A Cluster of Grapes Part 1

A Cl.u.s.ter of Grapes.

by Various.

_PREFACE_

_If the existence and contents of this book require any explanation, the compiler may adopt the words of a famous defender of poetry:_

_"Hee doth not onely shew the way but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way as will entice anie man into it._

_"Nay, hee doth as if your journey should lye through a faire Vineyard, at the verie first give you a cl.u.s.ter of Grapes that full of that taste you may long to pa.s.se further. He beginneth not with obscure definitions, which must blurre the margent with interpretations and loade the memorie with doubtfulnesse, but hee cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with or prepared for the well-enchanting skill of musicke, and with a tale forsoothe he cometh unto you, with a tale which holdeth children from play and olde men from the chimney-corner, and pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the minde from wickedness to vertue."_

_These excellent words of Sir Philip Sidney give the reason and scope of this collection of examples of the poetry of the present century. No attempt at arbitrary cla.s.sification or labelling has been made; it is not intended to show that any poet, deliberately or otherwise, is a Neo-Symbolist or Paroxyst or is afflicted with any other 'ist or 'ism; it is not compiled to a.s.sert that any one group of poets is superior to any other group of poets or to poets who had the misfortune to have their corporeal existence cut short before the dawn of the twentieth century; it is not even intended to prove that good poetry is written in our time. All such purposes and particularly the latter are superfluous and may be left to dogmatic disputants who have little care for the grace and harmony of poetry._

_The scheme of the Anthology is simple and without guile. It does not presuppose an abrupt period, but for the sake of convenience and in justification of its existence includes only the work of living writers produced during the present century and therefore most likely to be representative of the poetry of to-day. No editorial credit can be claimed for the selections; they are not the reflex of one individual's taste and preferences, but have been made by the writers themselves, to whom--and their respective publishers--for their cordial co-operation the collator of this distinctive volume is exceedingly grateful, not on his own account only but also on behalf of those readers to whom this volume will open out so fair a prospect that they will long to pa.s.s further, this "cl.u.s.ter of grapes" being one of the "lures immortal" for the rapidly increasing number of discriminating lovers of the high poetry that is the touchstone of beauty. The finest lyric work of our day needs no further introduction; the poet is his own best interpreter; but it may be added, in antic.i.p.ation of advent.i.tious criticism of the limitations of these examples, that the capacity of the present volume and the absence abroad of some potential contributors account for the non-inclusion of certain writers who otherwise would have been represented here._

_GALLOWAY KYLE._

_May_, 1914.

RECONCILIATION

I begin through the gra.s.s once again to be bound to the Lord; I can see, through a face that has faded, the face full of rest Of the earth, of the mother, my heart with her heart in accord, As I lie mid the cool green tresses that mantle her breast I begin with the gra.s.s once again to be bound to the Lord.

By the hand of a child I am led to the throne of the King For a touch that now fevers me not is forgotten and far, And His infinite sceptred hands that sway us can bring Me in dreams from the laugh of a child to the song of a star.

On the laugh of a child I am borne to the joy of the King.

THE MAN TO THE ANGEL

I have wept a million tears: Pure and proud one, where are thine, What the gain though all thy years In unbroken beauty s.h.i.+ne?

All your beauty cannot win Truth we learn in pain and sighs: You can never enter in To the circle of the wise.

They are but the slaves of light Who have never known the gloom, And between the dark and bright Willed in freedom their own doom.

Think not in your pureness there, That our pain but follows sin: There are fires for those who dare Seek the throne of might to win.

Pure one, from your pride refrain: Dark and lost amid the strife I am myriad years of pain Nearer to the fount of life.

When defiance fierce is thrown At the G.o.d to whom you bow, Rest the lips of the Unknown Tenderest upon my brow.

BABYLON

The blue dusk ran between the streets: my love was winged within my mind, It left to-day and yesterday and thrice a thousand years behind.

To-day was past and dead for me, for from to-day my feet had run Through thrice a thousand years to walk the ways of ancient Babylon.

On temple top and palace roof the burnished gold flung back the rays Of a red sunset that was dead and lost beyond a million days.

The tower of heaven turns darker blue, a starry sparkle now begins; The mystery and magnificence, the myriad beauty and the sins Come back to me. I walk beneath the shadowy mult.i.tude of towers; Within the gloom the fountain jets its pallid mist in lily flowers.

The waters lull me and the scent of many gardens, and I hear Familiar voices, and the voice I love is whispering in my ear.

Oh real as in dream all this; and then a hand on mine is laid: The wave of phantom time withdraws; and that young Babylonian maid, One drop of beauty left behind from all the flowing of that tide, Is looking with the self-same eyes, and here in Ireland by my side.

Oh light our life in Babylon, but Babylon has taken wings, While we are in the calm and proud procession of eternal things.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

MAKING HASTE

"Soon!" says the Snowdrop, and smiles at the motherly earth, "Soon!--for the Spring with her languors comes stealthily on Snow was my cradle, and chill winds sang at my birth; Winter is over--and I must make haste to be gone!"

"Soon," says the Swallow, and dips to the wind-ruffled stream, "Grain is all garnered--the Summer is over and done; Bleak to the eastward the icy battalions gleam, Summer is over--and I must make haste to be gone!"

"Soon--ah, too soon!" says the Soul, with a pitiful gaze, "Soon!--for I rose like a star, and for aye would have shone!

See the pale shuddering dawn, that must wither my rays, Leaps from the mountains--and I must make haste to be gone!"

AT EVENTIDE

At morn I saw the level plain So rich and small beneath my feet, A sapphire sea without a stain, And fields of golden-waving wheat; Lingering I said, "At noon I'll be At peace by that sweet-scented tide.

How far, how fair my course shall be, Before I come to the Eventide!"

Where is it fled, that radiant plain?

I stumble now in miry ways; Dark clouds drift landward, big with rain, And lonely moors their summits raise.

On, on with hurrying feet I range, And left and right in the dumb hillside Grey gorges open, drear and strange, And so I come to the Eventide!

IN A COLLEGE GARDEN

Birds, that cry so loud in the old, green bowery garden, Your song is of _Love! Love! Love!_ Will ye weary not nor cease?

For the loveless soul grows sick, the heart that the grey days harden; I know too well that ye love! I would ye should hold your peace.

I too have seen Love rise, like a star; I have marked his setting; I dreamed in my folly and pride that Life without Love were peace.

But if Love should await me yet, in the land of sleep and forgetting-- Ah, bird, could you sing me this, I would not your song should cease!

ANNA BUNSTON (Mrs de BARY)