Poems of To-Day: an Anthology
полная версия
Аннотация
Читать онлайн
- -
- 100%
- +
A ship, an isle, a sickle moon— With few but with how splendid stars The mirrors of the sea are strewn Between their silver bars!* * * * * * An isle beside an isle she lay, The pale ship anchored in the bay, While in the young moon's port of gold A star-ship—as the mirrors told— Put forth its great and lonely light To the unreflecting Ocean, Night. And still, a ship upon her seas, The isle and the island cypresses Went sailing on without the gale: And still there moved the moon so pale, A crescent ship without a sail!James Elroy Flecker.
61. NOD
Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold. The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep; And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep. His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all. His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain, His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, "Rest, rest, and rest again."Walter de la Mare.62. CHIMES
Brief, on a flying night, From the shaken tower, A flock of bells take flight, And go with the hour. Like birds from the cote to the gales, Abrupt—O hark! A fleet of bells set sails, And go to the dark. Sudden the cold airs swing. Alone, aloud, A verse of bells takes wing And flies with the cloud.Alice Meynell.63. SPRING GOETH ALL IN WHITE
Spring goeth all in white, Crowned with milk-white may: In fleecy flocks of light O'er heaven the white clouds stray: White butterflies in the air; White daisies prank the ground: The cherry and hoary pear Scatter their snow around.Robert Bridges.64. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY
To-day, all day, I rode upon the down, With hounds and horsemen, a brave company. On this side in its glory lay the sea, On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown. The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, And still we galloped on from gorse to gorse. And once, when checked, a thrush sang, and my horse Pricked his quick ears as to a sound unknown. I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even Better than all by this, that through my chase In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven I seemed to see and follow still your face. Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.Wilfrid Blunt.65. A DAY IN SUSSEX
The dove did lend me wings. I fled away From the loud world which long had troubled me. Oh lightly did I flee when hoyden May Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn-tree. I left the dusty high-road, and my way Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair. A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay From every hedge and every thicket there. Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the grass All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve. And hares unwitting close to me did pass, And still the birds sang, and I could not grieve. Oh what a blessed thing that evening was! Peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive A soul to joy or lull a heart to peace. It glimmers yet across whole years like these.Wilfrid Blunt.66. ODE IN MAY
Let me go forth, and share The overflowing Sun With one wise friend, or one Better than wise, being fair, Where the pewit wheels and dips On heights of bracken and ling, And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, Tingles with the Spring. What is so sweet and dear As a prosperous morn in May, The confident prime of the day, And the dauntless youth of the year, When nothing that asks for bliss, Asking aright, is denied, And half of the world a bridegroom is, And half of the world a bride? The Song of Mingling flows, Grave, ceremonial, pure, As once, from lips that endure, The cosmic descant rose, When the temporal lord of life, Going his golden way, Had taken a wondrous maid to wife That long had said him nay. For of old the Sun, our sire, Came wooing the mother of men, Earth, that was virginal then, Vestal fire to his fire. Silent her bosom and coy, But the strong god sued and pressed; And born of their starry nuptial joy Are all that drink of her breast. And the triumph of him that begot, And the travail of her that bore, Behold they are evermore As warp and weft in our lot. We are children of splendour and flame, Of shuddering, also, and tears. Magnificent out of the dust we came, And abject from the Spheres. O bright irresistible lord! We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, Whence first was the seed outpoured. To thee as our Father we bow, Forbidden thy Father to see, Who is older and greater than thou, as thou Art greater and older than we. Thou art but as a word of his speech, Thou art but as a wave of his hand; Thou art brief as a glitter of sand 'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; Thou art less than a spark of his fire, Or a moment's mood of his soul: Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir That chant the chant of the Whole.William Watson.67. THE SCARECROW
All winter through I bow my head Beneath the driving rain; The North wind powders me with snow And blows me black again; At midnight 'neath a maze of stars I flame with glittering rime, And stand, above the stubble, stiff As mail at morning-prime. But when that child, called Spring, and all His host of children, come, Scattering their buds and dew upon These acres of my home, Some rapture in my rags awakes; I lift void eyes and scan The skies for crows, those ravening foes, Of my strange master, Man. I watch him striding lank behind His clashing team, and know Soon will the wheat swish body high Where once lay sterile snow; Soon shall I gaze across a sea Of sun-begotten grain, Which my unflinching watch hath sealed For harvest once again.Walter de la Mare.68. THE VAGABOND
Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river— There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me. Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field— Warm the fireside haven— Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even! Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.Robert Louis Stevenson.69. TEWKESBURY ROAD
