New Poems | Page 4

paints that bygone day
When you were here, my fair -

The whole lake rang with rapid skates
In the windless winter air.
You leaned to me, I leaned to you,
Our course was smooth as flight -

We steered - a heel-touch to the left,
A heel-touch to the right.
We swung our way through flying men,
Your hand lay fast in mine:

We saw the shifting crowd dispart,
The level ice-reach shine.
I swear by yon swan-travelled lake,
By yon calm hill above,
I swear
had we been drowned that day
We had been drowned in love.
STOUT MARCHES LEAD TO CERTAIN ENDS
STOUT marches lead to certain ends,
We seek no Holy Grail, my
friends -
That dawn should find us every day
Some fraction farther
on our way.
The dumb lands sleep from east to west,
They stretch and turn and
take their rest.
The cock has crown in the steading-yard,
But priest
and people slumber hard.

We two are early forth, and hear
The nations snoring far and near.

So peacefully their rest they take,
It seems we are the first awake!
0. Strong heart! this is no royal way, A thousand cross-roads seek the
day; And, hid from us, to left and right, A thousand seekers seek
the light.
AWAY WITH FUNERAL MUSIC
AWAY with funeral music - set
The pipe to powerful lips -
The cup
of life's for him that drinks
And not for him that sips.
TO SYDNEY
NOT thine where marble-still and white
Old statues share the
tempered light
And mock the uneven modern flight,
But in the
stream
Of daily sorrow and delight
To seek a theme.
I too, O friend, have steeled my heart
Boldly to choose the better part,

To leave the beaten ways of art,
And wholly free
To dare,
beyond the scanty chart,
The deeper sea.
All vain restrictions left behind,
Frail bark! I loose my anchored mind

And large, before the prosperous wind
Desert the strand -
A new
Columbus sworn to find
The morning land.
Nor too ambitious, friend. To thee
I own my weakness. Not for me

To sing the enfranchised nations' glee,
Or count the cost
Of
warships foundered far at sea
And battles lost.
High on the far-seen, sunny hills,
Morning-content my bosom fills;

Well-pleased, I trace the wandering rills
And learn their birth.
Far
off, the clash of sovereign wills
May shake the earth.
The nimble circuit of the wheel,
The uncertain poise of merchant
weal,
Heaven of famine, fire and steel
When nations fall;
These,

heedful, from afar I feel -
I mark them all.
But not, my friend, not these I sing,
My voice shall fill a narrower
ring.
Tired souls, that flag upon the wing,
I seek to cheer:
Brave
wines to strengthen hope I bring,
Life's cantineer!
Some song that shall be suppling oil
To weary muscles strained with
toil,
Shall hearten for the daily moil,
Or widely read
Make sweet
for him that tills the soil
His daily bread.
Such songs in my flushed hours I dream
(High thought) instead of
armour gleam
Or warrior cantos ream by ream
To load the shelves -

Songs with a lilt of words, that seem
To sing themselves.
HAD I THE POWER THAT HAVE THE WILL
HAD I the power that have the will,
The enfeebled will - a modern
curse -
This book of mine should blossom still
A perfect
garden-ground of verse.
White placid marble gods should keep
Good watch in every shadowy
lawn;
And from clean, easy-breathing sleep
The birds should waken
me at dawn.
0. A fairy garden; - none the less Throughout these gracious paths of
mine All day there should be free access For stricken hearts and
lives that pine;
And by the folded lawns all day -
No idle gods for such a land -
All
active Love should take its way
With active Labour hand in hand.
O DULL COLD NORTHERN SKY
O DULL cold northern sky,
O brawling sabbath bells,
O feebly
twittering Autumn bird that tells
The year is like to die!
O still, spoiled trees, O city ways,
O sun desired in vain,
O dread

presentiment of coming rain
That cloys the sullen days!
Thee, heart of mine, I greet.
In what hard mountain pass
Striv'st
thou? In what importunate morass
Sink now thy weary feet?
Thou run'st a hopeless race
To win despair. No crown
Awaits
success, but leaden gods look down
On thee, with evil face.
And those that would befriend
And cherish thy defeat,
With angry
welcome shall turn sour the sweet
Home-coming of the end.
Yea, those that offer praise
To idleness, shall yet
Insult thee,
coming glorious in the sweat
Of honourable ways.
APOLOGETIC POSTSCRIPT OF A YEAR LATER
IF you see this song, my dear,
And last year's toast,
I'm
confoundedly in fear
You'll be serious and severe
About the boast.
Blame not that I sought such aid
To cure regret.
I was then so lowly
laid
I used all the Gasconnade
That I could get.
Being snubbed is somewhat smart,
Believe, my sweet;
And I
needed all my art
To restore my broken heart
To its conceit.
Come and smile, dear, and forget
I boasted so,
I apologise - regret -

It was all a jest; - and - yet -
I do not know.
TO MARCUS
YOU have been far, and I
Been farther yet,
Since last, in foul or fair

An impecunious pair,
Below this northern