Chapter III (3)

The fairest things have fleetest end,
Their scent survives their close;
But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose.

She looked a little wistfully,
Then went her sunshine way:--
The sea's eye had a mist on it,
And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
She went and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone,
And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul
Was sad that she was glad;
At all the sadness in the sweet,
The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still
Look up with soft replies,
And take the berries with her hand,
And the love with her lovely eyes.

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Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan;
For we are born in other's pain,
And perish in our own.

_Francis Thompson._

124. A CRADLE SONG

O, men from the fields!
Come gently within.
Tread softly, softly,
O! men coming in.

Mavourneen is going
From me and from you,
Where Mary will fold him
With mantle of blue!

From reek of the smoke
And cold of the floor,
And the peering of things
Across the half-door.

O, men from the fields!
Soft, softly come thro'.
Mary puts round him
Her mantle of blue.

_Padraic Colum._

136. ON A DEAD CHILD

Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee,
With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!

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Though cold and stark and bare,
The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer
To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be
Thy father's pride;--ah, he
Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,
Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;
Startling my fancy fond
With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.

Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it:
But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;
Yet feels to my hand as if
'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,--
Go, lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!--
Propping thy wise, sad head,
Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death,
whither hath he taken thee?
To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?

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The vision of which I miss,
Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee
and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us
To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,
Unwilling, alone we embark,
And the things we have seen and have known and
have heard of, fail us.

_Robert Bridges._

126. I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAIN

I never shall love the snow again
Since Maurice died:
With corniced drift it blocked the lane,
And sheeted in a desolate plain
The country side.

The trees with silvery rime bedight
Their branches bare.
By day no sun appeared; by night
The hidden moon shed thievish light
In the misty air.

We fed the birds that flew around
In flocks to be fed:
No shelter in holly or brake they found,
The speckled thrush on the frozen ground
Lay frozen and dead.

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We skated on stream and pond; we cut
The crinching snow
To Doric temple or Arctic hut;
We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut
By the fireside glow.

Yet grudged we our keen delights before
Maurice should come.
We said, "In-door or out-of-door
We shall love life for a month or more,
When he is home."

They brought him home; 'twas two days late
For Christmas Day:
Wrapped in white, in solemn state,
A flower in his hand, all still and straight
Our Maurice lay.

And two days ere the year outgave
We laid him low.
The best of us truly were not brave,
When we laid Maurice down in his grave
Under the snow.

_Robert Bridges._

127. TO MY GODCHILD

_Francis M. W. M._

This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon,
Riding at anchor off the orient sun,
Had broken its cable, and stood out to space
Down some frore Arctic of the aërial ways:

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And now, back warping from the inclement main,
Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain,
It swung into its azure roads again;
When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you
Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew.

To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong,
Giver of golden days and golden song;
Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan
You bear the name of me, his constant Magian.
Yet ah! from any other that it came,
Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name.
When at the first those tidings did they bring,
My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing:
Though well may such a title him endower,
For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power.
The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three,
To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty,
(In two alone of whom most singers prove
A fatal faithfulness of during love!)
He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken
How God he could love more, he so loved men;
The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy;
And Fletcher's fellow--from these, and not from me,
Take you your name, and take your legacy!

Or, if a right successive you declare
When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair,
Take but this Poesy that now followeth
My clayey best with sullen servile breath,
Made then your happy freedman by testating death.

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My song I do but hold for you in trust,
I ask you but to blossom from my dust.
When you have compassed all weak I began,
Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man;
The man at feud with the perduring child
In you before Song's altar nobly reconciled;
From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see
How little a world, which owned you, needed me.
If, while you keep the vigils of the night,
For your wild tears make darkness all too bright,
Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps,
As it played lover over your sweet sleeps;
Think it a golden crevice in the sky,
Which I have pierced but to behold you by!

