The Project Gutenberg eBook of Farewell, by F. W. Harvey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Farewell Author: F. W. Harvey Release Date: October 16, 2021 [eBook #66550] Language: English Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAREWELL *** FAREWELL BY THE SAME AUTHOR A GLOUCESTERSHIRE LAD AT HOME AND ABROAD. [_Sixth Impression._ GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS: Poems from a German Prison Camp. [_Third Impression._ DUCKS, AND OTHER VERSES. COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY: A Record of Life in Seven German Prisons. Illustrated by C. E. B. Bernard. SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. FAREWELL BY F. W. HARVEY AUTHOR OF “A GLOUCESTERSHIRE LAD” “GLOUCESTERSHIRE FRIENDS” ETC., ETC. LONDON SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 1921 PREFACE In spite of all the soulful utterances of people comfortably off, economic independence remains the first condition of happiness. This is not to say that people aren’t great fools for preferring law to literature. It is rather to imply that a poet who can do both is a fool if _he_ does not. I am not a fool. Farewell! F. W. H. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The author desires to acknowledge gratefully permissions to reprint certain of these poems granted by the editors of _The Spectator_, _The Athenæum_, _The London Mercury_, _The Nation_, _The Woman’s Leader_, _The Gloucestershire Chronicle_ and _The Gloucestershire Journal_. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE 5 NATURE POEMS PRAYERS: I. 11 ” II. 12 ” III. 13 ” IV. 14 THE HOLLOW LAND 15 ON BIRDLIP 16 OUT OF THE CITY 17 A SONG 18 MAY-FLOOD 18 BIG THINGS AND SMALL 19 AFTER LONG WANDERING 20 THE MOON 22 THE WIND’S GRIEF 23 A WINDY NIGHT 24 RIDDLE CUM RUDDLE 25 GLOUCESTERSHIRE FROM THE TRAIN 26 LASSINGTON 27 JEALOUSY 28 ELVERS 29 JOHN HELPS 32 LOVE POEMS THE GOLDEN SNAKE 33 IN A CATHEDRAL 34 THE LANTHORN 35 SONNET: “MY NATIVE LAND IS ONLY WHERE YOU ARE” 36 SINCE I HAVE LOVED 37 SAFETY 38 HAPPY SINGING 39 SONG 40 IDENTITY 41 JUNE 42 SONNET: “THAT DEATH SHALL TAKE AND SLAY ME MATTERS NOT” 43 SONNET: “BUT NOW SINCE DEATH HATH CERTAIN DATE” 44 “LOCAL FATALITIES ARE REPORTED” 45 MY JOY 46 THE WATCHING MOON 46 HARVEST HOME 47 POEMS OF REFLECTION EXPERIMENTS IN VERS LIBRE 48 THE PHILOSOPHER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB 50 MISERERE DOMINE 52 NOW, IF I WERE RICH 53 THE RABBLE FATES--TO HELL WITH THEM! 54 THE LAUGHTER OF LITTLE BABIES 55 PETITION TO THE ALMIGHTY 56 LAST WORD 57 VANITY OF VANITIES 58 TRIOLET: “FLESH TRIUMPHS AWHILE” 61 FIRE (REVISED VERSION) 62 THE LIFE THAT’S UNDER THE GROUND 66 EPITAPH 67 INVOCATION--AND REPLY 68 MADNESS 70 GLOUCESTERSHIRE MEN 71 BALLADE OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE TOWNS 72 LUCKY 74 CAROL 75 GOD’S BEAUTY IN THE SKY 76 THE LOST WORLD 77 PROSE POEMS DAWN 78 THE VISIBLE WORLD 78 FUEL 78 BLOW, INVISIBLE MOUTHS! 78 ANGRY LOVER 79 HOME 79 LOVE SONG 79 THE WINDOW 80 BROTHERS 80 HOLY BROTHERHOOD 80 _NATURE POEMS_ PRAYERS I THAT MY EYES MAY BE MADE TO SEE God of bright colours: rainbows, peacocks, And the shot-silk gleam of springing Wind-shaken wheat On rolling red-ribbed Earth: Thou Who dost bring to birth From out the womb Of darkness golden flowers, Filling the hollows With daffodils in March, Cowslips in April, Dog-roses in May, Who in the smouldering forest Makes the huge Red flare of Autumn: God of all the colours On Earth, and hues (too bright for mortal eyes) In Paradise-- Unblind me to Thy glory, That I may see! II THAT MY SOUL MAY BE SET TO DANCE God of light dancing: Waves and ripples In foam and forest, And shadows under leaves, Lambs leaping, prancing, Horses, dragon-flies, Stars ... Thou Whose eye perceives How and in what dream-ecstasy tall reeds Shake out brown hair and sway Like dusky girls Tranced in an Indian air; Who knowest the way Of clouds Which glide o’er blue unflowered fields, Scattering shadows On golden meadows And fields of dancing daisies: Teach me, O Lord, The rhythm of that joy which is Thy mind! Make my soul dance! III THAT I MAY BE TAUGHT THE GESTURE OF HEAVEN God of the steadfast line, Who laid the curving Cotswolds on the sky: God of the hills, And of the lonely hollows in the hills, And of the cloudy nipples of the mountains: Teach me thy passionate austerity! God of elm twigs And of all winter trees Etched ebony on sunset, or bright silver Upon hard morning heavens; Cunning shaper of ferns, And ferns which whitely gleam on frosty windows And snow-flakes: God of the naked body beautifully snatched To some swift-gestured loveliness of Heaven: Master Of stars, And all beneath most passionately curbed In Form: catch up my sprawling soul and fix it In gesture of its lost divinity! IV THAT I MAY BE GIVEN FELLOWSHIP OF ANGELS AND A HAPPY HEART God of fine fellowship in heaven and earth, O let me share A little of the gaiety of saints. Sometimes let angels carelessly with robins