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;;i)ND Edition 
 
 THE OLD SHIPS 
 
 J1ES ELPOY FLECKER^ 
 
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THE OLD SHIPS 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES ELROY FLECKER 
 
 LONDON 
 
 THE POETRY BOOKSHOP 
 35 DEVONSHIRE STREET, THEOBALDS ROAD, W.C. 
 
First Edition (1,000 Copies) May Jgi^. 
 Reprinted (June 191$)' 
 
 James Elroy Flecker died in Switzerland on 
 the 3rd of January, 1915, aged 30. His prin- 
 cipal volumes of poetry were " The Bridge of 
 Fire" (1907), "Forty-Two Poems" (1911), 
 and "The Golden Journey to Samarkand" 
 
 (1913). 
 
 The following pages contain most of the 
 
 poems written during the last two years of his 
 
 . life, arranged approximately in chronological 
 
 'order. . Several, of them have appeared in 
 
 periodicals; others are here printed for the 
 
 • first time.- • 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 The Old Ships 5 
 
 1 he Blue Noon - - - _ . y 
 
 A Fragment --____ g 
 
 Narcissus ----_. ^ 
 
 Stillness - - - - _ -ii 
 
 The Pensive Prisoner - - - - - 12 
 
 Hexameters - - - - - - 13 
 
 Philomel - - - - _ - H 
 
 From Jean Mor^as' "Stances" - - - 16 
 
 The Princess - - - - - . 17 
 
 Pannyra of the Golden Heel - - - - 19 
 
 The Gate of the Armies - - - - 20 
 
 The Old Warship Ablaze - - - - 21 
 
 November Eves - - - - - 23 
 
 God Save the King - - - - - 24 
 
 The Burial in England - - - - 26 
 
 The True Paradise - - - - - 31 
 
 O 
 
 336561 
 
THE OLD SHIPS. 
 
 I HAVE seen old ships sail like swans asleep 
 Beyond the village which men still call Tyre, 
 With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep 
 For Famagusta and the hidden sun 
 That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire ; 
 And all those ships were certainly so old 
 Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun, 
 Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges. 
 The pirate Genoese 
 Hell raked them till they rolled 
 Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold. 
 But now through friendly seas they softly run, 
 Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green. 
 Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold. 
 
 But I have seen 
 
 Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn 
 
 And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay 
 
 A drowsy ship of some yet older day ; 
 
 And, wonder's breath indrawn, 
 
 Thought I — who knows — who knows — but in 
 
 that same 
 (Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new 
 — Stern painted brighter blue — ) 
 
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came 
 (Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar) 
 From Troy's doom-crimson shore, 
 And with great lies about his wooden horse 
 Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course. 
 
 It was so old a ship — who knows, who knows? 
 — And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain 
 To see the mast burst open with a rose, 
 And the whole deck put on its leaves again. 
 
THE BLUE NOON. 
 
 WHEN the whole sky is vestured silken blue 
 With not one fleece to view, 
 Drown your deep eyes afar, and see you must 
 How the light azure dust 
 And speckled atoms of the polished skies 
 Are large blue butterflies. 
 The proof? Lie in a field on heavy noons, 
 When Nature drones and croons 
 And on man's distant cry or dog's far bark 
 Hush sets the instant mark. 
 Look up : when nothing earthly stirs or sings 
 You hear them wave their wings, 
 And watch the breeze their vanity awakes 
 Light on the heavenly lakes. 
 But when the shades before the sun's huge fall 
 In sham retreat grow tall, 
 Their ambushed allies, the impatient stars, 
 Make ready for bright wars. 
 And shoot ten million arrows to chastise 
 The tardy butterflies 
 
 Who dive in hosts toward the diving sphere 
 That holds the light's frontier. 
 And the poor vanquished, turning as they glide, 
 Show their gold underside. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 O POURING westering streams 
 Shouting that I have leapt the mountain bar, 
 Down curve on curve my journey's white way gleams- 
 My road along the river of return. 
 
 I know the countries where the white moons burn, 
 
 And heavy star on star 
 
 Dips on the pale and crystal desert hills. 
 
 I know the river of the sun that fills 
 
 With founts of gold the lakes of Orient sky. 
 
 And I have heard a voice of broken seas 
 
 And from the cliffs a cry. 
 
