Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 15

67. THE SCARECROW

All winter through I bow my head Beneath the driving rain; The North wind powders me with snow And blows me black again; At midnight 'neath a maze of stars I flame with glittering rime, And stand, above the stubble, stiff As mail at morning-prime.

But when that child, called Spring, and all His host of children, come, Scattering their buds and dew upon These acres of my home, Some rapture in my rags awakes; I lift void eyes and scan The skies for crows, those ravening foes, Of my strange master, Man.

I watch him striding lank behind His clashing team, and know Soon will the wheat swish body high Where once lay sterile snow;

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Soon shall I gaze across a sea Of sun-begotten grain, Which my unflinching watch hath sealed For harvest once again.

_Walter de la Mare._

68. THE VAGABOND

Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me.

Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river-- There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me.

Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger.

White as meal the frosty field-- Warm the fireside haven-- Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even!

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Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me.

Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.

_Robert Louis Stevenson._

69. TEWKESBURY ROAD

It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky.

And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white; Where, the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drink When the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night.

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O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smell of the earth, Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words; And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds.

_John Masefield._

70. TO A LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much?

O fat white woman whom n.o.body loves, Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, When the gra.s.s is soft as the breast of doves And shivering-sweet to the touch?

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much?

_Frances Cornford._

71. I WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,

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And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

_Robert Louis Stevenson._

72. JUGGLING JERRY

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes!

By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage.

It's nigh my last above the daisies: My next leaf 'll be man's blank page.

Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow.

One that outjuggles all 's been spying Long to have me, and he has me now.

We've travelled times to this old common: Often we've hung our pots in the gorse.

We've had a stirring life, old woman!

You, and I, and the old grey horse, Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now they'll miss us at our stations: There's a Juggler outjuggles all!

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Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!

Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.