Sing in these Minsterworth trees. Teach me that mirth, Give me that happy heart, hating the thin Blasphemous gravity of wicked men. THE HOLLOW LAND Elms on the marbled sky Walling this hollow land, Write something black that I Find hard to understand. Belshazzar in his hall, Belshazzar and those lords Saw suddenly on the wall Great crooked words: A doom, a doom of fear ... Something our hearts forget Is mighty still and near To claim his debt. Behold before it falls-- Behold the mighty hand Of Nature on the walls Of the hollow land! ON BIRDLIP I’ve tramped a score of miles to-day And now on Cotswold stand, Wondering if in any way Their owners understand How all those little gold fields I see And the great green woods beyond Have given themselves to me, to me Who own not an inch of land. Because I loved with deep desire, Wooing all as I walked, This noble country by tree and spire Taught (as if music talked) How Beauty is never bought or sold, But freely given to them Who worship more than crowns of gold Her dew-bright diadem. _Now_ all that under open heaven I see of arable Or pasture land to me is given, As runs the parable-- “To him that hath not----” Even so, For all we love is ours While the little streams of Cotswold flow, Swaying forget-me-not flowers. OUT OF THE CITY Here in the ring of the hills, Under a cloudy sky, Content at last I lie Where Peace o’erspills Like a cool rain which giveth This brave daisy scent And wine of sacrament Whereby he liveth. The big hooters may howl, Men quarrel, whistles screech, I will hear only the speech Of my forgotten soul, Which is the speech of trees, Soft yet of clarity And brimmed with verity And all gay peace. A SONG O, Cranham ways are steep and green And Cranham woods are high, And if I was that black rook, It’s there that I would fly. But since I’m here in London town, A silly walking man; I’ll make this song and caw it As loudly as I can. MAY-FLOOD Now the Spring’s cold Foam-crested waves, the bright Hedges, delay To break and quench the light Of golden fields with spray Of hawthorn. As of old Men saw the steep Walls of the Red Sea round them, Quiet sheep Watch the wild hedge forbear to drown them. BIG THINGS AND SMALL This spinning spark in space--our Earth and all Its vast envelopment of ancient night-- Is not a wonder greater or less than the white Blossom now in the orchards, soon to fall. And let men learn the secret of that bloom And all its beauty’s wonder, they shall know Life to the core; and they with God may go To make a daisy or the day of doom. AFTER LONG WANDERING I will go back to Gloucestershire, To the spot where I was born, To the talk at eve with men and women And song on the roads at morn. And I’ll sing as I tramp by dusty hedges Or drink my ale in the shade How Gloucestershire is the finest home That the Lord God ever made. First I will go to the ancient house Where Doomsday book was planned, And cool my body and soul in shade Of pillars huge which stand Where the organ echoes thunder-like Its paean of triumph and praise In a temple lovely as ever the love Of Beauty’s God did raise. Gargoyles will thrust out heads to hearken, A frozen forest of stone Echo behind me as I pass Out of the shadow alone To buzz and bustle of Barton Fair And its drifting droves of sheep, To find three miles away the village Where I will sleep. Minsterworth, queen of riverside places (Save Framilode, who can vie?), To her I’ll go when day has dwindled And the light low in the sky; And my troubles shall fall from me, a bundle, And youth come back again, Seeing the smoke of her houses and hearing The talk of Minsterworth men. I’ll drink my perry and sing my song Of home and home again, Pierced with the old miraculous pleasure Keen as sharpest pain; And if I rise to sing on the morrow Or if I die in my bed, ’Tis all the same: I’ll be home again, And happy alive or dead. THE MOON What have you not seen, Old White-face, looking down Since the heavens were hollowed out And winds were blown? You saw white Helen On the walls of Troy Town, You silvered dew on the ruin When Troy shook down. Ulysses you saw And the strange seas that bore him; But all he wandered to see You had seen before him. Bodies black and yellow, Gold tresses and brown, The brown earth covers them ... And you look down. THE WIND’S GRIEF The wind is grieving. Over what old woe Howls it as though Its very heart would break?