Eyes of Youth | Page 3

thy side like foam--?I cannot die.
O woman, shapely as the swan,?In a cunning house hard-reared was I;?O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,?I shall not die.
AN IDYLL
You stay at last at my bosom, with your beauty?young and rare,?Though your light limbs are as limber as the?foal's that follows the mare,?Brow fair and young and stately where thought?has now begun--Hair?bright as the breast of the eagle when he?strains up to the sun!
In the space of a broken castle I found you on?a day?When the call of the new-come cuckoo went?with me all the way.?You stood by the loosened stones that were?rough and black with age:?The fawn beloved of the hunter in the panther's?broken cage!
And we went down together by paths your?childhood knew--?Remote you went beside me, like the spirit of?the dew;?Hard were the hedge-rows still: sloe-bloom?was their scanty dower--?You slipped it within your bosom, the bloom?that scarce is flower.
And now you stay at my bosom with you?beauty young and rare,?Though your light limbs are as limber as the?foal's that follows the mare;?But always I will see you on paths your childhood?knew,?When remote you went beside me like the?spirit of the dew.
CHRIST THE COMRADE
Christ, by thine own darkened hour?Live within my heart and brain!?Let my hands not slip the rein.
Ah, how long ago it is?Since a comrade rode with me!?Now a moment let me see
Thyself, lonely in the dark,?Perfect, without wound or mark.
_ARAB SONGS (I)_
Saadi the Poet stood up and he put forth his?living words.?His songs were the hurtling of spears and?his figures the flashing of swords.?With hearts dilated our tribe saw the creature?of Saadi's mind;?It was like to the horse of a king, a creature?of fire and of wind.
Umimah my loved one was by me: without?love did these eyes see my fawn,?And if fire there were in her being, for me?its splendour had gone;?When the sun storms up on the tent, he makes?waste the fire of the grass--?It was thus with my loved one's beauty: the?splendour of song made it pass.
The desert, the march, and the onset--these?and these only avail,?Hands hard with the handling of spear-shafts,?brows white with the press of the mail!?And as for the kisses of women--these are?honey, the poet sings;?But the honey of kisses, beloved, it is lime?for the spirit's wings.
_ARAB SONGS (II)_
The poet reproaches those who have affronted him.
Ye know not why God hath joined the horse?fly unto the horse?Nor why the generous steed is yoked with?the poisonous fly:?Lest the steed should sink into ease and lose?his fervour of nerve?God hath appointed him this: a lustful and?venomous bride.
Never supine lie they, the steeds of our folk,?to the sting,?Praying for deadness of nerve, their wounds?the shame of the sun;?They strive, but they strive for this: the fullness?of passionate nerve;?They pant, but they pant for this: the speed?that outstrips the pain.
Sons of the dust, ye have stung: there is?darkness upon my soul.?Sons of the dust, ye have stung: yea, stung?to the roots of my heart.?But I have said in my breast: the birth?succeeds to the pang,?And sons of the dust, behold, your malice?becomes my song.

SHANE LESLIE
A DEAD FRIEND (J.S., 1905)
I drew him then unto my knee, my friend who?was dead,?And I set my live lips over his, and my heart?by his head.
I thought of an unrippled love and a passion?unsaid,?And the years he was living by me, my friend?who was dead;
And the white morning ways that we went,?and how oft we had fed?And drunk with the sunset for lamp--my friend?who was dead;
Now never the draught at my lips would thrill?to my head--?For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; my?friend he was dead.
Then I spake unto God in my grief: My wine?and my bread?And my staff Thou hast taken from me--my?friend who is dead.
Are the heavens yet friendless to Thee, and?lone to Thy head,?That Thy desolate heart must have need of my?friend who is dead?
To God then I spake yet again: not Peter?instead?Would I take, nor Philip nor John, for my?friend who is dead.
FOREST SONG
All around I heard the whispering larches?Swinging to the low-lipped wind;?God, they piped, is lilting in our arches,?For He loveth leafen kind.
Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber,?Say confiding to the reed:?God well knoweth us, Who loves to number?Us and all our fairy seed.
Voices hummed as of a multitude?Crowding from their lowly sod;?'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood,?Crying to the daisies' God.
THE BEE
Away, the old monks said,?Sweet honey-fly,?From lilting overhead?The lullaby?You heard some mother croon?Beneath the harvest moon.?Go, hum it in the hive,?The old monks said,?For we were once alive?Who now are dead.
OUTSIDE THE CARLTON
The death of the grey withered grass
Of man's is a sign,?And his life is as wine?That is spilt from a half-shivered glass.
At a quarter to nine?Went Dives to dine ...?(Man, it is said, is as grass.)
Riches and plunder had met
To furnish his feast--?Both succulent beast?And fish from the fisherman's net;
While he