Book.__IUlMSi 
 
 COCVRIGHT DEPOSITS 
 
Poems appearing in this volume have 
 been previously published in The 
 Trimmed Lamp; Youth, a Magazine of 
 Verse; Poetry; Contemporary Verse; 
 and The Midland. 
 
Poems appearing in this volume have 
 been previously published in The 
 Trimmed Lamp; Youth, a Magazine of 
 Verse; Poetry; Contemporary Verse; 
 and The Midland. 
 
ROUGH TRAILS AND 
 SILVER MEADOWS 
 
 BY 
 LEYLAND HUCKFIELD 
 
 THE MIDLAND PRESS 
 
 GLENNIE, ALCONA COUNTY 
 
 MICHIGAN 
 

 
 -^"^^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1922 
 BY LEYLAND HUCKFIELD 
 
 C1A6SS435 
 
 FES 23 im 
 
 -VVflf 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 MID-WESTERN 
 
 Riding West 1 
 
 Death-Song of the Mad God Who Made the Grand Canyon 2 
 
 Break-Up in the South Saskatchewan .... 4 
 
 The Coffer-Dam Crew 5 
 
 North — North — North 6 
 
 Spell of the River 8 
 
 The Ford at Saskatoon 10 
 
 Off Catalina 12 
 
 The Sons of Dan 14 
 
 The Ballad of a Walking Boss 16 
 
 ENGLISH 
 
 Avon Memories ' ... 21 
 
 The Laborer in the Mists 24 
 
 An April Night 26 
 
 Haunted Reaping 28 
 
 Oh, For a Dark Green Hill-Top 30 
 
 The Tramp Girl 31 
 
 Last Load Home 36 
 
 Oil of Man 38 
 
 The Land of Plums 40 
 
 The Carol Singers 43 
 
 NIGHT MOODS 
 
 The Old Gods March 49 
 
 Passing of the Mad Singers 50 
 
 A Midnight Song 51 
 
 A Winter Gale 52 
 
 The Bogging of Death 54 
 
 The Singing Skull 56 
 
 Vll 
 
A Song op Dark Hours 59 
 
 The Gales op Autumn 61 
 
 Fleets of Doom 62 
 
 Lure op Light 64 
 
 DAWN-LIGHT 
 
 When You Have Dreamed Your Dream 67 
 
 Ceramics 68 
 
 A Gardener to a Potter 69 
 
 The Smithy Above the Moon 70 
 
 To a Parakeet 71 
 
 Birds That Cleave the Shadows 72 
 
 When I Lay Down My Craftsman Tools .... 74 
 
 The Muse in Church 75 
 
 In January Fog 76 
 
 There Is a Garden in My Brain 77 
 
 vm 
 
MID-WESTERN 
 
 XI 
 
RIDING WEST 
 
 Half a score of us were roaring a drinking song 
 With the iron-wheeled scrapers clanking a mad refrain, 
 And ever the trampled ground gave back that din of 
 
 sound, 
 Flinging it into the dusty air again 
 Like an echo of agony throbbing on and on. 
 For we were riding West where never a wheel had gone 
 And where never the ghost of a trail had ever lain. 
 
 We loomed against a flaming Autumn sky 
 
 As we swung steadily over a prairie swell 
 
 On through clouds of hoof-tossed alkali 
 
 That stung like evil dust from the trails of Hell : 
 
 Back behind us we heard the teamsters yell, 
 
 Heard the creaking of tugs and the ringing of chains 
 
 And saw the loaded wagons lurching along. 
 
 We felt the cool night wind and the prairie weeds waved 
 
 slowly 
 And the flame of the sun went down as the breeze arose, 
 And now we rode through a world that was weirdly holy 
 Where the song and the curses came to a lifeless close : 
 
 Only the clanking and ringing of iron things 
 Never ended but mocked at the darkening land, 
 Clanging a strident tune that all could understand — 
 A prophecy of multitudes tramping behind a plow — 
 
 Over to the south of us we heard a rushing of wings 
 And saw the dim triangles of wild geese beating away 
 To waters farther west, blood-red with the dying glow : 
 
 And our pounding hoofs boomed doom to the solitudes 
 As the grading outfit swung by rise and hollow ; 
 A ragged, a vermined crew, hardened of heart and thew. 
 Steadily riding West — with the rest of the world to 
 follow. 
 
DEATH-SONG OF THE MAD GOD WHO MADE 
 THE GRAND CANYON 
 
 Oh ! I am the god who so mightily trod — 
 Trampled Chaos and tore it asunder, 
 Rose from the mire and the mists and the fire 
 Reeking with heat and throbbing with thunder ; 
 Who drank the blood of the league-long things 
 That came to bathe in the boiling springs ; 
 To whom as a thorn was the dinosaur's horn; 
 I, who was born in the scalding gloom 
 And flung from the terrible flaming womb 
 Of the Mother of Doom — down under. 
 
 I ravaged the world and the rocks I hurled 
 
 Broke gold from the sun in showers, 
 
 And I hated the moon so I murdered it soon — 
 
 The moon with its damnable flowers — 
 
 The flesh of Earth's herds made gargantuan feasts, 
 
 For ever I harried the mightier beasts ; 
 
 Roaring and raving, wandering, I 
 
 Swore that their bones in the rocks and rivers 
 
 Of Earth forever should lie. 
 
 Where the valleys were lit with flames of the pit 
 
 I trampled the carcases gory, 
 
 I lurched and I swung till the madness I sung 
 
 Broke my heart with its passion and glory ; 
 
 But I roared till the night was a-quiver with fright 
 
 And I vowed I would die, as I 'd lived, in my might ; 
 
 So I broke from the mountains their pinnacled walls 
 
 And tossed them to Hell with wild, bellowing bawls ; 
 
 And the devils came up through the fire and the smother, 
 
 Dancing in flame and chasing each other ; 
 
 Oh ! all the devils in Hell were by 
 
 To see the Mad God mightily die 
 
 Who was born of the Old Mad Mother. 
 
DEATH-SONG OF THE MAD GOD WHO MADE THE GRAND CANYON 
 
 From each blazing bog, through the blood-red fog, 
 
 From my bottomless caves of plunder, 
 
 The gold I hauled and the flesh I mauled 
 
 And piled them in horrible wonder ; 
 
 I mixed them together, I piled them high 
 
 From the floor of Hell to the roof of the Sky; 
 
 Roaring and howling, happily I 
 
 Made out of chaos a Thing that never — 
 
 Never — never can die. 
 
BREAK-UP IN THE SOUTH 
 SASKATCHEWAN 
 
 The morning came in crocus flame above the prairie 's rim, 
 Though all about our blackened shacks the shadows still 
 
 were grim, 
 And with the day, from far away, a grinding roar began 
 That shook the earth till from each berth leapt forth a 
 
 cursing man, 
 And we raised a mighty shout, for the ice was going out 
 And hell was breaking loose in the South Saskatchewan. 
 
 The great floes clung and smashed and swung and charged 
 on either shore. 
 
 They were as creatures of the deep unseen by man before, 
 
 They tossed and broke in splinter-smoke, they heaved and 
 ripped and ran. 
 
 It seemed as though the dawn had chanced upon the weir- 
 wolf clan — 
 
 As though vast wolves and fierce white bears went 
 through Saskatchewan. 
 
 They gnashed and crept, they writhed and leapt with 
 dripping jaws thrown high, 
 
 Till crashing thunders rocked the bluffs and split the 
 morning sky, 
 
 In frightful ranks they gored the banks and surging fast 
 began 
 
 A grinding, growling, roaring rout behind their awful van 
 
 Of horrors white that clawed the spine of cowed Saskat- 
 chewan. 
 
THE COFFER-DAM CEEW 
 
 Fifty below, and an hour to dawn ; 
 
 Three black-beamed derricks, stark and hard, 
 
 Lean above us and bar the sky : 
 
 We are the night-gang, the coffer-dam crew, 
 Picking and pounding as devils do. 
 Scraping forty feet down under 
 The whirring derricks' rattle and thunder, 
 And far down under the river too. 
 
 Dignity of toil? Be damned! 
 Muscles stiff with the creeping cold ; 
 Heavy picks in rock-jarred hands. 
 And the shift a hundred ages old : 
 Noses blistered down to the bone, 
 Cheek-bones raw from a rubbing mitt — 
 Here's where the wheezing boozers groan, 
 Down on the dead-line of human grit. 
 
 Steady hiss of the engine steam. 
 
 Chunk and thing of a ceaseless pump ; 
 
 We are the souls in Hell 's extreme — 
 
 Stick to the job, or starve — thump — thump. 
 
 Thirty minutes to seven o 'clock, 
 
 Fires of endurance nearly dead, 
 
 Pick — pick — pick — at the ice and rock. 
 
 The foreman — Fate — scowls overhead. 
 
 The day gang's here: We seek our lair — 
 And it's sixty below, as the dawnlight shows 
 At the rickety shanty a mile up-shore — 
 Oh ! grinding god of the grim white snows. 
 What the devil d'ye think we care? 
 Give us coffee and let us snore. 
 
NORTH — NORTH — NORTH 
 
 North — north — north — 
 
 Plunging towards the Pole ; 
 
 The horses pound and the oxen plod 
 
 And the tin-horn crooks and men of God 
 
 Are all on the muster roll. 
 
 There's sound of the usual things 
 That lie in a wagon bed ; 
 Iron that chinks and rings 
 Like broken chains of the dead; 
 And clatter of household tins, 
 And tinkle of hidden glass, 
 And feet as heavy as lead 
 Tramping the prairie grass: 
 
 And lean, white-bearded men 
 
 Stiff with their years and sins, 
 
 Chew and mumble, and mumble and chew, 
 
 And rumble tales as they always do 
 
 When the sap of manhood thins. 
 
 'Forty crowded years ago 
 Up from Iowa they came; 
 Young and lank and bullock-strong, 
 And ripped the tough Dakota plain 
 With bellowed curse and crack of thong: 
 Upsprung the rustling lakes of grain. 
 Its promise changed to flame of gold, 
 But ease was cursed until they sold 
 And faced the Northern trail again.' 
 
 North — north — north — 
 Into Saskatchewan; 
 Eolling over the Border Line, 
 Baggage and beast and man: 
 Rolling up on the Old Bone Trail 
 In the wake of the buffalo — 
 Grim-eyed men in the power of prime 
 Plunging into the snow. 
 
