THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
THE MAGDALENE 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 DOLF WYLLARDE 
 
 Author of 
 
 "Verges/' "Temperament" 
 etc.. etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 MCMXX 
 
Printed in Great Britain. 
 
/f 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PACK 
 
 Proem . . 9 
 
 The Magdalene . . . . .11 
 
 Coloured Experiences . . . . .20 
 
 A Season of the Year . . . .21 
 
 Qui Bono? . . . . . .22 
 
 Nostalgia . . . . . .23 
 
 A Prayer . . . . . .26 
 
 The Inheritance . . 27 
 
 Winter Beauty . . 30 
 
 In a Hansom . . .31 
 
 Reincarnation ... . . 34 
 
 To Saint Anthony . . . 36 
 
 The Constitution . ... 37 
 
 The Socialists . ... 40 
 
 From London to the Southern Cross . . .43 
 
 Fancy . . . . . .44 
 
 Lost . . . . . .45 
 
 A Heretic's Hymn . . . . .46 
 
 Song . . . .48 
 
 The Shadow-Show ... .49 
 
 The Letter . .... 50 
 
 The Golden Hour . . . . .51 
 
 s 
 
 6238G9 
 
6 CONTENTS 
 
 PACK 
 
 The Gift . .52 
 
 Saint Anthony ... 53 
 
 An Unblest Prayer . .63 
 
 Linda ... .65 
 
 A Bead-RolI .... .67 
 
 For a Child ... .68 
 
 The Aviators .... .70 
 
 Sestina . .... 72 
 
 A Roundel . .74 
 
 Sonnet . .75 
 
 Roundel . .76 
 
 Nemo Omnibus Horis Sapit . 77 
 
 Winter . . . . . .78 
 
 Dead A Subaltern . - 80 
 
 Germany 
 
 1916 Raids .... .83 
 
 Wayside Shrines 85 
 
 A Thought for France . . 86 
 
 Bath ... 87 
 
 A Dead Woman . . . 90 
 
 Durban : Natal . .92 
 
 A Sea-Captain . . 93 
 
 London'* Child . . . . .94 
 
 A Ballad of the Tropici . .96 
 
 The Dreamer . 97 
 
 The New Eve . .99 
 
 The Man who would be Young Again . 101 
 
 Tragedies . . . . . .102 
 
CONTENTS 7 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Democritus . . .103 
 
 God . . 105 
 
 A Collie Dog . .107 
 
 The Visionaries . . . .110 
 
 Caprice . .112 
 
 The Song of the Horse . . . .113 
 
 Swinburnia . . . . . .114 
 
 A Fisher's Song . . . . .116 
 
 The Call of the West . . .117 
 
 The Absent Owner . .119 
 
 Tavistock . . . . .121 
 
 The Law of the Land . . . .122 
 
 The Basket Men . . .123 
 
 Milton . . 124 
 
 A West-Country Hunting Song . . . .126 
 
 Envoi . . .128 
 
PROEM 
 
 A ROUNDEL OF YOUTH 
 
 SINGING, as a poet might, 
 I went forth where flowers were springing, 
 For the sake of pure delight 
 Singing ! 
 
 Golden day and silver night, 
 Sweeter joys forever bringing, 
 Followed Time's relentless flight. 
 
 Glad for youth, and strong for right, 
 Folly's bells unheeded ringing, 
 I went forth in all men's sight 
 Singing. 
 
A ROUNDEL OF AGE 
 
 WRITE up against my name " This one at least 
 
 Worked honestly, without the dream of fame.' 
 Such plea, when the accusing voice has ceased, 
 Write up against my name. 
 
 I know that I must stand before man's blame, 
 
 Proved all unworthy of Olympus' feast, 
 And stripped of all, except some meed of shame. 
 
 Not mine the ring of praise from West to East 
 
 Yet though I make no other better claim, 
 The tale of how I toiled until released 
 Write up against my name. 
 
 10 
 
THE MAGDALENE 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 THE MAGDALENE 
 
 1 For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the 
 feeling of our infirmities ; fait was in all points tempted like as 
 we are. ..." 
 
 HER window looked upon the street, 
 
 She gazed as one who groweth blind, 
 Indifferent who her glance should meet, 
 And sickeningly her pulses beat 
 For all mankind. 
 
 All day she heard their footsteps fall 
 
 As pointing those who had not seen. 
 They looked as they would pierce the wall 
 " That is the house of her they call 
 The Magdalene." 
 
 Reverberate through the city went 
 
 The sound of her notorious name ; 
 Her pleasure had its full content, 
 Nor any asked she should repent 
 Her willing shame, 
 ii 
 
12 THE MAGDALENE 
 
 Too certain to be overbold 
 
 The beauty of her glowing face. 
 Brown shadows flickered through the gold 
 Of all her hair ; her mantle's fold 
 Promised more grace. 
 
 Men found all fair and lovely things 
 Within the sanction of her house, 
 And Love had folded there his wings. 
 She reigned, with power as a king's 
 Who bids carouse. 
 
 Once in wild revel of the night 
 
 She leaned aside a little space ; 
 
 Adown the long street, moony-white, 
 
 One passed ; an instant in her sight 
 
 She held his face. 
 
 Then once again the joyous feast 
 
 Leaving the solitude outside, 
 The gladness suddenly decreased, 
 She wearied till the music ceased 
 Her joy had died. 
 
 Her voiceless question broke at last, 
 
 She turned as one who fears to flinch 
 From Fate which follows overfast. 
 " Knowst thou him," she said, " who passed 
 A minute since ? " 
 
 One answered, " That is even he 
 Whom some call Christ. The story ran 
 
THE MAGDALENE 13 
 
 From Nazareth to Galilee." 
 " I see no Christ," she said, " I see 
 A very man." 
 
 " They say he worketh miracles, 
 Calling upon the God above." 
 " Yea, so ? " she saith, " Doth God work spells ? " 
 But in her heart desire swells, 
 I would his love ! " 
 
 And still as day by day returned 
 
 And brought the night she grew to hate, 
 A hidden purpose, half discerned, 
 Grew in her, till the impulse burned 
 As strong as Fate. 
 
 She lifted godless eyes in prayer 
 
 To heathen gods of hill and grove. 
 " Grant me his love ! " breathed her despair. 
 And still her heart repeated there, 
 " His love ! His love ! " 
 
 And often at the window pressed 
 
 Her vigil hungered on the street, 
 Bruising the yearning of her breast, 
 To satisfy the old unrest 
 His face to meet. 
 
 And yet he came not. Day by day 
 
 She held her breath to ask and stayed. 
 At length chance word had showed the way ; 
 " Within the Temple," chattered they, 
 " He daily prayed." 
 
14 THE MAGDALENE 
 
 And driven as one tempest-tossed 
 
 Her unused feet were hurried on. 
 She gazed around as she were lost, 
 So many years she had not crossed 
 The sacred stone. 
 
 And the great hush bewildered her 
 
 Not less the psalms when all rejoice, 
 And cry of priest and worshipper, 
 When on a sudden through the stir 
 She heard a voice. 
 
 The sound thrilled through her keenly sweet 
 
 " Love one another ! " pleaded he. 
 Such blessing might her heart repeat, 
 And still each pulse responsive beat, 
 " Love I not thee ? " 
 
 " Love one another, even as I 
 
 Have loved you. God is Love ! " he saith. 
 Her womanhood returned reply, 
 " Ah then, how sweet is deity 
 Of mortal breath ! " 
 
 She knelt enraptured in her thought 
 
 Of all the bliss that life might hold, 
 Musing the doctrine that he taught ; 
 The sweetest sinner ever bought 
 With saddest gold. 
 
 Humble upon her knees she knelt 
 Until the hurrying throng went by. 
 
THE MAGDALENE 15 
 
 Each man passed homeward where he dwelt ; 
 She lingered on until she felt 
 One drawing nigh. 
 
 Then stretched her hands in mute appeal 
 
 To touch his robe, as she besought. 
 The footsteps paused her hope was real, 
 The nearness that her dreams ideal 
 Had never taught. 
 
 " Master ! " she whispered, " I adore ! " 
 
 And lifted eyes which overran 
 With love, and left no room for awe. 
 She saw no Christ she only saw 
 A very man. 
 
 While like to one whose heart is wrung 
 
 He gazed on her who did entreat, 
 And speechlessly his glances hung 
 Above the earthly love which clung 
 About his feet. 
 
 With sudden anguish in the sense 
 
 Of all the treasure he forbore, 
 His manhood's bitter impotence 
 Broke harshly in his utterance 
 " Go sin no more." 
 
 He turned and went in deity 
 
 Which might not find God's creatures fair. 
 Foreshadowing Gethsemane 
 In loneliness of agony 
 
 Which left her there. 
 
16 THE MAGDALENE 
 
 And she too rose. The glowing day 
 Was richer as she homeward went. 
 " Go sin no more but keep for me 
 Thy love's supreme entirety." 
 She was content. 
 
 Her sweetness changed the words aright 
 
 To love's command ; her purpose won 
 She would no more the past delight 
 Of revel through the languid night ; 
 Such things were done. 
 
 And all the old life slipped away 
 
 As some sad memory grown dim. 
 She heard his voice throughout the day, 
 And the hot night was worn away 
 In dreams of him. 
 
 Not fain of what he preached was she, 
 Nor might her worship understand 
 The greatness of his majesty. 
 She only asked that she might see, 
 And touch his hand. 
 
 The rest would come, and she could live 
 
 In visions of the Paradise 
 She gilded all her Earth wherewith, 
 Nor asked as yet that he should give 
 What might suffice. 
 
 She lingered where he sat at meat 
 As if her silent patience there 
 
THE MAGDALENE 17 
 
 Would find some service incomplete 
 That she might do ; to touch his feet 
 Were sweet to her. 
 
 And once she brought a precious balm 
 
 And filled the room with odours rare, 
 Kneeling as though she made a charm, 
 He felt her breast against him, warm 
 Through all her hair. 
 
 And stooping downward, calmly laid 
 
 A gracious hand upon the gold 
 Which round her head a glory made. 
 And nothing in the touch betrayed 
 Regret untold. 
 
 The wordless anguish of the Christ 
 
 Outweighed in infinite remorse 
 The manhood that was sacrificed, 
 And daily in the ransom priced 
 He bore the cross. 
 
 Beneath the passionless control 
 
 The lower life lay unsubdued 
 Since God decreed the heavy dole 
 Of all men in the single soul 
 He had embued. 
 
 For in the nature that he bore 
 
 Christ's human pain was bitter keen ; 
 The spirit chafed and wounded sore 
 The heart that asked for evermore 
 What might have been. 
 
18 THE MAGDALENE 
 
 And when he stretched his hands to bless 
 
 With laboured breath the low words came, 
 Lest this should turn to a caress, 
 And passion mar the tenderness 
 Which spoke her name ; 
 
 Until the final hour when she 
 
 Followed the feet which led her on 
 To find her dream of bliss to be 
 Had reached its end on Calvary 
 And he was gone. 
 
 Too human to be reconciled 
 To union of a second birth 
 She hungered dumbly, like a child, 
 For things she knew ; by Earth defiled 
 She loved the Earth. 
 
 It was the man to whom she yearned, 
 
 The body that her own might touch ; 
 Not Godhead that she scarce discerned, 
 Much pardon might she need, but earned, 
 For she loved much. 
 
 Nor was the spiritual need 
 
 Of such an one as greatly shown 
 By promise as by very deed. 
 Some learn by faith but others read 
 By sight alone. 
 
 The revelation mystical 
 Was robbed of its diviner screen 
 
THE MAGDALENE 19 
 
 To suit her need. The first of all 
 Who saw him risen, was her they call 
 The Magdalene. 
 
 And she was glad, not that he proved 
 
 His promise true that souls should rise 
 But that she saw the face she loved, 
 And daily waited, deeply moved, 
 To meet his eyes. 
 
 For evermore the hope was rife 
 
 That what had been might be again. 
 And still through all her after life, 
 The dear delusion stilled the strife 
 Though nursed in vain. 
 
 She faded from the Jewish page 
 
 With that last meeting ; but her face, 
 Eternal Beauty's heritage, 
 Flashes across the long-dead age 
 With vivid grace. 
 
 Her spirit haunts the Earth to prove 
 
 The impotence of Womanhood ; 
 With eyes that never look above 
 She tortures with her human love 
 God's dream of good. 
 
 And still wherever Nature wreaks 
 
 Her vengeance for her thwarted plan, 
 The Magdalene in Woman^speaks 
 She seeks no Christ she only seeks 
 A very man. 
 
COLOURED EXPERIENCES 
 
 WORK is grey, you know, 
 
 And Joy is blue ; 
 Sacrifice is like the snow 
 
 White all through. 
 
