Chapter I: Front Matter

A CLUSTER OF GRAPES

A BOOK OF TWENTIETH CENTURY POETRY

By

GALLOWAY KYLE

_"Hee doth not onely shew the way, as will entice anie man to
enter into it: nay he doth as if your journey should lye through a
faire vineyard, at the verie first, give you a cluster of grapes,
that full of that taste, you may long to passe further."_

LONDON: ERSKINE MACDONALD 1914

_The contents of this volume are copyright and may not be reproduced without the permission of the respective authors and publishers._

_PREFACE_

_If the existence and contents of this book require any explanation, the compiler may adopt the words of a famous defender of poetry:_

_"Hee doth not onely shew the way but giveth so sweet a prospect
into the way as will entice anie man into it._

_"Nay, hee doth as if your journey should lye through a faire
Vineyard, at the verie first give you a cluster of Grapes that
full of that taste you may long to passe further. He beginneth
not with obscure definitions, which must blurre the margent with
interpretations and loade the memorie with doubtfulnesse, but hee
cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either
accompanied with or prepared for the well-enchanting skill of
musicke, and with a tale forsoothe he cometh unto you, with a
tale which holdeth children from play and olde men from the
chimney-corner, and pretending no more, doth intend the winning
of the minde from wickedness to vertue."_

_These excellent words of Sir Philip Sidney give the reason and scope of this collection of examples of the poetry of the present century. No attempt at arbitrary classification or labelling has been made; it is not intended to show that any poet, deliberately or otherwise, is a Neo-Symbolist or Paroxyst or is afflicted with any other 'ist or 'ism; it is not compiled to assert that any one group of poets is superior to any other group of poets or to poets who had the misfortune to have their corporeal existence cut short before the dawn of the twentieth century; it is not even intended to prove that good poetry is written in our time. All such purposes and particularly the latter are superfluous and may be left to dogmatic disputants who have little care for the grace and harmony of poetry._

_The scheme of the Anthology is simple and without guile. It does not presuppose an abrupt period, but for the sake of convenience and in justification of its existence includes only the work of living writers produced during the present century and therefore most likely to be representative of the poetry of to-day. No editorial credit can be claimed for the selections; they are not the reflex of one individual's taste and preferences, but have been made by the writers themselves, to whom--and their respective publishers--for their cordial co-operation the collator of this distinctive volume is exceedingly grateful, not on his own account only but also on behalf of those readers to whom this volume will open out so fair a prospect that they will long to pass further, this "cluster of grapes" being one of the "lures immortal" for the rapidly increasing number of discriminating lovers of the high poetry that is the touchstone of beauty. The finest lyric work of our day needs no further introduction; the poet is his own best interpreter; but it may be added, in anticipation of adventitious criticism of the limitations of these examples, that the capacity of the present volume and the absence abroad of some potential contributors account for the non-inclusion of certain writers who otherwise would have been represented here._

_GALLOWAY KYLE._

_May_, 1914.

BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CONTENTS

Page

A.E.:
Collected Poems (Macmillan), 1913.

Reconciliation 1
The Man to the Angel 2
Babylon 3

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON:
Le Cahier Jaune (privately printed), 1892. Poems, 1893; Lyrics,
1895; Lord Vyet, and other Poems, 1897; The Professor and other
Poems, 1900; Peace and other Poems, 1905; Collected Poems (John
Lane, The Bodley Head), 1909.

Making Haste 5
At Eventide 6
In a College Garden 7

ANNA BUNSTON (Mrs de Bary):
Leaves from a Woman's Manuscript, 1904 (out of print); Mingled Wine
(Longmans), 1909; The Porch of Paradise (Herbert & Daniel), 1911;
Songs of God and Man (Herbert & Daniel), 1912; Letters of a
Schoolma'am (Dent), 1913; Jephthah's Daughter (Erskine MacDonald),
1914; Mingled Wine (Cheaper re-issue, Erskine MacDonald), 1914.

A Mortgaged Inheritance 8
The Wilderness 9
Under a Wiltshire Apple Tree 11

G. K. CHESTERTON:
(b. 1873). Poems in Novels and the _Commonwealth_, the _New
Witness_, etc.; The Wild Knight and other Poems (Richards), 1900;
Browning, in "English Men of Letters" (Macmillan), 1903; Ballad of
the White Horse (Methuen), 1911.

