The Year's at the Spring: An Anthology of Recent Poetry

THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING "IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK" ROUNDABOUTS AND SWINGS It was early last September nigh to Framlin'amon-Sea, An''twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea, An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane, A Pharaoh with his waggons cornin' jolt an' creak an' strain; A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up, An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup, An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings Was joggin' in the dust along is roundabouts and swings. "Goo'-day," said'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go, An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?" "I find," said'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found, For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round." Said'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were, It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a'are; But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's, What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings! "Goo' luck," said'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt; An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out"; 'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane; An' the moon she climbed the'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, is sooth of lose-and-win; For "up an' down an' round," said'e, "goes all appointed things, An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!" PATRICK R. CHALMERS A TOWN WINDOW Beyond my window in the night Is but a drab inglorious street, Yet there the frost and clean starlight As over Warwick woods are sweet. Under the grey drift of the town The crocus works among the mould As eagerly as those that crown The Warwick spring in flame and gold. And when the tramway down the hill Across the cobbles moans and rings, There is about my window-sill The tumult of a thousand wings. JOHN DRINKWATER BRUMANA Oh shall I never never be home again? Meadows of England shining in the rain Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green With briar fortify, with blossom screen Till my far morning—and O streams that slow And pure and deep through plains and playlands go, For me your love and all your kingcups store, And—dark militia of the southern shore, Old fragrant friends—preserve me the last lines Of that long saga which you sung me, pines, When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree I listened, with my eyes upon the sea. [Continued] JAMES ELROY FLECKER THE DYING PATRIOT Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills, Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, Day of my dreams, O day! I saw them march from Dover, long ago, With a silver cross before them, singing low, Monks of Rome from their home where the blue seas break in foam, Augustine with his feet of snow. Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, —Beauty she was statue cold—there's blood upon her gown: Noon of my dreams, O noon! Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, And the streets where the great men go. "AND THE DEAD ROBED IN RED AND SEA-LILIES OVERHEAD SWAY WHEN THE LONG WINDS BLOW" Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, When the first star shivers and the last wave pales: O evening dreams! There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead Sway when the long winds blow. Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: Fire in the night, O dreams! Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star-captains glow. JAMES ELROY FLECKER NOVEMBER EVES November Evenings! Damp and still They used to cloak Leckhampton hill, And lie down close on the grey plain, And dim the dripping window-pane, And send queer winds like Harlequins That seized our elms for violins And struck a note so sharp and low Even a child could feel the woe. Now fire chased shadow round the room; Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom: We crept about like mice, while Nurse Sat mending, solemn as a hearse, And even our unlearned eyes Half closed with choking memories. Is it the mist or the dead leaves, Or the dead men—November eves? JAMES ELROY FLECKER "I SAW THEM MARCH FROM DOVER, LONG AGO" STAR-TALK "Are you awake, Gemelli, This frosty night?" "We'll be awake till reveille, Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli, "It's no good trying to go to sleep: If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, But rest is hopeless to-night, But rest is hopeless to-night." 'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, This frosty night?" "Yes, and so are the Hyads: See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: We huddle together like birds in a storm: It's bitter weather to-night, It's bitter weather to-night." "What do you hunt, Orion, This starry night?" "The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, And the Great Bear," says