for stricken men and pride that they Yet look with eyes heroic on the day, Creators in the void and lords of doubt; Of women who, albeit nursing yet Remembrance of the things we would forget, Spoiled of so much, so little paid in fee, Keep bright in wonder and in worship still The hearts of men so troubled to fulfil, Not wholly shamed, the end that is to be. Of secret exultations of the year, Fierce inarticulate passions that are near In ecstasy to God's imagining, Of men who wake each day as to a proud Adventure, and go down to sleep unbowed, To dream alone of what the dawn may bring. vi DEDICATION My words of these. And of my age what word ? Are not of these the ultimate longings heard Upon the lips of every storied age ? What little vision may be mine of these Is clear or clouded as my day decrees, The time's my tutor, and my song the wage. And you, my Lady, to whose lap I bring This little treasure of my voyaging, Of you I take how much, of how great worth Of your hands healing, peace of your good care, Of your hope strength all perilous things to dare, And fellowship in you with Love and Earth. CONTENTS PAGE DEDICATION ........ v VIGIL ......... i WED ......... 2 THE WEAVING ........ 4 UNCROWNED ........ 5 PETRUCCIA'S SONG ....... 9 A BALLAD OF KINGS ...... 10 FORSAKEN ........ 13 OF THREE ........ 14 DERELICT ........ 16 THE ROSES OF BETHLEHEM . . . . -17 THE CROWNING OF DREAMING JOHN . . .19 THE TRAVELLER ....... 23 THE VAGABOND 24 THE FECKENHAM MEN ...... 25 NEWS OF THE FLEET ...... 27 Two ELEGIES I. Tolstoi . . . . . . .31 II. Florence Nightingale . . . . -32 PIERROT ......... 33 THE DUSTMAN'S SONG . . . . . -35 EARTH LOVE ........ 36 MORNING THANKSGIVING . . . . . .37 MALVERN LYRICS ....... 39 AT GRAFTON ........ 42 A GARDEN IN KENT ...... 44 A WARWICKSHIRE SONG ...... 45 ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR ...... 46 THE FIRES OF GOD ....... 52 EPILOGUE FOR A MASQUE ...... 63 VIGIL I watch the good ships on the sea Yet never ship comes home to me. Out of the crowded ports they sail To crowded ports that cry them hail. And still they bring no word to me, Tall masted ships upon the sea. As goodly messengers they go Laughing against all winds that blow. Yet never ship upon the sea Bears blessed merchandise for me. I watch them pass from friend to friend All day from world's end to world's end. No pleasant ship comes down to me Along the long leagues of the sea. Nor sign nor salutation made, Beyond the far sea-line they fade. Yet as I watch them on the sea All ships are piloted by me. WED WED I married him on Christmas morn, Ah woe betide, ah woe betide, Folk said I was a comely bride, Ah me forlorn. All braided was my golden hair, And heavy then, and shining then, My limbs were sweet to madden men, O cunning snare. My beauty was a thing they say Of large renown, O dread renown, Its rumour travelled through the town, Alas the day. His kisses burn my mouth and brows, burning kiss, O barren kiss, My body for his worship is, And so he vows. But daily many men draw near With courtly speech and subtle speech ; 1 gather from the lips of each A deadly fear. WED As he grows sullen I grow cold, And whose the blame ? Not mine the blame Their passions round me as a flame All fiercely fold. And oh, to think that he might be So proudly set, above them set, If he might but awaken yet The soul of me. Will no man seek and seeking find The soul of me, the soul of me ? Nay, even as they are, so is he, And all are blind. On Christmas morning we were wed, Ah me the morn, the luckless morn ; Now poppies burn along the corn, Would I were dead. B 2 THE WEAVING THE WEAVING When God so marvellously wrought In chaos with a poet's care, Think you He then had any thought Of golden hair ? Of lips to break the bars of sleep Was He aware when He designed The changing wonders of the deep, The minstrel wind ? Foresaw He, when He made the skies And rivers running to the sea, The shadowed laughter of those eyes That beacon me ? Had any rumour reached Him yet Of love's compassion in the night Upon that day when first He set In darkness light ? Twas so. When stars and waters swept New-born along the waste, and man In God's high meditation slept, Our love began. UNCROWNED UNCROWNED She drew the patterned curtains back And let the moonlight in And the cool night. There was no lack Of lures that lead to sin About her grey eyes tenanted By secret laughters proud, Her ripe lips were a miracle, Her hair fell as a cloud About her shoulders, and she stood Most beautiful, a flame Of passion tortured in the winds, Her womanhood a shame, Her beauty burning as a wound, Her love a thing of blame. A loathed thing her love it seemed, For ill her love had grown As rotting fruit beneath the boughs Among the grass unmown, Beautiful once in sun and rain And good winds cheerly blown. Men came, a courtly crowd to her, And spoke of love aloud to her, Day-long, day-long, they flattered her, And called her beauty good, UNCROWNED But no man came with secret flame To cover her and lend her name A glory that should leaven all Her holy womanhood Her hungry womanhood. She watched the other women go With quiet mates, the women so Far set below her in the things That make a woman fair. And now she leant across the night, Breast open to the soft moonlight, And silver arrows of the moon Were splintered in her hair. ' O God of all the yellow fields Of stubble, God of stars, Why should the woman that is me Be prisoned in the bars Fashioned by men because their eyes Are sealed, their sweet souls dead Why should my armoured pride so make Uncomraded my bed ? ' For that my beauty is a thing To make a proven tale, My speech to keep tired lids awake, My laughter like a sail Rippled upon a golden sea, My wit a thing of worth, UNCROWNED > They make a common troll of me, God of the good green earth ! ' My name is heard throughout