Chapter III

Now, waiting on Southampton sea For exile, through the silver night I hear Noel! Noel! Through generations down to me Your challenge, builder, comes aright, Bell by obedient bell.

You wake an hour with me; then wide Though be the lapses of your sleep You yet shall wake again; And thus, old builder, on the tide Of immortality you keep Your way from brain to brain.

CHORUS FROM 'LINCOLN'

You who have gone gathering
Cornflowers and meadowsweet,
Heard the hazels glancing down
On September eves,
Seen the homeward rooks on wing
Over fields of golden wheat,
And the silver cups that crown
Water-lily leaves;

You who know the tenderness
Of old men at eve-tide,
Coming from the hedgerows,
Coming from the plough,
And the wandering caress
Of winds upon the woodside,
When the crying yaffle goes
Underneath the bough;

You who mark the flowing
Of sap upon the May-time,
And the waters welling
From the watershed,
You who count the growing
Of harvest and hay-time,
Knowing these the telling
Of your daily bread;

You who cherish courtesy
With your fellows at your gate,
And about your hearthstone sit
Under love's decrees,
You who know that death will be
Speaking with you soon or late,
Kinsmen, what is mother-wit
But the light of these?

Knowing these, what is there more
For learning in your little years?
Are not these all gospels bright
Shining on your day?
How then shall your hearts be sore
With envy and her brood of fears,
How forget the words of light
From the mountain-way ...

Blessed are the merciful ...
Does not every threshold seek
Meadows and the flight of birds
For compassion still?
Blessed are the merciful ...
Are we pilgrims yet to speak
Out of Olivet the words
Of knowledge and good-will?

HABITATION

High up in the sky there, now, you know, In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep, Tenantless, and no creature there to go Near it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheep Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hears Under that cherry-tree the night-jars yet, The windows are uncurtained; on the stairs Silence is but by tip-toe silence met. All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put by From use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.

Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May-- Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep, With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day To the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep, This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives, Breathing upon that still, insensible place, Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives, And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace, That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this, One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they, Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May, Signs that even the curious man would miss, Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour, Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ... The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb-- But we are there--we are waiting ourselves who come.

PASSAGE

When you deliberate the page Of Alexander's pilgrimage, Or say--'It is three years, or ten, Since Easter slew Connolly's men,' Or prudently to judgment come Of Antony or Absalom, And think how duly are designed Case and instruction for the mind, Remember then that also we, In a moon's course, are history.

* * * * *

JOHN FREEMAN

O MUSE DIVINE

O thou, my Muse, Beside the Kentish River running Through water-meads where dews Tossed flashing at thy feet And tossing flashed again When the timid herd By thy swift passing stirred Up-leapt and ran;

Thou that didst fleet Thy shadow over dark October hills By Aston, Weston, Saintbury, Willersey, Winchcombe, and all the combes and hills Of the green lonely land;

Thou that in May Once when I saw thee sunning Thyself so lovely there Than the flushed flower more fair Fallen from the wild apple spray, Didst rise and sprinkling sunlight with thy hand Shadow-like disappear in the deep-shadowy hedges Between forsaken Buckle Street and the sparse sedges Of young twin-breasted Honeybourne;--

O thou, my Muse, Scarce longer seen than the brief hues Of winter cloud that flames Over the tarnished silver Thames; So often nearing, As often disappearing, With thy body's shadow brushing My brain at midnight, lightly touching; O yield thee, Muse, to me, No more in dream delights and morn forgettings, But in a ferny hollow I know well And thou know'st well, warm-proof'd 'gainst the wind's frettings. ... Bring thou thyself, and there In that warm ferny hollow where the sun Slants one gold beam and no light else but thine And my eyes' happy shine-- There, O lovely Muse, Shall on thy shining body be begot, Fruit of delights a many mingling in one, Thy child and mine, a lovely shape and thought; My child and thine, O Muse divine!

THE WAKERS

The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair, And cried, 'Before thy flowers are well awake Rise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.

'Before the daisy and the sorrel buy Their brightness back from that close-folding night, Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake, Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!'

Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirred Above the Roman bones that may not stir Though joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang: The grass stirred as that happy music rang.

O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere! The steady shadows shook and thinned and died, The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness, And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.

