The Story Of A Round-House And Other Poems Part 18

So she pa.s.sed swaying, where the green seas run, Her wind-steadied topsails were stately in the sun; There was glitter on the water from her red port light, So she pa.s.sed swaying, till she was out of sight.

Long and long ago it was, a weary time it is, The bones of her sailor-men are coral plants by this; Coral plants, and shark-weed, and a mermaid's comb, And if the fishers net them they never bring them home.

It's rough on sailors' women. They have to mangle hard, And st.i.tch at dungarees till their finger-ends are scarred, Thinking of the sailor-men who sang among the crowd, Hoisting of her topsails when she sailed so proud.

A CREED

I hold that when a person dies His soul returns again to earth; Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise Another mother gives him birth.

With st.u.r.dier limbs and brighter brain The old soul takes the roads again.

Such is my own belief and trust; This hand, this hand that holds the pen, Has many a hundred times been dust And turned, as dust, to dust again; These eyes of mine have blinked and shone In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.

All that I rightly think or do, Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast, Is curse or blessing justly due For sloth or effort in the past.

My life's a statement of the sum Of vice indulged, or overcome.

I know that in my lives to be My sorry heart will ache and burn, And worship, unavailingly, The woman whom I used to spurn, And shake to see another have The love I spurned, the love she gave.

And I shall know, in angry words, In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear, A carrion flock of homing-birds, The gibes and scorns I uttered here.

The brave word that I failed to speak Will brand me dastard on the cheek.

And as I wander on the roads I shall be helped and healed and blessed; Dear words shall cheer and be as goads To urge to heights before unguessed.

My road shall be the road I made; All that I gave shall be repaid.

So shall I fight, so shall I tread, In this long war beneath the stars; So shall a glory wreathe my head, So shall I faint and show the scars, Until this case, this clogging mould, Be smithied all to kingly gold.

WHEN BONY DEATH

When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood, And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes, And changed her glorious beauty into mud By his old skill in hateful wizardries;

When an old lichened marble strives to tell How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers; When rheumy grey-beards say, "I knew her well,"

Showing the grave to curious worshippers;

When all the roses that she sowed in me Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed, Leaving no greenery on any tree That her dear hands in my heart's garden laid,

Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull, These songs may keep her memory beautiful.

THE WEST WIND

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.

For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.

It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.

There is cool green gra.s.s there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.

"Will you not come home, brother? You have been long away.

It's April, and blossom time, and white is the spray: And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, Will you not come home, brother, home to us again?

The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run; It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.

It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?

I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"

Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread To the green gra.s.s, the cool gra.s.s, and rest for heart and head, To the violets and the brown brooks and the thrushes' song In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.

HER HEART

Her heart is always doing lovely things, Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers; Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings, Delighting all my undelightful hours.

She plays me like a lute, what tune she will, No string in me but trembles at her touch, Shakes into sacred music, or is still, Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.

And in the dusty tavern of my soul Where filthy l.u.s.ts drink witches' brew for wine, Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl, Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.

All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse, Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.

BEING HER FRIEND

Being her friend, I do not care, not I, How G.o.ds or men may wrong me, beat me down; Her word's sufficient star to travel by, I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.

Being her friend, I do not covet gold, Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure; To sit with her, and have her hand to hold, Is wealth, I think, surpa.s.sing minted treasure.

Being her friend, I only covet art, A white pure flame to search me as I trace In crooked letters from a throbbing heart The hymn to beauty written on her face.

FRAGMENTS

Troy Town is covered up with weeds, The rabbits and the pismires brood On broken gold, and shards, and beads Where Priam's ancient palace stood.

The floors of many a gallant house Are matted with the roots of gra.s.s; The glow-worm and the nimble mouse Among her ruins flit and pa.s.s.

And there, in orts of blackened bone, The widowed Trojan beauties lie, And Simois babbles over stone And waps and gurgles to the sky.