Poems of London and Other Verses Part 5

What shall harm the gentle heart In its purpose undefiled?

Even grief shall lose its smart In some way becoming part Of that nature, soothed and gentled, As a sorrow to a child.

Through the blackness and the sin Of the old world's wrongs and woes, And through the greater dark within, The gentle heart shall surely win, As some bright angel, armed with mercy, Swiftly on his errand goes.

All the body may have wrought, All the energies of mind That for its own purpose sought, Make at length a little nought Among the stars--the gentle heart Death itself will leave behind.

A BALLAD FOR HERMAN

This is the ballad for Herman, the ballad of humble things, The hedge-side thistles that flower, the small brown lark that sings, And the stumbling flight of a beetle, and the dust on a b.u.t.terfly's wings.

The snails are out in the sunshine after the morning rain, And the wasps are whirring and buzzing round the mulberry tree again, And the ants are busy of course, working with might and main.

While the crickets leap, and rustle, and play at being blades of gra.s.s, And humble-b.u.mble the bees go, lurching as they pa.s.s, And the flies are stupidly walking up the window-gla.s.s.

The sun is bright on the hedges, on thistle and bramble and briar, The columbine leaves are heart-shaped, and shine as bright as fire --And oh! the smell of the bracken, that's straight as Salisbury spire!

Life of the woods, life of the rivers, life of the trees, Life of the rich plain-gra.s.ses that seed to the morning breeze, And the thymy mountain-gra.s.ses June makes loud with bees.

This does not age nor alter; the low sharp song of the reeds As the evening wind goes over, and the fishing heron feeds On the still and shallow waters, salt with the floating weeds.

This does not change nor vanish; the mating calls of the springs, When April's green on the copses, and bright on the shining wings Of birds going backwards and forwards, while the whole green forest sings.

All is our sister and brother, as once St. Francis said; The little stones in the river, the bright sun overhead, And newts, and the sp.a.w.n of fishes, and the unnamed mighty dead.

This is the ballad for Herman. O friend, may good befall!

There is never a star so distant, there is never a creature small, But living and knowing and loving in our brain we hold them all.

FRANCE

_April_ 1915

Great ever, with the hope that seeks the stars; The brain clear-cold, like ice; the soul like flame; The spirit beating at the physical bars; The reason guiding all--oh, there we name France!

A country that can think, and thinking, acts; A country that can act, and acting, dreams; That neither bears the tyranny of facts, Nor of its own dear hopes, nor of what seems,

But still, clear-visioned, treats with things that are; Yet--seer, prophet, priest of life-to-be-- Leaps to the visionary days afar, And all the splendour she will never see.

School of the spirit, chastening, yet a spur For all that men aspire to: as of old Athens held up the torch, and did incur Persia, with her fierce armies manifold,

So France against the evil strikes and strives For liberty, and we of island race, --Humbled a little by our careless lives-- Glory to stand beside her in our place,

Glory that we are one in hope and aim With her from whom in blood and agony The second gift of human freedom came Through Terror and the red Gethsemane.

On her fair, ravaged borders stand her guns, She has thrown away the scabbards, bared the swords, And, s.n.a.t.c.hing laughter out of death, her sons Challenge high Fate to show what life affords-- France!

ILGAR'S SONG

(From _King Monmouth_)

O love that dwells in the innermost heart of man Secret and dark and still, Like a bird in the core of a green mid-summer tree-- Height upon height and depth upon depth where never the eye can see The brown bird, hidden and still.

O Love that is wild and eager, sun-lit and free Like a seagull that turns in the sunlight above the sea; Between the sea and the sky it flashes and turns, And the sun on its wings is white, While sharply and shrill by the headland the keen wind sings Where the gra.s.s is salt and grey With the beating winter spray, And the seagull sweeps and soars on magnificent wings.

Love that is like a flame, Held in the hollow hand, So dear and precious a thing As a light in a stranger land, As a flickering candle to him who wanders by night.

Love that is wide as the dawn To the eyes of night-bound men; And the evil ghosts and the goblins it puts to flight, And stealthy creatures of dark that rustle and creep, And elfins and witches and all such devil's game That cannot live in the light, They squeak and gibber and cheep, And vanish like shadows before the splendour of day.

Love that has wide, white wings like a flying swan --Oh what a n.o.ble span, From tip to tip they are more than the height of a man And curved like the sails of a boat-- When over the evening river the wild swan flies The curve of those wings is like the arch of the skies Over the shielded earth.

Love is most like a bird, For birds have least of the dust that gave them birth, They soar and poise and float, They wheel and swerve and skim, And their wings are strong to the wind, and swift to the light, And their voice is a promise of dawn while yet it is night, And their song is a paean of hope before it is spring, And the song of the bird to his mate is lyrical love.

Love is secret and holy, a spiritual thing, Dark and silent and still In the heart of man, as a treasure is hid in a shrine.

Love is splendid and fierce, as the summer sun Drenches the sea and the sky with its blaze and shine, Till every pebble is hot to the touch of the hand, And the air is a-shimmer with heat o'er the hazy land-- Yet Love is not any of these things, Love is of one With the strange, half-guessed at, vast, creative plan We cannot see with our eyes nor understand-- Yet is Love pitiful too, for Love is of man.

THE INN

I

Friendship's an inn the roads of life afford --I'll speak to you in metaphor, my friend-- And there a tired man his way may wend, And, coming in, sit down beside the board, Out of the dust and glare, and boldly send For drink and victuals; haply cross his knees, And in the cool dark parlour take his ease, And gossip of his journey and its end.

That's friendship; there is neither right of place Nor landlord duties, just the short hour's stay From the sun and weariness between those kind And quiet walls; and when the road's to face Stony and long again, we take our way Keeping that respite gratefully in mind.

THE INN

II

We take our pack, and jog our way again Towards the windy sunset and the night; The inn is now behind us, out of sight, Showing no welcome shine of windowpane, But dark and silent standing by the way As we go forward, seeing mile on mile Sink out of sight--just for a little while We rested, in the middle of the day.

Is there an end at last, and shall we reach, By the faint glimmer of new-risen stars, Our house at last, and find the heart-repose Which is the ultimate desire of each Poor traveller--ah! shall they drop the bars, And the doors open? Dear my friend, who knows?

"TO-DAY I MISS YOU"

To-day I miss you ... "Only for to-day, Some little matter of hours and nothing more."