And when, immortal mortal, droops your head,
And you, the child of deathless song, are dead;
Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance
The ranks of Paradise for my countenance,
Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod
Among the bearded counsellors of God;
For if in Eden as on earth are we,
I sure shall keep a younger company:
Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons
The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns,
The dreadful mass of their enridged spears;
Pass where majestical the eternal peers,
The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet--
A silvern segregation, globed complete
In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet;
Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer,

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Your cousined clusters, emulous to share
With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair;
Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:--
Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

_Francis Thompson._

128. WHEN JUNE IS COME

When June is come, then all the day
I'll sit with my love in the scented hay
And watch the sunshot palaces high,
That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.

She singeth, and I do make her a song,
And read sweet poems the whole day long:
Unseen as we lie in our hay-built home.
Oh, life is delight when June is come.

_Robert Bridges._

129. IN MISTY BLUE

In misty blue the lark is heard
Above the silent homes of men;
The bright-eyed thrush, the little wren,
The yellow-billed sweet-voiced blackbird
Mid sallow blossoms blond as curd
Or silver oak boughs, carolling
With happy throat from tree to tree,
Sing into light this morn of spring
That sang my dear love home to me.

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Be starry, buds of clustered white,
Around the dark waves of her hair!
The young fresh glory you prepare
Is like my ever-fresh delight
When she comes shining on my sight
With meeting eyes, with such a cheek
As colours fair like flushing tips
Of shoots, and music ere she speak
Lies in the wonder of her lips.

Airs of the morning, breathe about
Keen faint scents of the wild wood side
From thickets where primroses hide
Mid the brown leaves of winter's rout.
Chestnut and willow, beacon out
For joy of her, from far and nigh,
Your English green on English hills:
Above her head, song-quivering sky,
And at her feet, the daffodils.

Because she breathed, the world was more,
And breath a finer soul to use,
And life held lovelier hopes to choose;
But O, to-day my heart brims o'er,
Earth glows as from a kindled core,
Like shadows of diviner things
Are hill and cloud and flower and tree--
A splendour that is hers and spring's,---
The day my love came home to me.

_Laurence Binyon._

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130. IN FOUNTAIN COURT

The fountain murmuring of sleep,
A drowsy tune;
The flickering green of leaves that keep
The light of June;
Peace, through a slumbering afternoon,
The peace of June.

A waiting ghost, in the blue sky,
The white curved moon;
June, hushed and breathless, waits, and I
Wait, too, with June;
Come, through the lingering afternoon,
Soon, love, come soon.

_Arthur Symons._

131. THE PRAISE OF DUST

"What of vile dust?" the preacher said.
Methought the whole world woke,
The dead stone lived beneath my foot,
And my whole body spoke.

"You that play tyrant to the dust,
And stamp its wrinkled face,
This patient star that flings you not
Far into homeless space,

"Come down out of your dusty shrine
The living dust to see,
The flowers that at your sermon's end
Stand blazing silently,

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"Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones,
Lichens like fire encrust;
A gleam of blue, a glare of gold,
The vision of the dust.

"Pass them all by; till, as you come
Where, at a city's edge,
Under a tree--I know it well--.
Under a lattice ledge,

"The sunshine falls on one brown head.
You, too, O cold of clay,
Eater of stones, may haply hear
The trumpets of that day

"When God to all his paladins
By his own splendour swore
To make a fairer face than heaven,
Of dust and nothing more."

_G. K. Chesterton._

132. AWAKE, MY HEART, TO BE LOVED

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake
The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee;
Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,

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Already they watch the path thy feet shall take:
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her,--if this could be,--
She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee;
For thee would unashamed herself forsake:
Awake to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!

Awake! the land is scattered with light, and see,
Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree:
And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake;
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

Lo all things wake and tarry and look for thee:
She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me.
Come more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake,
And awake my heart to be loved: awake, awake!"

_Robert Bridges._

133. AEDH WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

_W. B. Yeats._

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134. BEAUTY

I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain:
I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils,
Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.

I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea,
And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships;
But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me,
Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve
of her lips.

_John Masefield._

135. MY WIFE

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The great artificer
Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The mighty master
Gave to her.

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Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow-farer true through life,
Heart-whole and soul-free
The august father
Gave to me.