Sonnet with the Compliments of the Season 13
When I came back to Fleet Street 14
The Truce of Christmas 17

FRANCES CORNFORD:
Poems (Bowes & Bowes, Cambridge), 1910. Death and the Princess, a
Morality (Bowes & Bowes), 1913.

The Princess and the Gypsies 19
The Dandelion 22
Social Intercourse 23

WALTER DE LA MARE:
(b. 1873). Songs of Childhood (Longmans), 1902; Henry Brocken
(Murray), 1904; Poems, 1906: The Three Mulla Malgars (Duckworth);
The Return (Arnold), 1910; The Listeners and other Poems
(Constable), 1911; Peacock Pie (Constable), 1913.

An Epitaph 24
Arabia 25
Nod 26

JOHN GALSWORTHY:
(b. 1867). Novels, Studies, and Verse; Villa Rubein, 1901; The
Island Pharisees, 1904; The Man of Property, 1906; The Country
House, 1907; A Commentary, 1908; Fraternity, 1909; A Motley, 1910;
The Patrician, 1911; The Inn of Tranquillity; and Moods, Songs and
Doggerels, 1913; The Dark Flower (Heinemann), 1913; Plays: Vol. I,
The Silver Box; Joy; Strife, 1909. Vol. II, Justice; The Little
Dream; The Eldest Son, 1912. Vol. III, The Fugitive; The Pigeon;
The Mob, 1914.

The Downs 27
The Prayer 27
Devon to Me 28

EVA GORE-BOOTH:
Poems (Longmans, Green & Co.), 1898; Unseen Kings (Longmans), 1904;
The One and the Many (Longmans), 1904; The Three Resurrections and
the Triumph of Maeve (Longmans), 1905; The Sorrowful Princess
(Longmans), 1907; The Egyptian Pillar (Maunsel & Co., Dublin), 1907;
The Agate Lamp (Longmans), 1912.

Maeve of the Battles 29
Re-Incarnation 31
Leonardo Da Vinci 34

JOHN GURDON:
Erinna, a Tragedy (Edward Arnold), 1913; Dramatic Lyrics (Elkin
Matthews), 1906; Enchantments (Erskine Macdonald), 1912.

Surrender 36
Before the Fates 38

THOMAS HARDY:
(b. 1840). Wessex Poems, 1898; Poems of the Past and Present, 1901;
The Dynasts; An Epic Drama, Part I, 1903-4; Part II, 1906; Part III,
1908; Time's Laughing Stocks and other Verses (Macmillan), 1910.

A Trampwoman's Tragedy 42
Chorus from "The Dynasts" (Part III) 47
The Ballad Singer 49

RALPH HODGSON:
Contributions to the _Saturday Review_; Flying Fame Chap Books.

The Moor 50
Time, You Old Gipsy Man 51
Ghoul Care 53

W. G. HOLE:
Procris and other Poems (Paul); Amoris Imago (Paul); Poems, Lyrical
and Dramatic (Matthews), 1902; Queen Elizabeth, An Historical Drama
(Geo. Bell & Sons), 1904; New Poems (Geo. Bell & Sons), 1907; The
Chained Titan (Geo. Bell & Sons,) 1910; The Master: A Poetical Play
in Two Acts (Erskine Macdonald), 1913.

Roosevelt-Village Street 54
The Haunted Fields 58
Captive in London Town 60

LAURENCE HOUSMAN:
(b. 1867). Mendicant Rimes; Selected Poems (Sidgwick & Jackson).

The Fellow-Travellers 61
The Settlers 62
Song 63

EMILIA S. LORIMER:
Songs of Alban (Constable), 1912.

Love Songs 64
Storm 65

JAMES A. MACKERETH:
In Grasmere Vale and other Poems, 1907; The Cry on the Mountain,
1908; When We Dreamers Wake, a Drama for To-day (Nutt), 1909; A
Son of Cain and other Poems (Longmans), 1910; In the Wake of the
Phoenix (Longmans), 1911; On the Face of a Star (Longmans), 1913.

