And the sentry moves not, searching Night for menace with weary eyes.
LEAVES
A frail and tenuous mist lingers on baffled and intricate branches; Little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough; Pools in the muddy road slumber, reflecting indifferent stars; Steeped in the loveliness of moonlight is earth, and the valleys, Brimmed up with quiet shadow, with a mist of sleep.
But afar on the horizon rise great pulses of light, The hammering of guns, wrestling, locked in conflict Like brute, stone G.o.ds of old struggling confusedly; Then overhead purrs a sh.e.l.l, and our heavies Answer, with sudden clapping bruits of sound, Loosening our sh.e.l.ls that stream whining and whimpering precipitately, Hounding through air athirst for blood.
And the little gilt leaves Flicker in falling, like waifs and flakes of flame.
TRANSPORT
The moon swims in milkiness, The road glimmers curving down into the wooded valley And with a clashing and creaking of tackle and axles The train of limbers pa.s.ses me, and the mules Splash me with mud, thrusting me from the road into puddles, Straining at the tackle with a bitter patience, Pa.s.sing me....
And into a patch of moonlight, With beautiful curved necks and manes, Heads reined back, and nostrils dilated, Impatient of restraint, Pa.s.s two gray stallions, Such as Oenetia bred; Beautiful as the horses of Hippolytus Carven on some antique frieze.
And my heart rejoices seeing their strength in play, The mere animal life of them, l.u.s.ting, As a thing pa.s.sionate and proud.
Then again the limbers and grotesque mules.
[Greek: autarkeia]
I am alone: even ranked with mult.i.tudes: And they alone, each man.
So are we free.
For some few friends of me, some earth of mine, Some shrines, some dreams I dream, some hopes that emerge From the rude stone of life vaguely, and tend Toward form in me: the progeny of dreams I father; even this England which is mine Whereof no man has seen the loveliness As with mine eyes: and even too, my G.o.d Whom none have known as I: for these I fight, For mine own self, that thus in giving self Prodigally, as a mere breath in the air, I may possess myself, and spend me so Mingling with earth, and dreams, and G.o.d: and being In them the master of all these in me, Perfected thus.
Fight for your own dreams, you.
EPIGRAM, R. B.
Earth held thee not, whom now the gray seas hold, By the blue Cyclades, and even the sea Palls but the mortal, for men"s hearts enfold, Inviolate, the untamed youth of thee.
NOW
I praise ye for the n.o.ble and prodigal virtues, That are spendthrift of all, Giving and taking with a light hand; For this moment only is ours:
Of old ye were provident, and frugal, With the parsimony of peace.
Now ye will jeopard your lives for a song, For a mere breath, the shadow of a desire; Cloaking your valour with a jest, Veiling its holiness, Lest wisdom deem ye fools; The vain wisdom of peace.
The old and h.o.a.ry craft, That seeth not the brightness of the sun, That hideth in the earths of foxes, That weigheth love, and delight, and laughter, Against minted gold.
The wise ...
These but traffic in our gems, They are but the merchants of our pleasure Miserly!
Who shall h.o.a.rd up life As it were but a heap of golden discs?
For it hath the lightest of light feet, This quarry of our chase: As it were Proteus, Flowing from shape to shape under our hands....
Who shall spread a net to entoil it Or snare it as a bird?
Ye play with life as with a gamester, Full of doubles and shifts, And ye laugh at each turn of the game, Your hearts hawking at a chance With a keen-edged zest.
Ye know not what ye seek, Having it always.
Ye have stolen of my riches; But ye have given me of your dearth The last fragment of your broken bread And gone hungry yourselves: Despising the matter of our lives, The faults and incompleteness Of the crude earth, From which we are moulding, With cunning and nimble fingers, Images of desire.
Let us laugh and understand each other, For how could I blame you, my friends, When ye are so generous With the fruit of your thefts?
Yea, this moment is sufficient: And being artists, after our diverse manners, When each white dawn cometh Build we the earth anew: Repenting not Yesterdays now drowned in dark, nor desiring The hastening to-morrows.
GROTESQUE
These are the d.a.m.ned circles Dante trod, Terrible in hopelessness, But even skulls have their humour, An eyeless and sardonic mockery: And we, Sitting with streaming eyes in the acrid smoke, That murks our foul, damp billet, Chant bitterly, with raucous voices As a choir of frogs In hideous irony, our patriotic songs.
DESIRE
I would sing thy face Sitting here in the firelight; Mid the senseless noise of guns Comes it as a flower between the flames.
Sea-blue thine eyes, and bright as hawk"s are, Yet frail thy face as an image in clear water As a pearl lying there, hidden or plain, when light Wavers upon it: mobile as thy moods are Or faint as a star in the mist"s milk: And frail thine hands, Delicate, Hovering in infinite slow gesture, nigh speech Hesitating, poised, Fragile: they would not mar Gray bloom on a ripe plum.
I would sing thy face To forget this....
But thy face sings to me from the slim flames And my praise is silence, and my prayer.
BLUE AND GOLD