the land, Men sing my body's praise, They listen when I laugh, my words Are coveted, my days Are rich in tribute, yet I find No man that dares to be Lord of the secret heart I bear, The woman that is me. ' How shall I speak ? How, being proud, Shall I cry out that this Woman they praise is hungering For one unfettered kiss, That she they make a song-burden Is starving while they sing, Starving among them all, O God, How shall I cry this thing ? ' Hidden within my body's flame And flames which are my soul A secret beauty lies. Until One rides to make it whole, To set it on his brow, to make It free yet never free, Crying for birth goes wandering The woman that is me. UNCROWNED ' And while I wait I have no joy Of homage nor the things That make the seasons beautiful, And folded are the wings Whereon ah well, night moves apace, Anew the dawn-tide runs, Day and the little light that is The shadow of Thy suns.' She curtained out the moonlight, ^pale In marriage with the day. As golden nets her golden hair Along the pillows lay ; And the wind stirred among the leaves, And God's work went its way. PETRUCCIA'S SONG PETRUCCIA'S SONG About the middle of the year Whistle, whistle, bird in tree, When the skies were very clear Pipe a song for me, Came a lover up the hill, Came a lover with a will. Sing a dirge for me. Tinkers now may tell the tale Hush, oh silly sobbing wind, Gossips gathered round their ale Hush, it is unkind, Men must laugh whate'er the cost, Never mind the life that's lost, Hush, now, never mind. io A BALLAD OF KINGS A BALLAD OF KINGS An old king once was proud of his kingdom, Proud of his own as a king might be, And he saw a hundred ships come sailing Out of a kingdom over the sea, And he knew that the king that they bore with them Was a mightier man of war than he. As the ships came up through the summer weather The great king stood in the bows of one Red-sailed and carven and golden coloured, His silver shield was alight in the sun, And he held in his hand a spear long-shafted, Scarred by the battling he had done. Then a man went down to the edge of the waters And cried, ' My master will give to-day Into your hands a mighty treasure, So be it ye tarry not on your way.' And the great king laughed and gave no answer, And the ships came sailing into the bay. A BALLAD OF KINGS u The old king spake to his queen, whose beauty And young desire he scarce could tell, ' Wherein is succour in this our peril ? ' And the young queen answered, ' It were not well For the weak to anger the proud in battle, Go down and meet him and bid him dwell With us in peace for a little season, And offer to give what he would take, And then to-night in the hour of music I'll crave a blessing, and bid him make No sound of grieving in this our kingdom, But seek his homeland for my fair sake.' No longer now is the sound of feasting, The hall is hushed in the hour of song, And the song is ended, and now the silence Breaks, ' O king, your hand is strong, And mine is weak, and I crave a blessing Go from us and leave no stain of wrong.' Then the great king rose and looked on her beauty, And said, ' On the morrow we will go With sheathed swords and nought of treasure, Save thee alone will ye have it so ? Speak, O king, and men of this kingdom, Shall it be as I now have said or no ? ' 12 A BALLAD OF KINGS The proud old king was proud of his kingdom, But prouder far of his queen was he, ' Not for you and your spears uplifted, And mailed men shall this thing be, Our pride is little for things that perish, But little of love for shame have we/ Then the great king rose and his men rose with him And bound the men of the old king there, But the proud old king and his queen they bound not, And they sat and watched with their swords laid bare Across their knees, and no word was spoken Till the day on the land and sea was fair. A hundred ships in the golden morning With great sails gleaming took the tide, And one all carven and golden coloured Bore the king who laughed in his pride, For the queen in all her perilous beauty, Flushed, exultant, stood at his side. The old king stood at the edge of the waters And watched the ships go down the bay, And his pride was dead, and his heart was broken, For carried along the windy way He heard the sound of a woman's laughter, Light as the blossom that's blown in May. FORSAKEN 13 FORSAKEN The word is said, and I no more shall know Aught of the changing story of her days, Nor any treasure that her lips bestow. And I, who loving her was wont to praise All things in love, now reft of music go With silent step down unfrequented ways. My soul is like a lonely market-place Where late were laughing folk and shining steeds, And many things of comeliness and grace ; And now between the stones are twisting weeds, No sound there is, nor any friendly face, Save for a bedesman telling o'er his beads. 14 OF THREE OF THREE He met us by the twilit sea, My love and me, my love and me, A very cunning man was he. There was no sound of men ; the fall Of the long fretful waves, the call Of amorous sea birds that was all. Our love no gust of grief had known, No little shadowy doubt had grown Between the kisses that alone Her lips and mine, it seemed to us, Of all the world could fashion thus So pure albeit perilous. Triumphant was our love, and free Of all the spears of jealousy. A very cunning man was he. Bereft of love, bereft of light, Bereft of solace in the night, I keep alone my battle-might. OF THREE 15 The travelling men from many climes No rumour ever brought or rhymes Of prouder beauty, sweeter chimes Of laughter, than the beauty set About her brows, the laughters met About her lips. I shall forget. Her love, God knows her love is less No whit, no colder her caress, But alien love her lips confess, Not mine, not mine, no longer mine ; All passionate yet her dark eyes shine, But unto me they bear no sign. I have no care of heaven or hell ; I wait his coming ; it is well. And after after, who may tell ? 