-- The roving wind who merrily did make A song all day in woods and meadows gay Grieves in the night. Is it for olden evil it hath done ’Neath moon and sun Since first it roved the world? Brave trees uprooted, ships and sailors hurled To stormy death? or for the passing breath Of flowers bright? A WINDY NIGHT The rain is done; and a great wind, Filling the hollow night, He shouts like a boy in an archway And whistles with all his might. He has blown the sky empty, Except for the little stout Stars, and they are flickering As if they might go out. All the black trees are crying; The night is full of noise; They are shouting under the arch of heaven Like a school of rowdy boys. RIDDLE CUM RUDDLE The wains be unloaded, the ricks be in stack-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; An’ varmer be merry, an’ me an’ Jack Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam. There’s wuts for the horses and hay for the cow-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; And wheat for bread, and barley for brew-- Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam Young randy lovers may praise the Spring-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; But this be the time ver to dance and sing Riddle cum Ruddle! Riddle cum Ruddle! Riddle cum Ruddle! The harvest’s whoam! GLOUCESTERSHIRE FROM THE TRAIN The golden fields wheel round-- Their spokes, green hedges; And at the galloping sound Of the train, from watery sedges Arise familiar birds. Pools brown, and blue, and green, Criss-crossed with shadows, Flash by, and in between Gloucestershire meadows Lie speckled red with herds. A little flying farm, With humped grey back Against the rays that warm To gold a last-year stack, Like a friendly cat appears; And so through gloom and gleam Continues dwindling, While in my heart a dream Of home awakes to kindling Fire, and falling tears. LASSINGTON To Lassington the priests went out From Gloucester long ago To worship oaks and fool about With mistletoe. Now after twenty centuries Still men and girls do go Lassington way. To worship trees? You ask,--ah no! They laugh the magic boughs beneath, Catch hands, and kiss the while: And the dead Druids grind their teeth Below, or smile To see (ah, fair beneath the bough The fretted moonlight lies!) How readily come the victims now To sacrifice. How, robed in moonlight’s ancient gold, Another god doth reign, Tormenting men as did their old Grey gods of Pain. JEALOUSY On Zunday marn dro’ varmer’s wheat I zeed the print and track o’ veet: If I’d a had a rook-gun then They vaur veet would’n a walked again. Two on ’em--they o’ the larger zize-- I coulden praperly reckernize. Two wer the purty-printed veet O’ Molly--zo valse as she be sweet. I hadn’t no bird-gun: zo it fell As I maun laugh--ho, ho!--and tell Here in a pub at the end o’ the street O’ the winding--ha! ha!--o’ they vaur veet. But may the zoul o’ him as wore They hob-nails roast vor evermore; And the veet wi’ the instep’s purty curve May both on ’em get what um deserve! ELVERS Up the Severn River from Lent to Eastertide Millions and millions of slithy elvers glide, Millions, billions of glassy bright Little wormy fish, Chewed-string fish, Slithery dithery fish, In the dead of the night. Up the gleaming river miles and miles along Lanterns burn yellow: old joke and song Echo as fishermen dip down a slight Wide frail net, Gauzy white net, Strong long net In the water bright. From the Severn river at daybreak come Hundreds of happy fishermen home With bags full of elvers: perhaps that’s why We all love Lent, Lean mean Lent, Fishy old Lent, When the elvers fry. When elvers fry for breakfast with egg chopped small And bacon from the side that’s hung upon the wall. When the dish is on the table how the children shout “O, what funny fish, Wormy squirmy fish, Weeny white fish, Our mother’s dishing out!” Eels have a flavour (and a baddish one) of oil. “When we have shuffled _down_ their mortal coil, What dreams may come!” what horrid nightmares neigh, Gallop or squat, Trample or trot, Vanishing not Till break of day! “Never start nothing,” says the motto in our pub: “It might lead to summat”: that’s (as Shakespeare said) the rub! So I’m not going to tell you, anyway not yet, If the elvers are eels, White baby eels, Tiny shiny eels, Caught with a net-- Or another quite separate wriggly kind of grub, For I’ve seen more fights over that outside a pub Than ever _you_ saw at Barton Fair when Joe The brown gipsy man, The tawny gipsy man, The tipsy gipsy man, Tried to smart up the show. But anyway, good people, you may search the river over Before a breakfast tastier or cheaper you discover Than elvers, and if all the year the elver season lasted I wouldn’t mind a bit, I wouldn’t care a bit, Not a little tiny bit, _How_ long I fasted! JOHN HELPS John Helps a wer an honest mon; The perry that a made Wer crunched vrom purs as honest As ever tree displayed. John Helps a wer an honest mon; The dumplings that a chewed Wer made vrom honest apples As Autumn ever growed. John Helps a wer an honest mon, And I be sorry a’s dead. Perry and honest men be scarce These days, ’tiz zed. _LOVE POEMS_ THE GOLDEN SNAKE Her body’s glory is a golden snake Around Life’s tree Coiled: the tree shall break In the blast of Eternity And the coil be crushed. Too late! immortal poison has rushed Through more-than-veins. Beauty remains Though bodies rot. The fang (Though flesh the pang To flesh deliver) Strikes down more deep Than flesh, to trouble Even the ultimate sleep, The eternal dream. Though