Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 5

Her eyes, 'tis plain, survey with ease Whate'er to glance upon they please.

Yet, whether hazel, gray, or blue, Or that even lovelier lilac hue, I cannot guess: why--why deny Such beauty to the pa.s.ser-by?

Out of a bush a nightingale May expound his song; from 'neath that veil A happy mouth no doubt can make English sound sweeter for its sake.

But then, why m.u.f.fle in like this What every blossomy wind would kiss?

Why in that little night disguise A daybreak face, those starry eyes?

THE THREE STRANGERS

Far are those tranquil hills, Dyed with fair evening's rose; On urgent, secret errand bent, A traveller goes.

Approach him strangers three, Barefooted, cowled; their eyes Scan the lone, hastening solitary With dumb surmise.

One instant in close speech With them he doth confer: G.o.d-sped, he hasteneth on, That anxious traveller....

I was that man--in a dream: And each world's night in vain I patient wait on sleep to unveil Those vivid hills again.

Would that they three could know How yet burns on in me Love--from one lost in Paradise-- For their grave courtesy.

THE OLD MEN

Old and alone, sit we, Caged, riddle-rid men; Lost to earth's 'Listen!' and 'See!'

Thought's 'Wherefore?' and 'When?'

Only far memories stray Of a past once lovely, but now Wasted and faded away, Like green leaves from the bough.

Vast broods the silence of night, The ruinous moon Lifts on our faces her light, Whence all dreaming is gone.

We speak not; trembles each head; In their sockets our eyes are still; Desire as cold as the dead; Without wonder or will.

And One, with a lanthorn, draws near, At clash with the moon in our eyes: 'Where art thou?' he asks: 'I am here,'

One by one we arise.

And none lifts a hand to withhold A friend from the touch of that foe: Heart cries unto heart, 'Thou art old!'

Yet reluctant, we go.

FARE WELL

When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more a.s.sail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me?

Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be?

Oh, when this my dust surrenders Hand, foot, lip, to dust again, May those loved and loving faces Please other men!

May the rusting harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller's Joy entwine, And as happy children gather Posies once mine.

Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days.

JOHN DRINKWATER

DEER

Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer.

They are spirits of wild sense. n.o.body near Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live, Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive Treading as in jungles free leopards do, Printless as evelight, instant as dew.

The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheep Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep Delicate and far their counsels wild, Never to be folded reconciled To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are; Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar, These you may not hinder, unconfined Beautiful flocks of the mind.

MOONLIT APPLES

At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows, And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.

A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then There is no sound at the top of the house of men Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.

They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams; On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams, And quiet is the steep stair under.

In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.

And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep On moon-washed apples of wonder.

SOUTHAMPTON BELLS

I

Long ago some builder thrust Heavenward in Southampton town His spire and beamed his bells, Largely conceiving from the dust That pinnacle for ringing down Orisons and Noels.

In his imagination rang, Through generations challenging His peal on simple men, Who, as the heart within him sang, In daily townfaring should sing By year and year again.

II

Now often to their ringing go The bellmen with lean Time at heel, Intent on daily cares; The bells ring high, the bells ring low, The ringers ring the builder's peal Of tidings unawares.

And all the bells might well be dumb For any quickening in the street Of customary ears; And so at last proud builders come With dreams and virtues to defeat Among the clouding years.