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A Spring Harvest
================

:PG.Id: 48371
:PG.Released: 2015-02-26
:PG.Reposted: 2015-03-07 textual corrections made
:PG.Rights: Public Domain
:PG.Producer: Andrew Dunning
:PG.Credits: Based on scans by the British Library.
:DC.Creator: Geoffrey Bache Smith
:MARCREL.edt: John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
:DC.Title: A Spring Harvest
:DC.Language: en
:DC.Created: 1918
:coverpage: images/cover.jpg

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[pg 3]

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    :lg:`A Spring Harvest`

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[pg 4]

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    To HIS MOTHER

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:lg:`Geoffrey Bache Smith`

Born
    October 18th, 1894
Entered Corpus Christi College, Oxford, as Exhibitioner
    October 1913
Received Commission
    January 1915
Died of wounds at Warlencourt, France
    December 3rd, 1916

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[pg 5]

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    :xxl:`A Spring Harvest`

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    by

    :xl:`Geoffrey Bache Smith`

    Late Lieutenant in the Lancashire Fusiliers

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    :lg:`Erskine Macdonald, Ltd.`

    London, W.C.1

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[pg 6]

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    All Rights Reserved

    First published June 1918

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[pg 7]

Note
====

:sc:`The` poems of this book were written at very various times, one (“Wind over the Sea”) I believe even as early as 1910, but the order in which they are here given is not chronological beyond the fact that the third part contains only poems written after the outbreak of the war. Of these some were written in England (at Oxford in particular), some in Wales and very many during a year in France from November 1915 to December 1916, which was broken by one leave in the middle of May.

“The Burial of Sophocles,” which is here placed at the end, was begun before the war and continued at odd times and in various circumstances afterwards; the final version was sent me from the trenches.

Beyond these few facts no prelude and no *envoi* is needed other than those here printed as their author left them.

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    J\. R\. R\. T\.

1918\.

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.. [pg 8]

[pg 9]

Contents
========

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[pg 11]

| :sc:`If` there be one among the Muses nine
| Loves not so much *Completion* as *the Will*,
| And less the austere saint than the fond sinner:
| Loves scanty ruins, garlanded with years,
| Better than lofty palaces entire:
| To her I dedicate this spoiléd sheaf
| Of rime that scarcely came to harvesting.

| There is a window here in Magdalen
| Composite, methinks, of fragments that stark Mars
| Has scattered. Even so my verses be
| Composite of memories and half-uttered dreams
| Welded together sans due ordinance,
| Which might have been far other, but that Mars
| Scattered and harried them with his ruthless flail.

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.. [pg 12]

[pg 13]

I. Two Legends
==============

Glastonbury
-----------

| :sc:`Thither` through moaning woods came Bedivere,
| At gloomy breaking of a winter’s day,
| Weary and travel-stained and sick at heart,
| With a great wound gotten in that last fray
| Ere he stood by, and watched the King depart
| Down the long, silent reaches of the mere:
| And all the earth was sad, and skies were drear,
| And the wind cried, and chased the relict leaves
| Like ships, that the storm-tossed ocean batters and heaves,
| And they fly before the gale, and the mariners fear.

| So he found at the last an hermitage
| Hard by a little hill, and sheltering trees
| That bent gaunt branches in the winter’s breeze;
| And he drew rein, and leant, and struck the door:
| Then presently came forth an hermit sage
| And helped him to dismount with labour sore:
| Straight went they in, but Bedivere being lame
| Stumbled against the open door, and swooned,
| And would have fallen, but the hermit caught
| And laid him gently down; then hurrying brought
| From a great chest a cordial, and came
| That he might drink, and so beheld his wound.

| Long time lay Bedivere betwixt life and death,
| Like a torn traveller on a stormy height
| ’Twixt one wind and another: till his breath
| Came easier, and he prospered. Then did sleep
| Bathe him in soothing waters, soft and deep,
| And left him whole, at breaking of the light,
| So he beheld the old man, and desired
| That he would tell of whom he was, and whence.

[pg 14]

| Whereat once more the ancient eyes were fired:
| “I, I was Arthur’s bishop, at his court
| And in his church I ministered, and thence
| When at the last the whole was overthrown
| With wrath and ill designings, straight I sought
| A place where I might die, too feeble grown
| To endure a new beginning to my years
| When once the past was lost, and whelmed in tears.
| Hither I came, where, in the dawns of time
| Dim peoples, that the very stones forget,
| Lived, loved, and fought, and wove the riddling rime
| On a lake island mystically set.
| They passed, and after ages manifold
| Came wandering sainted Joseph (even he
| That tended God’s frail body, and enrolled
| In linen clothes of spicèd fragrancy).
| He brought the vessel, vanished now from earth
| That wrought destruction to the Table Round,
| Since many deemed themselves above their worth
| And sought in vain, and perished ere they found.”

| Then Bedivere: “Alas the King! I saw
| The unstayed overwhelming tide of war:
| And when the opposèd standards were unfurled
| Of Arthur and of Mordred, his base son,
| Ere yet the noise of battle was begun
| I heard the heralds crying to the world:

| “‘Ye that have sought out pallid harmonies
| Where never wind blows, save the gentle south:
| Ye that have trafficked on the sounding seas
| And fear nor cheerless rains, nor scorching drouth:

| “‘Ye that have piled the rich, full-ripened crops
| Of word and measure, till the rime, grown proud,
| Did straight contemn the leaping mountain tops
| And lose itself in air, and riven cloud:

[pg 15]

| “‘Ye that have lived a dangerous life of war
| Whose speech has been bold words and heady boasts
| Gather, for strife and death unknown before,
| Come gather all unto the fronting hosts.’

| “I saw the last dim battle in the mist
| There, where a dreary waste of barren sand
| Doth mark the ultimate leagues of this fair land;
| Scarce we beheld the foe we struck, or wist
| Which party had advantage: like thin wraiths
| Fit to throng Lethe banks the warriors
| Struck and o’ercame, or fell, unseen, unwept;
| And alien hopes, lives, peoples, alien faiths
| Were all confounded on those desolate shores.
| And ever the mist seethed, and the waves kept
| A hollow chanting, as they mourned the end
| Of all mankind, and of created time.
| How many fell therein of foe or friend
| I know not, save that when the darkness came
| And the mist cleared, I found at last the King,
| His armour and visage fouled with blood and slime,
| And fading in his eyes the ancient flame.

| “I saw him make on Mordred with his spear,
| And crying ‘Tide me death, betide me life,
| He shall not live, that wrought the accursed thing,’
| Put a dread ending to the outworn strife.
| I saw them fall together, and, drawn near.
| Knew that the King was wounded unto death.

| “Then as he drew with growing pain his breath
| I looked, and saw a long, black barge that stole
| Across the waters, like a wandering soul
| Returnèd from the woeful realm, to view
| The ancient haunts well-loved that once it knew.
| And when it touched the shallows I did bear
| The dying Arthur as he bade, and there
| [pg 16] I placed him ’mid dark forms: I could not tell
| Whose they might be; and wept, and breathed farewell.”