 Ah still they learn, those cave-eared Cyclades, 
 
 The Triton's friendly or his fearful horn 
 
 And why the deep sea-bells but seldom chime, 
 
 And how those waves and with what spell-swept rhyme 
 
 In years of morning, on a summer's morn 
 
 Whispering round his castle on the coast, 
 
 Lured young Achilles from his haunted sleep 
 
 And drave him out to dive beyond those deep 
 
 Dim purple windows of the empty swell. 
 
 His ivory body flitting like a ghost 
 
 Over the holes where flat blind fishes dwell. 
 
 All to embrace his mother throned in her shell. 
 
NARCISSUS. 
 
 OPOOL in which we dalHed 
 And splashed the prostrate Noon ! 
 O Water-boy, more pallid 
 Than any watery moon ! 
 O Lilies round him turning! 
 O broken Lilies, strewn 1 
 O silver Lutes of Mornnig ! 
 O Red of the Drums of Noon ! 
 
 dusky-plumaged sorrow ! 
 
 ebon Swans of Care — 
 
 1 sought thee on the Morrow, 
 And never found thee there ! 
 
 I breathed the vapour-blended 
 
 Cloud of a dim despair : 
 White lily, is it ended? 
 
 Gold hly — oh, golden hair ! 
 
 The pool that was thy dwelling 
 
 1 hardly knew again, 
 
 So black it was, and swelling 
 
 With bitter wind and rain. 
 'Mid the bowed leaves I lingered, 
 
 Lashed by the blast of Pain, 
 Till evening, storm-rose-fingered, 
 
 Beckoned to night again. 
 
10 
 
 There burst a flood of Quiet 
 
 Over the unstelled skies ; 
 Full moon flashed out a-riot : 
 
 Near her I dreamt thine eyes 
 Afloat with night, still trembling 
 
 With captured mysteries : 
 But sulphured wracks, assembling, 
 
 Redarkened the bright skies. 
 
 Ah, thou at least art lying 
 
 Safe at the white nymph's feet, 
 Listless, while I, slow-dying. 
 
 Twist my gaunt limbs for heat ! 
 Yet I'll to Earth, my Mother : 
 
 So, boy, I'll still entreat 
 Forgive me — for none other 
 
 Like Earth is honey-sweet ! 
 
II 
 
 STILLNESS. 
 
 WHEN the words rustle no more, 
 And the last work's done, 
 When the bolt lies deep in the door, 
 
 And Fire, our Sun, 
 Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor ; 
 
 When from the clock's last chime to the next chime 
 
 Silence beats his drum, 
 And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time 
 
 Wheeling and whispering come. 
 She with the mould of form and he with the loom of 
 rhyme : 
 
 Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee, 
 
 I am emptied of all my dreams : 
 I only hear Earth turning, only see 
 
 Ether's long bankless streams, 
 And only know I should drown if you 
 
 Laid not your hand on me. 
 
12 
 
 THE PENSIVE PRISONER. 
 
 MY thoughts came drifting down the Prison where I lay — 
 Through the Windows of their Wings the stars were 
 
 shining — 
 The wings bore me away — the russet Wings and grey 
 With feathers hke the moon-bleached Flowers — I was a God 
 
 reclining : 
 Beneath me lay my Body's Chain and all the Dragons born 
 
 of Pain 
 As I burned through the Prison Roof to walk on Pavement 
 
 Shining. 
 
 The Wild Wind of Liberty swept through my Hair and sang 
 
 beyond : 
 I heard the Souls of men asleep chattering in the Eaves 
 And rode on topmost Boughs of Heaven's single-moon-fruited 
 
 Silver Wand, 
 Night's unifying Tree whereof the central Stars be leaves — 
 O Thoughts, Thoughts, Thoughts, — Fire-angel-birds relent- 
 less — 
 Will you not brood in God's Star-tree and leave Red-Heart 
 tormentless ! 
 
HEXAMETERS. 
 
 O HAPPY Dome so lightly swimming through storm-riven 
 Aether, 
 Blue burning and gold, the hollow of Chaos adorning, 
 Shine, happy Dome of th' air, on Sea thy sister, on ancient 
 Plains, on sharp snowbeard mountains, on silvery waters, 
 On knotted eld-mossed trees, on roses starry with April — 
 But most shine upon one lying tormented, a dreamer, 
 Thy lover. Ah wherefore did a rift so cruel across thee 
 Open ? A long tremulous sighing comes thence, with a great 
 
 wind, 
 Darkness ever blowing round thy blue curtain. A finger 
 Out of Hell aims at me. Gather. O sweet Dome o' the Morning, 
 Thy rapid ardent flamy quiver, thy splintery clusters: 
 Send a volley straight through to the heart of this desolation, 
 And burning, blasting with a shaft of thunderous azure, 
 Break the ebon soldiers, restore his realm for a dreamer ! 
 
u 
 
 PHILOMEL. 
 