To a Blackbird on New Year's Day 66
La Danseuse 68
God Returns 70

ALICE MEYNELL:
Poems (Collected Edition), 1913. Essays (selected from The Rhythm of
Life, etc.) (Burns & Oates), 1914.

To the Body 72
Christ in the Universe 73
Maternity 74

WILL H. OGILVIE:
The Overlander; The Land we Love; Whaup o' the Rede (Thomas Fraser,
Dalbeattie); Rainbows and Witches (Elkin Matthews); Fair Girls and
Grey Horses; Hearts of Gold (Angus & Robertson, Australia).

There's a Clean Wind Blowing 75
The Garden of the Night 76
The Crossing Swords 79

STEPHEN PHILLIPS:
Eremus (Paul), 1894; Christ in Hades (Matthews), 1896; Poems, 1897;
Paolo and Francesca, 1899; Marpessa, 1900; Herod, 1900; Ulysses,
1902; Nero, 1906; The New Inferno, 1910; New Poems, Lyrics and
Dramas (John Lane), 1913.

Lures Immortal 80
Beautiful lie the Dead 82
Lyric from "The Sin of David" 83

EDEN PHILLPOTTS:
Many novels: Dance of the Months; Sketches of Dartmoor and Poems
(Gowans & Gray), 1911; The Iscariot, a Poem (Murray), 1912; Up-Along
and Down-Along (Methuen), 1905; Wild Fruit (John Lane), 1911.

A Devon Courting 84
A Litany to Pan 85
Swinburne 87

DORA SIGERSON SHORTER:
Verses, 1894; The Fairy Changeling, and other Poems, 1897; My Lady's
Slipper and other Poems, 1898; Ballads and Poems, 1899; The Father
Confessor, 1900; The Woman who went to Hell, 1902; As the Sparks fly
Upward, 1904; The Story and Song of Earl Roderick, 1906; Collected
Poems, 1909; The Troubadour, 1910; New Poems, 1912; Madge Linsey and
other Poems (Maunsel, Dublin), 1913.

The Watcher in the Wood 88
The Nameless One 89
When I shall Rise 91

ARTHUR SYMONS:
Images of Good and Evil, 1900; Poems, 1901; The Fool of the World
and other Poems, 1906; The Knave of Hearts (Heinemann), 1913; Cities
of Italy, 1908; The Romantic Movement in English Poetry, 1909.

Tanagra 92
Giovanni Malatesta at Rimini 93
La Melinite: Moulin Rouge 95

EVELYN UNDERHILL:
Immanence, A Book of Verses (J. M. Dent & Sons), 1912; Mysticism;
The Mystic Way.

Immanence 97
Introversion 99
Ichthus 100

MARGARET L. WOODS:
Poems, Collected Edition (John Lane), 1913.

Songs 102
The Changeling 103

Æ

RECONCILIATION

I begin through the grass once again to be bound to the Lord; I can see, through a face that has faded, the face full of rest Of the earth, of the mother, my heart with her heart in accord, As I lie mid the cool green tresses that mantle her breast I begin with the grass once again to be bound to the Lord.

By the hand of a child I am led to the throne of the King For a touch that now fevers me not is forgotten and far, And His infinite sceptred hands that sway us can bring Me in dreams from the laugh of a child to the song of a star. On the laugh of a child I am borne to the joy of the King.

THE MAN TO THE ANGEL

I have wept a million tears:
Pure and proud one, where are thine,
What the gain though all thy years
In unbroken beauty shine?

All your beauty cannot win
Truth we learn in pain and sighs:
You can never enter in
To the circle of the wise.

They are but the slaves of light
Who have never known the gloom,
And between the dark and bright
Willed in freedom their own doom.

Think not in your pureness there,
That our pain but follows sin:
There are fires for those who dare
Seek the throne of might to win.

Pure one, from your pride refrain:
Dark and lost amid the strife
I am myriad years of pain
Nearer to the fount of life.

When defiance fierce is thrown
At the god to whom you bow,
Rest the lips of the Unknown
Tenderest upon my brow.

