Poems of To-Day: an Anthology
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106. TO A SNOWFLAKE
What heart could have thought you?— Past our devisal (O filigree petal!) Fashioned so purely, Fragilely, surely, From what Paradisal Imagineless metal, Too costly for cost? Who hammered you, wrought you, From argentine vapour?— "God was my shaper. Passing surmisal, He hammered, He wrought me, From curled silver vapour, To lust of His mind:— Thou couldst not have thought me! So purely, so palely, Tinily, surely, Mightily, frailly, Insculped and embossed, With His hammer of wind, And His graver of frost."Francis Thompson.107. TO A DAISY
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide, Like all created things, secrets from me, And stand a barrier to eternity. And I, how can I praise thee well and wide From where I dwell—upon the hither side? Thou little veil for so great mystery, When shall I penetrate all things and thee, And then look back? For this I must abide, Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled Literally between me and the world. Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring, And from a poet's side shall read his book. O daisy mine, what will it be to look From God's side even of such a simple thing?Alice Meynell.108. LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT
On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his western wing he leaned, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened, Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.George Meredith.109. THE CELESTIAL SURGEON
If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:— Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!Robert Louis Stevenson.110. THE KINGDOM OF GOD
'In no Strange Land'
O world invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! Does the fish soar to find the ocean, The eagle plunge to find the air— That we ask of the stars in motion If they have rumour of thee there? Not where the wheeling systems darken, And our benumbed conceiving soars!— The drift of pinions, would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places;— Turn but a stone, and start a wing! 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendoured thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems; And lo, Christ walking on the water Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!Francis Thompson.111. THE LADY POVERTY
The Lady Poverty was fair: But she has lost her looks of late, With change of times and change of air. Ah slattern! she neglects her hair, Her gown, her shoes; she keeps no state As once when her pure feet were bare. Or—almost worse, if worse can be— She scolds in parlours, dusts and trims, Watches and counts. Oh, is this she Whom Francis met, whose step was free, Who with Obedience carolled hymns, In Umbria walked with Chastity? Where is her ladyhood? Not here, Not among modern kinds of men; But in the stony fields, where clear Through the thin trees the skies appear, In delicate spare soil and fen, And slender landscape and austere.Alice Meynell.112. COURTESY
Of Courtesy it is much less Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, Yet in my Walks it seems to me That the Grace of God is in Courtesy. On Monks I did in Storrington fall, They took me straight into their Hall; I saw Three Pictures on a wall, And Courtesy was in them all. The first the Annunciation; The second the Visitation; The third the Consolation, Of God that was Our Lady's Son. The first was of Saint Gabriel; On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; And as he went upon one knee He shone with Heavenly Courtesy. Our Lady out of Nazareth rode— It was her month of heavy load; Yet was Her face both great and kind, For Courtesy was in Her Mind. The third, it was our Little Lord, Whom all the Kings in arms adored; He was so small you could not see His large intent of Courtesy. Our Lord, that was Our Lady's Son, Go bless you, People, one by one; My Rhyme is written, my work is done.Hilaire Belloc.113. MONTSERRAT
Peace waits among the hills; I have drunk peace, Here, where the blue air fills The great cup of the hills, And fills with peace. Between the earth and sky, I have seen the earth Like a dark cloud go by, And fade out of the sky; There was no more earth. Here, where the Holy Graal Brought secret light Once, from beyond the veil, I, seeing no Holy Graal, See divine light. Light fills the hills with God, Wind with his breath, And here, in his abode, Light, wind, and air praise God, And this poor breath.Arthur Symons.114. PRAYERS
God who created me Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free, To run, to ride, to swim: Not when the sense is dim, But now from the heart of joy, I would remember Him: Take the thanks of a boy. Jesu, King and Lord, Whose are my foes to fight, Gird me with Thy sword, Swift and sharp and bright. Thee would I serve if I might; And conquer if I can, From day-dawn till night, Take the strength of a man. Spirit of Love and Truth, Breathing in grosser clay, The light and flame of youth, Delight of men in the fray, Wisdom in strength's decay; From pain, strife, wrong to be free, This best gift I pray, Take my spirit to Thee.Henry Charles Beeching.115. THE SHEPHERDESS