 (From the French of Paul Fort). 
 
 OSING, in heart of silence hiding near, 
 Thou whom the roses bend their heads to hear! 
 In silence down the moonlight slides her wing : 
 Will no rose breathe while Philomel doth sing? 
 No breath — and deeper yet the perfume grows : 
 The voice of Philomel can slay a rose : 
 The song of Philomel on nights serene 
 Implores the gods who roam in shades unseen, 
 But never calls the roses, whose perfume 
 Deepens and deepens, as they wait their doom. 
 Is it not silence whose great bosom heaves? 
 Listen, a rose-tree drops her quiet leaves. 
 
 Now silence flashes lightning like a storm : 
 Now silence is a cloud, and cradled warm 
 By risings and by fallings of the tune 
 That Philomel doth sing, as shines the moon, 
 — A bird's or some immortal voice from Hell ? 
 
 There is no breath to die with, Philomel ! 
 And yet the world has changed without a breath. 
 The moon hes heavy on the roses' death, 
 And every rosebush droops its leafy crown. 
 A gust ol roses has gone sweeping down. 
 
IS 
 
 The panicked garden drives her leaves about : 
 The moon is masked : it flares and flickers out. 
 O shivering petals on your lawn of fear, 
 Turn down to Earth and hear what you shall hear. 
 A beat, a beat, a beat beneath the ground, 
 And hurrying beats, and one great beat profound. 
 A heart is coming close : I have heard pass 
 The noise of a great Heart upon the grass. 
 The petals reel. Earth opens : from beneath 
 The ashen roses on their lawn of death. 
 Raising her peaceful brow, the grand and pale 
 Demeter listens to the nightingale. 
 
i6 
 
 From Jean Moreas' " Stances." 
 
 THE garden rose I paid no honour to, 
 So humbly poised and fashioned on its spray, 
 Has now by wind unkissed, undrenched by dew, 
 Lived captive in her vase beyond a day. 
 
 And tired and pale, bereft of earth and sun. 
 Her blossom over and her hour of pride. 
 She has dropped all her petals, one by one, 
 Unmindful if she lived or how she died. 
 
 When doom is passing in her dusky glade 
 Let us learn silence. In this evening hour, 
 O heart bowed down with mystery and shade, 
 Too heavy lies the spectre of a flower ! 
 
17 
 
 THE PRINCESS. 
 
 A Story from the Modem Greek. 
 
 A PRINCESS armed a privateer to sail the Chersonese 
 And fitted it with purple sails to belly in the breeze, 
 With golden cords and oaken boards and a name writ out in 
 
 pearls, 
 And all the jolly mariners were gallant Httle girls. 
 
 The King's Son he came hunting her in frigates two or three, 
 " Give me one kiss, Princess," he cried, " and take a ship 
 
 from me ; 
 And would you like the yellow boat or would you like the red, 
 Or would you take myself and mine, the gold and green 
 
 instead?" 
 
 " Sir, handsome fellow as you are, it's curious, you know, 
 
 To ask a maid for kisses in mid-archipelago : 
 
 But come and fight with us, young man ; the prize is for 
 
 the brave." 
 They fought: it chanced the lady won and took him for a slave. 
 
 She drave him to the yellow boat and lashed him to the oar. 
 " Now pull, my handsome Prince," said she, "till you can 
 
 pull no more." 
 " O Princess, do but listen to a valiant boy's appeal. 
 And take me from this bitter oar, and put me at the wheel." 
 
i8 
 
 " O foolish Prince," she answered him ; " back to your oar 
 
 and pull. 
 Row hard and soon we'll anchor in the gulf of Istamboul. 
 While the slaves collect provisions and the sailors go for 
 
 drink 
 You may chance to find your Captain not so brutal as you 
 
 think!" 
 
19 
 
 PANNYRA OF THE GOLDEN HEEL. 
 
 (Albert Samain). 
 