NORTH NORTH NORTH 
 
 North to the site of Medicine Hat 
 To build them a flimsy town ; 
 To hammer it up in the freezing Fall 
 And next year hammer it down : 
 On in front of the grading crews ; 
 On while the land was young — 
 Night and day on a wagon box 
 With a star at the end of the tongue. 
 
 North — north — north — 
 Under the sun and moon 
 I saw them raising the shacks and tents 
 Of an early Saskatoon: 
 Hammering mightily, breeding there, 
 Breaking the sod and seeding there, 
 And ever with gamblers' eyes 
 Peering afar for a fateful star 
 That hangs in the Northern skies. 
 
 North — north — north — 
 
 They were going, and still they go; 
 
 They are breaking the far Peace River lands 
 
 Where it's seventy-five below — 
 
 Where it's seventy-five below 
 
 In the Borealis glare, 
 
 They have broken the sod, and by grace of God 
 
 The wheat is greening there. 
 
 North — north — north — 
 
 Far up in McKenzieland, 
 
 There may be a plot where the soil is hot 
 
 And a crop of grain may stand ; 
 
 And the lean old men with creaking bones 
 
 Will out of their chairs and go, 
 
 Buckle traces to blind old teams 
 
 And head them into the snow — 
 
 Into the heart of a lonely land 
 
 That leads to the lifeless Pole, 
 
 As long as a weary foot may stand 
 
 Or a creaking wheel may roll. 
 
SPELL OF THE RIVER 
 
 When you have dreamed for a night by the mighty Mis- 
 sissippi 
 
 Take up the wanderer's bundle and lock the homestead 
 door; 
 
 Open the gates of the pasture and let the beasts go free 
 
 And turn your feet to the river road that leads to the 
 heaving sea, 
 
 For you have done with the valley farm for ever and 
 evermore. 
 
 You are thrall to the river, the slave of his rolling flood ; 
 Bound to his glistening silver breast and chained to a 
 
 flashing blade. 
 For the croon of his midnight music has drifted into your 
 
 blood, 
 And the surge of his soul has drowned your soul as 
 
 though it had never been made. 
 
 Dip your paddle, or swing your oar, or hoist a canvas 
 
 sheet ; 
 North to the blue St. Croix or south to the flats of New 
 
 Orleans ; 
 Nothing will ever be half so fair as what lies on before, 
 Be it the Falls of St. Anthony or the old Missouri shore 
 Or banks where summer blossoms blow till all the river is 
 
 sweet. 
 
 Spring, with the tassels dropping fast from leaning wil- 
 low sprays, 
 
 Silver lights and silver rains and fleece-flocked April 
 skies ; 
 
 Silence of swooning summer nights in shadow-haunted 
 bays 
 
 And days when red October's gold upon the water lies. 
 
SPELL OF THE BIVER 
 
 Had you song? What need of a song when Mississippi 
 
 sings ? 
 Thunder thrilling his tawny deeps, his shallows trilling 
 
 refrain — 
 Love of beauty and peace that fled with coming of evil 
 
 tilings ? 
 Turn to the river and beauty and peace shall enter your 
 
 lives again. 
 
 Would you solve the spell of the River? — Go learn the 
 
 drag of the sea 
 That calls to the salty blood of men since ever a keel was 
 
 laid — 
 But — set your feet to the river road and the end of the 
 
 tale shall be 
 That the surge of his soul engulfed your soul as though it 
 
 had never been made. 
 
THE FORD AT SASKATOON 
 
 The edge of the world lay hid in purple haze 
 When we came down to the ford at Saskatoon, 
 But the tops of the poplar bluffs were all ablaze 
 With a deepening orange glow that lit the river below, 
 For the stars were huddling back from a giant moon. 
 
 The creak of the wagon poles was blasphemy from hell 
 
 Tearing the dreaming winds of a new found land. 
 
 And the clinking, rusty chains were fetters of unknown 
 
 dead 
 Tramping beside the wagons on either hand : 
 It almost seemed as though the slushers were clanking a 
 
 knell 
 As we came down to the ford at Saskatoon — 
 It almost seemed as though we heard a tuneless bell 
 Tolling beneath the darkness under the moon. 
 
 Somewhere back on the trail a straw-boss cursed us ail 
 With the thin hyaena whine of a weak-willed fool ; 
 We heard the sucking feet of a hundred teams 
 Descending steadily in unending line — 
 And then the arching boughs of the willows immersed us 
 
 all 
 In the gloom of a haunted mine 
 Beflecked with scattering beams. 
 
 10 
 
THE FORD AT SASKATOON" 
 
 And SO we came to the ford at Saskatoon 
 And marked the light in a shack on the farther shore, 
 And heard Saskatchewan with her hungry croon 
 And put our foremost team at the swirling flood — 
 
 And now, whenever we map the river, we draw it in blood, 
 And that is the true tint of the South Saskatchewan ; 
 For we can hear the cries of the drowned men evermore, 
 We can hear the rusty chains clinking under the moon. 
 And shiver with dread of a treacherous trap as when we 
 
 stood 
 Peering for Death by the ford at Saskatoon. 
 
 11 
 
OFF CATALINA 
 
 On this enchanted tide 
 I pray my soul may ride 
 When the long life-day is done, 
 Then will I wanton wide 
 Among the purple hollows 
 And the white gull that follows 
 Shall be swift to keep my side : 
 
 And when from those rich valleys 
 I leap great ridges golden, 
 Bright foothills of the sea, 
 I shall not lonely be, 
 For the vast depths beneath me 
 Shall glow till they bequeath me 
 The glory of the olden 
 Castilian chivalry; 
 
 (For where the kelp waves slowly 
 
 Are secrets dim and holy — 
 
 For children looking down 
 
 Have seen strange children playing 
 
 By weed and bright hued stone, 
 
 And bearded men in helmets 
 
 That ever pace alone 
 
 In the wide ocean gardens 
 
 That are of far renown.) 
 
 Then in gay grace shall rise 
 
 From each battered galleon 
 
 The adventurers of Spain 
 
 With their puncheons of old wine, 
 
 And their treasure streams shall flow 
 
 From the velvet gloom below 
 
 And shall heave and glow 
 
 On the brine : 
 
 12 
 
OFF CATALINA 
 
 And the great Pacific moon 
 Will kiss each pale doubloon 
 As it magically swings — 
 For her delight and wonder 
 Are still in ancient things, 
 In the stately ships of plunder 
 And the scarlet robes of kings, 
 In the splendor and disdain 
 That will come to earth again 
 When the souls of men again 
 Have wings. 
 
 Oh, nightly shall my soul — 
 Though it be too sweet a doom — 
 Drift like a fleck of foam 
 Through the empurpled gloom ; 
 When has each gallant Don 
 To his lost galleon gone, 
 And the moon has drunk her fill 
 From the wine cup of the sea, 
 Then will I find my rest 
 In a cove my eyes have seen. 
 Where lurks a mystic green — 
 For I know these hidden waters 
 With most mysterious sheen 
 Have once a sea-king's daughter's 
 Enchanted love-pool been. 
 
 Then shall all motive cease, 
 And I will lie at peace 
 All the day long, 
 Till comes a twilight song 
 From the unfathomed deeps 
 And from far mainland heights 
 The dying sunlight creeps — 
 And come the flashing stars 
 And the bright moon — 
 And Catalina lies 
 In mists a-swoon. 
 
 13 
 
THE SONS OF DAN 
 
 Through great sun-blinded valleys where bones of the 
 
 lost are strewn, 
 To lurching of white-topped wagons and din of household 
 
 pans, 
 To lowing of stumbling cattle, whip-crack, and bitten 
 
 groan. 
 The Mormons march with the Lord of Hosts in the dust 
 
 of their caravans. 
 
 Their broad-brimmed hats with the tattered rims are 
 
 white with alkali, 
 They ride in a cloud with the sun before like an olden 
 
 lure of flame ; 
 They thirst and choke while the women crouch by pallets 
 
 where madmen die 
 Through arrow, and fever, and fortune-thrust for the 
 
 glory of God's name. 
 
 Ever and ever the scouts drift in with long black guns 
 unslung, 
 
 With tangled beards and red-rimmed eyes that have out- 
 stared Death's own, 
 
 And the wagons wheel as the horses leap, urged on by 
 lash and lung. 
 
 And the charging Kiowas divide on a ring of fire-flecked 
 stone. 
 
 Arises a chant where flame-beds glow to the Grod of the 
 
 Sons of Dan ; 
 Deep coulees throb to thundering hymns that shake the 
 
 prairie sod; 
 And the vast black night that closes down like evil doom 
 
 of Man 
 Quivers long to a battle song of the grim old Mormon 
 
 God. 
 
 14 
 
THE SONS OF DAN 
 
 For these are the Men of the Covenant, of the Word and 
 
 Avenging Sword, 
 They ride to the blast of Gabriel, on way to a goodly vale, 
 By trails of death, by lonely plains, past floods with 
 
 never a ford, 
 They follow a splendid prophecy, a flame, and a Holy 
 
 Grail. 
 
 And the word of the prophet is certain; they shall build 
 an abiding-place. 
 
 They shall make them another Jerusalem, with a taber- 
 nacle of prayer; 
 
 And the Men of the Lord shall raise them up new seed of 
 a mighty race 
 
 And the Sword of God shall go with them wherever the 
 bugles blare. 
 
 There are bones where the wagons rumble, there are 
 
 skulls in the prairie grass, 
 But on they roll through storm and sun in the might of 
 
 a firm accord; 
 For the Sons of Dan shall greatly thrive whenever it 
 
 comes to pass 
 That they raise them a splendid city to the glory of the 
 
 Lord. 
 
 15 
 
THE BALLAD OF A WALKING-BOSS 
 
 In a rickety rig on a cloudy day, 
 
 With freeze-up hurrying down, 
 
 The walking-boss and a straw-boss came 
 
 Joggling into town ; 
 
 Come racketting into Saskatoon 
 
 And straight for the Queen Hotel, 
 
 Knowing the place was half saloon 
 
 And the other half was hell. 
 
 Down, down, went the rot-gut rye 
 As fast as the bar-keep set 'em, 
 And the walking-boss with a bleary eye 
 Could scarcely wait to get 'em; 
 They set 'em up and he put 'em down 
 And every lick seemed sweeter, 
 But the little straw-boss he giv' out 
 And went to sleep by the heater. 
 