 Passion's red, you know ; 
 
 All Love, I think, 
 Is tinted with an afterglow, 
 
 Affection's pink, 
 
 Flirtation's hardly white ! 
 
 Motherhood's flushed 
 With sunset colours soft and bright 
 
 As if it blushed. 
 
 Fear is black, you know, 
 
 And Death is green ; 
 Pain is royal purple, so 
 
 The Soul has seen. 
 
 20 
 
A SEASON OF THE YEAR 
 
 BEFORE they called me April, or gave me thirty days, 
 Binding the limits of a Month about my flowered ways 
 I was the blood-beat of the year, the earliest Hymn of Praise ! 
 
 The year turned on its axis when Winter's sands had run, 
 Heaving a leafier shoulder up to greet the growing sun 
 I was the timeless moment then, unfinished, unbegun. 
 
 I flashed across the Heavens I sparkled in the rays 
 
 And none might make a tryst with me to move in measured 
 
 ways 
 Before they called me April, or gave me thirty days ! 
 
 21 
 
QUI BONO? 
 
 IF I listened, I should hear my heart crying, 
 I should taste the bitterness of blood and tears ; 
 
 But no echo of your tenderness replying 
 Would drift to me across the parting years. 
 
 If I listened, I should hear my heart's sorrow, 
 So I fill the empty days with busy things ; 
 
 The ordered sleep, the routine of to-morrow, 
 To cheat the leaden moments into wings. 
 
 I close my ears, I use in all quiescence 
 The cheerful prison of my body's need ; 
 
 But no effort stills the craving for your presence, 
 Or checks the sobbing that I will not heed. 
 
 22 
 
NOSTALGIA 
 
 THEY may talk of the Call of the East, and the ancient civilisa- 
 tions, 
 
 The spell of the Orient, and of old, mysterious things ; 
 They may boast by temples and gods, where incense hangs in 
 
 the nostrils, 
 And the cloth is stiff with gold, and you tread the dead dust 
 
 of kings. 
 But I want to go West go West ! where no man has builded 
 
 cities, 
 To the blue and the gold and the green that is all that the 
 
 earth can show, 
 With clouds a-pile in the sky, and gorgeous shadows in 
 
 passing, 
 
 The steady sun in his strength and the steam of the earth 
 below ! 
 
 They may boast of their wonderful East with its merchandise 
 
 and its traffic. 
 
 Where the earth is desert and rock, and the heat is a shade- 
 less glare 
 And they show you a brazen ball which they call " A beautiful 
 
 sunset ! " 
 
 In the hard Oriental sky, and the clear Oriental air. 
 But I want to go West go West ! to the merciful Western 
 
 Tropics 
 
 That spread their prodigal beauty before the faces of men, 
 23 
 
24 NOSTALGIA 
 
 Where the clouds are bleeding with colour the sky is bruised 
 
 into glory 
 
 And you do not believe till you see, and you hardly credit 
 it then. 
 
 They may show you the sights of the East, the crowds and the 
 
 moving pageant, 
 
 And what is it all but Man grimacing under the stars ? 
 The desert was there ere he was, the rock and the sand out- 
 last him, 
 I am sick of the dust and the temples, the smell of their 
 
 packed bazaars. 
 
 For I want to go West go West ! to the moist green slum- 
 berous Tropics, 
 Where only the crickets hum and the tree-frog thrills in the 
 
 night 
 To the little ramshackle huts that are all that the Negro builds 
 
 him, 
 
 And the bush comes down to the shore, and cities are out 
 of sight. 
 
 They may tell of their " Gorgeous East " their pomp and 
 
 decadent splendour 
 
 Elephants, camels, and all, a spectacle out of the Ark ! 
 And half of the year they are drowned, and half of the year 
 
 they are arid 
 Dry-throat, cruel Monsoons, and " Rains " from dawning 
 
 till dark- 
 But my heart's away to the West, to the level warmth and the 
 
 moisture, 
 
 The sap that is always rising, the boughs that are never 
 bare, 
 
NOSTALGIA 25 
 
 The lush, rich guinea -grass that is shoulder-high in the 
 
 pastures, 
 
 The best of my soul remembers, and the half of my heart 
 is there. 
 
A PRAYER 
 
 WASTE not Thy pity, dear my God, 
 
 On us who cry at leisure 
 To pray Thee spare th' avenging rod 
 On some loved earthly treasure ; 
 
 For though we fear and dread its loss, 
 It still is ours, we bear no Cross. 
 
 Or in the moment of our doom 
 When what we love is taken, 
 To such a cry across the gloom 
 As finds the Angels shaken, 
 
 We are incredulous of grief 
 So long as protest brings relief. 
 
 But when we stand with empty hands 
 
 Before the shrine of Heaven 
 With no more dread of Thy commands, 
 Or plea to be forgiven, 
 
 Then, though we raise no useless cry. 
 Have mercy on our agony ! 
 
 26 
 
THE INHERITANCE 
 
 IN the early growth of the Nations, 
 
 Before that law was complete, 
 The King gave call of a tourney 
 
 Where knight with knight should compete. 
 And those were the days of contest, 
 
 When a man stood strong on his feet. 
 
 The knights came down to the jousting, 
 
 Hot -foot, keen for their own ; 
 And each man stood on his merits, 
 
 And was judged for himself alone ; 
 For the spurs were won for a lifetime, 
 
 Or ever the beard was grown. 
 
 The King gave a title as guerdon 
 
 To the knight who the tourney won ; 
 
 Shall a man pass personal valour 
 With a name to his eldest son ? 
 
 Let us go back to our manhood, 
 And forget what the King has done ! 
 
 The knight who was judged the victor 
 
 Held castle and lands in fee 
 To pass them on to his heirs 
 
 And his line in heredity, 
 With the name that he bore in the winning 
 
 And this was the King's decree. 
 27 
 
28 THE INHERITANCE 
 
 They called him the Lord of the Tourney, 
 For the love of the knightly games ; 
 
 And his son takes the unearned title 
 By the right of his legal claims ; 
 
 Let us go back to our manhood 
 It is better than empty names. 
 
 For the knight is known by his proving, 
 As the sword is known by its ring. 
 
 Untested is all unworthy 
 And this is an evil thing 
 
 Though it were law new-written 
 And sealed by the hand of the King. 
 
 The King looked from the pavilion. 
 In the midst of his squires and dames, 
 
 And under the lifted visor 
 
 He saw the scars and their names 
 
 Fearlessness, Strength, Endurance, 
 Skill, and Courageous Aims. 
 
 These were the knight's achievements, 
 
 Now he had won the prize ; 
 Taking the crown of laurel 
 
 He looked in his Sovereign's eyes, 
 For knights, in the youth of the Nations, 
 
 Spoke to the King without lies. 
 
 The King looked from the pavilion, 
 And pride had reddened his cheek ; 
 
 He gave the crown to the victor 
 For the strong man over the weak. 
 
 But the knight said, " Liege, have I pardon 
 For words ? " And the King said " Speak ! 
 
THE INHERITANCE 29 
 
 And he said, " I will take this guerdon 
 
 For my life and its single span ; 
 And the honour your Liege has given 
 
 I will bear it as subject can. 
 But God gave the first great title 
 
 When He called me simply a man ! " 
 
 Nations, Kings, and their vassals, 
 
 Echo an empty word ! 
 Truth sprang high to the challenge 
 
 In the day when that vow was heard 
 But the ages darkened the meaning, 
 
 The right of the heel to be spurred ! 
 
 We have asked men proven in harness 
 
 For ourselves and the age's needs ; 
 They have given us kings by tradition, 
 
 And peers by their father's deeds. 
 Let us go back to our manhood, 
 
 Forgetting their empty creeds ! 
 
 A latter-day spirit trembles 
 
 A latter-day faith demurs ; 
 Are they feared for the losing of honours, 
 
 Knowing them craven and curs ? 
 Send them back to probation, 
 
 Back to the winning of spurs ! 
 
WINTER BEAUTY 
 
 BARE brown branches above the mould 
 When the sun strikes them they shine like gold. 
 What is there left for the Spring to do 
 When Winter has gilded the world for you ? 
 Under the hedgerows' dripping vest 
 The moss is greener than Summer's best ; 
 And Earth is a mirror of hope on high 
 Where the wet road is blue with the sky. 
 Swinging wide in the nor '-west breeze 
 Are beautiful skeleton lines of trees, 
 And bare brown branches above the mould 
 When the sun strikes them they look like gold ! 
 
 30 
 
IN A HANSOM 
 
 (Prehistoric) 
 
 A MEMORY born to oblivion 
 
 Thrust down in the depths of the heart ; 
 An hour that owned its dominion 
 
 To the knowledge how soon we must part. 
 The far wicked lights on the River 
 
 The sense of the City at night 
 The shadows that flicker and quiver 
 
 Whirled past out of sight. 
 
 Dear London, too busy to heed us, 
 
 Contented to let us alone ! 
 What lovers now passing can need us 
 
 Whose world is as small as our own ? 
 A space that can hold us us only 
 
 A moment before we need part 
 The world left us utterly lonely, 
 
 So close heart to heart ! 
 
 No heeds, saving I who must heed you 
 My sense of you one with my own. 
 
 None needs you, you know, as I need you 
 This moment of all time alone ! 
 
32 IN A HANSOM 
 
 So close, that the pulse that is throbbing 
 Seems equally ours to divine ; 
 
 Is it my heart that yours has been robbing, 
 Or yours that drains mine ? 
 
 What deity claims to give pardon 
 
 For the flowery path we have trod ? 
 Priapus is god of the Garden, 
 
 And Eden the Garden of God ! 
 What matter the form of the story, 
 
 For Pagan and Christian are one 
 In the flame of a sexual glory 
 
 As old as the sun ! 
 
 Is sin the result of commission, 
 
 Whose heroes at least dare to live ? 
 Or is not the coward omission 
 
 The deadlier sin to forgive ! 
 I would and I would not, asunder, 
 
 You pondered, perhaps, in your heart- 
 Who hestitates ever, I wonder, 
 
 Six inches apart ? 
 
 I remember the mute resolution 
 
 Of lips that met fast on the way 
 The darkness that gave absolution 
 
 For what were denounced of the day ; 
 For night is the only redeemer 
 
 Of laws that the daylight has made. 
 Fellow sinner of mine, fellow dreamer, 
 
 Was either afraid ? 
 
IN A HANSOM 33 
 
 The sound of the wheels running even 
 
 The jingle of harness and hoofs 
 The dark of the ultimate Heaven 
 
 Hung over the line of the roofs ; 
 The daintiest sense of a nearness, 
 
 The touch half unsatisfied yet, 
 I remember the warmth and the dearness, . . , 
 
 The wrong I forget ! 
 
REINCARNATION 
 
 I WAS a teller of tales 
 
 Low in the dust by the roadside, 
 
 Watching the world go by, 
 
 Pageant and colour and strife ; 
 
 Low I called from the dust 
 
 " There was a barber in Bagdad " 
 
 Then they loitered to hear 
 
 Pleased as children awhile. 
 
 Out of the endless ages 
 
 Men have listened to stories. 
 
 I am a teller of tales 
 
 Old as the hills is my trade. 
 
 I was a teller of tales 
 When the Sphinx was carven in Egypt. 
 I sat in the dust and cried 
 To those who passed me by 
 " There was a Queen in the South " 
 Then they loitered to listen, 
 Even the great caravan 
 Passing into the desert. 
 I was a teller of tales 
 
 When the Vikings sailed to the Norseland, 
 Listening over their fires 
 Glad as children to hear 
 Old as the hills is my trade. 
 34 
 
REINCARNATION 35 
 
 I am a teller of tales 
 Low in the dust of the highway 
 Where men buy and sell 
 In the great Cities to-day. 
 Fain would I rise and go, 
 Buy and sell in my turn, 
 Join in the jingle of life 
 I, who may only watch, 
 Weaving what I have seen 
 Into the fabric of tales. 
 So I sit by the highway 
 And men still loiter to listen 
 As through the endless years. 
 I am a teller of tales 
 Old as the hills is my trade. 
 
TO SAINT ANTHONY 
 
 (Patron of Lost Treasures) 
 
 I'VE lost my purse, St. Anthony 
 I pray thee, Saint, return it me ! 
 If burning candles at thy shrine 
 
 Should make thee gracious to my plaint, 
 (Indeed the purse was truly mine !) 
 I'll light thee as my patron saint. 
 
 Anthony ! 
 How poor am I till thou restore my treasury ! 
 
 I've lost my heart, St. Anthony 
 
 I pray thee, Saint, to comfort me ! 
 
 If pious pilgrim at thy shrine 
 
 Can win a hearing for despair, 
 (Indeed the heart was truly mine !) 
 Thou wilt not deafen to my pray'r 
 
 Anthony ! 
 Send me not back my heart but give me hers in fee ! 
 