Orion, "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt I am trying to find a good thick pelt To warm my shoulders to-night, To warm my shoulders to-night." "Did you hear that, Great She-bear, This frosty night?" "Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare, Of my own big fur," says the She-bear. "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, And the frost so cruel to-night! And the frost so cruel to-night!" "How is your trade, Aquarius, This frosty night?" "Complaints is many and various, And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, And the pump has frozen to-night, And the pump has frozen to-night." ROBERT GRAVES "HOW IS YOUR TRADE, AQUARIUS, THIS FROSTY NIGHT?" THE KINGFISHER It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep. Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass, Let every feather show its mark; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings. Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; Thou hast no proud ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That's green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me. WILLIAM H. DAVIES SHEEP When I was once in Baltimore A man came up to me and cried, "Come, I have eighteen hundred sheep, And we will sail on Tuesday's tide. "If you will sail with me, young man, I'll pay you fifty shillings down; These eighteen hundred sheep I take From Baltimore to Glasgow town." He paid me fifty shillings down, I sailed with eighteen hundred sheep; We soon had cleared the harbour's mouth, We soon were in the salt sea deep. The first night we were out at sea Those sheep were quiet in their mind; The second night they cried with fear— They smelt no pastures in the wind. They sniffed, poor things, for their green fields, They cried so loud I could not sleep: For fifty thousand shillings down I would not sail again with sheep. WILLIAM H. DAVIES HOME THOUGHTS IN LAVENTIE Green gardens in Laventie! Soldiers only know the street Where the mud is churned and splashed about By battle-wending feet; And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass, Look for it when you pass. Beyond the Church whose pitted spire Seems balanced on a strand Of swaying stone and tottering brick Two roofless ruins stand, And here behind the wreckage where the back-wall should have been We found a garden green. The grass was never trodden on, The little path of gravel Was overgrown with celandine, No other folk did travel Along its weedy surface, but the nimble-footed mouse Running from house to house. So all among the vivid blades Of soft and tender grass We lay, nor heard the limber wheels That pass and ever pass, In noisy continuity, until their stony rattle Seems in itself a battle. At length we rose up from our ease Of tranquil happy mind, And searched the garden's little length A fresh pleasaunce to find; And there, some yellow daffodils and jasmine hanging high Did rest the tired eye. The fairest and most fragrant Of the many sweets we found, Was a little bush of Daphne flower Upon a grassy mound, And so thick were the blossoms set, and so divine the scent, That we were well content. Hungry for Spring I bent my head, The perfume fanned my face, And all my soul was dancing In that lovely little place, Dancing with a measured step from wrecked and shattered towns Away . . . upon the Downs. I saw green banks of daffodil, Slim poplars in the breeze, Great tan-brown hares in gusty March A-courting on the leas; And meadows with their glittering streams, and silver scurrying dace, Home—what a perfect place! EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT INTO BATTLE The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight; And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run, And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-star and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip. The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend, They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges' end. The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight. The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing." In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; O patient eyes, courageous hearts! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy of Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind— Though joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still, Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings. JULIAN GRENFELL OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them. Goblin, why do you love them so? They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring. Hush, I stole them out of the moon. "GIVE ME YOUR BEADS, I DESIRE THEM. NO." [Illustration: "GIVE ME YOUR BEADS. I DESIRE THEM. NO."] Give me your beads. I desire them. No. I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them. No. HAROLD MONRO A FLOWER IS LOOKING THROUGH THE GROUND A flower is looking through the ground, Blinking at the April weather; Now a child has seen the flower: Now they go and play together. Now it seems the flower will speak, And will call the child its brother— But, oh strange forgetfulness!