BABYLON

The blue dusk ran between the streets: my love was winged within my mind, It left to-day and yesterday and thrice a thousand years behind. To-day was past and dead for me, for from to-day my feet had run Through thrice a thousand years to walk the ways of ancient Babylon. On temple top and palace roof the burnished gold flung back the rays Of a red sunset that was dead and lost beyond a million days. The tower of heaven turns darker blue, a starry sparkle now begins; The mystery and magnificence, the myriad beauty and the sins Come back to me. I walk beneath the shadowy multitude of towers; Within the gloom the fountain jets its pallid mist in lily flowers. The waters lull me and the scent of many gardens, and I hear Familiar voices, and the voice I love is whispering in my ear. Oh real as in dream all this; and then a hand on mine is laid: The wave of phantom time withdraws; and that young Babylonian maid, One drop of beauty left behind from all the flowing of that tide, Is looking with the self-same eyes, and here in Ireland by my side. Oh light our life in Babylon, but Babylon has taken wings, While we are in the calm and proud procession of eternal things.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

MAKING HASTE

"Soon!" says the Snowdrop, and smiles at the motherly earth,
"Soon!--for the Spring with her languors comes stealthily on
Snow was my cradle, and chill winds sang at my birth;
Winter is over--and I must make haste to be gone!"

"Soon," says the Swallow, and dips to the wind-ruffled stream,
"Grain is all garnered--the Summer is over and done;
Bleak to the eastward the icy battalions gleam,
Summer is over--and I must make haste to be gone!"

"Soon--ah, too soon!" says the Soul, with a pitiful gaze,
"Soon!--for I rose like a star, and for aye would have shone!
See the pale shuddering dawn, that must wither my rays,
Leaps from the mountains--and I must make haste to be gone!"

AT EVENTIDE

At morn I saw the level plain
So rich and small beneath my feet,
A sapphire sea without a stain,
And fields of golden-waving wheat;
Lingering I said, "At noon I'll be
At peace by that sweet-scented tide.
How far, how fair my course shall be,
Before I come to the Eventide!"

Where is it fled, that radiant plain?
I stumble now in miry ways;
Dark clouds drift landward, big with rain,
And lonely moors their summits raise.
On, on with hurrying feet I range,
And left and right in the dumb hillside
Grey gorges open, drear and strange,
And so I come to the Eventide!

IN A COLLEGE GARDEN

Birds, that cry so loud in the old, green bowery garden, Your song is of _Love! Love! Love!_ Will ye weary not nor cease? For the loveless soul grows sick, the heart that the grey days harden; I know too well that ye love! I would ye should hold your peace.

I too have seen Love rise, like a star; I have marked his setting;
I dreamed in my folly and pride that Life without Love were peace.
But if Love should await me yet, in the land of sleep and forgetting--
Ah, bird, could you sing me this, I would not your song should cease!

ANNA BUNSTON (Mrs de BARY)

A MORTGAGED INHERITANCE

I knew a land whose streams did wind More winningly than these, Where finer shadows played behind The clean-stemmed beechen trees. The maidens there were deeper eyed, The lads more swift and fair, And angels walked at each one's side-- Would God that I were there!

Here daffodils are dressed in gold, But there they wore the sun, And here the blooms are bought and sold, But there God gave each one. There all roads led to fairyland That here do lead to care, And stars were lamps on Heaven's strand-- Would God, that I were there!

Here worship crawls upon her course That there with larks would cope, And here her voice with doubt is hoarse That there was sweet with hope. O land of Peace! my spirit dies For thy once tasted air, O earliest loss! O latest prize! Would God that I were there!

THE WILDERNESS

From Life's enchantments, Desire of place, From lust of getting Turn thou away, and set thy face Toward the wilderness.

The tents of Jacob As valleys spread, As goodly cedars, Or fair lign aloes, white and red, Shall share thy wilderness.

With awful judgments, The law, the rod, With soft allurements And comfortable words, will God Pass o'er the wilderness.

The bitter waters Are healed and sweet, The ample heavens Pour angel's bread about thy feet Throughout the wilderness.

And Carmel's glory Thou thoughtest gone, And Sharon's roses, The excellency of Lebanon Delight thy wilderness.

