Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 Part 16

What lovely things Thy hand hath made, The smooth-plumed bird In its emerald shade, The seed of the gra.s.s, The speck of stone Which the wayfaring ant Stirs, and hastes on!

Though I should sit By some tarn in Thy hills, Using its ink As the spirit wills To write of Earth's wonders, Its live willed things, Flit would the ages On soundless wings Ere unto Z My pen drew nigh, Leviathan told, And the honey-fly: And still would remain My wit to try-- My worn reeds broken, The dark tarn dry, All words forgotten-- Thou, Lord, and I.

THE REMONSTRANCE

I was at peace until you came And set a careless mind aflame; I lived in quiet; cold, content; All longing in safe banishment, Until your ghostly lips and eyes Made wisdom unwise.

Naught was in me to tempt your feet To seek a lodging. Quite forgot Lay the sweet solitude we two In childhood used to wander through; Time's cold had closed my heart about, And shut you out.

Well, and what then?... O vision grave, Take all the little all I have!

Strip me of what in voiceless thought Life's kept of life, unhoped, unsought!-- Reverie and dream that memory must Hide deep in dust!

This only I say: Though cold and bare The haunted house you have chosen to share, Still 'neath its walls the moonbeam goes And trembles on the untended rose; Still o'er its broken roof-tree rise The starry arches of the skies; And 'neath your lightest word shall be The thunder of an ebbing sea.

THE GHOST

'Who knocks?' 'I, who was beautiful Beyond all dreams to restore, I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door.'

'Who speaks?' 'I--once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air, When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair.'

'Dark is the hour!' 'Aye, and cold.'

'Lone is my house.' 'Ah, but mine?'

'Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleamed in vain.'

'Long dead these to thine.'

Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars.

In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts, and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there-- The sweet cheat gone.

THE FOOL RINGS HIS BELLS

Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And Love--a lad with broken wing; And Pity, too: The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing.

Aye, music hath small sense.

And a time's soon told, And Earth is old, And my poor wits are dense; Yet I have secrets,--dark, my dear, To breathe you all: Come near.

And lest some hideous listener tells, I'll ring the bells.

They're all at war!

Yes, yes, their bodies go 'Neath burning sun and icy star To chaunted songs of woe, Dragging cold cannon through a mire Of rain and blood and spouting fire, The new moon glinting hard on eyes Wide with insanities!

Hus.h.!.+... I use words I hardly know the meaning of; And the mute birds Are glancing at Love From out their shade of leaf and flower, Trembling at treacheries Which even in noonday cower.

Heed, heed not what I said Of frenzied hosts of men, More fools than I, On envy, hatred fed, Who kill, and die-- Spake I not plainly, then?

Yet Pity whispered, 'Why?'

Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go.

Mine was not news for child to know, And Death--no ears hath. He hath supped where creep Eyeless worms in hush of sleep; Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws Athwart his grinning jaws-- Faintly the thin bones rattle and ... there, there, Hearken how my bells in the air Drive away care!...

Nay, but a dream I had Of a world all mad.

Not simple happy mad like me, Who am mad like an empty scene Of water and willow tree, Where the wind hath been; But that foul Satan-mad, Who rots in his own head, And counts the dead, Not honest one--and two-- But for the ghosts they were, Brave, faithful, true, When, head in air, In Earth's clear green and blue Heaven they did share With Beauty who bade them there....

There, now!--Death goes-- Mayhap I have wearied him.

Aye, and the light doth dim, And asleep's the rose, And tired Innocence In dreams is hence....

Come, Love, my lad, Nodding that drowsy head, 'Tis time thy prayers were said.

WILLIAM H. DAVIES

THE WHITE CASCADE

What happy mortal sees that mountain now, The white cascade that's s.h.i.+ning on its brow;

The white cascade that's both a bird and star, That has a ten-mile voice and s.h.i.+nes as far?

Though I may never leave this land again, Yet every spring my mind must cross the main

To hear and see that water-bird and star That on the mountain sings, and s.h.i.+nes so far.

EASTER

What exultations in my mind, From the love-bite of this Easter wind!

My head thrown back, my face doth s.h.i.+ne Like yonder Sun's, but warmer mine.

A b.u.t.terfly--from who knows where-- Comes with a stagger through the air, And, lying down, doth ope and close His wings, as babies work their toes: Perhaps he thinks of pressing tight Into his wings a little light!

And many a bird hops in between The leaves he dreams of, long and green, And sings for nipple-buds that show Where the full-breasted leaves must grow.

RAPTURES