Identity

We who are lovers sit by the fire,
Cradled warm 'twixt thought and will,
Sit and drowse like sleeping dogs
In the equipoise of all desire,
Sit and listen to the still
Small hiss and whisper of green logs
That burn away, that burn away
With the sound of a far-off falling stream
Of threaded water blown to steam,
Grey ghost in the mountain world of grey.
Vapours blue as distance rise
Between the hissing logs that show
A glimpse of rosy heat below;
And candles watch with tireless eyes
While we sit drowsing here. I know,
Dimly, that there exists a world,
That there is time perhaps, and space
Other and wider than this place,
Where at the fireside drowsily curled
We hear the whisper and watch the flame
Burn blinkless and inscrutable.
And then...

Beyond the pale of memory,
In some mysterious dusky grove;
A place of shadows utterly,
Where never coos the turtle-dove,
A world forgotten of the sun:
I dreamed we met when day was done,
And marvelled at our ancient love.

Met there by chance, long kept apart,
We wandered through the darkling glades;
And that old language of the heart
We sought to speak: alas! poor shades!
Over our pallid lips had run
The waters of oblivion,
Which crown all loves of men or maids.

In vain we stammered: from afar
Our old desire shone cold and dead:
That time was distant as a star,
When eyes were bright and lips were red.
And still we went with downcast eye
And no delight in being nigh,
Poor shadows most uncomforted.

Ah, Lalage! while lif...

It's oh in Paradise that I fain would be,
Away from earth and weariness and all beside;
Earth is too full of loss with its dividing sea,
But Paradise upbuilds the bower for the bride.

Where flowers are yet in bud while the boughs are green,
I would get quit of earth and get robed for heaven;
Putting on my raiment white within the screen,
Putting on my crown of gold whose gems are seven

Fair is the fourfold river that maketh no moan,
Fair are the trees fruit-bearing of the wood,
Fair are the gold and bdellium and the onyx stone,
And I know the gold of that land is good.

O my love, my dove, lift up your eyes
Toward the eastern gate like an opening rose;
You and I who parted will meet in Paradise,
Pass within and sing when the gates unclose.

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
From out the storied past, and used
Within the present, but transfused
Thro’ future time by power of thought;

True love turn’d round on fixed poles,
Love, that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy brothers and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time,
Nor feed with crude imaginings
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings
That every sophister can lime.

Deliver not the tasks of might
To weakness, neither hide the ray
From those, not blind, who wait for day,
Tho’ sitting girt with doubtful light.

Make knowledge circle with the winds;
But let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before her to whatever sky
Bear seed of men and growth of minds.

Watch wh...

Trust not Hope's illusive ray,
Trust not Joy's deceitful smiles;
Oft they reckless youth betray
With their bland, seductive wiles.

I have proved them all, alas!
Transient as the hues of eve;
Meteor-like, they quickly pass
Through the bosoms they deceive.

Let not Love thy prospects gild;
Soon they will be clouded o'er,
And the budding heart once chilled,
It can brightly bloom no more.

Slumber not in Pleasure's beam;
It may sparkle for a while,
But 'tis transient as a dream,
Faithless as a foeman's smile.

There's a light that's brighter far,
Soothes the soul by anguish riven,
'Tis Religion's guiding star
Glittering on the verge of Heaven.

Oh! this beam divine is worth
All the charm that life can give;
'...

(TERCENTENARY, 1608-1908)

"Stops of various Quills."--LYCIDAS.


What need of votive Verse
To strew thy Laureat Herse
With that mix'd Flora of th' Aonian Hill?
Or Mincian vocall Reed,
That Cam and Isis breed,
When thine own Words are burning in us still?

Bard, Prophet, Archimage!
In this Cash-cradled Age,
We grate our scrannel Musick, and we dote:
Where is the Strain unknown,
Through Bronze or Silver blown,
That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?

Yes,--"we are selfish Men":
Yet would we once again
Might see Sabrina braid her amber Tire;

Or watch the Comus Crew
Sweep down the Glade; or view
Strange-streamer'd Craft from Javan or Gadire!

Or could we catch once more,
High up, the Clang and Roa...

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

I

Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!

II

O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
Alone - alone!

Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H O N. and L L. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see, -
Your fist, old fellow! off they go! -
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You 've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a ...

Here, pent about by office walls
And barren eyes all day,
’Tis sweet to think of waterfalls
Two hundred miles away!

I would not ask you, friends, to brook
An old, old truth from me,
If I could shut a Poet’s book
Which haunts me like the Sea!

He saith to me, this Poet saith,
So many things of light,
That I have found a fourfold faith,
And gained a twofold sight.