As if she had found wings, light as the wind, The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west, Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing all Her dews for happiness to hear morning call....

But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed, I saw the fading edge of all delight. The sober morning waked the drowsy herds, And there was the old scolding of the birds.

THE BODY

When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was, And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed, I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping saw no more: My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed.

'I did not think!' I cried, seeing that wavering shape That steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in June Lifts and falls in the wind--each fruit a fruit of light; And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.

As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near; I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away. Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still, Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.

Water falling, falling with the curve of time Over green-hued rock, then plunging to its pool Far, far below, a falling spear of light; Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:

Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast, Water falls as straight as her body rose, Water her brightness has from neck to still feet, Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.

But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed, Nor water such strength has. I joyed to behold How the blood lit her body with lamps of fire And made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold,

A flame in her arms and in each finger flame, And flame in her bosom, flame above, below, The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs; From foot to head did flame into red flame flow.

I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise, How the body's joy for more than body's use was made. I knew then how the body is the body of the mind, And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.

O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore, Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind, Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world, Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!

If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen-- The inward vision clear--how should I look, for joy, Knowing that beauty's self rose visible in the world Over age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?

TEN O'CLOCK NO MORE [1]

The wind has thrown The boldest of trees down. Now disgraced it lies, Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies, Naked and still.

It was the wind So furious and blind That scourged half England through, Ruining the fairest where most fair it grew By dell and hill,

And springing here, The black clouds dragging near, Against this lonely elm Thrust all his strength to maim and overwhelm In one wild shock.

As in the deep Satisfaction of dark sleep The tree her dream dreamed on, And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrown And her head rock.

And the wind raught Her ageing boughs and caught Her body fast again. Then in one agony of age, grief, pain, She fell and died.

Her noble height, Branches that loved the light, Her music and cool shade, Her memories and all of her is dead On the hill side.

But the wind stooped, With madness tired, and drooped In the soft valley and slept, While morning strangely round the hush'd tree crept And called in vain.

The birds fed where The roots uptorn and bare Thrust shameful at the sky; And pewits round the tree would dip and cry With the old pain.

'Ten o'clock's gone!' Said sadly every one. And mothers looking thought Of sons and husbands far away that fought:-- And looked again.

[Footnote 1: "Ten o'clock" is the name of a tall tree that crowned the eastern Cotswolds.]

THE FUGITIVE

In the hush of early even The clouds came flocking over, Till the last wind fell from heaven And no bird cried.

Darkly the clouds were flocking, Shadows moved and deepened, Then paused; the poplar's rocking Ceased; the light hung still

Like a painted thing, and deadly. Then from the cloud's side flickered Sharp lightning, thrusting madly At the cowering fields.

Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd, Down the hill slow thunder trembled Day in her cave grew frightened, Crept away, and died.

THE ALDE

How near I walked to Love, How long, I cannot tell. I was like the Alde that flows Quietly through green level lands, So quietly, it knows Their shape, their greenness and their shadows well; And then undreamingly for miles it goes And silently, beside the sea.

Seamews circle over, The winter wildfowl wings, Long and green the grasses wave Between the river and the sea. The sea's cry, wild or grave, From bank to low bank of the river rings; But the uncertain river though it crave The sea, knows not the sea.

Was that indeed salt wind? Came that noise from falling Wild waters on a stony shore? Oh, what is this new troubling tide Of eager waves that pour Around and over, leaping, parting, recalling?... How near I moved (as day to same day wore) And silently, beside the sea!

NEARNESS

Thy hand my hand, Thine eyes my eyes, All of thee Caught and confused with me: My hand thy hand, My eyes thine eyes, All of me Sunken and discovered anew in thee....

No: still A foreign mind, A thought By other yet uncaught; A secret will Strange as the wind: The heart of thee Bewildering with strange fire the heart in me.

Hand touches hand, Eye to eye beckons, But who shall guess Another's loneliness? Though hand grasp hand, Though the eye quickens, Still lone as night Remain thy spirit and mine, past touch and sight.

NIGHT AND NIGHT

The earth is purple in the evening light, The grass is graver green. The gold among the meadows darker glows, In the quieted air the blackbird sings more loud. The sky has lost its rose-- Nothing more than this candle now shines bright.