 THE revel pauses and the room is still : 
 The silver flute invites her with a trill, 
 And buried in her great veils fold on fold 
 Rises to dance Pannyra, Heel of Gold. 
 Her light steps cross; her subtle arm impels 
 The clinging drapery ; it shrinks and swells, 
 Hollows and floats, and bursts into a whirl : 
 She is a flower, a moth, a flaming girl. 
 All lips are silent ; eyes are all in trance : 
 She slowly wakes the madness of the dance, 
 Windy and wild the golden torches burn; 
 She turns, and sw.fter yet she tries to turn, 
 Then stops : a sudden marble stiff" she stands. 
 The veil that round her coiled its spiral bands. 
 Checked in its course, brings all its folds to rest. 
 And clinging to bright limb and pointed breast 
 Shows, as beneath silk waters woven fine, 
 Pannyra naked in a flash divine I 
 
20 
 
 THE GATE OF THE ARMIES. 
 
 (From Henri de Regnier), 
 
 SWING out thy doors, high gate that dreadst 
 not night, 
 Bronze to the left and iron to the right. 
 Deep in a cistern has been flung thy key ; 
 If dread thee close, anathema on thee ; 
 And like twin shears let thy twin portals cut 
 The hand's fist through that would thee falsely shut. 
 Again thy dusky vault hath heard resound 
 Steps of strong men who never yet gave ground, 
 Marching with whom came breathless and came 
 
 bold 
 Victory naked with broad wings of gold. 
 Her glaive to guide them calmly soars and dips ; 
 Her kiss is lifeblood's purple on their lips. 
 From rose-round mouths the clarions shake and 
 
 shrill, 
 A brazen boom of bees that hunt to kill. 
 " Drink, swarm of war, stream from your plated 
 
 hives 
 "And cull death's dust on flowery-fleshed fierce 
 
 lives, 
 " So, when back home to native town ye march, 
 " Beneath those golden wings and my black arch 
 " May all men watch my pavement, as each pace 
 " Of your red feet leaves clear its sanguine trace. 
 
21 
 
 THE OLD WARSHIP ABLAZE. 
 
 F 
 
 OUNDER, old battleship ; thy fight is done ! 
 Yonder ablaze like thee now sinks the sun, 
 Shooting the last grand broadside of his beams 
 Over thy blackened plates and writhing seams. 
 Against hard odds thy crew played all their part, 
 Driving thee deathwards that the foe should smart 
 Till the guns brake and fire leapt up insane, 
 And they abandoned thee, to fight again, 
 Who on thy deck, where flicker the gaunt flames. 
 Have left so many dead— won such proud names. 
 
 Dark flow the waiting waves : one can still see 
 Thy giant murderer edge sullenly 
 Eastward among the swelling towers of night. 
 Canst thou, dying, forget in Hell's despite 
 Thy freight of fire and blood, the roar and rage 
 Of waves and guns ? Thou liest age on age 
 Tranced like the Princess in her sleepy Thorn 
 In that curv'd bay where once the film of morn 
 Brake azure to thy bugles, skilled to bring 
 The Afric breeze, who, prompt on honied wing 
 Silvered the waves and then the olive trees, 
 And shook like sceptres those stiff" companies 
 The columned palms,— nor till the air was full 
 Of flash and whisper came the noon-tide lull. 
 Or that far country's ten-year-buried eves 
 Or moonlight scattered like a shower of leaves 
 
22 
 
 Dost thou recall ? — Or how on this same deck, 
 Whose flaming planks blood-boultered tilt to wreck, 
 The dance went round to music, and how shone 
 For English grey, black eyes of Lebanon ? 
 
 But Eastward and still east the World is thrown 
 Like a mad hunter seeking dawns unknown 
 Who plunges deep in sparkless woods of gloom. 
 Lebanon long hath turned into night's womb 
 And through her stelled casements pass new dreams : 
 Thee too from those last no-more-rival beams 
 Earth rolleth back. Alone O ship, O flower, 
 O flame, thou sailest for a moth-weak hour ! 
 
 They come at last, the bird-soft pattering feet ! 
 Flame high, old ship ; the Fair throng up to greet 
 Thy splendid doom. See the long spirits, curled 
 Beside their dead, stand upright free of the world ! 
 And seize the bright shapes loosed from blood-warm 
 
 sleep, 
 They, the true ghosts, whose eyes are fixed and deep ! 
 
 O ship, O fire, O fancy! A swift roar 
 
 Has rent the brow of night. Thou nevermore 
 
 Shalt glide to channel port or Syrian town ; 
 
 Light ghosts have danced thee like a plummet down, 
 
 And, swift as Fate through skies with storm bestrewn, 
 
 Dips out ironical that ship New Moon. 
 
23 
 
 NOVEMBER EVES. 
 