THE CONSTITUTION 
 
 WE set a Figurehead in the sand 
 
 And so we guard our King 
 To front the seas of our sea-girt strand ; 
 And we ranged ourselves on either hand, 
 The men of the Isles and of Angleland, 
 We swore allegiance to a Name 
 
 A symbol, a powerless thing ; 
 The captains vowed to uphold the same 
 (0 they must rule for the Symbol Name 
 But none for himself shall dare a claim.) 
 
 And so we guard our King. 
 This is wise, and sound, and dread, 
 To rule our realm through a Figurehead. 
 
 There came a galleon over seas 
 
 And so we guard our King 
 We fought with those, and we fought with these, 
 Till they sapped our strength with their heresies. 
 And there stepped a man from the forefront rank 
 
 For the tenets that they bring ; 
 (Roman and Saxon and Dane and Frank 
 
 They owned to a despot King.) 
 And the crafty poison spread like fire, 
 We listened, deaf to his own desire, 
 We hailed him Chief, and he ruled our cause 
 One man's saying for all men's laws 
 
 And so we guard our King. 
 37 
 
38 THE CONSTITUTION 
 
 We set an autocrat in the land 
 
 And so we guard our King. 
 With bloody power beneath his hand, 
 With broken faith where his feet should stand, 
 No more, no more the equal band 
 With laws for all and the good of all, 
 But one man's verdict beyond recall, 
 
 And the curse of his venomed sting ! 
 William and Richard and Hal and John, 
 Broken sceptres to lean upon ! 
 We have loaned our land, and our rights are gone. 
 
 And so we guard our King. 
 
 We rose for the sake of an olden right 
 
 For so we guard our King ! 
 We set the uttermost land alight 
 From the grinding greed to the unjust tax 
 The clang of harness and battle-axe 
 Rang down from cycle to century 
 Till the curse lay dead and the land lay free, 
 And weary of gold in the dust were we. 
 There was wrong in all things done and undone 
 Just and unjust under the sun 
 But we stood up with the battle won. 
 We saw the dead upon either hand 
 The Kings of the Isles and of Angleland 
 
 And this was a bitter thing. 
 But we raised the olden order we planned 
 The men of the Isles and of Angleland ! 
 
 We have set a Figurehead in the sand, 
 
 And so we guard our King. 
 Fronting the seas of a symbol strand, 
 
 In the disc of a golden ring. 
 
THE CONSTITUTION 39 
 
 And the sound of a sentry's footstep falls 
 Below the ward of his Palace walls. 
 We have spiked them high lest a foe should win 
 To the pleasure gardens that lie within ; 
 And He may not go, and He may not stay, 
 But a watchful eye on His steps shall prey ; 
 And we hedge His person by night and day, 
 
 For this is a sacred thing. 
 Sceptre and crown are harmless toys 
 We greet His face with applauding noise. 
 And the last of our blood shall not be dear 
 Ere a foe shall draw Him a step too near 
 
 For so we guard our King. 
 
 We have learned the worth of our symbol Name 
 We will die for the rights that He may not claim 
 
 The gauntlet He may not fling. 
 And the olden rule and the new are the same ' 
 
 FOR SO WE GUARD OUR KlNG ! 
 
 And this is wise, and sound, and dread, 
 That we rule our realm by a Figurehead. 
 
THE SOCIALISTS 
 
 (Vers Libres) 
 
 THEY came to me and said, 
 
 " Because we have decided that equality between men is 
 
 justice 
 There shall be no difference made between one and another 
 
 from this time forth ; 
 
 No privacy which shall suggest superiority ; 
 Nor any beauty of earth that is not organised and sanctioned 
 
 by the Majority. 
 
 Therefore pull down your garden fence, 
 And take your share of common goods, 
 Like your neighbours." 
 
 Then I looked inward to my Soul 
 And mourned to her the loss of pleasant things 
 Things that I had held as harmless 
 Free gifts of earth. 
 And my Soul comforted me ; 
 
 ' Though they use up all the earth as feeding ground, 
 And apportion it in sections to the community, 
 They cannot take the stars out of the sky, 
 Or the sunset from the West" 
 
 So I took my portion with submission like my fellow men ; 
 But I looked for beauty and liberty beyond the earth 
 And found comfort therein. 
 
 40 
 
41 
 
 They came to me and said, 
 
 " We have decreed that every man be equal 
 
 But those who are neighbours to you have cause of complaint. 
 
 They say that while their eyes are bent earthward 
 
 Yours are finding glory in the earth and sky. 
 
 That while theirs see nothing but common ugly things 
 
 Yours are opened so that you draw joy from the Universe, 
 
 And that you can gain more than they from Nature. 
 
 Which is manifestly unfair. 
 
 Therefore close your eyes, or bandage them, that you may be 
 
 equal, 
 And forego this advantage." 
 
 Then I cried out to my Soul, 
 
 " Are you to be stripped of your inheritance, 
 
 The gift of seeing God's creation in its beauty, 
 
 Because the Majority look at nothing but the turnips they 
 
 have grown 
 
 Food for their gross bodies and dull minds ? 
 This is tyranny and injustice worse than autocracy." 
 
 But my Soul comforted me ; 
 
 " Close your eyes, as they will have it so, 
 
 And I will still show you visions. 
 
 They can give all men like opportunities 
 
 They can take from one that hath and give it to another that 
 
 hath not 
 
 They can forbid one man to rise above another 
 And still men will not be equal. 
 God laughs out in scorn 
 These excellent wiseacres without imagination, 
 Who would fain recreate mankind, 
 
42 THE SOCIALISTS 
 
 And pass a vote of censure on the Almighty 
 
 For the plan of the Universe, 
 
 What are they but children playing with handfuls of earth ? 
 
 They cannot take the stars from the sky, 
 
 Or the sunset out of the West I " 
 
FROM LONDON TO THE SOUTHERN CROSS 
 
 (A Cry of Labour) 
 
 WHEN the first warmth stirs in the shallow mould 
 Laid here and there within our miles of streets, 
 When the bought violets breathe of sudden sweets, 
 
 And thinned blood quickens, by the Spring made bold, 
 When faint buds break upon our stunted trees 
 We know fruit reddens beyond Summer Seas. 
 
 When airless heat soaks up the life we live, 
 Our travesty of Summer in the North ! 
 When desperation urges us go forth 
 
 And find at least a strength to labour with, 
 When July mocks us in the dusty trees 
 We dream of warmth and sunshine on the Seas. 
 
 When the lamps glare through morning like dead eyes, 
 And faint fog threatens all the world without, 
 When later Autumn wraps us round about 
 
 With yellow darkness under yellow skies, 
 When day and night but differ in degrees 
 We know that there is sunlight on the Seas. 
 
 When England darkens to her Winter sleep, 
 
 And death comes down in triumph with the cold, 
 When sluggish blood desires not, nor is bold 
 
 To ask for some poor right to laugh and weep, 
 When all the wine is emptied to the lees 
 God draws the Summer out beyond our Seas. 
 
 43 
 
FANCY 
 
 O FANCY is a brave horse 
 
 To ride upon the plain 
 To gallop on, and on, and on, 
 
 And never draw the rein ! 
 But lest she take the bit in teeth 
 
 And run away downhill, 
 Keep hold o' the reins o' Fancy 
 
 And break her to your will. 
 
 O Fancy is a fair ship 
 
 To sail upon the sea 
 And you may go to fairy lands 
 
 Wherever you would be. 
 But lest she break you on the shoals 
 
 Or run you on the sands, 
 Keep hold o' the tiller o' Fancy 
 
 And steer with iron hands ! 
 
 44 
 
LOST 
 
 KlSS me for the sake of days departed, 
 
 For the something that I meant to be 
 When I trusted life, and lived pure-hearted 
 Kiss me ! 
 
 Kiss me for the love of some good woman 
 Whom you hold in reverence tenderly, 
 Dreaming her an angel, scarcely human 
 Kiss me ! 
 
 Kiss me just because the name of " Mother " 
 
 Lingers yet within your memory, 
 And one woman sorrows for another 
 Kiss me ! 
 
 Kiss me with your manhood and its passion, 
 
 Since from all restraints I set you free, 
 In a cruel, in a fiercer fashion 
 Kiss me ! 
 
 Kiss me with the lips that cleave and tremble 
 
 Fevered with their own inconstancy, 
 Cheating the emotion they dissemble 
 Kiss me 1 
 
 Kiss me, sweetheart ! If you lack a reason 
 
 Pause for none we shall not disagree. 
 This is love's abasement, this is treason ! 
 Kiss me I 
 45 
 
A HERETIC'S HYMN 
 
 (To my God) 
 
 FRIEND, be at my shoulder, 
 
 Darker seems the day, 
 Trouble, growing bolder, 
 
 Looms across my way. 
 You and I together 
 
 Never knew defeat ; 
 White must be my feather 
 
 Should you call Retreat. 
 
 Love, the great enfolder, 
 
 Says not " Wrong " or " Right 
 (Friend, be at my shoulder !) 
 
 Who am I, to fight ? 
 Others counsel some way, 
 
 Devious paths are trod ; 
 There is only one way 
 
 If you follow God. 
 
 Oh, these priests have striven 
 
 Words of little worth. 
 Preached you into Heaven, 
 
 Leaving me on Earth. 
 Nay, as I grow older 
 
 Creeds can only tease ; 
 Friend, be at my shoulder, 
 
 Nearer me than these. 
 46 
 
A HERETIC'S HYMN 47 
 
 At the end, I wonder, 
 
 Shall I fear defeat? 
 I am down, and under, 
 
 Bugles call Retreat. 
 Colder still, and colder 
 
 Darkness all abroad . . . 
 Friend, be at my shoulder 
 
 Captain, take my sword I 
 
SONG 
 
 (From "The House in the Sands") 
 
 MY heart is as hot as the desert sands 
 
 For the love of thee. 
 bring me the coolness of thy hands 
 Those little hands ! 
 
 To comfort me. 
 
 My heart is as scorching as desert skies 
 
 For the want of thee. 
 O lend me the shadow of thine eyes 
 Those dewy eyes ! 
 
 To shelter me. 
 
 My heart is athirst as the desert wind 
 
 To drink of thee. 
 
 (Xtell me not that my soul has sinned, 
 Too deeply sinned, 
 
 But come to me. 
 
 48 
 
THE SHADOW-SHOW 
 
 (Song from " Youth will be Served ") 
 
 THIS world is a shadow-show 
 
 Where we learn no definite thing ; 
 
 We grasp at the real and lo ! 
 
 'Tis a phantom to which we cling. 
 
 Yesterday's truth that we know 
 To-day is a bird on the wing. 
 
 In vain we listen and hark, 
 And in vain we question why ; 
 
 Gone is the glimmering spark 
 We thought to assure ourselves by. 
 
 Pain is a dream in the dark, 
 And love is a light in the sky. 
 
 49 
 
THE LETTER 
 
 (Song from "Youth will be Served* ) 
 
 I DREAMED that you wrote me a letter, 
 And said what I fain would hear ; 
 
 But you told it me far, far better 
 Than ever I phrased it, dear. 
 
 For the words had the feeling of kisses, 
 And your voice did really seem 
 
 To be speaking them, what one misses 
 In the letters one does not dream. 
 
 You told me over and over 
 
 How you wanted me back again. 
 
 And that's enough for a lover 
 It counted for all the pain. 
 
 Beautiful ! perfect ! better 
 Than anything else could seem ! 
 
 I dreamed that you wrote me a letter , . 
 And woke, and found it a dream ! 
 
THE GOLDEN HOUR 
 
 (Song from " Youth will be Served ") 
 
 THOUGH all the skies are clouded, 
 Though all the portents lower, 
 
 Somewhere, to some one, 
 This is the Golden Hour. 
 
 The Hour that comes softly 
 
 To women and to men, 
 Who only know, thereafter, 
 
 That they were happy then. 
 
 No heart may know its coming, 
 Nor match its passing glow ; 
 
 Sudden, divine, untainted, 
 It crowns them ere they know. 
 
 For though the present brings us 
 
 No joy for us to grasp, 
 Be sure the Golden Hour 
 
 Has some soul in its clasp. 
 
 And while the night is darkest, 
 And though thine heart repines, 
 
 Somewhere, to some one, 
 The Golden Hour shines ! 
 
THE GIFT 
 
 (Song from " Youth will be Served ") 
 
 WHAT shall I give thee ? 
 
 Wouldst thou have the kingdoms of the World 
 To hold between thy tender hands ? 
 
 Behold ! their weight and power would bruise thee ! 
 What shall I give thee ? 
 For I must leave thee, 
 
 And we must part. . . . 
 For parting gift what shall I give thee ? 
 
 Thou hast my heart. 
 
 What shall I give thee ? 
 