_Robert Louis Stevenson._

138. FROM "LOVE IN THE VALLEY"

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,
Swift as the swallow along the river's light
Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets,
Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,
Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,
Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

* * * * * *

Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows
Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.
No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder:
Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.
Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure,
Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less:
Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones
Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.

* * * * * *

Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,
Arm in arm, all against the raying West,

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Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,
Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossessed.
Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking
Whispered the world was; morning light is she.
Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless;
Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.

* * * * * *

Happy, happy time, when the white star hovers
Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew,
Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness,
Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.
Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens,
Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.
Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret;
Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.

* * * * * *

Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose,
Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three.
Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine
Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me.
Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest?
Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes,
Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine
Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths.

_George Meredith._

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137. TO THE BELOVED

Oh, not more subtly silence strays
Amongst the winds, between the voices,
Mingling alike with pensive lays,
And with the music that rejoices,
Than thou art present in my days.

My silence, life returns to thee
In all the pauses of her breath,
Hush back to rest the melody
That out of thee awakeneth;
And thou, wake ever, wake for me!

Thou art like silence all unvexed,
Though wild words part my soul from thee.
Thou art like silence unperplexed,
A secret and a mystery
Between one footfall and the next.

Most dear pause in a mellow lay!
Thou art inwoven with every air.
With thee the wildest tempests play,
And snatches of thee everywhere
Make little heavens throughout a day.

Darkness and solitude shine, for me.
For life's fair outward part are rife
The silver noises; let them be.
It is the very soul of life
Listens for thee, listens for thee.

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O pause between the sobs of cares;
O thought within all thought that is;
Trance between laughters unawares:
Thou art the shape of melodies,
And thou the ecstasy of prayers!

_Alice Meynell._

138. WHEN YOU ARE OLD

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

_W. B. Yeats_

139. I WILL NOT LET THEE GO

I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this?
Can it be summed up so,
Quit in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.

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I will not let thee go.
If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds,
As the soft south can blow
And toss the feathered seeds,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might:
Or were he reckoned slow
To bring the false to light,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
The stars that crowd the summer skies
Have watched us so below
With all their million eyes,
I dare not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Have we not chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?

I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content,
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
I cannot let thee go.

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I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands:
Thou sayest farewell, and lo!
I have thee by the hands,
And will not let thee go.

_Robert Bridges._

140. PARTED

Farewell to one now silenced quite,
Sent out of hearing, out of sight,--
My friend of friends, whom I shall miss.
He is not banished, though, for this,--
Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.

Though I shall talk with him no more,
A low voice sounds upon the shore.
He must not watch my resting-place,
But who shall drive a mournful face
From the sad winds about my door?

I shall not hear his voice complain,
But who shall stop the patient rain?
His tears must not disturb my heart,
But who shall change the years, and part
The world from every thought of pain?

Although my life is left so dim,
The morning crowns the mountain-rim;
Joy is not gone from summer skies,
Nor innocence from children's eyes,
And all these things are part of him.

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He is not banished, for the showers
Yet wake this green warm earth of ours.
How can the summer but be sweet?
I shall not have him at my feet,
And yet my feet are on the flowers.

_Alice Meynell._

141. ELEGY ON A LADY, WHOM GRIEF FOR THE DEATH OF
HER BETROTHED KILLED

Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door,
And all ye loves, assemble; far and wide
Proclaim the bridal, that proclaimed before
Has been deferred to this late eventide:
For on this night the bride,
The days of her betrothal over,
Leaves the parental hearth for evermore;
To-night the bride goes forth to meet her lover.

Reach down the wedding vesture, that has lain
Yet all unvisited, the silken gown:
Bring out the bracelets, and the golden chain
Her dearer friends provided: sere and brown
Bring out the festal crown,
And set it on her forehead lightly:
Though it be withered, twine no wreath again;
This only is the crown she can wear rightly.

Cloak her in ermine, for the night is cold,
And wrap her warmly, for the night is long;
In pious hands the flaming torches hold,
While her attendants, chosen from among

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Her faithful virgin throng,
May lay her in her cedar litter,
Decking her coverlet with sprigs of gold,
Roses, and lilies white that best befit her.