16 DERELICT DERELICT The cloudy peril of the seas, The menace of mid-winter days, May break the scented boughs of ease And lock the lips of praise, But every sea its harbour knows, And every winter wakes to spring, And every broken song the rose Shall yet re-sing. But comfortable love once spent May not re-shape its broken trust, Or find anew the old content, Dishonoured in the dust ; No port awaits those tattered sails, No sun rides high above that gloom, Unchronicled those half-told tales Shall time entomb. THE ROSES OF BETHLEHEM 17 THE ROSES OF BETHLEHEM In Bethlehem where the Lord was born In a lowly place on a starlit morn, By a full fair church at the city walls Is a field where still in the starlight falls An odour of roses sweet and rare, Albeit no rose now blossoms there. For there was fashioned of God's kind hand The first of roses in any land. And in this manner he fashioned these, The red rose trees and the white rose trees. A little maiden was held in shame For a sin whereof she had no blame. And they led her out in her nakedness To die in that field by the fire's caress. And as they kindled the fire she prayed To the Lord that he would help a maid, c i8 THE ROSES OF BETHLEHEM And let all men see that she had done No wrong in her days beneath the sun. And praying so of her sore desire She gathered her sweet limbs to the fire. And the Lord God heard her in that place, And quenched the fire of His holy grace. And the brands whereon the flames had fed Clung round her body, roses red. And out of the brands unkindled quite Brake round her a foam of roses white. So in the City of Bethlehem Where the Lord was born of David's stem, It pleased the Maker to fashion these, The red rose trees and the white rose trees. THE CROWNING OF DREAMING JOHN 19 THE CROWNING OF DREAMING JOHN I Seven days he travelled Down the roads of England, Out of leafy Warwick lanes Into London Town. Grey and very wrinkled Was Dreaming John of Grafton, But seven days he walked to see A king put on his crown. Down the streets of London He asked the crowded people Where would be the crowning And when would it begin. He said he'd got a shilling, A shining silver shilling, But when he came to Westminster They wouldn't let him in. Dreaming John of Grafton Looked upon the people, Laughed a little laugh, and then Whistled and was gone. Out along the long roads, The twisting roads of England, Back into the Warwick lanes Wandered Dreaming John. C 2 20 THE CROWNING OF DREAMING JOHN II As twilight touched with her ghostly fingers All the meadows and mellow hills, And the great sun swept in his robes of glory Woven of petals of daffodils And jewelled and fringed with leaves of the roses Down the plains of the western way, Among the rows of the scented clover Dreaming John in his dreaming lay. Since dawn had folded the stars of heaven He'd counted a score of miles and five, And now, with a vagabond heart untroubled And proud as the properest man alive, He sat him down with a limber spirit That all men covet and few may keep, And he watched the summer draw round her beauty The shadow that fell from the wings of sleep. And up from the valleys and shining rivers, And out of the shadowy wood-ways wild, And down from the secret hills, and streaming Out of the shimmering undefiled Wonder of sky that arched him over, Came a company shod in gold And girt in gowns of a thousand blossoms, Laughing and rainbow-aureoled. THE CROWNING OF DREAMING JOHN 21 Wrinkled and grey and with eyes a-wonder And soul beatified, Dreaming John Watched the marvellous company gather While over the clover a glory shone ; They bore on their brows the hues of heaven, Their limbs were sweet with flowers of the fields, And their feet were bright with the gleaming treasure That prodigal earth to her children yields. They stood before him, and John was laughing As they were laughing ; he knew them all, Spirits of trees and pools and meadows, Mountain and windy waterfall, Spirits of clouds and skies and rivers, Leaves and shadows and rain and sun, A crowded, jostling, laughing army, And Dreaming John knew every one. Among them then was a sound of singing And chiming music, as one came down The level rows of the scented clover, Bearing aloft a flashing crown ; No word of a man's desert was spoken, Nor any word of a man's un worth, But there on the wrinkled brow it rested, And Dreaming John was king of the earth. 22 THE CROWNING OF DREAMING JOHN III Dreaming John of Grafton Went away to London, Saw the coloured banners fly, Heard the great bells ring, But though his tongue was civil And he had a silver shilling, They wouldn't let him in to see The crowning of the King. So back along the long roads, The leafy roads of England, Dreaming John went carolling Travelling alone, And in a summer evening, Among the scented clover, He held before a shouting throng A crowning of his own. THE TRAVELLER 23 THE TRAVELLER When March was master of furrow and fold, And the skies kept cloudy festival, And the daffodil pods were tipped with gold And a passion was in the plover's call, A spare old man went hobbling by With a broken pipe and a tapping stick, And he mumbled ' Blossom before I die, Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick. ' I've weathered the world for a count of years Good old years of shining fire And death and the devil bring no fears, And I've fed the flame of my last desire ; I'm ready to go, but I'd pass the gate On the edge of the world with an old heart sick If I missed the blossoms. I may not wait The gate is open be quick, be quick.' 