Georgian Poetry 1918-19 | Page 8

thus, old builder, on the tide?Of immortality you keep?Your way from brain to brain.
CHORUS FROM 'LINCOLN'
You who have gone gathering?Cornflowers and meadowsweet,?Heard the hazels glancing down?On September eves,?Seen the homeward rooks on wing?Over fields of golden wheat,?And the silver cups that crown?Water-lily leaves;
You who know the tenderness?Of old men at eve-tide,?Coming from the hedgerows,?Coming from the plough,?And the wandering caress?Of winds upon the woodside,?When the crying yaffle goes?Underneath the bough;
You who mark the flowing?Of sap upon the May-time,?And the waters welling?From the watershed,?You who count the growing?Of harvest and hay-time,?Knowing these the telling?Of your daily bread;
You who cherish courtesy?With your fellows at your gate,?And about your hearthstone sit?Under love's decrees,?You who know that death will be?Speaking with you soon or late,?Kinsmen, what is mother-wit?But the light of these?
Knowing these, what is there more?For learning in your little years??Are not these all gospels bright?Shining on your day??How then shall your hearts be sore?With envy and her brood of fears,?How forget the words of light?From the mountain-way ...
Blessed are the merciful ...?Does not every threshold seek?Meadows and the flight of birds?For compassion still??Blessed are the merciful ...?Are we pilgrims yet to speak?Out of Olivet the words?Of knowledge and good-will?
HABITATION
High up in the sky there, now, you know,?In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,?Tenantless, and no creature there to go?Near it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheep?Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hears?Under that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,?The windows are uncurtained; on the stairs?Silence is but by tip-toe silence met.?All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put by?From use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.
Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May--?Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,?With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day?To the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep,?This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,?Breathing upon that still, insensible place,?Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,?And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace, That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this, One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,?Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May, Signs that even the curious man would miss,?Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,?Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride?Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide?Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ...?The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb-- But we are there--we are waiting ourselves who come.
PASSAGE
When you deliberate the page?Of Alexander's pilgrimage,?Or say--'It is three years, or ten,?Since Easter slew Connolly's men,'?Or prudently to judgment come?Of Antony or Absalom,?And think how duly are designed?Case and instruction for the mind,?Remember then that also we,?In a moon's course, are history.

JOHN FREEMAN
O MUSE DIVINE
O thou, my Muse,?Beside the Kentish River running?Through water-meads where dews?Tossed flashing at thy feet?And tossing flashed again?When the timid herd?By thy swift passing stirred?Up-leapt and ran;
Thou that didst fleet?Thy shadow over dark October hills?By Aston, Weston, Saintbury, Willersey,?Winchcombe, and all the combes and hills?Of the green lonely land;
Thou that in May?Once when I saw thee sunning?Thyself so lovely there?Than the flushed flower more fair?Fallen from the wild apple spray,?Didst rise and sprinkling sunlight with thy hand?Shadow-like disappear in the deep-shadowy hedges?Between forsaken Buckle Street and the sparse sedges?Of young twin-breasted Honeybourne;--
O thou, my Muse,?Scarce longer seen than the brief hues?Of winter cloud that flames?Over the tarnished silver Thames;?So often nearing,?As often disappearing,?With thy body's shadow brushing?My brain at midnight, lightly touching;?O yield thee, Muse, to me,?No more in dream delights and morn forgettings,?But in a ferny hollow I know well?And thou know'st well, warm-proof'd 'gainst the wind's frettings. ... Bring thou thyself, and there?In that warm ferny hollow where the sun?Slants one gold beam and no light else but thine?And my eyes' happy shine--?There, O lovely Muse,?Shall on thy shining body be begot,?Fruit of delights a many mingling in one,?Thy child and mine, a lovely shape and thought;?My child and thine,?O Muse divine!
THE WAKERS
The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass?And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,?And cried, 'Before thy flowers are well awake?Rise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.
'Before the daisy and the sorrel buy?Their brightness back from that close-folding night,?Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,?Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!'
Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirred?Above the Roman bones that may not stir?Though joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang:?The grass stirred as that happy music rang.
O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere!?The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,?The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,?And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.
As if she had found wings, light as the wind,?The grass flew,