He comes on chosen evenings,
My blackbird bountiful, and sings
Over the gardens of the town
Just at the hour the sun goes down.
His flight across the chimneys thick,
By some divine arithmetic,
Comes to his customary stack,
And couches there his plumage black,
And there he lifts his yellow bill,
Kindled against the sunset, till
These suburbs are like Dymock woods
Where music has her solitudes,
And while he mocks the winter’s wrong
Rapt on his pinnacle of song,
Figured above our garden plots
Those are celestial chimney-pots.
My blackbird bountiful, and sings
Over the gardens of the town
Just at the hour the sun goes down.
His flight across the chimneys thick,
By some divine arithmetic,
Comes to his customary stack,
And couches there his plumage black,
And there he lifts his yellow bill,
Kindled against the sunset, till
These suburbs are like Dymock woods
Where music has her solitudes,
And while he mocks the winter’s wrong
Rapt on his pinnacle of song,
Figured above our garden plots
Those are celestial chimney-pots.
MAY GARDEN
A shower of green gems on my apple-tree
This first morning of May
Has fallen out of the night, to be
Herald of holiday—
Bright gems of green that, fallen there,
Seem fixed and glowing on the air.
This first morning of May
Has fallen out of the night, to be
Herald of holiday—
Bright gems of green that, fallen there,
Seem fixed and glowing on the air.
Until a flutter of blackbird wings
Shakes and makes the boughs alive,
And the gems are now no frozen things,
But apple-green buds to thrive
On sap of my May garden, how well
The green September globes will tell.
Shakes and makes the boughs alive,
And the gems are now no frozen things,
But apple-green buds to thrive
On sap of my May garden, how well
The green September globes will tell.
Also my pear-tree has its buds,
But they are silver yellow,
Like autumn meadows when the floods
Are silver under willow,
And here shall long and shapely pears
Be gathered while the autumn wears.
But they are silver yellow,
Like autumn meadows when the floods
Are silver under willow,
And here shall long and shapely pears
Be gathered while the autumn wears.
And there are sixty daffodils
Beneath my wall....
And jealousy it is that kills
This world when all
The spring’s behaviour here is spent
To make the world magnificent.
Beneath my wall....
And jealousy it is that kills
This world when all
The spring’s behaviour here is spent
To make the world magnificent.
AT AN INN
We are talkative proud, and assured, and self-sufficient,
The quick of the earth this day;
This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,
And the Post Office up the way.
The quick of the earth this day;
This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,
And the Post Office up the way.
The stars in their changes, and heavenly speculation,
The habits of birds and flowers,
And character bred of poverty and riches,
All these are ours.
The habits of birds and flowers,
And character bred of poverty and riches,
All these are ours.
The world is ours, and these its themes and its substance,
And of these we are free men and wise;
Among them all we move in possession and judgment,
For a day, till it dies.
And of these we are free men and wise;
Among them all we move in possession and judgment,
For a day, till it dies.
But in eighteen-hundred-and-fifty, who were the tenants,
Sure and deliberate as we?
They knew us not in the time of their ascension,
Their self-sufficiency.
Sure and deliberate as we?
They knew us not in the time of their ascension,
Their self-sufficiency.
And in nineteen-hundred-and-fifty this inn shall flourish,
And history still be told,
And the heat of blood shall thrive, and speculation,
When we are cold.
And history still be told,
And the heat of blood shall thrive, and speculation,
When we are cold.
PERSPECTIVE
In the Wheatsheaf parlour I sat to see
The story of Chippington street go by,
The squire, and dames of little degree,
And drovers with cattle and flocks to cry.
The story of Chippington street go by,
The squire, and dames of little degree,
And drovers with cattle and flocks to cry.
And these were all as my creatures there,
Twinkling to and fro in the sun,
And placidly I had joy, had care,
Of all their labours and dealings done.
Twinkling to and fro in the sun,
And placidly I had joy, had care,
Of all their labours and dealings done.
Into the parlour strode me then
Two fellows fiercely set at odds,
To whom the difference of men
Gave the sufficiency of God.
Two fellows fiercely set at odds,
To whom the difference of men
Gave the sufficiency of God.