 NOVEMBER Evenings ! Damp and still 
 They used to cloak Leckhampton hill, 
 And Ije down close on the grey plain, 
 And dim the dripping window-pane, 
 And send queer winds like Harlequins 
 That seized our elms for violins 
 And struck a note so sharp and low 
 Even a child could feel the woe. 
 
 Now fire chased shadow round the room ; 
 Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom : 
 We crept about like mice, while Nurse 
 Sat mending, solemn as a hearse. 
 And even our unlearned eyes 
 Half closed with choking memories. 
 
 Is it the mist or the dead leaves, 
 Or the dead men — November eves? 
 
24 
 
 GOD SAVE THE KING. 
 
 GOD save our gracious King, 
 Nation and State and King, 
 God save the King ! 
 Grant him the Peace divine, 
 But if his Wars be Thine 
 Flash on our fighting hne 
 Victory's AVing ! 
 
 Thou in his supphant hands 
 Hast placed such Mighty Lands: 
 
 Save thou our King ! 
 As once from golden Skies 
 Rebels with flaming eyes, 
 So the King's Enemies 
 
 Doom Thou and fling ! 
 
 Mountains that break the night 
 Holds He by eagle right 
 
 Stretching far Wing ! 
 Dawn lands for Youth to reap, 
 Dim lands where Empires sleep, 
 His ! And the Lion Deep 
 
 Roars for the King. 
 
25 
 
 But most these few dear miles 
 Of sweetly-meadowed Isles, — 
 
 England all Spring ; 
 Scotland that by the marge 
 Where the blank North doth charge 
 Hears Thy Voice loud and large, 
 
 Save, and their King ! 
 
 Grace on the golden Dales 
 Of Thine old Christian Wales 
 
 Shower till they sing, 
 Till Erin's Island lawn 
 Echoes the dulcet-drawn 
 Song with a cry of Dawn — 
 
 God save the King ! 
 
26 
 
 THE BURIAL IN ENGLAND. 
 
 THESE then we honour : these in fragrant earth 
 Of their own country in great peace forget 
 Death's lion-roar and gust of nostril-flame 
 Breathing souls across to the Evening Shore. 
 Soon over these the flowers of our hill sides 
 Shall wake and wave and nod beneath the bee 
 And whisper love to Zephyr year on year, 
 Till the red war gleam like a dim red rose 
 Lost in the garden of the Sons of Time. 
 But ah what thousands no such friendly doom 
 Awaits, — whom silent comrades in full night 
 Gazing right and left shall bury swiftly 
 By the cold flicker of an alien moon. 
 
 Ye veilM women, ye with folded hands, 
 Mourning those you half hoped for Death too dear, 
 I claim no heed of you. Broader than earth 
 Love stands eclipsing nations with his wings, 
 While Pain, his shadow, delves as black and deep 
 As he e'er flamed or flew. Citizens draw 
 Back from their dead awhile. Salute the flag ! 
 
27 
 
 If this flag though royally always borne, 
 Deceived not dastard, ever served base gold; 
 If the dark children of the old Forest 
 Once feared it, or ill Sultans mocked it furled, 
 Yet now as on a thousand death-reaped days 
 It takes once more the unquestionable road. 
 O bright with blood of heroes, not a star 
 Of all the north shines purer on the sea ! 
 
 Our foes — the hardest men a state can forge, 
 An army wrenched and hammered like a blade 
 Toledo wrought neither to break nor bend, 
 Dipped in that ice the pedantry of power, 
 And toughened with wry gospels of dismay ; 
 Such are these who brake down the door of France, 
 Wolves worrying at the old World's honour 
 Hunting Peace not to prison but her tomb. 
 But ever as some brown song-bird whose torn nest 
 Gapes robbery, darts on the hawk like fire, 
 So Peace hath answered, angry and in arms. 
 And from each grey hamlet and bright town of France 
 From where the apple or the olive grows 
 Or thin tall strings of poplars on the plains, 
 From the rough castle of the central hills. 
 From the three coasts — of mist and storm and sun 
 And meadows of the four deep-rolling streams, 
 From every house whose windows hear God's bell 
 Crowding the twilight with the wings of prayer 
 And flash their answer in a golden haze, 
 
28 
 
 Stream the young soldiers who are never tired. 
 
 For all the foul mists vanished when that land 
 
 Called clear, as m the sunny Alpine morn 
 
 The jodeller awakes the frosty slopes 
 
 To thunderous replies, — soon fading far 
 
 Among the vales like songs of dead children. 
 