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white; Where, the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.John Masefield.70. TO A LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much? O fat white woman whom nobody loves, Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, When the grass is soft as the breast of doves And shivering-sweet to the touch? O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much?Frances Cornford.71. I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.Robert Louis Stevenson.72. JUGGLING JERRY
Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes! By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. It's nigh my last above the daisies: My next leaf 'll be man's blank page. Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow. One that outjuggles all 's been spying Long to have me, and he has me now. We've travelled times to this old common: Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. We've had a stirring life, old woman! You, and I, and the old grey horse, Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now they'll miss us at our stations: There's a Juggler outjuggles all! Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. Easy to think that grieving's folly, When the hand's firm as driven stakes! Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful; Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. Here's where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here: Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket? Like an old world those days appear! Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house—I know them! They are old friends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem. Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. You that are sneering at my profession, Haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins'll count. I've murdered insects with mock thunder: Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. I've made bread from the bump of wonder: That's my business, and there's my tale. Fashion and rank all praised the professor: Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain't this a sermon on that scene? I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two. But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race, And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face. We two were married, due and legal: Honest we've lived since we've been one. Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old girl he's juggled away. It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!—don't they love rarely, Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly, Then see how the rascal yields! I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But your old Jerry you never forsook. Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let's have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. Maybe—for none see in that black hollow— It's just a place where we're held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It's just the sword-trick—I ain't quite gone! Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May Better than mortar, brick and putty, Is God's house on a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change. I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once—it's long gone—when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swelled. Crack went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeled round him, twice, and was off for new luck; There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:— Drop me a kiss—I'm the bird dead-struck!George Meredith.73. REQUIEM
Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.Robert Louis Stevenson.74. A DEAD HARVEST
In Kensington Gardens
Along the graceless grass of town They rake the rows of red and brown— Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay Delicate, touched with gold and grey, Raked long ago and far away. A narrow silence in the park, Between the lights a narrow dark. One street rolls on the north; and one, Muffled, upon the south doth run; Amid the mist the work is done. A futile crop!—for it the fire Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre. So go the town's lives on the breeze, Even as the sheddings of the trees; Bosom nor barn is filled with these.Alice Meynell.75. THE LITTLE DANCERS
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy. Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat; And all is dark, save where come flooding rays From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays, Two children, all alone and no one by, Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet, Dance sedately: face to face they gaze, Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.Laurence Binyon.76. LONDON SNOW
When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled—marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snow-balling; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, "O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!" With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder: When now already the sun, in pale display Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go; But even for them awhile no cares encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.Robert Bridges.77. THE ROAD MENDERS
