Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 12

A stretch of primrose and pale green To hold the tender Hesper in; Hesper that by the moon makes pale Her silver keel and silver sail.

The country silence wraps me quite, Silence and song and pure delight; The country beckons all the day Smiling, and but a step away.

This is that country seen across How many a league of love and loss, Prayed for and longed for, and as far As fountains in the desert are.

This is that country at my door, Whose fragrant airs run on before, And call me when the first birds stir In the green wood to walk with her.

_Katharine Tynan._

53. EARLY MORN

When I did wake this morn from sleep, It seemed I heard birds in a dream; Then I arose to take the air-- The lovely air that made birds scream; Just as a green hill launched the s.h.i.+p Of gold, to take its first clear dip.

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And it began its journey then, As I came forth to take the air; The timid Stars had vanished quite, The Moon was dying with a stare; Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen, As still as pictures, in fields green.

It seemed as though I had surprised And trespa.s.sed in a golden world That should have pa.s.sed while men still slept!

The joyful birds, the s.h.i.+p of gold, The horses, kine, and sheep did seem As they would vanish for a dream.

_William H. Davies._

64. THE HILL PINES WERE SIGHING

The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day: A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May.

But deep in the glen's bosom Summer slept in the fire Of the odorous gorse-blossom And the hot scent of the brier.

A ribald cuckoo clamoured, And out of the copse the stroke Of the iron axe that hammered The iron heart of the oak.

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Anon a sound appalling, As a hundred years of pride Crashed, in the silence falling; And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.

_Robert Bridges._

55. THE CHOICE

When skies are blue and days are bright A kitchen-garden's my delight, Set round with rows of decent box And blowsy girls of hollyhocks.

Before the lark his Lauds hath done And ere the corncrake's southward gone; Before the thrush good-night hath said And the young Summer's put to bed.

The currant-bushes' spicy smell, Homely and honest, likes me well, The while on strawberries I feast, And raspberries the sun hath kissed.

Beans all a-blowing by a row.

Of hives that great with honey go, With mignonette and heaths to yield The plundering bee his honey-field.

Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage And the delicious mint and sage, Rosemary, marjoram, and rue, And thyme to scent the winter through.

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Here are small apples growing round, And apricots all golden-gowned, And plums that presently will flush And show their bush a Burning Bush.

Cherries in nets against the wall, Where Master Thrush his madrigal Sings, and makes oath a churl is he Who grudges cherries for a fee.

Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here Shall Beauty make her pomander, Her sweet-b.a.l.l.s for to lay in clothes That wrap her as the leaves the rose.

Take roses red and lilies white, A kitchen garden's my delight; Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves, And its tall cote of irised doves.

_Katharine Tynan._

56. THERE IS A HILL

There is a hill beside the silver Thames, Shady with birch and beech and odorous pine And brilliant underfoot with thousand gems Steeply the thickets to his floods decline.

Straight trees in every place Their thick tops interlace, And pendent branches trail their foliage fine Upon his watery face.

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Swift from the sweltering pasturage he flows: His stream, alert to seek the pleasant shade, Pictures his gentle purpose, as he goes Straight to the caverned pool his toil has made.

His winter floods lay bare The stout roots in the air: His summer streams are cool, when they have played Among their fibrous hair.

A rushy island guards the sacred bower, And hides it from the meadow, where in peace The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, Robbing the golden market of the bees: And laden barges float By banks of myosote; And scented flag and golden flower-de-lys Delay the loitering boat.

And on this side the island, where the pool Eddies away, are tangled ma.s.s on ma.s.s The water-weeds, that net the fishes cool, And scarce allow a narrow stream to pa.s.s; Where spreading crowfoot mars The drowning nenuphars, Waving the ta.s.sels of her silken gra.s.s Below her silver stars.

But in the purple pool there nothing grows, Not the white water-lily spoked with gold;

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Though best she loves the hollows, and well knows On quiet streams her broad s.h.i.+elds to unfold: Yet should her roots but try Within these deeps to lie, Not her long-reaching stalk could ever hold Her waxen head so high.

Sometimes an angler comes, and drops his hook Within its hidden depths, and 'gainst a tree Leaning his rod, reads in some pleasant book, Forgetting soon his pride of fishery; And dreams, or falls asleep, While curious fishes peep About his nibbled bait, or scornfully Dart off and rise and leap.

And sometimes a slow figure 'neath the trees, In ancient-fas.h.i.+oned smock, with tottering care Upon a staff propping his weary knees.

May by the pathway of the forest fare: As from a buried day Across the mind will stray Some peris.h.i.+ng mute shadow,--and unaware He pa.s.seth on his way.