 Wouldst thou have the Heavens of thy God 
 To taste and try their perfect bliss ? 
 
 Behold ! their immortality would wound thy human tender- 
 ness. 
 
 What shall I give thee ? 
 For I must leave thee, 
 
 And we must part. . . . 
 For parting gift what shall I give thee ? 
 
 Thou hast my heart. 
 
SAINT ANTHONY 
 
 HE bent above the written scroll, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 As one whose task demands his soul. 
 And from the Chapel porch anon 
 The weary chant went ever on, 
 " Miserere Domine." 
 
 The chanting floated on the air 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 Towards him, like a broken prayer. 
 And then he raised his patient head, 
 And with the absent service said, 
 " Miserere Domine." 
 
 Sometimes across his dazzled eyes, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 There flashed the beauty of the skies. 
 And then his manhood yearned away, 
 Until his lips forgot to pray, 
 
 " Miserere Domine." 
 
 From common things his heart took flame, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 When through his window's arch as frame 
 Liquid with sunset was the sky, 
 And all his heart went in the cry, 
 " Miserere Domine ! " 
 53 
 
54 SAINT ANTHONY 
 
 His pulses throbbed to distant strains, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 Of music on the battle-plains. 
 And through the Brothers' peaceful psalms 
 His fancy heard the call to arms. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He loved the warrior planet Mars, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 
 He watched God's army of the stars 
 
 Through Heaven take their nightly march, 
 
 Framed in his window's solemn arch. 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Through growing passions year by year, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 He strove and scourged in pious fear. 
 And while his pulses throbbed with fire 
 He prayed against his own desire, 
 " Miserere Domine ! " 
 
 From morn to night he warred within, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 And brooded on his dearest sin. 
 He traced his penitence on sand, 
 And Satan stood at his right hand. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 " Our brother faints," the Abbot said, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 " His labour bows his youthful head. 
 Now rest thee, son ; weak flesh must spare, 
 Go forth and breathe God's freer air." 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
SAINT ANTHONY 55 
 
 At dewfall, when the light grew dim, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 He heard them raise the vesper hymn, 
 And passing through the iron gate 
 He sighed, as if aware of fate, 
 " Miserere Domine ! " 
 
 The twilight slopes were fresh and sweet, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 He went with unaccustomed feet 
 Across the fragrance-breathing land, 
 And Satan went at his right hand. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 At outskirt of a little wood, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 His straying feet arrested stood. 
 Such peace was on its gleam and gloom 
 It lay upon his heart like doom. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He sighed " If Nature might suffice ! " 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony. 
 " Dear God, have I found Paradise ? " 
 Then, in a thought he dared not breathe, 
 " But what were Eden without Eve ? " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He bent his guilty face to earth, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 The far-off heaven seemed little worth. 
 Seeking in sin for sin's release 
 His passion jarred on Nature's peace. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
56 SAINT ANTHONY 
 
 His hot lips framed a prayer of dread, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 " The Devil hear me in God's stead ! " 
 And even as he praying stood 
 There came a swift step through the wood. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 A white robe gleamed against the green, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 And then a slender figure seen, 
 As through the tangled underwaste 
 A girl came running in full haste. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He shrank in sudden dread and fear, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 But as the maiden came more near 
 His terror soothed itself to find 
 No phantom to appal his mind. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The sweet face flashed a moment by, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 And vaguely sprang a memory, 
 Half-known to his unconscious sense 
 Her girlhood's happy ignorance. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Twice at the Festivals, by grace, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 Across the Church he saw her face. 
 A novice at the Nunnery 
 Scarce half a mile away, was she. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
SAINT ANTHONY 57 
 
 Some freak of freedom chance did aid, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 
 Had tempted for an hour the maid 
 
 To 'scape the Convent's narrow rule, 
 
 And wander like a child from school. 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 So safe the silent wood appeared, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 It was but little that she feared. 
 In all God's lovely world, what ill 
 Should chance, though she should have her will ? 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 And now there flashed across her sight, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 The warning of the fading light. 
 Fleet-footed as a deer she sought 
 The shelter that the Convent brought. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 With quick shy eyes that dared but glance, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 She eyed her unknown foe askance. 
 Black on the sunset's aftermath 
 The Monk's tall figure barred her path. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He moved not. With a new surprise, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 She met the warning of his eyes, 
 And faltered, pausing in the grass, 
 " Father, I pray you let me pass ! " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
58 SAINT ANTHONY 
 
 His strong frame trembled and grew weak, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 And twice his dry lips strove to speak. 
 " Thou shall not pass," full hoarse said he, 
 " Till I have all my will of thee." 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The growing fear within her eyes, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 Welled up and drowned her first surprise. 
 The growing fear within her heart 
 Made all her healthful pulses start. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 In gathering shadows where she stood, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 Night crept behind her through the wood ; 
 And full against the dying day 
 That sombre figure barred the way. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 " Thy words," she gasped, " are wild and dread ! 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 " Thou knowest not what thou hast said. 
 Am I not vowed to Heavenly state ? 
 And thou art Monk, and celebate ! " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 His breath was on her face like flame, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 Half blind she turned the way she came. 
 But swifter still his strong hand clasped 
 Her gown, and rent it as he grasped. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
SAINT ANTHONY 59 
 
 She wrenched her tattered kirtle free, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 
 And through the rent his glance could see 
 
 Her panting breasts that fall and rise, 
 
 And all Hell smouldered in his eyes, 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He set his white face to her fear, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 I know Hell lies between us here, 
 But I am man, and woman thou, 
 And who shall know the broken vow ? " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He set his eyes upon her breast, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 
 And near and nearer still he pressed. 
 
 " Pray God that He have mercy on 
 
 Thy maidenhood for I will none ! " 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He set his hand against her throat, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 His lustful eyes already gloat 
 On the torn vesture that with haste 
 She wraps in vain about her waist. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 As night came down across the sky, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 There rang a sudden wailing cry. 
 It died against the solitude, 
 Lost in the darkness of the wood. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
60 SAINT ANTHONY 
 
 As night came up along the ground, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 The Nuns stood awestruck at a sound, 
 Soft hands that tore the Convent gate, 
 And wailing that cried out on Fate. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 And then mad laughter, and a word, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 
 That stayed the breath of those that heard. 
 
 With prayers to save if this were sin, 
 
 They oped the gate and took her in. 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 She tossed through fever-haunted days, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 And broken nights of sleepless craze. 
 Till the Nuns prayed beneath their breath 
 That God would grant a speedy death. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Until the spirit found its wings, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 They listened to her muttermgs. 
 What ill had chanced they might not tell, 
 Nor dared to think of what befell. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 One word came from the fevered lips, 
 
 " Anthony, Monk Anthony ! " 
 Thrown up from out the soul's eclipse. 
 The Abbess caught a fainter moan 
 " God, his eyes were Satan's own ! " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
SAINT ANTHONY 61 
 
 Meantime across the quiet air, 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 They heard a bell that called to prayer, 
 Through pious days whose fragrance fill 
 The Monastery on the hill. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 That night of nameless terror, late, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 The youngest Brother passed the gate. 
 " What ails thee, son ? " the Abbot said, 
 " Thine eyes look strange as look the dead ! " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 He answered with the calm of death, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 " If I look strangely, as thou saith, 
 Father, 'tis little wonderment, 
 For I am sad and sorely spent. 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 " To scourge and try me in His wrath " 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 " God put temptation in my path. 
 My weak flesh urged me to transgress 
 As Christ's did in the Wilderness. 
 Miserere Domine ! " 
 
 The Abbot's eyes were blurred and dim, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 " O son, thou triumphest through Him ! 
 Great glory, greater than his pain, 
 Shall he who overcomest gain ! " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
62 SAINT ANTHONY 
 
 He bowed his head for all to see, 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 With meekness and humility. 
 Great was the joy of those who heard 
 The story that their wonder stirred. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 With lips that faltered not, he told 
 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 And they repeat it manifold ; 
 Of how the youngest Monk withstood 
 Satan's temptation in the wood. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 A woman, wondrous fair to see, 
 Anthony, Monk Anthony, 
 He had resisted steadfastly. 
 And as he told the fabled scene, 
 He heard the Devil laugh between. 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The years roll up his praise anew, 
 
 Anthony, Saint Anthony ! 
 From Monk to Monk the story flew. 
 They pray, " When faith and strength grow dim, 
 God grant that we be like to him." 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
AN UNBLEST PRAYER 
 
 (" Blessed it he who expecteth nothing, (or he shall not be disappointed. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S BEATITUDE) 
 
 I DESIRE the stir in the sap of Spring 
 The pulse of pain in the quickened blood ; 
 
 The rush of water, the whirr of wing, 
 All that makes life so greatly good. 
 
 The first faint flashes of conscious sense, 
 
 The prospect widening to immense, 
 
 The glory of God in Man's impotence, 
 At one with Nature in savage mood. 
 
 I desire the red of a woman's kisses, 
 The dreamless slumber between her breasts ; 
 
 To rest like a god, and to know what bliss is, 
 The whole world bound to my heart's behests. 
 
 Till deified by the passion's splendour 
 
 I wrest the seal of the last surrender 
 
 From limbs grown supple and warm to render 
 The fruit forbidden my heart requests. 
 
 I desire the breath of the Autumn weather, 
 The drunken joy of the shouting wind ; 
 
 To be but spirits of storm together 
 
 Till the man in me shall forget he sinned. 
 
 Swept clean from self as the clouds are driven 
 
 From out the vault of the rain-washed Heaven ; 
 
 Freed from the soil of the former leaven, 
 As rotten leaves on the trees are thinned. 
 63 
 
64 AN UNBLEST PRAYER 
 
 I desire to be as the Gods of old, 
 With a beauty lost to the world since then, 
 
 Face and figure of perfect mould, 
 A joy to myself and my fellow men. 
 
 Ah, once to stand as a God might do, 
 
 With life exultant to thrill me through ! 
 
 The joys of Earth and of Heaven too 
 Were mine for the threescore years and ten. 
 
 I desire the joy of the finished deed, 
 
 The power of knowledge, the strength it brings, 
 To reap the fruit of another's seed, 
 
 To grasp the wealth that is more than kings'. 
 That the panting life in my veins may be 
 Allowed full scope for its sovereignty, 
 And greed of Nature may find in me 
 
 The satisfaction of all fair things. 
 
 ' Thou shall not have it ! away in Heaven 
 They keep these gifts till the Second Birth. 
 
 Stored up, maybe, for the great Forgiven 
 For those who never Desired on Earth. 
 
 But thou shalt have an incessant tire, 
 
 The dread of water, the pain of fire, 
 
 And the cureless disease that men call Desire, 
 'Mid tragic laughter and joyless mirth I " 
 
LINDA 
 
 (For an Unpainted Picture) 
 
 THEY turned her out into the streets 
 
 Because they said she sinned 
 Having forced their own upon her. 
 She went from depth to depth, until her feet were bare, 
 Her hands were claws. But in those claws 
 
 She clasped her violin, 
 And made such music as drew tears 
 Even as in her brief, bright stage career 
 On platforms set above the heads of men. 
 
 At last those bare feet ran into the arms of death, 
 And those who hunted her said, " Certainly 
 
 Linda has gone to hell." 
 Take back thy daughter, Devil. 
 
 Satan laughed, and took an upward flight 
 Through rarer air he had not tasted since his fall, 
 
 With Linda in his arms. 
 And at the Gate he laughed again to see 
 
 Peter's shocked face. 
 
 I bring a gift," he said, " who never gave 
 A gift to God before. . . . This is my daughter ! " 
 
66 LINDA 
 
 The cloudy wings drew near about her 
 Hosts of angel faces looked upon her 
 
 Barefoot she stood on gold 
 Her rags a-flutter in a windless air, 
 
 And kissed her violin. 
 Linda, with her little tortured face 
 Twisted with agony of earth 
 Until the youth seemed twisted out of it, 
 Amongst a crowd of curious Angels, 
 
 Began to play. 
 
 And in the heart of Heaven, where was God, 
 There rose that music of the Earth 
 Which we hear daily (but they never hear 
 In Heaven), full of pain and love, and rapture, 
 And the strange thing called Romance. 
 
 There rose a sound of weeping up to God 
 The weeping of His hosts who never weep. 
 
 And in the midst 
 
 Linda, with her little tortured face 
 Bent sideways on the violin, 
 
 Stood still and played. 
 
A BEAD-ROLL 
 
 WHAT has become of our dreams ? our dreams, 
 Those golden vistas and rainbow gleams ! 
 
 They are safe in Heaven beyond our reach 
 Oh what has become of our dreams ? 
 
 What has become of our hopes ? our hopes 
 Are strands just clinging in broken ropes. 
 
 We shall fall as the sever 'd cable parts 
 Oh what has become of our hopes ? 
 