24 THE VAGABOND THE VAGABOND I know the pools where the grayling rise, I know the trees where the filberts fall, I know the woods where the red fox lies, The twisted elms where the brown owls call. And I've seldom a shilling to call my own, And there's never a girl I'd marry, I thank the Lord I'm a rolling stone With never a care to carry. I talk to the stars as they come and go On every night from July to June, I'm free of the speech of the winds that blow, And I know what weather will sing what tune. I sow no seed and I pay no rent, And I thank no man for his bounties, But I've a treasure that's never spent, I'm lord of a dozen counties. THE FECKENHAM MEN 25 THE FECKENHAM MEN The jolly men at Feckenham Don't count their goods as common men, Their heads are full of silly dreams From half-past ten to half-past ten, They'll tell you why the stars are bright, And some sheep black and some sheep white. The jolly men at Feckenham Draw wages of the sun and rain, And count as good as golden coin The blossoms on the window pane, And Lord ! they love a sinewy tale Told over pots of foaming ale. Now here's a tale of Feckenham Told to me by a Feckenham man, Who, being only eighty years, Ran always when the red fox ran, And looked upon the earth with eyes As quiet as unclouded skies. 26 THE FECKENHAM MEN These jolly men of Feckenham One day when summer strode in power Went down, it seems, among their lands And saw their bean fields all in flower ' Wheat-ricks,' they said, ' be good to see, What would a rick of blossoms be ? ' So straight they brought the sickles out And worked all day till day was done, And builded them a good square rick Of scented bloom beneath the sun. And was not this I tell to you A fiery-hearted thing to do ? NEWS OF THE FLEET 27 NEWS OF THE FLEET (NOTE. My acknowledgments are due to Mr. E. Hallam Moorhouse's admirable collection of ' Letters of the English Seamen.' ) Peace, aye peace, no more do we ask of God, And the Lord shall not be heedless of our desire, But peace uncrowned of honour is but a rod, And a fearful peace consumes as a wasting fire. From France are rumours of friends that are haply foes, And far in the north are lips that laugh at our pain, And here at our gates the muttering menace grows The whisper gathers ' They bow to the dogs of Spain.' They lie, and they know they lie, but we play the fool, My Master, the high God loves not this delay, Shall our guns be mute from the break o' the year to Yule, And we stand mammering still from day to day ? 28 NEWS OF THE FLEET We pray to the Lord for peace, and the voice of the Lord Is heard ' Go forth and harvest your peace with might.' A word, my Master, we beg but the grace of a word That our ships may cover the seas with terrible light. John Hawkins, in love of the Queen and hope of heaven, Sent in fifteen hundred and eighty-seven From the Bonaventure, riding the homeland seas, To Sir Francis Walsingham these. II The crowded sails of Spain are set For Englishmen to see, And Spain, we mind us, shall forget The day not easily, The men of Spain shall rue it yet What men the English be. God grant you watch in such a sort As Parma's pride may ease, We've one who ere to-day's report Goes shouldering the seas Shall wish himself in Mary Port Among his orange trees. NEWS OF THE FLEET 29 Haste, haste, and pardon for the haste, The eyes of England wake, But little hours in sleep we waste And Spain is still to break, We've dealings little to her taste Yours ever, Francis Drake. Fifteen hundred and eighty-eight, The last of July, these to the State, In the fear of God and in scorn of fate. Ill Nine days ago we fell, For that heaven thought it well, In the shadows of the dawn On the strength of Philip drawn In a mighty pretty show off Gravelines, And we set our teeth and came With a thunder and a flame On the men who curse the name Of England's Queen. We held them all the day, And goodly ships were they, And three we sent below While some were fain to go To the coast as being weary of the sea, 30 NEWS OF THE FLEET And the rest were well content To leave our merriment, And along the wind they went By God's decree. To the north and to the north We sent the Spaniard forth, And they fled us with a will , While we followed laughing still For we'd neither shot nor powder to our name, And we drove them from the coast, And it's little now they'll boast Who had sworn to make a ghost Of England's fame. From aboard the Ark, in August of eighty-eight And the seventh day, with a humble heart and great Thanksgiving to God, to whom be praise that an end Of this our work is made as may here be seen, To Francis Walsingham this, from his loving friend Howard, Admiral, liege to his sovereign Queen. TWO ELEGIES 31 TWO ELEGIES I Tolstoi (1828-1910) Not out of his due time he moves among The immemorial silences of death, The golden ears were full, the song was sung, And the prophetic breath Had prophesied unto a world not wise Through a full tale of changing fiery days, And vision was no longer to his eyes Of earth's tumultuous ways. His heart had striven long, his feet had pressed Adown the paths where many sorrows meet, Till the great heart was troubled in its quest, And tired the travelling feet. His lips have spoken, and his lips are sealed, But we shall pluck the fruits of his desire In days to be when broken love is healed, And hearts are forged in fire. 32 TWO ELEGIES II Florence Nightingale (1820-1910) Sweet lady of the healing hands, go down To laurelled peace from days that knew no dread, Your meed on earth love-sentinelled renown, Elsewhere communion with the ageless dead. To those far fields your soul is drawn again Wherein the lord of pity fashioneth The charity whereof you brought to men Meek ministrations in the ways of death. No tears we bring ; only a quickened sense That man, albeit troubled of his scars, May bear him like a god for recompense, And set his forehead to the flaming stars. PIERROT 33 PIERROT Pierrot alone, And then Pierrette, And then a story to forget. Pierrot alone. Pierrette