— They don't recognize each other. HAROLD MONRO MAN CARRYING BALE The tough hand closes gently on the load; Out of the mind, a voice Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well their work, Lengthen and pause for help. Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot While all the muscles call to one another: 'Lift!' and the bulging bale Floats like a butterfly in June. So moved the earliest carrier of bales, And the same watchful sun Glowed through his body feeding it with light. So will the last one move, And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble. Earth, you designed your man Beautiful both in labour and repose. HAROLD MONRO THE CHERRY TREES The cherry trees bend over and are shedding On the old road where all that passed are dead, Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding This early May morn when there is none to wed. EDWARD THOMAS THE BELLS OF HEAVEN 'T Would ring the bells of Heaven The wildest peal for years, If Parson lost his senses And people came to theirs, And he and they together Knelt down with angry prayers For tamed and shabby tigers And dancing dogs and bears, And wretched, blind pit ponies, And little hunted hares. RALPH HODGSON THE SONG OF HONOUR I climbed a hill as light fell short, And rooks came home in scramble sort, And filled the trees and flapped and fought And sang themselves to sleep; An owl from nowhere with no sound Swung by and soon was nowhere found, I heard him calling half-way round, Holloing loud and deep; A pair of stars, faint pins of light, Then many a star, sailed into sight, And all the stars, the flower of night, Were round me at a leap; To tell how still the valleys lay I heard a watch-dog miles away, And bells of distant sheep. I heard no more of bird or bell, The mastiff in a slumber fell, I stared into the sky, As wondering men have always done Since beauty and the stars were one, Though none so hard as I. It seemed, so still the valleys were, As if the whole world knelt at prayer, Save me and me alone; So pure and wide that silence was I feared to bend a blade of grass, And there I stood like stone. [Continued] RALPH HODGSON STUPIDITY STREET> I saw with open eyes Singing birds sweet Sold in the shops For the people to eat, Sold in the shops of Stupidity Street. I saw in vision The worm in the wheat, And in the shops nothing For people to eat; Nothing for sale in Stupidity Street. RALPH HODGSON "WITH MAGIC KEY ... UNLOCKING BUDS THAT KEEP THE ROSES" TO THE COMING SPRING O punctual Spring! We had forgotten in this winter town The days of Summer and the long, long eves. But now you come on airy wing, With busy fingers spilling baby-leaves On all the bushes, and a faint green down On ancient trees, and everywhere Your warm breath soft with kisses Stirs the wintry air, And waking us to unimagined blisses. Your lightest footprints in the grass Are marked by painted crocus-flowers And heavy-headed daffodils, While little trees blush faintly as you pass. The morning and the night You bathe with heavenly showers, And scatter scentless violets on the rounded hills, Drop beneath leafless woods pale primrose posies. With magic key, in the new evening light, You are unlocking buds that keep the roses; The purple lilac soon will blow above the wall And bended boughs in orchards whitely bloom— We had forgotten in the Winter's gloom ... Soon we shall hear the cuckoo call! MARGARET MACKENZIE ALMS IN AUTUMN Spindle-wood, spindle-wood, will you lend me, pray, A little flaming lantern to guide me on my way? The fairies all have vanished from the meadow and the glen, And I would fain go seeking till I find them once again. Lend me now a lantern that I may bear a light To find the hidden pathway in the darkness of the night. Ash-tree, ash-tree, throw me, if you please, Throw me down a slender branch of russet-gold keys. I fear the gates of Fairyland may all be shut so fast That nothing but your magic keys will ever take me past. I'll tie them to my girdle, and as I go along My heart will find a comfort in the tinkle of their song. Holly-bush, holly-bush, help me in my task, A pocketful of berries is all the alms I ask : A pocketful of berries to thread in golden strands (I would not go a-visiting with nothing in my hands). So fine will be the rosy chains, so gay, so glossy bright, They'll set the realms of Fairyland all dancing with delight. ROSE FYLEMAN "THEY'LL SET THE REALMS OF FAIRYLAND ALL DANCING WITH DELIGHT" I DON'T LIKE BEETLES I don't like beetles, tho' I'm sure they're very good, I don't like porridge, tho' my Nanna says I should; I don't like the cistern in the attic where I play, And the funny noise the bath makes when the water runs away. I don't like the feeling when my gloves are made of silk, And that dreadful slimy skinny stuff on top of hot milk; I don't like tigers, not even in a book, And, I know it's very naughty, but I don't like Cook! ROSE FYLEMAN WISHES I wish I liked rice pudding, I wish I were a twin, I