Georgian Poetry 1920-22 Part 3

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies On a morning in April, a rare sunny day; Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries That I sang for delight as I followed the way.

I sang for delight in the ripening of spring, For dandelions even were suns come to earth; Not a moment went by but a new lark took wing To wait on the season with melody's mirth.

Love-making birds were my mates all the road, And who would wish surer delight for the eye Than to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroad Or yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty?

And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown, With rich Easter roses each side of the door; The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lone Paid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.

This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around.

Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merry Till I came to the gate of that overgrown ground Where scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.

Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride, And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave; It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side, And now my dog ate of the gra.s.s on her grave.

He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so, And wished I would lead on the journey or home, As though not a moment of spring were to go In brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might come

And tell me her life, since we left her that day In the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears; But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay; How strange that this clay should mingle with hers!

So I called my good dog, and went on my way; Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by, And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley, Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye!

APRIL BYEWAY

Friend whom I never saw, yet dearest friend, Be with me travelling on the byeway now In April's month and mood: our steps shall bend By the shut smithy with its penthouse brow Armed round with many a felly and crackt plough: And we will mark in his white smock the mill Standing aloof, long numbed to any wind, That in his crannies mourns, and craves him still; But now there is not any grain to grind, And even the master lies too deep for winds to find.

Grieve not at these: for there are mills amain With l.u.s.ty sails that leap and drop away On further knolls, and lads to fetch the grain.

The ash-spit wickets on the green betray New games begun and old ones put away.

Let us fare on, dead friend, O deathless friend, Where under his old hat as green as moss The hedger chops and finds new gaps to mend, And on his bonfires burns the thorns and dross, And hums a hymn, the best, thinks he, that ever was.

There the grey guinea-fowl stands in the way, The young black heifer and the raw-ribbed mare, And scorn to move for tumbril or for dray, And feel themselves as good as farmers there.

From the young corn the p.r.i.c.k-eared leverets stare At strangers come to spy the land--small sirs, We bring less danger than the very breeze Who in great zig-zag blows the bee, and whirs In bluebell shadow down the bright green leas; From whom in frolic fit the chopt straw darts and flees.

The cornel steepling up in white shall know The two friends pa.s.sing by, and poplar smile All gold within; the church-top fowl shall glow To lure us on, and we shall rest awhile Where the wild apple blooms above the stile; The yellow frog beneath blinks up half bold, Then scares himself into the deeper green.

And thus spring was for you in days of old, And thus will be when I too walk unseen By one that thinks me friend, the best that there has been.

All our lone journey laughs for joy, the hours Like honey-bees go home in new-found light Past the cow pond amazed with twinkling flowers And antique chalk-pit newly delved to white, Or idle snow-plough nearly hid from sight.

The blackbird sings us home, on a sudden peers The round tower hung with ivy's blackened chains, Then past the little green the byeway veers, The mill-sweeps torn, the forge with cobwebbed panes That have so many years looked out across the plains.

But the old forge and mill are shut and done, The tower is crumbling down, stone by stone falls; An ague doubt comes creeping in the sun, The sun himself shudders, the day appals, The concourse of a thousand tempests sprawls Over the blue-lipped lakes and maddening groves, Like agonies of G.o.ds the clouds are whirled, The stormwind like the demon huntsman roves-- Still stands my friend, though all's to chaos hurled, The unseen friend, the one last friend in all the world.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

THE CAPTIVE LION

Thou that in fury with thy knotted tail Hast made this iron floor thy beaten drum; That now in silence walkst thy little s.p.a.ce-- Like a sea-captain--careless what may come:

What power has brought thy majesty to this, Who gave those eyes their dull and sleepy look; Who took their lightning out, and from thy throat The thunder when the whole wide forest shook?

It was that man who went again, alone, Into thy forest dark--Lord, he was brave!

That man a fly has killed, whose bones are left Unburied till an earthquake digs his grave.

A BIRD'S ANGER

A summer's morning that has but one voice; Five hundred stocks, like golden lovers, lean Their heads together, in their quiet way, And but one bird sings, of a number seen.

It is the lark, that louder, louder sings, As though but this one thought possessed his mind: 'You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch, I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!'

And when I hear him at this daring task, 'Peace, little bird,' I say, 'and take some rest; Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song, Before it makes a coffin of your nest.'

THE VILLAIN

While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong-- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood.

LOVE'S CAUTION

Tell them, when you are home again, How warm the air was now; How silent were the birds and leaves, And of the moon's full glow; And how we saw afar A falling star: It was a tear of pure delight Ran down the face of Heaven this happy night.

Our kisses are but love in flower, Until that greater time When, gathering strength, those flowers take wing, And Love can reach his prime.

And now, my heart's delight, Good night, good night; Give me the last sweet kiss-- But do not breathe at home one word of this!

WASTED HOURS

How many buds in this warm light Have burst out laughing into leaves!

And shall a day like this be gone Before I seek the wood that holds The richest music known?

Too many times have nightingales Wasted their pa.s.sion on my sleep, And brought repentance soon: But this one night I'll seek the woods, The nightingale, and moon.