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Yet though our buildings skyward climb Our heartbreaks are but little things In the equality of Time.
The sum of life, for all men's stones: He was John Jones, son of John Jones.
THE MADONNA OF THE CURB
On the curb of a city pavement, By the ash and garbage cans, In the stench and rolling thunder Of motor trucks and vans, There sits my little lady, With brave but troubled eyes, And in her arms a baby That cries and cries and cries.
She cannot be more than seven; But years go fast in the slums, And hard on the pains of winter The pitiless summer comes.
The wail of sickly children She knows; she understands The pangs of puny bodies, The clutch of small hot hands.
In the deadly blaze of August, That turns men faint and mad, She quiets the peevish urchins
By telling a dream she had-- A heaven with marble counters, And ice, and a singing fan; And a G.o.d in white, so friendly, Just like the drug-store man.
Her ragged dress is dearer Than the perfect robe of a queen!
Poor little la.s.s, who knows not The blessing of being clean.
And when you are giving millions To Belgian, Pole and Serb, Remember my pitiful lady-- Madonna of the Curb!
[Ill.u.s.tration:
_The wail of sickly children_ _She knows; she understands_ _The pangs of puny bodies,_ _The clutch of small hot hands._]
THE ISLAND
_A song for England?_ _Nay, what is a song for England?_
Our hearts go by green-cliffed Kinsale Among the gulls' white wings, Or where, on Kentish forelands pale The lighthouse beacon swings: Our hearts go up the Mersey's tide, Come in on Suffolk foam-- The blood that will not be denied Moves fast, and calls us home!
Our hearts now walk a secret round On many a Cotswold hill, For we are mixed of island ground, The island draws us still: Our hearts may pace a windy turn Where Suss.e.x downs are high, Or watch the lights of London burn, A bonfire in the sky!
What is the virtue of that soil That flings her strength so wide?
Her ancient courage, patient toil, Her stubborn wordless pride?
A little land, yet loved therein As any land may be, Rejoicing in her discipline, The salt stress of the sea.
Our hearts shall walk a Sherwood track, Our lips taste English rain, We thrill to see the Union Jack Across some deep-sea lane; Though all the world be of rich cost And marvellous with worth, Yet if that island ground were lost How empty were the earth!
_A song for England?_ _Lo, every word we speak's a song for England._
SUNDAY NIGHT
Two grave brown eyes, severely bent Upon a memorandum book-- A sparkling face, on which are blent A hopeful and a pensive look; A pencil, purse, and book of checks With stubs for varying amounts-- Elaine, the shrewdest of her s.e.x, Is busy balancing accounts.
Sedately, in the big armchair, She, all engrossed, the audit scans-- Her pencil hovers here and there The while she calculates and plans; What's this? A faintly pensive frown Upon her forehead gathers now-- Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown-- Beget that shadow on her brow?
A murrain on the tradesman churl Who caused this fair accountant's gloom!
Just then--a baby's cry--my girl Arose and swiftly left the room.
Then in her purse by stratagem I thrust some bills of small amounts-- She'll think she had forgotten them, And smile again at her accounts!
[Ill.u.s.tration:
_Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown--_ _Beget that shadow on her brow?_]
ENGLAND, JULY 1913
To Rupert Brooke
O England, England ... that July How placidly the days went by!
Two years ago (how long it seems) In that dear England of my dreams I loved and smoked and laughed amain And rode to Cambridge in the rain.
A careless G.o.dlike life was there!
To spin the roads with _Shotover_, To dream while punting on the Cam, To lie, and never give a d.a.m.n For anything but comrades.h.i.+p And books to read and ale to sip, And shandygaff at every inn When _The Gorilla_ rode to Lynn!
O world of wheel and pipe and oar In those old days before the War.
O poignant echoes of that time!
I hear the Oxford towers chime, The throbbing of those mellow bells And all the sweet old English smells--
The Deben water, quick with salt, The Woodbridge brew-house and the malt; The Suffolk villages, serene With lads at cricket on the green, And Wytham strawberries, so ripe, And _Murray's Mixture_ in my pipe!
In those dear days, in those dear days, All pleasant lay the country ways; The echoes of our stalwart mirth Went echoing wide around the earth And in an endless bliss of sun We lay and watched the river run.
And you by Cam and I by Isis Were happy with our own devices.
Ah, can we ever know again Such friends as were those chosen men, Such men to drink, to bike, to smoke with, To wors.h.i.+p with, or lie and joke with?
Never again, my lads, we'll see The life we led at twenty-three.
Never again, perhaps, shall I Go flas.h.i.+ng bravely down the High To see, in that transcendent hour, The sunset glow on Magdalen Tower.
Dear Rupert Brooke, your words recall Those endless afternoons, and all Your Cambridge--which I loved as one Who was her grandson, not her son.
O ripples where the river slacks In greening eddies round the "backs"; Where men have dreamed such gallant things Under the old stone bridge at _King's_.
Or leaned to feed the silver swans By the tennis meads at _John's_.
O Granta's water, cold and fresh, Kissing the warm and eager flesh Under the willow's breathing stir-- The bathing pool at _Grantchester_....
What words can tell, what words can praise The burly savor of those days!
Dear singing lad, those days are dead And gone for aye your golden head; And many other well-loved men Will never dine in Hall again.
