Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 9

And she herself set fresh things down In corners of her slate, Of lambs and lanes and London Town.

G.o.d's blessing fall on Kate!

The baby loved the simple sound, With jolly glee he shook, And soon the lines grew smooth and round Like pebbles in Tom's brook,

From mouth to mouth told and retold By children sprawled at ease Before the fire in winter's cold, In June beneath tall trees;

Till though long lost are stone and slate, Though the brook no more runs, And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate, Their sons and their sons' sons;

Yet, as when Time with stealthy tread Lays the rich garden waste, The woodland berry ripe and red Fails not in scent or taste,

So these same rhymes shall still be told To children yet unborn, While false philosophy growing old Fades and is killed by scorn.

A FROSTY NIGHT

Mother: Alice, dear, what ails you, Dazed and white and shaken?

Has the chill night numbed you?

Is it fright you have taken?

Alice: Mother I am very well, I felt never better; Mother, do not hold me so, Let me write my letter.

Mother: Sweet, my dear, what ails you?

Alice: No, but I am well.

The night was cold and frosty, There's no more to tell.

Mother: Ay, the night was frosty, Coldly gaped the moon, Yet the birds seemed twittering Through green boughs of June.

Soft and thick the snow lay, Stars danced in the sky.

Not all the lambs of May-day Skip so bold and high.

Your feet were dancing, Alice, Seemed to dance on air, You looked a ghost or angel In the starlight there.

Your eyes were frosted starlight, Your heart, fire, and snow.

Who was it said 'I love you?'

Alice: Mother, let me go!

TRUE JOHNNY

Mary: Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true To all those famous vows you've made?

Will you love me as I love you Until we both in earth are laid?

Or shall the old wives nod and say 'His love was only for a day, The mood goes by, His fancies fly, And Mary's left to sigh.'

Johnny: Mary, alas, you've hit the truth, And I with grief can but admit Hot-blooded haste controls my youth, My idle fancies veer and flit From flower to flower, from tree to tree, And when the moment catches me Oh, love goes by, Away I fly, And leave my girl to sigh.

Mary: Could you but now foretell the day, Johnny, when this sad thing must be, When light and gay you'll turn away And laugh and break the heart in me?

For like a nut for true love's sake My empty heart shall crack and break, When fancies fly And love goes by And Mary's left to die.

Johnny: When the sun turns against the clock, When Avon waters upward flow, When eggs are laid by barn-door c.o.c.k, When dusty hens do strut and crow, When up is down, when left is right, Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight, With careless eye Away I'll fly And Mary here shall die.

THE CUPBOARD

Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?

Mary: Which cupboard, mother dear?

Mother: The cupboard of red mahogany With handles shining clear.

Mary: That cupboard, dearest mother, With shining crystal handles?

There's nought inside but rags and jags And yellow tallow candles.

Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?

Mary: Which cupboard, mother mine?

Mother: That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber, The silver corners shine.

Mary: There's nothing there inside, mother, But wool and thread and flax, And bits of faded silk and velvet And candles of white wax.

Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?

And this time tell me true.

Mary: White clothes for an unborn baby, mother..

But what's the truth to you?

THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED

'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!'

The other birds woke all around; Rising with toot and howl they stirred Their plumage, broke the trembling sound, They craned their necks, they fluttered wings, 'While we are silent no one sings, And while we sing you hush your throat, Or tune your melody to our note.'

'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!'

The screams and hootings rose again: They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred Their noisy plumage; small but plain The lonely hidden singer made A well of grief within the glade.

'Whist, silly fool, be off,' they shout, 'Or we'll come pluck your feathers out.'

'Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!'

Slight and small the lovely cry Came trickling down, but no one heard; Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie, Jarred horrid notes, the jangling jay Ripped the fine threads of song away; For why should peeping chick aspire To challenge their loud woodland choir?

Cried it so sweet, that unseen bird?

Lovelier could no music be, Clearer than water, soft as curd, Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree.