Georgian Poetry 1918-19 | Page 6

and shines the roughest face;?How often have I sought you high and low,?And found you still in some lone quiet place;
Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,?With no life heard beyond that merry sound?Of moths that on my lighted ceiling kiss?Their shadows as they dance and dance around;
Or in a garden, on a summer's night,?When I have seen the dark and solemn air?Blink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright face?Twitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.
A CHILD'S PET
When I sailed out of Baltimore?With twice a thousand head of sheep,?They would not eat, they would not drink,?But bleated o'er the deep.
Inside the pens we crawled each day,?To sort the living from the dead;?And when we reached the Mersey's mouth?Had lost five hundred head.
Yet every night and day one sheep,?That had no fear of man or sea,?Stuck through the bars its pleading face,?And it was stroked by me.
And to the sheep-men standing near,?'You see,' I said, 'this one tame sheep:?It seems a child has lost her pet,?And cried herself to sleep.'
So every time we passed it by,?Sailing to England's slaughter-house,?Eight ragged sheep-men--tramps and thieves--?Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
ENGLAND
We have no grass locked up in ice so fast?That cattle cut their faces and at last,?When it is reached, must lie them down and starve,?With bleeding mouths that freeze too hard to move.?We have not that delirious state of cold?That makes men warm and sing when in Death's hold.?We have no roaring floods whose angry shocks?Can kill the fishes dashed against their rocks.?We have no winds that cut down street by street,?As easy as our scythes can cut down wheat.?No mountains here to spew their burning hearts?Into the valleys, on our human parts.?No earthquakes here, that ring church bells afar,?A hundred miles from where those earthquakes are.?We have no cause to set our dreaming eyes,?Like Arabs, on fresh streams in Paradise.?We have no wilds to harbour men that tell?More murders than they can remember well.?No woman here shall wake from her night's rest,?To find a snake is sucking at her breast.?Though I have travelled many and many a mile,?And had a man to clean my boots and smile?With teeth that had less bone in them than gold--?Give me this England now for all my world.
THE BELL
It is the bell of death I hear,?Which tells me my own time is near,?When I must join those quiet souls?Where nothing lives but worms and moles;?And not come through the grass again,?Like worms and moles, for breath or rain;?Yet let none weep when my life's through,?For I myself have wept for few.
The only things that knew me well?Were children, dogs, and girls that fell;?I bought poor children cakes and sweets,?Dogs heard my voice and danced the streets;?And, gentle to a fallen lass,?I made her weep for what she was.?Good men and women know not me.?Nor love nor hate the mystery.

WALTER DE LA MARE
THE SUNKEN GARDEN
Speak not--whisper not;?Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;?Softly on the evening hour,?Secret herbs their spices shower,?Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,?Lean-stalked, purple lavender;?Hides within her bosom, too,?All her sorrows, bitter rue.
Breathe not--trespass not;?Of this green and darkling spot,?Latticed from the moon's beams,?Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;?Perchance upon its darkening air,?The unseen ghosts of children fare,?Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,?Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;?While, unmoved, to watch and ward,?'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward,?Stands with bowed and dewy head?That one little leaden Lad.
MOONLIGHT
The far moon maketh lovers wise?In her pale beauty trembling down,?Lending curved cheeks, dark lips, dark eyes,?A strangeness not their own.?And, though they shut their lids to kiss,?In starless darkness peace to win,?Even on that secret world from this?Her twilight enters in.
THE TRYST
Flee into some forgotten night and be?Of all dark long my moon-bright company:?Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come,?There, out of all remembrance, make our home:?Seek we some close hid shadow for our lair,?Hollowed by Noah's mouse beneath the chair?Wherein the Omnipotent, in slumber bound,?Nods till the piteous Trump of Judgment sound.?Perchance Leviathan of the deep sea?Would lease a lost mermaiden's grot to me,?There of your beauty we would joyance make--?A music wistful for the sea-nymph's sake:?Haply Elijah, o'er his spokes of fire,?Cresting steep Leo, or the heavenly Lyre,?Spied, tranced in azure of inanest space,?Some eyrie hostel, meet for human grace,?Where two might happy be--just you and I--?Lost in the uttermost of Eternity.?Think! in Time's smallest clock's minutest beat?Might there not rest be found for wandering feet??Or, 'twixt the sleep and wake of Helen's dream,?Silence wherein to sing love's requiem?
No, no. Nor earth, nor air, nor fire, nor deep?Could lull poor mortal longingness asleep.?Somewhere there nothing is; and there lost Man?Shall win what changeless vague of peace he can.
THE LINNET
Upon this leafy bush?With thorns and roses in it,?Flutters a thing of light,?A twittering linnet.?And all the throbbing world?Of dew and sun and air?By this small parcel