Georgian Poetry 1913-15 Part 15

They say that the Dead die not, but remain Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.

I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these, In wise majestic melancholy train, And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas, And men, coming and going on the earth.

SONNET

(Suggested by some of the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research)

Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun, We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run Down some close-covered by-way of the air, Some low sweet alley between wind and wind, Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there

Spend in pure converse our eternal day; Think each in each, immediately wise; Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say What this tumultuous body now denies; And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

THE SOLDIER

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

THUNDERSTORMS

My mind has thunderstorms, That brood for heavy hours: Until they rain me words, My thoughts are drooping flowers And sulking, silent birds.

Yet come, dark thunderstorms, And brood your heavy hours; For when you rain me words My thoughts are dancing flowers And joyful singing birds.

THE MIND'S LIBERTY

The mind, with its own eyes and ears, May for these others have no care; No matter where this body is, The mind is free to go elsewhere.

My mind can be a sailor, when This body's still confined to land; And turn these mortals into trees, That walk in Fleet Street or the Strand.

So, when I'm pa.s.sing Charing Cross, Where porters work both night and day, I ofttimes hear sweet Malpas Brook, That flows thrice fifty miles away.

And when I'm pa.s.sing near St Paul's, I see, beyond the dome and crowd, Twm Barlum, that green pap in Gwent, With its dark nipple in a cloud.

THE MOON

Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, Oh thou fair Moon, so close and bright; Thy beauty makes me like the child That cries aloud to own thy light: The little child that lifts each arm To press thee to her bosom warm.

Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak for me More than for them their sweetest notes: Who worships thee till music fails, Is greater than thy nightingales.

WHEN ON A SUMMER'S MORN

When on a summer's morn I wake, And open my two eyes, Out to the clear, born-singing rills My bird-like spirit flies,

To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush, Or any bird in song; And common leaves that hum all day, Without a throat or tongue.

And when Time strikes the hour for sleep, Back in my room alone, My heart has many a sweet bird's song-- And one that's all my own.

A GREAT TIME

Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad, Beyond the town, where wild flowers grow-- A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord, How rich and great the times are now!

Know, all ye sheep And cows, that keep On staring that I stand so long In gra.s.s that's wet from heavy rain-- A rainbow and a cuckoo's song May never come together again; May never come This side the tomb.

THE HAWK

Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched, The air is all around: What is it that can keep thee set, From falling to the ground?

The concentration of thy mind Supports thee in the air; As thou dost watch the small young birds, With such a deadly care.

My mind has such a hawk as thou, It is an evil mood; It comes when there's no cause for grief, And on my joys doth brood.

Then do I see my life in parts; The earth receives my bones, The common air absorbs my mind-- It knows not flowers from stones.

SWEET STAY-AT-HOME

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent: Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze.

Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow For miles, as far as eyes can go; Thou hast not seen a summer's night When maids could sew by a worm's light; Nor the North Sea in spring send out Bright hues that like birds flit about In solid cages of white ice-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.

Thou hast not seen black fingers pick White cotton when the bloom is thick, Nor heard black throats in harmony; Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie Flat on the earth, that once did rise To hide proud kings from common eyes.

Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom Where green things had such little room They pleased the eye like fairer flowers-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.

Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place, Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face; For thou hast made more homely stuff Nurture thy gentle self enough; I love thee for a heart that's kind-- Not for the knowledge in thy mind.

A FLEETING Pa.s.sION