A Cluster of Grapes Part 9

THERE'S A CLEAN WIND BLOWING

There's a clean wind blowing Over hill-flower and peat, Where the bell heather's growing, And the brown burn flowing, And the ghost-shadows going Down the glen on stealthy feet.

There's a clean wind blowing, And the breath of it is sweet.

There's a clean wind blowing, And the world holds but three: The purple peak against the sky, The master wind, and me.

The moor birds are tossing Like ships upon the sea; There's a clean wind blowing Free.

There's a clean wind blowing, Untainted of the town, A fair-hitting foeman With his glove flung down.

Will ye take his lordly challenge And the gauntlet that he throws, And come forth among the heather Where the clean wind blows!

THE GARDEN OF THE NIGHT

The Night is a far-spreading garden, and all through the hours Glisten and glitter and sparkle her wonderful flowers.

First the great moon-rose full blooming; the great bed of stars Touching with restful gold petals the woodland's dark bars; Then arc-lights like asters that blossom in street and in square, And lamps like primroses beyond them in planted parterre; Great tulips of crimson that rise from the factory towers; White lilies that drop from deep windows: all flowers, the Night's flowers!

Blooms on the highway that twinkle and fade like the stars, Golden and red on the vans and the carts and the cars; Cl.u.s.ters of bloom in the village; lone homesteads a-light, Decking the lawns of the darkness, the plots of the Night.

Then the bright blossoms of platform and signal that shine By the iron-paved path of the garden--the lights of the Line; The gold flowers of comfort and caution; the buds of dull red, Sombre with warning; the green leaves that say "Right ahead!"

Then the flowers in the harbour that low to the tide of it lean; The lights on the port and the starboard, the red and the green, Mixing and mingling with mast lights that move in the air, And deck lights and wharf lights and lights upon pier-head and stair; An edging of gold where a liner steals by like a thief; The giant grey gleam of a searchlight that swings like a leaf; And far out to seaward faint petals that flutter and fall Against the white flower of the Lighthouse that gathers them all.

Then flower lights all golden with welcome--the lights of the inn; And poisonous h.e.l.l-flowers, lit doorways that beckon to sin; Soft vesper flowers of the Churches with dark stems above; Gold flowers of court and of cottage made one flower by love; Beacons of windows on hillside and cliff to recall Some wanderer lost for a season--Night's flowers one and all!

In the street, in the lane, on the Line, on the ships and the towers, In the windows of cottage and palace--all flowers, the Night's flowers!

THE CROSSING SWORDS

As I lay dreaming in the gra.s.s I saw a Knight of Tourney pa.s.s-- All conquering Summer. Twilit hours Made soft light round him, rainbow flowers Hung on his harness.

Down the dells The fairy heralds rang blue-bells, And even as they rocked and rang Into the lists, full-armed, there sprang Autumn, his helm the harvest moon, His sword a sickle, the gleaner's tune His hymn of battle.

Each bowed full low, Knight to knight as to worthy foe, Then Autumn tossed as his gauntlet down-- A leaf of the lime tree, golden brown-- And Summer bound it above the green Of his shining breast-plate's verdant sheen.

--They closed. Above them the driving mists Stooped and feathered--and hid the lists.

Later the cloud mist rolled away But dead in his harness the Green Knight lay.

STEPHEN PHILLIPS

LURES IMMORTAL

Sadly, apparently frustrate, life hangs above us, Cruel, dark unexplained; Yet still the immortal through mortal incessantly pierces With calls, with appeals, and with lures.

Lure of the sinking sun, into undreamed islands, Fortunate, far in the West; Lure of the star, with speechless news o'er br.i.m.m.i.n.g, With language of darted light; Of the sea-glory of opening lids of Aurora, Ushering eyes of the dawn; Of the callow bird in the matin darkness calling, Chorus of drowsy charm; Of the wind, south-west, with whispering leaves illumined, Solemn gold of the woods; Of the intimate breeze of noon, deep-charged with a message, How near, at times, unto speech!

Of the sea, that soul of a poet a-yearn for expression, For ever yearning in vain!

Hoa.r.s.e o'er the shingle with loud, unuttered meanings, Hurling on caverns his heart.

Of the summer night, what to communicate, eager?

Perchance the secret of peace.

The lure of the silver to gold, of the pale unto colour, Of the seen to the real unseen; Of voices away to the voiceless, of sound unto silence, Of words to a wordless calm; Of music doomed unto wandering, still returning, Ever to heaven and home.

The lure of the beautiful woman through flesh unto spirit, Through a smile unto endless light; Of the flight of a bird thro' evening over the marsh-land, Lingering in Heaven alone; Of the vessel disappearing over the sea-marge, With him or with her that we love; Of the sudden touch in the hand of a friend or a maiden, Thrilling up to the stars.

The appealing death of a soldier, the moon just rising, Kindling the battle-field; Of the cup of water, refused by the thirsting Sidney, Parched with the final pang: Of the crucified Christ, yet lo, those arms extended, Wide, as a world to embrace; And last, and grandest, the lure, the invitation, And sacred wooing of death; Unto what regions, or heavens, or solemn s.p.a.ces, Who, but by dying, can tell?

BEAUTIFUL LIE THE DEAD

Beautiful lie the dead; Clear comes each feature; Satisfied not to be, Strangely contented.

Like ships, the anchor dropped, Furled every sail is Mirrored with all their masts In a deep water.

A LYRIC FROM "THE SIN OF DAVID"

I

Red skies above a level land And thoughts of thee; Sinking Sun on reedy strand, And alder tree.

II

Only the heron sailing home With heavy flight!

Ocean afar in silent foam, And coming night!

III

Dwindling day and drowsing birds, O my child!

Dimness and returning herds, Memory wild.

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

A DEVON COURTING

Birds gived over singin'

Flitter-mice was wingin'

Mist lay on the meadows-- A purty sight to see.

Downling in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy-- Downling in the dimpsy Theer went a maid wi' me.

Two gude mile o' walkin'

Not wan word o' talkin', Then I axed a question An' put the same to she.