He telleth me, this Poet tells,
How much of God is seen
Amongst the deep-mossed English dells,
And miles of gleaming green.

From many a black Gethsemane,
He leads my bleeding feet
To where I hear the Morning Sea
Round shining spaces beat!

To where I feel the wind, which brings
A sound of running creeks,
And blows those dark, unpleasant things,<...

The shopping had been tedious, and the rain
Came pelting down as she turned home again.

The motor-bus swirled past with rush and whirr,
Nought but its fumes of petrol left for her.

The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese
Malodorously mixed themselves with these.

And all seemed wrong. The world was drab and grey
As the slow minutes wept themselves away.

And then, athwart the noises of the street,
A violin flung out an Irish air.

"I'll take you home again, Kathleen." Ah, sweet,
How tender-sweet those lilting phrases were!

They soothed away the weariness, and brought
Such peace to one worn woman, over- wrought,

That she forgot the things which vexed her so:
The too outrageous price of calico,

The shop-girl's look...

Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys
    Are here discreetly blent;
Admire, you ladies, read, you boys,
    My Country Sentiment.

But Kate says, "Cut that anger and fear,
    True love's the stuff we need!
With laughing children and the running deer
    That makes a book indeed."

Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap,
    Though much beloved by me,
"Robert, have done with nursery pap,
    Write like a man," says he.

Hate and Fear are not wanted here,
    Nor Toys nor Country Lovers,
Everything they took from my new poem book
    But the flyleaf and the covers.

    I began to see old lanterns, books
    opening/folding within your eyes;
    a pale light running as silver
    to the sea.

    Then crestfallen leaves dangling
    as from fishhooks or the autumn moon's
    skeletal lightness tossing a path
    between waves over this sidewalk, that,
    with the back streets passing occasional
    hisses at the main culprit, night.

    The prim measurement of your smile,
    not the wan neglect of cool skin tones
    or fabric always more suggestive
    of summer colours, sideway movement
    of shadow into tickings of a clock.

    Rather mist and clamminess,
    lipstick in a smear as a
    thumbprint before the
    coughing of a motorcar
    as its elliptical wedge
    tears darkne...

"And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren and they hated him yet the more.", Genesis xxxvii. 5.



Oh ye who hold the written clue
To all save all unwritten things,
And, half a league behind, pursue
The accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,
Look! To your knee your baby brings
The oldest tale since Earth began,
The answer to your worryings:
"Once on a time there was a Man."

He, single-handed, met and slew
Magicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.
He lonely 'mid his doubting crew,
"In all the loneliness of wings ",
He fed the flame, he filled the springs,
He locked the ranks, he launched the van
Straight at the grinning Teeth of Things.
"Once on a time there was a Man."

The peace of shocked Foundations flew
Before h...

Air - "My lodging is on the cold ground."


I.

    My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
        The primrose banks how fair:
    The balmy gales awake the flowers,
        And wave thy flaxen hair.

II.

    The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
        And o'er the cottage sings;
    For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
        To shepherds as to kings

III.

    Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
        In lordly lighted ha':
    The shepherd stops his simple reed,
        Blythe, in the birken shaw.

IV.

    The princely revel may survey
        Our rustic dance wi' scorn;
    But are their hearts as light as ours,
        Beneath the milk-white thorn?

V.

    ...

I think the hemlock likes to stand
Upon a marge of snow;
It suits his own austerity,
And satisfies an awe

That men must slake in wilderness,
Or in the desert cloy, --
An instinct for the hoar, the bald,
Lapland's necessity.

The hemlock's nature thrives on cold;
The gnash of northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment to him,
His best Norwegian wines.

To satin races he is nought;
But children on the Don
Beneath his tabernacles play,
And Dnieper wrestlers run.

Days undefiled by luxury or sloth,
Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid,
Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed,
Words that require no sanction from an oath,
And simple honesty a common growth,
This high repute, with bounteous Nature's aid,
Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed
At will, your power the measure of your troth!
All who revere the memory of Penn
Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his name
Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim,
Renounced, abandoned by degenerate Men
For state-dishonour black as ever came
To upper air from Mammon's loathsome den.

So we settled it all when the storm was done
As comfy as comfy could be;
And I was to wait in the barn, my dears,
Because I was only three;
And Teddy would run to the rainbow’s foot
Because he was five and a man;
And that’s how it all began, my dears,
And that’s how it all began!



Then we brought the lances down, then the trumpets blew
When we went to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two.
Ridin’, ridin’, ridin’, two an’ two!
Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a!
All the way to Kandahar,
Ridin’ two an’ two.



The, wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn,
When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn,
And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away,
And he turned...