War

Like a flower in the frost
    Sweet Jenny lies,
With her frail hands calmly crossed,
    And close-shut eyes.

Bring a candle, for the room
    Is dark and cold,
Antechamber of the tomb -
    O grief untold!

Like a snowdrift is her bed,
    Dinted the snow,
Faint frozen lines from foot to head, -
    She lies below.

Turn from off her shrouded face
    The frigid sheet....
Death hath doubled all her grace -
    O Jenny, sweet!

"Why do you stand in the dripping rye,
Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee,
When there are firesides near?" said I.
"I told him I wished him dead," said she.

"Yea, cried it in my haste to one
Whom I had loved, whom I well loved still;
And die he did. And I hate the sun,
And stand here lonely, aching, chill;

"Stand waiting, waiting under skies
That blow reproach, the while I see
The rooks sheer off to where he lies
Wrapt in a peace withheld from me."

The world had chafed his spirit proud
    By its wearing, crushing strife,
The censure of the thoughtless crowd
    Had touched a blameless life;
Like the dove of old, from the water's foam,
He wearily turned to the ark of home.

Hopes he had cherished with joyous heart,
    Had toiled for many a day,
With body and spirit, and patient art,
    Like mists had melted away;
And o'er day-dreams vanished, o'er fond hopes flown,
He sat him down to mourn alone.

No, not alone, for soft fingers rest
    On his hot and aching brow,
Back the damp hair is tenderly pressed
    While a sweet voice whispers low:
"Thy joys have I shared, O my husband true,
And shall I not share thy sorrows too?"

Vain task to resist the loving gaze
    That so f...

See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head;
    His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew;
    His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue;
    His train, a sable cloud, with murky red
Streak'd. - Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed
    Petrific death! - Lean, wailful Birds pursue,
    On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor,
    Amid the battling blast of all the Winds,
That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds,
    Lash the white surges to the sounding shore.
    So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doom
The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays,
    Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb,
    Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.

        What! only to stay
        For a single day?
Thou beautiful, bright hued on
        Just to open thine eyes
        To the blue of the skies
And the light of the glorious sun,
        Then, to fade away
        In the same rich ray,
And die ere the day is done?

        Bright thing of a day
        Thou hast caught a ray
From Morn's jewelled curtain fold
        On thy burning cheek,
        And the ruby streak
His dyed it with charms untold -
        And the gorgeous vest
        On thy queenly breast,
Is dashed with her choicest gold.

        A statelier queen
        Has never been seen,
A lovelier never will be! -
        Nay, Solomon, dressed
        In his kingliest best,
Was never a match for thee,<...

Oh, de clouds is mighty heavy
An' de rain is mighty thick;
Keep a song up on de way.
An' de waters is a rumblin'
On de boulders in de crick,
Keep a song up on de way.
Fu' a bird ercross de road
Is a-singin' lak he knowed
Dat we people did n't daih
Fu' to try de rainy aih
Wid a song up on de way.

What's de use o' gittin' mopy,
Case de weather ain' de bes'!
Keep a song up on de way.
W'en de rain is fallin' ha'des',
Dey 's de longes' times to res'
Keep a song up on de way.
Dough de plough 's a-stan'in' still
Dey 'll be watah fu' de mill,
Rain mus' come ez well ez sun
'Fo' de weathah's wo'k is done,
Keep a song up on de way.

W'y hit's nice to hyeah de showahs
Fallin' down ermong de trees:
Keep a song up on de way...

As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark,
(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,)
Aw happen'd to hear a remark,
'At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan -
It wur raanin, an' snawin, and cowd,
An' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck,
An' th' east wind booath whistled an' howl'd,
It saanded like nowt but ill luck;
When two little lads, donn'd i' rags,
Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet,
Coom trapesin away ower th' flags,
Booath on 'em sodden'd wi th' weet. -
Th' owdest mud happen be ten,
Th' young en be hauf on't, - noa moor;
As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen,
God help fowk this weather 'at's poor!
Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand,
An' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be;
'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand,
An' they seem'd to ...

Take these rhymes into thy grace,
Since they are of thy begetting,
Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.

Some such glamour lend this Book:
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages.

A summer's morning that has but one voice;
    Five hundred stocks, like golden lovers, lean
Their heads together, in their quiet way,
    And but one bird sings, of a number seen.

It is the lark, that louder, louder sings,
    As though but this one thought possessed his mind:
'You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch,
    I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!'

And when I hear him at this daring task,
    'Peace, little bird,' I say, 'and take some rest;
Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song,
    Before it makes a coffin of your nest.'

There's the daisy, the woodbine,
And crow-flower so golden;
There's the wild rose, the eglantine,
And May-buds unfolding;
There are flowers for my fairy,
And bowers for my love:
Wilt thou gang with me, Mary,
To the banks of Brooms-grove?

There's the thorn-bush and the ash-tree
To shield thee from the heat,
While the brook to refresh thee
Runs close by thy feet;
The thrushes are chanting clear,
In the pleasures of love;
Thou'rt the only thing wanting here
'Mid the sweets of Brooms-grove.

Then come ere a minute's gone,
Since the long summer's day
Puts her wings swift as linnets' on
For hieing away.
Then come with no doubtings near,
To fear a false love;
For there's nothing without thee dear,
Can please in Brooms-gro...