Who passeth Jordan Perfumed with myrrh, With myrrh and incense? Lo! on his arm Love leadeth her Who trod the wilderness.

UNDER A WILTSHIRE APPLE TREE

Some folks as can afford, So I've heard say, Sets up a sort of cross Right in the garden way To mind 'em of the Lord.

But I, when I do see Thic apple tree An' stoopin' limb All spread wi' moss, I think of Him And how he talks wi' me.

I think of God And how he trod That garden long ago: He walked, I reckon, to and fro And then sat down Upon the groun' Or some low limb What suited Him Same as you see On many a tree, And on this very one Where I at set o' sun Do sit and talk wi' He.

An' mornings, too, I rise an' come An' sit down where the branch be low; A bird do sing, a bee do hum, The flowers in the border blow, An' all my heart's so glad an' clear As pools be when the sun do peer: As pools a laughin' in the light When mornin' air is swep' an' bright, As pools what got all Heaven in sight So's my heart's cheer When He be near.

He never pushed the garden door, He left no footmark on the floor; I never heard 'Un stir nor tread An' yet His Hand do bless my head, And when 'tis time for work to start I takes Him with me in my heart.

And when I die, pray God I see At very last thic apple tree An' stoopin' limb, An' think o' Him And all He been to me.

G. K. CHESTERTON

SONNET WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

(To a popular leader, to be congratulated on the avoidance of a strike at Christmas.)

I know you. You will hail the huge release,
Saying the sheathing of a thousand swords,
In silence and injustice, well accords
With Christmas bells. And you will gild with grease
The papers, the employers, the police,
And vomit up the void your windy words
To your new Christ; who bears no whip of cords
For them that traffic in the doves of peace.

The feast of friends, the candle-fruited tree,
I have not failed to honour. And I say
It would be better for such men as we
And we be nearer Bethlehem, if we lay
Shot dead on snows scarlet for Liberty,
Dead in the daylight; upon Christmas Day.

WHEN I CAME BACK TO FLEET STREET

When I came back to Fleet Street,
Through a sunset-nook at night,
And saw the old Green Dragon
With the windows all alight,
And hailed the old Green Dragon
And the Cock I used to know,
Where all the good fellows were my friends
A little while ago.

I had been long in meadows,
And the trees took hold of me,
And the still towns in the beech-woods,
Where men were meant to be;
But old things held; the laughter,
The long unnatural night,
And all the truth the talk in hell,
And all the lies they write.

For I came back to Fleet Street,
And not in peace I came;
A cloven pride was in my heart,
And half my love was shame.
I came to fight in fairy tale,
Whose end shall no man know--
To fight the old Green Dragon
Until the Cock shall crow!

Under the broad bright windows
Of men I serve no more,
The groaning of the old great wheels
Thickened to a throttled roar;
All buried things broke upwards;
And peered from its retreat,
Ugly and silent, like an elf,
The secret of the street.

They did not break the padlocks,
Or clear the wall away.
The men in debt that drank of old
Still drink in debt to-day;
Chained to the rich by ruin,
Cheerful in chains, as then
When old unbroken Pickwick walked
Among the broken men.

Still he that dreams and rambles
Through his own elfin air,
Knows that the street's a prison,
Knows that the gates are there:
Still he that scorns or struggles,
Sees frightful and afar
All that they leave of rebels
Rot high on Temple Bar.

All that I loved and hated,
All that I shunned and knew,
Clears in broad battle lightening;
Where they, and I, and you,
Run high the barricade that breaks
The barriers of the Street,
And shout to them that shrink within,
The Prisoners of the Fleet!

THE TRUCE OF CHRISTMAS

Passionate peace is in the sky
And on the snow in silver sealed
The beasts are perfect in the field
And men seem men so suddenly
But take ten swords, and ten times ten,
And blow the bugle in praising men
For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us every one
And misers haggle, and mad men clutch
And there is peril in praising much
And we have the terrible tongues un-curled
That praise the world to the sons of the world.

The idle humble hill and wood
Are bowed about the sacred Birth
And for one little while the earth
Is lazy with the love of good
But ready are you and ready am I
If the battle blow and the guns go by
For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us every one
For the men that hate herd altogether
To pride and gold and the great white feather
And the thing is graven in star and stone
That the men that love are all alone.

