Betrayal

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so wryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell he so,
And they are better for her praise.

There was a little pause between the dances;
    Without, somewhere, a tinkling fountain played.
The dusky path was lit by ardent glances
    As forth they fared, a lover and a maid.
He chose a nook, from curious eyes well hidden -
    All redolent with sweet midsummer charm,
And by the great primeval instinct bidden,
    He drew her in the shelter of his arm.
The words that long deep in his heart had trembled
Found sudden utterance; she at first dissembled,
    Refused her lips, and half withdrew her hand,
Then murmured "Yes," and yielded, woman fashion,
Her virgin mouth to young love's kiss of passion.

    Our tears, our songs, our laurels - what are these
        To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss,
    Stretched in thine unimagined agonies
        On Hell's last engine of the Iron Cross.

    For such a world as this that thou shouldst die
        Is price too vast - yet, Belgium, hadst thou sold
    Thyself, O then had fled from out the earth
        Honour for ever, and left only Gold.

    Nor diest thou - for soon shalt thou awake,
        And, lifted high on our victorious shields,
    Watch the new sunrise driving for your sons
        The hated German shadow from your fields.




"British colonists resident in London volunteer, and
not even silk hats are doffed before training begins"

        - New York Times

Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill:
I've felt its icy clasp;
And, shuddering, I remember still
That stony-hearted grasp.
Thine eye bids love and joy depart:
Oh, turn its gaze from me!
It presses down my shrinking heart;
I will not walk with thee!

"Wisdom is mine," I've heard thee say:
"Beneath my searching eye
All mist and darkness melt away,
Phantoms and fables fly.
Before me truth can stand alone,
The naked, solid truth;
And man matured by worth will own,
If I am shunned by youth.

"Firm is my tread, and sure though slow;
My footsteps never slide;
And he that follows me shall know
I am the surest guide."
Thy boast is vain; but were it true
That thou couldst safely steer
Life's rough and devious pathway through,
S...

"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes."
Thus heard one who shared the tent,
In the far-off Orient,
Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz -
Nobler never loved the stars
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim
Dawn his courser neighed to him!

He said: "Let the sands be swarmed
With such thieves as I, and thou
Shalt at morning rise unharmed,
Light as eyelash to the brow
Of thy camel amber-eyed,
Ever munching either side,
Striding still, with nestled knees,
Through the midnight's oases."

"Who can rob thee an thou hast
More than this that thou hast cast
At my feet - this dust of gold?
Simply this and that, all told!
Hast thou not a treasure of
Such a thing as men call love?"

"Can the dusky band I lead

Just as a little olive offshoot grows
Beneath its orchard elders' shady rows,
No budding leaf as yet, no branching limb,
Only a rod uprising, virgin-slim -
Then if the busy gardener, weeding out
Sharp thorns and nettles, cuts the little sprout,
It fades and, losing all its living hue,
Drops by the mother from whose roots it grew:
So was it with my Ursula, my dear;
A little space she grew beside us here,
Then Death came, breathing pestilence, and she
Fell, stricken lifeless, by her parent tree.
Persephone, Persephone, this flow
Of barren tears! How couldst thou will it so?

Plac'd in the forlorne hope of all dispayre
Against the Forte where Beauties Army lies,
Assayld with death, yet armed with gastly feare,
Loe! thus my loue, my lyfe, my fortune tryes.
Wounded with Arrowes from thy lightning eyes,
My tongue in payne my harts counsels bewraying,
My rebell thought for me in Ambushe lyes,
To my lyues foe her Chieftaine still betraying.
Record my loue in Ocean waues (vnkind)
Cast my desarts into the open ayre,
Commit my words vnto the fleeting wind,
Cancell my name, and blot it with dispayre;
    So shall I bee as I had neuer beene,
    Nor my disgraces to the world be seene.

Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dear
    As valued friends. He cannot know
The zest of life who runneth here
    His earthly race without a foe.

I saw a prize. "Run," cried my friend;
    "'Tis thine to claim without a doubt."
But ere I half-way reached the end,
    I felt my strength was giving out.

My foe looked on the while I ran;
    A scornful triumph lit his eyes.
With that perverseness born in man,
    I nerved myself, and won the prize.

All blinded by the crimson glow
    Of sin's disguise, I tempted Fate.
"I knew thy weakness!" sneered my foe,
    I saved myself, and balked his hate.