How solitary gleams the lamplit street Waiting the far-off morn! How softly from the unresting city blows The murmur borne Down this deserted way! Dim loiterers pass home with stealthy feet. Now only, sudden at their interval, The lofty chimes awaken and let fall Deep thrills of ordered sound; Subsiding echoes gradually drowned In a great stillness, that creeps up around, And darkly grows Profounder over all Like a strong frost, hushing a stormy day. But who is this, that by the brazier red Encamped in his rude hut, With many a sack about his shoulder spread Watches with eyes unshut? The burning brazier flushes his old face, Illumining the old thoughts in his eyes. Surely the Night doth to her secrecies Admit him, and the watching stars attune To their high patience, who so lightly seems To bear the weight of many thousand dreams (Dark hosts around him sleeping numberless); He surely hath unbuilt all walls of thought To reach an air-wide wisdom, past access Of us, who labour in the noisy noon, The noon that knows him not. For lo, at last the gloom slowly retreats, And swiftly, like an army, comes the Day, All bright and loud through the awakened streets Sending a cheerful hum. And he has stolen away. Now, with the morning shining round them, come Young men, and strip their coats And loose the shirts about their throats, And lightly up their ponderous hammers lift, Each in his turn descending swift With triple strokes that answer and begin Duly, and quiver in repeated change, Marrying the eager echoes that weave in A music clear and strange. But pausing soon, each lays his hammer down And deeply breathing bares His chest, stalwart and brown, To the sunny airs. Laughing one to another, limber hand On limber hip, flushed in a group they stand, And now untired renew their ringing toil. The sun stands high, and ever a fresh throng Comes murmuring; but that eddying turmoil Leaves many a loiterer, prosperous or unfed, On easy or unhappy ways At idle gaze, Charmed in the sunshine and the rhythm enthralling, As of unwearied Fates, for ever young, That on the anvil of necessity From measureless desire and quivering fear, With musical sure lifting and downfalling Of arm and hammer driven perpetually, Beat out in obscure span The fiery destiny of man.Laurence Binyon.78. STREET LANTERNS
Country roads are yellow and brown. We mend the roads in London town. Never a hansom dare come nigh, Never a cart goes rolling by. An unwonted silence steals In between the turning wheels. Quickly ends the autumn day, And the workman goes his way, Leaving, midst the traffic rude, One small isle of solitude, Lit, throughout the lengthy night, By the little lantern's light. Jewels of the dark have we, Brighter than the rustic's be. Over the dull earth are thrown Topaz, and the ruby stone.Mary E. Coleridge.79. O SUMMER SUM
O summer sun, O moving trees! O cheerful human noise, O busy glittering street! What hour shall Fate in all the future find, Or what delights, ever to equal these: Only to taste the warmth, the light, the wind, Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet?Laurence Binyon.80. LONDON
Athwart the sky a lowly sigh From west to east the sweet wind carried; The sun stood still on Primrose Hill; His light in all the city tarried: The clouds on viewless columns bloomed Like smouldering lilies unconsumed. "Oh sweetheart, see! how shadowy, Of some occult magician's rearing, Or swung in space of heaven's grace Dissolving, dimly reappearing, Afloat upon ethereal tides St. Paul's above the city rides!" A rumour broke through the thin smoke Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace, The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, The million-peopled lanes and alleys, An ever-muttering prisoned storm, The heart of London beating warm.John Davidson.81. NOVEMBER BLUE
The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary colour to the air in the early evening.—Essay on London.
O heavenly colour, London town Has blurred it from her skies; And, hooded in an earthly brown, Unheaven'd the city lies. No longer standard-like this hue Above the broad road flies; Nor does the narrow street the blue Wear, slender pennon-wise. But when the gold and silver lamps Colour the London dew, And, misted by the winter damps, The shops shine bright anew— Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, It dyes the wide air through; A mimic sky about their feet, The throng go crowned with blue.Alice Meynell.82. PHILOMEL IN LONDON
Not within a granite pass, Dim with flowers and soft with grass— Nay, but doubly, trebly sweet In a poplared London street, While below my windows go Noiseless barges, to and fro, Through the night's calm deep, Ah! what breaks the bonds of sleep? No steps on the pavement fall, Soundless swings the dark canal; From a church-tower out of sight Clangs the central hour of night. Hark! the Dorian nightingale! Pan's voice melted to a wail! Such another bird Attic Tereus never heard. Hung above the gloom and stain— London's squalid cope of pain— Pure as starlight, bold as love, Honouring our scant poplar-grove, That most heavenly voice of earth Thrills in passion, grief or mirth, Laves our poison'd air Life's best song-bath crystal-fair. While the starry minstrel sings Little matters what he brings, Be it sorrow, be it pain, Let him sing and sing again, Till, with dawn, poor souls rejoice, Wakening, once to hear his voice, Ere afar he flies, Bound for purer woods and skies.Edmund Gosse.83. ANNUS MIRABILIS (1902)
Daylight was down, and up the cool Bare heaven the moon, o'er roof and elm, Daughter of dusk most wonderful, Went mounting to her realm: And night was only half begun Round Edwardes Square in Kensington. A Sabbath-calm possessed her face, An even glow her bosom filled; High in her solitary place The huntress-heart was stilled: With bow and arrows all laid down She stood and looked on London town. Nay, how can sight of us give rest To that far-travelled heart, or draw The musings of that tranquil breast? I thought—and gazing, saw Far up above me, high, oh, high, From south to north a heron fly! Oh, swiftly answered! yonder flew The wings of freedom and of hope! Little of London town he knew, The far horizon was his scope. High up he sails, and sees beneath The glimmering ponds of Hampstead Heath, Hendon, and farther out afield Low water-meads are in his ken, And lonely pools by Harrow Weald, And solitudes unloved of men, Where he his fisher's spear dips down: Little he knows of London town. So small, with all its miles of sin, Is London to the grey-winged bird, A cuckoo called at Lincoln's Inn Last April; in Soho was heard The missel-thrush with throat of glee, And nightingales at Battersea!Laurence Housman.84. FLEET STREET
I never see the newsboys run Amid the whirling street, With swift untiring feet, To cry the latest venture done, But I expect one day to hear Them cry the crack of doom And risings from the tomb, With great Archangel Michael near; And see them running from the Fleet As messengers of God, With Heaven's tidings shod About their brave unwearied feet.Shane Leslie.