Hunger is hard and time is tough
But bless the beggars and kiss the kings
For hope has broken the heart of things
And nothing was ever praised enough
But hold the shield for a sudden swing
And point the sword in praising a thing
For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us every one
And mime and merchant, thane and thrall,
Hate us because we love them all
Only till Christmas time goes by
Passionate peace is in the sky.

FRANCES CORNFORD

THE PRINCESS AND THE GIPSIES

As I looked out one May morning,
I saw the tree-tops green;
I said: "My crown I will lay down
And live no more a queen."

Then I tripped down my golden steps
All in my silken gown,
And when I stood in the open wood,
I met some gipsies brown.

"O gentle, gentle gipsies,
That roam the wide world through,
Because I hate my crown and state
O let me come with you.

"My councillors are old and grey,
And sit in narrow chairs;
But you can hear the birds sing clear,
And your hearts are as light as theirs."

"If you would come along with us,
Then you must count the cost;
For though in Spring the sweet birds sing,
In Winter comes the frost.

"Your ladies serve you all the day
With courtesy and care;
Your fine-shod feet they tread so neat,
But a gipsy's feet go bare.

"You wash in water running warm
Through basins all of gold;
The streams where we roam have silvery foam,
But the streams, the streams are cold.

"And barley-bread is bitter to taste,
While sugary cakes they please--
Which will you choose, O which will you choose,
Which will you choose of these?

"For if you choose the mountain streams
And barley-bread to eat,
Your heart will be free as the birds in the tree,
But the stones will cut your feet.

"The mud will spoil your silken gown,
And stain your insteps high;
The dogs in the farm will wish you harm
And bark as you go by.

"And though your heart grow deep and gay,
And your heart grow wise and rich,
The cold will make your bones to ache
And you will die in a ditch."

"O gentle, gentle gipsies,
That roam the wide world through,
Although I praise your wandering ways,
I dare not come with you."

I hung about their fingers brown
My ruby rings and chain,
And with my head as heavy as lead,
I turned me back again.

As I went up the palace steps,
I heard the gipsies laugh;
The birds of Spring so sweet did sing;
My heart it broke in half.

THE DANDELION

The dandelion is brave and gay, And loves to grow beside the way; A braver thing was never seen To praise the grass for growing green; You never saw a gayer thing, To sit and smile and praise the Spring.

The children with their simple hearts, The lazy men that come in carts, The little dogs that lollop by, They all have seen its shining eye: And every one of them would say, They never saw a thing so gay.

SOCIAL INTERCOURSE

Like to islands in the seas, Stand our personalities-- Islands where we always face One another's watering-place. When we promenade our sands We can hear each other's bands, We can see on festal nights Red and green and purple lights, Gilt pavilions in a row, Stucco houses built for show.

But our eyes can never reach Further than the tawdry beach, Never can they hope to win To the wonders far within: Jagged rocks against the sky Where the eagles haunt and cry, Forests full of running rills, Darkest forests, sunny hills, Hollows where a dragon lowers, Sweet and unimagined flowers.

WALTER DE LA MARE

AN EPITAPH

Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she:
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
However rare--rare it be;
And when I crumble who will remember
This lady of the West Country?

ARABIA

Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple, Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars, Pale in the noonday skies.

Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired musicians, In the brooding silence of night.

They haunt me--her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say-- "He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away."

NOD

Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep; And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no more pain, His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, "Rest, rest, and rest again."

JOHN GALSWORTHY

THE DOWNS.

Oh! the downs high to the cool sky;
And the feel of the sun-warmed moss;
And each cardoon, like a full moon,
Fairy-spun of the thistle floss;
And the beech grove, and a wood dove,
And the trail where the shepherds pass;
And the lark's song, and the wind-song,
And the scent of the parching grass!

THE PRAYER.

If on a Spring night I went by
And God were standing there,
What is the prayer that I would cry
To Him? This is the prayer:
O Lord of Courage grave,
O Master of this night of Spring!
Make firm in me a heart too brave
To ask Thee anything!

DEVON TO ME.