| Then spake the eremite: “Beyond yon door
| There stands a chapel, ancient and weatherworn,
| And there did worship in the days of yore
| The sons of kings. The night ere you came hither
| I was awakened by the sound of feet.
| And I looked forth, and saw a body borne
| By veilèd figures straight, as they knew whither,
| In at the chapel gateway. I went down
| And found that they had digged a grave, most meet
| For one of saintly life, or king by birth:
| They seemed some score, and by blown candles’ light
| I saw that each with tears bedewed his gown
| Ere sank the corse into the waiting earth,
| Then prayed, and so went out into the night.”

| Thereon the twain arose, and went straightway
| Toward the old, dim chapel, and beheld
| The stone beneath whose length the body lay:
| Kneeling they closely scanned it all, and spelled
| Graven in golden character, :sc:`“Arcturus`
| :sc:`Rex Quondamque Futurus.”`

|                                     Quoth Bedivere:
| “Thank God this voice remaineth unto us;
| Now I do mind me of a prophecy
| Spoken long since in some emblazoned year,
| How Arthur should escape mortality
| And lie beneath the hills, in cavern deep
| Or on some shore, where faery seas do break:
| Around him all his warriors shall sleep,
| Who at a great bell’s sounding shall awake
| What time th’ old enemy spreads death and harm
| Thorough his ancient realm, and the last woes
| Go over her; his own victorious arm
| Shall rid the stricken land of hate and foes.”

[pg 17]

| So leave we them, each head inaureoled
| With the awakening spring’s young sunlight-gold.

| Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rung
| Without the door, and straight ’twas open flung,
| They saw who stood therein, and each one knew
| The face unspared by years and strife and shame,
| Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights,
| With deep eyes dreaming like September haze,
| Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that few
| Had looked on and forgot; in such wise came
| Lancelot, the hero of immortal fights,
| Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days.

| “Whence cam’st thou, Lancelot?” “Even from the
|     Queen,
| The Queen that was, whom now a convent’s shade
| Imprisons, and a dark and tristful veil
| Enwraps those brows, that in old days were seen
| Most puissant proud of all that ever made
| The traitor honest, and the valorous frail.

| “Yet evermore about her form there clings
| And evermore shall cling, the ancient grace,
| Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere:
| And till the end of all created things
| There shall be some one found, shall strive to trace
| The immortal loveliness of Guinevere.

| “Shall I not mind me of old ecstasies
| In Camelot, beneath the ancient walls,
| In shady paths, and marble terraces
| Rose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls.
| But ah! the last long kiss is ta’en and given,
| And the last look in those unfathomed eyes,
| The passionate last embrace is coldly riven,
| And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies.

[pg 18]

| “Gods of the burnt-out hearth, the wandered wind,
| Gods of pale dawns that vanished long ago,
| Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf.
| The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf,
| Gods half-forgot in the wild ages’ flow
| Yours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned.”

| Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rain
| Swelled the lean brooks, until the gelid year
| Shot forth its icy hand, and grasped again.
| Again the hanging clouds were struck and furled
| By winds of winter, until skies were clear,
| And there was frost o’ nights, and all the world
| Lay glistening to the newly risen sun.

| Till came that season, wherein solemn days
| Do celebrate the reign on earth begun
| Of the most blessèd Child, whenas all ways
| Were bound, and all the fields were white with snow.
| Then in the chapel at high noon they three
| Offered their quiet orisons and so
| Came forth and looked upon the purity,
| And when he saw the fields all stainless-white
| Lancelot groaned in spirit, and spake: “How sore
| And no wise joyous to a sinner’s sight
| Is this dear land, where the snow lies untrod.
| Even so once before the eyes of God
| My soul lay all unspotted; now no more.”

| “Courage, my son, and patience,” quoth the sage;
| No sin there is, that shall not lose its stain
| Through the great love of God, and His dear Son.
| Repent and be forgiven: know that none
| Shall sue before His throne, and sue in vain,
| Nor shall one name be blotted from the page
| If he that bears it turn to prayer and tears.”

.. Source has a comma at end of third line above. (AD)

[pg 19]

| Then Lancelot: “Though through the tale of years
| That still are left before the longed-for earth
| Receive my body, I should strive amain
| To slay myself, and gain regenerate birth,
| Alas it were all profitless and vain.
| Verily, when I came unto this place
| I railed on God, that I had lost my soul
| And nothing gained: until a heavenly grace
| Enwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole,
| And now my grief is only for old sin.
| But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree
| (He touched a shrub that grew beside the door),
| This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom before
| I pass the gates divine, and enter in
| To the fair country I must never see.”

| But even as he spoke, the hand of God
| Worked on the sombre branches, and straightway
| They were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf,
| As at the very bidding of the spring,
| Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gay
| With flowers that nodded in the winter’s breeze
| (So blossomed in old time the prophet’s rod),
| And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing.

| Then softly spake the hermit, “Now is grief
| Reproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees;
| For God beholds the living, not the dead;
| And He that took the semblance of a child
| Loves He but penance, and the drooping head,
| Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?”

| So they grew old together, and the years
| Pressed no more to their lips the cup of tears
| (They had drained all, maybe). And ever less
| Seemed all things mortal, as in quietness
| They pondered the eternal mysteries
| (The noblest heritage of all men born),
| [pg 20] Such as are writ upon the face of dawn,
| Or in the glamour of a moonlit night,
| Or in the autumn swallow’s southern flight,
| Or in the breaking of the restless seas:
| Or dreamed rich, hallowed dreams of aureate days
| While yet the King was young, and sunlight fell
| On bower and roof of ancient Camelot:
| Of triumph clarion, and thanksgiving bell,
| When all was song, and laughter, and high praise,
| Even when as yet the accursed thing was not.

| Then would loom out from the chill mists of time
| The faces and the forms remembered still,
| The King and Guinevere, and Galahad,
| That rode upon a peerless quest and dire,
| Kay, swift and hasty as a flame of fire,
| And gentle Percival, whom to give made glad;
| Merlin, contriver of the riddling rime,
| And Gawain, silent harbinger of ill.

| So as the day draws ever toward the dark,
| Ever toward peace the great wind’s sounding breath,
| And ever toward the further shore the bark
| They drew to the dark, silent realm of death.

| Far, far away from their old palace-halls
| Where once they lived a splendid life and vain,
| That now are scattered stones and crumbled walls
| In some soft vale, or by the echoing main,

| Beneath the springing grass, and very deep
| They three do lie, where never mornings rise
| To ope the portals of their dazèd eyes,
| Nor ever mortal footstep breaks their sleep,

| And near beside lies Arthur, even he
| That was King once, and yet again shall be.