wish some day a real live fairy Would just come walking in. I wish when I'm at table My feet would touch the floor, I wish our pipes would burst next winter, Just like they did next door. I wish that I could whistle Real proper grown-up tunes, I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys On rainy afternoons. I've got such heaps of wishes, I've only said a few; I wish that I could wake some morning And find they'd all come true! ROSE FYLEMAN "ALL ALONE, THOSE ROCKS AMID—ONE NIGHT I VERY NEARLY DID!" VERY NEARLY! I never quite saw fairy-folk A-dancing in the glade, Where, just beyond the hollow oak, Their broad green rings are laid: But, while behind that oak I hid, One day I very nearly did! I never quite saw mermaids rise Above the twilight sea, When sands, left wet,'neath sunset skies, Are blushing rosily: But—all alone, those rocks amid— One night I very nearly did! I never quite saw Goblin Grim Who haunts our lumber room And pops his head above the rim Of that oak chest's deep gloom: But once—when Mother raised the lid— I very, very nearly did! QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER WHAT THE THRUSH SAYS Come and see! Come and see!" The Thrush pipes out of the hawthorn-tree: And I and Dicky on tiptoe go To see what treasures he wants to show. His call is clear as a call can be— And "Come and see!" he says: "Come and see!" "Come and see! Come and see!" His house is there in the hawthorn-tree: The neatest house that ever you saw, Built all of mosses and twigs and straw: The folk who built were his wife and he— And "Come and see!" he says: "Come and see!" "Come and see! Come and see!" Within this house there are treasures three: So warm and snug in its curve they lie— Like three bright bits out of Spring's blue sky. We would not hurt them, he knows; not we! So "Come and see!" he says: "Come and see!" "Come and see! Come and see!" No thrush was ever so proud as he! His bright-eyed lady has left those eggs For just five minutes to stretch her legs. He's keeping guard in the hawthorn-tree, And "Come and see!" he says: "Come and see!" "Come and see! Come and see!" He has no fear of the boys and me. He came and shared in our meals, you know, In hungry times of the frost and snow. So now we share in his Secret Tree Where "Come and see!" he says: "Come and see!" QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER THE SUNSET GARDEN I can see from the window a little brown house, And the garden goes up to the top of the hill. And the sun comes each day, And slips down away At the end of the garden an' sleeps there ... until The daylight comes climbing up over the hill. I do wish I lived in the little brown house, Then at night I'd go out to the garden, an' creep Up ... up ... then I'd stop, An' lean over the top, At the end of the garden, an' so I could peep, And see what the sun looks like when it's asleep. MARION ST JOHN WEBB SWEET AS THE BREATH OF THE WHIN Sweet as the breath of the whin Is the thought of my love— Sweet as the breath of the whin In the noonday sun— Sweet as the breath of the whin In the sun after rain. Glad as the gold of the whin Is the thought of my love— Glad as the gold of the whin Since wandering's done— Glad as the gold of the whin Is my heart, home again. WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE LAW THE LAWYERS KNOW ABOUT The law the lawyers know about Is property and land; But why the leaves are on the trees, And why the winds disturb the seas, Why honey is the food of bees, Why horses have such tender knees, Why winters come and rivers freeze, Why Faith is more than what one sees, And Hope survives the worst disease, And Charity is more than these, They do not understand. H. D. C. PEPLER "I AM BORN OF A THOUSAND STORMS, AND GROW WITH THE RUSHING RAINS" ALL IS SPIRIT AND PART OF ME. A greater lover none can be, And all is spirit and part of me. I am sway of the rolling hills, And breath from the great wide plains; I am born of a thousand storms, And grey with the rushing rains; I have stood with the age-long rocks, And flowered with the meadow sweet; I have fought with the wind-worn firs, And bent with the ripening wheat; I have watched with the solemn clouds, And dreamt with the moorland pools; I have raced with the water's whirl, And lain where their anger cools; I have hovered as strong-winged bird, And swooped as I saw my prey; I have risen with cold grey dawn, And flamed in the dying day; For all is spirit and part of me, And greater lover none can be. L. D'O. WALTERS STREET LANTERNS Country roads are yellow and brown. We mend the roads in London Town. Never a hansom dare come nigh, Never a cart goes rolling by. An unwonted silence steals In between the turning wheels. Quickly ends the autumn day, And the workman goes his way, Leaving, midst the traffic rude, One small isle of solitude, Lit, throughout the lengthy night, By the little lantern's light. Jewels of the dark have we, Brighter than the rustic's be. Over the dull earth are thrown Topaz, and the ruby stone. MARY E. COLERIDGE TO BETSEY-JANE, ON