LOUIS GOLDING

He behind the straight plough stands Stalwart, firm shafts in firm hands. Naught he cares for wars and naught For the fierce disease of thought. Only for the winds, the sheer Naked impulse of the year, Only for the soil, which stares Clean into God’s face, he cares. In the stark might of his deed There is more than art or creed; In his wrist more strength is hid Than the monstrous Pyramid; Stauncher than stern Everest Be the muscles of his breast; Not the Atlantic sweeps a flood Potent as the ploughman’s blood. He, his horse, his ploughshare, these Are the only verities. Dawn to dusk with God he stands, The Earth poised on his broad hands.

I have been given eyes Which are neither foolish nor wise, Seeing through joy or pain Beauty alone remain. I have been given an ear Which catches nothing clear, But only along the day A song stealing away. My feet and hands never could Do anything evil or good: Instead of these things, A swift mouth that sings.

The shepherd sings: ’Way down in Dixie, Way down in Dixie, Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay....’ With shaded eyes he stands to look Across the hills where the clouds swoon, He singing, leans upon his crook, He sings, he sings no more. The wind is muffled in the tangled hair Of sheep that drift along the noon. The mild sheep stare With amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June. Two skylarks soar With singing flame Into the sun whence first they came. All else is only grasshoppers Or a brown wing the shepherd stirs, Who, like a slow tree moving, goes Where the pale tide of sheep-drift flows. See! the sun smites With molten lights The turned wing of a gull that glows Aslant the violet, the profound Dome of the mid-June heights. Alas! again the grasshoppers, The birds, the slumber-winging bees, Alas! again for those and these Demure things drowned; Drowned in vain raucous words men made Where no lark rose with swift and sweet Ascent and where no dim sheep strayed About the stone immensities, Where no sheep strayed and where no bees Probed any flowers nor swung a blade Of grass with pollened feet. He sings: ‘In Dixie, Way down in Dixie, Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay Scrambled eggs in the new-mown hay....’ The herring-gulls with peevish cries Rebuke the man who sings vain words; His sheep-dog growls a low complaint, Then turns to chasing butterflies. But when the indifferent singing-birds From midmost down to dimmest shore Innumerably confirm their songs, And grasshoppers make summer rhyme And solemn bees in the wild thyme Clash cymbals and beat gongs, The shepherd’s words once more are faint, Once more the alien song is thinned Upon the long course of the wind, He sings, he sings no more. Ah now the dear monotonies Of bells that jangle on the sheep To the low limit of the hills! Till the blue cup of music spills Into the boughs of lowland trees; Till thence the lowland singings creep Into the dreamful shepherd’s head, Creep drowsily through his blood; The young thrush fluting all he knows, The ring dove moaning his false woes, Almost the rabbit’s tiny tread, The last unfolding bud. But now, Now a cool word spreads out along the sea. Now the day’s violet is cloud-tipped with gold. Now dusk most silently Fills the hushed day with other wings than birds’. Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock, To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence. So too the shepherd gathers in his flock, Because birds journey to their dens, Tired sheep to their still fold. A dark first bat swoops low and dips About the shepherd who now sings A song of timeless evenings; For dusk is round him with wide wings, Dusk murmurs on his moving lips. There is not mortal man who knows From whence the shepherd’s song arose: It came a thousand years ago. Once the world’s shepherds woke to lead The folded sheep that they might feed On green downs where winds blow. One shepherd sang a golden word. A thousand miles away one heard. One sang it swift, one sang it slow. Two skylarks heard, two skylarks told All shepherds this same song of gold On all downs where winds blow. This is the song that shepherds must Sing till the green downlands be dust And tide of sheep-drift no more flow; The song two skylarks told again To all the sheep and shepherd men On green downs where winds blow.

You hear no bones click, see no shaken shroud. Though no tombs grin, you feel ghosts gathering. Crowd On pitiful crowd of small dead singing men Tread the sure earth they feebly hymned; again With fleshless hand seize unswayed grass. They seize Insensitive flowers which bend not. Through gross trees They sift. Nothing withstands them. Nothing knows Them nor the songs they sang, their busy woes. ‘Hence from these ingrate things! To the towns!’ they weep, (If ghosts have tears). You think a wrinkled heap Of leaves heaved, or a wing stirred, less than this. Some chance on the midnight cities. Others miss The few faint lights, thin voices. Wretched these Doomed to beat long the windy vacancies! Some mourn through forlorn towns. They prowl and seek —What seek they? Who knows them? If branches creak And leaves flap and slow women ply their trade, Those all are living things, but these are dead, All that they were, dead totally. What fool still Knows their extinguished songs? They had their fill Of average joys and sorrows. They learned how Love wilts, Death does not wilt. What more left now? But one ghost yet of all these ghosts may find Himself not utterly faded. Through his blind Some old man’s lamp-rays probe the darkness. Sick Of his gaunt quest, the ghost halts. The clock’s tick Troubles the silence. Tiredly the ghost scans The opened book on the table. A flame fans, A weak wan fire floods through his subtle veins. No, no, not wholly forgotten! Loves and pains Not suffered wholly for nothing! (The old man bends Over the book, makes notes for pious ends, —Some curious futile work twelve men at most Will read and yawn over.) The dizzy ghost, Like some more ignorant moth circles the light... Not suffered wholly for nothing!... ‘A sweet night!’ The old man mumbles.... A warmth is in the air, He smiles, not knowing why. He moves his chair Closer against the table. And sitting bowed Lovingly turns the leaves and chants aloud.

Poor trussed-up lad, what piteous guise Cloaks the late splendour of your eyes, Stiffens the fleetness of your face Into a mask of sleek disgrace, And makes a smooth caricature Of your taut body’s swift and sure Poise, like a proud bird waiting one Moment ere he taunt the sun; Your body that stood foolish-wise Stormed by the treasons of the skies, Star-like that hung, deliberate Above the dubieties of Fate, But with an April gesture chose Unutterable and certain woes! And now you stand with discreet charm Dropping the napkin round your arm, Anticipate your tip while you Hear the commercial travellers chew. You shuffle with their soups and beers Who held at heel the howling fears, You whose young limbs were proud to dare Challenge the black hosts of despair!