Were there but natural night, how easy were The putting-by of sense At the day's end, and if no heavier air Came o'er the mind in a thick-falling cloud. But now there is no light Within; and to this innocent night how dark my night!

THE HERD

The roaming sheep, forbidden to roam far, Were stayed within the shadow of his eye. The sheep-dog on that unseen shadow's edge Moved, halted, barked, while the tall shepherd stood Unmoving, leaned upon a sarsen stone, Looking at the rain that curtained the bare hills And drew the smoking curtain near and near!-- Tawny, bush-faced, with cloak and staff, and flask And bright brass-ribb'd umbrella, standing stone Against the veinless, senseless sarsen stone. The Roman Road hard by, the green Ridge Way, Not older seemed, nor calmer the long barrows Of bones and memories of ancient days Than the tall shepherd with his craft of days Older than Roman or the oldest caveman, When, in the generation of all living, Sheep and kine flocked in the Aryan valley and The first herd with his voice and skill of water Fleetest of foot, led them into green pastures, From perished pastures to new green. I saw The herdsmen everywhere about the world, And herdsmen of all time, fierce, lonely, wise, Herds of Arabia and Syria And Thessaly, and longer-winter'd climes; And this lone herd, ages before England was, Pelt-clad, and armed with flint-tipped ashen sap, Watching his flocks, and those far flocks of stars Slow moving as the heavenly shepherd willed And at dawn shut into the sunny fold.

* * * * *

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

WINGS

As a blue-necked mallard alighting in a pool Among marsh-marigolds and splashing wet Green leaves and yellow blooms, like jewels set In bright, black mud, with clear drops crystal-cool, Bringing keen savours of the sea and stir Of windy spaces where wild sunsets flame To that dark inland dyke, the thought of her Into my brooding stagnant being came.

And all my senses quickened into life, Tingling and glittering, and the salt and fire Sang through my singing blood in eager strife Until through crystal airs we seemed to be Soaring together, one fleet-winged desire Of windy sunsets and the wandering sea.

THE PARROTS

Somewhere, somewhen I've seen, But where or when I'll never know, Parrots of shrilly green With crests of shriller scarlet flying Out of black cedars as the sun was dying Against cold peaks of snow.

From what forgotten life Of other worlds I cannot tell Flashes that screeching strife; Yet the shrill colour and shrill crying Sing through my blood and set my heart replying And jangling like a bell.

THE CAKEWALK

In smoky lamplight of a Smyrna Cafe, He saw them, seven solemn negroes dancing, With faces rapt and out-thrust bellies prancing In a slow solemn ceremonial cakewalk, Dancing and prancing to the sombre tom-tom Thumped by a crookbacked grizzled negro squatting. And as he watched ... within the steamy twilight Of swampy forest in rank greenness rotting, That sombre tom-tom at his heartstrings strumming Set all his sinews twitching, and a singing Of cold fire through his blood--and he was dancing Among his fellows in the dank green twilight With naked, oiled, bronze-gleaming bodies swinging In a rapt holy everlasting cakewalk For evermore in slow procession prancing.

DRIFTWOOD

Black spars of driftwood burn to peacock flames, Sea-emeralds and sea-purples and sea-blues, And all the innumerable ever-changing hues That haunt the changeless deeps but have no names, Flicker and spire in our enchanted sight: And as we gaze, the unsearchable mystery, The unfathomed cold salt magic of the sea, Shines clear before us in the quiet night.

We know the secret that Ulysses sought, That moonstruck mariners since time began Snatched at a drowning hazard---strangely brought To our homekeeping hearts in drifting spars We chanced to kindle under the cold stars-- The secret in the ocean-heart of man.

QUIET

Only the footprints of the partridge run Over the billowy drifts on the mountain-side; And now on level wings the brown birds glide Following the snowy curves, and in the sun Bright birds of gold above the stainless white They move, and as the pale blue shadows move, With them my heart glides on in golden flight Over the hills of quiet to my love.

Storm-shaken, racked with terror through the long Tempestuous night, in the quiet blue of morn Love drinks the crystal airs, and peace newborn Within his troubled heart, on wings aglow Soars into rapture, as from the quiet snow The golden birds; and out of silence, song.