 And the slusher-men and the teamsters come 
 
 With all the trash that are, 
 
 And some were strong for the Grand Trunk Line 
 
 And some for the C. P. R., 
 
 And some of 'em swore by old Jim Hill 
 
 More'n they swore by the Cross, 
 
 But the favorite names was 'Dan and Bill' 
 
 That hired the walking-boss. 
 
 And this was the Fall of Nineteen-eight 
 When the times was slack and slacker, 
 With grub-stakes low and credits so 
 It was hard to get tobaccer; 
 But the walking-boss had come to town 
 And it looked like something brewing, 
 So we hung around and we hung around 
 For whatever was up and doing. 
 
 16 
 
THE BALLAD OF A WALKING BOSS 
 
 And after an hour the boss come out 
 
 And he staggered a bit and swayed, 
 
 And his blind eye goggled and rolled about, 
 
 And this is the speech he made : 
 
 At least, it's part of his speech, though he 
 
 Didn't talk as the preachers do, 
 
 And some that he said was a langwidge dead 
 
 To all but a grading-crew. 
 
 *'Lads — " he roared, till the sidewalk shook 
 
 With the sounds stentorian — 
 
 * ' Here I am and I works, by God, 
 
 For them devils. Bill and Dan : 
 
 Twenty years in this damned land 
 
 I've scorched and frizzled and friz 
 
 In a hundred above to sixty below 
 
 As the way of the country is. 
 
 ** Twenty years in the sand and clay 
 
 Of one or another line. 
 
 Shoving and driving a right o ' way 
 
 On grub as 'ud sicken swine; 
 
 Cutting sleugh-hay to feed the c 'ral 
 
 Till the bosses up an' died, 
 
 And whenever they fell the harness bruk 
 
 Or the string 'ud come untied. 
 
 **Rot — rot — in the cooking-pot 
 And the tents forever in holes ; 
 We didn't care for our bodies much 
 And we figgered we had no souls ; 
 We was raw and red with the prairie itch. 
 We was grey-backed head to toes — 
 Oh, some may talk of the torment rack 
 But we old graders knows. 
 
 17 
 
THE BALLAD OF A WALKING BOSS 
 
 **Some of the time we'll get our pay, 
 
 Most of the time we won't, 
 
 But we'll never starve till Doom o' Day 
 
 If Bill and Daniel don't — 
 
 We may get sick with the pizen stuff 
 
 That comes through the cook-shack door. 
 
 But them as survives 'ill be so tough 
 
 That they'll live for evermore. 
 
 ' ' So come along — y ' grey-back crew — 
 
 I'll hire y' every man, 
 
 I '11 baste your hides as I always do 
 
 For the good of Bill and Dan : 
 
 I'll feed y' grub as a dog 'ud scorn, 
 
 And drinks as 'ill taste like brine ; 
 
 I'll make y' wish y' had never been bom 
 
 But I'll build the Goose-Lake Line." 
 
 And in we went to the swimming bar 
 
 And the boss he paid the bill — 
 
 They set 'em up and we put 'em down 
 
 With a grab and a right good will ; 
 
 Till, one by one, they carried us out 
 
 Where the trail to camp began. 
 
 Where the walking-boss was sobbing about 
 
 The glory of Bill and Dan. 
 
 18 
 
ENGLISH 
 
 19 
 
AVON MEMORIES 
 
 Gaffer Perks on his chain of land 
 
 Smokes his pipe in the church's shadow; 
 
 An old Brown Bess in his gnarled left hand 
 
 And a tilting eye for rooks that fly 
 
 From the trees down by the haulme meadow. 
 
 And the Avon flows silently, gently down, 
 Passing on, passing on, 
 
 With leaves from the elms of Stratford town 
 And Godfrey's bell tolls gloomily. 
 
 The long fields surge with dark-green wheat, 
 Knee-deep meadows softly sway, 
 The Cotswolds glow with copper flame 
 And the gale dies with the dying day : 
 
 I hear the voices of wandering lovers 
 Eound the willow hidden bends, 
 Here and there a silent shape 
 Crouches low in the reedy covers — 
 As it was in olden times 
 When the cowled freres came 
 And fished by dreamy Avonside, 
 And heard the nightingale begin 
 With the first convent chimes. 
 
 Slow — low — 
 Through the dewy gloom. 
 Music falls from grey old towers 
 Upon knighthood 's crumbled tomb 
 And hidden fields of flowers. 
 
 It is a land of dreams. 
 Dark hills and magic moors, 
 Of Druid oaks and streams 
 Flowing to ancient shores : 
 
 21 
 
AVON MEMORIES 
 
 There is mystery here in the dusky lanes 
 About that time when the May-bloom falls, 
 For, when the eye sees no thing pass. 
 There is sound of feet upon the grass : 
 Kiflfle of lace and shirr of satin, 
 Lilt of French and drone of Latin, 
 And ring of steel on vanished walls ; 
 And, at times, in the pulsing quiet, 
 Hedges shiver with ghostly riot 
 Of mad, barbaric strains 
 From buried banquet halls. 
 
 This is a land where queens have journeyed 
 In blossoming-orchard-times of old. 
 To music of rich pageantry ; 
 Through the valley riding down 
 With passing glint of gold. 
 
 From Tewkesbury up to Stratford town 
 In the keep of Bredon Hill, 
 If in dark of dawn you listen 
 You can hear the shrill 
 Piping of the morriss dancers 
 On the winding river road ; 
 You may see the spangles glisten 
 Though the dancers ' feet are still. 
 
 And if you were not born among 
 
 Avon's scattered fairy rings. 
 
 And cannot see the elvery 
 
 Nor hear the pagan strings ; 
 
 Still, when from straw-thatched cottage roofs 
 
 The slow blue wreaths arise 
 
 In the dim hush of April morns 
 
 Like breath of sacrifice — 
 
 And the dark hills encircle you around — 
 
 What need to whisper to the wise 
 
 That here is haunted ground ? 
 
 22 
 
AVON MEMORIES 
 
 Ripples in the shallows by the bridge 
 
 Where the road goes up to Cropthorne on the hill, 
 
 Summer haze and ladysmocks 
 
 And clack of Fladbury mill — 
 
 And cackle of grey geese in the meadows, 
 
 And gold and purple mists upon it all, 
 
 And cows going home through the shadows 
 
 That softly — softly — fall. 
 
 Hark! Hark! Godfrey's Bell! 
 Far — how far — it seems: 
 Still it tolls for Avon's souls 
 A grim and steady Saxon knell — 
 And — now — it tolls my dreams. 
 
 23 
 
THE LABORER IN THE MISTS 
 
 Toiling throughout the day, wet with the fogs of Novem- 
 ber, 
 
 With a brief, white, muffled sun looming at height of noon, 
 
 And somewhere, hidden but near, plum boughs dripping 
 in rhythm — 
 
 Laboring in the mists, with a joy that it's pain to remem- 
 ber. 
 
 Laboring in the mists ; spading the loam and dreaming 
 
 Of glorious days to be for the great, gay, loving Earth ; 
 
 When the minds of men should be free and the gates of 
 beauty be open, 
 
 And good should mightily reign, from a throne unshak- 
 able streaming. 
 
 And then home through the dark, with the mists still fall- 
 ing, 
 
 And the lights of the cottages gleaming, cheerily yellow 
 and warm. 
 
 And to see, ere the gate clicked as it heavily swung be- 
 hind me, 
 
 My mother's form in the doorway, and hear her anx- 
 iously calling. 
 
 And then, when the meal was done, to rise from the fire 
 
 red-glowing 
 And pass out into the clinging, drizzling murk again 
 And tramp almost till morn, though never a star was 
 
 shining, 
 And ever to stride with a vision about me flaming and 
 
 flowing. 
 
 24 
 
THE LABOBEE IN THE MISTS 
 
 But to labor still in the mists, with dreams and the joy of 
 
 dreaming, 
 And the chill fogs thickening ever, the visions distant and 
 
 dim — 
 And the heart-glow smothered at nightfall, and no voice 
 
 fondly calling, 
 And forever, a burden of thought, and no light in the wide 
 
 world gleaming? 
 
 25 
 
AN APRIL NIGHT 
 
 Some loose thatch on the farm, barn fluttered as we went 
 through the lane 
 
 And the sweet, wet stars looked down, like the lights of 
 Malvern town 
 
 After the warm-breathed valley has been washed by twi- 
 light rain. 
 
 Far up the tops of the elms were roaring, a hundred feet 
 
 or so, 
 And the old barn's battered vane was creaking a wild 
 
 refrain 
 As it pointed away to the hills where the waning moon 
 
 was low. 
 
 And little we recked of dripping branches and brown mud 
 under our feet, 
 
 For we walked to the pulse of Spring — an aching, riot- 
 ous thing — 
 
 In a dim Arcadian quiet filled with the ripple of green 
 wheat — 
 
 Till we came to the broad highway that leads from village 
 
 to sleepy town 
 And lingered a moment there like lovers that unaware 
 Come to an ancient, magical road that leads to a land un- 
 known : 
 
 For the broad highway went winding away to where the 
 
 low moon shone : 
 Like a ribbon of bridal white it ran through the fragrant 
 
 night, 
 It ran through the fragrant night, it seemed, to the moon, 
 
 and on, and on. 
 
 26 
 
AN APRIL NIGHT 
 
 But the yellow moon drew down at last the long black 
 
 hills behind ; 
 And, treading the dewy sod, it seemed that a lovelorn god 
 Was abroad — for a far-off nightingale was flinging his 
 
 soul on the wind. 
 
 And the apple blossoms were falling, falling, and drifting 
 
 into the lane — 
 And we walked like lovers dead — who had not, living, 
 
 wed — 
 We were too full of awe to kiss when we came to the house 
 
 again. 
 
 27 
 
HAUNTED REAPING 
 
 Out we go in the dusk of morn 
 
 Over the hills to the reaping, 
 
 Our sickles crash on the golden corn 
 
 When the rest of earth is sleeping; 
 
 Bending and bowing, bending and bowing, 
 
 Gathering in and striking free, 
 
 Gripping the sheaf with the sickle and knee 
 
 And laying it down for the tying. 
 