She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep; She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep. She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep. She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.Alice Meynell.116. GIBBERISH
Many a flower have I seen blossom, Many a bird for me will sing. Never heard I so sweet a singer, Never saw I so fair a thing. She is a bird, a bird that blossoms, She is a flower, a flower that sings; And I a flower when I behold her, And when I hear her, I have wings.Mary E. Coleridge.117. MARTHA
"Once . . . once upon a time . . ." Over and over again, Martha would tell us her stories, In the hazel glen. Hers were those clear grey eyes You watch, and the story seems Told by their beautifulness Tranquil as dreams. She'd sit with her two slim hands Clasped round her bended knees; While we on our elbows lolled, And stared at ease. Her voice and her narrow chin, Her grave small lovely head, Seemed half the meaning Of the words she said. "Once . . . once upon a time . . ." Like a dream you dream in the night, Fairies and gnomes stole out In the leaf-green light. And her beauty far away Would fade, as her voice ran on, Till hazel and summer sun And all were gone:— All fordone and forgot; And like clouds in the height of the sky, Our hearts stood still in the hush Of an age gone by.Walter de la Mare.118. A FRIEND
All, that he came to give, He gave, and went again: I have seen one man live, I have seen one man reign, With all the graces in his train. As one of us, he wrought Things of the common hour: Whence was the charmed soul brought, That gave each act such power; The natural beauty of a flower? Magnificence and grace, Excellent courtesy: A brightness on the face, Airs of high memory: Whence came all these, to such as he? Like young Shakespearian kings, He won the adoring throng: And, as Apollo sings, He triumphed with a song: Triumphed, and sang, and passed along. With a light word, he took The hearts of men in thrall: And, with a golden look, Welcomed them, at his call Giving their love, their strength, their all. No man less proud than he, Nor cared for homage less: Only, he could not be Far off from happiness: Nature was bound to his success. Weary, the cares, the jars, The lets, of every day, But the heavens filled with stars, Chanced he upon the way: And where he stayed, all joy would stay. Now, when sad night draws down, When the austere stars burn: Roaming the vast live town, My thoughts and memories yearn Toward him, who never will return. Yet have I seen him live, And owned my friend, a king: All that he came to give He gave: and I, who sing His praise, bring all I have to bring.Lionel Johnson.119. TWILIGHT
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks cry and call. Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star over all, There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end, Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend. I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago in the past, Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death cannot last; Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled, Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.John Masefield.120. ON THE DEATH OF ARNOLD TOYNBEE
Good-bye; no tears nor cries Are fitting here, and long lament were vain. Only the last low words be softly said, And the last greeting given above the dead; For soul more pure and beautiful our eyes Never shall see again. Alas! what help is it, What consolation in this heavy chance, That to the blameless life so soon laid low This was the end appointed long ago, This the allotted space, the measure fit Of endless ordinance? Thus were the ancient days Made like our own monotonous with grief; From unassuaged lips even thus hath flown Perpetually the immemorial moan Of those that weeping went on desolate ways, Nor found in tears relief. For faces yet grow pale, Tears rise at fortune, and true hearts take fire In all who hear, with quickening pulse's stroke, That cry that from the infinite people broke, When third among them Helen led the wail At Hector's funeral pyre. And by the Latin beach At rise of dawn such piteous tears were shed, When Troy and Arcady in long array Followed the princely body on its way, And Lord Aeneas spoke the last sad speech Above young Pallas dead. Even in this English clime The same sweet cry no circling seas can drown, In melancholy cadence rose to swell Some dirge of Lycidas or Astrophel When lovely souls and pure before their time Into the dusk went down. These Earth, the bounteous nurse, Hath long ago lapped in deep peace divine. Lips that made musical their old-world woe Themselves have gone to silence long ago, And left a weaker voice and wearier verse, O royal soul, for thine. Beyond our life how far Soars his new life through radiant orb and zone, While we in impotency of the night Walk dumbly, and the path is hard, and light Fails, and for sun and moon the single star Honour is left alone. The star that knows no set, But circles ever with a fixed desire, Watching Orion's armour all of gold; Watching and wearying not, till pale and cold Dawn breaks, and the first shafts of morning fret The east with lines of fire. But on the broad low plain When night is clear and windy, with hard frost, Such