Where my fathers stood, watching the sea, Gale-spent herring boats hugging the lea; There my Mother lives, moorland and tree. Sight o' the blossoms! Devon to me!

Where my fathers walked, driving the plough; Whistled their hearts out--who whistles now?-- There my Mother burns fire faggots free. Scent o' the wood-smoke! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sat, passing their bowls; --They've no cider now, God rest their souls! There my Mother feeds red cattle three. Sup o' the cream-pan! Devon to me!

Where my fathers sleep, turning to dust, This old body throw when die I must! There my Mother calls, wakeful is she! Sound o' the West-wind! Devon to me!

Where my fathers lie, when I am gone, Who need pity me, dead? Never one! There my Mother clasps me. Let me be! Feel o' the red earth! Devon to me!

EVA GORE-BOOTH

MAEVE OF THE BATTLES

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill, And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed, And my soul is blown about by the wild wind of her will, For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace-- A dream of light on the mountains, and calm on the restless sea; A dream of the gentle days of the world when battle shall cease And the things that are in hatred and wrath no longer shall be. I would dream a dream at twilight of ease and beauty and peace.

The foamless waves are falling soft on the sands of Lissadil And the world is wrapped in quiet and a floating dream of grey; But the wild winds of the twilight blow straight from the haunted hill And the stars come out of the darkness and shine over Knocknarea-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve; No rest for the heart once caught in the net of her yellow hair-- No quiet for the fallen wind, no peace for the broken wave; Rising and falling, falling and rising with soft sounds everywhere, There is no rest for the soul that has seen the wild eyes of Maeve.

I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill And I know that the deed that is in my heart is her deed; And my soul is blown about by the wild winds of her will, For always the living must follow whither the dead would lead-- I have seen Maeve of the Battles wandering over the hill.

RE-INCARNATION

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep
Forlorn beyond receding rings of light,
The torrents of the earth's desires sweep
My soul through twilight downward into night.

Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades,
Myself seems to myself a distant goal,
I grope among the bodies' drowsy shades,
Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.

Once more the Manifold in shadowy streams
Of falling waters murmurs in my ears,
The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreams
That crowd the narrow pathway of the years.

I go to seek the starshine on the waves,
To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill,
I go to gather flowers that grow on graves,
The worlds' wall closes round my prisoned will.

Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind
The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne,
Because of primroses, time out of mind,
The Lonely turns away from the Alone.

Who once has loved the cornfield's rustling sheaves,
Who once has heard the gentle Irish rain
Murmur low music in the growing leaves,
Though he were god, comes back to earth again.

Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would break
The tower of my soul's initiate pride
For a grey field and a star-haunted lake,
And those wet winds that roam the country side.

I who have seen am glad to close my eyes,
I who have soared am weary of my wings,
I seek no more the secret of the wise,
Safe among shadowy, unreal human things.

Blind to the gleam of those wild violet rays
That burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim,
Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days,
The sightless slave of Time's imperious whim;

Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divine
That surge outside the closed gates of birth,
The rhythms of eternity, too fine
To touch with music the dull ears of earth--

I go to seek with humble care and toil
The dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone,
To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil,
Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun.

Content in winter if the fire burns clear
And cottage walls keep out the creeping damp,
Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear,
The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

LEONARDO DA VINCI

He in his deepest mind That inner harmony divined That lit the soul of John And in the glad eyes shone Of Dionysos, and dwelt Where Angel Gabriel knelt Under the dark cypress spires; And thrilled with flameless fires Of Secret Wisdom's rays The Giaconda's smiling gaze; Curving with delicate care The pearls in Beatrice d'Este's hair; Hiding behind the veil Of eyelids long and pale, In the strange gentle vision dim Of the unknown Christ who smiled on him. His was no vain dream Of the things that seem, Of date and name. He overcame The Outer False with the Inner True, And overthrew The empty show and thin deceits of sex, Pale nightmares of this barren world that vex The soul of man, shaken by every breeze Too faint to stir the silver olive trees Or lift the Dryad's smallest straying tress Frozen in her clear marble loveliness.