 What has become of our selves ? our selves, 
 Those dusty volumes on unused shelves ? 
 
 They are books that no man has cared to read 
 Oh what has become of our selves ? 
 
 What has become of our loves ? our loves 
 That were to be true as the turtle dove's ! 
 
 They are grown too cheap for a passing thought- 
 Oh what has become of our loves ? 
 
 What has become of our souls ? our souls ! 
 Nay, thou and I have no deathless goals 
 
 We are dust, and shall turn to dust again 
 Oh what has become of our souls ? 
 
 The God in whom we believe believe 
 As saints the sacrament they receive, 
 
 Looks down unmoved on the foolish cry 
 But the Devil whispers, " I grieve ! " 
 67 
 
FOR A CHILD 
 
 (A Heresy) 
 
 DEAR God, I pray for Maisie ! 
 She is so little in this world we know, 
 Her tiny feet have yet so far to go, 
 That I implore a grassy road for them. 
 If she wears jewels, let the diadem 
 Be light as dewdrops on the kindly sod 
 Give her the good things of the world, dear God ! 
 
 I pray, I beg for Maisie ! 
 Since to be happy is most natural 
 Give her the simple joys that Eve let fall. 
 
 I, who have lived so long where no cloud lifts, 
 Have learned the value of Thy sinless gifts. 
 Virtue was never taught us by the rod. 
 Give her the good things of the world, dear God ! 
 
 I kneel and pray for Maisie ! 
 Give her the right to play a little while 
 Give her the blessed pause in life, and smile 
 When she rejoices in her youth and health 
 Give her sweet exercise, and so much wealth 
 As may assure these blessings at her nod. 
 Give her the good things of the world, dear God 
 68 
 
FOR A CHILD 69 
 
 I lift my hands for Maisie ! 
 
 All love of lovely things, all daily grace, 
 
 Hast Thou not bound within the guinea's space ? 
 Do not Thy workers look with wistful eyes 
 For ease and air beneath Thy larger skies ? 
 
 Is it so much to ask ? Just common things 
 
 Named daily as the right of all Thy kings, 
 The sun in some fair country where he shines 
 More faithfully than ours ; sweet food and wines ; 
 
 The touch of richer stuffs, the sheen of silk, 
 
 Full-blooded as the poppy, white as milk. 
 We languish sterilely make her a bride ; 
 We trudge afoot give her a horse to ride ; 
 (And ah ! the joy of some kind, willing brute, 
 The suppled limbs, the pleasure that is mute !) 
 
 These are Thy luxuries, but Thou of old 
 
 Gave these to man e'er man bartered for gold 
 Sweet sounds and scents, sights of Thine Earth untrod. 
 Spare Maisie poverty's most useless rod 
 Let her tread as Thy queens upon Thy sod 
 Give her the good things of this world, dear God ! 
 
THE AVIATORS 
 
 (1911) 
 
 FLY ! They are trying to fly ! 
 Widespread wings on the lift of the morning, 
 Drooped tail-feathers to steer us onward, 
 Some sixth sense for the least wind-warning, 
 
 The birds of the air go by. 
 
 And oh ! but the eyes of the birds are glancing 
 With wide amazement, bewildered gazing, 
 To see the sweep of alien pinions 
 Thrashing the air with effort amazing, 
 Earth's upheavals of earth's own minions 
 Is this the way of their science-advancing ? 
 Fly ! They are trying to fly ! 
 
 With one swift spring of the feet and shoulder. 
 With one strong impulse of flapping wings 
 The tail held downward to break the pressure 
 
 The bird of the air uplifts, upsprings ! 
 And then, resisting the impact, bolder. 
 Beating time to a golden measure, 
 We watch the eddies we feel the current. 
 We press a pinion at perfect angle, 
 And out of the inchoate, windy tangle 
 
 The songster soars and sings ! 
 70 
 
THE AVIATORS 71 
 
 Rising, falling, resting on eddies, 
 
 Using our wings and our feet and our bodies, 
 
 As interdependent things ! 
 
 When will they learn of us ? When will they turn with us ? 
 Each part perfect, and free of the other, 
 In one great harmony, under and over, 
 
 The beautiful, single wings ! 
 
 With a sudden rush, and a spring to the sky, 
 With rigid wings, and a whirring thunder, 
 
 The sons of the earth go by. 
 Breaking and boring the air in sunder, 
 Cleaving their way by a force unknown, 
 By motive power that is not their own, 
 Clumsily linked by a brain to guide 
 Oh brothers, what sight in the world beside 
 
 Is like this scaling the sky ? 
 Fighting the currents flung back to earth 
 By the mocking winds in their cruel mirth 
 When will they learn of us ? When will they turn with us ? 
 Rigid wings and a nerveless guide, 
 For perfect balance and skill beside. 
 We are one with our conquered element 
 They, with a shriek and a strength misspent, 
 Fight blindfold till a hair's-breadth awry, 
 Something has passed us gone, in a breath 
 Flashed back to earth and the arms of death ! 
 
 Fly ! They are trying to fly ! 
 
SESTINA 
 
 (The Reawakening of Desire) 
 
 GlVE me a love-lock of your hair's dull gold 
 To string the broken sequence of my lyre 
 
 And I will sing you such a dreamy song. 
 As stirred your languid blood to flame of old 
 Nay, who can tell but we may wake Desire 
 
 Whose weary eyes have slumbered for so long ? 
 
 Is it so long ago, so very long, 
 Since we believed a tinsel love true gold, 
 And bartered better things for the desire ? 
 To-day we prove that Love is but a liar, 
 Though sweet the story that he told of old, 
 Though sweet the music of his Matins-song. 
 
 Alas so sweet ! I cannot sing the song 
 We sang ; I grow so weary it is long, 
 
 So long to-day to what it seemed of old, 
 
 Or else the glimmer of the alien gold 
 Confuses all the strings of this my lyre. 
 Listen ; is this the song that you desire ? 
 
 Love, forget the music, my desire 
 
 Has grown too mighty for the foolish song ! 
 
 And were my hands encumbered with the lyre 
 
 How could they reach your own ? the hands that long 
 
 To lose themselves among your wealth of gold, 
 
 The bright soft tresses lovely as of old ! 
 72 
 
SESTINA 73 
 
 How did we dream that love was sweet of old ? 
 
 Oh hasten, hasten, while the new desire 
 Would barter heaven for your hair's dull gold, 
 
 And liquid voice more sweet than any song 
 Or else the milk-white breast for which I long 
 As longs the unsung poem for the lyre. 
 
 Break all the tuneless stringing of the lyre 
 And fling it by. The sweetness known of old 
 
 Comes back to us again as borne along 
 By the unconquered passion of Desire, 
 
 Who wakes at last, and thrills us with his song, 
 And glorifies us with his burning gold. 
 
 For this of old was promised by Desire, 
 
 For this we swept the lyre and sang the song, 
 Danae waited long her shower of gold. 
 
A ROUNDEL 
 
 (In Memoriam : E. L. ) 
 
 AH, happy Death, whose touch sublime 
 Can still the pain of mortal breath ! 
 The only friend more strong than Time. 
 Ah, happy Death ! 
 
 There are no love-thorns in thy wreath,- 
 
 Thy gracious kiss is not a crime 
 That one regret should lurk beneath. 
 
 To weary life gone past its prime 
 
 What is it that thy silence saith ? 
 " Sleep deep into a sweeter clime ! " 
 Ah, happy Death ! 
 
SONNET 
 
 I THOUGHT of you as children think of toys 
 When first we drifted on each other's path, 
 Careless of any bitter aftermath 
 
 That strikes a silence on a loud world's noise. 
 
 And then I thought of you for secret joys 
 That grew too shyly to incur the wrath 
 Of some great God whose greater altar hath 
 
 The right to burn such tricks of girls and boys.- 
 
 Lastly I thought of you because I must, 
 And on a sudden day I faced despair 
 
 The brief bright roses fading in the dust, 
 The sunlight gone from all the outer air ; 
 So mortals fare that have been deified. . . 
 
 And now I think of you as one who died. 
 
 75 
 
ROUNDEL 
 
 (To a Girl Writer) 
 
 FORGET thy pain, and dream that thou art dead 
 With all thy words, both sweet and bitter, said ; 
 Were it not better that thine eyes were dim 
 Under the grass that springtide keeps so trim 
 And violets abloom about thine head ? 
 
 Silence shall be thy bedfellow instead 
 Of restless Love whose pulses ran so red 
 
 That thou might never, hand in hand with him, 
 Forget thy pain. 
 
 I have no better wish than that thou wed 
 Even in dreams with Death, whose kisses shed 
 
 A magic balm o'er every quiet limb. 
 
 So dream ! until the dream's uncertain rim 
 Touches the real, and thou, comforted, 
 Forget thy pain ! 
 
NEMO OMNIBUS HORIS SAPIT 
 
 (Acrostic) 
 
 N OW that the blossoming limes are swee T 
 E ven full fain to sing am I ; 
 M y pulses slowly, lazily lea P 
 O ut to the whole world's ari A. 
 
 languid scents of honeyed bhs S ! 
 
 M ake haste, my lips, and learn to kis S ! 
 N ightingales woo (more wise than I !) 
 
 1 nto the red day's waking choi R, 
 (B irds, are ye suave, out-chorused s O ?) 
 U ntil the noontide bids them hus H ! 
 
 S o fair a Summer shown to u S 
 
 H as hardly been for me or yo U, 
 
 r since from out a strong man's ri B 
 R ose Eve to answer " This is I ! " 
 
 1 n the amazement of the Ma N. 
 
 S ummer in Eden, ere the Doo M ! 
 
 S pring showed me what a man should d 
 
 A nd now the languorous lime-tree to 
 
 P uts on her honeyed, luscious bloo M, 
 
 I am full fain to sing and lov E 
 
 T he same as when this World bega N ! 
 
 77 
 
WINTER 
 
 (The Latest Thing in Vers Libres) 
 
 THE low skies are full of snow. 
 
 Every branch stands out like a picture in stereoscope. 
 For the wind is dead dead as the Earth. 
 There is no sound across the frozen fields ; 
 The cattle keep under the high banks for warmth, 
 Their breath hanging on the air. 
 
 (This is a poem after the modem method, and I do not think 
 much of it.) 
 
 The sun has gone. 
 
 He did not appear to set, but the clouds blotted him out of 
 
 the sky. 
 
 There is visible darkness upon the landscape. 
 A few flakes fall 
 Now the snow is coming coming in great blots that are no 
 
 longer white. 
 But the sky does not lighten there is more and more snow 
 
 waiting to fall 
 
 Layers of snow in the upper air. 
 (I could go on like this for hours, without feet or rhythm.) 
 
 A cart drives by, 
 
 Its wheels muffled in snow. 
 
WINTER 79 
 
 It seems to come from nowhere and to pass into infinity. 
 And this is Winter. 
 
 (How extremely easy it is to write a poem after the modern 
 method !) 
 
DEAD-A SUBALTERN 
 
 (German War, 1914) 
 
 THE great things of the World come suddenly, 
 With God behind them. 
 
 For a space of years 
 
 He lived any man's life the here and there 
 Of social contact, unrecorded things, 
 The round of drill and its monotony ; 
 No worse, no better, that a woman's tears 
 Washed once over his life in fierce despair. 
 Men are but men, shall common clay be kings ? 
 But then some twist about the cord of Fate 
 Swept him and others through death's narrow gate 
 Where none should find them. 
 The course of things called him to fight and die 
 A life spilt for a Country raised this man 
 From out his little life's most trifling span. 
 The great things of the World came suddenly 
 With God behind them. 
 
 80 
 
GERMANY 
 
 (1915) 
 
 A NATION without honour 
 
 Who breaks her written word 
 The stain of lies upon her, 
 
 And the fetish of the sword ; 
 No crimes too low or bestial 
 
 To strew the path she trod, 
 She prates of aid celestial, 
 
 And mocks her outraged God. 
 
 Shrewd with the market manner 
 
 To grasp the use of cant, 
 She whines across her banner 
 
 Of starving babes and want ; 
 One hand held out for mercies 
 
 To friend and foe alike, 
 While, muttering her curses, 
 
 The other waits to strike. 
 
 Half stupid with submission, 
 
 Half drugged with brutal force, 
 Her people by tradition 
 
 Move on their passive course ; 
 While those who sold and bought her, 
 
 Her rulers, as she saith ! 
 Draw wealth from modes of slaughter, 
 
 And speculate in death. 
 81 
 
82 GERMANY 
 
 Gravely the Nations see her 
 
 As one with madness curst 
 Frantic with pleas to free her, 
 
 Or foaming of her worst ; 
 Who lies not, does not alter, 
 
 Who dreads not, does not hate,- 
 But she, with hopes that falter, 
 
 Shrieks at her coming fate. 
 
