Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 3

LETTERMORE

These winter days on Lettermore The brown west wind it sweeps the bay, And icy rain beats on the bare Unhomely fields that perish there: The stony fields of Lettermore That drink the white Atlantic spray.

And men who starve on Lettermore, Cursing the haggard, hungry surf, Will souse the autumn's bruised grains To light dark fires within their brains And fight with stones on Lettermore Or sprawl beside the smoky turf.

When spring blows over Lettermore To bloom the ragged furze with gold, The lovely south wind's living breath Is laden with the smell of death: For fever breeds on Lettermore To waste the eyes of young and old.

A black van comes to Lettermore; The horses stumble on the stones, The drivers curse,--for it is hard To cross the hills from Oughterard And cart the sick from Lettermore: A stinking load of rags and bones.

But you will go to Lettermore When white sea-trout are on the run, When purple glows between the rocks About Lord Dudley's fishing box Adown the road to Lettermore, And wide seas tarnish in the sun.

And so you'll think of Lettermore As a lost island of the blest: With peasant lovers in a blue Dim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew, And the sweet peace of Lettermore Remote and dreaming in the West.

SONG

Why have you stolen my delight In all the golden shows of Spring When every cherry-tree is white And in the limes the thrushes sing,

O fickler than the April day, O brighter than the golden broom, O blither than the thrushes' lay, O whiter than the cherry-bloom,

O sweeter than all things that blow ...

Why have you only left for me The broom, the cherry's crown of snow, And thrushes in the linden-tree?

THE LEANING ELM

Before my window, in days of winter h.o.a.r Huddled a mournful wood: Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore, In stony sleep they stood: But you, unhappy elm, the angry west Had chosen from the rest, Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare, And left you leaning there So dead that when the breath of winter cast Wild snow upon the blast, The other living branches, downward bowed, Shook free their crystal shroud And shed upon your blackened trunk beneath Their livery of death....

On windless nights between the beechen bars I watched cold stars Throb whitely in the sky, and dreamily Wondered if any life lay locked in thee: If still the hidden sap secretly moved As water in the icy winterbourne Floweth unheard: And half I pitied you your trance forlorn: You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird, The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilight Or cool voices of owls crying by night ...

Hunting by night under the horned moon: Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon, Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risen Steals from his misty prison; The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shaken In a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken: And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond belief Slenderly fledged anew with tender leaf As pale as those twin vanes that break at last In a tiny fan above the black beech-mast Where no blade springeth green But pallid bells of the shy h.e.l.leborine.

What is this ecstasy that overwhelms The dreaming earth? See, the embrowned elms Crowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood: A new-born wind tosses their ta.s.sels brown, His white clouds dapple the down: Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand.

Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land....

There is no day for thee, my soul, like this, No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kiss Of mortal love that maketh man divine This light cannot outshine: Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catch The shadow of vanishing beauty, may not match This leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cull Such magical beauty as time may not destroy; But we, alas, are not more beautiful: We cannot flower in beauty as in joy.

We sing, our mused words are sped, and then Poets are only men Who age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd tree May stand in leaf when I have ceased to be.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

LOVELY DAMES

Few are my books, but my small few have told Of many a lovely dame that lived of old; And they have made me see those fatal charms Of Helen, which brought Troy so many harms; And lovely Venus, when she stood so white Close to her husband's forge in its red light.

I have seen Dian's beauty in my dreams, When she had trained her looks in all the streams She crossed to Latmos and Endymion; And Cleopatra's eyes, that hour they shone The brighter for a pearl she drank to prove How poor it was compared to her rich love: But when I look on thee, love, thou dost give Substance to those fine ghosts, and make them live.

WHEN YON FULL MOON

When yon full moon's with her white fleet of stars, And but one bird makes music in the grove; When you and I are breathing side by side, Where our two bodies make one shadow, love;

Not for her beauty will I praise the moon, But that she lights thy purer face and throat; The only praise I'll give the nightingale Is that she draws from thee a richer note.

For, blinded with thy beauty, I am filled, Like Saul of Tarsus, with a greater light; When he had heard that warning voice in Heaven, And lost his eyes to find a deeper sight.

Come, let us sit in that deep silence then, Launched on love's rapids, with our pa.s.sions proud That makes all music hollow--though the lark Raves in his windy heights above a cloud.

ON HEARING MRS. WOODHOUSE PLAY THE HARPSICHORD

We poets pride ourselves on what We feel, and not what we achieve; The world may call our children fools, Enough for us that we conceive.

A little wren that loves the gra.s.s Can be as proud as any lark That tumbles in a cloudless sky, Up near the sun, till he becomes The apple of that shining eye.

So, lady, I would never dare To hear your music ev'ry day; With those great bursts that send my nerves In waves to pound my heart away; And those small notes that run like mice Bewitched by light; else on those keys-- My tombs of song--you should engrave: 'My music, stronger than his own, Has made this poet my dumb slave.'

BIRDS

When our two souls have left this mortal clay And, seeking mine, you think that mine is lost-- Look for me first in that Elysian glade Where Lesbia is, for whom the birds sing most.

What happy hearts those feathered mortals have, That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring!

For in that month of May when leaves are young, Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing.

And when the spring has gone and they are dumb, Is it not fine to watch them at their play: Is it not fine to see a bird that tries To stand upon the end of every spray?

See how they tilt their pretty heads aside: When women make that move they always please.

What cosy homes birds make in leafy walls That Nature's love has ruined--and the trees.

Oft have I seen in fields the little birds Go in between a bullock's legs to eat; But what gives me most joy is when I see Snow on my doorstep, printed by their feet.