.. clearpage::

[pg 21]

Legend
------

| :sc:`Grey,` ancient abbeys, you may see them yet,
| In that high plain above the western sea:
| A broken arch or two, a few worn stones
| Piled one upon another, and for paving
| Uneven fragments with tall grass between:
| Grass that is always green, winter and summer,
| The grass that grows on long-forgotten graves.

| It was a springtime morning long ago,
| A morning of blue skies and whitest clouds,
| And singing birds, and singing streams, and woods
| That shone like silver, yet untouched with green:
| The brethren of an abbey of the plain
| —Whereof what now is ruin yet was whole—
| Were labouring as holy brethren must,
| Quietly, and in peace: and elder ones
| Paced in the cloister, and some, older still,
| Too old to work or dream, sat in the sunlight,
| The sunlight which they soon should see no more.

| And there came from the wood upon the hill
| One clothed in the sere habit of a monk,
| That passed in at the portal of the abbey:
| Brighter his face than is the face of spring,
| And joy was in his tread, as in his soul.

| And some that paced the cloister paused to glance
|     at him,
| And one that went upon an errand stayed,
| And some that laboured left their work, and came
| Gathering round him, and he spake, and said:

[pg 22]

|     “Very fair the golden morning
|         As in yonder wood I strayed,
|     And I heard diviner music
|         Than the greatest harpers made,

|     For a sweet bird sang before me
|         Songs of laughter, and of tears.
|     All that I have loved and longed for,
|         As I measured out my years.

|     Sang of blessed shores and golden
|         Where the old, dim heroes be,
|     Distant isles of sunset glory,
|         Set beyond the western sea.

|     Sang of Christ and Mary Mother
|         Hearkening unto angels seven
|     Playing on their golden harp-strings
|         In the far courts of high Heaven.”

| So they stood by, and listened to his speech,
| Rhythmic, for that great joy was in his soul:
| But while they wondered whence he was, and who,
| He cast his eyes around, and, shuddering, cried:
| “Who are ye, that I thought to be my brothers?
| Strangers and sons of strangers! Where are they
| I left behind me but an hour ago?”
| Then was there whispering among the throng,
| And wonder not a little, and some scorn;
| Till he that spake, with anguish in his eye,
| Cried: “Take me to a cell, that I may pray.”
| ’Twas done, and in the golden afternoon
| A brother entered, and found none within,
| Only a sere monk’s habit, and much dust,
| As of a body crumbled in the grave.

| [pg 23] And while they wondered what these things might be,
| At last spake forth the oldest of them all,
| Burdened with hundred winters in his soul:
| “I can remember, when my years were young,
| Hearing the old monks say, one went from here
| When spring was on the earth, as it is now,
| Some five-score years ago, and was not seen
| Again, though search was made in all the land.”

| And some believed this was the same, and all
| Forgot it in a sennight’s silent toil.
| Save one, that saw, and seeing understood,
| And for the greater glory of High God
| Wrote down the story in a mighty book,
| And limned the old saint hearkening to the bird
| With bright hues, and you still may read and see.

.. clearpage::

[pg 24]

II. First Poems
===============

Rime
----

| :sc:`O scholar` grey, with quiet eyes,
| Reading the charactered pages, bright
| With one tall candle’s flickering light,
| In a turret chamber under the skies;
| O scholar, learned in gramarye,
| Have you seen the manifold things I see?

| Have you seen the forms of tracèd towers
| Whence clamorous voices challenge the hours:
| Gaunt tree-branches, pitchy black
| Against the long, wind-driven wrack
| Of scurrying, shuddering clouds, that race
| Ever across the pale moon’s face?

| Have you heard the tramp of hurrying feet.
| There beneath, in the shadowy street,
| Have you heard sharp cries, and seen the flame
| Of silvery steel, in a perilous game,
| A perilous game for men to play,
| Hid from the searching eyes of day?

| Have you heard the great awakening breath,
| Like trump that summons the saints from death,
| Of the wild, majestical wind, which blows
| Loud and splendid, that each man knows
| Far, O far away is the sea,
| Breaking, murmuring, stark and free?

[pg 25]

| All these things I hear and see,
| I, a scholar of gramarye:
| All are writ in the ancient books
| Clear, exactly, and he that looks
| Finds the night and the changing sea,
| The years gone by, and the years to be:
| (He that searches, with tireless eyes
| In a turret-chamber under the skies)
| Passion and joy, and sorrow and laughter,
| Life and death, and the things thereafter.

.. clearpage::

[pg 26]

To an Elzevir Cicero
--------------------

| :sc:`Dust-covered` book, that very few men know,
|     Even as very few men understand
|     The glory of an ancient, storied land
| In the wild current of the ages’ flow,
| Have not old scholars, centuries ago
|     Caressed you in the hollow of their hand,
|     The while with quiet, kindly eyes they scanned
| Your pages, yellowed now, then white as snow?

| A voice there is, cries through your every word,
| Of him, that after greatest glory came
|     Down the grey road to darkness and to tears;
| A voice like far seas in still valleys heard,
| Crying of love and death and hope and fame
|     That change not with the changing of the years.

.. clearpage::

[pg 27]

To a Dürer Drawing of Antwerp Harbour
-------------------------------------

| :sc:`Figured` by Dürer’s magic hand wast thou,
|     That, lightning-like, traced on the lucid page
|     Rough, careless lines, with wizardry so sage
| That yet the whole was fair, I know not how:
| Ships of gaunt masts, and stark, sea-smitten prow,
|     Idle, yet soon again to sweep the main
|     In the swift service of old merchants’ gain,
| Where are ye now, alas, where are ye now?
| Gone are ye all, and vanished very long,
|     Sunk with great glory in the storied wars,
|         Or conquered by the leaping breakers wild:
| And yet we love your image, like some song
|     That tells of ancient days and high, because
|         Old Dürer looked upon you once and smiled.

.. clearpage::

[pg 28]