among the apple boughs Come down and take a Pierrot's kiss, The moon is white upon your brows, Pierrette among the apple boughs, Your lips are cold, and I would set A rose upon your lips, Pierrette, A rosy kiss, Pierrette, Pierrette. And then Pierrette. I've left my apple boughs, Pierrot, A shadow now is on my face, But still my lips are cold, and O No rose is on my lips, Pierrot, You laugh, and then you pass away Among the scented leaves of May, And on my face The shadows stay. 34 PIERROT And then a story to forget. The petals fall upon the grass, And I am crying in the dark, The clouds above the white moon pass- My tears are falling on the grass; Pierrot, Pierrot, I heard your vows And left my blossomed apple boughs, And sorrows dark Are on my brows. THE DUSTMAN'S SONG 35 THE DUSTMAN'S SONG For a Fairy Play Along the pathways of the skies, From star to star, from moon to moon, Where silver blossoms slenderwise Lie all about the woven boon Of shadows fallen from the sun, I pass alone when day is done. I gather in the pollen shed From silver cups and petals white, And back to earth, all swiftly sped, I bear my treasure down the night. In little golden sacks I keep The powdered silver dust of sleep. Dust for mortal eyes and dust Gathered for the fairy folk, In my magic shuttle thrust To and fro with level stroke, Through the loom of seeming sooth, Weaving ageless dreams of truth. D 2 36 EARTH LOVE EARTH LOVE If there should be a sound of song Among the leaves when I am dead, God grant I still may hear it sped. And may I never pass along Unmoved of that sweet goodlihead, // there should be a sound of song Among the leaves when I am dead. And may I never know the wrong Of cancelled memory of shed Soft petals of the roses red // there should be a sound of song Among the leaves when I am dead, God grant I still may hear it sped. MORNING THANKSGIVING 37 MORNING THANKSGIVING Thank God for sleep in the long quiet night, For the clear day calling through the little leaded panes, For the shining well-water and the warm golden light, And the paths washed white by singing rains. We thank Thee, O God, for exultation born Of the kiss of Thy winds, for life among the leaves, For the whirring wings that pass about the wonder of the morn, For the changing plumes of swallows gliding upwards to their eaves. For the treasure of the garden, the gillyflowers of gold, The prouder petalled tulips, the primrose full of spring, For the crowded orchard boughs, and the swelling buds that hold A yet unwoven wonder, to Thee our praise we bring. 38 MORNING THANKSGIVING Thank God for good bread, for the honey in the comb, For the brown-shelled eggs, for the clustered blossoms set Beyond the open window in a pink and cloudy foam, For the laughing loves among the branches met. For the kind-faced women we bring our thanks to Thee, With shapely mothering arms and grave eyes clear and blithe, For the tall young men, strong-thewed as men may be, For the old man bent above his scythe. For the great glad earth, for heaven's trackless ways, For their music and their colour, Lord, we bring What things may be of thanks, and that Thou hast lent our days Eyes to see and ears to hear and lips to sing. MALVERN LYRICS 39 MALVERN LYRICS (To Mary Anderson de Navarro) I Cool where the clean winds travel Along the solemn hills, We watch the flowing splendour That summer brews and spills From Malvern down to Bredon Across the mellow plain, Transfiguring the lowlands Of shining leaves and grain. Above the black pine-shadows We dream beneath the sky, And watch the far-flung valleys Of Severn and of Wye, And see the white clouds, walking The great blue road that spans The world from Wales to Cotswold, Like ghostly caravans. From beacon on to beacon, From shire to burning shire The full day flames triumphant All girt in golden fire, 40 MALVERN LYRICS And here above the meadows Fire garmented and shod, We find a little haven Among the winds of God. II High up among the stars We woo the night, Yea, we who bear the scars Of armed fight In the great world below Where men in traffic go. Here in the ancient hills Is ancient calm, Here God's wing broods, and fills With shadowed balm The hearts of men who know The ways that trouble so. Here let us fold our hands In prayer and praise, Here in the silent lands The quiet ways, Here holy vigil keep, Hosted by stars and sleep. MALVERN LYRICS 41 III Surely God laughs a little when He hears The wind spun into music on the crest Of hills that change not with the changing years I know He laughs, for laughter likes Him best. Surely God laughs a little when He sees The shepherds in the valleys fold their sheep, And the long shadows falling from the trees Over the corn full-eared for men to reap. And well He laughs in thinking of the pride Of your good beauty waxing day by day, In the white fires of time but purified, A perfect summer mellowed out of May. 42 AT GRAFTON AT GRAFTON God laughed when he made Grafton That's under Bredon Hill, A jewel in a jewelled plain. The seasons work their will On golden thatch and crumbling stone, And every soft-lipped breeze Makes music for the Grafton men In comfortable trees. God's beauty over Grafton Stole into roof and wall, And hallowed every paved path And every lowly stall, And to a woven wonder Conspired with one accord The labour of the servant, The labour of the Lord. And momently to Grafton Comes in from vale and wold The sound of sheep unshepherded, The sound of sheep in fold, And, blown along the bases Of lands that set their wide Frank brows to God, comes chanting The breath of Bristol tide. AT GRAFTON 43 The days are good at Grafton, The golden days and grey, The busy clouds, the mellow barns, And every winding way. And oh, the peace of Grafton Beneath the starlit skies, God dreamt of when he fashioned A woman's love-lit eyes. 44 A GARDEN IN KENT A