Mariorib Pickthail 
 
 AND FIVE OTHER POEMS 
 

 The J\[aiad and Five Other Poems 
 
 BY MARJORIE PICKTHALL 
 
 FROM A HITHERTO UNDISCOVERED MANUSCRIPT 
 BOOK NOW IN THE POSSESSION OF HER FATHER, 
 ARTHUR C. PICKTHALL OF TORONTO, ARE CHOSEN BY 
 LORNE PIERCE AND PRINTED FOR A FEW FRIENDS. 
 FOURTEEN COPIES OF THIS CHAP BOOK, DESIGNED BY 
 WILLIAM L. COPE, HAVE BEEN PRINTED BY THE 
 RYERSON PRESS IN KENNERLEY TYPE WITH CASLON 
 SWASH INITIALS ON ENGLISH HAND-MADE PAPER. 
 
 . I*. 
 
 
 
 Copyright, Canada, 1931 , by 
 THE RYERSON PRESS 
 TORONTO 
 
 G{ Page Two }c) 
 
+ + 
 
 D AWN have I known, and noon, 
 
 And the dear night with all her foam of stars, 
 Here in my hands I hold the hunter's moon 
 Nightlong beneath the moving water 'grasses, 
 
 With wavering globes of pearl and amber bars. 
 And spring is mine, when wake the daffodils, 
 
 To the wind's bugle wound upon the hills, 
 
 And low across my roof the swallow passes. 
 
 Sad smoke of sacred fires along the lands, 
 
 The burdened vine, full gourd and goldening ears. 
 The labourer's song among his olive trees, — 
 
 What care have I for these? 
 
 Hath Cypris lovelier than these silver hands, 
 
 These meek immortal eyes untouched of tears? 
 

 Night hath no room for laughter, and by day 
 
 The faint flower dies unripened from the tree. 
 
 Heavy the lives of men, and heavily 
 
 The imperial gods go wearying, crowned in care, 
 
 And I am sick as they 
 
 Of a dim grief, an undesigned despair. 
 
 O, here the oleander leans, and deep 
 Lies the gray shell asleep, 
 
 The round bee drowses in the river^bud. 
 
 Here the wild cherry droops her chained fruits, 
 Here wind the ivory grasses, and the roots 
 Of roses, red as blood. 
 
 And sorrow, sorrow, sings the enchanted flood. 
 
 G| Page Four J0 
 
Break, ye sweet banks, and set my fountains free, 
 
 And I will lead my flocks 
 
 Of fleece-white waters singing down the rocks, 
 
 To lose immortal sadness in the sea, 
 
 Die in dim rains along the welcoming shore, 
 
 And know, ah, know no more. 
 
 Eve's loneliest star above the water-meadows. 
 
 Soft birth of wings among the woven shadows, 
 
 Where almond and the wild azalea throw. 
 
 Across my silver roof their crowns of wreathed snow. 
 
 0^ Page Five J'0 
 
r 4 ^ ^ 
 
 4 A> ’ ' 
 
 z;V/ i : ; j. ... £ v i ' ••■ '• '^y 
 
 W% ■< ■■?#4'- s ,.i ’ 
 
 c W&rfa 
 
 re 
 
 + + 
 
 “M> Spirit shall not always strive with man." 
 
 S TRIVE on, O Lord, and let us feel Thy flame, 
 
 1 Burned with all beauty as a rose of fire; 
 
 So only man shall meet Thy dread desire, 
 
 Forgetful of the pit from whence he came. 
 
 Crown him with thorn and sceptre him with shame, 
 Gird him with sorrow, fold him round with fears. 
 But give him, in his heritage of tears. 
 
 Hold on Thy hand and memory of Thy name. 
 
 So from his prison-house the martyred soul 
 May lend Thee strength for strength and power for 
 power, 
 
 Calling the very angels to his place. 
 
 And when at length the lifted gates unroll, 
 
 Flash forth to meet his one immortal hour, 
 
 Slain at the half-seen vision of Thy face. 
 
 
 -». -J&JL U* 
 
 ,.N4u. ... 
 
 ■ ' v -t-;. .A : • -r r* 
 
 Page Seven J'0 
 
p rV 
 
 ■ i.;- ?: < 
 
 
 t- 1 \ 
 
 % ■ j. ■ 
 
 . 
 
 J^oyd 
 
 * * 
 
 W E MUST love on, though all believing 
 Come too hard for these elder days ; 
 Still we must follow, though unreceiving 
 The old clear wonder, the old sure ways. 
 
 Never a height but He gained another; 
 
 Never a climb but He touched its peak; 
 Never a pang but He felt its brother 
 Cling like Judas and kiss His cheek. 
 
 Quis est iste? The years are hollow, 
 Ages blown in the dust He trod, 
 
 But ever the striving soul must follow 
 This son of Jewry or Son of God. 
 
 Page Eight 
 
Ad te, Domine. Still we love Thee, 
 
 Lover, labourer, scourged, adored; 
 
 Though the hearts of the Marys be dust above the 
 Dust'won body of Him their lord. 
 
 Christ or carpenter? Dumbly o er us 
 The stars recede and the dawns divide. 
 
 Be it enough that He went before us. 
 
 Be it enough that He loved, and died. 
 
^An Old P rayer 
 
 + * 
 
 ARN me, O Lord, the high content 
 
 That turns the May leaves to the sun, 
 Careless of all fond summers spent, 
 
 So they have one. 
 
 Lead me by some untrespass'd wood 
 Above a moon'gold barley^field, 
 
 That I may guess from this world's good 
 The heavenly yield. 
 
 Shew me the green worm, meek and blind, 
 Bred on small grass and lowly things, 
 
 That seals herself in death, to find 
 Heroic wings. 
 
 Mind me of some low mound of dust 
 Where grief and I go half'divine, 
 Remembering love. Then bid me trust 
 On Thine. 
 
Will Ton J are on, a^)fCy Songs ? 
 
 4 * 4 * 
 
 W ILL you fare on, my songs, when I write Finish, 
 Climb the last slope and sight the utmost foam. 
 Into the world where all dear dreams diminish. 
 
 Like ghosts without a home? 
 
 Heat of my heat, clay that my clay inherit, 
 
 Winged with my morning, clogged and mired with me, 
 Never a bird falls but some singing spirit 
 Is silent at God's knee. 
 
 Will you pass on, my songs, and lightly clinging 
 To some chance heart, some half remembering tongue, 
 Share the one dust with all that men died singing. 
 
 With all that died unsung? 
 
 Perhaps some unborn reader lingering under 
 Boughs yet ungrown, may question with what tears. 
 What stumbling singer made you, for whom wonder 
 In what forgotten years. 
 
 Page Eleven 
 
 '**«»** I. M