THE CHILDREN AND SIR NAMELESS
Sir Nameless, once of Athelhall, declared: "These wretched children romping in my park Trample the herbage till the soil is bared, And yap and yell from early morn till dark!
Go keep them harnessed to their set routines: Thank G.o.d I"ve none to hasten my decay; For green remembrance there are better means Than offspring, who but wish their sires away."
Sir Nameless of that mansion said anon: "To be perpetuate for my mightiness Sculpture must image me when I am gone."
- He forthwith summoned carvers there express To shape a figure stretching seven-odd feet (For he was tall) in alabaster stone, With shield, and crest, and casque, and word complete: When done a statelier work was never known.
Three hundred years hied; Church-restorers came, And, no one of his lineage being traced, They thought an effigy so large in frame Best fitted for the floor. There it was placed, Under the seats for schoolchildren. And they Kicked out his name, and hobnailed off his nose; And, as they yawn through sermon-time, they say, "Who was this old stone man beneath our toes?"
AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY
These summer landscapes--clump, and copse, and croft - Woodland and meadowland--here hung aloft, Gay with limp gra.s.s and leafery new and soft,
Seem caught from the immediate season"s yield I saw last noonday shining over the field, By rapid s.n.a.t.c.h, while still are uncongealed
The saps that in their live originals climb; Yester"s quick greenage here set forth in mime Just as it stands, now, at our breathing-time.
But these young foils so fresh upon each tree, Soft verdures spread in sprouting novelty, Are not this summer"s, though they feign to be.
Last year their May to Michaelmas term was run, Last autumn browned and buried every one, And no more know they sight of any sun.
HER TEMPLE
Dear, think not that they will forget you: --If craftsmanly art should be mine I will build up a temple, and set you Therein as its shrine.
They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
--Be told, "O, so sweet was her fame, That a man heaped this splendour upon her; None now knows his name."
A TWO-YEARS" IDYLL
Yes; such it was; Just those two seasons unsought, Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways; Moving, as straws, Hearts quick as ours in those days; Going like wind, too, and rated as nought Save as the prelude to plays Soon to come--larger, life-fraught: Yes; such it was.
"Nought" it was called, Even by ourselves--that which springs Out of the years for all flesh, first or last, Commonplace, scrawled Dully on days that go past.
Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wings Even in hours overcast: Aye, though this best thing of things, "Nought" it was called!
What seems it now?
Lost: such beginning was all; Nothing came after: romance straight forsook Quickly somehow Life when we sped from our nook, Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall . . .
--A preface without any book, A trumpet uplipped, but no call; That seems it now.
BY HENSTRIDGE CROSS AT THE YEAR"S END
(From this centuries-old cross-road the highway leads east to London, north to Bristol and Bath, west to Exeter and the Land"s End, and south to the Channel coast.)
Why go the east road now? . . .
That way a youth went on a morrow After mirth, and he brought back sorrow Painted upon his brow Why go the east road now?
Why go the north road now?
Torn, leaf-strewn, as if scoured by foemen, Once edging fiefs of my forefolk yeomen, Fallows fat to the plough: Why go the north road now?
Why go the west road now?
Thence to us came she, bosom-burning, Welcome with joyousness returning . . .
--She sleeps under the bough: Why go the west road now?
Why go the south road now?
That way marched they some are forgetting, Stark to the moon left, past regretting Loves who have falsed their vow . . .
Why go the south road now?
Why go any road now?
White stands the handpost for brisk on-bearers, "Halt!" is the word for wan-cheeked farers Musing on Whither, and How . . .
Why go any road now?
"Yea: we want new feet now"
Answer the stones. "Want chit-chat, laughter: Plenty of such to go hereafter By our tracks, we trow!
We are for new feet now.
During the War.
PENANCE
"Why do you sit, O pale thin man, At the end of the room By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?
--It is cold as a tomb, And there"s not a spark within the grate; And the jingling wires Are as vain desires That have lagged too late."
"Why do I? Alas, far times ago A woman lyred here In the evenfall; one who fain did so From year to year; And, in loneliness bending wistfully, Would wake each note In sick sad rote, None to listen or see!
"I would not join. I would not stay, But drew away, Though the winter fire beamed brightly . . . Aye!