Poems by Elinor Jenkins Part 3

_"What shall be done with all these tears of ours?"_

The poor proud mother in the sad old tale, That wept her lovely children's loss in vain Grew one with her own tears' most bitter rain; The immortal G.o.ds that spared not for her wail Then made from out her grief's eternal flow A never-failing fountain, at whose brink Wayfaring men oft stooped them down to drink And blessed those G.o.ds, whose envy wrought her woe.

So may these bitter springs with years grow sweet, And welling ever upward full and strong, As when from many a broken heart they burst, Stay not for frost nor fail for summer heat, But make fair pools life's desert way along Where unborn generations slake their thirst.

_In Hereford Cathedral_

While the noonday prayers were said, For the warriors in our War, And many bowed the head With heavy hearts and sore, Each with his voiceless dread, Each with his hidden pain, Each thinking on his own, The living and the dead,-- Then on the pillared stone Behind the altar, fell A cross-shaped stain, A shadow strong and dark That all may mark, And know it well, That doth dear won salvation spell.

Awhile the sad sign stayed, And the shadow-shape, concealed In the hearts of them that prayed, Stood for a s.p.a.ce revealed.

_Poppyfields_

A wilderness were better than this place Where foregone seasons set a gentle spell Decking it with such fair and tender grace An angel might be pleased here to dwell; Now all its gay delights are dismal grown In the full glory of the summer time, As from the horror of some evil thing Its every grace had flown,-- Laid under penance for an unknown crime The garden close lies sick and sorrowing.

Pale in the sultry splendour of the day Each shoot a finger, stiffened wearily, The harsh-leaved rosemary stands stark and grey Pointing at that which none may ever see, And darker grows the pansy's brooding face With dark foreboding; and the lily's cup Turns loathsome, festering sourly in the sun; In the cypress's embrace The valiant scented bay is swallowed up.

The roses all have withered, one by one.

Beyond the close, smothering the wholesome corn, A flight of scarlet locusts fallen to earth Baleful, and blighting all that they adorn, The burnished heralds of a bitterer dearth, Coral and flame and blood among the gold, Like Eastern armies gorgeously dight And raised by gramarye from English sod With banners brave unrolled Each silken tent enclosing dusky night, Drowsy dream-laden poppies beck and nod.

Brighter than stains of that imperial hue Spilled from the vats of sea-enthroned Tyre, Their flaunting ranks grow dull and blow anew From smouldering rubies to fierce coals of fire, As through the thunder-burdened air of noon The slow clouds slowly drift and pa.s.s Casting soft s.h.i.+fting shadows on the field.

Alas, and all too soon The wearied eye 'gins ache for shaded gra.s.s Though the charmed sense would to the glamour yield.

Now that love's rose has crumbled into dust, And nought is left but sharp envenomed thorns, Burning remorse with many a cruel thrust, Bitter regret that unavailing mourns, Now thought is fear and memory is pain And hope a sickly pulse that will not cease, And fame a gaping grave whereby we weep, Nowhere now doth remain A place of refuge for us, or release, Save in the shadowy wastes of idle sleep.

Therefore, scorn not these flowers of phantasy That blow about the ivory gate of dreams, For though they have not truth or constancy Yet very fair their idle semblance seems.

Though short the blest relief they bring to woe, And wakening the worm 'gins gnaw again, Yet comely truth is grown a grim death's head.

Fly the unconquerable foe; Go, in an empty dream lost joys regain And down among the poppies meet your dead.

_Artificial Light_

Warm and golden and dear In custom and kindness set, We builded against our fear A place wherein to forget Darkness that rings us near.

Here our hearts we deceive And will not understand.

Whether we laugh or grieve We dwell in a lamp-lit land-- A land of make-believe

Not too high for our pride Whereto we are ever bond Nor for our souls too wide-- And all is night beyond Where monstrous things abide.

Still without ceasing we Watch on our stronghold keep, Lest lamps burn flickeringly, And, while we slumber and sleep, Outcast eternity

Break in a moment through Our soul-built barriers slight, Look in on us with blue l.u.s.treless eyes, whose light Life everlasting slew.

Heavy with endless days, With endless wisdom sad, Should those eyes behold our days And our loves wherein we are glad, We might not abide their gaze.

Our sorrows flee fast away Like shadows before the morn, In the light of eternal day Pale all our joys forlorn, Elf-gold that will not stay;

Find we, looking again, For all our cherished treasures And all our labours vain, Weariness all our pleasures And worthless all our pain.

Our vanities kissed and curled, Ere the swift vision is gone, Into the void are hurled; But we ourselves live on, Waifs in a blasted world,

Where light and laughter and love Lie dead in the dark together And we brood their dust above, Knowing not surely whether 'Tis life at our hearts doth move.

Lost without remedy, We sit under pitiless skies Mourning the moment we Looked with our finite eyes Into Infinity!

_Epitaph_

_On a Child left Buried Abroad_

Father, forget not, now that we must go, A little one in alien earth low laid; Send some kind angel when thy trumpets blow Lest he should wake alone, and be afraid.

_Veronica_

She lifted up her eyes and looked at me;-- Straightway, methought that I was gazing down Through lacy lattices of meadow gra.s.s, Into the face of that low, little flower, That holds all fathomless eternity, Inscrutable, immeasurable dusk's Heart-breaking blue, and night's first timid star, Prisoned and mirrored in a shallow cup, So small a single dewdrop would o'erflow it, So frail no vagrant bee could rest thereon.

But unaware of its own loveliness This symbol of all mysteries sad and sweet Fixes on heaven the wide unwinking stare Of blind, bright eyes, coloured and glorified, By light and hues, it apprehendeth not.-- Even so, lovely, senseless and aloof, Round-eyed Veronica looked up at me.

_Moonlight_

Even as walk on middle earth The shades of the unquiet dead That loathe the graves allotted them from birth And wander without end, uncomforted; So the dead moon, poor restless rover That died by fire, long, long ago, Wanders forlorn the steeps of heaven over; With death's despair and life's outwearied woe She journeys, a reluctant l.u.s.tre giving To this world's throbbing life and strong, And, being dead, envieth all things living, And sheds a pa.s.sing death her beams along.

To that weird corpse-light worse than dark, All fair things for a little die; The spell-bound earth lies, colourless and stark, Beneath the wan ghost witch's jealous eye.

_Waking_