They saw me, and they stept beyond
To a chamber within earshot still,
And each on each of broken bond,
And honour, and inflexible will,
To a chamber within earshot still,
And each on each of broken bond,
And honour, and inflexible will,
Railed. And loud the little inn grew,
But nothing I cared their quarrel to learn,
Though the issue tossing between the two
They deemed the bait of the world’s concern.
But nothing I cared their quarrel to learn,
Though the issue tossing between the two
They deemed the bait of the world’s concern.
Only I thought how most are men
Fantastic when they most are proud,
And out of my laughter I looked again
On the flowing figures of Chippington crowd.
Fantastic when they most are proud,
And out of my laughter I looked again
On the flowing figures of Chippington crowd.
CROCUSES
TO E. H. C.
Desires,
Little determined desires,
Gripped by the mould,
Moving so hardly among
The earth, of whose heart they were bred,
That is old; it is old,
Not gracious to little desires such as these,
But apter for work on the bases of trees,
Whose branches are hung
Overhead,
Very mightily, there overhead.
Little determined desires,
Gripped by the mould,
Moving so hardly among
The earth, of whose heart they were bred,
That is old; it is old,
Not gracious to little desires such as these,
But apter for work on the bases of trees,
Whose branches are hung
Overhead,
Very mightily, there overhead.
Through the summer they stirred,
They strove to the bulbs after May,
Until harvest and song of the bird
Went together away;
And ever till coming of snows
They worked in the mould, for undaunted were those
Swift little determined desires, in the earth
Without sign, any day,
Ever shaping to marvels of birth,
Far away.
They strove to the bulbs after May,
Until harvest and song of the bird
Went together away;
And ever till coming of snows
They worked in the mould, for undaunted were those
Swift little determined desires, in the earth
Without sign, any day,
Ever shaping to marvels of birth,
Far away.
And we went
Without heed
On our way,
Never knowing what virtue was spent,
Day by day,
By those little desires that were gallant to breed
Such beauty as fortitude may.
Not once in our mind
Was that corner of earth under trees,
Very mighty and tall,
As we travelled the roads and the seas,
And gathered the wage of our kind,
And were laggard or trim to the call
Of the duties that lengthen the hours
Into seasons that flourish and fall.
Without heed
On our way,
Never knowing what virtue was spent,
Day by day,
By those little desires that were gallant to breed
Such beauty as fortitude may.
Not once in our mind
Was that corner of earth under trees,
Very mighty and tall,
As we travelled the roads and the seas,
And gathered the wage of our kind,
And were laggard or trim to the call
Of the duties that lengthen the hours
Into seasons that flourish and fall.
And blind,
In the womb of the flowers,
Unresting they wrought,
In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,
Buried far from our thought;
Till one day, when the thrushes were clear
In their note it was spring—and they know—
Unheeding we came into sight
Of that corner forgotten, and lo,
They had won through the meshes of mould,
And treasuries lay in the light,
Of ivory, purple, and gold.
In the womb of the flowers,
Unresting they wrought,
In the bulbs, in the depth of the year,
Buried far from our thought;
Till one day, when the thrushes were clear
In their note it was spring—and they know—
Unheeding we came into sight
Of that corner forgotten, and lo,
They had won through the meshes of mould,
And treasuries lay in the light,
Of ivory, purple, and gold.
RIDDLES, R.F.C.[1]
(1916)
He was a boy of April beauty; one
Who had not tried the world; who, while the sun
Flamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done.
Who had not tried the world; who, while the sun
Flamed yet upon the eastern sky, was done.
Time would have brought him in her patient ways—
So his young beauty spoke—to prosperous days,
To fulness of authority and praise.
So his young beauty spoke—to prosperous days,
To fulness of authority and praise.
He would not wait so long. A boy, he spent
His boy’s dear life for England. Be content:
No honour of age had been more excellent.
His boy’s dear life for England. Be content:
No honour of age had been more excellent.
[1] Lieutenant Stewart G. Ridley, Royal Flying Corps, sacrificed his life in the Egyptian desert in an attempt to save a comrade. He was twenty years of age.