all she seem To be, like a golden bubble Shall break at the prick of Death, This shall not break: Her beauty’s sting: sharp as the sting of a snake: The sting of Beauty failing not with breath. IN A CATHEDRAL From her sweet unrest and sting Hither I come. The cloisters like a frozen forest ring, Echoing back more faint and faintlier The tread of living. Home, Home flies the spirit. Faint and faintlier The surging waves of passion break to foam Then like a clash of cymbals suddenly She, slave of Time, O’ercomes all tokens of Eternity, Nay, rather with Eternity is made one, One with recurrent rhyme Of arch, with flash of window, with the sun Yellow on lofty walls sweet echoes climb. THE LANTHORN “I never saw a soul save in the body.” Haply within the woods of Paradise We see unblinded of our earthly eyes, Kiss with unthwarted lips, and taste our one Desired and complete communion. There scabbards that do sheath the gleaming blade, There globes which muffle in the naked light Aside being cast, naked and unafraid, Lovers may stand in one another’s sight. Now since through fleshly glass Thy flame, O Love, Shines clear, and nowhere else doth visibly move; That lanthorn bright I will bow down before, Kneeling the crystal body to adore. SONNET My native land is only where you are, You are my home, my roof-tree, hearth, and fire. I have been home-sick for you, wandering far, But now have reached the end of my desire. You are my kingdom small and very fair, Your breasts my snowy hills, my lakes your eyes, Your face my garden, and my woods your hair, Your breath the breeze of that sweet Paradise. Lie fenced within the circle of these arms, Dear country: you whose air to breathe is Peace, Peace deeper than Death, more soft than Night-- Soother of griefs. Here, safe from wild alarms, I’ll bide, plucking from off your sighing trees The fruit of dreams, red apples of delight. SINCE I HAVE LOVED Since I have loved, I have put the world in my heart. The great clouds scattering over Cotswold seem But shadows of those others counterpart: Those clouds standing over hills of dream-- Hills of dream in a country that is called Peace--a country by my own heart walled. Since I do love and bear you in my breast, Who are both my beloved country and its queen, I wonder not to see red dawn uprise. I say no more how restful is the green Of summer fields, for looking on your eyes It is as though I had died and found my rest. SAFETY You are like a pool reflecting shadowy trees Of green and glint of sunbeams mixed together (And I had forgotten both) in water clear. Full of the foulness of blood and lust and fear Is the past now. I break its holding tether, And stand once more with guiding Innocences. You are like silence in which I can be myself. You are the truth of music: something lost Ages and ages ago, and forgotten, and found. Ere death my feet are set upon holy ground, I, wanderer amid a wandering host, Come home, led by the magic of one sweet elf. HAPPY SINGING Men have made songs, And I among them, Because some hell Of grief had wrung them. The tolling bell Will often bring Torture to force A man to sing. But I this day A song will make Only for joy And my sweet love’s sake: And will employ No sorrowful thing For making of it,-- That song, I’ll sing. But lovely laughter Of singing thrushes When dawn has broken And heaven flushes, Shall be the token Of one whom days Nor death can rob Of joyous praise. SONG And in the evening when I walked apart For joy of that I carry in my heart, The song I made brave thrushes did complete, Shouting, “O, pretty Joy!” and “Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!” This is my glory, this the crown of me: That I hold joy of my love, and she of me; And though my song be but a breath of air, Yet is it greater than death and all despair. For howso poor and of what base estate I be, this love shall make me proud and great. And howso deep in care I lie, there are words Shall build my heart a nest of singing birds. IDENTITY I am the blood that burns, The flesh that dies, The haunted heart that turns To Paradise, The soul that laugheth low And whispereth There are sweet things to know After--Death. Such powers am I, and more Both good and bad; Nor all the learnéd lore Solomon had Could ill and good dissever. Yet this is true: Naught’s me that doth not ever Cleave to you. JUNE April was in your making--youth of the year, Wild-blooded, beautiful! And May with flowers And showers agleam went into you, my dear. But you are June. Deep shadows, silver dew, Red roses, and the nightingale’s delight: White moonlight the essential soul of you. And sometimes as I watch you walk arrayed In beauty of that month, a foolish fear Comes, dear, into my heart: I am afraid That you being one with shadow-bars and roses, Birds and wild scents of June, with these will fly And I be left alone when Summer closes Her pageantry! SONNET That Death shall take and slay me matters not In truth: for better men