Georgian Poetry 1918-19 | Page 8

the autumn night.
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is
no sound at the top of the house of men
Or mice; and the cloud is
blown, and the moon again
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the
sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the moon, those
moonlit apples of dreams,
And quiet is the steep stair under.
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.
And stiller than ever
on orchard boughs they keep
Tryst with the moon, and deep is the
silence, deep
On moon-washed apples of wonder.
SOUTHAMPTON BELLS
I
Long ago some builder thrust
Heavenward in Southampton town

His spire and beamed his bells,
Largely conceiving from the dust

That pinnacle for ringing down
Orisons and Noëls.
In his imagination rang,
Through generations challenging
His peal

on simple men,
Who, as the heart within him sang,
In daily
townfaring should sing
By year and year again.
II
Now often to their ringing go
The bellmen with lean Time at heel,

Intent on daily cares;
The bells ring high, the bells ring low,
The
ringers ring the builder's peal
Of tidings unawares.
And all the bells might well be dumb
For any quickening in the street

Of customary ears;
And so at last proud builders come
With
dreams and virtues to defeat
Among the clouding years.
III
Now, waiting on Southampton sea
For exile, through the silver night

I hear Noël! Noël!
Through generations down to me
Your
challenge, builder, comes aright,
Bell by obedient bell.
You wake an hour with me; then wide
Though be the lapses of your
sleep
You yet shall wake again;
And 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