Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 19

No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

_William H. Davies._

87. LYING IN THE GRa.s.s

Between two russet tufts of summer gra.s.s, I watch the world through hot air as through gla.s.s, And by my face sweet lights and colours pa.s.s.

Before me, dark against the fading sky, I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: With brawny arms they sweep in harmony.

Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, Rich glowing colour on bare throat and head, My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead!

And in my strong young living as I lie, I seem to move with them in harmony,-- A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I.

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The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,

The weary b.u.t.terflies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all the la.s.situde of happy things

Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood That gushes through my veins a languid flood, And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.

Behind the mowers, on the amber air, A dark-green beech-wood rises, still and fair, A white path winding up it like a stair.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, And clean white ap.r.o.n on her gown of red,-- Her even-song of love is but half-said:

She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; Her cheeks are redder than the wild blush-rose; They climb up where the deepest shadows close.

But though they pa.s.s and vanish, I am there; I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair, Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer

Ah! now the rosy children come to play, And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; Their clear high voices sound from far away.

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They know so little why the world is sad, They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad; Their m.u.f.fled screams and laughter make me mad!

I long to go and play among them there, Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.

The happy children! full of frank surprise, And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies; What G.o.dhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays That Tuscan potters fas.h.i.+on'd in old days, And coloured like the torrid earth ablaze,

We find the little G.o.ds and loves portray'd Through ancient forests wandering undismay'd, Or gathered, whispering, in some pleasant glade.

They knew, as I do now, what keen delight A strong man feels to watch the tender flight Of little children playing in his sight.

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind, I only wish to live my life, and find My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,-- A microcosm where all things living are.

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And if, among the noiseless gra.s.ses, Death Should come behind and take away my breath, I should not rise as one who sorroweth,

For I should pa.s.s, but all the world would be Full of desire and young delight and glee, And why should men be sad through loss of me?

The light is dying; in the silver-blue The young moon s.h.i.+nes from her bright window through: The mowers all are gone, and I go too.

_Edmund Gosse._

88. DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She pa.s.sed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the gra.s.s grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

_W. B. Yeats._

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89. RENAISSANCE

O happy soul, forget thy self!

This that has haunted all the past, That conjured disappointments fast, That never could let well alone; That, climbing to achievement's throne, Slipped on the last step; this that wove Dissatisfaction's clinging net, And ran through life like squandered pelf:-- This that till now has been thy self Forget, O happy soul, forget.

If ever thou didst aught commence,-- Set'st forth in springtide woods to rove,-- Or, when the sun in July throve, Didst plunge into calm bay of ocean With fine felicity in motion,-- Or, having climbed some high hill's brow, Thy toil behind thee like the night, Stoodst in the chill dawn's air intense;-- Commence thus now, thus recommence:

Take to the future as to light.

Not as a bather on the sh.o.r.e Strips of his clothes, glad soul, strip thou: He throws them off, but folds them now; Although he for the billows yearns, To weight them down with stones he turns; To mark the spot he scans the sh.o.r.e; Of his return he thinks before.

Do thou forget

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All that, until this joy franchised thee, Tainted thee, stained thee, or disguised thee; For gladness, henceforth without let, Be thou a body, naked, fair; And be thy kingdom all the air Which the noon fills with light; And be thine actions every one, Like to a dawn or set of sun, Robed in an ample glory's peace; Since thou hast tasted this great glee Whose virtue prophesies in thee That wrong is wholly doomed, is doomed and bound to cease.

_T. Sturge Moore._