are buried under, And--tut, “what can’t be cured must be endured”! But I am wild with hate, pray devil’s thunder May fall on Death though heaven itself glow hot, Hell-like, and stars be lighted stubble, and worlds Like birds drop blinded by the bloody light! O, such a bonfire do I wish for Death Or ever his insolent envy of sweet breath Should touch and soil the body of delight-- The singing flame of fragrant holy fire Which showed to me the meaning of the spring And every lovely tune musicians bring Out of the womb of innermost desire! SONNET But now since Death hath certain date, I fling, Strong in this manhood for a little space, Gayest defiance in his wrinkled face, And mock that envious shadowy old king: Scyther of flowers, plucker of everything In beauty fair upgrowing; so the place Thereof knoweth no more the golden grace That was the pride and savour of its spring. Spring is not here. But spring is in this heart, Quick with the blowing buds of lovely mirth And over-brimmed with love taken and given When that is withered, let us lie apart And rock like sleeping babes in cradle of earth, Dearest, till Doomsday: we have had our heaven. “LOCAL FATALITIES ARE REPORTED” Dangerously sheltered they, The lovers lay Upon the great dead hill, Frail flesh and blood: Beneath a twisted thorn, Which to the heaven’s mood Died and was born Again, as lightning fell. Two mites of trembling clay-- Ah, what cared they! The lightning flashed: They laughed. The thunder crashed: They kissed. The grey rain lashed The hill: and hid them in mist. Did they return again To the sunny plain, To spite and scorn, The plane of mortal care? Nay, with passions of skies They mingled were ... They were made wise Beneath the twisted thorn. MY JOY In your impassioned loveliness I drink a wine no heel did press In vats of place or time or space, And gazing on your April face And in your dim green-shadowed eyes I glimpse green leaves of a great vine Whose roots are firm in Paradise: And you the cup and you the wine. THE WATCHING MOON Calm with the calm Of all old Earth has taken To her peaceful breast, And will not awaken; Pale with the passion Of Life that never dies; You sit there watching us With clear bright eyes. HARVEST HOME My heart is filled with you As a field tilled which grew But couch and weed; You are my cornfield spread, Ripe to be harvested For bitter need. You have built barns in my heart, You have become a part Of all I knew: Wherefore I dance and sing And fear not anything Sharp scythes may do. _POEMS OF REFLECTION_ EXPERIMENTS IN VERS LIBRE I Not curled into rose leaves Or twisted into fantastic patterns of beauty ... Out of my joy in the Earth, Out of my sorrow for men, Out of the love which I bore to one and another Come these rough nuggets. Take them--they are all I can give you! Take, and make of them whatsoever you will, You who have skill, And you also who have none. Hold them in sunlight and moonlight Till they shine back, Ponder also the dark Earth wherefrom they came! II He who lies dead was my father. Degradation has befallen his flesh. Why? O, why? The palace is fouled. The king insulted, crucified, and abandoned. The slaves have fled. And so, after certain days, you And I too shall lie. The pride Shall pass. Our mouths shall never kiss Nor our strong arms embrace ... We too, we too shall die. III Lust spoils the sunlight And narrows the day; Love widens Time to Eternity which alone can hold it! THE PHILOSOPHER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB Fair and worthless things that die Praising their goddess Vanity Here gather. Like a violin Many a sweetly-scented Sin Whispers. Many a bright-wreathed Folly, Finding its roses turned to holly, Seeks with Pleasure’s aid to fend That Boredom which is Folly’s end. Wherefore the violins make moan. For these “the visible world” alone Exists; and “ah that it should pass!” They cry, and fill a trembling glass. “Here’s to Beauty!” (surnamed Lust) They cry; and e’er it falls to dust, “Love it,” they cry, “and hug it well.” “To whatsoever heaven or hell Fate builds for fools, these surely go,” Thought the moralist watching this tinsel show. “Yet is it not difficult to know Who best deserve the name of Fool, These or those more respectable Most moral folks I know so well?... _These_ make of living a foolish sham, _These_ play a silly blind man’s game, Chasing bubbles like a fool. But the others like a sullen mule Play at nothing at all, and so Think they’re good because they’re dull-- Where, in the name of sense, will _they_ go?” Upon which curious reflection The sad and wondering sage arose, Paid for his drink and blew his nose, Brushed the confetti from his clothes, And shuffled forth in deep dejection. MISERERE DOMINE Three things a man can do without: Debtors, a scolding wife, and gout. First hates for what (he knows) they’ve got, Second for what (she knows) he’s not, The third of this unholy lot Hates him and all he hateth not, Brisk walking and the pewter pot, Sound sleep and jovial company. Who suffers these well may cry, God wot-- Miserere Domine! NOW, IF I WERE RICH Now, if I were rich, And lord of the manor, My limbs might all twitch. Now, if I were rich I might marry a--witch, And lose every tanner That made me so rich, And lord of the manor. (_But I wish I were rich, And lord of the manor!