REVEILLE

Still bathed in its moonlight slumber, the little white house by the cedar Stands silent against the red dawn; And nothing I know of who sleeps there, to the travail of day yet unwakened, Behind the blue curtains undrawn:

But I dream as we march down the roadway, ringing loud and white-rimed in the moonlight, Of a little dark house on a hill Wherein when the battle is over, to the rapture of day yet unwakened, We shall slumber as dreamless and still.

* * * * *

ROBERT GRAVES

A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME

Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon,
Sugar or spice or cream,
Has the wild berry plucked in June
Beside the trickling stream.

One such to melt at the tongue's root,
Confounding taste with scent,
Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
Which points my argument.

May sudden justice overtake
And snap the froward pen,
That old and palsied poets shake
Against the minds of men;

Blasphemers trusting to hold caught
In far-flung webs of ink
The utmost ends of human thought,
Till nothing's left to think.

But may the gift of heavenly peace
And glory for all time
Keep the boy Tom who tending geese
First made the nursery rhyme.

By the brookside one August day,
Using the sun for clock,
Tom whiled the languid hours away
Beside his scattering flock,

Carving with a sharp pointed stone
On a broad slab of slate
The famous lives of Jumping Joan,
Dan Fox and Greedy Kate;

Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds,
Spain, Scotland, Babylon,
That sister Kate might learn the words
To tell to Toddling John.

But Kate, who could not stay content
To learn her lesson pat,
New beauty to the rough lines lent
By changing this or that;

And she herself set fresh things down
In corners of her slate,
Of lambs and lanes and London Town.
God's blessing fall on Kate!

The baby loved the simple sound,
With jolly glee he shook,
And soon the lines grew smooth and round
Like pebbles in Tom's brook,

From mouth to mouth told and retold
By children sprawled at ease
Before the fire in winter's cold,
In June beneath tall trees;

Till though long lost are stone and slate,
Though the brook no more runs,
And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate,
Their sons and their sons' sons;

Yet, as when Time with stealthy tread
Lays the rich garden waste,
The woodland berry ripe and red
Fails not in scent or taste,

So these same rhymes shall still be told
To children yet unborn,
While false philosophy growing old
Fades and is killed by scorn.

A FROSTY NIGHT

Mother: Alice, dear, what ails you,
Dazed and white and shaken?
Has the chill night numbed you?
Is it fright you have taken?

Alice: Mother I am very well,
I felt never better;
Mother, do not hold me so,
Let me write my letter.

Mother: Sweet, my dear, what ails you?

Alice: No, but I am well.
The night was cold and frosty,
There's no more to tell.

Mother: Ay, the night was frosty,
Coldly gaped the moon,
Yet the birds seemed twittering
Through green boughs of June.

Soft and thick the snow lay,
Stars danced in the sky.
Not all the lambs of May-day
Skip so bold and high.

Your feet were dancing, Alice,
Seemed to dance on air,
You looked a ghost or angel
In the starlight there.

Your eyes were frosted starlight,
Your heart, fire, and snow.
Who was it said 'I love you?'

Alice: Mother, let me go!

TRUE JOHNNY

Mary: Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true
To all those famous vows you've made?
Will you love me as I love you
Until we both in earth are laid?
Or shall the old wives nod and say
'His love was only for a day,
The mood goes by,
His fancies fly,
And Mary's left to sigh.'

Johnny: Mary, alas, you've hit the truth,
And I with grief can but admit
Hot-blooded haste controls my youth,
My idle fancies veer and flit
From flower to flower, from tree to tree,
And when the moment catches me
Oh, love goes by,
Away I fly,
And leave my girl to sigh.

Mary: Could you but now foretell the day,
Johnny, when this sad thing must be,
When light and gay you'll turn away
And laugh and break the heart in me?
For like a nut for true love's sake
My empty heart shall crack and break,
When fancies fly
And love goes by
And Mary's left to die.

Johnny: When the sun turns against the clock,
When Avon waters upward flow,
When eggs are laid by barn-door cock,
When dusty hens do strut and crow,
When up is down, when left is right,
Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight,
With careless eye
Away I'll fly
And Mary here shall die.

