Poems, 1916-1918 Part 2

On windless nights, in the lonely places, There, where the winter water races, O, Porton river, are we forgotten?

Through Porton village, under the bridge, The clear bourne floweth with gra.s.ses trailing, Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing, And elms that shelter under the ridge.

The pale moon she comes and looks; Over the lonely spire she climbs; For there she is lovelier many times Than in the little broken brooks.

AN OLD HOUSE

No one lives in the old house; long ago The voices of men and women left it lonely.

They shuttered the sightless windows in a row, Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only.

Beyond the garden-closes, with sudden thunder The lumbering troop-train pa.s.sing clanks and jangles; And I, a stranger, peer with careless wonder Into the thickets of the garden tangles.

Yet, as I pa.s.s, a transient vision dawns Ghostly upon my pondering spirit's gloom, Of grey lavender bushes and weedy lawns And a solitary cherry-tree in bloom....

No one lives in the old house: year by year The plaster crumbles on the lonely walls: The apple falls in the lush gra.s.s; the pear, Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls.

Yet this the garden was, where, on spring nights Under the cherry-blossom, lovers plighted Have wondered at the moony billows white, Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted;

Whose ears have heard the blackbird's jolly whistle, The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flitting Zigzag beneath the eaves; or, on the thistle, The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting;

Whose eyes, on winter evenings, slow returning Saw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fall Streaming, or, on the hearth, red embers burning, And shadows of children playing in the hall.

Where have they gone, lovers of another day?

(No one lives in the old house; long ago They shuttered the sightless windows....) Where are they, Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow?

I cannot tell ... and little enough they care, Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light, And autumn pile her harvest unaware Under the walls that echoed their delight.

I cannot tell ... yet I am as those lovers; For me, who pa.s.s on my predestinate way, The prodigal blossom billows and recovers In ghostly gardens a hundred miles away.

Yet, in my heart, a melancholy rapture Tells me that eyes, which now an iron haste Hurries to iron days, may here recapture A vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste.

THE DHOWS

South of Guardafui with a dark tide flowing We hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon, Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showing Where dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon.

'Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?'

'We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman's behest, With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of Ophir From brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.'

'Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?'

'We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star.

The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lying A hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.'

'Oh whither be ye sailing...?'

'Alas, we sail no longer: Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know.

And why should you torment us? ... Your iron keels are stronger Than ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.'

THE GIFT

Marching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plain Of wavering spear-gra.s.s past Pangani River, England came to me--me who had always ta'en But never given before--England, the giver, In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiver On still evenings of summer, after rain, By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiver When scarce a ripple moves the upland grain.

Then I thanked G.o.d that now I had suffered pain, And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awake Shivering all night through till cold daybreak: In that I count these sufferings my gain And her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fain Suffer as many more for her sweet sake.

FIVE DEGREES SOUTH

I love all waves and lovely water in motion, That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray: Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake's commotion, Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal way Unquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowing Plumes of faint spray, cool in the deep And lucent seas, that pause not in their flowing To lap the southern starlight while they sleep.

These I have seen, these I have loved and known: I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swinging Like a ship's lantern, silent and alone Within his sea of sky, and heard the singing Of the south trade, that siren of the air, Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there.

104 FAHRENHEIT

To-night I lay with fever in my veins Consumed, tormented creature of fire and ice, And, weaving the enhavock'd brain's device, Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plains Where sunlight slayeth life, and where no rains Abated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire: So that death seemed the end of all desire, To ease the distracted body of its pains.

And so I died, and from my eyes the glare Faded, nor had I further need of breath; But when I reached my hand to find you there Beside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death.

And with a cry I wakened, but to hear Thin wings of fever singing in my ear.

FEVER-TREES

The beautiful Acacia She sighs in desert lands: Over the burning waterways Of Africa she sways and sways, Even where no air glideth In cooling green she stands.

The beautiful Acacia She hath a yellow dress: A slender trunk of lemon sheen Gleameth through the tender green (Where the thorn hideth) Shielding her loveliness.

The beautiful Acacia Dwelleth in deadly lands: Over the brooding waterways Where death breedeth, she sways and sways, And no man long abideth In valleys where she stands.

THE RAIN-BIRD