_) THE RABBLE FATES--TO HELL WITH THEM! They fling at me stones and mud, My clothes are tattered and foul, My face is covered in blood; But they haven’t hurt my soul. They have beaten me sore--in truth No part of me stands whole! They have stolen away my youth: But they could not steal my soul. Robbed, baffled, and broken, Something lives in me whole; And I hold by that for a token That they cannot conquer my soul. Let them thrash me with knotted sorrow, Stone me with sharp regret; I shall be their king on a morrow, My soul is a monarch yet. THE LAUGHTER OF LITTLE BABIES The laughter of little babies Who chuckle and crow Is the laugh of a stream Which needs must flow Into black caverns; on its way Reflecting briefly the blue of day. The mirth of little babies Who chuckle and nod Is the mirth of a spirit Remembering odd Scraps of the tales and heavenly mirth He shall never remember again on Earth. PETITION TO THE ALMIGHTY My sins of scarlet I pray Thee wash away, For they were done in passion and hot blood, When youth was lord of me nor understood The glory of the beauty of Thy way. So pardon them; but, Lord, if I have stood The enemy of any destitute, Done cruelty to any man or brute, Or nailed Thy poor upon a cross of wood, Or on a cross of gold, or iron, O, smite! Smite with Thy rod and cast me from Thy sight. LAST WORD Let no man call me coward that I will die And dip no more my bread in living’s foul And muddy stream; but, God, accept my soul Which into air so soon must wandering fly. For I have never hated you at all, You brother men, albeit that you must Hate all such dust as is not of your dust, Content for power to strive and hate and brawl. But to you who have laughed and holpen one another, You few gay valiant souls amid the rabble, I say--“God knows I have loved you!” Then forgive Me in whose heart is no more power to live: Who must with this poor gesture break the bubble Which held us here on Earth brother to brother. VANITY OF VANITIES We spend our days for things which profit not, We set our heart on things. When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot, And when stiff age like ice about us clings, We spend our days for that which profits not, We set our heart on things. More worthy was the blasphemous disdain Of all God’s world of sense by stubborn saint, Ungrateful of the sunlight and the rain, Untouched by colours bending rainbows paint. More worthy was the pagan ignorance Of all save what a world of sense discloses: That found his soul above the starry dance, This in a sweet but fading heaven of roses. But us no heaven of saint nor flower delights; When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot We spend our days for things which profit not, And in the last cold days and lonely nights Wherewith our little span of living closes, We set our heart on things. What profits it, you futile little men Who, furry-coated, tethering the lightning, From here to London ride and back again? What profits it, you whose fat hands are tightening Upon the lives of others? Nay, but tell What would you profit gaining all the world? (And if there were no hell) What have you seen of loveliness unfurled In heaven above or on the earth below? Speak! What have you to show? What do you profit? If you drove a car Through Paradise you would not hear the wings! Did Michael leave the gates of God ajar (As he has done!) what would you crave but things? More houses, maybe, with a telephone, To call your own! And you, my brothers, in the dim-lit mine, Or in the town, or on the tumbling sea, Who carry in your ears the hungry whine Of wolves which hunt the woods of Poverty: What profit you, if under that same sign As they who grind you down you too advance? If on the tide of chance You (swept away) Do even as they? For close about us whir the angel wings, And near beside us sound the throbbing strings Of Paradise. The song of Brotherhood With flowers springs, and sings through all the air To that high place where Jacob’s ladder stood Tethered to chanting stars. We only dare Ignore God’s message, we alone of all His children scorn Love’s joyous festival, Spending our days for that which profits not, Setting our heart on things. When sense is edged and blood of Youth is hot, And when stiff age like ice about us clings, We spend our days for things which profit not, We set our heart on things. TRIOLET Flesh triumphs awhile, And after, the spirit. By force and by guile Flesh triumphs awhile, Then finds but a pile Of grave-earth to inherit Flesh triumphs awhile And after, the spirit. FIRE (REVISED VERSION[1]) I Gold-crowned with flames Behind