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diff --git a/34235.txt b/34235.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1ed7d9e --- /dev/null +++ b/34235.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2938 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Spun-yarn and Spindrift, by Norah M. Holland + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Spun-yarn and Spindrift + +Author: Norah M. Holland + +Release Date: November 7, 2010 [EBook #34235] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPUN-YARN AND SPINDRIFT *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +SPUN-YARN + +AND + +SPINDRIFT + + + +BY + +NORAH M. HOLLAND + + + + +1918 + +LONDON & TORONTO + +J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. + +NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. + + + + +_All rights reserved_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + + The Little Dog-Angel + Shule Aroon + A Song Of Erin + The Road Across Slieve Rue + To W. B. Yeats + A Fairy Tale + The King of Erin's Daughter + Kitty O'Neil + Spring in the City + The Wild Geese + A Song of Memory + In Memory of a Failure + The Unchristened Child + To Audrey, Aged Four + A Lullaby + O Littlest Hands and Dearest + A Love Song + A Song of Love + Dead Love + The Wife from the Sea + A Storm at Night + Kitty's Feet + The Port o' Missing Ships + The Ride of the Shadows + Ghosts + Our Lady of Darkness + Daluan + Dead--and Living + The Master of Shadows + Diane au Bois + The Red Horse + The Adventurers + The Watcher of the Threshold + The Grey Rider + Joan the Maid + Newbury Town + A Christmas Hymn + The Shepherds' Song + A Christmas Carol + De Profundis + The Cry of the Damned + Our Lady of Remembrance + Maid Mary + The Two Crowns + A Sparrow in Church + Sea-Gulls + My Dog and I + Snowdrops + Spring + October Wind + October + In Arcadie + James Whitcomb Riley + The Sandman + The Remittance Men + The Last Voyage + Ballade of Dreams + Ships of Old Renown + Sea-Song + The Sea-Wind + My Philosophy + Easter, 1917 + "Home Thoughts from Abroad" + The Kaiser + Captains Adventurous + Drake's Drum + Our Dead + New Year's Eve, 1916 + To Ireland's Dead + A Song Of Exile + The Air-Men + The Defeated + The Gentlemen of Oxford + + + + + SPUN-YARN AND SPINDRIFT + + + + + THE LITTLE DOG-ANGEL + + High up in the courts of Heaven to-day + A little dog-angel waits, + With the other angels he will not play, + But he sits alone at the gates; + "For I know that my master will come," says he: + "And when he comes, he will call for me." + + He sees the spirits that pass him by + As they hasten towards the throne, + And he watches them with a wistful eye + As he sits at the gates alone; + "But I know if I just wait patiently + That some day my master will come," says he. + + And his master, far on the earth below, + As he sits in his easy chair, + Forgets sometimes, and he whistles low + For the dog that is not there; + And the little dog-angel cocks his ears, + And dreams that his master's call he hears. + + And I know, when at length his master waits + Outside in the dark and cold + For the hand of Death to ope the gates + That lead to those courts of gold, + The little dog-angel's eager bark + Will comfort his soul in the shivering dark. + + + + + SHULE AROON + + Fair are the fields of Canada, and broad her rivers flow, + But my heart's away from Canada to seek the hills I know, + Far, far away o'er billows grey, where western breezes sweep, + And--it's not the songs of Canada go sounding through my sleep. + + Shule, shule, shule, aroon, + Shule go soccair, agus shule go cuain, + Shule, shule, shule, aroon, + Sgo Dhae tu, mavourneen, slan. + + Along the sides of old Slieve Dhu again my footstep falls, + Again the turf smoke rises blue, again the cuckoo calls, + Once more adown the mountain brown the brown bog-waters leap-- + Oh how the croon of "Shule aroon" goes sounding through my sleep! + + Shule, shule, shule, aroon, + Shule go soccair, agus shule go cuain, + Shule, shule, shule, aroon, + Sgo Dhae tu, mavourneen, slan. + + Oh 'tis I am here in Canada, far, far across the foam, + And many years and many tears divide me from my home; + But still above the Irish hills the stars their watches keep, + And--it's not the songs of Canada go sounding through my sleep. + + Shule, shule, shule, aroon, + Shule go soccair, agus shule go cuain, + Shule, shule, shule, aroon, + Sgo Dhae tu, mavourneen, slan. + + + + + A SONG OF ERIN + + Far to westward in the sunset tall and bare her cliffs arise, + Mother Erin, with the tender love and laughter in her eyes, + Looking out across the waters, dreaming of her argosies. + + Argosies that sail forever, laden down with hopes and fears, + Ships of dream, returning never, though she waits throughout the years, + Waits, with eyes wherein the laughter grows more sorrowful than tears. + + One by one her children leave her--stalwart sons and daughters fair, + Straining eyes grown dim with anguish as her hilltops melt in air; + Bending from her cliffs she watches, drinking deep of their despair. + + Yet she showers her gifts upon them--gifts of laughter and of tears; + Gives their eyes the Vision Splendid, fairy music to their ears, + Weaves around their feet her magic--spells that strengthen through + the years, + + So her children, unforgetting, howsoe'er their footsteps roam, + Turn their hearts forever westward, longing for the day to come + When once more they see her stooping from her heights to call them home. + + + + + THE ROAD ACROSS SLIEVE RUE + + As I went down to Dublin town + The road across Slieve Rue, + I met a maid in crimson gown; + Her little feet were bare and brown, + She looked at