The Wild Swans at Coole Part 5

ON BEING ASKED FOR A WAR POEM

I think it better that in times like these A poet keep his mouth shut, for in truth We have no gift to set a statesman right; He has had enough of meddling who can please A young girl in the indolence of her youth, Or an old man upon a winter's night.

IN MEMORY OF ALFRED POLLEXFEN

Five-and-twenty years have gone Since old William Pollexfen Laid his strong bones down in death By his wife Elizabeth In the grey stone tomb he made.

And after twenty years they laid In that tomb by him and her, His son George, the astrologer; And Masons drove from miles away To scatter the Acacia spray Upon a melancholy man Who had ended where his breath began.

Many a son and daughter lies Far from the customary skies, The Mall and Eades's grammar school, In London or in Liverpool; But where is laid the sailor John?

That so many lands had known: Quiet lands or unquiet seas Where the Indians trade or j.a.panese.

He never found his rest ash.o.r.e, Moping for one voyage more.

Where have they laid the sailor John?

And yesterday the youngest son, A humorous, unambitious man, Was buried near the astrologer; And are we now in the tenth year?

Since he, who had been contented long, A n.o.body in a great throng, Decided he would journey home, Now that his fiftieth year had come, And 'Mr. Alfred' be again Upon the lips of common men Who carried in their memory His childhood and his family.

At all these death-beds women heard A visionary white sea-bird Lamenting that a man should die; And with that cry I have raised my cry.

UPON A DYING LADY

I

HER COURTESY

With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face.

She would not have us sad because she is lying there, And when she meets our gaze her eyes are laughter-lit, Her speech a wicked tale that we may vie with her Matching our broken-hearted wit against her wit, Thinking of saints and of Petronius Arbiter.

II

CERTAIN ARTISTS BRING HER DOLLS AND DRAWINGS

Bring where our Beauty lies A new modelled doll, or drawing, With a friend's or an enemy's Features, or maybe showing Her features when a tress Of dull red hair was flowing Over some silken dress Cut in the Turkish fas.h.i.+on, Or it may be like a boy's.

We have given the world our pa.s.sion We have naught for death but toys.

III

SHE TURNS THE DOLLS' FACES TO THE WALL

Because to-day is some religious festival They had a priest say Ma.s.s, and even the j.a.panese, Heel up and weight on toe, must face the wall --Pedant in pa.s.sion, learned in old courtesies, Vehement and witty she had seemed--; the Venetian lady Who had seemed to glide to some intrigue in her red shoes, Her domino, her panniered skirt copied from Longhi; The meditative critic; all are on their toes, Even our Beauty with her Turkish trousers on.

Because the priest must have like every dog his day Or keep us all awake with baying at the moon, We and our dolls being but the world were best away.

IV

THE END OF DAY

She is playing like a child And penance is the play, Fantastical and wild Because the end of day Shows her that some one soon Will come from the house, and say-- Though play is but half-done-- 'Come in and leave the play.'--

V

HER RACE

She has not grown uncivil As narrow natures would And called the pleasures evil Happier days thought good; She knows herself a woman No red and white of a face, Or rank, raised from a common Unreckonable race; And how should her heart fail her Or sickness break her will With her dead brother's valour For an example still.

VI

HER COURAGE

When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place (I have no speech but symbol, the pagan speech I made Amid the dreams of youth) let her come face to face, While wondering still to be a shade, with Grania's shade All but the perils of the woodland flight forgot That made her Dermuid dear, and some old cardinal Pacing with half-closed eyelids in a sunny spot Who had murmured of Giorgione at his latest breath-- Aye and Achilles, Timor, Babar, Barhaim, all Who have lived in joy and laughed into the face of Death.

VII

HER FRIENDS BRING HER A CHRISTMAS TREE

Pardon, great enemy, Without an angry thought We've carried in our tree, And here and there have bought Till all the boughs are gay, And she may look from the bed On pretty things that may Please a fantastic head.

Give her a little grace, What if a laughing eye Have looked into your face-- It is about to die.

EGO DOMINUS TUUS

HIC

On the grey sand beside the shallow stream Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still A lamp burns on beside the open book That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon And though you have pa.s.sed the best of life still trace Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion Magical shapes.

ILLE

By the help of an image I call to my own opposite, summon all That I have handled least, least looked upon.

HIC

And I would find myself and not an image.

ILLE