(To EDWARD THOMAS)


The haze of noon wanned silver-grey,
The soundless mansion of the sun;
The air made visible in his ray,
Like molten glass from furnace run,
Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stone
And the flower of the gorse burned on,
Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hair
Along each spiky spray, and shed
Almond-like incense in the air
Whereon our senses fed.

At foot, a few sparse harebells: blue
And still as were the friend's dark eyes
That dwelt on mine, transfixèd through
With sudden ecstatic surmise.

'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,
Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,
I heard a whispering music flow
From guileful throat of bird, unseen:
So delicate, the straining ear
Scarce carried its faint sy...

Now the light o’ the west is a-turn’d to gloom,
An’ the men be at hwome vrom ground;
An’ the bells be a-zendén all down the Coombe
From tower, their mwoansome sound.
An’ the wind is still,
An’ the house-dogs do bark,
An’ the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an’ dark,
An’ the water do roar at mill.

An’ the flickerén light drough the window-peäne
Vrom the candle’s dull fleäme do shoot,
An’ young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne,
A-plaÿén his shrill-vaiced flute.
An’ the miller’s man,
Do zit down at his ease
On the seat that is under the cluster o’ trees,
Wi’ his pipe an’ his cider can.

Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed,
    Beyond the Firth of Forth,
My memory returns at speed
    To Scotland and the North.

For still I keep, and ever shall,
    A warm place in my heart for Scotland,
Scotland, Scotland,
    A warm place in my heart for Scotland.

Oh, cruel off St. Andrew's Bay
    The winds are wont to blow!
They either rest or gently play,
    When there in dreams I go.

And there I wander, young again,
    With limbs that do not tire,
Along the coast to Kittock's Den,
    With whinbloom all afire.

I climb the Spindle Rock, and lie
    And take my doubtful ease,
Between the ocean and the sky,
    Derided by the breeze.

Where coloured mushrooms thickly grow,
    Like flowers of brittle stal...

Infinite gentleness, infinite irony
Are in this face with fast-sealed eyes,
And round this mouth that learned in loneliness
How useless their wisdom is to the wise.

In her nun's habit carved, carefully, lovingly,
By one who knew the ways of womenkind,
This woman's face still keeps its cold wistful calm,
All the subtle pride of her mind.

These pale curved lips of hers holding their hidden smile,
Show she had weighed the world; her will was set;
These long patrician hands clasping he crucifix
Once having made their choice, had no regret.

She was one of those who hoard their own thoughts lovingly,
Feeling them far too dear to give away,
Content to look at life with the high insolent
Air of an audience watching a play.

If she was curious, i...

Tug at the net,
Haul at the net,
Strip off the quivering fish;
Hid in the mist
The winds whist,
Is like my heart's wish.

What is your wish,
Your heart's wish?
Is it for home on the hills?
Strip off the fish,
The silver fish,
Caught by their rosy gills.

How can I know,
I love you so,
Each little thought I get
Is held so,
It dies you know,
Caught in your heart's net.

Tug at your net,
Your heart's net,
Strip off my silver fancies;
Keep them in rhyme,
For a dull time,
Fragile as frost pansies.

Yes, holy be thy resting place
Wherever thou may'st lie;
The sweetest winds breathe on thy face,
The softest of the sky.

And will not guardian Angles send
Kind dreams and thoughts of love,
Though I no more may watchful bend
Thy longed repose above?

And will not heaven itself bestow
A beam of glory there
That summer's grass more green may grow,
And summer's flowers more fair?

Farewell, farewell, 'tis hard to part
Yet, loved one, it must be:
I would not rend another heart
Not even by blessing thee.

Go! We must break affection's chain,
Forget the hopes of years:
Nay, grieve not - willest thou remain
To waken wilder tears

This herald breeze with thee and me,
Roved in the dawning day:
And thou shouldest be...

He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix,
The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day.
He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;
He's staring at the passers with his customary stare.
He never takes his piercing eyes from off that moving throng,
That current cosmopolitan meandering along:
Dark diplomats from Martinique, pale Rastas from Peru,
An Englishman from Bloomsbury, a Yank from Kalamazoo;
A poet from Montmartre's heights, a dapper little Jap,
Exotic citizens of all the countries on the map;
A tourist horde from every land that's underneath the sun -
That little wizened Spanish man, he misses never one.
Oh, foul or fair he's always there, and many a drink he buys,
And there's a fire of red desire within his hollow eyes.
And sipping of m...

Since green earth is awake
Let us now pastime take,
Not serving wantonness
Too well, nor niggardness,
Which monks of men would make.

But clothed like earth in green,
With jocund hearts and clean,
We will take hands and go
Singing where quietly blow
The flowers of Spring's demesne.

The cuckoo haileth loud
The open sky; no cloud
Doth fleck the earth's blue tent;
The land laughs, well content
To put off winter shroud.

Now, since 'tis Easter Day,
All Christians may have play;
The young Saints, all agaze
For Christ in Heaven's maze,
May laugh who wont to pray.

Then welcome to our round
They light on homely ground:--
Agnes, Saint Cecily,
Agatha, Dorothy,
Margaret, Hildegonde;

Next come with B...