Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 14

His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun's last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar, From their sand the conies creep; And all the birds that fly in heaven Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses, Yet, when night's shadows fall, His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain, His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars, "Rest, rest, and rest again."

_Walter de la Mare._

{78}

62. CHIMES

Brief, on a flying night, From the shaken tower, A flock of bells take flight, And go with the hour.

Like birds from the cote to the gales, Abrupt--O hark!

A fleet of bells set sails, And go to the dark.

Sudden the cold airs swing.

Alone, aloud, A verse of bells takes wing And flies with the cloud.

_Alice Meynell._

63. SPRING GOETH ALL IN WHITE

Spring goeth all in white, Crowned with milk-white may: In fleecy flocks of light O'er heaven the white clouds stray:

White b.u.t.terflies in the air; White daisies prank the ground: The cherry and h.o.a.ry pear Scatter their snow around.

_Robert Bridges._

{79}

64. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY

To-day, all day, I rode upon the down, With hounds and hors.e.m.e.n, a brave company.

On this side in its glory lay the sea, On that the Suss.e.x weald, a sea of brown.

The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, And still we galloped on from gorse to gorse.

And once, when checked, a thrush sang, and my horse p.r.i.c.ked his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even Better than all by this, that through my chase In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven I seemed to see and follow still your face.

Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, My horse a thing of wings, myself a G.o.d.

_Wilfrid Blunt._

65. A DAY IN SUSs.e.x

The dove did lend me wings. I fled away From the loud world which long had troubled me.

Oh lightly did I flee when hoyden May Threw her wild mantle on the hawthorn-tree.

I left the dusty high-road, and my way Was through deep meadows, shut with copses fair.

A choir of thrushes poured its roundelay From every hedge and every thicket there.

Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, where in the gra.s.s All heaped with flowers I lay, from noon till eve.

{80}

And hares unwitting close to me did pa.s.s, And still the birds sang, and I could not grieve.

Oh what a blessed thing that evening was!

Peace, music, twilight, all that could deceive A soul to joy or lull a heart to peace.

It glimmers yet across whole years like these.

_Wilfrid Blunt._

66. ODE IN MAY

Let me go forth, and share The overflowing Sun With one wise friend, or one Better than wise, being fair, Where the pewit wheels and dips On heights of bracken and ling, And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, Tingles with the Spring.

What is so sweet and dear As a prosperous morn in May, The confident prime of the day, And the dauntless youth of the year, When nothing that asks for bliss, Asking aright, is denied, And half of the world a bridegroom is, And half of the world a bride?

The Song of Mingling flows, Grave, ceremonial, pure, As once, from lips that endure, The cosmic descant rose,

{81}

When the temporal lord of life, Going his golden way, Had taken a wondrous maid to wife That long had said him nay.

For of old the Sun, our sire, Came wooing the mother of men, Earth, that was virginal then, Vestal fire to his fire.

Silent her bosom and coy, But the strong G.o.d sued and pressed; And born of their starry nuptial joy Are all that drink of her breast.

And the triumph of him that begot, And the travail of her that bore, Behold they are evermore As warp and weft in our lot.

We are children of splendour and flame, Of shuddering, also, and tears.

Magnificent out of the dust we came, And abject from the Spheres.

O bright irresistible lord!

We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, Whence first was the seed outpoured.

To thee as our Father we bow, Forbidden thy Father to see, Who is older and greater than thou, as thou Art greater and older than we.

{82}

Thou art but as a word of his speech, Thou art but as a wave of his hand; Thou art brief as a glitter of sand 'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; Thou art less than a spark of his fire, Or a moment's mood of his soul: Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir That chant the chant of the Whole.

_William Watson._