Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 159

The brave orb in state rose, And crimson he shone first; While from the high vine Of heaven the dawn burst, Staining the great rose From sky-line to sky-line.

The red rose of morn A white rose at noon turn'd; But at sunset reborn All red again soon burn'd.

Then the pale rose of noonday Rebloom'd in the night, And spectrally white In the light Of the moon lay.

But the vast rose Was scentless, And this is the reason: When the blast rose Relentless, And brought in due season The snow rose, the last rose Congeal'd in its breath, Then came with it treason; The traitor was Death.

In lee-valleys crowded, The sheep and the birds Were frozen and shrouded In flights and in herds.

In highways And byways The young and the old Were tortured and madden'd And kill'd by the cold.

But many were gladden'd By the beautiful last rose, The blossom of no name That came when the snow came, In darkness unfurl'd-- The wonderful vast rose That fill'd all the world.

William Watson. b. 1858

852. Song

APRIL, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears!

April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears!

William Watson. b. 1858

853. Ode in May

LET me go forth, and share The overflowing Sun With one wise friend, or one Better than wise, being fair, Where the pewit wheels and dips On heights of bracken and ling, And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, Tingles with the Spring.

What is so sweet and dear As a prosperous morn in May, The confident prime of the day, And the dauntless youth of the year, When nothing that asks for bliss, Asking aright, is denied, And half of the world a bridegroom is, And half of the world a bride?

The Song of Mingling flows, Grave, ceremonial, pure, As once, from lips that endure, The cosmic descant rose, When the temporal lord of life, Going his golden way, Had taken a wondrous maid to wife That long had said him nay.

For of old the Sun, our sire, Came wooing the mother of men, Earth, that was virginal then, Vestal fire to his fire.

Silent her bosom and coy, But the strong G.o.d sued and press'd; And born of their starry nuptial joy Are all that drink of her breast.

And the triumph of him that begot, And the travail of her that bore, Behold they are evermore As warp and weft in our lot.

We are children of splendour and flame, Of shuddering, also, and tears.

Magnificent out of the dust we came, And abject from the Spheres.

O bright irresistible lord!

We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, Whence first was the seed outpour'd.

To thee as our Father we bow, Forbidden thy Father to see, Who is older and greater than thou, as thou Art greater and older than we.

Thou art but as a word of his speech; Thou art but as a wave of his hand; Thou art brief as a glitter of sand 'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; Thou art less than a spark of his fire, Or a moment's mood of his soul: Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir That chant the chant of the Whole.

William Watson. b. 1858

854. The Great Misgiving

'NOT ours,' say some, 'the thought of death to dread; Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled h.e.l.l: Life is a feast, and we have banqueted-- Shall not the worms as well?

'The after-silence, when the feast is o'er, And void the places where the minstrels stood, Differs in nought from what hath been before, And is nor ill nor good.'

Ah, but the Apparition--the dumb sign-- The beckoning finger bidding me forgo The fellows.h.i.+p, the converse, and the wine, The songs, the festal glow!

And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit, And while the purple joy is pa.s.s'd about, Whether 'tis ampler day divinelier lit Or homeless night without;

And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall see New prospects, or fall sheer--a blinded thing!

There is, O grave, thy hourly victory, And there, O death, thy sting.

Henry Charles Beeching. 1859-1919

855. Prayers

G.o.d 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. 1859-1919

856. Going down Hill on a Bicycle A BOY'S SONG

WITH lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- 'O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

'Is this, is this your joy?

O bird, then I, though a boy For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!'

Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss?

'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.

Bliss Carman. b. 1861

857. Why

FOR a name unknown, Whose fame unblown Sleeps in the hills For ever and aye;

For her who hears The stir of the years Go by on the wind By night and day;

And heeds no thing Of the needs of spring, Of autumn's wonder Or winter's chill;