THE SHIPS OF GRIEF
On seas where every pilot fails
A thousand thousand ships to-day
Ride with a moaning in their sails,
Through winds grey and waters grey.
A thousand thousand ships to-day
Ride with a moaning in their sails,
Through winds grey and waters grey.
They are the ships of grief. They go
As fleets are derelict and driven,
Estranged from every port they know,
Scarce asking fortitude of heaven.
As fleets are derelict and driven,
Estranged from every port they know,
Scarce asking fortitude of heaven.
No, do not hail them. Let them ride
Lonely as they would lonely be ...
There is an hour will prove the tide,
There is a sun will strike the sea.
Lonely as they would lonely be ...
There is an hour will prove the tide,
There is a sun will strike the sea.
NOCTURNE
O royal night, under your stars that keep
Their golden troops in charted motion set,
The living legions are renewed in sleep
For bloodier battle yet.
Their golden troops in charted motion set,
The living legions are renewed in sleep
For bloodier battle yet.
O royal death, under your boundless sky
Where unrecorded constellations throng,
Dispassionate those other legions lie,
Invulnerably strong.
Where unrecorded constellations throng,
Dispassionate those other legions lie,
Invulnerably strong.
THE PATRIOT
Scarce is my life more dear to me,
Brief tutor of oblivion,
Than fields below the rookery
That comfortably looks upon
The little street of Piddington.
Brief tutor of oblivion,
Than fields below the rookery
That comfortably looks upon
The little street of Piddington.
I never think of Avon’s meadows,
Ryton woods or Rydal mere,
Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows,
But I know that half the fear
Of death’s indifference is here.
Ryton woods or Rydal mere,
Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows,
But I know that half the fear
Of death’s indifference is here.
I love my land. No heart can know
The patriot’s mystery, until
It aches as mine for woods ablow
In Gloucestershire with daffodil,
Or Bicester brakes that violets fill.
The patriot’s mystery, until
It aches as mine for woods ablow
In Gloucestershire with daffodil,
Or Bicester brakes that violets fill.
No man can tell what passion surges
For the house of his nativity
In the patriot’s blood, until he purges
His grosser mood of jealousy,
And comes to meditate with me
For the house of his nativity
In the patriot’s blood, until he purges
His grosser mood of jealousy,
And comes to meditate with me
Of gifts of earth that stamp his brain
As mine the pools of Ludlow mill,
The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane,
And Forty Acres under Brill,
The ferry under Elsfield hill.
As mine the pools of Ludlow mill,
The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane,
And Forty Acres under Brill,
The ferry under Elsfield hill.
These are what England is to me,
Not empire, nor the name of her
Ranging from pole to tropic sea.
These are the soil in which I bear
All that I have of character.
Not empire, nor the name of her
Ranging from pole to tropic sea.
These are the soil in which I bear
All that I have of character.
That men my fellows near and far
May live in like communion,
Is all I pray; all pastures are
The best beloved beneath the sun;
I have my own; I envy none.
May live in like communion,
Is all I pray; all pastures are
The best beloved beneath the sun;
I have my own; I envy none.
EPILOGUE FOR A MASQUE
A little time they lived again, and lo!
Back to the quiet night the shadows go,
And the great folds of silence once again
Are over fools and kings and fighting-men.
Back to the quiet night the shadows go,
And the great folds of silence once again
Are over fools and kings and fighting-men.
A little while they went with stumbling feet,
With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet,
With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills,
And now their dust is on a thousand hills.
With spears of hate, and love all flowery sweet,
With wondering hearts and bright adventurous wills,
And now their dust is on a thousand hills.
We dream of them, as men unborn shall dream
Of us, who strive a little with the stream
Before we too go out beyond the day,
And are as much a memory as they.
Of us, who strive a little with the stream
Before we too go out beyond the day,
And are as much a memory as they.
And Death, so coming, shall not seem a thing
Of any fear, nor terrible his wing.
We too shall be a tale on earth, and time
Shall shape our pilgrimage into a rhyme.
Of any fear, nor terrible his wing.
