CHILDREN

And this is what he heard And saw at church: Oh, a great yellow bird Upon a perch— Quite still upon a perch. And then a man in white Got up and walked to it, And talked to it For a long while (he said); But the yellow bird (Although it must have heard!) Never turned its head, Or did anything at all But look straight at the wall! (A true tale.)

Small Marjorie In an apple-tree Looks down upon the world with glee. Her brother Ted, So he has said, Loves best to see the chickens fed. And little Charlie likes to see The Thresher working hard, when he Hums like a dreadful bumble-bee. But Ann and Martha sit together Reading, however gold the weather.

He ran all down the meadow, that he did, The boy with the little bare toes. The flowers they smelt so sweet, so sweet, And the grass it felt so funny and wet And the birds sang just like this—“chereep!” And the willow-trees stood in rows. “Ho! ho!” Laughed the boy with the little bare toes. Now the trees had no insides—how funny! Laughed the boy with the little bare toes. And he put in his hand to find some money Or honey—yes, that would be best—oh, best! But what do you think he found, found, found? Why, six little eggs all round, round, round, And a mother-bird on the nest, Oh, yes! The mother-bird on her nest. He laughed, “Ha! ha!” and he laughed, “He! he!” The boy with the little bare toes. But the little mother-bird got up from her place And flew right into his face, ho! ho! And pecked him on the nose, “Oh! oh!” Yes, pecked him right on the nose. “Boo! Boo!” Cried the boy with the little bare toes.

What is it says the breeze In London streets to-day Unto the troubled trees Whose shadows strew the way, Whose leaves are all a-flutter? “You are wild!” the rascal cries. The green tree beats its wings And fills the air with sighs. “Wild! Wild!” the rascal sings. “But your feet are in the gutter!” Men pass beneath the trees Walking the pavement grey, They hear the whisperings tease And at the word he utters Their hearts are green and gay. Then like the gay, green trees, They beat proud wings to fly, But, like the fluttering trees, Their footprints mark the gutters Until the beggars die.

Flower-like and shy, You stand, sweet mortal, at the river’s brim: With what unconscious grace Your limbs to some strange law surrendering Which lifts you clear of our humanity! Now would I sacrifice Your breathing, warmth, and all the strange romance Of living, to a moment. Ere you break The greater thing than you, I would my eyes Were basilisk to turn you into stone. So should you be the world’s inheritance. And souls of unborn men should draw their breath From mortal you, immortalised in Death.

So is thy music unto me, As the bright moon which tides obey, As the white moon upon the sea. And like a wind that scatters free The petals of an April day, So is thy music unto me. It falleth light and quietly And sweet as summer’s petals—nay, As the white moon upon the sea. As moonlight falling silvery On waves of wild and surging grey, So is thy music unto me. As o’er each white and ebon key I watch thy silver fingers play, As the white moon upon the sea, On headlands of eternity My soul is hurled, and dashed in spray! So is thy music unto me As the bright moon which tides obey, As the white moon upon the sea.

From this sweet nest of peace and summer blue— England in June—a sea-bird’s nest indeed Guarded of waves, and hid by the sea-weed From envious hunter’s eye, we send to you Our flying thoughts and prayers, our treasure too, Poor though it be to bandage wounds that bleed For country dear beloved. There the seed Of homely loves and occupations grew To wither in the flame of godless might Kindled by hands of treachery, yet reeking With blood of friends and neighbours. Serbia, thou Hast thought us careless and far off; know now Thy name to us is sudden drums outspeaking And tortured trumpets crying in the night!

Only in pages of men’s books I find Swart villain and fair knight Closing in fight. Not piebald is mankind. The soul is hued to such swift varying As flying hornet’s sunshine-smitten wing. Therefore, dear brother men (where’er ye be), Who strive for right With such short sight, ’Tis wise for little folk like you and me Neither too much to praise nor yet to blame, Since in our different ways we’re all the same.

“Must ever I be so —Yellow and old?” you asked, “With living overtasked, Ugly, and racked with pains?” I answered, “Even so, Dearest; yet love remains.”

