Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 26

But on the broad low plain When night is clear and windy, with hard frost, Such as had once the morning in their eyes, Watching and wearying, gaze upon the skies, And cannot see that star for their great pain Because the sun is lost.

Alas, how all our love Is scant at best to fill so ample room!

Image and influence fall too fast away And fading memory cries at dusk of day _Deem'st thou the dust recks aught at all thereof, The ghost within the tomb?_

For even o'er lives like his The slumberous river washes soft and slow; The lapping water rises wearily, Numbing the nerve and will to sleep; and we Before the goal and crown of mysteries Fall back, and dare not know.

Only at times we know, In gyres convolved and luminous...o...b..ts whirled The soul beyond her knowing seems to sweep Out of the deep, fire-winged, into the deep; As two, who loved each other here below Better than all the world,

Yet ever held apart, And never knew their own hearts' deepest things, After long lapse of periods, wandering far Beyond the pathways of the furthest star, Into communicable s.p.a.ce might dart With tremor of thunderous wings;

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Across the void might call Each unto each past worlds that raced and ran, And flash through galaxies, and clasp and kiss In some slant chasm and infinite abyss Far in the faint sidereal interval Between the Lyre and Swan.

_J. W. Mackail._

121. ESTRANGEMENT

So, without overt breach, we fall apart, Tacitly sunder--neither you nor I Conscious of one intelligible Why, And both, from severance, winning equal smart.

So, with resigned and acquiescent heart, Whene'er your name on some chance lip may lie, I seem to see an alien shade pa.s.s by, A spirit wherein I have no lot or part.

Thus may a captive, in some fortress grim, From casual speech betwixt his warders, learn That June on her triumphant progress goes Through arched and bannered woodlands; while for him She is a legend emptied of concern, And idle is the rumour of the rose.

_William Watson._

122. FATHERHOOD

A kiss, a word of thanks, away They're gone, and you forsaken learn The blessedness of giving; they (So Nature bids) forget, nor turn To where you sit, and watch, and yearn.

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And you (so Nature bids) would go Through fire and water for their sake; Rise early, late take rest, to sow Their wealth, and lie all night awake If but their little finger ache.

The storied prince with wondrous hair Which stole men's hearts and wrought his bale, Rebelling, since he had no heir, Built him a pillar in the vale, --Absalom's--lest his name should fail.

It fails not, though the pillar lies In dust, because the outraged one, His father, with strong agonies Cried it until the day was done-- "O Absalom, my son, my son!"

So Nature bade; or might it be G.o.d, who in Jewry once (they say) Cried with a great cry, "Come to me, Children," who still held on their way, Though He spread out His hands all day?

_Henry Charles Beeching._

123. DAISY

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- O the breath of the distant surf!--

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The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And with the sea-breeze hand in hand Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine; Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day.

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Suss.e.x hills Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face; She gave me tokens three:-- A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,--strings of sand!

And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.

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For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end, Their scent survives their close; But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose.

She looked a little wistfully, Then went her suns.h.i.+ne way:-- The sea's eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes.

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Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in other's pain, And perish in our own.

_Francis Thompson._

124. A CRADLE SONG

O, men from the fields!

Come gently within.

Tread softly, softly, O! men coming in.