We too shall be a tale on earth, and time
Shall shape our pilgrimage into a rhyme.
THE GUEST
Sometimes I feel that death is very near,
And, with half-lifted hand,
Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,
But walk his friendly land,
Comrade with him, and wise
As peace is wise.
And, with half-lifted hand,
Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear,
But walk his friendly land,
Comrade with him, and wise
As peace is wise.
Then, greatly though my heart with pity moves
For dear imperilled loves,
I somehow know
That death is friendly so,
A comfortable spirit; one who takes
Long thought for all our sakes.
For dear imperilled loves,
I somehow know
That death is friendly so,
A comfortable spirit; one who takes
Long thought for all our sakes.
I wonder; will he come that friendly way,
That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?
And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,
My soul be torn from me,
Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,
Slip quietly to sea?
That guest, or roughly in the appointed day?
And will, when the last drops of life are spilt,
My soul be torn from me,
Or, like a ship truly and trimly built,
Slip quietly to sea?
TREASON
What time I write my roundelays,
I am as proud as princes gone,
Who built their empires in old days,
As Tamburlaine or Solomon;
And wisely though companions then
Say well it is and well I sing,
Assured above the praise of men
I am a solitary king.
I am as proud as princes gone,
Who built their empires in old days,
As Tamburlaine or Solomon;
And wisely though companions then
Say well it is and well I sing,
Assured above the praise of men
I am a solitary king.
But when I leave that straiter mood,
That lonely hour, and put aside
The continence of solitude,
I fall in treason to my pride,
And if a witling’s word be spent
Upon my song in jealousy,
In anger and in argument
I am as derelict as he.
That lonely hour, and put aside
The continence of solitude,
I fall in treason to my pride,
And if a witling’s word be spent
Upon my song in jealousy,
In anger and in argument
I am as derelict as he.
POLITICS
You say a thousand things,
Persuasively,
And with strange passion hotly I agree,
And praise your zest,
And then
A blackbird sings
On April lilac, or fieldfaring men,
Ghostlike, with loaded wain,
Come down the twilit lane
To rest,
And what is all your argument to me?
Persuasively,
And with strange passion hotly I agree,
And praise your zest,
And then
A blackbird sings
On April lilac, or fieldfaring men,
Ghostlike, with loaded wain,
Come down the twilit lane
To rest,
And what is all your argument to me?
Oh, yes—I know, I know,
It must be so—
You must devise
Your myriad policies,
For we are little wise,
And must be led and marshalled, lest we keep
Too fast a sleep
Far from the central world’s realities.
Yes, we must heed—
For surely you reveal
Life’s very heart; surely with flaming zeal
You search our folly and our secret need;
And surely it is wrong
To count my blackbird’s song,
My cones of lilac, and my wagon team,
More than a world of dream.
It must be so—
You must devise
Your myriad policies,
For we are little wise,
And must be led and marshalled, lest we keep
Too fast a sleep
Far from the central world’s realities.
Yes, we must heed—
For surely you reveal
Life’s very heart; surely with flaming zeal
You search our folly and our secret need;
And surely it is wrong
To count my blackbird’s song,
My cones of lilac, and my wagon team,
More than a world of dream.
But still
A voice calls from the hill—
I must away—
I cannot hear your argument to-day.
A voice calls from the hill—
I must away—
I cannot hear your argument to-day.
FOR A GUEST ROOM
All words are said,
And may it fall
That, crowning these,
You here shall find
A friendly bed,
A sheltering wall,
Your body’s ease,
A quiet mind.
And may it fall
That, crowning these,
You here shall find
A friendly bed,
A sheltering wall,
Your body’s ease,
A quiet mind.
May you forget
In happy sleep
The world that still
You hold as friend,
And may it yet
Be ours to keep
Your friendly will
To the world’s end.
In happy sleep
The world that still
You hold as friend,
And may it yet
Be ours to keep
Your friendly will
To the world’s end.
For he is blest
Who, fixed to shun
All evil, when
The worst is known,
Counts, east and west,
When life is done,
His debts to men
In love alone.
Who, fixed to shun
All evil, when
The worst is known,
Counts, east and west,
When life is done,
His debts to men
In love alone.