Sound flute and tabor, that the bridal be
Not without music, nor with these alone;
But let the viol lead the melody,
With lesser intervals, and plaintive moan
Of sinking semitone;
And, all in choir, the virgin voices
Rest not from singing in skilled harmony
The song that aye the bridegroom's ear rejoices.

Let the priests go before, arrayed in white,
And let the dark-stoled minstrels follow slow,
Next they that bear her, honoured on this night,
And then the maidens, in a double row,
Each singing soft and low,
And each on high a torch upstaying:
Unto her lover lead her forth with light,
With music, and with singing, and with praying.

'Twas at this sheltering hour he nightly came,
And found her trusty window open wide,
And knew the signal of the timorous flame,
That long the restless curtain would not hide
Her form that stood beside;
As scarce she dared to be delighted,
Listening to that sweet tale, that is no shame
To faithful lovers, that their hearts have plighted.

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But now for many days the dewy grass
Has shown no markings of his feet at morn:
And watching she has seen no shadow pass
The moonlit walk, and heard no music borne
Upon her ear forlorn.
In vain she has looked out to greet him;
He has not come, he will not come, alas!
So let us bear her out where she must meet him.

Now to the river bank the priests are come:
The bark is ready to receive its freight:
Let some prepare her place therein, and some
Embark the litter with its slender weight:
The rest stand by in state,
And sing her a safe passage over;
While she is oared across to her new home,
Into the arms of her expectant lover.

And thou, O lover, that art on the watch,
Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams,
The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatch
The sweeter moments of their broken dreams,--
Thou, when the torchlight gleams,
When thou shalt see the slow procession,
And when thine ears the fitful music catch,
Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession.

_Robert Bridges._

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142. 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?

_Walter de la Mare._

143. A DREAM OF DEATH

I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand;
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
And, wondering, planted by her solitude
A cypress and a yew:
I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood,
Man had no more to do:
_She was more beautiful than thy first love,
This lady by the trees:_
And gazed upon the mournful stars above,
And heard the mournful breeze.

_W. B. Yeats._

144. A DREAM Of A BLESSED SPIRIT

All the heavy days are over;
Leave the body's coloured pride
Underneath the grass and clover,
With the feet laid side by side.

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One with her are mirth and duty;
Bear the gold embroidered dress,
For she needs not her sad beauty,
To the scented oaken press.

Hers the kiss of Mother Mary,
The long hair is on her face;
Still she goes with footsteps wary,
Full of earth's old timid grace:

With white feet of angels seven
Her white feet go glimmering;
And above the deep of heaven,
Flame on flame and wing on wing.

_W. B. Yeats._

145. MESSAGES

What shall I your true-love tell,
Earth-forsaking maid?
What shall I your true-love tell,
When life's spectre's laid?

"Tell him that, our side the grave,
Maid may not conceive
Life should be so sad to have,
That's so sad to leave!"

What shall I your true-love tell,
When I come to him?
What shall I your true-love tell--
Eyes growing dim!

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"Tell him this, when you shall part
From a maiden pined;
That I see him with my heart,
Now my eyes are blind."

What shall I your true-love tell?
Speaking-while is scant.
What shall I your true-love tell,
Death's white postulant?

"Tell him--love, with speech at strife,
For last utterance saith:
I, who loved with all my life,
Love with all my death."

_Francis Thompson._

146. THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED

One that is ever kind said yesterday:
"Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise,
Though now it's hard, till trouble is at an end;
And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend."
But, heart, there is no comfort, not a grain;
Time can but make her beauty over again,
Because of that great nobleness of hers;
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways,
When all the wild summer was in her gaze.
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.

_W. B. Yeats._

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147. AT NIGHT

_To W. M._

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light
Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?
Your words to me, your words!