 She sowed in lamentation, 
 
 And reaps in bitter mood 
 Her harvest of damnation 
 
 Rich with her children's blood. 
 The verdict passed upon her 
 
 Is branded on her name 
 A Nation without honour, 
 
 A people without shame. 
 
1916 RAIDS 
 MORNING 
 
 IT was in the middle morning, and the City steamed with 
 work, 
 
 Factory, and office, and market in full cry ; 
 Not a jar to stop her pendulum, or consciousness of jerk 
 
 But a little silver pencil writing death across the sky. 
 
 It was in the middle morning, and the guns began to go 
 Factory, and office, and market standing by ; 
 
 Full upon the cloudless day we stared, and tried to know 
 The Things that looked like pencils writing death across 
 the sky. 
 
 Very loud upon the earth, and very still in air, 
 
 That strangest of all Wars took place before the naked eye 
 Only by a puff of smoke could we believe their share 
 
 Little silver pencils writing death across the sky. 
 
 Then a rocking, ruined wall then a blazing roof ; 
 
 Womenkmd and children singled here and there to die. 
 Hellish warfare overhead, devil-minded proof 
 
 Little silver pencils writing " Death ! " across the sky. 
 
84 1916 RAIDS 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 . . . Beyond midnight, when the world was asleep, 
 Came a sense of Something, the suggestion of a tap. 
 
 Beating in the distance made the startled senses leap 
 Dap ! dap ! on the horizon dap ! dap ! 
 
 . . . Coming nearer, till we knew it for the guns 
 Settled to a summons, and the " Take cover ! " rang 
 
 Frightened hands that fumble, and the frightened foot that 
 
 runs, 
 Clang ! clang ! tearing the night up clang ! clang ! 
 
 . . . Roaring barrage, till the dark was all sound, 
 Rolling of the Movables through the troubled street 
 
 That was Hyde Park Corner answering the echoes round 
 Beat ! beat ! heart, are you stopping ? Beat ! beat ! 
 
 . . . Beyond midnight, and the scream of a shell 
 Horror coming down to strike us blindly in the dark 
 
 Something louder still than guns a shriek out of Hell 
 Spattered limbs that pulsed but now, lying still and 
 stark. 
 
WAYSIDE SHRINES 
 
 (1917) 
 
 IN England now 
 One sees the frequent wayside shrine, 
 
 And though none bow 
 Or call upon them as divine, 
 
 These for dead Heroes are devised 
 That some poor heart has canonised. 
 
 A list of names 
 And homely flowers set beneath 
 And though none claims 
 A halo for their loyal death, 
 
 Yet many pause to breathe a pray'r 
 And read the Roll of Honour there. 
 
A THOUGHT FOR FRANCE 
 
 (1918) 
 
 To die in the great blue weather 
 
 To die in the Spring ! 
 Thousands and thousands together 
 
 While the skylark dares to sing. 
 
 Ours and theirs in Thy keeping, 
 Bomb, and shrapnel, and sword, 
 
 Bid Thy Heavens be weeping, 
 Send us Thy tears, Lord ! 
 
 Rain and shadow together, 
 That were the better thing . . . 
 
 But to die in the great blue weather 
 To die in the Spring ! 
 
 86 
 
BATH 
 
 (" But pray ye that your flight be not in the Winter, or on the 
 Sabbath day " 
 
 THEY shall call her the City of Refuge, 
 For a balm for the weary she hath ; 
 And he who is journeying^deathwards 
 
 Shall find hers the tenderest path, 
 When the light on her lingers and presses 
 With gleams like a thousand caresses, 
 And God leans from Heaven and blesses 
 The hills above Bath. 
 
 In the morning, when sunshine shall find her, 
 And deck her and jewel her best ; 
 
 Grey-walled, with the shadows behind her, 
 And gold of the sun at her breast. 
 
 Dark archway and alley, grown hoary 
 
 From years that have moulded her story, 
 
 She glows with a latter-day glory, 
 " The Queen of the West." 
 
 In the noon, when the hum of her traffic 
 Is lulled to the drone of the bee, 
 
 And over her stretches, seraphic, 
 A sky that is deep as the sea, 
 
 87 
 
88 BATH 
 
 When the hills in their solemn insistence 
 Rise up into infinite distance, 
 Beyond her there lies no existence, 
 Nor wish to be free. 
 
 At evening, when shades of the twilight 
 
 Draw silently over the path, 
 What words may describe or express right 
 
 The quiet and charm that she hath ? 
 Enshrouded in mists of the river, 
 Enfolded in shadows that quiver, 
 And watched by her sentinels ever, 
 The hills above Bath ! 
 
 At night, when the lamps in her tremble 
 
 As if with reflection of day, 
 And flickering, make her resemble 
 
 The ghost of a City in grey, 
 
 Above her the midnight extending, 
 
 Around her the blackness unending. 
 
 While with false light her terror defending 
 
 She holds them at bay. 
 
 Aclimb from the cup where she nestles 
 
 The stranger may toil if he wills, 
 While the heart in him throbs as he wrestles, 
 
 Forgetful of alien ills, 
 
 For the pause on the summit will show him 
 A sight that none else could bestow him 
 She lieth and stretcheth below him 
 Enthroned in her hills. 
 
BATH 89 
 
 Most dear to the soul of the weary 
 
 Is quiet and rest that she hath ; 
 Most dear, when existence is dreary, 
 And stony and troubled the path ;- 
 Beloved of the morn and the even, 
 The planets and pleiades seven, 
 And dear to the heart of the Heaven 
 The hills above Bath. 
 
A DEAD WOMAN 
 
 I WAS never her lover ; and truly, 
 
 You, the man she had wed, 
 Were less her friend, it seems, duly, 
 
 Than I, and . . . Hush ! she is dead. 
 
 I keep on hugging your marriage 
 With a morbid hunger of pain ; 
 
 Was she stiff and shy in the carriage ? 
 Did you kiss her, there in the train ? 
 
 Though you married her just for pity 
 
 Surely you loved that face ! 
 And I 'tis a doleful ditty ! 
 
 Had only a second place. 
 
 Twenty year since you wed her 
 
 I have loved her how long ? for ten ? 
 
 How often our vows misled her, 
 How weary she grew of men ! 
 
 I won nothing I need surrender, 
 And she bore your name in your house.- 
 
 But were you, her husband, tender ? 
 Did she miss a friend in your vows ? 
 90 
 
A DEAD WOMAN 91 
 
 Here she lies beyond us, above us, 
 
 Past mercy and past despair, 
 Closed eyes that no longer love us 
 
 Death's hand for ours on her hair. 
 
 Neither of us can move her 
 
 We meet so, it seems at the end 
 I, who was never her lover, 
 
 And you, who were never her friend ! 
 
DURBAN: NATAL 
 
 HER flowers have no scent by day, 
 
 But bright and deep their colours glow ; 
 
 And buoyant winds that never chill 
 
 Even in Winter, ruffle still 
 The wide blue waters of her Bay. 
 
 By night she has a thousand scents 
 
 A City builded in a bower ! 
 Her streets are redolent of rose, 
 And sweet the hours of repose 
 
 With odours of the moon-flower. 
 
 Her fruits and flowers grow like weeds 
 With prodigal magnificence ; 
 The orange and poinsettia 
 Ripen and fall ungathered there, 
 And 'midst her plenty no one heeds. 
 
 She seems so fair from Nature's hand 
 One scarce can link her name with strife 
 Between the wash of Southern seas 
 And rustle of her blossomed trees 
 She dreams away enchanted life. 
 
 Without her sand-locked harbour glows 
 The sapphire of her outer bay. 
 The boastful Nation christens her 
 The Garden of South Africa 
 The desert, blooming like the rose ! 
 92 
 
A SEA-CAPTAIN 
 
 BLUE as blue seas, and dangerous as they 
 To take the least unwary by surprise 
 Full of the dancing mischief of the spray 
 So are your eyes. 
 
 Strong as the master-music of the wind 
 
 That drives the ships whither they have no choice- 
 Soft as the wooing one for which Eve sinn'd 
 So is your voice. 
 
 Full of the wrecks of pleasures long past by 
 
 In which how many women played their part ? 
 But hungry for the present smile or sigh 
 So is your heart. 
 
 All of the sea the sea that pities not 
 
 In whose blue eyes the very sea looks through. 
 You have no heed for cruelties forgot, 
 The sea and you. 
 
 93 
 
LONDON'S CHILD 
 
 MY Mother, my Queen, my Lover, 
 Thou who holdest my soul in fee, 
 
 Hast thou heard me afar off crying ? 
 Wouldst thou draw me whence I am lying ? 
 Did they tell thee that I was dying, 
 Thou, my Mother, who lovest me ? 
 
 Take me back to thy heart, O City ! 
 
 Open thine arms and take me in. 
 Let me feel that my heart has won thee, 
 Safe from exile that has undone me ; 
 Breathe thy poisonous breath upon me, 
 
 Whisper me of thy fiercest sin. 
 
 1 am sick for thy love, my Mother, 
 Sick am I of thy beauties too. 
 
 All thy children are aged and hoary, 
 Draining their lives for thy greater glory, 
 Writing in blood thine appalling story. 
 Bitter is this that thou bidst us do ! 
 
 Thou art greatest of Cities living, 
 Greater even than Cities dead, 
 Thou, whose Parks are thy garden-spaces, 
 Thou, whose flowers are women's faces, 
 Thou, who in lark's and nightingale's places 
 Hast thy Poets to sing instead. 
 94 
 
LONDON'S CHILD 95 
 
 Have they told thee that I am dying ? 
 
 I, thy child who have worshipped thee ? 
 Grant me a grave in thine own dark River 
 So deep that Fate has no power to sever ; 
 Lay me close to thy heart for ever, 
 
 Thou, my Mother, who lovest me. 
 
A BALLAD OF THE TROPICS 
 
 A GIANT moth is putting out the lamp 
 My food is in possession of the ant 
 And a troop of soldier-flies have pitched their camp 
 
 On the journal I particularly want. 
 A silver-tick is clinging to my knee 
 As if he held me singularly dear 
 But all such things are trivial 
 To the hideously convivial 
 Young mosquito singing love-songs in my ear ! 
 
 My bath is full of may-bugs to the brim 
 
 When I want to take my early morning plunge, 
 And a Nancy spider (little luck to him I) 
 
 Has taken sole possession of my sponge. 
 I shake the hardback beetles from my brush 
 Before I get my toilet table clear. 
 
 But there's one I dread more keenly 
 Never contemplate serenely 
 The mosquito singing love-songs in my ear ! 
 
 Oh I think of countries very far away 
 
 Where an insect causes shrieks of wild despair, 
 And I wonder what the devil they would say 
 
 To the three-inch cockroach crawling 'neath my chair 
 The bats are chasing sandflies in the roof, 
 But it's not their clinging talons that I fear 
 I know it heralds stinging 
 When I hear the fatal tinging 
 The mosquito singing love-songs in my ear ! 
 96 
 
THE DREAMER 
 
 MY life is an enchanted land, 
 
 Where flower thoughts are growing. 
 Between the banks of silver sand, 
 With precious stones on either hand, 
 
 I hear a river flowing, 
 A river that is known to me, 
 The river of its Poetry, 
 
 With gold and azure glowing. 
 My life is an enchanted land, 
 
 Where flower thoughts are growing. 
 
 I have a Castle of Delight, 
 
 Wherein I dwell at leisure, 
 Its stones are dreams unknown to sight, 
 And all its gardens fiery bright, 
 
 A store of endless treasure. 
 Each day is an untold romance, 
 And every night so sweet a trance, 
 
 One may not sleep for pleasure. 
 / have a Castle of Delight, 
 
 Wherein I dwell at leisure. 
 
 There is no place for earthly pain 
 
 In this my realm of glory, 
 No minor in the singer's strain, 
 No shadow on the sunlit plain, 
 
 No Winter, cold and hoary ; 
 97 
 
98 THE DREAMER 
 
 The Summer reigns for ever there, 
 And every wind that moves the air 
 
 Is whispering a story, 
 There is no place for earthly pain 
 
 In this my realm of glory. 
 
 And never can the World intrude, 
 
 Its troubles reach me never ; 
 Far, far away, a storm may brood, 
 Or tempests gales blow rough and rude, 
 
 'Tis long since we did sever, 
 I know it not, I live apart, 
 Until the slumber touch my heart, 
 
 And then I sleep for ever. 
 But never can the IVorld intrude, 
 
 Its troubles reach me never. 
 
 The fairy with the magic wand, 
 
 Who spelled me, all unknowing, 
 Ordained that I should reap the gram, 
 That other hands, with toil and pain, 
 
 Were half a life-time sowing. 
 All lovely things were made for me, 
 And all sweet airs were played for me, 
 
 Heard in my River's flowing. 
 My life is an enchanted land, 
 
 Where flower thoughts are growing. 
 