DAY
Dawn is up at my window, and in the May-tree
The finches gossip, and tits, and beautiful sparrows
With feathers bright and brown as September hazels.
The finches gossip, and tits, and beautiful sparrows
With feathers bright and brown as September hazels.
The sunlight is here, filtered through rosy curtains,
Docile and disembodied, a ghost of sunlight,
A gentle light to greet the dreamer returning.
Docile and disembodied, a ghost of sunlight,
A gentle light to greet the dreamer returning.
Part the curtains. I give you salutation
Day, clear day; let us be friendly fellows.
Come.... I hear the Liars about the city.
Day, clear day; let us be friendly fellows.
Come.... I hear the Liars about the city.
DREAMS
We have our dreams; not happiness.
Great cities are upon the hill
To lighten all our dream, and still
We have no cities to possess
But cities built of bitterness.
Great cities are upon the hill
To lighten all our dream, and still
We have no cities to possess
But cities built of bitterness.
We see gay fellows top to toe,
And girls in rainbow beauty bright—
’Tis but of silly dreams I write,
For up and down the streets we know,
The scavengers and harlots go.
And girls in rainbow beauty bright—
’Tis but of silly dreams I write,
For up and down the streets we know,
The scavengers and harlots go.
Give me a dozen men whose theme
Is honesty, and we will set
On high the banner of dreams ... and yet
Thousands will pass us in a stream,
Nor care a penny what we dream.
Is honesty, and we will set
On high the banner of dreams ... and yet
Thousands will pass us in a stream,
Nor care a penny what we dream.
RESPONSIBILITY
You ploughmen at the gate,
All that you are for me
Is of my mind create,
And in my brain to be
A figure newly won
From the world’s confusion.
All that you are for me
Is of my mind create,
And in my brain to be
A figure newly won
From the world’s confusion.
And if you are of grace,
That’s honesty for me,
And if of evil face,
Recorded then shall be
Dishonour that I saw
Not beauty, but the flaw.
That’s honesty for me,
And if of evil face,
Recorded then shall be
Dishonour that I saw
Not beauty, but the flaw.
PROVOCATIONS
I am no merry monger when
I see the slatterns of the town:
I hate to think of docile men
Whose angers all are driven down;
For sluts make joy a thing obscene,
And in contempt is nothing clean.
I see the slatterns of the town:
I hate to think of docile men
Whose angers all are driven down;
For sluts make joy a thing obscene,
And in contempt is nothing clean.
I like to see the ladies walk
With heels to set their chins atilt:
I like to hear the clergy talk
Of other clergy’s people’s guilt;
For happy is the amorous eye,
And indignation clears the sky.
With heels to set their chins atilt:
I like to hear the clergy talk
Of other clergy’s people’s guilt;
For happy is the amorous eye,
And indignation clears the sky.
TRIAL
Beauty of old and beauty yet to be,
Stripped of occasion, have security;
This hour it is searches the judgment through,
When masks of beauty walk with beauty too.
Stripped of occasion, have security;
This hour it is searches the judgment through,
When masks of beauty walk with beauty too.
CHARGE TO THE PLAYERS
THE TROJAN WOMEN, BIRMINGHAM REPERTORY
THEATRE, APRIL 1918
Shades, that our town-fellows have come
To hear rewake for Christendom
This cleansing of a Pagan wrong
In flowing tides of tragic song,—
You shadows that the living call
To walk again the Trojan wall,—
You lips and countenance renewed
Of an immortal fortitude,—
Know that, among the silent rows
Of these our daily town-fellows,
Watching the shades with these who bring
But mortal ears to this you sing,
There somewhere sits the Greek who made
This gift of song, himself a shade.
To hear rewake for Christendom
This cleansing of a Pagan wrong
In flowing tides of tragic song,—
You shadows that the living call
To walk again the Trojan wall,—
You lips and countenance renewed
Of an immortal fortitude,—
Know that, among the silent rows
Of these our daily town-fellows,
Watching the shades with these who bring
But mortal ears to this you sing,
There somewhere sits the Greek who made
This gift of song, himself a shade.