By Him Who made you sweet And set your eyes so wide, Who suffered us to meet Despite of woman’s pride, And willed that we should know, Despite of man’s gross sense, The wonder and dawn-glow Of Love’s omnipotence,— By all of this I swear, And by God’s self I vow, We have met (I know not how) Loving (I know not where): Perhaps in heaven above, Perhaps in deep perdition. And so this present love Is but a recognition.

Faint grow the hills, but yet the night delays To blot them utterly. Below their ridge Of shadow lies the city in blue haze. I watch its lamps awaken, from the bridge Whereunder, running strongly to the sea, Water goes fleeting softly in a brown Wild loveliness. In heaven two or three Small stars awaken and gaze shyly down.... White and alluring runs the dusty road Into the country, and with yellow eyes A hastening car comes purring with its load: Like some great owl it hoots, and then it flies Past, and is swallowed up in dusk. And, singing, A country girl with basket homeward wends —Sweet as the dusty roses that are clinging Around the cottage where her journey ends. Night deepens, and the stars with strengthening rays Thicken and go upon their lovely ways. Where are the voices that have vexed us so? Dear God, how quiet has Thy day become! The clamorous tongues of Earth are smitten dumb, Awed with the beauty that Thy work doth show.

All life from passion springs. In holy ecstasy ’Midst whir of angel-wings, Did God decree The golden stars that shine: The flaming morn, And that this flesh of mine Should once be born. And all the works of men That live indeed: Joyance of sword or pen, High thought or deed, Are in such primal fashion Contrived and wrought. God grant me fire of thought To work Thy will—with Passion!

I crave not of the wonder Of Thy full plan to see; No secret would I plunder Of guarded destiny; This only grant to me: To hear the rolling thunder Of Life—be man alive: Yet through no body’s blunder To drag the bright soul under —Drowned where it needs must dive. Keeping against all Fate That Thou hast given me— The dual mystery Of man—inviolate.

Far worse than pain, Unutterable weariness Of blood and brain— Intolerable dreariness Of days God gave me. And I bethought The first fresh flood of youth that rose to leave me, And how in those brave days— Virgin of lust and spot— I had forgot To render any praise. Then, as I thus looked upward through the net Wherein both soul and flesh lay cunningly caught, God (’twas like Springtime calling from the earth The flowers to birth!) Smiled down and did restore All that I had before.

It happened in a blood-red hell ringed round with golden weather; Walking in khaki through a trench he came, When life was death, and wounded men and great shells screamed together: I did not know his name. But so white-faced and wan, we talked a little while together Amongst dead men, and timbers black with flame. “What would you do with life again,” asks he, “if one could give it?” “No use to talk when life is done,” I say. “But, by the living God, if He should grant me life I’d live it Kinder to man, truer to God each day.” Flame and the noise of doom devoured the words, and for a while Senseless I lay.... Then, Oh, then as in a dream I saw the stranger with a smile Moving towards me over the dead men. Red, red were his hands and feet and a great hole in his side, Yet glory seemed to blaze about his head; “Kinder to man, truer to God,” he whispered, and then died; Falling down, arms outspread. Ere darkness fell upon me with the faintness and the pain, I saw a mangled body lying prone Upon the earth beside me. But what I can’t explain Is—The stretcher-bearers found me quite alone. But, howsoe’er it happened, it matters not at last, Since God’s dear Son came down to earth and died In bloodshed, and the darkness of clouds that groaned aghast; With pierced hands and a great wound in His side. It is not in my heart to hate the pleasant sins I leave. Earth’s passion flames within me fierce and strong. But this is like a shadow ever rising up to thieve Sin’s pleasures, and the lure of every pattern lust can weave, And charm of all things that can do Him wrong.

God dreamed a man; Then, having firmly shut Life like a precious metal in his fist, Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin Our various divinity and sin. For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, And others—dreaming empires—straightway cut Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dare to boast That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most Did with it—simply nothing. (Here, again, Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain Metal unmarred, to each man more or less, Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness. For me, I do but bear within my hand (For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken) A simple bugle such as may awaken With one high morning note a drowsing man: That wheresoe’er within my motherland The sound may come, ’twill echo far and wide Like pipes of battle calling up a clan, Trumpeting men through beauty to God’s side.