THE NEW EVE 
 
 MEN'S blood runs red to look at her, 
 
 She is so fair, 
 From arch of shapely foot to crown 
 
 Of midnight hair, 
 And gracious curve of shapely throat, 
 
 And shoulders bare. 
 
 Her face and form were Motherhood 
 
 When maiden still ; 
 An infinitely tender grace 
 
 Beyond her will 
 Draws all men's hearts to cleave to her 
 
 For good or ill. 
 
 She makes a picture of herself 
 
 With limbs at rest ; 
 Anon she makes a sudden stir, 
 
 And this seems best ; 
 My passionate divinity, 
 
 Blest and unblest ! 
 
 Brown shadows of the water-weed 
 
 Lie in her eyes ; 
 The^lids droop slightly, and the line 
 
 That round them lies 
 Follows the curve that makes her mouth 
 
 A shrine of sighs. 
 99 
 
100 THE NEW EVE 
 
 The south wind echoes in her voice, 
 
 With undertones 
 Of water running swiftly by 
 
 Over smooth stones. 
 There is a vague regret therein 
 
 She never owns. 
 
 The lesser natures look to her 
 
 And draw within 
 Their narrow limits, lest her eyes 
 
 Their hearts should win : 
 My passionate divinity, 
 
 Too fair to sin ! 
 
 One thought instinct is hers, unsaid 
 Yet half expressed 
 
 In lovely line of falling waist 
 And swelling breast 
 
 That is so full of promises 
 And unpossessed. 
 
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE YOUNG AGAIN 
 
 I WENT back, and found my weariness 
 
 Instead of pleasure that I thought to find. 
 
 Was I so strong of old to face distress 
 
 That the joy only lingered in my mind ? 
 
 I prayed for youth again ; the gods said " Yes." 
 
 So I went back . . . and found my weariness. 
 
 I went back, and found the olden pain 
 That was but tolerable when it passed. 
 The gods were merciful in their disdain 
 When they decreed no vivid thing should last ! 
 They told me I should have my youth again 
 I went back . . . and found the olden pain. 
 
 I went back, to look upon my love, 
 
 And stood appalled before its agony. 
 
 Once only shall a life be staunch enough 
 
 To try such anguish as awaited me. 
 
 I dared not stretch my hand its fire to prove, 
 
 When I went back, ashamed before my love. 
 
 101 
 
TRAGEDIES 
 
 (From " Exile ") 
 
 A PRETTY woman left too much alone, 
 
 Her husband playing her the traitor's part 
 
 A child misunderstood a horse misused 
 These wrong God's Universe and break my heart. 
 
 The sin of those who sit in Council-seats 
 And bring red ruin on the helpless throng 
 
 The market-places thronged with living girls 
 These make the scheme of all creation wrong. 
 
 For O ! to see the bluebells, idly picked, 
 
 Flung in the roadway where the cattle trod ! 
 
 I find my Heaven turned a court of law, 
 Man the defendant, and the plaintiff, God. 
 
 102 
 
DEMOCRITUS 
 
 (" I teach the Doctrine of Atoms ! ") 
 
 AH, my Philosopher ! 
 
 Mockingly, brightly, 
 Teach me the rule of life, 
 
 " Take the World lightly ! " 
 
 " Sorrow and sin maybe 
 Round us are living ; 
 
 Give then, to ease the pain, 
 Give, and laugh giving ! 
 
 " What ! is the world so sad ? 
 
 Bird, bud, and flower 
 Put all mankind to shame, 
 
 Glad in their hour. 
 
 " What ! is no thing on Earth 
 Good from its birthday ? 
 
 Live, then, like Heaven's God, 
 Better than Earth may ! 
 
 " Gain ends where living ends 
 Cease then your labours. 
 
 Laughter and Charity 
 Are the best neighbours. 
 103 
 
104 DEMOCRITUS 
 
 " Ah, my Philosophy ! 
 
 While we judge rightly 
 Of the poor worth of life, 
 
 Take the World lightly ! 
 
GOD 
 
 (As Rcnnie knows Him) 
 
 THEY make me go to bed at eight, 
 
 And say my prayers all out loud 
 It's dreffle dark when it gets late, 
 Like one big cloud. 
 
 I'd be afraid of all the land 
 
 When those far-off star-candles shine, 
 But then God stretches down His hand 
 And feels for mine. 
 
 I feel it there, inside my own, 
 
 And hold the strong kind finger tight 
 He wouldn't leave me all alone 
 Without a light ! 
 
 I know He's fond of little boys 
 
 He never laughs at what I've said ! 
 He understands about the toys 
 I take to bed. 
 
 There's Jumbie, with his head askew, 
 
 (I like him, 'cos he's been so ill ;) 
 I've asked God to bless Jumbie too 
 I know He will. 
 105 
 
106 GOD 
 
 If Mother hadn't told a lot 
 
 About Him, I'd be quite alone ; 
 God's 'most the only thing I've got 
 Now Mother's gone. 
 
 The grown-up people come and stare, 
 
 And hear me gab' a hymn in half. 
 (I wouldn't say a real prayer 
 Because they'd laugh.) 
 
 They whisper, " Rennie's awful good 
 
 He doesn't mind about the dark ! 
 He'll say a hymn as children should 
 Now just you hark ! 
 
 " And then he'll drop asleep, you know, 
 
 Looking an angel there, he's off ! " 
 With my shut eyes I watch them go, 
 I'm glad enough ! 
 
 And no one seems to understand 
 
 That when it's dark, and I'm alone, 
 Why then God stretches down His hand 
 And finds my own. 
 
A COLLIE DOG 
 
 (Written for a Child) 
 
 Two brown eyes with lights of amber, 
 Two soft ears of tawny tan, 
 
 Four strong feet that climb and clamber, 
 Truer heart than beats in man ; 
 
 Restless limbs forever moving, 
 Waving tail for flag of truce, 
 
 Just a dog, supremely loving, 
 This is Bruce. 
 
 Only see him fetch and carry, 
 Eager, waiting for the word ! 
 
 He is not the one to tarry 
 
 Once the welcome " Go ! " is heard. 
 
 There's a lesson offered to us, 
 Ready with our glib excuse 
 
 When a duty lies before us, 
 Unlike Bruce. 
 
 Ah, old boy ! we human creatures 
 
 Are superior, of course, 
 Far above such poor dumb teachers 
 
 As the patient dog or horse ! 
 Yet perhaps there might be found us 
 
 An example for our use 
 In the humbler friends around us, 
 Like poor Bruce. 
 107 
 
108 A COLLIE DOG 
 
 Are we, in our finer notion 
 
 Of the high ground where we stand, 
 
 Capable of more devotion 
 
 Than the dog who licks our hand ? 
 
 Gladder he than those above him 
 If he only can induce 
 
 Somebody to pet and love him 
 Aren't you, Bruce ? 
 
 Very puzzling must he find it 
 To resist forbidden joys 
 
 Why should human beings mind it 
 If a Collie makes a noise ? 
 
 If he gets excited playing, 
 Barks for joy to be let loose, 
 
 Why is someone always saying, 
 " Quiet, Bruce ! " 
 
 Yet his life is pure contentment, 
 Taking all things in good part, 
 
 Never cherishing resentment 
 In his generous dog's heart. 
 
 See him, how his head he raises, 
 How he droops it at abuse, 
 
 Glad if but one known voice praises, 
 " Bravo, Bruce ! " 
 
 With pathetic patience waiting, 
 Humbly, while I moralise, 
 
 What conundrum is debating 
 In those wondering brown eyes ? 
 
A COLLIE DOG 109 
 
 Are you very tired of lying 
 
 While I muse on themes obtuse ? 
 Off then ! and the ball goes flying 
 Fetch it, Bruce ! 
 
THE VISIONARIES 
 
 AT five years old they knew it well, 
 And kept it long in sight, 
 
 It lay between the nursery bell 
 And kisses for good night. 
 
 Its magic could itself deceive, 
 Its wonders had no end, 
 
 The mystic land of Make-believe 
 And Let's-pretend ! 
 
 They lost it in their growing youth 
 With little thought or care 
 
 Life was too full of vivid truth 
 For Castles-in-the-air. 
 
 In hot adventure must they don 
 Their armour, for the Real, 
 
 With hardly time to think upon 
 Some lost Ideal. 
 
 Yet when they chanced to fall in love 
 
 Their souls could understand 
 The Heavens opened wide above 
 
 And showed it still at hand. 
 For quickened hearts once more receive 
 
 And cherish as a friend 
 The mystic land of Make-believe 
 And Let's-pretend. 
 no 
 
THE VISIONARIES 111 
 
 In middle-age it died away 
 
 To duller days and nights ; 
 Prosaic cares of everyday 
 
 Shut out its rainbow lights. 
 The comfort of the fireside 
 
 Was dearer than of yore, 
 But faces in the coals descried 
 No more no more ! 
 
 But age unlocks the gates again, 
 
 And failing eyes can see 
 The wonder world made straight and plain, 
 
 A golden memory. 
 No fear of death can those deceive 
 
 Who find it, at the end, 
 The olden land of Make-believe 
 And Let's-pretend ! 
 
CAPRICE 
 
 SHE dresses herself in shimmer of green 
 
 And shakes her skirts in the wind ; 
 And her lover the Sun has never yet seen 
 
 A lady more to his mind. 
 Her Spring costume is better than Worth, 
 
 Her Summer clothes finer far, 
 Says the Sun to the coquette, Earth, 
 
 " Ah ! how pretty you are ! " 
 
 But though she yields to his wooing delight 
 
 She forgets him almost as soon ; 
 For hardly her lover is out of sight 
 
 Than she coquets with the moon ! 
 And the Sun in anger hides him away 
 
 Through the mists and the Autumn rain ; 
 He sulks, and vows it will be a long day 
 
 Ere he will trust her again ! 
 
 She dresses herself in snowy white, 
 She sparkles from every bough 
 
 She waits, assured, for her lover's sight, 
 And who could resist her now ? 
 
 He peeps from clouds at the Year's new birth- 
 He blazes down from afar 
 
 Says the Sun to that flirt, the Earth, 
 " Ah ! how pretty you are ! " 
 
 112 
 
THE SONG OF THE HORSE 
 
 WHEN the second crop of the Summer's grasses 
 
 Browns, and is carried from furthest slope, 
 When daylight narrows, and harvest passes, 
 
 The heart of the hunter beats with hope ! 
 Leave the holiday fields that mark us, 
 
 Back to stable and stall again ; 
 Till swelling barrel and grass-fed carcase 
 
 Harden under the hay and grain. 
 
 When fixtures are early, and old tradition 
 
 Draws but few to the covert side, 
 When horse and rider are out of condition, 
 
 The wall looms large, and the bank looks wide ! 
 When cubs are sulky and hounds are chidden, 
 
 When stride and gallop feel strange and queer, 
 When hedges are blind and wire is hidden, 
 
 The heart of the hunter beats with fear ! 
 
 Welcome the morning when no one idles 
 
 Welcome the science of hounds at work ! 
 By the wise, keen faces that look through the bridles 
 
 It isn't the horse who is going to shirk. 
 So it's hey ! for the rider who looks like going, 
 
 With the hands of a girl, and the seat of a boy, 
 A man's decision a woman's knowing, 
 
 And the heart of the hunter beats with joy. 
 
 H 113 
 
SWINBURNIA 
 
 WHEN Life forgets her sorrow 
 And Death asserts his claim 
 
 In some unknown to-morrow 
 Whose date I may not name, 
 
 Some comfort I may borrow 
 Far down the ways of fame. 
 
 When hearts forget their aching 
 And there is no more sea, 
 
 No restless billows, breaking 
 For ever, endlessly 
 
 I shall not fear the waking 
 In some far land and free. 
 
 When you and I are lying 
 Forgotten of mankind, 
 
 But heart to heart replying, 
 As erstwhile mind to mind, 
 
 How should we heed the sighing 
 Of any earthly wind ? 
 
 If you had been a sinner, 
 
 Or I had been a saint, 
 Death had not been the winner, 
 
 Life had not known restraint. 
 The cord, at one time thinner, 
 
 Had snapt for my complaint. 
 114 
 
SWINBURNIA 115 
 
 But now Life sets a hurt in, 
 
 The deeper Life beneath, 
 Until Death draws the curtain 
 
 Upon the last, long breath 
 And how can we be certain 
 
 That Love is after Death ? 
 
 Kind Earth, all stains removing, 
 
 Gives good gifts after strife 
 Six feet of turf, for proving 
 
 That dreams are no more rife, 
 For Life says " No " to loving, 
 
 But Death says " No " to Life. 
 
