Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 13

THE STRANGER

Never am I so alone As when I walk among the crowd-- Blurred masks of stern or grinning stone, Unmeaning eyes and voices loud.

Gaze dares not encounter gaze, ...

Humbled, I turn my head aside; When suddenly there is a face ...

Pale, subdued and grievous-eyed.

Ah, I know that visage meek, Those trembling lips, the eyes that s.h.i.+ne But turn from that which they would seek With an air piteous, divine!

There is not a line or scar, Seal of a sorrow or disgrace, But I know like sigils are Burned in my heart and on my face.

Speak! O speak! Thou art the one!

But thou hast pa.s.sed with sad head bowed; And never am I so alone As when I walk among the crowd.

'O NIGHTINGALE MY HEART'

O Nightingale my heart How sad thou art!

How heavy is thy wing, Desperately whirred that thy throat may fling Song to the tingling silences remote!

Thine eye whose ruddy spark Burned fiery of late, How dead and dark!

Why so soon didst thou sing, And with such turbulence of love and hate?

Learn that there is no singing yet can bring The expected dawn more near; And thou art spent already, though the night Scarce has begun; What voice, what eyes wilt thou have for the light When the light shall appear, And O what wings to bear thee t'ward the Sun?

THE PILGRIM

Put by the sun my joyful soul, We are for darkness that is whole;

Put by the wine, now for long years We must be thirsty with salt tears;

Put by the rose, bind thou instead The fiercest thorns about thy head;

Put by the courteous tire, we need But the poor pilgrim's blackest weed;

Put by--a'beit with tears--thy lute, Sing but to G.o.d or else be mute.

Take leave of friends save such as dare Thy love with Loneliness to share.

It is full tide. Put by regret.

Turn, turn away. Forget. Forget.

Put by the sun my lightless soul, We are for darkness that is whole.

J. D. C. FELLOW

THE TEMPLE

Between the erect and solemn trees I will go down upon my knees; I shall not find this day So meet a place to pray.

Haply the beauty of this place May work in me an answering grace, The stillness of the air Be echoed in my prayer.

The wors.h.i.+pping trees arise and run, With never a swerve, towards the sun; So may my soul's desire Turn to its central fire.

With single aim they seek the light, And scarce a twig in all their height Breaks out until the head In glory is outspread.

How strong each pillared trunk; the bark That covers them, how smooth; and hark, The sweet and gentle voice With which the leaves rejoice!

May a like strength and sweetness fill Desire, and thought, and steadfast will, When I remember these Fair sacramental trees!

SIEGFRIED Sa.s.sOON

SICK LEAVE

When I'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,-- They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead.

While the dim charging breakers of the storm Bellow and drone and rumble overhead, Out of the gloom they gather about my bed.

They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine.

'Why are you here with all your watches ended?

From Ypres to Frise we sought you in the Line.'

In bitter safety I awake, unfriended; And while the dawn begins with slas.h.i.+ng rain I think of the Battalion in the mud.

'When are you going out to them again?