Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 160

For one who sees The great sun freeze, As he wanders a-cold From hill to hill;

And all her heart Is a woven part Of the flurry and drift Of whirling snow;

For the sake of two Sad eyes and true, And the old, old love So long ago.

Douglas Hyde. b. 1861

858. My Grief on the Sea FROM THE IRISH

MY grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll!

For they heave between me And the love of my soul!

Abandon'd, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair?

My grief and my trouble!

Would he and I were, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare!

Were I and my darling-- O heart-bitter wound!-- On board of the s.h.i.+p For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day.

And my Love came behind me, He came from the South; His breast to my bosom, His mouth to my mouth.

Arthur Christopher Benson. b. 1862

859. The Phoenix

BY feathers green, across Casbeen The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown, By gems he strew'd in waste and wood, And jewell'd plumes at random thrown.

Till wandering far, by moon and star, They stand beside the fruitful pyre, Where breaking bright with sanguine light The impulsive bird forgets his sire.

Those ashes s.h.i.+ne like ruby wine, Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt, The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl Are with the glorious anguish gilt.

So rare the light, so rich the sight, Those pilgrim men, on profit bent, Drop hands and eyes and merchandise, And are with gazing most content.

Henry Newbolt. b. 1862

860. He fell among Thieves

'YE have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?'

'Blood for our blood,' they said.

He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.'

'You shall die at dawn,' said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Ya.s.sin river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The bra.s.ses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the das serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the pa.s.sengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white; He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.

'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.'

A sword swept.

Over the pa.s.s the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.

Gilbert Parker. b. 1862

861. Reunited

WHEN you and I have play'd the little hour, Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath, The first long breath of freedom; when the flower Of Recompense hath flutter'd to our feet, As to an actor's; and, the curtain down, We turn to face each other all alone-- Alone, we two, who never yet did meet, Alone, and absolute, and free: O then, O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?

Clasp'd hands, press'd lips, and so clasp'd hands again; No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail, My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan Of joy, and then our infinite Alone.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

862. Where My Books go

ALL the words that I utter, And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring, And never rest in their flight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, And sing to you in the night, Beyond where the waters are moving, Storm-darken'd or starry bright.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

863. When You are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865