For half my blessings, half my gain,
    I needs must thank my trusty foe;
Despite his envy and disdain,
    He serves me well whe...

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,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
I(She was more beautiful than thy first love,)
I(But now lies under boards.)

A Faint, sickening scent of irises
Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table
A fine proud spike of purple irises
Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable
To see the class's lifted and bended faces
Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable.

I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless
Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast you
With fire on your cheeks and your brow and your chin as you dipped
Your face in the marigold bunch, to touch and contrast you,
Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks,
Dissolved on the golden sorcery you should not outlast.

You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation,
You sitting in the cowslips of the meadow above,
Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs,

    We act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
    But just peep up, and then pop down again.
    Let those who call us wicked change their sense;
    For never men lived more on Providence.
    Not lottery cavaliers are half so poor,
    Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore;
    Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
    Of the three last ungiving parliaments:
    So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine,
    He might have spared his dream of seven lean kine,
    And changed his vision for the Muses Nine.
    The comet that, they say, portends a dearth,
    Was but a vapour drawn from play-house earth:
    Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,
    Foreshows our change of state, and thin third-days.
    'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us...

In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
O the glad dove has golden wings!

Between the blossoms red and white,
O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
O the glad dove has golden wings!

The yellow apples glowed like fire,
O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
O the glad dove has golden wings!

But now with snow the tree is grey,
Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
A dove with broken wings!
Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain
Fond Dove, fond ...

Snow falls. The sky is grey, and sullenly glares
With purple lights in the canyoned street.
The fiery sign on the dark tower wreathes and flares . . .
The trodden grass in the park is covered with white,
The streets grow silent beneath our feet . . .
The city dreams, it forgets its past to-night.

And one, from his high bright window looking down
Over the enchanted whiteness of the town,
Seeing through whirls of white the vague grey towers,
Desires like this to forget what will not pass,
The littered papers, the dust, the tarnished grass,
Grey death, stale ugliness, and sodden hours.
Deep in his heart old bells are beaten again,
Slurred bells of grief and pain,
Dull echoes of hideous times and poisonous places.
He desires to drown in a cold white peace of snow...

I

Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water’s roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool’s triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?

II

Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn’d?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.

O you will take what ever’s offered
And dream that all the world’s a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are you...

Good Father John O'Hart
In penal days rode out
To a Shoneen who had free lands
And his own snipe and trout.
In trust took he John's lands;
Sleiveens were all his race;
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters.
And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his Shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown.
All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From the wives, and the cats, and the children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages
As he went up and down;
And he said with a smile, "Have peace now';
And he went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
He bade them g...

    I.

    We bore him through the golden land,
    One early harvest morn;
    The corn stood ripe on either hand--
    He knew all about the corn.

    How shall the harvest gathered be
    Without him standing by?
    Without him walking on the lea,
    The sky is scarce a sky.

    The year's glad work is almost done;
    The land is rich in fruit;
    Yellow it floats in air and sun--
    Earth holds it by the root.

    Why should earth hold it for a day
    When harvest-time is come?
    Death is triumphant o'er decay,
    And leads the ripened home.


    II.

    And though the sun be not so warm,
    His shining is not lost;
    Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,
    Lie hid from coming...

I.

A Sea of onyx are the skies,
Cloud-islanded with fire;
Such nacre-colored flame as dyes
A sea-shell's rosy spire;
And at its edge one star sinks slow,
Burning, into the overglow.

II.

Save for the cricket in the grass,
Or passing bird that twitters,
The world is hushed. Like liquid glass
The soundless river glitters
Between the hills that hug and hold
Its beauty like a hoop of gold.

III.

The glory deepens; and, meseems,
A vasty canvas, painted
With revelations of God's dreams
And visions symbol-sainted,
The west is, that each night-cowled hill
Kneels down before in worship still.

IV.

There is no thing to wake unrest;
No sight or sound to jangle
The peace that evening in the bre...

                My dear, do you know,
                How a long time ago,
                    Two poor little children,
                Whose names I don't know,
    Were stolen away on a fine summer's day,
    And left in a wood, as I've heard people say.

                And when it was night,
                So sad was their plight,
                    The sun it went down,
                And the moon gave no light!
    They sobb'd and they sigh'd, and they bitterly cried,
    And the poor little things, they lay down and died.

                And when they were dead,
                The Robins so red
                    Brought strawberry leaves,
                And over them spread;
                    And all the day long,
             ...