A Cluster of Grapes | Page 9

if we lay
Shot dead on snows scarlet for Liberty,

Dead in the daylight; upon Christmas Day.
WHEN I CAME BACK TO FLEET STREET
When I came back to Fleet Street,
Through a sunset-nook at night,

And saw the old Green Dragon
With the windows all alight,
And
hailed the old Green Dragon
And the Cock I used to know,
Where
all the good fellows were my friends
A little while ago.
I had been long in meadows,
And the trees took hold of me,
And
the still towns in the beech-woods,
Where men were meant to be;

But old things held; the laughter,
The long unnatural night,
And all
the truth the talk in hell,
And all the lies they write.
For I came back to Fleet Street,
And not in peace I came;
A cloven
pride was in my heart,
And half my love was shame.
I came to fight
in fairy tale,
Whose end shall no man know--
To fight the old Green
Dragon
Until the Cock shall crow!
Under the broad bright windows
Of men I serve no more,
The
groaning of the old great wheels
Thickened to a throttled roar;
All
buried things broke upwards;
And peered from its retreat,
Ugly and
silent, like an elf,
The secret of the street.
They did not break the padlocks,
Or clear the wall away.
The men
in debt that drank of old
Still drink in debt to-day;
Chained to the
rich by ruin,
Cheerful in chains, as then
When old unbroken
Pickwick walked
Among the broken men.
Still he that dreams and rambles
Through his own elfin air,
Knows
that the street's a prison,

Knows that the gates are there:
Still he that
scorns or struggles,
Sees frightful and afar
All that they leave of
rebels
Rot high on Temple Bar.

All that I loved and hated,
All that I shunned and knew,
Clears in
broad battle lightening;
Where they, and I, and you,
Run high the
barricade that breaks
The barriers of the Street,
And shout to them
that shrink within,
The Prisoners of the Fleet!
THE TRUCE OF CHRISTMAS
Passionate peace is in the sky
And on the snow in silver sealed
The
beasts are perfect in the field
And men seem men so suddenly
But
take ten swords, and ten times ten,
And blow the bugle in praising
men
For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us
every one
And misers haggle, and mad men clutch
And there is
peril in praising much
And we have the terrible tongues un-curled

That praise the world to the sons of the world.
The idle humble hill and wood
Are bowed about the sacred Birth

And for one little while the earth
Is lazy with the love of good
But
ready are you and ready am I
If the battle blow and the guns go by

For we are for all men under the sun
And they are against us every
one
For the men that hate herd altogether
To pride and gold and the
great white feather
And the thing is graven in star and stone
That
the men that love are all alone.
Hunger is hard and time is tough
But bless the beggars and kiss the
kings
For hope has broken the heart of things
And nothing was ever
praised enough
But hold the shield for a sudden swing
And point
the sword in praising a thing
For we are for all men under the sun

And they are against us every one
And mime and merchant, thane
and thrall,
Hate us because we love them all
Only till Christmas
time goes by

Passionate peace is in the sky.
FRANCES CORNFORD
THE PRINCESS AND THE GIPSIES

As I looked out one May morning,
I saw the tree-tops green;
I said:
"My crown I will lay down
And live no more a queen."
Then I tripped down my golden steps
All in my silken gown,
And
when I stood in the open wood,
I met some gipsies brown.
"O gentle, gentle gipsies,
That roam the wide world through,

Because I hate my crown and state
O let me come with you.
"My councillors are old and grey,
And sit in narrow chairs;
But you
can hear the birds sing clear,
And your hearts are as light as theirs."
"If you would come along with us,
Then you must count the cost;

For though in Spring the sweet birds sing,
In Winter comes the frost.
"Your ladies serve you all the day
With courtesy and care;
Your
fine-shod feet they tread so neat,
But a gipsy's feet go bare.
"You wash in water running warm
Through basins all of gold;
The
streams where we roam have silvery foam,
But the streams, the
streams are cold.
"And barley-bread is bitter to taste,
While sugary cakes they please--

Which will you choose, O which will you choose,
Which will you
choose of these?
"For if you choose the mountain streams
And barley-bread to eat,

Your heart will be free as the birds in the tree,
But the stones will cut
your feet.
"The mud will spoil your silken gown,
And stain your insteps high;

The dogs in the farm will wish you harm
And bark as you go by.
"And though your heart grow deep and gay,
And your heart grow
wise and rich,
The cold will make your bones to ache
And you will
die in a ditch."

"O gentle, gentle