HER DESIRING TO GO INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN My Betsey-Jane, it would not do, For what would Heaven make of you, A little, honey-loving bear, Among the Blessed Babies there? Nor do you dwell with us in vain Who tumble and get up again. And try, with bruised knees, to smile—. Sweet, you are blessed all the-while And we in you: so wait, they'll come To take your hand and fetch you home, In Heavenly leaves to play at tents With all the Holy Innocents. HELEN PARRY EDEN THE BRIDGE Here, with one leap, The bridge that spans the cutting; on its back The load Of the main-road, And under it the railway-track. Into the plains they sweep, Into the solitary plains asleep, The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel— Fringed with their narrow grass, Into the plains they pass, The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal. A cry Prolonged across the earth—a call To the remote horizons and the sky; The whole east-rushes down them with its light, And the whole west receives them, with its pall Of stars and night— The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel. And with the fall Of darkness, see! the red, Bright anger of the signal, where it flares Like a huge eye that stares On some hid danger in the dark ahead. A twang of wire—unseen The signal drops; and now, instead Of a red eye, a green. Out of the silence grows An iron thunder—grows, and roars, and sweeps, Menacing! The plain Suddenly leaps, Startled, from its repose— Alert and listening. Now, from the gloom Of the soft distance, loom Three lights and, over them, a brush Of tawny flame and flying spark— Three pointed lights that rush, Monstrous, upon the cringing dark. And nearer, nearer rolls the sound, Louder the throb and roar of wheels, The shout of speed, the shriek of steam; The sloping bank, Cut into flashing squares, gives back the clank And grind of metal, while the ground Shudders and the bridge reels— As, with a scream, The train, A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire, A lighted anguish of desire, A dream Of gold and iron, of sound and flight, Tumultuous roars across the night. The train roars past—and, with a cry, Drowned in a flying howl of wind, Half-stifled in the smoke and blind, The plain, Shaken, exultant, unconfined, Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by, Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the sky. J. REDWOOD ANDERSON FEBRUARY The robin on my lawn He was the first to tell How, in the frozen dawn, This miracle befell, Waking the meadows white With hoar, the iron road Agleam with splintered light, And ice where water flowed: Till, when the low sun drank Those milky mists that cloak Hanger and hollied bank, The winter world awoke To hear the feeble bleat Of lambs on downland farms: A blackbird whistled sweet; Old beeches moved their arms Into a mellow haze Aerial, newly-born: And I, alone, agaze, Stood waiting for the thorn To break in blossom white, Or burst in a green flame.... So, in a single night, Fair February came, Bidding my lips to sing Or whisper their surprise, With all the joy of spring And morning in her eyes. FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG SEA-FOAM A fleck of foam on the shining sand, Left by the ebbing sea, But richer than man may understand In magic and mystery— Transient bubbles rainbow-bright, Myriad-hued and strange, Tremble and throb in the noonday light, Flower and flush and change. A million tides have come and gone, Great gales of autumn and spring, A million summoning moons have shone To bring to birth this thing— A foam-fleck left on the ribbed wet sand By the wave of an outgoing sea, With all the colour of Faeryland, Wonder and mystery. TERESA HOOLEY A PETITION All that a man might ask, thou hast given me, England, Birth-right and happy childhood's long heart's-ease, And love whose range is deep beyond all sounding And wider than all seas. A heart to front the world and find God in it, Eyes blind enow, but not too blind to see The lovely things behind the dross and darkness, And lovelier things to be. And friends whose loyalty time nor death shall weaken, And quenchless hope and laughter's golden store; All that a man might ask thou hast given me, England, Yet grant thou one thing more: That now when envious foes would spoil thy splendour, Unversed in arms, a dreamer such as I May in thy ranks be deemed not all unworthy, England, for thee to die. R. E. VERNÈDE BLACK AND WHITE I met a man along the road To Withernsea; Was ever anything so dark, so pale As he? His hat, his clothes, his tie, his boots Were black as black Could be, And midst of all was a cold white face, And eyes that looked wearily. The road was bleak and straight and flat To Withernsea, Gaunt poles with shrilling wires their weird Did dree; On the sky stood out, on the swollen sky The black blood veins Of tree After tree, as they beat from the face Of the wind which they could not flee. And in the fields along the road To Withernsea,

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