The Five Books of Youth Part 5

Sharp breaths blow fast in a smoky gale, Rags wander through the dull lamp light; O my veins run gold with Christmas ale, And the tavern fire is bright.

The midnight sky is clear as gla.s.s, The stars hang frozen on the town, I watch the dying people pa.s.s, And I wrap me warm in my gown.

Brussels, 1919

XVIII

Chords, tremendous chords, Over the stricken plain, The night is calling her ancient lords Back to their own again.

Vast, unhappy song, From incalculable s.p.a.ce, Calling the heavy-browed, the strong, Out of their resting-place.

Far from the lighted town, Over the snow and ice, Their dreadful feet go up and down Seeking a sacrifice.

And can you find a way Where They will not come after?

The vast chords hesitate and sway Into a sudden laughter.

Sheffield, 1917

XIX

I have known the lure of cities and the bright gleam of golden things, Spires, towers, bridges, rivers, and the crowd that flows as a river, Lights in the midnight streets under the rain, and the stings Of joys that make the spirit reel and shiver.

But I see bleak moors and marshes and spa.r.s.e gra.s.ses, And frozen stalks against the snow; Dead forests, ragged pines and dark mora.s.ses Under the shadows of the mountains where no men go.

The crags untenanted and s.p.a.cious cry aloud as clear As the drear cry of a lost eagle over uncharted lands, No thought that man has ever framed in words is spoken here, And the language of the wind, no man understands.

Only the sifting wind through the gra.s.ses, and the hissing sleet, And the shadow of the changeless rocks over the frozen wold, Only the cold, And the fierce night striding down with silent feet.

Chambery, 1918

XX

We wove a fillet for thy head, And from a flaming lyre Struck a song that shall not die Until the echoing stars be dead, Until the world's last word be said, Until on tattered wings we fly Upward and expire.

And calm with night thou watchest till Long after we are gone, Not knowing how we worshipped thee; Serene, unfathomably still, Gazing to the western hill Where pales the moon's hushed mystery, White in the white dawn.

Cambridge, 1915

BOOK III EROS

I

Now the sick earth revives, and in the sun The wet soil gives a fragrance to the air; The days of many colours are begun, And early promises of meadows fair With starry petals, and of trees now bare Soon to be lyric with the trilling choir, And lovely with new leaves, spread everywhere A subtle flame that sets the heart on fire With thoughts of other springs and dreams of new desire.

The mind will never dwell within the present, It weeps for vanished years or hopes for new; This morn of wakened warmth, so calm, so pleasant, So gaily gemmed with diadems of dew, When buds swell on the bough, and robins woo Their loves with notes bell-like and crystal-clear, The spirit stirs from sleep, yet wonders, too, Whence comes the hint of sorrow or of fear Making it move rebellious within its narrow sphere.

This flash of sun, this flight of wings in riot, This festival of sound, of sight, of smell, Wakes in the spirit a profound disquiet, And greeting seems the foreword of farewell.

Budding like all the world, the soul would swell Out of its withering mortality; Flower immortal, burst from its heavy sh.e.l.l, Fly far with love beyond the world and sea, Out of the grasp of change, from time and twilight free.

Could the unknowing G.o.ds, waked in compa.s.sion, Eternalize the splendour of this hour, And from the world's frail garlands strongly fashion An ageless Paradise, celestial bower, Where our long-sundered souls could rise in power To the complete fulfilment of their dream, And never know again that years devour Petals and light, bird-note and woodland theme, And floods of young desire, bright as a silver stream,

Should we be happy, thou and I together, Lying in love eternally in spring, Watching the buds unfold that shall not wither, Hearing the birds calling and answering,

When the leaves stir and all the meadows ring?

Smelling the rich earth steaming in the sun, Feeling between caresses the light wing Of the wind whose gracious flight is never done,-- Should we be happy then? happy, elusive One?

But no, here in this fragile flesh abides The secret of a measureless delight, Hidden in dying beauty there resides Something undying, something that takes its flight When the dust turns to dust, and day to night, And spring to fall, whose joys in love redeem Eternally, life's changes and death's blight, Even as these pale, tender petals seem A glimpse of infinite beauty, flashed in a pa.s.sing dream.

Cambridge, 1916

II

The heavy bee burdened the golden clover Droning away the afternoon of summer, Deep in the rippling gra.s.s I called to you Under the sky's blue flame.

Then when the day was over, When petals fell fresh with the falling dew, Stepped from the dusk a radiant newcomer, Fled by the waters of the sleeping river, Swift to the arms of your impatient lover, Gladly you came.

And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever.

Thin rain of the saddest of Septembers Bent the tall gra.s.ses of the sloping meadows, But spring was with me in your slender form, And the frail joy of spring.

Although the chilly embers Of summer vanished into the gathering storm And the wind clung to the overhanging shadows, Fair seemed the spirit's desperate endeavour, (And even fair to the spirit that remembers) Joy on the wing!

And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever.

Years, and in slow lugubrious succession Drop from the trees the leaves' first yellowed leaders, Autumn is in the air and in the past, Desolate, utterly.

Sunlight and clouds in hesitant procession, Laughter and tears, and winter at the last.

There is a battle-music in the cedars, High on the hills of life the gra.s.ses shiver.

Hail, dead reality and living vision, Thrice hail in memory.

And the long wind in the cedars will sing of this for ever.

Tours, 1918

III

Of days and nights under the living vine, Memory singing from a tree has given The plan of my buried heaven, That I may dig therein as in a mine.

Did I call you, little Vigilant One, under the waning sun?

Did you come barefooted through the dew, Through the fine dew-drenched gra.s.s when the colours faded Out of the sky?

Who is that shadow holding over you a veil of tempest woven, Shaded with streaks of cloud and lightning on the edges?

Lean nearer, I fear him, and the sigh Of the rising wind worries the sedges, And the cry Of a white, long-legged bird from the marsh Cuts through the twilight with a threat of night.

The receding voice is harsh And echoes in my spirit.

Hark, do you hear it wailing against the hollow rocks of the hill, As it takes its lonely outgoing towards the sea?

Lean nearer still.

Your silence is an ecstasy of speech, You are the only white Unconquered by the overwhelming frown.

Who stands behind you so impa.s.sively?