Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 Part 13

FOR G.

All night under the moon Plovers are flying Over the dreaming meadows of silvery light, Over the meadows of June, Flying and crying-- Wandering voices of love in the hush of the night.

All night under the moon, Love, though we're lying Quietly under the thatch, in silvery light Over the meadows of June Together we're flying-- Rapturous voices of love in the hush of the night?

SEA-CHANGE

Wind-flicked and ruddy her young body glowed In sunny shallows, splas.h.i.+ng them to spray; But when on rippled, silver sand she lay, And over her the little green waves flowed, Coldly translucent and moon-coloured showed Her frail young beauty, as if rapt away From all the light and laughter of the day To some twilit, forlorn sea-G.o.d's abode.

Again into the sun with happy cry She leapt alive and sparkling from the sea, Sprinkling white spray against the hot blue sky, A laughing girl ... and yet, I see her lie Under a deeper tide eternally In cold moon-coloured immortality.

BATTLE

I

THE RETURN

He went, and he was gay to go: And I smiled on him as he went.

My boy! 'Twas well he couldn't know My darkest dread, or what it meant--

Just what it meant to smile and smile And let my son go cheerily-- My son ... and wondering all the while What stranger would come back to me.

II

THE DANCERS

All day beneath the hurtling sh.e.l.ls Before my burning eyes Hover the dainty demoiselles-- The peac.o.c.k dragon-flies.

Unceasingly they dart and glance Above the stagnant stream-- And I am fighting here in France As in a senseless dream.

A dream of shattering black sh.e.l.ls That hurtle overhead, And dainty dancing demoiselles Above the dreamless dead.

III

HIT

Out of the sparkling sea I drew my tingling body clear, and lay On a low ledge the livelong summer day, Basking, and watching lazily White sails in Falmouth Bay.

My body seemed to burn Salt in the sun that drenched it through and through Till every particle glowed clean and new And slowly seemed to turn To lucent amber in a world of blue....

I felt a sudden wrench-- A trickle of warm blood-- And found that I was sprawling in the mud Among the dead men in the trench.

LAMENT

We who are left, how shall we look again Happily on the sun or feel the rain Without remembering how they who went Ungrudgingly and spent Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings-- But we, how shall we turn to little things And listen to the birds and winds and streams Made holy by their dreams, Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?

JOHN FREEMAN

MUSIC COMES

Music comes Sweetly from the trembling string When wizard fingers sweep Dreamily, half asleep; When through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep, Oboe oboe following, Flute answering clear high flute, Voices, voices--falling mute, And the jarring drums.

At night I heard First a waking bird Out of the quiet darkness sing ...

Music comes Strangely to the brain asleep!

And I heard Soft, wizard fingers sweep Music from the trembling string, And through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep; Oboe oboe following, Flute calling clear high flute, Voices faint, falling mute, And low jarring drums; Then all those airs Sweetly jangled--newly strange, Rich with change ...

Was it the wind in the reeds?

Did the wind range Over the trembling string;

Into flute and oboe pouring Solemn music; sinking, soaring Low to high, Up and down the sky?

Was it the wind jarring Drowsy far-off drums?

Strangely to the brain asleep Music comes.

NOVEMBER SKIES

Than these November skies Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep; Into their grey the subtle spies Of colour creep, Changing that high austerity to delight, Till ev'n the leaden interfolds are bright.

And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers Ere a thin flus.h.i.+ng cloud again Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.

The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as Reluctant the quick sun should s.h.i.+ne in vain, Holding in bright caprice their rain.

And when of colours none, Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green, Is truly seen,-- In all the myriad grey, In silver height and dusky deep, remain The loveliest, Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.