 But the French guns' answer, ne'er to echoes weak 
 
 Diminished, bursts from the deep trenches yet ; 
 
 And its least light vibration blew to dust 
 
 The weary factions, — priest's or guild's or king's, 
 
 And side by side troop up the old partisans 
 
 The same laughing, invincible, tough men 
 
 Who gave Napoleon Europe like a loaf. 
 
 For slice and portion,— not so long ago ! 
 
 Either to Alsace or loved lost Lorraine 
 
 They pass, or inexpugnable Verdun 
 
 Ceinture with steel, or stung with faith's old cry 
 
 Assume God's vengeance for his temple stones. 
 
 But you maybe best wish them for the north 
 
 Beside you 'neath low skies in loamed fields. 
 
 Or where the great line hard on the duned shore 
 
 Ends and night leaps to England's sea-borne flame. 
 
 Never one drop of Lethe's stagnant cup 
 
 Dare dim the fountains of the Marne and Aisne 
 
 Since still the flowers and meadow-grass unmown 
 
 Lie broken with the imprint of those who fell, 
 
 Briton and Gaul — but fell immortal friends 
 
 And fell victorious and like tall trees fell. 
 
29 
 
 But young men, you who loiter in the town, 
 Need you be roused with overshouted words 
 Country, Empire, Honour, Liege, Louvain? 
 Pay your own Youth the duty of her dreams. 
 For what sleep shall keep her from the thrill 
 Of War's star-smiting music, with its swell 
 Of shore and forest and horns high in the wind, 
 (Yet pierced with that too sharp piping which if man 
 Hear and not fear he shall face God unscathed)? 
 What, are you poets whose vain souls contrive 
 Sorties and sieges spun of the trickling moon 
 And such a rousing ghost catastrophe 
 You need no concrete marvels to be saved ? 
 Or live you here too lustily for change ? 
 Sail you such pirate seas on such high quests. 
 Hunt you thick gold or striped and spotted beasts, 
 Or tread the lone ways of the swan-like mountains? 
 Excused. But if, as I think, breeched in blue. 
 Stalled at a counter, cramped upon a desk. 
 You drive a woman's pencraft — or a slave's, 
 What chain shall hold you when the trumpets play 
 Calling from the blue hill behind your town 
 Calling over the seas, calling for you ! 
 '' But," do you murmur? "we'd not be as those. 
 " Death is a dour recruiting-sergeant : see, 
 ''These women weep we celebrate the dead." 
 Boys, drink the cup of warning dry. Face square 
 That old grim hazard, " Glory-or-the-Grave." 
 
30 
 
 Not we shall trick your pleasant years away, 
 Yet is not Death the great adventure still, 
 And is it all loss to set ship clean anew 
 When heart is young and life an eagle poised ? 
 Choose, you're no cowards. After all, think some, 
 Since we are men and shrine immortal souls 
 Surely for us as for these nobly dead 
 The Kings of England lifting up their swords 
 Shall gather at the gate of Paradise. 
 
31 
 
 THE TRUE PARADISE. 
 
 LORD, is the Poet to destruction vowed, 
 Like the dawn-feather of an April cloud, 
 Which signs in russet character or grey 
 The name of Beauty on the book of Day? 
 We poets crave no heav'n but what is ours — 
 These trees beside these rivers ; these same flowers 
 Shaped and enfragranced to the English field 
 Where Thy best florist-craft is full revealed. 
 Trees by the river, birds upon the bough 
 My soul shall ask for, whose flesh enjoys them now 
 Through both the pale-blue windows of quick Mind; 
 Grant me earth's treats in Paradise to find. 
 Nor listen to that island-bound St. John 
 Who'd have no Sea in Heaven, no Sea to sail upon ! 
 Remake this World less Man's and Nature's Pam ; 
 Save such dear torment as the chill of Rain 
 When the Sun flouts us like a maid her man 
 Drowned in long meshes of a silver Fan. 
 Nor, Lord, the good fatigue of labouring breath 
 Destroy, but only Sickness, Age and Death. 
 Let old Plays teach Despair's sad grandeur still, 
 And legends trumpet War's last Hero-thrill. 
 
32 
 
 So I and all my friends, still young, still wise, 
 Will shout along thy streets—" O Paradise !" 
 But if prepared for me new Mansions are, 
 Chill and unknown, in some bright windy Star, 
 Mid strange-shaped Souls from all the Planets seven. 
 Lord, I fear deep, and would not go to Heaven. 
 Rather in feather-mist I'd fade away 
 Like the Dawn-writing of an April day. 
 
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