Harold Monro

Thistledown

This might have been a place for sleep, But, as from that small hollow there Hosts of bright thistledown begin Their dazzling journey through the air, An idle man can only stare. They grip their withered edge of stalk In brief excitement for the wind; They hold a breathless final talk, And when their filmy cables part One almost hears a little cry. Some cling together while they wait, And droop and gaze and hesitate, But others leap along the sky, Or circle round and calmly choose The gust they know they ought to use; While some in loving pairs will glide, Or watch the others as they pass, Or rest on flowers in the grass, Or circle through the shining day Like silvery butterflies at play. Some catch themselves to every mound, Then lingeringly and slowly move As if they knew the precious ground Were opening for their fertile love: They almost try to dig, they need So much to plant their thistle-seed.

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Real Property

Tell me about that harvest field. Oh! Fifty acres of living bread. The colour has painted itself in my heart; The form is patterned in my head. So now I take it everywhere, See it whenever I look round; Hear it growing through every sound, Know exactly the sound it makes — Remembering, as one must all day, Under the pavement the live earth aches. Trees are at the farther end, Limes all full of the mumbling bee: So there must be a harvest field Whenever one thinks of a linden tree. A hedge is about it, very tall, Hazy and cool, and breathing sweet. Round paradise is such a wall, And all the day, in such a way, In paradise the wild birds call. You only need to close your eyes And go within your secret mind, And you'll be into paradise: I've learnt quite easily to find Some linden trees and drowsy bees, A tall sweet hedge with the corn behind. I will not have that harvest mown: I'll keep the corn and leave the bread. I've bought that field; it's now my own: I've fifty acres in my head. I take it as a dream to bed. I carry it about all day.... Sometimes when I have found a friend I give a blade of corn away.

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Unknown Country

Here, in this other world, they come and go With easy dream-like movements to and fro. They stare through lovely eyes, yet do not seek An answering gaze, or that a man should speak. Had I a load of gold, and should I come Bribing their friendship, and to buy a home, They would stare harder and would slightly frown: I am a stranger from the distant town. Oh, with what patience I have tried to win The favour of the hostess of the Inn! Have I not offered toast on frothing toast Looking toward the melancholy host; Praised the old wall-eyed mare to please the groom; Laughed to the laughing maid and fetched her broom; Stood in the background not to interfere When the cool ancients frolicked at their beer; Talked only in my turn, and made no claim For recognition or by voice or name, Content to listen, and to watch the blue Or grey of eyes, or what good hands can do? Sun-freckled lads, who at the dusk of day Stroll through the village with a scent of hay Clinging about you from the windy hill, Why do you keep your secret from me still? You loiter at the corner of the street; I in the distance silently entreat. I know too well I'm city-soiled, but then So are today ten million other men. My heart is true: I've neither will nor charms To lure away your maidens from your arms. Trust me a little. Must I always stand Lonely, a stranger from an unknown land? There is a riddle here. Though I'm more wise Than you, I cannot read your simple eyes. I find the meaning of their gentle look More difficult than any learned book. I pass: perhaps a moment you may chaff My walk, and so dismiss me with a laugh. I come: you all, most grave and most polite, Stand silent first, then wish me calm Good-Night. When I go back to town some one will say: 'I think that stranger must have gone away.' And 'Surely!' some one else will then reply. Meanwhile, within the dark of London, I Shall, with my forehead resting on my hand, Not cease remembering your distant land; Endeavouring to reconstruct aright How some treed hill has looked in evening light; Or be imagining the blue of skies Now as in heaven, now as in your eyes; Or in my mind confusing looks or words Of yours with dawnlight, or the song of birds: Not able to resist, not even keep Myself from hovering near you in my sleep: You still as callous to my thought and me As flowers to the purpose of the bee.

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