 The dim, dark hills are all around. 
 The silence breeds a sullen dread. 
 The sickle strokes like shrieks resound 
 In chambers of the murdered dead. 
 But one dull star stays overhead, 
 The waning moon seems all awry; 
 The dying night is loth to die 
 Though in the east the mists are red. 
 
 Over the stubble chill winds creep 
 Like breaths from a dead world blowing, 
 God ! it is awesome so to reap 
 With such strange fancies growing. 
 Bending and bowing, bending and bowing, 
 Gathering in and striking free, 
 Gripping the sheaf with sickle and knee 
 And lajdng it down for the tying. 
 
 My father reaps six feet before 
 With hairy arms as hard as steel, 
 I hear the com as oft of yore 
 Before his whirling sickle reel ; 
 And, God ! what wild, mad horrors steal 
 Bidding me take too long a stride 
 And drive my sickle in his side 
 And grind his face beneath my heel. 
 
 28 
 
HAUNTED REAPING 
 
 I dread this brooding, awful morn 
 With its haunted hush dismaying — 
 It seems as though pale souls newborn 
 Our curved wet blades were slaying, 
 Bending and bowing, bending and bowing, 
 Gathering in and striking free, 
 Gripping the sheaf with the sickle and knee 
 And laying it down for the tying. 
 
 My father's beard is grizzled grey — 
 It trails like mist in heavy wind — 
 He was three-score yesterday. 
 And yet I reap six feet behind. 
 Lean he is, and bent, and lined, 
 And he has held me many years ; 
 And still I toil in hate and tears. 
 And still he swears that he is kind. 
 
 Ah, God! will morning never break? 
 
 I know he is old and loving, 
 
 Yet I hear, with every stroke I take, 
 
 A demon with me moving ; 
 
 Bending and bowing, bending and bowing, 
 
 Gathering in and striking free, 
 
 Gripping the sheaf with the sickle and knee 
 
 And laying it down for the tying. 
 
 At last ! The morning comes at last ! 
 The hills are rich with filtered gold. 
 And through the vales a glory vast 
 In glowing might is swiftly rolled ; 
 And hard my father's hand I hold. 
 And standing 'midst the gleaming corn. 
 With him thank heaven for the morn — 
 With lips that still are grey and cold. 
 
 29 
 
OH! FOR A DARK-GREEN HILL-TOP 
 
 Oh ! for a dark-green hill-top close to the sky 
 And the song of bronzy bees in the golden gorse 
 And bleating of new-born lambs in the waving fern 
 And warm winds blowing out of a purple waste, 
 And, deep and dim, away in the Western skj^, 
 A dancing silver gleam from the distant sea, 
 And a faint breath of the salt air thrilling me 
 As in a time gone by. 
 
 Oh ! for a dark-green hill-top close to the sky 
 And the valley beneath me filled with April foam 
 When plum and cherry and pear blossom smothers the 
 
 land; 
 And an olden madness drifting through my veins 
 And an old song on my lips as the twilight falls, 
 With longing for dim paths and daffodils 
 And sweet wild roamings on the lonely hills, 
 And trysts in darkened lanes. 
 
 Oh ! for a dark-green hill-top close to the sky 
 
 And cool winds on my throat and the night-time near 
 
 And the white fog of the lowlands creeping higher, 
 
 And all about a rustling sea of fern 
 
 Till alone of the wide world left is a tiny isle 
 
 Moored on a spectral flood that is silent and cold 
 
 Till the dreams of youth are mine and the magic of old — 
 
 That sleeps such a long, sad while. 
 
 30 
 
THE TRAIVIP GIRL 
 
 She had come traipsing through the morning mist 
 Out of a dewy by-lane ; head held high, 
 A gaudy handkerchief around her hair, 
 And a blue bundle swinging in her hand ; 
 Like some wild gipsy wench from Hungary. 
 
 I was in one tree, she was in another, 
 Both of us tanned and lithe as savages ; 
 And her quick eyes came dancing to my own 
 Until my heart pulsed faster, and, shame-faced, 
 I stopped awhile to take her basket down. 
 
 Of course I had to climb the ladder rungs 
 To pass the wicker measure back to her, 
 And if one brown arm found a curving waist. 
 And if her lips were riper than the fruit — 
 What would you have? I was well past sixteen. 
 
 The wind came singing through the glossy leaves 
 Of that old plum plantation on the hill. 
 Set coppice-like above the valley lands 
 That lay half brooding in September haze. 
 
 Close down below us, in among great elms, 
 The villages lay nestled. 
 
 There was Moor 
 And Upper Moor, and Wyre, and then one saw 
 The spire of Pershore Abbey, and away 
 Far to the west, the blue of Malvern Hills. 
 
 Dimly, and to the right, the Wrekin's peak 
 Quivered in mist and scarcely could be seen ; 
 While, to the north, Throckmorton's thatch appeared 
 And Abberton's tall steeple speared the sky, 
 A landmark for the carters round about. 
 
 31 
 
THE TRAMP GIRL 
 
 Hillfurze and Fladbury, Cropthorne, Elmley Castle, 
 Mossed roofs, grey stones, black beams and white- washed 
 
 walls 
 All huddled in among the yellowing trees ; 
 And, like a brush-mark drawn around a bowl. 
 The line of Broadway Hills that gently dipped 
 To join the slopes of Bredon: in that gap, 
 Farther removed, the Cotswold's stony fields 
 Faded at last in amethystine haze. 
 
 A clean wind blew and set the ladders swinging; 
 The golden fruit swayed into swaying hands ; 
 And I had ceased to pick, for she was singing 
 Like some bright bird arrived from fairy lands ; 
 Seated upon her ladder's highest rung 
 Among the moving boughs and lightly clinging — 
 
 * * Eyes like diamonds, teeth like pearls ; 
 There's none that can beat 'em 
 The Donegal girls — " 
 
 Eyes like diamonds ? Yes ! and stars, and dew, 
 And veils of falling water which the moon. 
 Rising above black woodlands, filters through. 
 
 Oh ! she sat singing there and half-reclining 
 Under the drooping fruit and swayed in tune 
 And with the rhythm her brown arms went twining 
 Among the leaves and her dark hair was blown 
 Towards my face. 
 
 We two were all alone 
 As on a mountain island near the sky, 
 Swinging in heights of magic forestry. 
 
 All that day long she sang, or told me tales 
 Of dusty roadways winding through the hills 
 
 32 
 
THE TRAMP GIRL 
 
 Of Derbyshire, and craggy paths of Wales 
 
 Where one might stand and watch white specks of sails 
 
 Creep into distant Bristol-by-the-Sea. 
 
 She knew of lonely farms in hidden vales 
 
 Where good-folk lived who kept to bygone ways, 
 
 A hundred years or more behind the times : 
 
 There she would dance and sing old English rhymes — 
 
 Often of highwaymen and press-gang days — 
 
 I can remember a stray verse or two 
 
 Rendered in the true quavering ballad style. 
 
 "The press-gang came for William 
 When he was all alone, 
 They beat him and they bound him 
 And took him for their own — " 
 
 And then a ribald one ; supposedly 
 
 Sung by a country girl who went to hire 
 
 At Stratford Mop— 'Twas called ''The Bed-Making" — 
 
 I begged her in sheer shame to leave the last 
 
 Long stanza out ; but, no, she had to sing 
 
 It twice as loud — and I have always thought 
 
 The village girls picked up that melody. 
 
 Out of a wanderer's repertory 
 She sang 'Lord Bakeman' dwelling on his joys 
 Among the lovely Saracens — and then 
 Swung to a legend, written — who knows when? 
 To explain the short life of a willow tree. 
 
 Once her mirth died, and for a little while 
 She talked of childhood in black Dudley streets. 
 Of frowsy slatterns, cops, and drunken men ; 
 And how, one day, she watched gay caravans 
 
 33 
 
THE TRAMP GIRL 
 
 Rattling through town and saw the gipsy folk 
 Happy and brown, in ragged gaudery. 
 
 That was the end of grimy brick and stone — 
 A short week later she was cuddled close 
 Among the bilberry brush of Lickey Hills. 
 
 Then her mood changed ; she whistled like a lark 
 
 And burst into a ditty of the day 
 
 Not two weeks out of London — changed again 
 
 And sang as sweet and pure a lullaby 
 
 As ever crooned a baby into sleep. 
 
 Slowly the shadows lengthened through the valley; 
 The wind died down, until a drowsy calm 
 Drifted upon us in late afternoon : 
 
 And she ceased singing, but went on and on 
 With tales of wandering — 
 
 Into Somerset 
 And lovely Devon, where pink apple-bloom 
 Drifts through May sunshine, and old hawthorn trees 
 Shake down their petal clouds in grassy lanes. 
 
 But when she spoke of the sea I hid my eyes 
 And hardly heard ; because I saw white sails 
 Coming and going, as ever in my dreams. 
 And felt the salt sea-blood within my veins 
 Pulsing to England's stubborn heritage. 
 
 And when the Autumn dark was almost falling, 
 And trooping from all directions, pickers came 
 Down to the weighing place ; when sieves were piled 
 And, trudging lane and road, the village folk 
 Went home to lighted windows — then I looked 
 For my dear wanderer ; called, and called again. 
 
 34 
 
THE TRAMP GIRL 
 
 And did not find her in the grassy lane 
 
 Where she had sworn — between kisses — she would be ; 
 
 And never found her : 
 
 God ! what passionate grief 
 Swept me and seared me all the haunted night 
 That set my feet upon the final road 
 Where, until death, the free go gipsying. 
 
 35 
 
LAST LOAD HOME 
 
 Through the darkening hawthorn lanes 
 Come the rolling, groaning wains 
 With heavy horses plodding on — 
 Like steeds that tread the paths of Doom - 
 ''Last load home — Last load home — " 
 Hay and maids and meadow bloom, 
 And brown-faced men that tramp along 
 To a rare old pagan song 
 That thunders through the falling gloam. 
 
 Slowly comes the summer moon 
 And peers into the scented shadows, 
 Into sweet and ancient meadows 
 Where the ghostly mists arise. 
 Till up and down the Roman road 
 The silver tangle shifts and quivers 
 Like the light of magic rivers 
 Flowing through a haunted land : 
 
 It creeps upon the swaying load 
 And on and ever on it follows 
 Over hills and through deep hollows 
 Where the song is like old bells 
 Echoing in deserted shrines, 
 And ringing down forgotten wells 
 Where the moonlight never shines. 
 