CHARACTER
If one should tell you that in such a spring
The hawthorn boughs into the blackbird’s nest
Poured poison, or that once at harvesting
The ears were stony, from so manifest
Slander of proven faith in tree and corn
You would turn unheeding, knowing him forsworn.
The hawthorn boughs into the blackbird’s nest
Poured poison, or that once at harvesting
The ears were stony, from so manifest
Slander of proven faith in tree and corn
You would turn unheeding, knowing him forsworn.
Yet now, when one whose life has never known
Corruption, as you know: whose days have been
As daily tidings in your heart of lone
And gentle courage, suffers the word unclean
Of envious tongues, doubting you dare not cry—
“I have been this man’s familiar, and you lie.”
Corruption, as you know: whose days have been
As daily tidings in your heart of lone
And gentle courage, suffers the word unclean
Of envious tongues, doubting you dare not cry—
“I have been this man’s familiar, and you lie.”
REALITY
It is strange how we travel the wide world over,
And see great churches and foreign streets,
And armies afoot and kings of wonder,
And deeds a-doing to fill the sheets
That grave historians will pen
To ferment the brains of simple men.
And see great churches and foreign streets,
And armies afoot and kings of wonder,
And deeds a-doing to fill the sheets
That grave historians will pen
To ferment the brains of simple men.
And all the time the heart remembers
The quiet habit of one far place,
The drawings and books, the turn of a passage,
The glance of a dear familiar face,
And there is the true cosmopolis,
While the thronging world a phantom is.
The quiet habit of one far place,
The drawings and books, the turn of a passage,
The glance of a dear familiar face,
And there is the true cosmopolis,
While the thronging world a phantom is.
EPILOGUE
Come tell us, you that travel far
With brave or shabby merchandise,
Have you saluted any star
That goes uncourtiered in the skies?
With brave or shabby merchandise,
Have you saluted any star
That goes uncourtiered in the skies?
Do you remember leaf or wing
Or brook the willows leant along,
Or any small familiar thing
That passed you as you went along?
Or brook the willows leant along,
Or any small familiar thing
That passed you as you went along?
Or does the trade that is your lust
Drive you as yoke-beasts driven apace,
Making the world a road of dust
From market-place to market-place?
Drive you as yoke-beasts driven apace,
Making the world a road of dust
From market-place to market-place?
Your traffic in the grain, the wine,
In purple and in cloth of gold,
In treasure of the field and mine,
In fables of the poets told,—
In purple and in cloth of gold,
In treasure of the field and mine,
In fables of the poets told,—
But have you laughed the wine-cups dry
And on the loaves of plenty fed,
And walked, with all your banners high,
In gold and purple garmented?
And on the loaves of plenty fed,
And walked, with all your banners high,
In gold and purple garmented?
And do you know the songs you sell
And cry them out along the way?
And is the profit that you tell
After your travel day by day
And cry them out along the way?
And is the profit that you tell
After your travel day by day
Sinew and sap of life, or husk—
Dead coffer-ware or kindled brain?
And do you gather in the dusk
To make your heroes live again?
Dead coffer-ware or kindled brain?
And do you gather in the dusk
To make your heroes live again?
If the grey dust is over all,
And stars and leaves and wings forgot,
And your blood holds no festival—
Go out from us; we need you not.
And stars and leaves and wings forgot,
And your blood holds no festival—
Go out from us; we need you not.
But if you are immoderate men,
Zealots of joy, the salt and sting
And savour of life upon you—then
We call you to our counselling.
Zealots of joy, the salt and sting
And savour of life upon you—then
We call you to our counselling.
And we will hew the holy boughs
To make us level rows of oars,
And we will set our shining prows
For strange and unadventured shores.
To make us level rows of oars,
And we will set our shining prows
For strange and unadventured shores.
Where the great tideways swiftliest run
We will be stronger than the strong
And sack the cities of the sun
And spend our booty in a song.
We will be stronger than the strong
And sack the cities of the sun
And spend our booty in a song.
MOONRISE
Where are you going, you pretty riders?—
To the moon’s rising, the rising of death’s moon,
Where the waters move not, and birds are still and songless,
Soon, very soon.
