Poems of London and Other Verses Part 3

There is a sun-dial there to mark the hours Where time is not, where time has grown so old It does not move now; yet the shadow goes Across the dial that's so warm to feel Like a cold, stealthy, creeping, living thing.

You cannot see it steal Minute from minute of the golden day Till all are eaten away, You cannot press it back with both your hands, And, on the shadowed stone Laying your cheek, you never warmth can bring To what beneath the sad triangle stands, Solitary in sunlight: for we know, It takes the whole great swinging earth to throw The little shadow on the little stone.

"TWO ONLY"

Only two hearts shall understand the sea That speaks at nightfall, in the wash and lap Of windless evenings under flaming skies; Only two hearts shall hear the rising sap In wet spring woods; and two alone, grown wise In union, shall make discovery Of what lies hidden, though before our eyes.

Oh, core of wonder in familiar things: Magic of evening, and of early morn But just created, with the dew of birth All fresh upon it, heaven itself new-born O'er the green splendour of the quiet earth And like a just-awakened bird that sings Because of sunlight, is the spirit's mirth.

All forms of beauty but express the soul As in a looking-gla.s.s; the wind that goes Low-talking to the trees beneath the stars, Or the small sound of water, as it flows Under old bridges, where the ivy mars The sharp stone outline--these are in the whole Of the World-Symphony small, tuneful bars.

And human beings in the span of years Some part of all the world-wealth may receive, More, less, but never all; and with dismay We see slow Time his net of hours weave To catch from us dear mortal night and day, Ere we have taken in our eyes and ears Beauty that lies around, beyond, away.

We, singly, feel a sudden sharp regret Behind all beauty, but we--two in one, As white and blue are separate in a flame Yet mingled--we shall watch the hours run Seeing with surer knowledge how the same Eternal splendour for the soul is set, And the day comes again from whence day came.

THE SAINT'S BIRTHDAY

One of G.o.d's blessed pitying saints one day, Reaching out hands to touch the azure throne: "Because it is my birthday, Lord," he said, "That I was born in heaven, when I was known By an earthly name, and stoned and left for dead,

"Because it is the custom, Lord, of men To keep their birthdays gladly, and with gifts Grant me a blessing from your blessed stores."

And from the cloudy rose and amber drifts About the Throne, G.o.d answered: "It is yours."

Then sprang the glad Saint earthwards; at his feet Were little golden flames, and all his hair Was blown about his head like tongues of fire, And like a star he burned through the dark air, And came, and stood by farm and shed and byre

Before the earliest grey was in the East, Or the first smoke above the chimney-stack From earliest-rising housewife, yet the cheep And twitter of birds did gladly welcome back Him who such love for earth in heaven could keep,

And who on earth such love had had for men And bird and beast, and all that lived and grew: The sparrows in the eaves remembered him And chirrupped in the gables, while the dew Was dark still, and the day below the rim.

He stood there, in the village of his life Ere he won heaven, and the breath of cows Came as a benediction, and the smell Of rain-sweet copses, and, where cattle browse, Long gra.s.s, and running water in the dell.

And his heart opened with the love he had For the dear toil-worn dwelling-place of men; To hear the sheep crop, see the glimmering grey Lighten the waiting windows once again, And garden roses opening to the day.

Not otherwise was Eden once--he thought-- And by G.o.d's blessing it may be anew: And so put forth the power G.o.d had lent And took away all labour, and he drew Heaven to earth, till earth and heaven were blent.

Time ceased to be; and yet the sun and shade s.h.i.+fted to make new beauty with the hours, And the ripe earth, unlaboured, gave her yields, No pain there was, no age, and all the flowers Unwitheringly lovely filled the fields.

And all day long the birds in ecstasy Sang without shadow of hawk or thought of death, And the saint happily went about the ways Filling each home with plenty--his very breath Was like a little thrilling note of praise.

When all was done he stepped back, childish-wise, To see and love his handiwork, and then Came a sharp pain, and pierced him through and through; He had wrought lovingly for the days of men, But the heart of men his love could not renew:

The weary heart, the ever-questioning, The loving, lacking, lonely, incomplete For ever longing to be merged in one With something other than itself; to beat To another's pulse; to be for ever done

With its sad weight of personality.

Then G.o.d leaned down to his poor saint, and said: "Dear soul, would you make heaven upon the earth: Nor know indeed My purpose in all birth, Nor that My blessing is upon the dead?"

RUPERT BROOKE

_April_ 1915

You that are gone into the dark Of unknowing and unbeing; You that have heard the song of the lark, You that have seen the joy of the spring; You have I seen, you have I known --The word you have written, your pictured head-- And they say you are laid at Lemnos among the English dead.

Soul that is gone--is gone-- Whether into the dark, Or into knowledge complete and the blinding light; Soul that was swift and free, Pa.s.sionate, eager, bright, Armed with a weapon for shams, And set with wings for flight; Soul that was questioning, restless, and all at odds with life, Greedy for it, yet satiate, and sick with the shows of things --And all laid down at Lemnos, the hunger, the love, the strife, And the youthful grace of body, and the body's ministerings.

Darkness, darkness, or light!

You have leapt from the circle of sense, And only your dust remains and the word you said: "If I should die," ... and we name you among the dead.

Yet have I a hope at heart That somewhere away, apart, Knowledge is yours and joy of the act fulfilled To still your fever of soul as your fever of blood is stilled; So shall you soar and run In water and wind and air, With your old clean joy of the sun, And your gladness in all things fair, Untouched by mortality's sadness, simple, perfect, at one.

"COMFORT ME WITH APPLES, FOR I AM SICK OF LOVE"

Red lilies under the sun, Red apples hanging above, And red is the wine that is spilled On your bare white feet, O Love.

The poppies sullenly glow In the smouldering red from the West, And black are the dregs of the wine, O Love, on your bare, white breast.

Aie! aie! when the wild swan flies Lonely and dark is the place That the white wings lightened, and death Will cover your glowing face.

O thief that is night, O thieves!

Cold years that devour us all; The lilies blossom and wilt, The apples ripen and fall,

The apples, the apples of Love!

--Lo, where we have spilled the wine, This quenchless earth is agape, O Love, for your body and mine.

OF ENGLAND

White is for purity, blue for heaven's grace, Purple is for Emperors, sitting in their place, Yellow is for happiness, rose for Love's embrace, But green--oh green, the green of England--that's for Paradise!

From seash.o.r.e to seash.o.r.e races the green tide; With the p.r.i.c.king green of hedges by the wet roadside --Or ever March triumphant comes with great, glad stride-- There is green, there's green in England, and a tale of Paradise.

Then the hawthorns flush and tremble in their early wondrous green, And the willows are resplendent in a green-and-golden sheen, Like the golden tents of princes, Babylonish, Damascene, Or enchanted silent fountains of a Persian Paradise.

There are beech and birch and elm-tree--evening-still or morning-tossed-- And the splendid generous chestnuts with their flame-like blooms embossed, There are oak and ash and elder, till the very sun is lost In the green, delicious gloaming that's the light of Paradise.

Deeper, wider, steadier this beauty ever grows, And from field-side up to tree-top the endless colour flows, Till road and house and wayside, in the first days of the rose, Are fathoms deep in waves of green, submerged in Paradise.

Oh dim and lovely hollows of all the woods that be; Oh sunlight on the uplands, like a calm, great sea; I think indeed the souls of those from circ.u.mstance set free Look down, look down on England, saying: "Ah, dear Paradise!"