GARDEN IN KENT The cool wind falls from the long low hills Into this quiet corner of Kent, Into this garden of roses and fills The passionate hours with a sweet content, It gathers the scent of the clustered pinks And shakes the pods of the lupin spires, To the heart of the yellow gorse it sinks And fans the peony's paling fires. No rumour is here of London ways, And London city is hard at hand, Unstirred the calm processional days Foster the fruits of the mellow land, And the garden nothing of trouble knows Set round by bountiful guardian trees, For here the lord of the world bestows His largesse of imperial ease. The storied wisdom of all the years When, travel-weary, our pride is spent May nothing avail, but the trouble clears Here in this coloured corner of Kent ; The pity of man is little enough But great is the pity of God who gives A little haven a man may love And hold in purity while he lives. A WARWICKSHIRE SONG 45 A WARWICKSHIRE SONG There are no oaks in all the shires I love so well as those that spill Smooth acorns from their mailed cups Along the Warwick lanes ; and still The Avon holds as clear a way As Tweed or Thames, and never blows The wind along a sweeter land Than that wheredown the Avon goes. On northern hill and Sussex down, In Derby dale and Lincoln fen, I've trafficked with the winds of God And talked and laughed with many men I've seen the ploughshare break the earth From Cumberland to woody Kent ; I've followed Severn to the sea, And heard the swollen tide of Trent. I know the south, I know the north, I've walked the counties up and down, I've seen the ships go round the coast From Mersey dock to London town ; I've seen the spires of east and west, And sung for joy of what I've seen, But oh, my heart is ever fain Of ways where Avon's oaks are green. 46 ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR / caught the changes of the year In soft and fragile nets of song, For you to whom my days belong. For you to whom each day is dear Of all the high processional throng, I caught the changes of the year In soft and fragile nets of song. And here some sound of beauty, here Some note of ancient, ageless wrong Re-shaping as my lips were strong I caught the changes of the year In soft and fragile nets of song, For you to whom my days belong. ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR 47 I The spring is passing through the land In web of ghostly green arrayed, And blood is warm in man and maid. The arches of desire have spanned The barren ways, the debt is paid, The spring is passing through the land In web of ghostly green arrayed. Sweet scents along the winds are fanned From shadowy wood and secret glade Where beauty blossoms unafraid. The spring is passing through the land In web of ghostly green arrayed, And blood is warm in man and maid. 48 ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR II Proud insolent June with burning lips Holds riot now from sea to sea, And shod in sovran gold is she. To the full flood of reaping slips The seeding-tide by God's decree, Proud insolent June with burning lips Holds riot now from sea to sea. And all the goodly fellowships Of bird and bloom and beast and tree Are gallant of her company Proud insolent June with burning lips Holds riot now from sea to sea, And shod in sovran gold is she. ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR 49 III The loaded sheaves are harvested, The sheep are in the stubbled fold, The tale of labour crowned is told. The wizard of the year has spread A glory over wood and wold, The loaded sheaves are harvested, The sheep are in the stubbled fold. The yellow apples and the red Bear down the boughs, the hazels hold No more their fruit in cups of gold. The loaded sheaves are harvested, The sheep are in the stubbled fold, The tale of labour crowned is told. 50 ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR IV The year is lapsing into time Along a deep and songless gloom, Unchapleted of leaf or bloom. And mute between the dusk and prime The diligent earth re-sets her loom, The year is lapsing into time Along a deep and songless gloom. While o'er the snows the seasons chime Their golden hopes to re-illume The brief eclipse about the tomb, The year is lapsing into time Along a deep and songless gloom, Unchapleted of leaf or bloom. ROUNDELS OF THE YEAR 51 Not wise as cunning scholars are, With curious words upon your tongue, Are you for whom my song is sung. But you are wise of cloud and star, And winds and boughs all blossom-hung, Not wise as cunning scholars are, With curious words upon your tongue. Surely, clear child of earth, some far Dim Dryad-haunted groves among, Your lips to lips of knowledge clung Not wise as cunning scholars are, With curious words upon your tongue, Are you for whom my song is sung. B2 52 THE FIRES OF GOD THE FIRES OF GOD I Time gathers to my name ; Along the ways wheredown my feet have passed I see the years with little triumph crowned, Exulting not for perils dared, downcast And weary-eyed and desolate for shame Of having been unstirred of all the sound Of the deep music of the men that move Through the world's days in suffering and love. Poor barren years that brooded over-much On your own burden, pale and stricken years Go down to your oblivion, we part With no reproach or ceremonial tears. Henceforth my hands are lifted to the touch Of hands that labour with me, and my heart Hereafter to the world's heart shall be set And its own pain forget. Time gathers to my name Days dead are dark ; the days to be, a flame Of wonder and of promise, and great cries Of travelling people reach me I must rise. THE FIRES OF GOD 53 II Was I not man ? Could I not rise alone Above the shifting of the things that be, Rise to the crest of all the stars and see The ways of all the world as from a throne ? Was I not man, with proud imperial will To