Pure Virginia
-------------

York River Returns
``````````````````

| :sc:`Like` smoke that vanishes on the morning breeze
|     Are passed the first beginnings of the world,
|     When time was even as a bud still curled,
| And scarce the limit set of lands and seas;
| Like smoke, like smoke the composite auguries
|     Of Hebrew and of Hellene are all furled,
|     Fulfilled or else forgot, and idly hurled
| This way or that way, as the great winds please:
| Aye, and like smoke of this delicious herb
|     Brought by strange ways the curious mind may guess,
|         From where the parrot and the leopard be,
| My thoughts, that should be strong, the years to curb
|     Go up, and vanish into nothingness
|         On a blue cloud of exquisite fragrancy.

.. clearpage::

[pg 29]

A Preface for a Tale I have never told
--------------------------------------

| :sc:`Herein` is nought of windy citadels
| Where proud kings dwell, that with an iron hand
| Deal war or justice: here no history
| Of valiant ships upon the wine-dark seas
| Passing strange lands and threading channels strait
| Between embalmed islands: here no song
| That men shall sing in battle and remember
| When they are old and grey beside the fire:
| Only a story gathered from the hills
| And the wind crying of forgotten days,
| A story that shall whisper, “All things change—
| For friends do grow indifferent, and loves
| Die like a dream at morning: bitterness
| Is the sure heritage of all men born,
| And he alone sees truly, who looks out
| From some huge aery peak, considering not
| Fast-walled cities, or the works of men,
| But turns his gaze unto the mountain-tops
| And the unfathomable blue of heaven
| That only change not with the changing years”——
| A tale that shod itself with ancient shoon
| And wrapped its cloak, and wandered from the west.

.. clearpage::

[pg 30]

A Sonnet
--------

| :sc:`There` is a wind that takes the heart of a man,
|     A fresh wind in the latter days of spring,
|     When hate and war and every evil thing
| That the wide arches of high Heaven span
| Seems dust, and less to be accounted than
|     The omened touches of a passing wing:
|     When Destiny, that calls himself a king,
|     Goes all forgotten for the song of Pan:
| For why? Because the twittering of birds
|     Is the best music that was ever sung,
| Because the voice of trees finds better words
|     Than ever poet from his heartstrings wrung:
| Because all wisdom and all gramarye
| Are writ in fields, O very plain to see.

.. clearpage::

[pg 31]

“It was all in the Black Countree”
----------------------------------

| :sc:`It` was all in the Black Countree,
| What time the sweet o’ the year should be,
| I saw a tree, all gaunt and grey,
| As mindful of a winter’s day:
| And that a lonely bird did sit
| Upon the topmost branch of it,
| Who to my thought did sweeter sing
| Than any minstrel of a king.

.. clearpage::

[pg 32]

To a Pianist
------------

| :sc:`When` others’ fingers touch the keys
| Then most doleful threnodies
| Chase about the air, and run
| Like Pandæmonium begun.
| Rhythm strained and false accord
| In a ceaseless stream are poured;
| Then sighs are heard, and men depart
| To seek the sage physician’s art,
| Or silence, and a little ease,
| When others’ fingers touch the keys.

| When your fingers touch the keys
| Hark, soft sounds of summer seas
| In a melody most fair
| Whisper through the pleasant air,
| Or a winding mountain stream
| Glitters to the pale moonbeam,
| Or a breeze doth stir the tops
| Of springtime larches in a copse,
| Or the winds are loosed and hurled
| About the wonder-stricken world
| With immortal harmonies,
| When your fingers touch the keys.

.. clearpage::

[pg 33]

A Fragment
----------

--------------

| :sc:`And` some came down in a great wind
|     Under grey scurrying skies
| To where the long wave-beaten shore
|     For ever shrieks and cries.

| O, fling aside your toil, your care,
|     When one cries of the sea,
| And the great waves that foam and toss,
|     And the white clouds that flee:
| Let us forget our weariness,
|     Forget that we have sinned,
| So we but sail, what matters it
|     If Death ride on the wind?

| Storm from the sky, storm from the sea
|     Beat on them as they stood,
| And a great longing sprang in them
|     To cross the roaring flood. . . .

.. clearpage::

[pg 34]

Sea Poppies
-----------

| :sc:`’Twixt` lonely lands and desert beach,
| Where no wind blows and no waves reach,
| A sunken precinct here we keep,
| With woven wiles of endless sleep;
| Our twisted stems of sere-hued green,
| Our pallid blooms what sun has seen?
| And he that tastes our magic breath
| Shall sleep that sleep whose name is death.

| Wild clouds are scurrying overhead,
| The wild wind’s voice is loud and dread,
| Sounding the knell of the dying day,
| Yet here is silence and gloom alway.
| And a great longing seizes me
| To burst my bondage and be free,
| To look on winds’ and waters’ strife,
| And breathe in my nostrils the breath of life.
| Give me not dim and slumbrous ease,
| But sounding storm and labouring seas,
| Not peaceful and untroubled years,
| But toil and warfare and passion and tears.
| And I would fall in valorous fight,
| And lie on lofty far-seen height.

| Yet how to burst these prison-bands,
| Forged by unseen spirit-hands?

| O seek not to burst our prison bands
| Forged by unseen spirit-hands.
| Clashing battle and labouring sea,
|     These be for others, not for thee.
| Thou lover of storm and passion and war
| Break’st our charmed circle never more.

.. clearpage::

[pg 35]

“O, sing me a Song of the Wild West Wind”
-----------------------------------------

| :sc:`O, sing` me a song of the wild west wind,
|     And his great sea-harrying flail,
| Of hardy mariners, copper skinned,
|     That fly with a bursting sail.
| They see the clouds of crispèd white
|     That shadow the distant hills,
| And filled are they with a strange delight
|     As shaking away old ills.

| O, give me a boat that is sure and stark,
|     And swift as a slinger’s stone,
| With a sail of canvas bronzèd dark,
|     And I will go out alone:
| Nor fear nor sorrow my soul shall keep
|     When around me lies the sea,
| And I will return with the night, and sleep
|     In the wind’s wild harmony.

.. clearpage::

[pg 36]

Ære Perennius
-------------

Written on Commemoration Sunday, Corpus Christi College, Oxford
```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

| :sc:`We` praise, we praise the immortal dead,
|     Who strove beneath unheeding skies
| For truth that raised the drooping head,
|     For light that gladdened weary eyes:

| The martyr’s cross, the warrior’s sword,
|     How should they be of lesser worth
| Than some unprofitable hoard
|     In ancient mines below the earth?

| The song that one alone has sung,
|     The great uncompromising page,
| Are these but glittering baubles, flung
|     About the world from age to age?

| But ruin’d columns, wondrous tall,
|     Built in old time with labour sore,
| The mighty deeds done once for all,
|     The voice heard once, and heard no more?

| Rather they shine as doth the star
|     About the close of winter’s day,
| That cheers the traveller afar
|     And draws him on, and points the way.

--------------

| We praise, we praise the immortal dead.
|     Do they not verily wait till we
| Of the spoilt years unharvested
|     Be also of their company?

.. clearpage::

[pg 37]

The Old Kings
-------------

| :sc:`Far` away from sunny rills,
| Far away from golden broom,
| Far away from any town
| Whither merchants travel down—
| In a hollow of the hills
| In impenetrable gloom
| Sit the old forgotten kings
| Unto whom no poet sings,
| Unto whom none makes bequest,
| Unto whom no kingdoms rest,——
| Only wayward shreds of dreams,
| And the sound of ancient streams,
| And the shock of ancient strife
| On the further shore of life.

--------------

| When our days are done, shall we
| Enter their pale company?

.. clearpage::

[pg 38]

“O there be Kings whose Treasuries”
-----------------------------------

| :sc:`O there` be kings whose treasuries
|     Are rich with pearls and gold
| And silks and bales of cramasy
|     And spices manifold:
| Gardens they have with marble stairs
|     And streams than life more fair,
| With roses set and lavender
|     That do enchant the air.

| O there be many ships that sail
|     The sea-ways wide and blue,
| And there be master-mariners
|     To sail them straight and true:
| And there be many women fair
|     Who watch out anxiously,
| And are enamoured of the day
|     Their dear ones come from sea:

| But riches I can find enow
|     All in a barren land,
| Where sombre lakes shine wondrously
|     With rocks on either hand:
| And I can find enow of love
|     Up there, alone, alone,
| With none beside me save the wind,
|     Nor speech except his moan.

| For there far up among the hills
|     The great storms come and go
| In a most proud processional
|     Of cloud and rain and snow:
| There light and darkness only are
|     A changing benison
| Of the old gods who wrought the world
|     And shaped the moon and sun.

