William H. Davies
Reading edition
The Captive Lion
Thou that in fury with thy knotted tail Hast made this iron floor thy beaten drum; That now in silence walkst thy little space — Like a sea-captain — careless what may come: What power has brought thy majesty to this, Who gave those eyes their dull and sleepy look; Who took their lightning out, and from thy throat The thunder when the whole wide forest shook? It was that man who went again, alone, Into thy forest dark — Lord, he was brave! That man a fly has killed, whose bones are left Unburied till an earthquake digs his grave.
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A Bird's Anger
A summer's morning that has but one voice; Five hundred stocks, like golden lovers, lean Their heads together, in their quiet way, And but one bird sings, of a number seen. It is the lark, that louder, louder sings, As though but this one thought possessed his mind: 'You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch, I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!' And when I hear him at this daring task, 'Peace, little bird,' I say, 'and take some rest; Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song, Before it makes a coffin of your nest.'
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The Villain
While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong — I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood.
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Love's Caution
Tell them, when you are home again, How warm the air was now; How silent were the birds and leaves, And of the moon's full glow; And how we saw afar A falling star: It was a tear of pure delight Ran down the face of Heaven this happy night. Our kisses are but love in flower, Until that greater time When, gathering strength, those flowers take wing, And Love can reach his prime. And now, my heart's delight, Good night, good night; Give me the last sweet kiss — But do not breathe at home one word of this!
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Wasted Hours
How many buds in this warm light Have burst out laughing into leaves! And shall a day like this be gone Before I seek the wood that holds The richest music known? Too many times have nightingales Wasted their passion on my sleep, And brought repentance soon: But this one night I'll seek the woods, The nightingale, and moon.
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The Truth
Since I have seen a bird one day, His head pecked more than half away; That hopped about, with but one eye, Ready to fight again, and die — Ofttimes since then their private lives Have spoilt that joy their music gives. So when I see this robin now, Like a red apple on the bough, And question why he sings so strong, For love, or for the love of song; Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill Whose silver tongue is never still — Ah, now there comes this thought unkind, Born of the knowledge in my mind: He sings in triumph that last night He killed his father in a fight; And now he'll take his mother's blood — The last strong rival for his food.
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