Poems by Elinor Jenkins Part 2

_Sunset_

Dear is young morning's tender-hued attire: To us and ours, 'stead of that promise, came A brief and burning sunset, blood and flame, And, looking on the end of our desire, Yet said we, "What if fealty to a name Have built our hearts' beloved a funeral pyre?

Their death hath kindled a fair beacon fire To lighten all this world of fear and shame, And none shall quench it." As the words were said, Darkened and failed the strange, unearthly light, And faded all the surging sea of gold, And nought was left of the fierce glories fled But ashen skies slow deepening into night, Lit by pale memory's stars that shake for cold.

_Sursum Corda_

Oh faint and feeble hearted, comfort ye!

Nor shame those dead whose death was great indeed, Greater than life in death. It doth not need, Since we seek strength where healing may not be, Faith in fair fables of eternal rest, Nor seer's eyes to look beyond the grave.

That they endured and dared for us shall save Our souls alive:--they met, our tenderest, Pain without plaint and death without dismay, Bore and beheld sorrows unspeakable, Yet shrank not from that double-edged distress, But, eyes set steadfastly where ends the way, They through all perils laughed and laboured well, Nor ceased from mercy on the merciless.

_Lying in State_

If with his fathers he had fallen asleep, Far different would have been this drear lyke-wake.

Lonely and lampless lies he, for whose sake Many might well a night-long vigil keep, And, though we have not time nor heart to weep, Yet fain would we some slight observance make, E'er sad to-morrow's earliest dawn shall break When he must lie yet darker and more deep.

Therefore we've laid him 'neath a chestnut tree, That bears a myriad candles all alight, And faintly glimmering through the starry gloom-- No dimmer than a holy vault might be-- It sheds abroad upon the quiet night A gentle radiance and a faint perfume.

_Wind-pedlars_

Purple and grey the vacant moor lies spread And all the storms of heaven sweep and cry Among the barrows of forgotten dead, Who died as we shall die.

There dwelt of yore, upon such desert land, Strange merchants of a stranger merchandise, Who stole the Winds from out G.o.d's hollowed hand And loosed them, at a price.

Thither mayhap the reiving marchman rode And bought a gale to ruffle the red c.o.c.k That he would set upon his foe's abode, And leave no standing stock.

And thither, with hearts tossing to and fro On stormy seas, came foolish maids and fain, And chaffered for a favouring wind to blow Their lovers home again.

Oh were such mighty witches living still, Those whistle tempests and light airs obeyed, We have more need the wind should do our will Than e'er had love-sick maid.

At body's peril and in soul's despite We would give all we had of gold and gem For a west wind, where our beloved fight, To blow the reek from them.

But these wind-pedlars with their hard-earned fee Mocked and forsaken of the fiend their sire 'Spite of all powers of spell and gramarye Pa.s.sed long ago in fire.

So to High G.o.d let humble prayers be said, From bursting hearts that wait in vain, and He In His good time, when all your dears are dead, May stoop to answer ye.

_Dulce et Decorum?_

We buried of our dead the dearest one-- Said each to other, "Here then let him lie, And they may find the place, when all is done, From the old may tree standing guard near by."

Strong limbs whereon the wasted life blood dries, And soft cheeks that a girl might wish her own, A scholar's brow, o'ershadowing valiant eyes, Henceforth shall pleasure charnel-worms alone.

For we, that loved him, covered up his face, And laid him in the sodden earth away, And left him lying in that lonely place To rot and moulder with the mouldering clay.

The hawthorn that above his grave head grew Like an old crone toward the raw earth bowed, Wept softly over him, the whole night through, And made him of her tears a glimmering shroud.

Oh Lord of Hosts, no hallowed prayer we bring, Here for Thy grace is no importuning, No room for those that will not strive nor cry When loving kindness with our dead lies slain: Give us our fathers' heathen hearts again, Valour to dare, and fort.i.tude to die.

_Succory_

In a strange burial ground Searching strange graves above, By a sure sign I found Where lay my love.

Bluer than summer skies, Than summer seas more blue, Looked from the dust his eyes Whose death I rue.

Sweet eyes of my sweet slain Lost all these weary hours, Lo, I beheld again Turned into flowers.

_Dreams Trespa.s.sing_

Of all the spectres feared and then forgot That haunt us sleeping, this is dreadfullest-- Still to seek help and find it not Through those dim lands that sleep and know not rest;

Followed for ever by a formless fear That drawing near and nearer hungrily Lowers against our dearest dear, And nought can s.h.i.+eld them from that jeopardy;

To see the unknown horror rearing slow, Hang high above them like a craning wave, And in that endless moment know Intolerable impotence to save.

Yet 'whelmed the dream-doom never one dear head, Our own hearts woke us with their pa.s.sionate beat: Straightway we found all peril fled And lay, awaiting dawn's deliverance sweet.

Now growing with the strengthening daylight strong Doth that ill dream, the sleep-world's confines breaking, Walk at our elbow all day long To leave us only at a worse awaking.