Miscellany of Poetry | Page 6

hear

The little echoes roll, and fade, and fret
About the murmuring foliage
of the garden
Wherein the temple lies? Do I not fear
Lest in the
outer glories he be lost
And thwarted of his heart's desire, that flies

Like a dove before his coming, and alights
Within the inner courtyard
of my soul
Bearing such messages of him who comes
That all the
altars of my love are kindled
To flame ere he approaches, which
fades away
And counterfeits the sweetest death that ever
Sighed the
approach of day, and left the stars
More bright to be entranced of the
dawn?
Be patient, Oh, my heart! A little while
And he shall pierce the
darkness of the night
That flows between my home and his. The song

The youth, the early light that he has lost
Are as a little strength
submerged and drowned
In this fierce rage that bids him seek me out

And take me in the darkness of my home,
And change, and fill me,
as the virgin night
Is changed to day, and as the moonlight sky
Is
emptied of her sterile ray, and filled
With overflooding light that
spills to earth
A golden augury of later fruits
And a diviner birth.
Hark! Hark!... He comes
He has found the temple of his soul's
desire ...,
Be still, Oh beating heart, be still ... be still,
Lest he be
troubled now his sacred fire
Creeps through this temple to your
inmost shrine.
And I at last am his, and he is mine!

WILLIAM H. DAVIES
THE VILLAIN
While joy gave clouds the light of stars,
That beamed where'er they
looked;
And calves and lambs had tottering knees,
Excited, while
they sucked;
While every bird enjoyed his song,
Without one
thought of harm or wrong--
I turned my head and saw the wind,
Not
far from where I stood,
Dragging the corn by her golden hair,
Into a
dark and lonely wood.
BIRD AND BROOK
My song, that's bird-like in its kind,
Is in the mind,
Love--in the
mind;
And in my season I am moved
No more or less from being
loved;
No woman's love has power to bring
My song back when I
cease to sing;
Nor can she, when my season's strong,
Prevent my
mind from song.
But where I feel your woman's part,
Is in the heart,
Love--in the
heart;
For when that bird of mine broods long,
And I'd be sad
without my song,
Your love then makes my heart a brook
That
dreams in many a quiet nook,
And makes a steady, murmuring sound

Of joy the whole year round.
PASSION'S HOUNDS
With mighty leaps and bounds,
I followed Passion's hounds,
My hot
blood had its day;
Lust, Gluttony, and Drink,
I chased to Hell's
black brink,
Both night and day.
I ate like three strong men,
I drank enough for ten,
Each hour must
have its glass
Yes, Drink and Gluttony
Have starved more brains,
say I,
Than Hunger has.
And now, when I grow old,

And my slow blood is cold,
And feeble

is my breath--
I'm followed by those hounds,
Whose mighty leaps
and bounds
Hunt me to death.
THE TRUTH
Since I have seen a bird one day,
His head pecked more than half
away;
That hopped about, with but one eye,
Ready to fight again,
and die--
Ofttimes since then their private lives
Have spoilt that joy
their music gives.
So, when I see this robin now,
Like a red apple on the bough,
And
question why he sings so strong,
For love, or for the love of song;

Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill
Whose silver tongue is never
still--
Ah, now there comes this thought unkind,
Born of the knowledge in
my mind:
He sings in triumph that last night
He killed his father in
a fight;
And now he'll take his mother's blood--
The last strong rival
for his food.
THE FORCE OF LOVE
Have I now found an angel in Unrest,
That wakeful Love is more
desired than sleep:
Though you seem calm and gentle, you shall show

The force of this strong love in me so deep.
Yes, I will make you, though you seem so calm,
Look from your blue
eyes that divinest joy
As was in Juno's, when she made great Jove

Forget the war and half his heaven in Troy.
And I will press your lips until they mix
With my poor quality their
richer wine:
Be my Parnassus now, and grow more green
Each
upward step towards your top divine.
APRIL'S LAMBS

Though I was born in April's prime,
With many another lamb,
Yet,
thinking now of all my years,
What am I but a tough old ram?
"No woman thinks of years," said she,
"Or any tough old rams,

When she can hear a voice that bleats
As tenderly as any lamb's."

GEOFFREY DEARMER
NOUS AUTRES
We never feel the lust of steel
Or fury-woken blood,
We live and
die and wonder why
In mud, and mud, and mud,
And horror first
and horror last
And Phantom Terror riding past.
We hear and hear
the hounds of Fear
Nearer and more near.
We feel their breath....

Only the nights befriend
And mitigate the hell;
Of those who
ponder, see and hear,
Too well.
The nights, and Death--
The end.

We feel but never fear
His breath.
Day after weary day,
In vain, in vain, in vain,
We turn to Thee and
pray,
We cry