Forty-Two Poems | Page 3

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FORTY-TWO POEMS
Contents
To a Poet a thousand years hence
Riouperoux
The Town without a
Market
The Balled of Camden Town
Mignon
Felo de se

Tenebris Interlucentem
Invitation to a young but learned friend . . .

Balled of the Londoner
The First Sonnet of Bathrolaire
The Second
Sonnet of Bathrolaire
The Masque of the Magi
The Balled of
Hampstead Heath
Litany to Satan
The Translator and the Children

Opportunity
Destroyer of Ships, Men, Cities
War Song of the
Saracens
Joseph and Mary
No Coward's Song
A Western Voyage

Fountains
The Welsh Sea
Oxford Canal
Hialmar speaks to the
Raven
The Ballad of the Student in the South
The Queen's song

Lord Arnaldos
We that were friends
My Friend
Ideal
Mary
Magdalen
I rose from dreamless hours
Prayer
A Miracle of
Bethlehem
Gravis Dulcis Immutabilis
Pillage
The Ballad of
Zacho
Pavlovna in London
The Sentimentalist
Don Juan in Hell

The Ballad of Iskander
TO A POET
A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE
I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for
messengers
The way I shall not pass along.
I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces

Of metal or of masonry.
But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and
ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?
How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Moeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.
O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night,
alone:
I was a poet, I was young.
Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and
space
To greet you. You will understand.
RIOUPEROUX
High and solemn mountains guard Riouperoux,
- Small untidy village
where the river drives a mill:
Frail as wood anemones, white and frail
were you,
And drooping a little, like the slender daffodil.
Oh I will go to France again, and tramp the valley through, And I will
change these gentle clothes for clog and corduroy, And work with the
mill-hands of black Riouperoux,
And walk with you, and talk with

you, like any other boy.
THE TOWN WITHOUT A MARKET
There lies afar behind a western hill
The Town without a Market,
white and still;
For six feet long and not a third as high
Are those
small habitations. There stood I,
Waiting to hear the citizens beneath

Murmur and sigh and speak through tongueless teeth.
When all the
world lay burning in the sun
I heard their voices speak to me. Said
one:
"Bright lights I loved and colours, I who find
That death is
darkness, and has struck me blind."
Another cried: "I used to sing and
play,
But here the world is silent, day by day."
And one: "On earth I
could not see or hear,
But with my fingers touched what I was near,

And knew things round and soft, and brass from gold,
And dipped
my hand in water, to feel cold,
And thought the grave would cure me,
and was glad
When the time came to lose what joy I had."
Soon all
the voices of a hundred dead
Shouted in wrath together. Someone
said,
"I care not, but the girl