 The harness jingles measuredly, 
 The whiffle-trees and wheels complain, 
 And close behind with pikes on shoulder 
 Trudge the sturdy country men ; 
 Once the moon is dimmed and then 
 Through half a mile of blackened shade 
 We pass into a time far older - — 
 Hearing half-familiar things — 
 
 36 
 
LAST LOAD HOME 
 
 The crash of hoofs ; the clang of steel 
 
 Beating on an armored knee, 
 
 And woven chain that chinks and rings 
 
 A grim barbaric melody, 
 
 And, back behind where pikemen tread, 
 
 A steady chant of drunken song 
 
 That mocks the flesh of distant dead : 
 
 But down the hill towards the mill 
 
 To music of a silvery weir 
 
 The load rolls on, the song roars on. 
 
 And cottage windows are aglow, 
 
 And through the gloom the thatched roofs loom 
 
 In a shaggy Saxon row 
 
 Beneath the church tower's Norman frown; 
 
 And in towards the ricks we go, 
 Swaying down the rutted road. 
 Moonlight all about the farm. 
 Moonlight on the spreading elms 
 And f airying the lurching load — 
 And through the chorus, beating slow, 
 ''Last load home — Last load home — " 
 A rhythmic murmur seems to flow 
 Like music of the enchanted loam 
 That shook with battle long ago. 
 
 37 
 
OIL OF MAN 
 
 (English Folklore) 
 
 Steal the skull of a murdered man 
 
 Before the magical juice of his brain be dead ; 
 
 And do it in windy dark of a summer morn 
 
 With no stars overhead : 
 
 For if light shall shine on the grisly thing 
 
 You hug in the crook o ' your sleeve 
 
 Under your arm it shall gibber and dring 
 
 And moan and bitterly grieve — 
 
 And if you should not heed its cries 
 
 But still, and still, go on, 
 
 It shall set its pale teeth over your heart 
 
 And suck till you be done. 
 
 But if no light shall shine upon it 
 Before you reach your room, 
 Then that thing shall be sodden and silent 
 And you shall mold its doom. 
 
 You shall bolt your doors and shutter your windows 
 
 Till all be tomby still, — 
 
 And take a dried root of monkshood. 
 
 And sprigs of rue and gill — 
 
 And burn them on a smouldering fire 
 
 To thwart the thing's illwill. 
 
 You shall set the skull in an oaken clamp 
 That was beam of a gallow 's tree ; 
 You shall take an auger and slowly bore 
 Until you come to the moldy, damp, 
 Thick-clotted mystery. 
 
 You shall scoop it out with a weasel's leg 
 That was trapped on graveyard soil — 
 Then you shall crouch by the low red fire 
 And chuckle to hear it boil — 
 
 38 
 
OIL OF MAN 
 
 And if you stir it more than thrice 
 You never shall get the oil. 
 
 Three dark hours it shall simmer and bubble 
 And you shall three times name the dead — 
 You shall three times name your trouble 
 "With hands upon the grisly head — 
 Then shall you take the cauldron off 
 And drain the dreadful stew, 
 Three times three through a silver sieve 
 Shall pass that frightful brew. 
 
 Then, as it cools, a glimmering glow 
 Shall light the silver pan — 
 And you shall stare and shiver and mow — 
 At sight of Oil of Man. 
 
 39 
 
THE LAND OF PLUMS 
 
 This is the land of plums : all England knows 
 Its magic beauty ; like a mighty loom 
 Of giant fabric changing with the days. 
 
 First lady elms burst out in blossoming sprays, 
 Half buds, half flowers, and shake their pollen down ; 
 And last year's leaves are tossed about and whirled — 
 Along the sunlit streets of Pershore town. 
 
 And so comes April. High on Scarry Bank 
 One sees red shawls in lanes of snowy bloom, 
 Where village women hoe the mellow soil 
 On every curve and hollow of the hill 
 Under the fleece-flocked blue of laughing skies. 
 
 Slope after slope ; as far as eye can see ; 
 From Evesham to Tewkesbury, up and down, 
 All Avon 's Vale is white with fairy showers 
 Of petals that continually blow 
 Upon the vale-folk stooping to their toil. 
 
 The centuried elms of Fladbury rise above 
 The Norman church's square of crumbling stone, 
 Half hidden in a maze of loveliness — 
 Even upon the graves pale blossoms press, 
 As though through some slight mystery of love 
 That scatters fragrance on the forgotten dead. 
 
 Plum petals in a laughing girl's brown hair, 
 Plum petals blowing in at cottage doors, 
 Plum petals drifting down on daffodils — 
 Sweet petals floating, floating everywhere 
 In that white valley cradled by dark hills. 
 
 40 
 
THE LAND OP PLUMS 
 
 Autumn is here : the shocks stand in stray fields : 
 The roads are dim with dust ; the loaded drays 
 Forever come and go. 
 
 Fast ripening fruit 
 Cloys the warm air in these ambrosial days. 
 
 Purple and yellow, golden-scarlet, red ; 
 Soft cloudy bloom, like mist against warm skies, 
 Clinging upon the curves of glowing cheeks 
 Cuddled in wicker baskets of brown hue — 
 
 Rich, meaty, luscious flesh as ever grew 
 When Father Adam wandered Paradise ; 
 Juices like fairy wine of flowers and dew 
 Ripened in caverns where no mortal eyes 
 Ever have looked — nor shall till mirth is dead. 
 
 Somewhere a girl is singing in a tree 
 
 Perched on a perilous ladder's topmost rung, 
 
 Trilling an olden golden melody 
 
 Dear to the ears of age, for it was sung 
 
 In days when Sweet Nell Gwyn was sorrow-free. 
 
 In misty mornings on the Roman road 
 You see the pickers coming, crook and pail. 
 And hear a hundred dialects, with words 
 That were long obsolete in Chaucer's time: 
 A Glo'ster tinker rails at ^'thucky wench" — 
 A barefoot hussy beating a black can 
 And dancing to a quick old Lowland rhyme. 
 
 Her ragged *man' comes shuffling slowly on 
 Swaying a wrenching, gasping concertina — 
 And, by his hair, it's plain that he has been a 
 Guest of the Crown in days — or hours — bygone. 
 
 41 
 
THE LAND OF PLUMS 
 
 By Wyre 's low Saxon church, and by the Cross, 
 
 Jangles and bangs a yellow caravan, 
 
 Filling the street with war of pot and pan 
 
 Until it halts beneath a giant elm 
 
 Just opposite the moss-roofed village inn. 
 
 (This was where Holland — Gipsy King of yore 
 Sent his fist crashing through an oaken door.) 
 
 After September things will settle down : 
 Riot of picking-time a worn-out story, 
 The rag-scum will have drifted back to town 
 And left the valley to its Autumn glory. 
 
 And then the land will give its soul again 
 To quiet brooding : last wet leaves will fall. 
 Till, like a gentle curtain over all. 
 Will droop the creeping mists, the silent rain. 
 
 42 
 
THE CAROL SINGERS 
 
 About the middle day of Christmas week, 
 
 Often when evening lights shone through soft rain, 
 
 We used to gather in our muddy lane 
 
 Just where it joins the pebbly village street, 
 
 Under the vast thatch of an ancient barn. 
 
 In lowered tones, not shrill, nor quite discreet, 
 
 We village plagues would plan our wailing way, 
 
 Discussing who was easily made sore 
 
 By untrained banshees howling at his door; 
 
 Who kept a terrier — unimpeachable — 
 
 And who had apples still in winter store ; 
 
 Who 'd give us cake and who would hand out pence 
 
 And what the outcome if we gave offence 
 
 By visiting the same place twice an hour. 
 
 Oh, well ; we 'd start. The blacksmith 's house was first 
 And four of us would treat him to 'Noel' — 
 Misplacing aitches to a curious end — 
 *'No-hell-l, No-hell, 
 No-hell-1, No-hell—" 
 And yet the blacksmith was our faithful friend 
 And why on earth we should have done our worst 
 Only the fiend that tickles boys can tell. 
 
 (He had great love of melody and was wont 
 
 When through the village church his praise was poured 
 
 In mighty thundering music to the Lord 
 
 To shake down plaster on the baptismal font.) 
 
 Bless that good man's good-temper; never boot 
 Firewood, or coal, or curses came our way, 
 And so we'd leave him to his evening peace 
 And seek the farm of one who had been soured 
 By too much cider and too little song. 
 
 43 
 
THE CAROL SINGERS 
 
 This was the domicile of Old Man Gray 
 
 Who had not mellowed in his autumn ease 
 
 Only as does the crab-tree 's acid fruit ; 
 
 And, though we hardly thought that it would pay, 
 
 We sought to cheer him as we went along. 
 
 Therefore we chanted out an olden tale 
 
 That he had maundered long, long years before 
 
 After a gallon of some neighbor's ale. 
 
 Something about a rabbit he had stalked 
 
 Eound and around his barn one winter-time 
 
 And time, and time, and time again been balked ; 
 
 Until he 'scrotched' his head and cackled glee 
 
 And bent the barrel of his trusty gun 
 
 To a right angle — did it with his knee — 
 
 And then he'd stealthily, to give no sign. 
 
 Fitted it neatly round the corner-stun 
 
 And killed that rabbit, shot clean round the bam 
 
 And hit 'his own self in the lower spine. 
 
 (The old man had learned wisdom. Rest assured 
 He made no sign whatever he endured.) 
 
 Then we 'd go on and try the village store 
 And sometimes we would be invited in 
 And given ancient biscuits from a tin 
 That had been in its place ten years or more : 
 Oh, she was wise, that widow, wise as sin ; 
 If anything could quell our hideous din 
 'Twas that dry gift — as stubborn as a door. 
 
 And now we'd reach the gate of an old house 
 With carved black eave-boards, thatch and diamond 
 
 panes 
 And wattle-plaster walls squared by great beams — 
 For we were not so far from Shakespere's home 
 
 44 
 
THE CAROL SINGERS 
 
 Where Will was wont to revel and carouse — 
 In fact one imp preserved the revered name. 
 