To the moon’s rising, the rising of death’s moon,
Where the waters move not, and birds are still and songless,
Soon, very soon.
Where are you faring to, you proud Hectors?
Through battle, out of battle, under the grass,
Dust behind your hoof-beats rises, and into dust,
Clouded, you pass.
Through battle, out of battle, under the grass,
Dust behind your hoof-beats rises, and into dust,
Clouded, you pass.
I’m a pretty rider, I’m a proud Hector,
I as you a little am pretty and proud;
I with you am riding, riding to the moonrise,
So sing we loud—
I as you a little am pretty and proud;
I with you am riding, riding to the moonrise,
So sing we loud—
“Out beyond the dust lies mystery of moonrise,
We go to chiller learning than is bred in the sun,
Hectors, and riders, and a simple singer,
Riding as one.”
We go to chiller learning than is bred in the sun,
Hectors, and riders, and a simple singer,
Riding as one.”
DEER
Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer.
They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody near
Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live,
Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,
Treading as in jungles free leopards do,
Printless as evelight, instant as dew.
The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheep
Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep
Delicate and far their counsels wild,
Never to be folded reconciled
To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are:
Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,
These you may not hinder, unconfined
Beautiful flocks of the mind.
They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody near
Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live,
Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,
Treading as in jungles free leopards do,
Printless as evelight, instant as dew.
The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheep
Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep
Delicate and far their counsels wild,
Never to be folded reconciled
To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are:
Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,
These you may not hinder, unconfined
Beautiful flocks of the mind.
TO ONE I LOVE
As I walked along the passage, in the night, beyond the stairs,
In the dark,
I was afraid,
Suddenly,
As will happen you know, my dear, it will often happen.
I knew the walls at my side,
Knew the drawings hanging there, the order of their placing,
And the door where my bed lay beyond,
And the window on the landing—
There was even a little ray of moonlight through it—
All was known, familiar, my comfortable home;
And yet I was afraid,
Suddenly,
In the dark, like a child, of nothing,
Of vastness, of eternity, of the queer pains of thought,
Such as used to trouble me when I heard,
When I was little, the people talk
On Sundays of “As it was in the Beginning,
Is Now, and Ever Shall Be....”
I am thirty-six years old,
And folk are friendly to me,
And there are no ghosts that should have reason to haunt me,
And I have tempted no magical happenings
By forsaking the clear noons of thought
For the wizardries that the credulous take
To be golden roads to revelation.
I knew all was simplicity there,
Without conspiracy, without antagonism,
And yet I was afraid,
Suddenly,
A child, in the dark, forlorn....
And then, as suddenly,
I was aware of a profound, a miraculous understanding,
Knowledge that comes to a man
But once or twice, as a bird’s note
In the still depth of the night
Striking upon the silence ...
I stood at the door, and there
Was mellow candle-light,
And companionship, and comfort,
And I knew
That it was even so,
That it must be even so
With death.
I knew
That no harm could have touched me out of my fear,
Because I had no grudge against anything,
Because I had desired
In the darkness, when fear came,
Love only, and pity, and fellowship,
And it would have been a thing monstrous,
Something defying nature
And all the simple universal fitness
For any force there to have come evilly
Upon me, who had no evil in my heart,
But only trust, and tenderness
For every presence about me in the air,
For the very shadow about me,
Being a little child for no one’s envy.
And I knew that God
Must understand that we go
To death as little children,
Desiring love so simply, and love’s defence,
And that he would be a barren God, without humour,
To cheat so little, so wistful, a desire,
That he created
In us, in our childishness ...
And I may never again be sure of this,
But there, for a moment,
In the candle-light,
Standing at the door,
I knew.
In the dark,
I was afraid,
Suddenly,
As will happen you know, my dear, it will often happen.
I knew the walls at my side,
Knew the drawings hanging there, the order of their placing,
And the door where my bed lay beyond,
And the window on the landing—
There was even a little ray of moonlight through it—
All was known, familiar, my comfortable home;
And yet I was afraid,
Suddenly,
In the dark, like a child, of nothing,
Of vastness, of eternity, of the queer pains of thought,
Such as used to trouble me when I heard,
When I was little, the people talk
On Sundays of “As it was in the Beginning,
Is Now, and Ever Shall Be....”
