Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 20

90. TO WILL. H. LOW

Youth now flees on feathered foot Faint and fainter sounds the flute, Rarer songs of G.o.ds; and still Somewhere on the sunny hill, Or along the winding stream, Through the willows, flits a dream; Flits but shows a smiling face, Flees but with so quaint a grace, None can choose to stay at home, All must follow, all must roam.

This is unborn beauty: she Now in air floats high and free, Takes the sun and breaks the blue;-- Late with stooping pinion flew

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Raking hedgerow trees, and wet Her wing in silver streams, and set Shining foot on temple roof: Now again she flies aloof, Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't By the evening's amethyst.

In wet wood and miry lane, Still we pant and pound in vain; Still with leaden foot we chase Waning pinion, fainting face; Still with gray hair we stumble on, Till, behold, the vision gone!

Where hath fleeting beauty led?

To the doorway of the dead.

Life is over, life was gay: We have come the primrose way.

_Robert Louis Stevenson._

81. GAUDEAMUS IGITUR

Come, no more of grief and dying!

Sing the time too swiftly flying.

Just an hour Youth's in flower, Give me roses to remember In the shadow of December.

Fie on steeds with leaden paces!

Winds shall bear us on our races, Speed, O speed, Wind, my steed, Beat the lightning for your master, Yet my Fancy shall fly faster.

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Give me music, give me rapture, Youth that's fled can none recapture; Not with thought Wisdom's bought.

Out on pride and scorn and sadness!

Give me laughter, give me gladness.

Sweetest Earth, I love and love thee, Seas about thee, skies above thee, Sun and storms, Hues and forms Of the clouds with floating shadows On thy mountains and thy meadows.

Earth, there's none that can enslave thee, Not thy lords it is that have thee; Not for gold Art thou sold, But thy lovers at their pleasure Take thy beauty and thy treasure.

While sweet fancies meet me singing, While the April blood is springing In my breast, While a jest And my youth thou yet must leave me, Fortune, 'tis not thou canst grieve me.

When at length the gra.s.ses cover Me, the world's unwearied lover, If regret Haunt me yet,

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It shall be for joys untasted, Nature lent and folly wasted.

Youth and jests and summer weather, Goods that kings and clowns together Waste or use As they choose, These, the best, we miss pursuing Sullen shades that mock our wooing.

Feigning Age will not delay it-- When the reckoning comes we'll pay it, Own our mirth Has been worth All the forfeit light or heavy Wintry Time and Fortune levy.

Feigning grief will not escape it, What though ne'er so well you ape it-- Age and care All must share, All alike must pay hereafter, Some for sighs and some for laughter.

Know, ye sons of Melancholy, To be young and wise is folly.

'Tis the weak Fear to wreak On this clay of life their fancies, Shaping battles, shaping dances.

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While ye scorn our names unspoken, Roses dead and garlands broken, O ye wise, We arise, Out of failures, dreams, disasters, We arise to be your masters.

_Margaret L. Woods._

92. O DREAMY, GLOOMY, FRIENDLY TREES!

O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees, I came along your narrow track To bring my gifts unto your knees And gifts did you give back; For when I brought this heart that burns-- These thoughts that bitterly repine-- And laid them here among the ferns And the hum of boughs divine, Ye, vastest breathers of the air, Shook down with slow and mighty poise Your coolness on the human care, Your wonder on its toys, Your greenness on the heart's despair, Your darkness on its noise.

_Herbert Trench._

93. IDLENESS

O idleness, too fond of me, Begone, I know and hate thee!

Nothing canst thou of pleasure see In one that so doth rate thee;

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For empty are both mind and heart While thou with me dost linger; More profit would to thee impart A babe that sucks its finger.

I know thou hast a better way To spend these hours thou squand'rest; Some lad toils in the trough to-day Who groans because thou wand'rest;

A bleating sheep he dowses now Or wrestles with ram's terror; Ah, 'mid the washing's hubbub, how His sighs reproach thine error!

He knows and loves thee, Idleness; For when his sheep are browsing, His open eyes enchant and bless A mind divinely drowsing;

No slave to sleep, he wills and sees From hill-lawns the brown tillage; Green winding lanes and clumps of trees, Far town or nearer village,

The sea itself; the fishing feet Where more, thine idle lovers, Heark'ning to sea-mews find thee sweet Like him who hears the plovers.

Begone; those haul their ropes at sea, These plunge sheep in yon river: Free, free from toil thy friends, and me From Idleness deliver!

_T. Sturge Moore._