The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 31

(Ave! Francis Thompson)

He had been singing -- but I had not heard his voice; He had been weaving lovely dreams of song, O many a morning long.

But I, remote and far, Under an alien star, Listened to other singers, other birds, And other silver words.

But does the skylark, singing sweet and clear, Beg the cold world to hear?

Rather he sings for very rapture of singing, At dawn, or in the blue, mild Summer noon, Knowing that, late or soon, His wealth of beauty, and his high notes, ringing Above the earth, will make some heart rejoice.

He sings, albeit alone, Spendthrift of each pure tone, h.o.a.rding no single song, No cadence wild and strong.

But one day, from a friend far overseas, As if upon the breeze, There came the teeming wonder of his words -- A golden troop of birds, Caged in a little volume made to love; Singing, singing, Flinging, flinging Their breaking hearts on mine, and swiftly bringing Tears, and the peace thereof.

How the world woke anew!

How the days broke anew!

Before my tear-blind eyes a tapestry I seemed to see, Woven of all the dreams dead or to be.

Hills, hills of song, Springs of eternal bloom, Autumns of golden pomp and purple gloom Were hung upon his loom.

Winters of pain, roses with awful thorns, Yet wondrous faith in G.o.d's dew-drenched morns -- These, all these I saw, With that ecstatic awe Wherewith one looks into Eternity.

And then I knew that, though I had not heard His voice before, His quiet singing, like some quiet bird At some one's distant door, Had made my own more sweet; had made it more Lovely, in one of G.o.d's miraculous ways.

I knew then why the days Had seemed to me more perfect when the Spring Came with old bourgeoning; For somewhere in the world his voice was raised, And somewhere in the world his heart was breaking; And never a flower but knew it, sweetly taking Beauty more high and n.o.ble for his sake, As a whole wood grows lovelier for the wail Of one sad nightingale.

Yet if the Springs long past Seemed wonderful before I heard his voice, I tremble at the beauty I shall see In seasons still to be, Now that his songs are mine while Life shall last.

O now for me New floods of vision open suddenly . . .

Rejoice, my heart! Rejoice That you have heard the Quiet Singer's voice!

After a Dolmetsch Concert. [Arthur Upson]

Out of the conquered Past Unravishable Beauty; Hearts that are dew and dust Rebuking the dream of Death; Flower o' the clay downcast Triumphant in Earth's aroma; Strings that were strained in rust A-tremble with Music's breath!

Wine that was spilt in haste Arising in fumes more precious; Garlands that fell forgot Rooting to wondrous bloom; Youth that would flow to waste Pausing in pool-green valleys -- And Pa.s.sion that lasted not Surviving the voiceless Tomb!

On a Fly-Leaf of Burns' Songs. [Frederic Lawrence Knowles]

These are the best of him, Pathos and jest of him; Earth holds the rest of him.

Pa.s.sions were strong in him, -- Pardon the wrong in him; Hark to the song in him! --

Each little lyrical Grave or satirical Musical miracle!

Miniver Cheevy. [Edwin Arlington Robinson]

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he a.s.sailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediaeval grace Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

At the End of the Day. [Richard Hovey]

There is no escape by the river, There is no flight left by the fen; We are compa.s.sed about by the s.h.i.+ver Of the night of their marching men.

Give a cheer!

For our hearts shall not give way.

Here's to a dark to-morrow, And here's to a brave to-day!

The tale of their hosts is countless, And the tale of ours a score; But the palm is naught to the dauntless, And the cause is more and more.

Give a cheer!

We may die, but not give way.

Here's to a silent morrow, And here's to a stout to-day!

G.o.d has said: "Ye shall fail and perish; But the thrill ye have felt to-night I shall keep in my heart and cherish When the worlds have pa.s.sed in night."

Give a cheer!

For the soul shall not give way.

Here's to the greater to-morrow That is born of a great to-day!

Now shame on the craven truckler And the puling things that mope!

We've a rapture for our buckler That outwears the wings of hope.

Give a cheer!

For our joy shall not give way.

Here's in the teeth of to-morrow To the glory of to-day!