Identity

I

Imagination, ne'er before content,
But aye ascending, restless in her pride
From all that martial feats could yield
To her desires, or to her hopes present
Stooped to the Victory, on that Belgic field,
Achieved, this closing deed magnificent,
And with the embrace was satisfied.
Fly, ministers of Fame,
With every help that ye from earth and heaven may claim!
Bear through the world these tidings of delight!
Hours, Days, and Months, 'have' borne them in the sight
Of mortals, hurrying like a sudden shower
That landward stretches from the sea,
The morning's splendours to devour;
But this swift travel scorns the company
Of irksome change, or threats from saddening power.
'The shock is given, the Adversaries bleed'
'Lo, Justice triumphs! Earth is fr...

IV.

Probation.


    Could I, O Love! obtain a charter clear
    To be thy bard, in all thy nights and days,
    I would consult the stars, from year to year,
    And talk with trees, and learn of them their ways,
    And why the nymphs so seldom now appear
    In human form, with rapt and earnest gaze;
    And I would learn of thee why joy decays,
    And why the Fauns have ceas'd to flourish here.
    I would, in answer to the wind's "Alas!"
    Explain the causes of a sorrow's flight;
    I would peruse the writing on the grass
    Which flow...

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
(Hung with the clusters of the bending vine)
Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
In murmurs parted: varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
As some gray convent-wall or glistening spire
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow!
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like Despair,
Frowns the bleak cliff! There on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

The West builds high a sepulchre
Of cloudy granite and of gold,
Where twilight's priestly hours inter
The day like some great king of old.

A censer, rimmed with silver fire,
The new moon swings above his tomb;
While, organ-stops of God's own choir,
Star after star throbs in the gloom.

And night draws near, the sadly sweet
A nun whose face is calm and fair
And kneeling at the dead day's feet
Her soul goes up in silent prayer.

In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam
And flowery fragrance, and above
All Earth the ecstasy and dream
That haunt the mystic heart of love.

To you who'd read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I'll say (you've heard it said before)
"War's Hell!" and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried
To stormy Thrace from Athens where you tarried
Down by Ilissus all a blowy day
Among the asphodels, how rapt away
Thither, and in what frozen bed wert married?

"I was a King's tall daughter still unwed,
Slim and desirable my locks to shed
Free from the fillet. He my maiden belt
Undid with busy fingers hid but felt,
And made me wife upon no marriage bed.

"As idly there I lay alone he came
And blew upon my side, and beat a flame
Into my cheeks, and kindled both my eyes.
I suffered him who took no bodily guise:
The light clouds know whether I was to blame.

"Into my mouth he blew an amorous breath;
I panted, but lay still, as quiet as death.
The whispering planes and sighing grasses know
Whether it w...

I hear the hoofs of horses
Galloping over the hill,
Galloping on and galloping on,
When all the night is shrill
With wind and rain that beats the pane,
And my soul with awe is still.

For every dripping window
Their headlong rush makes bound,
Galloping up, and galloping by,
Then back again and around,
Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,
And the draughty cellars sound.

And then I hear black horsemen
Hallooing in the night;
Hallooing and hallooing,
They ride o'er vale and height,
And the branches snap and the shutters clap
With the fury of their flight.

Then at each door a horseman,
With burly bearded lip
Hallooing through the keyhole,
Pauses with cloak a-drip;
And the door-knob shakes and the panel quakes

Her Mother's Epitaph

Here lies
A worthy matron of unspotted life,
A loving mother and obedient wife,
A friendly neighbor, pitiful to poor,
Whom oft she fed, and clothed with her store;
To servants wisely aweful, but yet kind,
And as they did, so they reward did find:
A true instructor of her family,
The which she ordered with dexterity,
The public meetings ever did frequent,
And in her closest constant hours she spent;
Religious in all her words and ways,
Preparing still for death, till end of days:
Of all her children, children lived to see,
Then dying, left a blessed memory.


Her Father's Epitaph

Within this tomb a patriot lies
That was both pious, just and wise,
To truth a shield, to right a wall,
To ...

No, now I wish the sunshine would stop, and the white shining houses, and the gay red flowers on the balconies and the bluish mountains beyond, would be crushed out between two valves of darkness; the darkness falling, the darkness rising, with muffled sound obliterating everything.

I wish that whatever props up the walls of light would fall, and darkness would come hurling heavily down, and it would be thick black dark for ever.
Not sleep, which is grey with dreams, nor death, which quivers with birth, but heavy, sealing darkness, silence, all immovable.

What is sleep?
It goes over me, like a shadow over a hill, but it does not alter me, nor help me.
And death would ache still, I am sure; it would be lambent, uneasy.
I wish it would be completely dark everywhere, inside me, and out, heavily dark ...