cancel all the secrets of high heaven ? Should not my sole unbridled purpose fill All hidden paths with light when once was riven God's veil by my indomitable will ? So dreamt I, little man of little vision, Great only in unconsecrated pride ; Man's pity grew from pity to derision, And still I thought, ' Albeit they deride, Yet is it mine uncharted ways to dare Unknown to these, And they shall stumble darkly, unaware Of solemn mysteries Whereof the key is mine alone to bear.' So I forgot my God, and I forgot The holy sweet communion of men, And moved in desolate places, where are not Meek hands held out with patient healing when The hours are heavy with uncharitable pain ; 54 THE FIRES OF GOD No company but vain And arrogant thoughts were with me at my side. And ever to myself I lied, Saying ' Apart from all men thus I go To know the things that they may never know.' Ill Then a great change befell : Long time I stood In witless hardihood With eyes on one sole changeless vision set The deep disturbed fret Of men who made brief tarrying in hell On their earth travelling. It was as though the lives of men should be Set circle-wise, whereof one little span Through which all passed was blackened with the wing Of perilous evil, bateless misery. But all beyond, making the whole complete O'er which the travelling feet Of every man Made way or ever he might come to death, Was odorous with the breath Of honey-laden flowers, and alive With sacrificial ministrations sweet Of man to man, and swift and holy loves, THE FIRES OF GOD 55 And large heroic hopes, whereby should thrive Man's spirit as he moves From dawn of life to the great dawn of death. It was as though mine eyes were set alone Upon that woeful passage of despair, Until I held that life had never known Dominion but in this most troubled place Where many a ruined grace And many a friendless care Ran to and fro in sorrowful unrest. Still in my hand I pressed Hope's fragile chalice, whence I drew deep draughts That built belief that even yet should grow Out of this dread confusion, as of broken crafts Driven along ungovernable seas, Some threads of order, and that I should know After long vigil all the mysteries Of human wonder and of human fate. O fool, O only great In pride unhallowed, O most blind of heart ! Confusion but more dark confusion bred, Grief nurtured grief, I cried aloud and said, ' Through trackless ways the soul of man is hurled, No sign upon the forehead of the skies, No beacon, and no chart Are given to him, and the inscrutable world But mocks his scars and fills his mouth with dust.' 56 THE FIRES OF GOD And lies bore lies And lust bore lust, And the world was heavy with flowerless rods, And pride outran The strength of a man Who had set himself in the place of gods. IV Soon was I then to gather bitter shame Of spirit, I had been most wildly proud Yet in my pride had been Some little courage, formless as a cloud, Unpiloted save by the vagrant wind, But still an earnest of the bonds that tame The legionary hates, of sacred loves that lean From the high soul of man towards his kind. And all my grief Had been for those I watched go to and fro In uncompassioned woe Along that little span my unbelief Had fashioned in my vision as all life. Now even this so little virtue waned, For I became caught up into the strife That I had pitied, and my soul was stained At last by that most venomous despair, Self-pity. I no longer was aware Of any will to heal the world's unrest, 57 I suffered as it suffered, and I grew Troubled in all my daily trafficking, Not with the large heroic trouble known By proud adventurous men who would atone With their own passionate pity for the sting And anguish of a world of peril and snares, It was the trouble of a soul in thrall To mean despairs, Driven about a waste where neither fall Of words from lips of love, nor consolation Of grave eyes comforting, nor ministration Of hand or heart could pierce the deadly wall Of self of self, I was a living shame A broken purpose. I had stood apart With pride rebellious and defiant heart, And now my pride had perished in the flame. I cried for succour as a little child Might supplicate whose days are undefiled, For tutored pride and innocence are one. To the gloom has won A gleam of the sun And into the barren desolate ways A scent is blown As of meadows mown By cooling rivers in clover days. 58 THE FIRES OF GOD I turned me from that place in humble wise. And fingers soft were laid upon mine eyes, And I beheld the fruitful earth, with store Of odorous treasure, full and golden grain, Ripe orchard bounty, slender stalks that bore Their flowered beauty with a meek content, The prosperous leaves that loved the sun and rain, Shy creatures unreproved that came and went In garrulous joy among the fostering green. And, over all, the changes of the day And ordered year their mutable glory laid Expectant winter soberly arrayed, The prudent diligent spring whose eyes have seen The beauty of the roses uncreate, Imperial June, magnificent, elate Beholding all the ripening loves that stray Among her blossoms, and the golden time Of the full ear and bounty of the boughs, And the great hills and solemn chanting seas And prodigal meadows, answering to the chime Of God's good year, and bearing on their brows The glory of processional mysteries From dawn to dawn, the woven shadow and shine Of the high noon, the twilight secrecies, And the inscrutable wonder of the stars Flung out along the reaches of the night. THE FIRES OF GOD 59 And the ancient might Of the binding bars Waned as I woke to a new desire For the choice song Of exultant, strong Earth-passionate men with souls of fire. VI 'Twas given me to hear. As I beheld With a new wisdom, tranquil, asking not For mystic revelation this glory long forgot, This re-discovered triumph of the earth In high creative will and