Georgian Poetry 1920-22 Part 14

Met ye my love?

Ye might in France have met him; He has a wooing smile, Who sees cannot forget him!

Met ye my Love?

--We shared full many a mile.

Saw ye my Love?

In lands far-off he has been, With his yellow-tinted hair-- In Egypt such ye have seen; Ye knew my love?

--I was his brother there.

Heard ye my love?

My love ye must have heard, For his voice when he will Tinkles like cry of a bird; Heard ye my love?

--We sang on a Grecian hill.

Behold your love, And how shall I forget him, His smile, his hair, his song?

Alas, no maid shall get him For all her love, Where he sleeps a million strong.

THE SOMME VALLEY, JUNE, 1917

Comrade, why do you weep?

Is it sorrow for a friend Who fell, rifle in hand, His last stand at an end?

The thunder-lipped grey guns Lament him, fierce and slow, Where he found his dreamless bed, Head to head with a foe.

The sweet lark beats on high For the peace of those who sleep In the quiet embrace of earth: Comrade, why do you weep?

BURIAL STONES

The blue sky arches wide From hill to hill; The little gra.s.ses stand Upright and still.

Only these stones to tell The deadly strife, The all-important schemes, The greed for life.

For they are gone, who fought; But still the skies Stretch blue, aloof, unchanged, From rise to rise.

SNOW-BUNTINGS

They come fluttering helpless to the ground Like wreaths of wind-caught snow, Uttering a plaintive, chirping sound, And rise and fall, and know not where they go.

So small they are, with feathers ruffled blown, Adrift between earth desolate and leaden sky; Nor have they ever known Any but frozen earth, and scudding clouds on high.

What hand doth guide these hapless creatures small To sweet seeds that the withered gra.s.ses hold?-- The little children of men go hungry all, And stiffen and cry with numbing cold.

In a sudden gust the flock are whirled away Uttering a frightened, chirping cry, And are lost like a wraith of departing day, Adrift between earth desolate and leaden sky.

THE KELSO ROAD

Morning and evening are mine, And the bright noon-day; But night to no man doth belong When the sad ghosts play.

From Kelso town I took the road By the full-flood Tweed; The black clouds swept across the moon With devouring greed.

Seek ye no peace who tread the night; I felt above my head Blowing the cloud's edge, faces wry In pale fury spread.

Twelve surly elves were digging graves Beside black Eden brook; Eleven dug and stared at me, But one read in a book.

In Birgham trees and hedges rocked, The moon was drowned in black; At Hirsel woods I shrieked to find A fiend astride my back.

His legs he closed about my breast, His hands upon my head, Till Coldstream lights beamed in the trees And he wailed and fled.

Morning and evening are mine, And the bright noon-heat, But at night the sad thin ghosts For their revels meet.

BALDON LANE

As I went down the Baldon lane, Alone I went, as oft I went, Weighing if it were loss or gain To give a maidenhead.

I met, just as the day was spent, A fancy man, a gentleman, Who smiled on me, and then began, 'Come sit with me, my maid.'

With him had I no mind to sit In Baldon lane for loss or gain, Said I to him with feeble wit, And close beside him crept; The branches might have heard my pain, The sudden cry, the maiden cry,-- My fancy man departed sly, And woman-like, I wept.

I kept the roads until my bed, A nine months' time, a weary time, And then to Baldon woods I fled In Spring-time weather mild; The kindly trees, they fear no crime, So back I came, to Baldon came, Received their welcome without blame, And moaned and dropped my child.

The poor brat gasped an hour or so, A goodly child, a thoughtful child; Perceiving nought for us but woe It stretched and sudden died; But I, when Spring breaks fresh and mild, To Baldon lane return again, For there's my home, and women vain Must hold their homes in pride.

COME GIRL, AND EMBRACE

Come girl, and embrace And ask no more I wed thee; Know then you are sweet of face, Soft-limbed and fas.h.i.+oned lovingly;-- Must you go marketing your charms In cunning woman-like, And filled with old wives' tales' alarms?

I tell you, girl, come embrace; What reck we of churchling and priest With hands on paunch, and chubby face?

Behold, we are life's pitiful least, And we perish at the first smell Of death, whither heaves earth To spurn us cringing into h.e.l.l.

Come girl, and embrace; Nay, cry not, poor wretch, nor plead, But haste, for life strikes a swift pace, And I burn with envious greed: Know you not, fool, we are the mock Of G.o.ds, time, clothes, and priests?

But come, there is no time for talk.