    Quennelles. Lady of the Gold Horse with Diamond Eyes.
    A bottle of Napoleon brandy for the Count and two Persian
    lions carved in wood.
    Salads Nicoise.
    Dinners at Pré Catalan in the Bois, a Toronto equivalent.
    A girl named Chantilly burning charcoal in the forest.
    I drank a cocktail with the girl of the white polo coat.
    Or as the cynic said, my pipe is the tent, the tobacco
    the days of my life.

A Memory Of A Sister



The fire advances along the log
Of the tree we felled,
Which bloomed and bore striped apples by the peck
Till its last hour of bearing knelled.

The fork that first my hand would reach
And then my foot
In climbings upward inch by inch, lies now
Sawn, sapless, darkening with soot.

Where the bark chars is where, one year,
It was pruned, and bled -
Then overgrew the wound. But now, at last,
Its growings all have stagnated.

My fellow-climber rises dim
From her chilly grave -
Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,
Laughing, her young brown hand awave.

December 1915.

Sons of the South, awake! arise!
Sons of the South, and do.
Banish from under your bonny skies
Those old-world errors and wrongs and lies.
Making a hell in a Paradise
That belongs to your sons and you.

Sons of the South, make choice between
(Sons of the South, choose true),
The Land of Morn and the Land of E'en,
The Old Dead Tree and the Young Tree Green,
The Land that belongs to the lord and the Queen,
And the Land that belongs to you.

Sons of the South, your time will come,
Sons of the South, 'tis near,
The "Signs of the Times", in their language dumb,
Fortell it, and ominous whispers hum
Like sullen sounds of a distant drum,
In the ominous atmosphere.

Sons of the South, aroused at last!
Sons of the South are few!
But yo...

"Shew us the Father." Chiming stars of space,
    And lives that fit the worlds, and means and powers,
    A Thought that holds them up reveal to ours--
A Wisdom we have been made wise to trace.
And, looking out from sweetest Nature's face,
    From sunsets, moonlights, rivers, hills, and flowers,
    Infinite love and beauty, all the hours,
Woo men that love them with divinest grace;
And to the depths of all the answering soul
    High Justice speaks, and calls the world her own;
    And yet we long, and yet we have not known
The very Father's face who means the whole!
    Shew us the Father! Nature, conscience, love
    Revealed in beauty, is there One above?

Month after month the gathered rains descend
Drenching yon secret Aethiopian dells,
And from the desert's ice-girt pinnacles
Where Frost and Heat in strange embraces blend
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend.
Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest dwells
By Nile's aereal urn, with rapid spells
Urging those waters to their mighty end.
O'er Egypt's land of Memory floods are level
And they are thine, O Nile - and well thou knowest
That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil
And fruits and poisons spring where'er thou flowest.
Beware, O Man - for knowledge must to thee,
Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be.

Maternal love! thou wond'rous power,
    By no base fears controul'd,
Tis truly thine, in danger's hour,
    To make the tender bold!

And yet, more marvellous! thy sway,
    Amid the pathless wild,
Can humanize the beast of prey!
    And make the savage mild!

A traveller, on Afric's shore.
    Near to a forest's side,
That shook with many a monster's roar,
    With hasty caution hied.

But suddenly, full in his way,
    A Panther he descries;
Athwart his very road she lay,
    And fixt his fearful eyes.

With backward step, and watchful stare
    If refuge there may be;
He hopes to gain, with trembling care,
    The refuge of a tree.

A fruitless hope--the Panther moves,
    Perceiving his intent,
And va...

Believe not those who say
The upward path is smooth,
Lest thou shouldst stumble in the way,
And faint before the truth.

It is the only road
Unto the realms of joy;
But he who seeks that blest abode
Must all his powers employ.

Bright hopes and pure delight
Upon his course may beam,
And there, amid the sternest heights,
The sweetest flowerets gleam.

On all her breezes borne,
Earth yields no scents like those;
But he that dares not gasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.

Arm--arm thee for the fight!
Cast useless loads away;
Watch through the darkest hours of night;
Toil through the hottest day.

Crush pride into the dust,
Or thou must needs be slack;
And trample down rebellious lust,
Or it will h...

Dry your sweet cheek, long drown'd with sorrow's rain,
Since, clouds dispers'd, suns gild the air again.
Seas chafe and fret, and beat, and overboil,
But turn soon after calm as balm or oil.
Winds have their time to rage; but when they cease
The leafy trees nod in a still-born peace.
Your storm is over; lady, now appear
Like to the peeping springtime of the year.
Off then with grave clothes; put fresh colours on,
And flow and flame in your vermilion.
Upon your cheek sat icicles awhile;
Now let the rose reign like a queen, and smile.