its bars The coal: And over the chimney In a black hole Spark-children playing Their mazy games And mimic-mighty wars: Apple-logs green Crossed cunningly: Smoke-veils between Drifting and lifting.... O fire, my glee, Poor man’s friend, Food, company, Warmth and wine in one: May I never need Shillings to spend On apple-logs And coals to feed Thee, Bright-faced wonder of children and me! [1] First version was published in _Ducks, and other Verses_, 1919. II Warm at thy feet I hear Speech more wise, more dear And clear than sage’s: More sweet than pages Of any poet, Showing never yet Smoke-veils of blue In golden places, Soot too, And faces In fire, and sparkling gay Little-lived glad children of fire at play. III What lore forlorn, What tale of tales, When man’s poor stock Of wisdom fails In Fire’s cave, Is born! Here Jack shall knock, --That hero brave On the giant’s door ... With rumbling snore The monster turns From sleep, And yawns.... But the sheep Of Little Bo-Peep (By magic quick To wolves now turning) Are following Jack. Hark, crackle crack! (Is it fire burning?) They crunch, they lick Up “Fe, Fo, Fum.” Sucking his thumb Little Jack Horner Creeps from the corner Where he had hidden Behind a pie From the giant’s eye. Now doors as bidden Do open fly, And in they throng-- The prisoners all With a merry song. Here’s Old King Cole To lead the ball! How merrily His fiddlers three Strike up the air That pleases his soul-- A mighty sound As of wind in chimneys When trees are bare.... Round and round In smoke-wreaths whirl Prince, Shepherd-girl, King, goose-girl, queen, All who have been For joy of children, And company, Since tales began: All that a man Can believe and be Never again; Save when in fire (Apple-logs green Crossed cunningly) He sees it plain, As I have seen, This thronged night-fire: Such light that shines Through Poetry and Small tumbling strain Of song, or from a window-pane As daylight fails, As evening pales In a sweet land Shadowed with pines, Peopled with children-haunted pines Murmuring fairy-tales. THE LIFE THAT’S UNDER THE GROUND It’s funny to think of the life that’s under the ground. The mole that snouted up that loose red mound Of earth; the worm that turned those worm-casts; now, _They_ are enough to pucker any man’s brow. Once (I was only a boy) I caught a mole, And he was angry, and bit a little hole In the ball of my thumb. Worms I have often found, Glow-worms, and ones like this that slithe around. * * * * * It’s funny to think of the life that’s under ground. EPITAPH This little girl In brown earth lies. She shall sweeten the sweet air Of Paradise With her slow lovely speech And wondering eyes. INVOCATION--AND REPLY Hear me, brave words, You who of old Came singing birds To a poet’s call: “_Many have called us, yet we served not all._” Come words of jade To make green eyes Of a little maid, Come words that sing And let her linnet speech now softly ring. Ivory words Denote her breasts, Two fluttering birds That sit and sing For joy of some unseen delicious spring. Dusky words weave Her falling hair, The world bereave Of shadows long And shake them in a sombre tangled throng. Come you most durable Shining words, ’Gainst the incurable Drift of Time Guard me her sweetness safe within a rhyme. * * * * * _Is that thy need?_--Truly the all-complete Imperious need of every mortal lover Since life was lived in Time and Time was rover-- To carve the image of that passing-sweet Swift withering flower of Beauty naméd Love; To crystallize a moment’s grace for ever. (“_The old old plea yet that is not enough!_” _Words whisper_); to seize Joy; to stay the river Of ever-flowing water bearing down To shadowy oceans all we crave to mind us Of Beauty and her heart of perfect peace. Words, aid me! Set your Time-defying crown On all my heart would never more release. Where wait ye, words? _Here._ Come! _No, poet, find us!_ MADNESS “Nothing without a cause,” You say. _Why did the wind Point with a thin Lean finger then?_ “Laws behind the laws, And behind all a mind.” _A mind: just so. Somebody telling it to!_ _Bidding it point and beckon And wave; Bidding it blast and blacken All life was, With thoughts of one in a grave, And wind stroking the grass._ GLOUCESTERSHIRE MEN Gloucester, Glevum, and Caer Glow, The name is nothing! Then as now Men mowed the meadow-grass for cattle, Died for Gloucestershire in battle, Fought, and loved, and built, and planned, And wrested with this kindly land. Man’s tiny spark of mortal fire Seems suddenly big in Gloucestershire. The little chain of life on earth Lengthens out round Minsterworth. Here and in all the country round Marks of men are on the ground. Here no brooding iron peak, No barren desert is, to shriek The little loneliness of man, Whose days are measured by a span; But in the faces of our brothers See we the looks of those old “others”: The men in yonder humped-up barrow, Crouched with their mortal joys and sorrow; The Roman soldier sound asleep By walls where English weeds slow creep (A thousand years are but a span ...): Each dead man was a Gloucestershire man! A BALLADE OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE TOWNS Or ever in Cheltenham town dyspeptic flaunted His finery, or steel-clad Normans came To build that tower at Tewkesbury bird-haunted: Or ever rose that town of olden fame-- Ciceter, out of Roman arms and flame: Before the older Bristol was begot Of Keltic fathers: Caer Glow was a name. Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot! Caer Glow, “the splendid city,” so they called it, Those funny beggars brilliant in woad; And then the tramping Romans came and walled it And called it Glevum, throwing many a road Through and around it. Dane and Saxon strode Awhile its streets; then they whose quills did blot That Domesday Book which every city showed, Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot! Bristol, that blue-eyed sailor-man, who sallied Forth to adventure, latterly has grown A merchant-prince, respectable, pot-bellied. Winchcombe--poor pagan queen--doth lack a throne. Ciceter keeps her soul, but she alone: For Tewkesbury’s soul is in a pewter-pot, And Cheltenham never had one of her own. Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot! L’ENVOY Prince, you have travelled far and wide, and seen Much nicer towns than these? “All Tommy rot!” (“Your Royal Highness surely jests,” I mean.) Old Gloucester reigns the king of all the lot! LUCKY Lucky to live, Lucky again To have met and marched With the finest men (So I believe) Earth ever bred Since heaven was arched.... _But they are dead._ Lucky to love, Most lucky to Have loved, of all I might have, you Whom Time doth prove Most tender-hearted And beautiful.... _But we are parted._ CAROL Sing lullaby, sing lullaby, While snow doth softly fall, Sing lullaby to Jesus Born in an oxen-stall. Sing lullaby to Jesus, Born now in Bethlehem, The naked blackthorn’s growing To weave His diadem. Sing lullaby, sing lullaby, While thickly snow doth fall, Sing lullaby to Jesus The Saviour of all. GOD’S BEAUTY IN THE SKY God’s beauty in the sky, And in a silver cloud: Everywhere in the world His beauty cries aloud. But why should I talk of it? Let me drink it up As now I drink this cider From a big blue cup! THE LOST WORLD What hues, what dances Do I remember Lighter than leaves dancing And red November? Why does my heart whisper Under the trees, “There are brighter colours and lighter Dancers than these”? What dream more golden In firelight hovers Than these faces of friends And trusty lovers? Why does my heart whisper In this gay peace, “There are bolder lovers and older Comrades than these”? _PROSE POEMS_ DAWN ARISE!--ARISE! Dew, like a thousand gems, is in the hair of the dear earth eager to dance. THE VISIBLE WORLD Rub your eyes! If a man believe not in earth, how should he believe in heaven? If he love not the visible, how should he its high symbol? FUEL You are burning me in a flame whereat starved men and women may warm themselves. But you are angry that the winds blow my ashes into your eyes. BLOW, INVISIBLE MOUTHS! Did God blow upon a reed (having cut it to His mind), what melodies might not be piped!--what news of glorious birth! To you, beloved Dead, I give my life that is but a reed. Blow, blow, invisible mouths of God! ANGRY LOVER Before God’s throne came the angry lover. “I am betrayed!” he cried, and the courts of Heaven rang again with the sound of the word. “Thy daughter Life have I wooed. For her have I given all--yea, all--since that is the price of love, and now, behold, Thou hast given me her dark sister, Death!” “Yet have I but one daughter,” answered God. “Is it possible that even yet thou dost not know me?” whispered the veiled one. HOME HOME!--HOME! All night the orchards sighing and surging.... All night the branches tossing and gesturing against the moon.... All night the scent of the blossom.... But why do they say that I am dead? LOVE SONG He sang of the strong labouring of stars that wheel in their courses, and of passionate Suns.... Songs of courage against destiny, of scorn against mean riches; songs of sorrow, and of dancing joy; of childhood, old age, and life again after. But never a song sang he of his beloved. Therefore she laughed, and knew that he was still her slave. THE WINDOW Blinking at the sun, what things of horror come peering out of me!--what ages of beasts! O that God would look out of me upon His world--that I might be a window for the eyes of Christ! BROTHERS Are men only our brothers? Were not the animals and the stars at Bethlehem? HOLY BROTHERHOOD O you who have found mankind for a brother, be not content! You are brothers and sisters of angels and archangels: and your feet are on the glimmering roadways of unimaginable stars. _Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAREWELL *** Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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