I am thirty-six years old,
And folk are friendly to me,
And there are no ghosts that should have reason to haunt me,
And I have tempted no magical happenings
By forsaking the clear noons of thought
For the wizardries that the credulous take
To be golden roads to revelation.
I knew all was simplicity there,
Without conspiracy, without antagonism,
And yet I was afraid,
Suddenly,
A child, in the dark, forlorn....
And then, as suddenly,
I was aware of a profound, a miraculous understanding,
Knowledge that comes to a man
But once or twice, as a bird’s note
In the still depth of the night
Striking upon the silence ...
I stood at the door, and there
Was mellow candle-light,
And companionship, and comfort,
And I knew
That it was even so,
That it must be even so
With death.
I knew
That no harm could have touched me out of my fear,
Because I had no grudge against anything,
Because I had desired
In the darkness, when fear came,
Love only, and pity, and fellowship,
And it would have been a thing monstrous,
Something defying nature
And all the simple universal fitness
For any force there to have come evilly
Upon me, who had no evil in my heart,
But only trust, and tenderness
For every presence about me in the air,
For the very shadow about me,
Being a little child for no one’s envy.
And I knew that God
Must understand that we go
To death as little children,
Desiring love so simply, and love’s defence,
And that he would be a barren God, without humour,
To cheat so little, so wistful, a desire,
That he created
In us, in our childishness ...
And I may never again be sure of this,
But there, for a moment,
In the candle-light,
Standing at the door,
I knew.
TO ALICE MEYNELL
I too have known my mutinies,
Played with improvident desires,
Gone indolently vain as these
Whose lips from undistinguished choirs
Mock at the music of our sires.
Played with improvident desires,
Gone indolently vain as these
Whose lips from undistinguished choirs
Mock at the music of our sires.
I too have erred in thought. In hours
When needy life forbade me bring
To song the brain’s unravished powers,
Then had it been a temperate thing
Loosely to pluck an easy string.
When needy life forbade me bring
To song the brain’s unravished powers,
Then had it been a temperate thing
Loosely to pluck an easy string.
Yet thought has been, poor profligate,
Sin’s period. Through dear and long
Obedience I learn to hate
Unhappy lethargies that wrong
The larger loyalties of song.
Sin’s period. Through dear and long
Obedience I learn to hate
Unhappy lethargies that wrong
The larger loyalties of song.
And you upon your slender reed,
Most exquisitely tuned, have made
For every singing heart a creed.
And I have heard; and I have played
My lonely music unafraid,
Most exquisitely tuned, have made
For every singing heart a creed.
And I have heard; and I have played
My lonely music unafraid,
Knowing that still a friendly few,
Turning aside from turbulence,
Cherish the difficult phrase, the due
Bridals of disembodied sense
With the new word’s magnificence.
Turning aside from turbulence,
Cherish the difficult phrase, the due
Bridals of disembodied sense
With the new word’s magnificence.
PETITION
O Lord, I pray: that for each happiness
My housemate brings I may give back no less
Than all my fertile will;
My housemate brings I may give back no less
Than all my fertile will;
That I may take from friends but as the stream
Creates again the hawthorn bloom adream
Above the river sill;
Creates again the hawthorn bloom adream
Above the river sill;
That I may see the spurge upon the wall
And hear the nesting birds give call to call,
Keeping my wonder new;
And hear the nesting birds give call to call,
Keeping my wonder new;
That I may have a body fit to mate
With the green fields, and stars, and streams in spate,
And clean as clover-dew;
With the green fields, and stars, and streams in spate,
And clean as clover-dew;
That I may have the courage to confute
All fools with silence when they will dispute,
All fools who will deride;
All fools with silence when they will dispute,
All fools who will deride;
That I may know all strict and sinewy art
As that in man which is the counterpart,
Lord, of Thy fiercest pride;
As that in man which is the counterpart,
Lord, of Thy fiercest pride;