.. clearpage::

[pg 39]

A Study
-------

| :sc:`In` chamber hung with white,
| Lit by the dawning light,

| Upon a slender bed
| She lies, as she were dead:

| Most carven-ivory fair,
| And palely gold her hair.

| Lo, the sun’s yellow ray,
| That, with the rise of day,

| Through quartered casement came
| To wake her life’s pale flame.

.. clearpage::

[pg 40]

The Eremite
-----------

| :sc:`When` the world is still in the hush of dawn,
| And yet fast sleeping are hate and scorn,
| From my grey lodging under the hill
| I do go out, and wander at will.

| Of nights when the riven clouds are hurled,
| And strife and rancour possess the world,
| I sit alone, with thoughts that are chill,
| In my grey lodging under the hill.

.. clearpage::

[pg 41]

The House of Eld
----------------

| :sc:`Now` the old winds are wild about the house,
|     And the old ghosts cry to me from the air
| Of a far isle set in the western sea,
|     And of the evening sunlight lingering there.

| Ah! I am bound here, bound and fettered,
|     The dark house crumbles, and the woods decay,
| I was too fain of life, that bound me here;
|     Away, old long-loved ghosts, away, away!

.. clearpage::

[pg 42]

The South-west Wind
-------------------

| :sc:`The` south-west wind has blown his fill,
|     And vanished with departing day:
| The air is warm, and very still,
|     And soft as silks of far Cathay.

| This is a night when spirits stray.
|     Their wan limbs bear them where they will;
| They wring their pallid hands alway,
|     Seeing the lights upon the hill.

.. clearpage::

[pg 43]

Schumann: Erstes Verlust
------------------------

| :sc:`O, dreary` fall the leaves,
| The withered leaves;
| Among the trees
| Complains the breeze,
| That still bereaves.

| All silent lies the mere,
| The silver mere,
| In saddest wise
| Reflecting skies
| Forlorn and sere.

| Would autumn had not claimed its own
| And would the swallows had not flown.

| Skies overcast!
| Leaves falling fast!
| And she has passed
| And left the woodland strown,
| The woodland strown,
| The silver mere,
| The dying year,
| And me alone.

| Skies overcast!
| Leaves falling fast!
| Does she that passed
| Dream of the woodland strown,
| The woodland strown,
| The silver mere,
| The dying year,
| And me alone?

.. clearpage::

[pg 44]

“Dark Boughs against a Golden Sky”
----------------------------------

| :sc:`Dark` boughs against a golden sky,
|     And crying of the winter wind:
| And sweet it is, for hope is high,
|     And sad it is, for we have sinned.

| Perfect is nature’s every part
|     In sunny rest, or windy strife:
| But never yet the perfect heart,
|     And never yet the perfect life!

| Dark boughs against a golden sky,
|     And crying of the winter wind:
| And in the cold earth we must lie,
|     What matter then if we have sinned?

| For evermore and evermore
|     Shall the great river onward roll:
| And ever winding streams and poor
|     Shall lose them in the mighty whole.

.. clearpage::

[pg 45]

“Wind of the Darkness”
----------------------

| :sc:`Wind` of the darkness, breathing round us,
|     Wind from the never-resting sea,
| Lo, you have loosed the cords that bound us,
|     Lo, you have set our spirits free:

| Free to take wings, like the sea-bird lonely
|     Beating hardily up the wind:
| Fixed are his eyes on the waters only,
|     Never a glance for the land behind.

| Wind of the darkness, breathing round us,
|     Wind from the never-resting sea.
| Was it the old gods’ voice that found us
|     Here, where the bars of prison be?

| From the far isle that neither knoweth
|     Change of season, nor time’s increase,
| Where is plenty, and no man soweth:
|     Calling to strife that shall end in peace.

.. clearpage::

[pg 46]

Creator Spiritus
----------------

| :sc:`The` wind that scatters dying leaves
|     And whirls them from the autumn tree
| Is grateful to the ship that cleaves
|     With stately prow the scurrying sea.

| Heedless about the world we play
|     Like children in a garden close:
| A postern bars the outward way
|     And what’s beyond it no man knows:

| For careless days, a life at will,
|     A little laughter, and some tears,
| These are sufficiency to fill
|     The early, vain, untroubled years,

| Till at the last the wind upheaves
|     His unimagined strength, and we
| Are scattered far, like autumn leaves,
|     Or proudly sail, like ships at sea.

.. clearpage::

[pg 47]

Wind over the Sea
-----------------

|     :sc:`Only` a grey sea, and a long grey shore,
|     And the grey heavens brooding over them.
|     Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot,
|     Twilight of ceaseless eld, and when was youth?
|     Is it not lonely here, beyond the years?

| Out of the gathering darkness crashes a wind from the
|     ocean,
| Rushing with league-long paces over the plain of the
|     waters,
| Driving the clouds and the breakers before it in sudden
|     commotion.

| Who are these on the wind, riders and riderless horses?
| Riders the great ones that have been and are, and those
|     to come shall be:
| These are the children of might, life’s champions and
|     history’s forces.

| Might I but grasp at a bridle, and fear not to be trodden
|     under,
| Swing myself into a saddle, and ride on greatly, exulting
| On down the long straight road of the wind, a galloping
|     thunder!

|     Only a grey sea, and a long grey shore,
|     And the grey heavens brooding over them,
|     Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot,
|     Twilight of ceaseless eld, for when was youth?
|     Is it not lonely here, beyond the years?

.. clearpage::

[pg 48]

Songs on the Downs
------------------

1
`

| :sc:`This` is the road the Romans made,
|     This track half lost in the green hills,
| Or fading in a forest-glade
|     ’Mid violets and daffodils.

| The years have fallen like dead leaves,
|     Unwept, uncounted, and unstayed
| (Such as the autumn tempest thieves),
|     Since first this road the Romans made.

2
`

| A miser lives within this house,
| His patron saint’s the gnawing mouse,
| And there’s no peace upon his brows.

| A many ancient trees and thin
| Do fold the place their shade within,
| And moan, as for remembered sin.