_Alice Meynell_

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INDEX OF FIRST LINES

PAGE

A kiss, a word of thanks, away (_H. C. Beeching_). . . . . . . 142
A naked house, a naked moor (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . 65
A ship, an isle, a sickle moon (_J. E. Flecker_) . . . . . . . 76
All that he came to give (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 136
All the heavy days are over (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . . . . 167
All winter through I bow my head (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 82
Along the graceless grass of town (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 90
As I went down to Dymchurch wall (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . 45
Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door (_B. Bridges_) . . . . . 164
Athwart the sky a lowly sigh (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . . . 96
Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake! (_B. Bridges_) . . 155

Below the down the stranded town (_J. Davidson_) . . . . . . . 47
Between two russet tufts of summer grass (_E. Gosse_) . . . . 102
Beyond my window in the night (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . . . . 49
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying
(_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Brief, on a flying night (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . . . . 78
But to have lain upon the grass (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . 101
Buy my English posies! (_R. Kipling_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

Cambridge town is a beleaguered city (_R. Macaulay_) . . . . . 54
Can I forget the sweet days that have been (_W. H. Davies_) . 60
Come, no more of grief and dying! (_M. L. Woods_) . . . . . . 108
Country roads are yellow and brown (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . 95
Daylight was down, and up the cool (_L. Housman_) . . . . . . 99
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet
(_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away
(_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Farewell to one now silenced quite (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . 163
Fear? Yes . . . I heard you saying (_H. Trench_) . . . . . . 16

Give to me the life I love (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . 83
God gave all men all earth to love (_R. Kipling_) . . . . . . 39
God, if this were enough (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . 114
God who created me (_H. C. Beeching_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Good-bye; no tears nor cries (_J. W. Mackail_) . . . . . . . . 139
Grow old and die, rich Day (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . . . . . . 32

{172}

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . 156
He leapt to arms unbidden (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . 22
He rises and begins to round (_G. Meredith_) . . . . . . . . . 119
He walked in glory on the hills (_W. Canton_) . . . . . . . . 34
Here lies a most beautiful lady (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 167
His wage of rest at nightfall still (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . 24
Home, home from the horizon far and clear (_A. Meynell_) . . . 170
How solitary gleams the lamplit street (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . 93

I came to Oxford in the light (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . . . . 51
I do not need the skies (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 125
I dreamed that one had died in a strange place (_W. B. Yeats_) 167
I gathered with a careless hand (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . . . 6
I go through the fields of blue water (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . 48
I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
(_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157

I know you; solitary griefs (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . 113
I laid me down upon the shore (_F. Cornford_) . . . . . . . . 2
I love all beauteous things (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . 125
I never see the newsboys run (_S. Leslie_) . . . . . . . . . . 100
I never shall love the snow again (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . 148
I never went to Mamble (_J. Drinkwater_) . . . . . . . . . . . 49
I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree (_W. B. Yeats_) . 61
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
(_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
I will not let thee go (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
I will not try the reach again (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . . 54
If I have faltered more or less (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . 129
If I should die, think only this of me (_R. Brooke_) . . . . . 25
In misty blue the lark is heard (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . 152
In the highlands, in the country places (_R. L. Stevenson_) . 34
In the time of wild roses (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . . . 73
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not
where (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
It was early last September, nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea
(_P. R. Chalmers_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117

Just now the lilac is in bloom (_R. Brooke_) . . . . . . . . . 55

Know you her secret none can utter? (_A. Quiller-Couch_) . . 52

Laugh and be merry: remember, better the world with a
song (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
Let me go forth and share (_W. Watson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky (_L. Binyon_) . . 91

{173}

Many a flower have I seen blossom (_M. S. Coleridge_) . . . . 135

Not soon shall I forget--a sheet (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . . . . 75
Not within a granite pass (_E. Gosse_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 98