 Then would be heard the too familiar strains 
 Of that old carol — dear to English ears — 
 
 '*Whi-il shepherds watched their flocks by night 
 All seated on the grou-ound — ' ' 
 And next would come loud scraping on a floor 
 And voices cursing heart and soul and brains 
 Of us dear children singing at their door. 
 
 Oh, vile ingratitude : we brought them song 
 And were rewarded by unleashed abuse — 
 We fled, and met again, and wailed our hate. 
 And howled a version that the ribald use. 
 
 '*Whi-il shepherds watched their turnip-tops 
 All bilin ' in the po-ot, 
 A lump o ' soot came rolling down 
 A-and spoiled the jol-ly lot." 
 
 One day the rector caught us singing that : 
 'Twas well for us His Reverence was fat. 
 
 By now we 'd be in mood for further wrong 
 
 And when — 'Come, let us adore Him — ' failed to 
 
 please 
 The village cobbler, we could change with ease 
 To other words and accompaniment as strong — 
 *'0h, come let us kick the door in — 
 Oh, come let us kick the door in." 
 
 But that would bring a chase, so we'd disperse 
 Down foggy paths and meet at Robinhood — 
 The dead know how that corner got its name — 
 And somewhere by the church we 'd hear a curse 
 And then a woman's voice — *' Why, Jim, for shame.' 
 
 45 
 
THE CAROL SINGERS 
 
 But when we stood by Goody Barton's gate 
 Only the minstrel three who sang in choir 
 Lifted their voices in a Christmas hymn 
 As sweet and holy as the angels know ; 
 And when the old lady came her eyes were dim, 
 Her lips were quivering, and she trembled so 
 She scarce could fill our hands from a great plate 
 Heaped with the toothsome stuffs that boys desire. 
 
 And when we trooped into the road again 
 There was the cobbler — saying *he had heard 
 Us singing, and it minded him of birds 
 Singing in the plum-trees after rain — 
 His missis wasn't well, and couldn't stir, 
 So would we come along and sing for her?' 
 
 Of course we went — perhaps a trifle shamed — 
 And sang our hearts out and refused all fee 
 And sympathised with them because some rogues 
 Had been around there doing deviltry. 
 
 Then we'd go home, all munching, yet lamenting 
 One thing; the absence of delightful snow. 
 Most needful to a game of our inventing 
 Which was, to make great balls and then to throw 
 These high above the chimney-pots until 
 One fell inside and, plunging down the flue, 
 Squashed on the hearth-fire twenty feet below. 
 
 Heavens ! how I recall the hullabaloo 
 
 When one dropped into Granny Harding's stew. 
 
 46 
 
NIGHT MOODS 
 
 47 
 
THE OLD GODS MARCH 
 
 The grim gods of the past have arisen, 
 The black swamps throb and the mountains boom 
 And the dust from their iron-sandalled feet 
 Shrouds the sun in a blood-red gloom : 
 Out of the Northern mountain passes 
 Flame the banners and glare the swords, 
 The old gods march from their wild morasses, 
 The old gods march with their ancient hordes, 
 With scarlet banners and songs of death; 
 From marshes white with the bitter brine 
 The boar-herds gather, the wolf -clans whine 
 Till the land is foul with their steaming breath : 
 And the old gods bellow, the old gods roar. 
 And the hills shake and the grey seas rave, 
 For the old gods march with a thundering tread 
 Whose echoes thrill in the nether wave, 
 Shaking the bones of a myriad dead 
 As in red days of yore. 
 
 Glare of torches in dead men's eyes 
 And black nights lit by towns aflare. 
 And things of horror and claws that tear, 
 And reeking rivers that bloodily rise 
 To the old gods ' tempest blare. 
 
 Banners black with the blood and smoke 
 High in the eddying battle van. 
 And great swords red with the murder-stroke. 
 And torches aflame as the night comes on — 
 For the old gods march in the shame of man. 
 The old gods march — sweet days are done — 
 The fires of home or the fires of hate ? 
 There is no choice in the wide world — none — 
 But we must stand where the old gods tread, 
 In ranks of steel, and steady and grim 
 Chanting the sweet, wild battle-hymn 
 That the old gods hate and dread. 
 
 49 
 
PASSING OF THE MAD SINGERS 
 
 In the curve of a glooming cape we huddled and shivered 
 
 and peered 
 Seeing the grey souls of the Mad Singers embark 
 From a dimly luminous shore, unsteadily shifting and 
 
 weird 
 And hearing forever a voice far-thundering into the 
 
 dark-— 
 
 "Out! Shove out of the bay! the gales are heaving the 
 
 main; 
 We will ride the crashing ridges through black sheets of 
 
 driving rain, 
 We will swing and glide in the dark curves of the grim 
 
 sea valleys again. 
 
 "On ! with might of madness and gasping glory of power ! 
 The harp of the tides is under our hands ; it throbs and 
 
 thunders of unknown lands, 
 And the moon drifts and sways and lifts like a wet pallid 
 
 flower. 
 
 "Swing her prow on a savage course till the South stars 
 
 flutter and fade ; 
 The Pagan lore was a flame of truth in the world-life's 
 
 icy shade — 
 For a god pulls at our plunging sail till the smoking ropes 
 
 are frayed.'* 
 
 And the howling winds of the world tore at the skies and 
 
 sea 
 All under the far-away glow of a mounting moon, 
 And we saw their black prow lift like a chained Thing 
 
 breaking free 
 And heard from out of the wrath faint notes of an old 
 
 mad tune. 
 
 50 
 
A MIDNIGHT SONG 
 
 I shall go mad at last through too much dreaming, 
 With fret and stress of this insatiate brain, 
 Burst clinging bond and dully clanging chain 
 And pass to some far land with mad folk teeming : 
 
 There azure fields shall heave with golden roses 
 Beneath white skies that know not sun nor moon, 
 Yet, with the boisterous winds of afternoon. 
 Great purple stars shall shade what sleep uncloses. 
 
 There shall be ruby ponds a-drunk with plunder 
 Of silver lilies roseate to their stain, 
 And drowsing leaves half-dead with that they drain. 
 And milk-white fishes swimming those leaves under. 
 
 There shall be paths of ice through molten mazes. 
 Black mountain peaks up-tilting that pale sky, 
 And strange new fields with coins of gold heaped high 
 That breed and seed beneath rich crimson hazes. 
 
 There shall be cliffs that front not foaming surges 
 
 But lip the cleft whence greening vapor rolls. 
 
 Foul with a myriad years of rotting souls 
 
 And slow, sick winds weighed down by freight of dirges : 
 
 Ay, sinking lands and breaths of burning waters, 
 And lakes of blood — wherein I shall bathe long — 
 Float to the weaving of this midnight song 
 To which, near soon, shall dance the madmen 's daughters. 
 
 51 
 
A WINTER GALE 
 
 A gale roars from the sea and the hollow valleys are 
 
 booming, 
 The black wrack of the storm leaps out and harries the 
 
 flying moon, 
 The wind is like the thrust of Fate that forces Man to his 
 
 dooming 
 And, from some tangled ocean floor, to the weeds and 
 
 wash of a dim white shore 
 Grey things creep up, grey things creep out, and hunch 
 
 themselves and croon. 
 
 There is sound of feet on the lonely beaches where sane 
 
 men never tread, 
 And a stealthy noise of clashing teeth that turns the flesh 
 
 to snow; 
 And weird light glows and comes and goes like lamps that 
 
 lead the dead 
 Through awful caverns of deep gloom in the vast dead 
 
 depths below. 
 
 And above are the mighty winds that tear an ancient song 
 
 from the sea, 
 A terrible song, a secret song, that wise men hear — and 
 
 die — 
 A growling chant of the marching tides, a dirge and a 
 
 prophecy 
 Of glorious golden ages drowned and gone as leaves go by, 
 And splendor of red days to come before the world wins 
 
 free. 
 
 A heaving hope and a damning dread are riding the 
 
 racing wrack, 
 A surging drone and a driven moan comes out of a rift 
 
 where stars are sown. 
 There is horror adrift in that star-flecked rift that lifts 
 
 from the savage ranges, 
 
 52 
 
A WINTER GALE 
 
 There is terror stark in the haunted dark that swoops 
 
 when the dim glow changes, 
 As the swift moon swings from vampire wings that hunt 
 
 in her ghostly track. 
 
 A wild cry in the thundering woods that answer the bel- 
 lowing wave, 
 
 And a weird wail in the sweep of the gale like a thin song 
 of the grave, 
 
 A thin tune of a bitter thing that creeps where sick men 
 rave: 
 
 And the sea calls as the moon falls and the world gathers 
 gloom. 
 
 And on the beach those grey things screech their jests of 
 mortal doom. 
 
 53 
 
THE BOGGING OF DEATH 
 
 All in a gloomy wood 
 
 By Wur's morass 
 And in the black rain I stood, 
 
 For Death to pass. 
 
 I heard the hour of ten 
 From far clocks boomed, 
 
 Then all grew still again, 
 By night entombed. 
 
 The heavy fir boughs dripped 
 
 On my bare head; 
 The unseen leaves I gripped 
 
 Seemed drowned with dread. 
 
 And shiv'ring with desire 
 
 And crouching low, 
 I saw Wur's eyes of fire 
 
 Dance to and fro. 
 
 I knew the tarn's green edge 
 
 Whereby they glowed, 
 Where runs through withered sedge 
 
 A haunted road : 
 
 And shuddering with hate 
 
 I knew the spot 
 Where my love plucked of late 
 
 Forget-me-not ; 
 
 And, dank with horror's dews. 
 
 Again my eyes 
 Saw through the bubbling ooze 
 
 A white hand rise : 
 
 54 
 
THE BOGGING OF DEATH 
 
 And through thin lips my breath 
 
 Like poison came, 
 And for the throat of Death 
 
 I leaned aflame. 
 
 I heard that old fooPs feet 
 
 Squelch in soft sod, 
 And rustling sedges greet 
 
 His groping rod. 
 
 Then from a sudden rift 
 
 The wild, wet moon 
 Through heaven seemed to drift, 
 
 With cold a-swoon. 
 
 And as she cleft the night 
 
 I leapt and clasped 
 Death's form with such delight 
 
 That my heart gasped. 
 