.. clearpage::

[pg 49]

III. Last Poems and “The Burial of Sophocles”
=============================================

“We who have bowed ourselves to Time”
-------------------------------------

| :sc:`We` who have bowed ourselves to time
| Now arm an uneventful rime
|     With panoply of flowers
|     Through the long summer hours. . . .

| But now our fierce and warlike Muse
| Doth soft companionship refuse,
|     And we must mount and ride
|     Upon a steed untried. . . .

| We who have led by gradual ways
| Our placid life to sterner days
|     And for old quiet things
|     Have set the strife of kings,

| Who battled have with bloody hands
| Through evil times in barren lands,
|     To whom the voice of guns
|     Speaks and no longer stuns,

| Calm, though with death encompassèd,
| That watch the hours go overhead
|     Knowing too well we must
|     With all men come to dust. . . .

| Crave of our masters’ clemency
| Silence a little space that we
|     Upon their ear may force
|     Tales of our trodden course.

.. clearpage::

[pg 50]

Anglia Valida in Senectute
--------------------------

(On the Declaration of War)
```````````````````````````

| :sc:`Not` like to those who find untrodden ways;
|     But down the weary paths we know,
| Through every change of sky and change of days
|     Silent, processional we go.

| Not unto us the soft, unlaboured breath
|     Of children’s hopes and children’s fears:
| We are not sworn to battle to the death
|     With all the wrongs of all the years:

| We are old, we are old, and worn and school’d with ills,
|     Maybe our road is almost done,
| Maybe we are drawn near unto the hills
|     Where rest is and the setting sun:

| But yet a pride is ours that will not brook
|     The taunts of fools too saucy grown,
| He that is rash to prove it, let him look
|     He kindle not a fire unknown.

| Since first we flung our gauntlet to the skies
|     And dared the high Gods’ will to bend,
| A fire that still may burn deceit and lies
|     Burn and consume them to the end.

.. clearpage::

[pg 51]

“Dark is the World our Fathers left us”
---------------------------------------

| :sc:`Dark` is the world our fathers left us,
|     Wearily, greyly the long years flow,
| Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us,
|     Far is the high gods’ song and low:

| Sombre the crests of the mountains lonely,
|     Leafless, wind-ridden, moan the trees:
| Down in the valleys is twilight only,
|     Twilight over the mourning seas:

| Time was when earth was always golden,
|     Time was when skies were always clear:
| Spirits and souls of the heroes olden,
|     Faint are cries from the darkness, hear!

| Tear ye the veil of time asunder
|     Tear the veil, ’tis the gods’ command,
| Hear we the sun-stricken breakers thunder
|     Over the shore where the heroes stand.

--------------

| Dark is the world our fathers left us,
|     Heavily, greyly the long years flow,
| Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us,
|     Far is the high gods’ song and low.

.. clearpage::

[pg 52]

Awakening
---------

| :sc:`Gold-crested` towers against the veilèd skies,
| Sere branches of the winter trees beneath,
| And a low song, and heavy-lidded eyes;

| Is there aught else in all the world beside?
| Is not time stilled and ended in this hour?

--------------

Up, and away! the belted squadrons ride!

.. clearpage::

[pg 53]

Ave atque Vale
--------------

| :sc:`In` Oxford, evermore the same
|     Unto the uttermost verge of time,
| Though grave-dust choke the sons of men,
|     And silence wait upon the rime,

| At evening now the skies set forth
|     Last glories of the dying year:
| The wind gives chase to relict leaves:
|     And we, we may not linger here.

| A little while, and we are gone:
|     God knows if it be ours to see
| Again the earliest hoar-frost white
|     On the long lawns of Trinity.

| In Merton, of the many courts
|     And doorways good to wander through,
| Gable and spire shall glitter white
|     Or tawny gold against the blue:

| And still the winter sun shall smile
|     At noonday, or at sunset hour
| On Magdalen, girt with ancient trees,
|     Beneath her bright immortal tower.

[pg 54]

| Though nevermore we tread the ways
|     That our returning feet have known
| Past Oriel, and Christ Church gate
|     Unto those dearer walls, our own.

--------------

| Oxford is evermore the same,
|     Unto the uttermost verge of time,
| Though grave-dust choke the sons of men,
|     And silence wait upon the rime.

.. clearpage::

[pg 55]

“O, one came down from Seven Hills”
-----------------------------------

| :sc:`O, one` came down from seven hills
|     And crossèd seven streams:
| All in his hands were thyme and grass
|     And in his eyes were dreams:
| He passèd by a seven fields
|     With early dews all grey
| And entered in the stricken town
|     About the break of day.

| “O you old men that stand and talk
|     About the market-place,
| There is much trouble in your eyes
|     And anguish in your face:
| O woman in a silent room
|     Within a silent house,
| There is no pleasure in your voice
|     Or peace upon your brows.”

| “O how should such as we rejoice
|     Who weep that others die,
| Who quake, and curse ourselves, and watch
|     The vengeful hours go by?
| O better far to fly the grief
|     That wounds, and never kills;
| O better far to fly the town
|     And seek the seven hills——”

| “I will go pray the seven gods
|     Who keep the seven hills
| That they do grant your city peace,
|     And easement of her ills.”
| [pg 56] “Nay, rather pray the seven gods
|     To launch the latest pain;
| For there be many things to do
|     Ere we see peace again.”

| “Then I’ll go praise the seven gods
|     With hymns and chauntings seven,
| Such as shall split the mountain-tops
|     And shrivel up blue heaven:
| That there be men who mock at threats
|     And wag their heads at strife,
| Love home above their own hearts’ blood
|     And honour more than life.”

.. clearpage::

[pg 57]

Sonnet to the British Navy
--------------------------

| :sc:`Lest` force aspire to brand an alien name
|     Upon the immortal empire of the free:
| Lest fire and sword and slaughter strive to tame
|     This isle, was ne’er so tamed, and ne’er shall be.
| Ye guard the ocean barrier, undismayed
|     ’Midst hidden perils for a brave man’s fears,
| In iron craft that many smiths have made
|     With peaceful labour in the old, dead years.
| In a small vessel, of one Smith ill-wrought
|     I must soon venture on another deep,
| And dare, with little hope, and little thought
|     Of praise and honour and untroubled sleep:
| So, as each sails upon his perilous sea,
|     I pray High God He strengthen you, and me.

.. clearpage::

[pg 58]

The Last Meeting
----------------

| :sc:`We` who are young, and have caught the splendour of
|         life,
|     Hunting it down the forested ways of the world,
| Do we not wear our hearts like a banner unfurled
|     (Crowned with a chaplet of love, shod with the sandals
|         of strife)?

| Now not a lustre of pain, nor an ocean of tears
|     Nor pangs of death, nor any other thing
| That the old tristful gods on our heads may bring
|     Can rob us of this one hour in the midst of the years.

.. clearpage::

[pg 59]

The New Age and the Old
-----------------------

| :sc:`Like` the small source of a smooth-flowing river,
|     Like the pale dawn of a wonderful day,
| Comes the New Age, from High God, the good giver,
|     Comes with the shouts of the children at play:

| As an old leaf whirls faster and faster
|     From the sere branch that once gave it fair birth,
| Into the arms of the devil, its master,
|     Be the old age swept away from the earth!

.. clearpage::

[pg 60]

To the Cultured
---------------

| :sc:`Sons` of culture, God-given,
| First offspring of Heaven,
| Athletic and tanned,
| Well-built and not nervous,
| With your golf and your tweeds
| And your “noble editions,”
| Quiet lives and few needs
| (Say a thousand a year
| For your earthly career)
| Who can’t understand
| Discontent and seditions,
| May Heaven preserve us
| From being like you.

| What are we, what am I?
| Poor rough creatures, whose life
| Is “depressing” and “grey,”
| Is a heart-breaking strife
| With death and with shame
| And your polite laughter,
| Till—the world pass away
| In smoke and in flame,
| And some of us die,
| And some live on after
| To build it anew.

.. clearpage::

[pg 61]

Afterwards
----------

| :sc:`Afterwards,` when
| The old Gods’ hate
| On the riven earth
| No more is poured:

| When weapons of war
| Are all outworn
| What shall become
| Of the race of men?

| One shall go forth
| In the likeness of a child:
| Under sere skies
| Of a grey dawning:

| One shall go forth
| In the likeness of a child,
| And desolate places
| Shall spring and blossom:

| One shall go forth
| In the likeness of a child:
| And men shall sing
| And greatly rejoice:

| All men shall sing
| For the love that is in them,
| And he shall behold it
| And sing also.

.. clearpage::

[pg 62]

Domum redit Poeta
-----------------

| :sc:`O much` desired from far away
|     And long, I hold thee once again,
| Thou undiminished treasury
|     Of small delights, yet nowise vain:

| The cat curled on the cosy hearth,
|     The thrushes in the garden trees,
| The memories of younger years,
|     The quiet voices, and the peace.

.. clearpage::

[pg 63]

Memories
--------

| :sc:`Shapes` in the mist, it is long since I saw you,
|     Pale hands and faces, and quiet eyes,
| Crowned with a garland the dead years wrought you
|     Out of remembrance that never dies:

| One among you is tall and supple
|     Good to fight or to love beside,
| Only the stain of a deadly quarrel,
|     Only that and the years divide:

| One there is with a face as honest,
|     Heart as true, as the open sea,
| One who never betrayed a comrade—
|     Death stands now betwixt him and me.

| One I loved with a passionate longing
|     Born of worship and fierce despair,
| Dreamed that Heaven were only happy
|     If at length I should find him there.

| Shapes in the mist, ye see me lonely,
|     Lonely and sad in the dim firelight:
| How far now to the last of all battles?
|     (Listen, the guns are loud to-night!)

| Whatever comes, I will strike once surely,
|     Once because of an ancient tryst,
| Once for love of your dear dead faces
|     Ere I come unto you, Shapes in the mist.

.. clearpage::

[pg 64]

Intercessional
--------------

| :sc:`There` is a place where voices
|     Of great guns do not come,
| Where rifle, mine, and mortar
|     For evermore are dumb:
| Where there is only silence,
|     And peace eternal and rest,
| Set somewhere in the quiet isles
|     Beyond Death’s starry West.

| O God, the God of battles,
|     To us who intercede,
| Give only strength to follow
|     Until there’s no more need,
| And grant us at that ending
|     Of the unkindly quest
| To come unto the quiet isles
|     Beyond Death’s starry West.

.. clearpage::

[pg 65]

April 1916
----------

| :sc:`Now` spring is come upon the hills in France,
| And all the trees are delicately fair,
| As heeding not the great guns’ voice, by chance
| Brought down the valley on a wandering air:
| Now day by day upon the uplands bare
| Do gentle, toiling horses draw the plough,
| And birds sing often in the orchards where
| Spring wantons it with blossoms on her brow—
| Aye! but there is no peace in England now.

| O little isle amid unquiet seas,
| Though grisly messengers knock on many doors,
| Though there be many storms among your trees
| And all your banners rent with ancient wars;
| Yet such a grace and majesty are yours
| There be still some, whose glad heart suffereth
| All hate can bring from her misgotten stores,
| Telling themselves, so England’s self draw breath,
| That’s all the happiness on this side death.

.. clearpage::

[pg 66]

“Over the Hills and Hollows Green”
----------------------------------

| :sc:`Over` the hills and hollows green
|     The springtide air goes valiantly,
| Where many sainted singing larks
|     And blessed primaveras be:

| But bitterly the springtide air
|     Over the desert towns doth blow,
| About whose torn and shattered streets
|     No more shall children’s footsteps go.

.. clearpage::

[pg 67]

Sonnet
------

| :sc:`To-night` the world is but a prison house,
| And kindly ways, and all the springing grass
| Are dungeon stones to him that may not pass
| Among them, save with anguish on his brows:
| And any wretched husbandman that ploughs
| The upland acres in his habit spare
| Is king, to those in palaces of glass
| Who sit with grief and weariness for spouse.

| O God, who madest first the world that we
| Might happy live, and praise its pleasantness
| In such wise as the angels never could,
| Wherefore are hearts, fashioned so wondrously,
| All spoiled and changed by human bitterness
| Into the likenesses of stone and wood?

.. clearpage::

[pg 68]

“O Long the Fiends of War shall dance”
--------------------------------------

| :sc:`O long` the fiends of war shall dance
| Upon the stricken fields of France:
| And long and long their grisly cry
| Shall echo up and smite the sky:
| O long and long the tears of God
| Shall fall upon a barren sod,
| Save when, of His great clemency,
| He gives men’s hearts in custody
| Of grim old kindly Death, who knows
| The mould is better than the rose.

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[pg 69]

For R. Q. G.
------------

July 1916
`````````

