The Dales of Arcady Part 6

"PAST-TEN-O'CLOCK-LAND"

"_It was Moonlight Land and Past-ten-o'clock Land and we were in it and of it._"--KENNETH GRAHAM.

There's a lovely land that is all your own, If your years but number ten, Where the cherryblossom's ever in flower, And found in "Past-ten-o'clock Glen."

There's a river with musical water-falls, You paddle as long as you please, And the daisies don't die as you pick them, When found on "Past-ten-o'clock Leas."

And the rivulet leads to a harbour, Full of the quaintest of s.h.i.+ps, One wish will transport you to China, Or other "Past-ten-o'clock Trips."

Away in dim mountains of amber, Which drop sheer down to the waves, Fierce brigands, be-weaponed and ear-ringed, Live in "Past-ten-o'clock Caves."

O! the folk understand you and love you, You never can do any wrong-- You can shoot the cat with a catapult, Or shout the "Past-ten-o'clock Song."

You can play you are really an otter, And get as wet as you like; You can lie in wait as a Redskin does, In a deep "Past-ten-o'clock d.y.k.e."

It's a lovely land that is all your own, If you're only ten years old, But when you are more, you are apt to forget "Past-Ten-o'clock-Dreams of Gold!"

BARDEN FELL, WHARFEDALE.

TO MEMORY

Mem'ry, sweet witch! you brought him to my door.

I heard you knock, and saw your fingers ope The rosy gateway of a lingering hope, And I beheld his dear face as of yore.

You held him by the hand I oft caressed, And seemed so small a sprite by his tall side, As in his leathern coat you tried to hide, The same old coat my cheek so often pressed.

Then searchingly his deep blue eyes found mine, As if to plead against forgetfulness, With all the old-time loving kindliness: And then you led him back without one sign.

Sweet little Mem'ry, lead him back once more, And, knocking, bring him in, and close the door.

A WAR PRAYER FOR A LITTLE BOY

Morning

The day is just beginning, But all the long night through, The sailor-men were watching Out in the dark night blue.

Dear G.o.d! when my turn comes, May my watch be as true.

Evening

The long, still night is coming, But whilst I've been at play, The soldier-men were fighting Thro' all the live-long day.

Dear G.o.d! when my turn comes, Please keep me brave as they.

ROBIN HOOD'S BAY.

STAR-SCANDAL

One summer eve, my own dear love and I Sat arm-entwined beneath a rowan-tree.

A little wind flew past us with a sigh, And all the velvet leaves waved merrily.

Then, as mine eyes escaped his ardent glance, I saw a star peep o'er the purple hill And climb up to the topmost branch and dance, And wink at its reflection in the rill.

"_Come, kiss me once, O timorous-hearted Love.

Full many thousand kisses dost thou owe.

Prithee but one, thy pretty love to prove; No one in all the world shall ever know._"

No one? That spying star but told a poet, And in a song he let the whole world know it.

THE FIRST OF JULY 1916

For the Mothers, Wives, and Sweethearts of the 15th West Yorks ("Leeds Pals")

I

'Tis pa.s.sing wonderful that they, The little boys of yesterday, Should suddenly become such men That England rings with praise of them.

But tho' their names are writ in blood --Deepening crimson flood on flood-- Their impositions writ awry And copybooks are hardly dry; And Sweetheart Life had scarcely kissed The boy to man, when the blue mist Of twilight lifted; and the dawn Announced that rosy day was born.

As pink-curled clouds lit up the sky A little gentle breeze whisked by Caressing all the poppy-heads-- Rippling fields of budding reds-- Splashes of yellow sunned the earth Where mustard meadows flowered mirth; And cornflowers blue ran out to meet The blue around G.o.d's Mercy-seat.

O! all the world and all the sky Made it a sacrifice to die.

II

'Tis pa.s.sing wonderful that they, The little boys of yesterday, Who cuddled to dear Mother-hearts With darling rosy-fingered arts, Did cheer with strong expectancy The shattering artillery; And smilingly went o'er the top Unflinchingly without a stop Into the poppied "No Man's Land."

Wave after wave, band after band, Through the terror of bursting sh.e.l.ls, Through the noise of a thousand h.e.l.ls, Through th' unmanning groans of pain, Through the blood of the splendid slain Lying under a blue-cupped sky, As wave after wave swept bravely by.

From flowers of blue to the Endless Blue Hundreds of souls are pa.s.sing thro', And the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives: O! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives.

III

'Tis pa.s.sing wonderful that they, The little boys of yesterday Who played with us, who teased us too, Should such tremendous actions do.

No praise, no honour is too high For those who gave so cheerfully: Gave up the wonder of the spring, Gave up the wealth that summers bring, Gave up the gold of autumn's store, Leaving us richer than before.

Unflinching bravery of soul!

Ring out your splendid deathless toll, Ring down the years untiringly In the hearts of the children-yet-to-be.

The carillon of your ideals You'll hear again in their sweet peals; G.o.d grant that we may squarely fight For all you held to be upright.

LEEDS, _July 1st, 1917_.

"THE IDEAL MAN"