O, a gallant set were they (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . . . . . 8
O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees (_H. Trench_) . . . . . . . . 111
O happy soul, forget thy self (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . 106
O heavenly colour, London town (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . 97
O Idleness, too fond of me (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . . . 111
O, men from the fields! (_P. Colum_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
Oh, not more subtly silence strays (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . 160
O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm (_A. Quiller-Couch_) 9
Oh shall I never never be home again! (_J. E. Flecker_) . . . 30
O summer sun, O moving trees! (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . 96
O why do you walk through tha fields in gloves (_F. Cornford_) 85
O what know they of harbours (_E. Radford_) . . . . . . . . . 50
O world invisible, we view thee (_F. Thompson,_) . . . . . . . 130
Of Courtesy it is much less (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . . . 131
On alien ground, breathing an alien air (_M. E. Coleridge_) . 33
On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose (_G. Meredith_) . . . 128
Once . . . once upon a time (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . . . 135
One that is ever kind said yesterday (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . 169
Out of my door I step into (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn (_W. B. Yeats_) . . . . . . 123

Peace waits among the hills (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . . . 132
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee
(_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes (_G. Meredith_) 86

Row till the land dip 'neath (_T. Sturge Moore_) . . . . . . . 75

Say what you will, there is not in the world (_W. Blunt_) . . 45
Shall we but turn from braggart pride (_L. Binyon_) . . . . . 20
She walks--the lady of my delight (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . 134
Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow (_G. Meredith_) 158
Sitting at times over a hearth that burns (_H. Newbolt_) . . . 15
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide (_A. Meynell_) . . 128
So, without overt breach, we fall apart (_W. Watson_) . . . . 142
Softly along the road of evening (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . 77
Sombre and rich the skies (_L. Johnson_) . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Spring goeth all in white (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . . 78

Tell the tune his feet beat (_A. S. Cripps_) . . . . . . . . . 32
The dove did lend me wings. I fled away (_W. Blunt_) . . . . 79
The fountain murmuring of sleep (_A. Symons_) . . . . . . . . 154
The hill pines were sighing (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . . . . . 68

{174}

The Lady Poverty was fair (_A. Meynell_) . . . . . . . . . . . 131
The moon is up: the stars are bright (_A. Noyes_) . . . . . . 14
There is a hill beside the silver Thames (_R. Bridges_) . . . 70
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night (_H. Newbolt_) 115
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares (_R. Brooke_) 24
This is a sacred city built of marvellous earth
(_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon (_F. Thompson_) . . . 149
This was her table, these her trim outspread
(_J. B. B. Nichols_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Through the sunny garden (_M. E. Coleridge_) . . . . . . . . . 37
Time, you old gipsy man (_R. Hodgson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
'Tis but a week since down the glen (_G. Gould_) . . . . . . . 124
To-day, all day, I rode upon the down (_W. Blunt_) . . . . . . 79
To the forgotten dead (_M. L. Woods_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside
(_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Too soothe and mild your lowland airs (_L. Abercrombie_) . . . 36
Troy Town is covered up with weeds (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . 3
Trusty, dusky, vivid, true (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . . . 157
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks
cry and call (_J. Masefield_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

Under the wide and starry sky (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . . . 90

Very old are the woods (_W. de la Mare_) . . . . . . . . . . . 1

What gods have met in battle to arouse (_A. E._) . . . . . . . 27
What heart could have thought you? (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . 127
What is this life, if, full of care (_W. B. Davies_) . . . . . 101
What of vile dust? the preacher said (_G. K. Chesterton_) . . 154
What shall I your true-love tell (_F. Thompson_) . . . . . . . 168
When I am living in the Midlands (_H. Belloc_) . . . . . . . . 43
When I did wake this morn from sleep (_W. H. Davies_) . . . . 67
When June is come, then all the day (_R. Bridges_) . . . . . . 152
When men were all asleep the snow came flying (_R. Bridges_) 91
When skies are blue and days are bright (_K. Tynan_) . . . . . 69
When you are old and gray and full of sleep (_W. B. Yeats_) 161
When we fought campaigns (in the long Christmas rains)
(_R. Macaulay_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown (_F. Thompson_) . . . . 143
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children
(_L. Binyon_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Ye have robbed, said he, ye have slaughtered and made an
end (_H. Newbolt_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping (_A. Smith_) 35
Youth now flees on feathered foot (_R. L. Stevenson_) . . . . 107