as had once the morning in their eyes, Watching and wearying, gaze upon the skies, And cannot see that star for their great pain Because the sun is lost. Alas, how all our love Is scant at best to fill so ample room! Image and influence fall too fast away And fading memory cries at dusk of day Deem'st thou the dust recks aught at all thereof, The ghost within the tomb? For even o'er lives like his The slumberous river washes soft and slow; The lapping water rises wearily, Numbing the nerve and will to sleep; and we Before the goal and crown of mysteries Fall back, and dare not know. Only at times we know, In gyres convolved and luminous orbits whirled The soul beyond her knowing seems to sweep Out of the deep, fire-winged, into the deep; As two, who loved each other here below Better than all the world, Yet ever held apart, And never knew their own hearts' deepest things, After long lapse of periods, wandering far Beyond the pathways of the furthest star, Into communicable space might dart With tremor of thunderous wings; Across the void might call Each unto each past worlds that raced and ran, And flash through galaxies, and clasp and kiss In some slant chasm and infinite abyss Far in the faint sidereal interval Between the Lyre and Swan.J. W. Mackail.121. ESTRANGEMENT
So, without overt breach, we fall apart, Tacitly sunder—neither you nor I Conscious of one intelligible Why, And both, from severance, winning equal smart. So, with resigned and acquiescent heart, Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie, I seem to see an alien shade pass by, A spirit wherein I have no lot or part. Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim, From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn That June on her triumphant progress goes Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him She is a legend emptied of concern, And idle is the rumour of the rose.William Watson.122. FATHERHOOD
A kiss, a word of thanks, away They're gone, and you forsaken learn The blessedness of giving; they (So Nature bids) forget, nor turn To where you sit, and watch, and yearn. And you (so Nature bids) would go Through fire and water for their sake; Rise early, late take rest, to sow Their wealth, and lie all night awake If but their little finger ache. The storied prince with wondrous hair Which stole men's hearts and wrought his bale, Rebelling, since he had no heir, Built him a pillar in the vale, —Absalom's—lest his name should fail. It fails not, though the pillar lies In dust, because the outraged one, His father, with strong agonies Cried it until the day was done— "O Absalom, my son, my son!" So Nature bade; or might it be God, who in Jewry once (they say) Cried with a great cry, "Come to me, Children," who still held on their way, Though He spread out His hands all day?Henry Charles Beeching.123. DAISY
Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill— O the breath of the distant surf!— The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she. Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things. She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine; Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine. She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day. Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day! Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face; She gave me tokens three:— A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry. A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand. For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes. The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close; But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose. She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:— The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day. She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be. She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad. Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes. Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in other's pain, And perish in our own.Francis Thompson.124. A CRADLE SONG
O, men from the fields! Come gently within. Tread softly, softly, O! men coming in. Mavourneen is going From me and from you, Where Mary will fold him With mantle of blue! From reek of the smoke And cold of the floor, And the peering of things Across the half-door. O, men from the fields! Soft, softly come thro'. Mary puts round him Her mantle of blue.Padraic Colum.125. ON A DEAD CHILD
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. Thy mother's treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride;—ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,— Go, lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!— Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing. So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee? Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.Robert Bridges.126. I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAIN
I never shall love the snow again Since Maurice died: With corniced drift it blocked the lane, And sheeted in a desolate plain The country side. The trees with silvery rime bedight Their branches bare. By day no sun appeared; by night The hidden moon shed thievish light In the misty air. We fed the birds that flew around In flocks to be fed: No shelter in holly or brake they found, The speckled thrush on the frozen ground Lay frozen and dead. We skated on stream and pond; we cut The crinching snow To Doric temple or Arctic hut; We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut By the fireside glow. Yet grudged we our keen delights before Maurice should come. We said, "In-door or out-of-door We shall love life for a month or more, When he is home." They brought him home; 'twas two days late For Christmas Day: Wrapped in white, in solemn state, A flower in his hand, all still and straight Our Maurice lay. And two days ere the year outgave We laid him low. The best of us truly were not brave, When we laid Maurice down in his grave Under the snow.Robert Bridges.127. TO MY GODCHILD
Francis M. W. M. This labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to space Down some frore Arctic of the aërial ways: And now, back warping from the inclement main, Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, It swung into its azure roads again; When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you Lit, a white halcyon auspice, 'mid our frozen crew. To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, Giver of golden days and golden song; Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. Yet ah! from any other that it came, Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. When at the first those tidings did they bring, My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: Though well may such a title him endower, For whom a poet's prayer implores a poet's power. The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty, (In two alone of whom most singers prove A fatal faithfulness of during love!) He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken How God he could love more, he so loved men; The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; And Fletcher's fellow—from these, and not from me, Take you your name, and take your legacy! Or, if a right successive you declare When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, Take but this Poesy that now followeth My clayey best with sullen servile breath, Made then your happy freedman by testating death. My song I do but hold for you in trust, I ask you but to blossom from my dust. When you have compassed all weak I began, Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man; The man at feud with the perduring child In you before Song's altar nobly reconciled; From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see How little a world, which owned you, needed me. If, while you keep the vigils of the night, For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, As it played lover over your sweet sleeps; Think it a golden crevice in the sky, Which I have pierced but to behold you by! And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod Among the bearded counsellors of God; For if in Eden as on earth are we, I sure shall keep a younger company: Pass where beneath their ranged gonfalons The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, The dreadful mass of their enridged spears; Pass where majestical the eternal peers, The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet— A silvern segregation, globed complete In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet; Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, Your cousined clusters, emulous to share With you the roseal lightnings burning 'mid their hair; Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:— Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.Francis Thompson.128. WHEN JUNE IS COME
When June is come, then all the day I'll sit with my love in the scented hay And watch the sunshot palaces high, That the white clouds build in the breezy sky. She singeth, and I do make her a song, And read sweet poems the whole day long: Unseen as we lie in our hay-built home. Oh, life is delight when June is come.Robert Bridges.129. IN MISTY BLUE
In misty blue the lark is heard Above the silent homes of men; The bright-eyed thrush, the little wren, The yellow-billed sweet-voiced blackbird Mid sallow blossoms blond as curd Or silver oak boughs, carolling With happy throat from tree to tree, Sing into light this morn of spring That sang my dear love home to me. Be starry, buds of clustered white, Around the dark waves of her hair! The young fresh glory you prepare Is like my ever-fresh delight When she comes shining on my sight With meeting eyes, with such a cheek As colours fair like flushing tips Of shoots, and music ere she speak Lies in the wonder of her lips. Airs of the morning, breathe about Keen faint scents of the wild wood side From thickets where primroses hide Mid the brown leaves of winter's rout. Chestnut and willow, beacon out For joy of her, from far and nigh, Your English green on English hills: Above her head, song-quivering sky, And at her feet, the daffodils. Because she breathed, the world was more, And breath a finer soul to use, And life held lovelier hopes to choose; But O, to-day my heart brims o'er, Earth glows as from a kindled core, Like shadows of diviner things Are hill and cloud and flower and tree— A splendour that is hers and spring's,– The day my love came home to me.Laurence Binyon.