He, in curved lips and smiling eyes, Hid the last secret's faint surprise Of one who dies in fear and pain And lives and knows herself again. He, in his dreaming under the sun, Saw change and the unchanging One, And built in grottoes blue a shrine To hold Reality Divine.

JOHN GURDON

SURRENDER

Like the diamond spark of the morning star
When night grows pale
Love gleams in the depths of thine eyes afar
Through the rifted veil
Of thy cloudy dreams.

I saw in the glint of thy wavy hair
His splendour shine
A moment, and now thy cheeks declare
The fire divine
In their rosy streams.

It leaps from thy face to mine, and flushes
From brow to chin.
The hot blood sings in my ears and gushes
With surge and spin
Through my tingling veins.

I lift up my heart for thy fervent lips
To kiss, my sweet.
I would lift up my soul, but she swooning slips
Down at thy feet,
And the rainbow stains.

Brighten and cloud on her wings that close
And open slow,
As a butterfly's move, on the breast of a rose
Rocked to and fro
By a crooning wind.

O star! O blossom! I faint for bliss.
I faint for thee;
For the kiss on my closed eyes, thy kiss
In ecstasy
That leaves me blind.

Me has love molten for thee to mould.
Ah, shape me fair
As the crown of thy life, as a crown of gold
In thy flame-like hair
Worn for a sign!

Nay, rather my life be a wind-flower
Slow kissed to death,
Petal by petal, on lips that stir
With love's own breath.
Dear life, take mine!

BEFORE THE FATES

I cannot sing, So weary of life my heart is and so sore Afraid. What harp-playing Back from the land whose name is Never More My lost desire will bring?

* * * * *

These words she said Before the Pheidian Fates. "There comes an end Of love, and mine is fled: But, if you let me, I will be your friend, A better friend, instead."

Was it her own, The voice I heard, marmoreal, strange, remote, As though from yonder throne Clotho had spoken, and the headless throat Had uttered words of stone?

I sought her face; It was a mask inscrutable, a screen Baffling all hope to trace The woman whose passionate loveliness had been Mine for a little space.

Thereat I rose, Smiling, and said--"The dream is past and gone. Surely Love comes and goes Even as he will. And who shall thwart him? None. Only, while water flows

And night and day Chase one another round the rolling sphere, Henceforth our destined way Divides. Fare onward, then, and leave me, dear. There is no more to say."

* * * * *

Harsh songs and sweet Come to me still, but as a tale twice told. The throb, the quivering beat Harry my blood no longer as of old, Nor stir my wayworn feet.

Yet for a threne Once more I wear the purple robe and make Sad music and serene For pity's sake, ah me, and the old time's sake, And all that might have been.

For Love lies dead. Love, the immortal, the victorious, Is fallen and vanquished. What charm can raise, what incantation rouse That lowly, piteous head?

Why should I weep My triumph? 'Twas my life or his. Behold The wound, how wide and deep Which in my side the arrow tipped with gold Smote as I lay asleep!

Across thy way I came not, Love, nor ever sought thy face; But me, who dreaming lay Peaceful within my quiet lurking-place, Thy shaft was sped to slay.

When hadst thou ruth, That I should sorrow o'er thee and forgive? Why should I grieve, forsooth? Art thou not dead for ever, and I live? And yet--and yet, in truth

Almost I would That I had perished, and beside my bier Thou and thy mother stood, And from relenting eyes let fall a tear Upon me, and my blood

Changed to a flower Imperishable, a hyacinthine bloom, In memory of an hour Splendidly lived between Delight and Doom Once when I wandered from my ivory tower.

THOMAS HARDY

A TRAMPWOMAN'S TRAGEDY (182-)

I

From Wynyard's Gap the livelong day, The livelong day, We beat afoot the northward way We had travelled times before. The sun-blaze burning on our backs, Our shoulders sticking to our packs, By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks We skirted sad Sedge Moor.

II

Full twenty miles we jaunted on, We jaunted on-- My fancy-man, and jeering John, And Mother Lee, and I. And, as the sun drew down to west, We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest, And saw, of landskip sights the best, The inn that beamed thereby.

III

For months we had padded side by side, Ay, side by side Through the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide, And where the Parret ran. We'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge, Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge, Been stung by every Marshwood midge, I and my fancy man.