Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 Part 14

DISCOVERY

Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright.

She in the long fresh gra.s.s scattered her rains Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars, But not like stars cold, severe, terrible.

Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide.

Hers the bright light within the quick green Of every new leaf on the oldest tree.

It was her swimming made the river run s.h.i.+ning as the sun; Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark, Singing in the incessant lark....

All this was hers--yet all this had not been Except 'twas seen.

It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright; My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins, The vehemence of transfiguring thought-- Not lights and shadows, birds, gra.s.ses and rains-- That made thy wonders wonderful.

For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee, Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play, Empty of meaning and so of all delight.

Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss, Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth, And I have paid thee with my thankfulness.

'IT WAS THE LOVELY MOON'

It was the lovely moon--she lifted Slowly her white brow among Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted Faintly, faintlier afar.

Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder, Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness, Watching the earth that dwindled under Faintly, faintlier afar.

It was the lovely moon that lovelike Hovered over the wandering, tired Earth, her bosom grey and dovelike, Hovering beautiful as a dove....

The lovely moon:--her soft light falling Lightly on roof and poplar and pine-- Tree to tree whispering and calling, Wonderful in the silvery s.h.i.+ne Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.

STONE TREES

Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark.

In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.

Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark.

And cows astonied stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And conies to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid.

From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed an age, or time was nought.

Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill Grey granite trees was music wrought.

In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none ...

Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And s.h.i.+vered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.

Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.

From all the wood came no brave bird, No song broke through the close-fall'n night, Nor any sound from cowering herd: Only a dog's long lonely howl When from the window poured pale light.

And from the wood The hoot came ghostly of the owl.

THE PIGEONS

The pigeons, following the faint warm light, Stayed at last on the roof till warmth was gone, Then in the mist that's hastier than night Disappeared all behind the carved dark stone, Huddling from the black cruelty of the frost.

With the new sparkling sun they swooped and came Like a cloud between the sun and street, and then Like a cloud blown from the blue north were lost, Vanis.h.i.+ng and returning ever again, Small cloud following cloud across the flame That clear and meagre burned and burned away And left the ice unmelting day by day.

... Nor could the sun through the roof's purple slate (Though his gold magic played with shadow there And drew the pigeons from the streaming air) With any fiery magic penetrate.

Under the roof the air and water froze, And no smoke from the gaping chimney rose.

The silver frost upon the window pane Flowered and branched each starving night anew, And stranger, lovelier and crueller grew; Pouring her silver that cold silver through, The moon made all the dim flower bright again.

... Pouring her silver through that barren flower Of silver frost, until it filled and whitened A room where two small children waited, frightened At the pale ghost of light that hour by hour Stared at them till though fear slept not they slept.

And when that white ghost from the window crept, And day came and they woke and saw all plain Though still the frost-flower blinded the window pane, And touched their mother and touched her hand in vain, And wondered why she woke not when they woke; And wondered what it was their sleep that broke When hand in hand they stared and stared, so frightened; They feared and waited, and waited all day long, While all the shadows went and the day brightened, All the ill shadows but one shadow strong.

Outside were busy feet and human speech And daily cries and horns. Maybe they heard, Painfully wondering still, and each to each Leaning, and listening if their mother stirred-- Cold, cold, Hungering as the long slow hours grew old, Though food within the cupboard idle lay Beyond their thought, or but beyond their reach.

The soft blue pigeons all the afternoon Sunned themselves on the roof or rose at play, Then with the shrinking light fluttered away; And once more came the icy-hearted moon, Staring down at the frightened children there That could but s.h.i.+ver and stare.

How many hours, how many days, who knows?

Neighbours there were who thought they had gone away To return some luckier or luckless day.

No sound came from the room: the cold air froze The very echo of the children's sighs.

And what they saw within each other's eyes, Or heard each other's heart say as they peered At the dead mother lying there, and feared That she might wake, and then might never wake, Who knows, who knows?

None heard a living sound their silence break.

In those cold days and nights how many birds, Flittering above the fields and streams all frozen, Watched hungrily the tended flocks and herds-- Earth's chosen nourished by earth's wise self-chosen!

How many birds suddenly stiffened and died With no plaint cried, The starved heart ceasing when the pale sun ceased!

And when the new day stepped from the same cold East The dead birds lay in the light on the snow-flecked field, Their song and beautiful free winging stilled.

I walked under snow-sprinkled hills at night, And starry sprinkled skies deep blue and bright.

The keen wind thrust with his knife against the thin Breast of the wood as I went tingling by, And heard a weak cheep-cheep,--no more--the cry Of a bird that crouched the smitten wood within ...

But no one heeded that sharp spiritual cry Of the two children in their misery, When in the cold and famished night death's shade More terrible the moon's cold shadows made.

How was it none could hear That bodiless crying, birdlike, sharp and clear?

I cannot think what they, unanswered, thought When the night came again and shadows moved As the moon through the ice-flower stared and roved, And that unyielding Shadow came again.

That Shadow came again unseen and caught The children as they sat listening in vain, Their starved hearts failing ere the Shadow removed.

And when the new morn stepped from the same cold East They lay unawakening in the barren light, Their song and their imaginations bright, Their pains and fears and all bewilderment ceased....

While the brief sun gave New beauty to the death-flower of the frost, And pigeons in the frore air swooped and tossed, And glad eyes were more glad, and grave less grave.

There is not pity enough in heaven or earth, There is not love enough, if children die Like famished birds--oh, less mercifully.

A great wrong's done when such as these go forth Into the starless dark, broken and bruised, With mind and sweet affection all confused, And horror closing round them as they go.

There is not pity enough!

And I have made, children, these verses for you, Lasting a little longer than your breath, Because I have been haunted with your death: So men are driven to things they hate to do.

Jesus, forgive us all our happiness, As Thou dost blot out all our miseries.

HAPPY IS ENGLAND NOW

There is not anything more wonderful Than a great people moving towards the deep Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor Is aught so dear of all held dear before As the new pa.s.sion stirring in their veins When the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.

Happy is England now, as never yet!

And though the sorrows of the slow days fret Her faithfullest children, grief itself is proud.

Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summer That turns to bitterness turns then to gladness Since for this England the beloved ones died.

Happy is England in the brave that die For wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers; Happy in those that give, give, and endure The pain that never the new years may cure; Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns, Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea.

What'er was dear before is dearer now.