Ralph Hodgson
Reading edition
This exquisite poet was born in Northumberland about 1879. One of the most graceful of the younger word-magicians, Ralph Hodgson will retain his freshness as long as there are lovers of such rare and timeless songs as his. It is difficult to think of any anthology of English poetry compiled after 1917 that could omit "Eve," "The Song of Honor," and that memorable snatch of music, "Time, You Old Gypsy Man." One succumbs to the charm of "Eve" at the first reading; for here is the oldest of all legends told with a surprising simplicity and still more surprising freshness. This Eve is neither the conscious sinner nor the Mother of men; she is, in Hodgson's candid lines, any young, English country girl—filling her basket, regarding the world and the serpent itself with a mild and childlike wonder.
Hodgson's verses, full of the love of all natural things, a love that goes out to
"an idle rainbow No less than laboring seas,"
were originally brought out in small pamphlets, and distributed by Flying Fame.
EVE
Eve, with her basket, was Deep in the bells and grass, Wading in bells and grass Up to her knees. Picking a dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Down in the bells and grass Under the trees. Mute as a mouse in a Corner the cobra lay, Curled round a bough of the Cinnamon tall.... Now to get even and Humble proud heaven and Now was the moment or Never at all. "Eva!" Each syllable Light as a flower fell, "Eva!" he whispered the Wondering maid, Soft as a bubble sung Out of a linnet's lung, Soft and most silverly "Eva!" he said. Picture that orchard sprite; Eve, with her body white, Supple and smooth to her Slim finger tips; Wondering, listening, Listening, wondering, Eve with a berry Half-way to her lips. Oh, had our simple Eve Seen through the make-believe! Had she but known the Pretender he was! Out of the boughs he came, Whispering still her name, Tumbling in twenty rings Into the grass. Here was the strangest pair In the world anywhere, Eve in the bells and grass Kneeling, and he Telling his story low.... Singing birds saw them go Down the dark path to The Blasphemous Tree. Oh, what a clatter when Titmouse and Jenny Wren Saw him successful and Taking his leave! How the birds rated him, How they all hated him! How they all pitied Poor motherless Eve! Picture her crying Outside in the lane, Eve, with no dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Haunting the gate of the Orchard in vain.... Picture the lewd delight Under the hill to-night— "Eva!" the toast goes round, "Eva!" again.
TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN
Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? All things I'll give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may. Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away? Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein— Only a moment, And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?
THE BIRDCATCHER
When flighting time is on, I go With clap-net and decoy, A-fowling after goldfinches And other birds of joy; I lurk among the thickets of The Heart where they are bred, And catch the twittering beauties as They fly into my Head.
THE MYSTERY
He came and took me by the hand Up to a red rose tree, He kept His meaning to Himself But gave a rose to me. I did not pray Him to lay bare The mystery to me, Enough the rose was Heaven to smell, And His own face to see.