| :sc:`O God,` whose great inscrutable purposes
| (Seen only of the one all-seeing eye)
| Are as unchangeable as the azure sky,
| And as fulfilled of infinite mysteries:
| Are like a fast-locked castle without keys
| Whereof the gates are very strong and high,
| Impenetrable, and we poor fools die
| Nor even know what thing beyond them is:
| O God, by whom men’s lives are multiplied,
|     Are scattered broadcast in the world like grain,
|         And after long time reaped again and stored,
| O Thou who only canst be glorified
|     By man’s own passion and the supreme pain,
|         Accept this sacrifice of blood outpoured.

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[pg 70]

“Sun and Shadow and Winds of Spring”
------------------------------------

| :sc:`Sun` and shadow and winds of spring,
|     Love and laughter and hope and fame,
| Cloud and storm-light over the hills,
|     Tears and passion and sordid shame:

| All, all are but as quenchèd fire
|     And vanish’d smoke to him that lies
| Amid the silence of the trees
|     Under the silence of the skies.

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[pg 71]

“Let us tell Quiet Stories of Kind Eyes”
----------------------------------------

| :sc:`Let` us tell quiet stories of kind eyes
|     And placid brows where peace and learning sate:
| Of misty gardens under evening skies
|     Where four would walk of old, with steps sedate.

| Let’s have no word of all the sweat and blood,
|     Of all the noise and strife and dust and smoke
| (We who have seen Death surging like a flood,
|       Wave upon wave, that leaped and raced and broke).

| Or let’s sit silently, we three together,
|     Around a wide hearth-fire that’s glowing red,
| Giving no thought to all the stormy weather
|     That flies above the roof-tree overhead.

| And he, the fourth, that lies all silently
|     In some far-distant and untended grave,
| Under the shadow of a shattered tree,
|     Shall leave the company of the hapless brave,

| And draw nigh unto us for memory’s sake,
|     Because a look, a word, a deed, a friend,
| Are bound with cords that never a man may break,
|     Unto his heart for ever, until the end.