beauty's pride Established beyond the assaulting years, It came to me, a music that compelled Surrender of all tributary fears, Full-throated, fierce, and rhythmic with the wide Beat of the pilgrim winds and labouring seas, Sent up from all the harbouring ways of earth Wherein the travelling feet of men have trod, Mounting the firmamental silences And challenging the golden gates of God. We bear the burden of the years Clean limbed, clear hearted, open browed, Albeit sacramental tears Have dimmed our eyes, we know the proud 60 THE FIRES OF GOD Content of men who sweep unbowed Before the legionary fears ; In sorrow we have grown to be The masters of adversity. Long ere from immanent silence leapt Obedient hands and fashioning will, The giant god within us slept, And dreamt of seasons to fulfil The shaping of our souls that still Expectant earthward vigil kept, Our wisdom grew from secrets drawn From that far-off dim-memoried dawn. Wise of the storied ages we, Of perils dared and crosses borne, Of heroes bound by no decree Of laws defiled or faiths outworn, Of poets who have held in scorn All mean and tyrannous things that be; We prophesy with lips that shed The songs of the prophetic dead. Wise of the brief beloved span Of this our glad earth-travelling, Of beauty's bloom and ordered plan, Of love and love's compassioning, Of all the dear delights that spring From man's communion with man ; We cherish every hour that strays A down the cataract of the days. THE FIRES OF GOD 61 We see the clear untroubled skies We see the glory of the rose And laugh, nor grieve that clouds will rise And wax with every wind that blows, Nor that the blossoming time will close, For beauty seen of humble eyes Immortal habitation has Though beauty's form may pale and pass. Wise of the great unshapen age, To which we move with measured tread All girt with passionate truth to wage High battle for the word unsaid, The song unsung, the cause unled, The freedom that no hope can gauge ; Strong-armed, sure-footed, iron-willed We sift and weave, we break and build. Into one hour we gather all The years gone down, the years unwrought, Upon our ears brave measures fall Across uncharted spaces brought, Upon our lips the words are caught Wherewith the dead the unborn call ; From love to love, from height to height We press and none may curb our might. 62 THE FIRES OF GOD VII blessed voices, O compassionate hands, Calling and healing, O great-hearted brothers ! 1 come to you. Ring out across the lands Your benediction, and I too will sing With you, and haply kindle in another's Dark desolate hour the flame you stirred in me. bountiful earth, in adoration meet 1 bow to you ; O glory of years to be, I too will labour to your fashioning. Go down, go down, unweariable feet, Together we will march towards the ways Wherein the marshalled hosts of morning wait In sleepless watch, with banners wide unfurled Across the skies in ceremonial state, To greet the men who lived triumphant days, And stormed the secret beauty of the world. EPILOGUE FOR A MASQUE 63 EPILOGUE FOR A MASQUE A little time they lived again, and lo ! Back to the quiet night the shadows go, And the great folds of silence once again Are over fools and kings and fighting-men. A little while they went with stumbling feet, With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet, With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills, And now their dust is on a thousand hills. We dream of them, as men unborn shall dream Of us, who strive a little with the stream Before we too go out beyond the day, And are as much a memory as they. And Death, so coming, shall not seem a thing Of any fear, nor terrible his wing. We too shall be a tale on earth, and time Our pilgrimage shall shape into a rhyme. With coloured threads of laughter and of tears They wove a pattern on the crowded years, And wove aright, and we are weaving still From dawn to dusk God grant we weave not ill. PRINTED BY 8POTTISWOODK AND CO. LTD.. COLCHESTER LONDON AND ETON POEMS OF MEN AND HOURS By JOHN DRINKWATER. Cr. 8vo. is. 6d. net. THE SPECTATOR. Of the five volumes of lyrics on our list . . . 'Poems of Men and. Hours' is the most re- markable both for its accomplishment and its promise. ... In this slim book there is scarcely a jejune thought or a harsh line, and sometimes, as in the fine ' Prayer ' and 'The Lady Laura,' we find a beautiful and rare conception wedded to haunting music. ... In the business of the lyric, too, Mr. Drinkwater shows himself a master. THE NATION. Mr. Drinkwater has a very considerable command over his art ; he has no notion of dazzling with astonishing imagery or verbiage, but his music has a serious beauty of its own, his words are always impressed with grave dignity. Moreover, the book throughout is plainly the work of one who is conscious that man stands now, intellectually and spiritually, where he has never stood before. The ' Prayer ' . . . may, without exaggerating its merits, be regarded as the mood pre- luding, somewhat indefinitely perhaps, English poesy's consciousness of the great task awaiting her. THE ACADEMY. There is in all these short poems that individual note for which the critic looks so earnestly. . . . Mr. Drinkwater has both thought and truth which are more or less apposite to the needs of the age, and for this we the more gladly commend him to the searchers after beauty and truth. THE TIMES. . . . the writer's sure gift for restrained musical expression. THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE. His work is always sound in accomplishment, earnest in intention. Such poems as 'Love's Personality,' 'Expectancy,' 'Death,' ' At Waterloo,' have a serene and austere dignity and beauty not to be attained except after long preparation and discipline of mind. THE NORTHERN WHIG. 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