Many Voices | Page 7

be,
Father divine.
I do not even know
The way I
want to go,
The way that leads to rest:
But, Thou who knowest me,

Lead where I cannot see,
Thou knowest best.
Toys, worthless, yet desired,
Drew me afar to roam.
Father, I am so
tired;
I am come home.
The love I held so cheap
I see, so dear, so
deep,
So almost understood.
Life is so cold and wild,
I am thy
little child -
I WILL be good.
POEM: THE SKYLARK
". . . a dripping shower of notes from the softening blue. It is the
skylark come."--Robert A Field, in the New Age.
"It is the skylark come." For shame!

Robert-a-Cockney is thy name:

Robert-a-Field would surely know
That skylarks, bless them, never
go!

0. * *
Love of my life, bear witness here
How we have heard them all the
year;
How to the skylark's song are set
The days we never can
forget.
At Rustington, do you remember?
We heard the skylarks in
December;
In January above the snow
They sang to us by
Hurstmonceux
Once in the keenest airs of March
We heard them
near the Marble Arch;
Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air;
May
found them singing everywhere;
And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune

Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June.
One unforgotten day
at Rye
They sang a love-song in July;
In August, hard by Lewes
town,
They sang of joy 'twixt sky and down;
And in September's
golden spell
We heard them singing on Scaw Fell.
October's leaves
were brown and sere,
But skylarks sang by Teston Weir;
And in
November, at Mount's Bay,
They sang upon our wedding day!
0. * *
Mr.-a-Field, go forth, go forth,
Go east and west and south and north;

You'll always find the furze in flower,
Find every hour the lovers'
hour,
And, by my faith in love and rhyme,
The skylark singing all
the time!
POEM: SATURDAY SONG
They talk about gardens of roses,
And moonlight over the sea,
And
mountains and snow
And sunsetty glow,
But I know what is best
for me.
The prettiest sight I know,
Worth all your roses and snow,

Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night,
When the barrows are set
in a row.
I've heard of bazaars in India

All glitter and spices and smells,
But
they don't compare
With the naphtha flare
And the herrings the
coster sells;
And the oranges piled like gold,
The cucumbers lean
and cold,
And the red and white block-trimmings
And the
strawberries fresh and ripe,
And the peas and beans,
And the

sprouts and greens,
And the 'taters and trotters and tripe.
And the shops where they sell the chairs,
The mangles and tables and
bedding,
And the lovers go by in pairs,
And look--and think of the
wedding.
And your girl has her arm in yours,
And you whisper and
make her blush.
Oh! the snap in her eyes--and her smiles and her
sighs
As she fancies the purple plush!
And you haven't a penny to spend,
But you dream that you've pounds
and pounds;
And arm in arm with your only friend
You make your
Saturday rounds:
And you see the cradle bright
With
ribbon--lace--pink and white;
And she stops her laugh
And you
drop your chaff
In the light of the Saturday night.
And the world is
new
For her and you -
A little bit of all-right.
POEM: THE CHAMPION
Young and a conqueror, once on a day,
Wild white Winter rode out
this way;
With his sword of ice and his banner of snow
Vanquished
the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong;
Now he is old, he has
reigned too long.
He shall be routed, he shall be slain;
Summer
shall come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake
Little armies in field and brake:

"Cruel and cold has King Winter been;
Fight for the Summer, fight
for the Queen!"
First the aconite dots the mould
With little round cannon-balls of gold;

Then, to help in the winter's rout,
Regiments of crocuses march
out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;
See the shield of the
celandine,
And daffodil lances green and keen,
To fight for the

Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings
Banners that mock at
defeated kings;
And wherever the green of the new grass peers,
See
the array of victorious spears.
Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound
Over the garden's battle-ground,

And lovely ladies crowd out to see
The long procession of victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills,
Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,

Primrose and cowslip, friends well met
With white wood-sorrel and
violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;
Thousands of buttercups
licked with gold;
Budding hedges and woods and trees -
Spring
brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride
Over the happy countryside;

Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:
"The King is dead--long live
the King!"
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;
He will ride on through
the meadows bright
Till at Summer's feet he shall light him down

And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine
Between the may-trees'
silver shine,
And look in the eyes of the dying knight
Who led his
army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say,
"Oh, live, O love! O my true love,
stay!"
While he