 I tore from his white bones 
 
 The sombre cloak, 
 With laughter for his groans 
 
 The gaunt ribs broke : 
 
 By those grim sockets deep, 
 
 Where never eyes 
 Drooped with the bliss of sleep, 
 
 I dragged my prize 
 
 Through mists, of poison bred, 
 
 To that green spot 
 Where my love gathered 
 
 Forget-me-not. 
 
 There, where all treacheries lie, 
 
 Death sank in slime, 
 And until morning I 
 
 And Wur made rhyme. 
 
 55 
 
THE SINGING SKULL 
 
 Golden glowing the high crags shone, 
 Somewhere, far, a slow bell rang, 
 And this was in a grim ravine 
 Where every rock was like a fang — 
 My Love picked up a splintered skull 
 And this is what it sang — 
 
 ** Dribble and drool — the world is old. 
 The dead are better off by far — 
 For I am one who lived in war. 
 And who should better know than I? — 
 Wisdom drips from the lips of a fool — 
 Eather drops from rotting jaws — 
 And this is as the Law of laws — 
 Dribble and drool — dribble and drool. 
 
 **From darkness of the eternal mold 
 The flowers push up, the flowers unfold. 
 From muck of earth come beauty rare — 
 Dribble and drool — dribble and drool — 
 When did Beauty last for long? 
 I have seen the singer die 
 As rang the first chord of his song — 
 His pean that should glorify 
 The fields of earth and vanquish care. 
 
 '* Dribble and drool — above him now 
 The farmer drives his shrieking plow ; 
 The heavy hoof-beats boom above 
 A brain that was the cup of love — 
 Dribble and drool — dribble and drool : 
 His brain lives on? His love lives on? 
 Oh ! in some dusty library 
 With un-cut leaves a volume lies 
 That, some Spring day, a girl may prize — 
 For daintiness of looks maybe. 
 
 56 
 
THE SINGING SKULL 
 
 ** Dribble and drool — dribble and drool — 
 This is a skull that once held song : 
 I was a singer and I sang 
 Of woe and bitter, senseless wrong; 
 And high and higher my voice rang 
 In tones of One they crucified, 
 And women heard with sympathy, 
 But — men brought that same bloody tree 
 And nailed me on it — and — I died. 
 
 *' Dribble and drool — What matter now? 
 The loose teeth rattle in my jaws ; 
 I raised a banner for a Cause, 
 I poured my blood to bloat a sow. 
 The drums of Freedom roared and rolled. 
 We hailed the dawn of Liberty, 
 We saw the tattered banners fold 
 Above great piles of bloody staves — 
 Dribble and drool — A century — 
 And who are freemen! Who are slaves? 
 
 "Dribble and drool — (Oh! hideous eyes!) 
 And you would follow where I fell! 
 Go down to black oblivion 
 That is the Singer's nether hell: 
 Meet flouts and jeers with song and pride 
 While Justice hangs her heavy blade 
 Upon her scales and tips the side 
 Wherein all woes of Earth are laid. 
 
 ''Dribble and drool — I know the dream ; 
 It beckons and the Singer goes. 
 It is the Light, it is the Gleam 
 That every fettered spirit knows ; 
 The glamor of a deathless hope 
 That out-lives shame and pain and scorn, 
 
 57 
 
THE SINGING SKULL 
 
 The radiance from a land that glows 
 With glory of eternal morn. 
 
 * ' Oh, Singers ! Earth may be reborn — 
 Dribble and drool — But — I am dead. 
 By you rich chaplets may be worn — 
 But — lay me in a lonelier bed : 
 Whereon no tyrant foot shall tread, 
 Wherein no moan may penetrate — 
 For I am sick with bitter thoughts 
 Of creeping men that live by hate. ' * 
 
 The crags above were gray and cold, 
 It was a dread and desolate land ; 
 I turned to my fair love, and she — 
 Oh, God I was all in rags and old. 
 The skull dropped from her withered hand, 
 It crashed upon the awful ground, 
 And those mad jaws clashed out again 
 The Unknown Singer's last refrain — 
 * * Dribble and drool — dribble and drool — 
 Wisdom drips from the lips of a fool. ' ' 
 
 58 
 
A SONG OF DARK HOURS 
 
 Oh, Death, come soon — 
 
 I am too sick of waiting 
 
 Through sleepless nights of horror and of dread — 
 
 Oh, Death, come soon: 
 
 Let me be gone before another June 
 Fills this mad world with fragrance of its roses; 
 Let me lie still where human dust reposes 
 Under the changing light of sun and moon. 
 
 Come, clad in ivory robes of bridal beauty, 
 I am so weary of this whirling brain 
 That night and day beats out a dirge of duty 
 Through murderous hours of pain. 
 
 Oh, Shining Love, with the white clinging fingers 
 That close the eyes in peace of lasting sleep, 
 Fondle my hair, my brow, till I am deep 
 In that long slumber where no memory lingers. 
 
 Here, in the dark, as in a bridal chamber, 
 I lie with arms outstretched and open eyes ; 
 I have long known the haunted path that lies 
 To your abode, and heard thereon a tune 
 Wailing that wisdom is the shrine of fools. 
 
 I have known passion like a searing flame. 
 Felt Love's hot bosom crushed against my own, 
 I have known wandering nights of raging shame 
 And gripped red hands in darkness — and — alone 
 Have bowed me down before the altar-stone 
 Of bloody hate — in hells that I have known — 
 Oh, Death, come soon. 
 
 59 
 
A SONG OF DARK HOURS 
 
 Let me be done, this night of madness passes ; 
 The light beyond the window-panes is grey ; 
 I shall be silent when the break of day 
 Ruffles among dried weeds and lifeless grasses 
 "Would that my sap had gone the selfsame way - 
 Oh, Death — Oh, Death — come soon. 
 
 60 
 
THE GALES OF AUTUMN ARE COMING 
 
 The great gales of Autumn are coming — 
 
 Bend, trees ; bow to your sorrow : 
 
 Fly, red leaves, — you die tomorrow — 
 
 The gales of Autumn are coming: 
 
 They have tossed and rolled and smashed the sea 
 
 Till the sinking sun has bloodied a mad commotion ; 
 
 Only the vulture keeps the sky 
 
 With straining wings and flaming eye — 
 
 Foul, ragged ghoul of the darkening ocean. 
 
 Woe and chill on a shrouded earth descending 
 And a nameless fear that steals with breath foreboding, 
 A creeping whisper of death with love 's dreams blending, 
 A scattered rust that blows for the heart's corroding. 
 
 The air is filled with a distant drumming 
 Of far birds beating southward fast. 
 The world is filled with roaring and humming 
 Of far winds thundering blast on blast 
 Through groaning gulches of northern ranges : 
 Ho ! pines that have strangled the rocks, hold fast ! 
 The clouds are mad, the whole world changes. 
 The great gales of Autumn are coming. 
 
 61 
 
THE FLEETS OF DOOM 
 
 Dark, booming beaches under evil skies, 
 Clouds torn by the wind and the world a 'roar. 
 And fearful outlines heaving to far thunder. 
 And all the West aflare with yellow light ; 
 And vast grey monsters riding seas of wonder 
 Against the gloom of night — 
 
 And, sweeping down the mighty tidal surges, 
 Froth-kissed as ever it veers, 
 A weird wind wailing olden ocean dirges 
 For souls of the buccaneers : 
 
 For bones of the buccaneers 
 
 That lie in the Southern and Northern seas, 
 
 For the wave has a love of savagery 
 
 And reeking victories : 
 
 And the wave 's deep love for raging men 
 
 And flame and clamor of grappling ships 
 
 Is told in the ceaseless miracle song 
 
 That rolls from her hungry lips. 
 
 Then, sateless vampire, thunder thanks at last : 
 Our blood must glut you, for the despairing shore. 
 Riven and drenched by war 's red-dripping blast, 
 Whispers to heaven that it can hold no more. 
 Stifle all greedy murmur : you shall be 
 Eimmed with rich floods that shall out-glare the suns, 
 You shall be poppy steeped with that which we 
 Pour from the giant lips of roaring guns : 
 
 For, in dread harbors where your slow tides tremble 
 Under the cold grey glances of the day. 
 The grimly stark leviathans assemble 
 
 62 
 
FLEETS OF DOOM 
 
 In battle-stripped array ; 
 
 And in them slumbers pride of mighty sorrow, 
 And round them rolls the heavy breath of Fate, 
 And every hour holds promise of dread morrow 
 And devastating hate. 
 
 63 
 
LURE OF LIGHT 
 
 The grey seas heave and roar and sway 
 Under a dim cloud-shrouded moon, 
 And the mad white froth of an evil bay 
 Flashes across our lantern glow : 
 
 And Death's grim hands grip hard below 
 At mortared seams of the yieldless stone 
 While his voice in a low continuous thunder 
 Tells the passing of all things known — 
 Tolls all wisdom and dirges wonder 
 And chants of Beauty's burial under 
 Oblivion's starless snow. 
 
 Out of the grey night sea-birds blow 
 And smash their wings on the lantern glass ; 
 Lured from the blackness of sea-wastes 
 By hope of sunlight on green grass 
 By shores where tepid currents flow. 
 
 And even so — and even so — 
 
 We smash our souls and fluttering fall : 
 
 Youth and beauty and wisdom, all 
 
 That wings from out of the stormy waste — 
 
 We seek for a light, we seek a glow — 
 
 We ask what only the dead may know — 
 
 And, whirling on with hope and haste. 
 
 We smash ourselves on an unseen glass — 
 
 And like the crippled birds we go — 
 Dust of chaos, blindly blown, 
 We crash and fall to the mad seas under 
 While Death with low continuous thunder 
 Chants the passing of all things known. 
 
 64 
 
DAWN-LIGHT 
 
 65 
 
WHEN YOU HAVE DREAMED YOUR 
 DREAM — 
 
 When you have dreamed your dream of fame and power 
 
 And, wakening, find it life's late afternoon. 
 
 And know that labor will be done with soon 
 
 And that your hope is like a wilting bower ; 
 
 Rise from the agony of that bitter hour 
 
 And force a smile and hum a wilful tune 
 
 Of bygone nights beneath a magic moon 
 
 When every sweet May meadow was in flower. 
 
 So shall you come at last to day's black end 
 And foot the gloomy path that none retrace, 
 And laugh, because lost loveliness walks beside; 
 And those who follow on the way you wend 
 Shall look upon your carelessness of face 
 And mould their days to die as you have died. 
 
