Georgian Poetry 1913-15 Part 17

OFF THE GROUND

Three jolly Farmers Once bet a pound Each dance the others would Off the ground.

Out of their coats They slipped right soon, And neat and nicesome Put each his shoon.

One--Two--Three!

And away they go, Not too fast, And not too slow; Out from the elm-tree's Noonday shadow, Into the sun And across the meadow.

Past the schoolroom, With knees well bent, Fingers a-flicking, They dancing went.

Up sides and over, And round and round, They crossed click-clacking The Parish bound; By Tupman's meadow They did their mile, Tee-to-tum On a three-barred stile.

Then straight through Whipham, Downhill to Week, Footing it lightsome, But not too quick, Up fields to Watchet, And on through Wye, Till seven fine churches They'd seen skip by-- Seven fine churches, And five old mills, Farms in the valley, And sheep on the hills; Old Man's Acre And Dead Man's Pool All left behind, As they danced through Wool.

And Wool gone by, Like tops that seem To spin in sleep They danced in dream: Withy--Wellover-- Wa.s.sop--Wo-- Like an old clock Their heels did go.

A league and a league And a league they went, And not one weary, And not one spent.

And lo, and behold!

Past Willow-c.u.m-Leigh Stretched with its waters The great green sea.

Says Farmer Bates, 'I puffs and I blows, What's under the water, Why, no man knows!'

Says Farmer Giles, 'My mind comes weak, And a good man drowned Is far to seek.'

But Farmer Turvey, On twirling toes, Up's with his gaiters, And in he goes: Down where the mermaids Pluck and play On their tw.a.n.gling harps In a sea-green day; Down where the mermaids, Finned and fair, Sleek with their combs Their yellow hair ...

Bates and Giles-- On the s.h.i.+ngle sat, Gazing at Turvey's Floating hat.

But never a ripple Nor bubble told Where he was supping Off plates of gold.

Never an echo Rilled through the sea Of the feasting and dancing And minstrelsy.

They called--called--called: Came no reply: Nought but the ripples'

Sandy sigh.

Then glum and silent They sat instead, Vacantly brooding On home and bed, Till both together Stood up and said:-- 'Us knows not, dreams not, Where you be, Turvey, unless In the deep blue sea; But axcusing silver-- And it comes most willing-- Here's us two paying Our forty s.h.i.+lling; For it's sartin sure, Turvey, Safe and sound, You danced us square, Turvey, Off the ground!'

JOHN DRINKWATER

A TOWN WINDOW

Beyond my window in the night Is but a drab inglorious street, Yet there the frost and clean starlight As over Warwick woods are sweet.

Under the grey drift of the town The crocus works among the mould As eagerly as those that crown The Warwick spring in flame and gold.

And when the tramway down the hill Across the cobbles moans and rings, There is about my window-sill The tumult of a thousand wings.

OF GREATHAM

(To those who live there)

For peace, than knowledge more desirable, Into your Suss.e.x quietness I came, When summer's green and gold and azure fell Over the world in flame.

And peace upon your pasture-lands I found, Where grazing flocks drift on continually, As little clouds that travel with no sound Across a windless sky.

Out of your oaks the birds call to their mates That brood among the pines, where hidden deep From curious eyes a world's adventure waits In columned choirs of sleep.

Under the calm ascension of the night We heard the mellow lapsing and return Of night-owls purring in their groundling flight Through lanes of darkling fern.

Unbroken peace when all the stars were drawn Back to their lairs of light, and ranked along From s.h.i.+re to s.h.i.+re the downs out of the dawn Were risen in golden song.

I sing of peace who have known the large unrest Of men bewildered in their travelling, And I have known the bridal earth unblest By the brigades of spring.

I have known that loss. And now the broken thought Of nations marketing in death I know, The very winds to threnodies are wrought That on your downlands blow.

I sing of peace. Was it but yesterday I came among your roses and your corn?

Then momently amid this wrath I pray For yesterday reborn.

THE CARVER IN STONE

He was a man with wide and patient eyes, Grey, like the drift of twitch-fires blown in June, That, without fearing, searched if any wrong Might threaten from your heart. Grey eyes he had Under a brow was drawn because he knew So many seasons to so many pa.s.s Of upright service, loyal, unabased Before the world seducing, and so, barren Of good words praising and thought that mated his.

He carved in stone. Out of his quiet life He watched as any faithful seaman charged With tidings of the myriad faring sea, And thoughts and premonitions through his mind Sailing as s.h.i.+ps from strange and storied lands His hungry spirit held, till all they were Found living witness in the chiselled stone.