.. clearpage::

[pg 72]

“Save that Poetic Fire”
-----------------------

| :sc:`Save` that poetic fire
|     Burns in the hidden heart,
| Save that the full-voiced choir
|     Sings in a place apart,

| Man that’s of woman born,
|     With all his imaginings,
| Were less than the dew of morn,
|     Less than the least of things.

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[pg 73]

The Burial of Sophocles
-----------------------

The First Verses
````````````````

| :sc:`Gather` great store of roses, crimson-red
|     From ancient gardens under summer skies:
| New opened buds, and some that soon must shed
|     Their leaves to earth, that all expectant lies;
| Some from the paths of poets’ wandering,
|     Some from the places where young lovers meet,
| Some from the seats of dreamers pondering,
|     And all most richly red, and honey-sweet.

| For in the splendour of the afternoon,
|     When sunshine lingers on the glittering town
| And glorifies the temples wondrous-hewn
|     All set about it like a deathless crown,
| We will go mingle with the solemn throng,
|     With neither eyes that weep, nor hearts that bleed,
| That to his grave with slow, majestic song
|     Bears down the latest of the godlike seed.

| Many a singer lies on distant isle
|     Beneath the canopy of changing sky:
| Around them waves innumerable smile,
|     And o’er their head the restless seabirds cry:
| But we will lay him far from sound of seas,
|     Far from the jutting crags’ unhopeful gloom,
| Where there blows never wind save summer breeze,
|     And where the growing rose may clasp his tomb.

| And thither in the splendid nights of spring,
|     When stars in legions over heaven are flung,
| Shall come the ancient gods, all wondering
|     Why he sings not that had so richly sung:
| [pg 74] There Heracles with peaceful foot shall press
|     The springing herbage, and Hephæstus strong,
| Hera and Aphrodite’s loveliness,
|     And the great giver of the choric song.

| And thither, after weary pilgrimage,
|     From unknown lands beyond the hoary wave,
| Shall travellers through every coming age
|     Approach to pluck a blossom from his grave:
| Some in the flush of youth, or in the prime,
|     Whose life is still as heapèd gold to spend,
| And some who have drunk deep of grief and time,
|     And who yet linger half-afraid the end.

The Interlude
`````````````

| It was upon a night of spring,
| Even the time when first do sing
| The new-returnèd nightingales;
| Whenas all hills and woods and dales
| Are resonant with melody
| Of songs that die not, but shall be
| Unto the latest hour of time
| Beyond the life of word or rime—
| Whenas all brooks more softly flow
| Remembering lovers long ago
| That stood upon their banks and vowed,
| And love was with them like a cloud:
| There came one out of Athens town
| In a spun robe, with sandals brown,
| Just when the white ship of the moon
| Had first set sail, and many a rune
| Was written in the argent stars;
| His feet were set towards the hills
| Because he knew that there the rills
| Ran down like jewels, and fairy cars
| [pg 75] Galloped, maybe, among the dells,
| And airy sprites wove fitful spells
| Of gossamer and cold moonshine
| Which do most mistily entwine:
| And ever the hills called, and a voice
| Cried: “Soon, maybe, comes thy choice
| Twixt mortal immortality
| Such as shall never be again,
| ’Twixt the most passionate-pleasant pain
| And all the quiet, barren joys
| That old men prate about to boys.”

--------------

| He wandered many nights and days—
| Whose morns were always crystal clear,
| As lay the world in still amaze
| Enchanted of the springing year,
| And all the nights with wakeful eyes
| Watched for another dawn to rise—
| Till at the last the mountain tops
| Received him, which like giant props
| Stand, lest the all-encircling sky
| Fall down, and men be crushed and die.
| And so he reached a curvèd hill
| Whereon the hornèd moon did seem
| Her richest radiance to spill
| In an inestimable stream,
| Like jewels rare of countless price,
| Or wizard magic turned to ice.

--------------

| And as he reached the topmost crest of it,
| Lo! the Olympian majesties did sit
| In a most high and passionless conclave:
| They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips,
| And ever and anon the golden wave
| Flowed of the drink divine, which only strips
| This mortal frame of its mortality.
| And there, and there was Aphrodite, she
| [pg 76] That is more lovely than the golden dawn
| And from a ripple of the sea was born:
| And there was Hera, the imperious queen,
| And Dian’s chastity, that hunts unseen
| What time with spring the woodland boughs are green:
| And there was Pan with mirth and pleasantness,
| And Eros’ self that never knew distress
| Save for the love of the fair Cretan maid;
| There Hermes with the wings of speed arrayed,
| And awful Zeus, the king of gods and men,
| And ever at his feet Apollo sang
| A measure of changing harmonies that rang
| From that high mountain over all the world,
| And all the sails of fighting ships were furled,
| And men drew breath, and there was peace again.
| But him that saw, the sight like flame
| Or depths of waters overcame:
| He swooned, nor heard how ceased the choir
| Of strings upon Apollo’s lyre,
| Nor saw he how the sweet god stood
| And smiled on him in kindly mood,
| And stooped, and kissed him as he lay;
| Then lightly rose and turned away
| To join the bright immortal throng
| And make for them another song.

The Last Verses
```````````````

| O ageless nonpareil of stars
|     That shinest through a mist of cloud,
| O light beyond the prison bars
|     Remote, unwavering, and proud;
| Fortunate star and happy light,
| Ye benison the gloom of night.

| All hail, unfailing eye and hand,
|     All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice,
| [pg 77] That makest dead men understand,
|     The very dead in graves rejoice:
| Whose utterance, writ in ancient books,
| Shall always live, for him that looks.

| Many as leaves from autumn trees
|     The years shall flutter from on high,
| And with their multiple decease
|     The souls of men shall fall and die,
| Yet, while the empires turn to dust,
| You shall live on, because you must.

| O seven times happy he that dies
|     After the splendid harvest-tide,
| When strong barns shield from winter skies
|     The grain that’s rightly stored inside:
| There death shall scatter no more tears
| Than o’er the falling of the years:

| Aye, happy seven times is he
|     Who enters not the silent doors
| Before his time, but tenderly
|     Death beckons unto him, because
| There’s rest within for weary feet
| Now all the journey is complete.

.. clearpage::

[pg 78]

“So we lay down the Pen”
------------------------

| :sc:`So` we lay down the pen,
| So we forbear the building of the rime,
| And bid our hearts be steel for times and a time
|     Till ends the strife, and then,
| When the New Age is verily begun,
| God grant that we may do the things undone.

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    Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

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