 67 
 
CERAMICS 
 
 I had made pause between two dusty shelves 
 
 Before a smoldering glory of rich glaze, 
 
 A plum-bloomed purple thing without design. 
 
 Ming? Oh, how the devil do I know? 
 
 Only, before me sailed a fleet of junks 
 
 With lateen sails hard cut against the moon. 
 
 And white plum blossoms swirled like fragrant snow 
 
 Against my face, and someone had my hand 
 
 And tapped it lightly with a bamboo fan. 
 
 There was a golden window on before 
 With purple lanterns swaying in its glow. 
 And, somewhere near, a shingly river shore 
 Tinkling with music of a myriad shells, 
 And from some grove of jade a nightingale 
 Mingled his notes with those of far-off bells 
 Ringing, it seemed, from lands of long ago. 
 
 And then, behind me came some devotees 
 Raving of Sevres, Delft, and Cloisonne ; 
 Mouthing of Paris and a thousand things 
 That trouble art — . 
 
 And so I lost my dream 
 Just as the spreading of its rainbow wings 
 Was sweeping me to mystery of Cathay 
 Over the silver froth of magic seas. 
 
 68 
 
FROM A GARDENER TO A POTTER 
 
 We two have handled earth so much 
 And won such beauty from its mass 
 That we shall scarcely fear its touch 
 When Fate may nod and bid us pass. 
 
 Rather, the clay and brave brown mold 
 Will wrap us warm and work goodwill 
 Until a thousand Springs have rolled 
 Through the Great Potter's grinding mill; 
 
 Then we shall stir and slowly rise 
 And feel the sun and wind and rain, 
 And thrill with glory of blue skies 
 We had not thought to know again. 
 
 And I shall live in grass and flowers, 
 Because I loved them long ago. 
 And drink my fill of silver showers 
 And sway to all the winds that blow : 
 
 And you? Your fame for many a day 
 Will fire the art of older lands, 
 A wondrous thing of perfect clay 
 Made by a master-craftsman's hands. 
 
 69 
 
THE SMITHY ABOVE THE MOON 
 
 Oh, God is beating on his anvil 
 
 In His smithy above the moon, 
 
 And the star- sparks fly in fountain showers 
 
 And some are souls and some are flowers 
 
 And some are chords of a tune. 
 
 An angel bends to the bellows 
 
 And he puffs up golden clouds, 
 
 And some float off through an amber glow 
 
 And some drift down to the worlds below. 
 
 And some are angel shrouds. 
 
 And the roof of the smithy is purple 
 And its rafters are of gold. 
 And the fire of the forge forever is fed 
 From a blazing heap of rubies red 
 That it may never be cold. 
 
 God 's hammer is clanging on the anvil — 
 He is calling up the souls of men — 
 To left of the moon where the light is dim 
 You can see them drifting up to Him 
 To be remade again. 
 
 And He will bring them to the anvil 
 
 In a hissing silver flame. 
 
 And His blows shall shower them over the floor 
 
 Until they fall to the Earth once more 
 
 And magnify His name. 
 
 Oh ! hear the ringing of the anvil 
 
 Where the God-Smith beats above, 
 
 For His blows are the pulse of mortal fate — 
 
 And some men swear that He toils in hate — 
 
 And — some — that He toils in love. 
 
 70 
 
TO A PARAKEET 
 
 Gabriel, I say — look well, 
 
 For something I have loved with tears 
 
 Is seeking Heaven's forestry. 
 
 You will know it, Gabriel, 
 By its plumage golden-green. 
 Like a sunbeam on green grass ; 
 You will know it, Gabriel, 
 And when it comes to Heaven's gates 
 Will smile and softly bid it pass 
 Into God's valleys of sweet bowers 
 And singing leaves and blowing flowers. 
 
 But, Gabriel, when dusk draws near — 
 
 The purple veil that is not night — 
 
 And the great silver stars look down 
 
 Upon a host of folded wings, 
 
 Go softly, that he may not fear, 
 
 And coax him to your shoulder white 
 
 And still his sleepy twitterings — 
 
 For, Gabriel, I think that he 
 
 Will miss my love and — even in Heaven — 
 
 May droop and pine for me : 
 
 And, Gabriel, the shy wild things 
 
 Of wood and hill that I have wept ; 
 
 Bright eyes, brown fur, and flashing wings, 
 
 Have they not into Heaven crept 
 
 And made their home in some green dell 
 
 Where I may find them, Gabriel? 
 
 For I have loved with passionate 
 Love, till I think — though red with sin — 
 Christ for their sakes would swing the gate 
 Of Heaven and, weeping, wave me in. 
 
 71 
 
BIRDS THAT CLEAVE THE SHADOWS 
 
 Turquoise tints in the heart of a golden rose, 
 
 Carmine fire in a cool white lily cup; 
 
 Something blown from out of the sun-drenched vales 
 
 Of an old land whose flowers never close ; 
 
 And again the azure shadows are floating up 
 
 And the silver of dawn drifts down, 
 
 And comes a whirr of murmuring wings, 
 
 A sense of unseen exquisite things. 
 
 And a flashing of green and flame 
 
 When the grey moths have flown. 
 
 From a dim, sweet land of love 
 
 Where the Little People have gone. 
 
 The Humming-Birds come through the dawn's blue dusk 
 
 When Earth-Folk slumber on — 
 
 Last of a reign of loveliness 
 
 Where tiny souls for long 
 
 Walked abroad in a petal dress 
 
 And danced to the midge's song. 
 
 Now, from the glamor of olden meadows. 
 
 From brooks where elfin herdsmen sang. 
 
 The Humming-Birds pass through the Veil of Shadows — 
 
 The Humming-Birds — darting — alone — 
 
 And the bent bells and the blooms half -blown 
 
 Hear the echo of chimes that rang 
 
 When fields of fairy seed were sown. 
 
 In the scented hush of a silver hour 
 
 When the eyes of June are heavy with sleep, 
 
 Oh, Love, Young Love with the face of a flower. 
 
 Steal out to our secret garden glade 
 
 And, bright on bud and heavy on blade, 
 
 You shall see the tears that the Wee Folk weep. 
 
 72 
 
BIRDS THAT CLEAVE THE SHADOWS 
 
 But the sorrow of this shall not be deep 
 When the last veils are drowsily drawn, 
 And, flashing and droning, heralding dawn, 
 Back to Earth come the Humming-Birds : 
 Back to Earth from a fairy lawn 
 Where tiny shepherds tend their herds ; 
 From golden vales by an amethyst sea 
 That moves to a faint old melody — 
 Back to Earth — darting — alone — 
 Back from the sweets of elfin meadows — 
 The bent bells and the blooms half-blown 
 Bow to the Birds that cleave the Shadows. 
 
 73 
 
WHEN I LAY DOWN MY CRAFTSMAN TOOLS — 
 
 When I lay down my craftsman tools and pass 
 And the wild life of Earth comes drifting in 
 Upon this garden plot — like secret sin 
 Lato the tender soul of a sweet lass — 
 When brambles weave and tangle to a mass 
 Of thorny things, and trees shut out the day, 
 And sad-eyed friends who loved me wend this way 
 And find no flowers among the untended grass — 
 
 And ponder — with hearts murmuring 'Alas, 
 Beauty and brain have sought their common clay. 
 All that he did was as a wind that blows — ' 
 Oh, then let memory see my garden as 
 It was when breezes made the blossoms sway 
 And all about was fragrance of the rose. 
 
 74 
 
THE MUSE IN CHURCH 
 
 The gates of brass are closed 
 That guard the ivory altar ; 
 The great arched rafters frown on thee 
 Who art the harlot's daughter: 
 With lips like a carmine rose, 
 With robes like orchids rare, 
 With breath like spices delicate 
 That languorous pagans bear: 
 With thy petal cheeks aglowing, 
 And with thy white knees showing, 
 And thy soft eyes that falter — 
 Go hence, enticing demon child. 
 Thou hast not beads nor psalter. 
 
 75 
 
IN JANUARY FOG 
 
 There, the familiar black old chimney-place 
 Yawning and huge, filled with mysterious shadows, 
 And pewter mugs on the heavy mantel shelf 
 And candlesticks and ancient willow-ware — 
 And, in the ingle-nook — oh — boyhood 's dream ! 
 A flickering glow of firelight on dark hair. 
 And then the garden gate would creak, and we 
 Would meet in silence as two shadows meet, 
 And take the footpath over Bubble Bridge 
 And watch the town-lights blurring through the fog. 
 What if the foot-path was a squelching bog? 
 What if the fog had changed to mizzling rain? 
 We scarcely knew we loved, but it was sweet 
 To wander so — and, so back home again. 
 All under mist and rain and dripping branches. 
 Soft hands, wet hair, and eyes as pure as dew; 
 Shy words beneath the spreading cottage thatch 
 And then you'd go — 
 
 I'd hear the clicking latch 
 And see the firelight's sudden leaping glow 
 And turn, in youth's mad chivalry of dream, 
 And tramp the sodden fields all night — with you. 
 
 76 
 
THERE IS A GARDEN IN MY BRAIN 
 
 There is a garden in my brain 
 
 And I shall make, before I die, 
 
 A thing whose beauty shall be pain ; 
 
 And men that feel its mystery 
 
 Shall climb at midnight through black rain 
 
 To sit beneath my twisted firs ; 
 
 Till when the breast of morning stirs. 
 
 And when the winds of morning rise. 
 
 They shall go down the hill again 
 
 With dreaming hearts and staring eyes. 
 
 And when the golden bees awake 
 To wander through my drifted blooms, 
 And when the blossomed branches shake 
 Their perfume into dewy glooms. 
 And burden silvery spider looms 
 And fill my paths with fragrant snow, 
 Oh ! then the feet of men shall go 
 Slowly amid my gold and green 
 As though in silent, sacred rooms 
 Where ghosts of long-dead saints are seen. 
 
 And, softly, when the day is dead 
 And flowers that love the dusk unfold. 
 Softly, oh, softly, feet shall tread 
 That leave no imprint in the mold ; 
 Nor blade of grass, nor leaf, shall hold 
 Their dainty trace of shaken dew, 
 But a strange fragrance, rich and new. 
 Shall slowly flow through shadows deep 
 Until the lips of night are cold 
 And dim things tremble into sleep. 
 
 77