THE CUPBOARD

Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?

Mary: Which cupboard, mother dear?

Mother: The cupboard of red mahogany
With handles shining clear.

Mary: That cupboard, dearest mother,
With shining crystal handles?
There's nought inside but rags and jags
And yellow tallow candles.

Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?

Mary: Which cupboard, mother mine?

Mother: That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,
The silver corners shine.

Mary: There's nothing there inside, mother,
But wool and thread and flax,
And bits of faded silk and velvet
And candles of white wax.

Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?
And this time tell me true.

Mary: White clothes for an unborn baby, mother..
But what's the truth to you?

THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED

'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!' The other birds woke all around; Rising with toot and howl they stirred Their plumage, broke the trembling sound, They craned their necks, they fluttered wings, 'While we are silent no one sings, And while we sing you hush your throat, Or tune your melody to our note.'

'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!' The screams and hootings rose again: They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred Their noisy plumage; small but plain The lonely hidden singer made A well of grief within the glade. 'Whist, silly fool, be off,' they shout, 'Or we'll come pluck your feathers out.'

'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!' Slight and small the lovely cry Came trickling down, but no one heard; Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie, Jarred horrid notes, the jangling jay Ripped the fine threads of song away; For why should peeping chick aspire To challenge their loud woodland choir?

Cried it so sweet, that unseen bird? Lovelier could no music be, Clearer than water, soft as curd, Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree. How sang the others all around? Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound, With 'Pretty Poll, Tuwit-tuwoo Peewit, Caw Caw, Cuckoo-Cuckoo.'

How went the song, how looked the bird? If I could tell, if I could show With one quick phrase, one lightning word, I'd learn you more than poets know; For poets, could they only catch Of that forgotten tune one snatch, Would build it up in song or sonnet, And found their whole life's fame upon it.

ROCKY ACRES

This is a wild land, country of my choice, With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. Seldom in these acres is heard any voice But voice of cold water that runs here and there Through rocks and lank heather growing without care. No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky.

He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings, He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye, He catches the trembling of small hidden things, He tears them in pieces dropping from the sky: Tenderness and pity the land will deny, Where life is but nourished from water and rock, A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock.

Time has never journeyed to this lost land, Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date, The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand, Careless if the season be early or late. The skies wander overhead, now blue now slate: Winter would be known by his cold cutting snow If June did not borrow his armour also.

Yet this is my country beloved by me best, The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood, Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest, Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood Bold immortal country whose hill-tops have stood Strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go, Terror for fat burghers in far plains below.

* * * * *

D.H. LAWRENCE

SEVEN SEALS

Since this is the last night I keep you home, Come, I will consecrate you for the journey.

Rather I had you would not go. Nay come, I will not again reproach you. Lie back And let me love you a long time ere you go. For you are sullen-hearted still, and lack The will to love me. But even so I will set a seal upon you from my lip, Will set a guard of honour at each door, Seal up each channel out of which might slip Your love for me.

I kiss your mouth. Ah, love, Could I but seal its ruddy, shining spring Of passion, parch it up, destroy, remove Its softly-stirring, crimson welling-up Of kisses! Oh, help me, God! Here at the source I'd lie for ever drinking and drawing in Your fountains, as heaven drinks from out their course The floods.

I close your ears with kisses And seal your nostrils; and round your neck you'll wear-- Nay, let me work--a delicate chain of kisses. Like beads they go around, and not one misses To touch its fellow on either side.

And there Full mid-between the champaign of your breast I place a great and burning seal of love Like a dark rose, a mystery of rest On the slow bubbling of your rhythmic heart. Nay, I persist, and very faith shall keep You integral to me. Each door, each mystic port Of egress from you I will seal and steep In perfect chrism.

Now it is done. The mort
Will sound in heaven before it is undone.

But let me finish what I have begun And shirt you now invulnerable in the mail Of iron kisses, kisses linked like steel. Put greaves upon your thighs and knees, and frail Webbing of steel on your feet. So you shall feel Ensheathed invulnerable with me, with seven Great seals upon your outgoings, and woven Chain of my mystic will wrapped perfectly Upon you, wrapped in indomitable me.

* * * * *

HAROLD MONRO

GRAVITY