Poems of London and Other Verses Part 2

A LONDON IDYLL

II

Just to all of us once there comes This splendour and wonder of love, When the earth is trans.m.u.ted to silver and gold, And heaven opens above;

When all we have ever seen with our eyes, Daily, under the sun, Seems like a miracle, happening again To us two, instead of to one.

When there is nothing so ugly or mean, But somehow s.h.i.+mmers and glows In that light, whose spring is within our hearts And whose stream o'er the wide earth flows.

When the spirit of us that is prisoned within Seems at last to have wings, And, soaring, looks with no common eyes On no other than common things;

When we may freely enter and share Heaven's splendour and mirth-- Just for a moment to all of us comes This glory of love upon earth.

FINIS

S.C.K.S.

A book's end is the end of many hopes; Much good endeavour; certain hours of stress When brain and spirit fail, and laziness Thralls the poor body--yet the purpose gropes Athwart it all, and as the horseman cheers His tired beast with chirrup, spur, and goad Towards his home along the heavy road, So drives us purpose till the end appears.

Read it who may! Find more or less of good Within its covers, but at least find this: Glad service to a great and n.o.ble aim That may be striven for, and understood, And fallen short of--so not quite we miss In our small lamp of clay Truth's very flame.

OTHER VERSES

IN EARLY SPRING

There's a secret, have you guessed it, you with human eyes and hearing-- Which the birds know, which the trees know, and by which the earth is stirred, Stirred through all her deep foundations, where the water-springs are fastened, Where the seed is, and the growth is, and the still blind life is heard?

There's a miracle, a miracle--oh mortal, have you seen it?

When the springs rise, and the saps rise, and the gallant cut-and-thrust Of the spear-head bright battalions of the little green things growing (Crocus-blade or gra.s.s-blade) pierce the brown earth's sullen crust?

Oh, wonder beyond speaking in the daily common happening; But the little birds have known it, and the evening-singing thrush, In the cold and pearly twilights that are February's token Speaks of revelation through the falling day-time's hush.

A BALLAD OF THE FALL OF KNOSSOS

(_Circa_ 1400 B.C.)

Is it a whisper that runs through the galleries?

Is it a rustle that stirs in the halls?

Is it of mortals, or things that are otherwise This sound that so haltingly, dreadfully falls, Pauses, and hurries, and falls?

No moon, and no torches; not even a glimmer To pin-p.r.i.c.k the darkness that weighs like a sin, And nothing is breathing, and nothing is stirring, And hushed are the small owls without, and within The mice to their holes have run in.

It is not the step of a foot on the pavement; It is not the brush of a wing through the air; It is not a pa.s.sing, it is not a presence, But the ghost of the fate that this palace must bear, Of the ruin of Knossos goes there.

For on such a night, when the moon is dark, And all of the stars are dumb, With a sudden flare by the sea-ward gate Shall the doom of Knossos come; For a cry will shatter the brooding hush, And the crickets and mice shall wake To clatter and clash and shout and cry, And the stumble of frenzied feet going by Death's stride will overtake.

For into the glare of a new-lit torch That shakes in a shaking grasp, Sweat-streaked, wild-eyed, and dark with blood Shall a runner break, and gasp Of a burning harbour, of silent s.h.i.+ps, Of men sprung out of the night-- Is it men or devils?--He moans, and reels Shoulder to wall, and a red stain steals Down the frescoes gay and bright.

And hard on the word they hear approach The surge of the battle near, And to whistle of arrows, and clang of bronze The palace awakes in fear.

Light! Light! and torches, like waking eyes Leap from each darkened door; And the guard at the sea-ward gate go down In the vast black sea of men, and drown, While sweeps the torrent o'er.

What door shall hold, or what walls withstand The roll of a full spring-tide, With an on-sh.o.r.e wind? And the gates of bronze Ring, rock, and are flung aside; And a myriad unknown raiders burst Into the hall of the King, Where Minos on his carved, stone seat Beheld the nations at his feet, Watched each its tribute bring.

Minos is slain; his guards are slain; Which of his sons shall live In this pillared Hall of the Double Axe The word of the Kings to give?

Which of his sons? Shall they know his sons In this sudden terror sprung On sleeping men? Half-armed they stand, Foot pressed to foot, hand tense to hand, And muscles iron-strung.

The flame of the torches in the wind Of their struggle blackens the wall, And the floor is sticky with blood, and heaped With the bodies of those that fall.

What if a son of Minos live?

In that horror of blood and gloom, What of the n.o.ble, what of the brave?

Better to die, than endure as a slave The days after Knossos' doom.

But above the scuffle of sandalled feet, And the breath of men hard-pressed, And the clash of bronze, and the gasp and thud As the point goes through the breast, And above the startled hoot of owls, And the rattle of s.h.i.+eld and spear, The wailing voices of women rise As their men are stricken before their eyes And they huddle together in fear.

Slow comes the dawning in the East; Pale light on the earth is shed, And cool and dewy blows the wind Over the writhen dead; Pale light, which fades in the growing glare Of the flames that swirl and leap Through corridor, and bower, and hall, On carven pillar and painted wall; The flames that like sickles reap

A barren harvest of kingly things, To be bound in ashy sheaves, While driven forth by the work of his hands, Stumbles the last of the thieves.

Behind him is fire, ruin, and death, Before him the kine-sweet morn, But vases of silver and cups of gold And h.o.a.rded treasures fas.h.i.+oned of old On his blood-stained back are borne.

Is it the night-wind alone that blows shuddering Down the dim corridors, tangled with weeds; Is it a bat's wing, or is it an owl's wing That silently pa.s.ses, as thistledown seeds, In the Hall, where the small owlet breeds?

Here do the moonbeams come, slithering, wandering Over the faded, pale frescoes that stand Faint and remote on the walls that are mouldering, Crowned with a King's crown, or flowers in hand, --Pale ghosts of a gaily-dressed band.

Faintly they gaze on the wide desolation; Faintly they smile when the white moonbeams play Over the dust of the throne-room of Minos, Over the pavements where small creatures stray, The humble small things of a day.

But there are other nights, moonless and starless, When no moth flutters, no bat flits, owl calls, Something is stirring, something is rustling, Something that is not of mortals befalls In galleries, cellars, and halls.

Soundless and viewless, a strange ghostly happening, Life, long since ashes, and flames, long since dead; For the Angel of Time goes relentlessly, steadily Over dark places that mankind has fled; And the dust is not stirred by that tread.

A SUN-DIAL IN A GARDEN

Across the quiet garden sunlight flows In wave on wave like water, heavy bees Hang drowsily upon the drowsy flowers, For it is very still, and all the trees Are pyramided high in green and gold.