A FISHER'S SONG 
 
 (Plymouth Sound) 
 
 SEND us a breeze to blow the brit ashore 
 The mack'rel feed too well beyond the bay 
 
 And will not take our bait ; 
 The school went past at dawning of the day, 
 
 And still the markets wait ; 
 New last, bright spinner will not take them more. 
 Send us a breeze to blow the brit ashore I 
 
 Before the dawn, a little while before, 
 When the pale sky was greener than the wave, 
 
 We beat to open sea ; 
 The fishing grounds were barren as the wave,- 
 
 The fish were biting free 
 But feeding on the ocean's lawful store. 
 Send us a breeze to blow the brit ashore I 
 
 Hard on the starboard tack we set, and bore 
 To eastward of the breakwater ; the wind 
 
 A 
 
 Blew steady from the land. 
 Five fathoms deep the sinkers ran behind, 
 
 No bite on either hand. 
 Send us a breeze to blow the brit ashore 
 A sou west breeze to blow the brit ashore I 
 
 116 
 
THE CALL OF THE WEST 
 
 IF you should go by Bickleigh Vale 
 
 When Spring is in the air, 
 'Tis I will come through woods a-wet, 
 Through primrose and through violet, 
 And bluebells from a fairy-tale 
 
 Because for Earth too fair, 
 And though you never hear my feet 
 My spirit with your own shall meet 
 
 Be sure I shall be there ! 
 Oh, what can rival Bickleigh Vale 
 
 When Spring is in the air P 
 
 And if you come from Higher Hooe 
 
 When Summer's on the mead, 
 'Tis I will pass through Radford gate 
 Where the old carp-pools lie in state, 
 Across the road to call to you 
 
 Although you should not heed. 
 Oh meadows rich with meadow-sweet ! 
 They brush no more my passing feet 
 
 That follow where you lead, 
 And if you come from Higher Hooe 
 
 When Summer's on the mead. 
 
 If you should chance on Roborough 
 When Autumn's on the Down, 
 117 
 
118 THE CALL OF THE WEST 
 
 'Tis I am listening for the horn 
 Upon the earliest cubbing morn, 
 From Bickham gate and Horrowbeer 
 
 As far as Coppicetown. 
 And riding fleetfoot Memory 
 My spirit shall go merrily 
 
 For love of old renown. 
 // you should chance on Roborough 
 
 When Autumn's on the Down. 
 
 But if you dare face Wistman's Wood 
 
 When Winter's on the Moor, 
 You'll hear the winds go raving by 
 Oh listen ! listen ! it is I 
 Who, leaving Heaven to the Good, 
 
 Slip through the open door, 
 And claim the Forest for my tomb 
 For there my spirit shall have room, 
 
 In Heaven pinched and poor. 
 My winding sheet at Wistman's Wood 
 
 Is fog upon the Moor I 
 
THE ABSENT OWNER 
 
 THIS is Lord Mt. Leaven's land 
 
 But he never comes here, 
 Though his slanted bluebells stand 
 Trooping to the waterstrand, 
 
 And the beetle drums here 
 Windflowers are a sight in Spring, 
 Lark and chaffinch on the wing, 
 While the blackbird calls 
 Oh the blackbird calls 
 
 Far across the Happy Valley ! 
 
 And the bugles, how they rally 
 In the month of May, 
 
 Like blue candles all arow ; 
 
 And white clouds that drift and flow 
 Crown the quiet day. 
 
 Wooded scents arise and steam 
 From the hidden, talking stream ; 
 And the ground is mauve where yet 
 Alehood mimics violet 
 
 Earth's dream of Heaven. 
 Grateful for its tenant-right 
 Primrose grows in all men's sight 
 
 Praising Lord Mt. Leaven ! 
 Not a flower will he uproot 
 
 For he does not know them 
 'Tis his keepers come to shoot 
 
 In the woods below them. 
 119 
 
120 THE ABSENT OWNER 
 
 And the Happy Valley dreams 
 
 Through the happy seasons 
 Just existing, so it seems, 
 
 For the best of reasons, 
 Beauty, and delight, and grace, 
 Gathered in a little space 
 
 For the absent owner 
 
 An unconscious donor, 
 Though his foot has never pressed 
 
 Greenest moss and yielding grass 
 Though his eyes may never rest 
 
 On the shadows as they pass. 
 Beauty, and delight, and grace 
 Pass him by 
 Oh, pass him by ! 
 Never meet him face to race. 
 But the smallest leaf may claim 
 The protection of his name. 
 Minute insect in the grass, 
 Sun and shadow as they pass, 
 Oak and beech tree as they stand, 
 
 And the bee that hums here, 
 All things living, great and small, 
 Are his tenants one and all. 
 Gorgeous sweeps of gorgeous green 
 Where the woods swell out between, 
 
 Down whose heart the water flows 
 
 Taking inly as it goes, 
 
 Saying plain to one who knows, 
 " This is Lord Mt. Leaven's land, 
 
 But he never comes here ! " 
 
TAVISTOCK 
 
 THERE'S a peal o' bells in Tavistock 
 
 A-playing " Home, sweet home ! " 
 At each full hour chimes the clock 
 And then the bells of Tavistock 
 
 Go singing " Home, sweet home ! " 
 The sleepy town below the moors 
 Half heeds, half hears, the closing doors 
 
 Of hours go and come, 
 Rung from the belfry slow and sweet, 
 Familiar to the* passing feet 
 
 Of those who, call it home. 
 Tavistock Tavistock 
 
 Home, sweet home ! 
 
 Between my heart and Tavistock 
 
 Lie miles and miles of foam ; 
 The ship beats on her outward way, 
 But as it is the Sabbath day 
 I know the bells of Tavistock 
 
 Are playing " Home, sweet home ! " 
 And still across the windy waste, 
 
 Across the broken foam, 
 I hear the slow, deliberate clock, 
 I hear the bells of Tavistock 
 
 A-playing " Home, sweet home ! " 
 Tavistock Tavistock 
 
 Devonshire and home ! 
 121 
 
THE LAW OF THE LAND 
 
 (Crown Hill) 
 
 You mustn't lock your gates against the blackberry pickers 
 
 You must let the mushroom gatherers go where they will. 
 *Tis I was up at daylight in the moist green meadows, 
 Where the mushroom spawn had grown between the night's 
 dim shadows, 
 
 I with my bent back and basket to fill. 
 Folks with laden orchards may do well to home-bide 
 
 Folks with stock at graze may grumble lest they stray 
 But the hedgerows are for cottagers, inside and outside, 
 
 If we lift a gate the cows won't all get away ! 
 Folk with laden orchards may revel in their riches, 
 
 And never give a windfall to the vagrant should he pass ; 
 But it's God's good fruit in the hedges and ditches, 
 
 It's God's own food in the long rank grass. 
 That's the law for us, my dear, out in the morning early, 
 Or picking off the berries, though the farmer greets us surly 
 
 He can't claim Nature's gifts, or God's, better still. 
 For you mustn't lock your gates against the blackberry pickers 
 
 You must let the mushroom gatherers go where they will I 
 
 123 
 
THE BASKET MEN 
 
 THE basket men go up, 
 
 And the basket men go down, 
 All the way from the valley cup 
 
 And into the seaport town. 
 And the streets are gay with their daffodils, 
 And their violets bloom on the window-sills 
 
 And there's watercress for tea. 
 Slip-shod tramp slip-shod tramp 
 They hitch the old basket, dry or damp 
 
 And set their face to the sea. 
 Whatever the hungry lacks, 
 
 And whether we smile or frown, 
 They are bringing the Spring up on their backs 
 And into Plymouth town. 
 
 The basket men go near, 
 
 And the basket men go far ; 
 Though mouths are hungry and food is dear, 
 
 And the land is shadowed by War. 
 But there's varied ivy for wreath and cross, 
 And greenest moss for the place of loss, 
 
 And primrose-roots at best. 
 Slip-shod tramp slip-shod tramp 
 Queer old fellows to pass your Camp 
 
 With snowdrops from the West ! 
 For whatever the hungry lacks, 
 
 And whether we smile or frown, 
 They are bringing the Spring up on their backs 
 And into Plymouth town I 
 123 
 
MILTON COOMBE 
 
 OH I wonder how the folks live at Milton ? 
 
 (The little village 
 
 Down the valley !) 
 It's so out of the way 
 At the other end of day 
 
 That it's nothing but the World's blind-alley. 
 And when the frost and snow come to Milton 
 
 They wrap a drift blanket over all, 
 Till those who pass by, 
 Somewhere up in the sky, 
 
 Look down and see nothing but the great white pall 
 That fills the cleft 
 There's nothing left 
 
 To say if there's a corpse below the pall. 
 Fast asleep fast asleep 
 
 Milton's gone to sleep below the high cliff wall 
 Where they spread their gardens in the Summer, 
 
 Yes ! grow their peas and cabbage on the shelfs beneath the 
 rock 
 
 Cut out of the bosom of the rock. 
 There the bee, that vagrant hummer, 
 
 Drowses in the early stock, 
 
 Or later on the hollyhock. 
 
 Oh I wonder if the folks love at Milton ? 
 (The little village 
 Down the valley, 
 
 124 
 
MILTON 125 
 
 The ancient cleft that caught it, 
 
 And the Inn " Who-would-ha'-thought-it " 
 
 Playing hide-an'-seek down the alley.) 
 No one knows, for no one goes 
 Save by gift of happy chance 
 
 Where the chuckling stream goes through it, 
 
 Half a dozen bridges to it 
 Do they whisper ? Do they dally ? 
 
 Shut so far away 
 
 At the other end of day ! 
 Hidden life and hidden love at Milton 
 
 The little village 
 
 Down the valley ! 
 
A WEST-COUNTRY HUNTING SONG 
 THE END OF THE SEASON 
 
 (D.F.H. and Lamerton) 
 
 HAVE you ever ridden our Moors ? 
 When the rain comes up in streamers from the West, 
 Drifted between Earth and Heaven's windy floors 
 And the Tors are in a shroud, 
 And you gallop in a cloud 
 
 That is wringing, stinging round you and the rest. 
 And you cannot see the field as they rally, 
 And hounds are out of sight across the valley 
 
 Sight and hearing close their doors 
 Some far sense beyond all knowledge guides your will, 
 As the music dies away, 
 And its drifting, dripping grey, 
 Through which you gallop blind, but gallop still. 
 Have you ever ridden our Moors ? 
 
 Or there comes a day 
 
 Bitter, biting, East, and grey, 
 
 When the forest gives no shelter either way. 
 
 You must face it, man and horse, 
 
 All its boundless, lawless force, 
 Till the whole world seems but one vast out-o'-doors. 
 
 Hour by hour it will not tire, 
 The ruffian wind ! 
 
 Stinging cold like bitter fire 
 126 
 
A WEST-COUNTRY HUNTING SONG 127 
 
 And the stubborn Winter heather, 
 As we gallop all together, 
 Ripples under pressure of its course, 
 Ripples, black and claret, from its force 
 
 Here on either hand, before, behind. 
 Wistman's Wood to Believer, 
 Shelter lies not here nor there. 
 Till you cannot hear your voice shouting as you go, 
 Till the good horse under you staggers from its blow. 
 Have you ever ridden our Moors ? 
 
 Oh the mighty boulder rocks 
 
 Breaking through the earth ! 
 Slab and shingle, giant blocks. 
 
 This is something worth, 
 
 Forty minutes going, and a straight-necked Moorland fox 
 Bogged adown the valley, broken by the giant rocks 
 Scrambling through the Cherry Brook and everyone content 
 Long as hounds are running on a screaming, streaming scent. 
 Going at the gallop down a broken, rocky stair 
 Going at the gallop through the mighty Moorland air 
 
 Naked Earth, and Heaven's windy floors. 
 Oh Leicestershire and Warwickshire timber, dyke, and 
 
 water-cut, 
 
 Yorkshire and the Midlands, all the Irish " cracks," 
 All the flying country, all the woodland packs, 
 Heroes of the saddle, take your hard-earned laurels ! . . . But 
 Have you ever ridden our Moors P 
 
ENVOI 
 
 A ROUNDEL IN DYING 
 
 (To One already Dead) 
 
 GOOD night, Beloved ! I am very tired. 
 For many weary years the world has hired 
 
 My work and me to serve them, to my woe ; 
 
 They praise my ceaseless effort, high and low, 
 As something precious that their hearts required. 
 
 There has been much in life I have desired. 
 Now what remains of all I most admired 
 
 On this green Earth ? Only God's leave to go. 
 Good night, Beloved. 
 
 Yet come once more with human love inspired, 
 Whisper one word with the old passion fired 
 Out of the void kiss me that I may know 
 Your touch again. . . . Stoop down, and bless me so 
 Good night, . . . Beloved ! . . . 
 
 The May/lower Prtss, Plymouth, England. William Brendon & SOB, LU 
 
University of California 
 
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