Slowly out of the dark confusion, spread By life's innumerable venturings Over his brain, he would triumph into the light Of one clear mood, unblemished of the blind Legions of errant thought that cried about His rapt seclusion: as a pearl unsoiled, Nay, rather washed to lonelier chast.i.ty, In gritty mud. And then would come a bird, A flower, or the wind moving upon a flower, A beast at pasture, or a cl.u.s.tered fruit, A peasant face as were the saints of old, The leer of custom, or the bow of the moon Swung in miraculous poise--some stray from the world Of things created by the eternal mind In joy articulate. And his perfect mood Would dwell about the token of G.o.d's mood, Until in bird or flower or moving wind Or flock or shepherd or the troops of heaven It sprang in one fierce moment of desire To visible form.

Then would his chisel work among the stone, Persuading it of petal or of limb Or starry curve, till risen anew there sang Shape out of chaos, and again the vision Of one mind single from the world was pressed Upon the daily custom of the sky Or field or the body of man.

His people Had many G.o.ds for wors.h.i.+p. The tiger-G.o.d, The owl, the dewlapped bull, the running pard, The camel, and the lizard of the slime, The ram with quivering fleece and fluted horn, The crested eagle and the doming bat Were sacred. And the king and his high priests Decreed a temple, wide on columns huge, Should top the cornlands to the sky's far line.

They bade the carvers carve along the walls Images of their G.o.ds, each one to carve As he desired, his choice to name his G.o.d ...

And many came; and he among them, glad Of three leagues' travel through the singing air Of dawn among the boughs yet bare of green, The eager flight of the spring leading his blood Into swift lofty channels of the air, Proud as an eagle riding to the sun ...

An eagle, clean of pinion--there's his choice.

Daylong they worked under the growing roof, One at his leopard, one the staring ram, And he winning his eagle from the stone, Until each man had carved one image out, Arow beyond the portal of the house.

They stood arow, the company of G.o.ds, Camel and bat, lizard and bull and ram, The pard and owl, dead figures on the wall, Figures of habit driven on the stone By chisels governed by no heat of the brain But drudges of hands that moved by easy rule.

Proudly recorded mood was none, no thought Plucked from the dark battalions of the mind And throned in everlasting sight. But one G.o.d of them all was witness of belief And large adventure dared. His eagle spread Wide pinions on a cloudless ground of heaven, Glad with the heart's high courage of that dawn Moving upon the ploughlands newly sown, Dead stone the rest. He looked, and knew it so.

Then came the king with priests and counsellors And many chosen of the people, wise With words weary of custom, and eyes askew That watched their neighbour face for any news Of the best way of judgment, till, each sure None would determine with authority, All spoke in prudent praise. One liked the owl Because an owl blinked on the beam of his barn.

One, hoa.r.s.e with crying gospels in the street, Praised most the ram, because the common folk Wore breeches made of ram's wool. One declared The tiger pleased him best,--the man who carved The tiger-G.o.d was halt out of the womb-- A man to praise, being so pitiful.

And one, whose eyes dwelt in a distant void, With spell and omen pat upon his lips, And a purse for any crystal prophet ripe, A zealot of the mist, gazed at the bull-- A lean ill-shapen bull of meagre lines That scarce the steel had graved upon the stone-- Saying that here was very mystery And truth, did men but know. And one there was Who praised his eagle, but remembering The lither pinion of the swift, the curve That liked him better of the mirrored swan.

And they who carved the tiger-G.o.d and ram, The camel and the pard, the owl and bull, And lizard, listened greedily, and made Humble denial of their worthiness, And when the king his royal judgment gave That all had fas.h.i.+oned well, and bade that each Re-shape his chosen G.o.d along the walls Till all the temple boasted of their skill, They bowed themselves in token that as this Never had carvers been so fortunate.

Only the man with wide and patient eyes Made no denial, neither bowed his head.

Already while they spoke his thoughts had gone Far from his eagle, leaving it for a sign Loyally wrought of one deep breath of life, And played about the image of a toad That crawled among his ivy leaves. A queer Puff-bellied toad, with eyes that always stared Sidelong at heaven and saw no heaven there, Weak-hammed, and with a throttle somehow twisted Beyond full wholesome draughts of air, and skin Of wrinkled lips, the only zest or will The little flas.h.i.+ng tongue searching the leaves.

And king and priest, chosen and counsellor, Babbling out of their thin and jealous brains, Seemed strangely one; a queer enormous toad Panting under giant leaves of dark, Sunk in the loins, peering into the day.

Their judgment wry he counted not for wrong More than the fabled poison of the toad Striking at simple wits; how should their thought Or word in praise or blame come near the peace That shone in seasonable hours above The patience of his spirit's husbandry?

They foolish and not seeing, how should he Spend anger there or fear--great ceremonies Equal for none save great antagonists?

The grave indifference of his heart before them Was moved by laughter innocent of hate, Chastising clean of spite, that moulded them Into the antic likeness of his toad Bidding for laughter underneath the leaves.