me, she laughed at me + With eyes of watchet blue. + + No mortal maid was half so fair, + Or half so dainty sweet; + The sun was tangled in her hair, + And O her feet were brown and bare; + I laid the very heart of me + Before those dancing feet. + + "O go you down to Dublin quay + To sail upon the Bay? + I pray you, gentle sir," said she, + "To turn and walk a mile with me." + So witching were the eyes of her + I could not say her nay. + + She gave to me a ring of gold, + And kisses, two and three; + She sang me elfin songs of old, + She lured my heart into her hold, + Then turned and left me lonely there-- + A wicked witch was she. + + As I went down to Dublin quay + By darkling ways alone, + My fairy maid was gone from me, + For O a wicked witch was she, + And all my heart within me lay + As heavy as a stone. + + + + + TO W. B. YEATS + + A wind of dreams comes singing over sea + From where the white waves kiss the shores of home, + Bringing upon its rainbow wings to me + Glimpses of days gone by-- + Of wastes of water, where the sea-gulls cry + Above the sounding foam. + + Or through the mists do Finn and Usheen ride, + With all their men, along some faery shore, + While Bran and Sgeolan follow at their side + Adown the shadowy track, + Till in the sunset Caoilte's hair blows back + And Niamh calls once more. + + Or the brown bees hum through the livelong day + In glades of Inisfree, where sunlight gleams, + The bean flower scents again the dear old way, + Once more the turf-fire burns; + The memory of the long dead past returns + Borne on that wind of dreams. + + + + + A FAIRY TALE + + With sword at side, on his charger good, + The King's son of Erin + Into the depths of the dark, green wood + Forward was faring; + Golden-armoured and golden-curled, + Faith, the sweetest song in the world + His heart was hearing! + + Onward he rode, with heart elate; + Gaily he sought her-- + She, the Princess to be his mate, + The great King's daughter, + Jewelled fingers and golden crown, + Slim young body and eyes as brown + As the brown bog-water. + + On he rode through a laughing land: + The ways grew wider, + There stood a cottage close at hand, + And there he spied her-- + O but her feet were brown and bare, + And brown were her curls, as she stood there + With her geese beside her. + + Alas! for the Princess, proud and slim, + The great King's daughter; + We'll trust she wasted no thought on him, + For he straight forgot her, + Forgot her jewels and golden crown, + For the goose-girl's laughing eyes were brown + As the brown bog-water. + + Then straightway down from his steed he sprang + And bent above her; + O sweet were the songs the breezes sang + Across the clover; + But what the words he said in her ear, + Since none but her geese were by to hear, + I can't discover. + + And what of the Princess, proud and high? + Good luck upon her! + Sure, another Prince came riding by, + And he wooed and won her. + Now I tell the tale as 'twas told to me + By a fairy lad, across the sea + In County Connor. + + + + + THE KING OF ERIN'S DAUGHTER + + The King of Erin's daughter had wind-blown hair and bright, + The King of Erin's daughter, her eyes were like the sea. + (O Rose of all the roses, have you forgotten quite + The story of the days of old that once you told to me?) + + The King of Erin's daughter went up the mountain side, + And who but she was singing as she went upon her way? + "O somewhere waits a King's son, and I shall be his bride; + And tall he is, and fair he is, and none shall say him nay." + + The King of Erin's daughter (O fair was she and sweet) + Went laughing up the mountain without a look behind, + Till on the lofty summit that lay beneath her feet + She found a King's son waiting there, his brows with poppies twined. + + O tall was he and fair was he. He looked upon her face + And whispered in her ear a word unnamed of mortal breath, + And very still she rested, clasped close in his embrace, + The King of Erin's daughter, for the bridegroom's name was Death. + + + + + KITTY O'NEIL + + O a bit of a dance in an Irish street-- + Hogan was there, and Hennessy, + Many a colleen fair and sweet, + And Kitty O'Neil she danced with me; + Kitty O'Neil, with eyes of brown, + And feet as light as the flakes o' snow. + Was it last year, O Kitty aroon, + Or was it a hundred years ago? + + Hogan is out on a Texan plain, + Hennessy fell in Manila fight, + And I--I am back in New York again + In my old arm-chair at the Club to-night; + And Kitty O'Neil--the snow lies white + On the turf above her across the sea, + And stranger colleens are dancing light + Where Kitty O'Neil once danced with me. + + O the Antrim glens and the thrushes' song, + And the hedges white with blossoming may, + Many a colleen tripping along, + But none so fair as the one away: + "Musha, God save you!" I to them say, + "God save you kindly!" they answer me; + I shiver and wake, in the dawning grey, + And Kitty O'Neil lies over the sea. + + O a bit of a dance in an Irish street-- + Hogan was there, and Hennessy, + Many a colleen fair and sweet, + And Kitty O'Neil she danced with me; + Kitty O'Neil, with eyes of brown, + And feet as light as the flakes of snow. + Was it last year, O Kitty aroon, + Or was it a hundred years ago? + + + + + SPRING IN THE CITY + + Outside my garret window, set + Amid the city's dust and blare, + One bit of green is growing yet-- + A gnarled old hawthorn tree stands there + + A little bird sings in its bough, + Where may-buds break as white as foam; + It breaks my heart to hear him now, + For O, he sings the songs of home. + + His wings are of the hodden grey, + A little lilting thing is he; + He pipes a carol blythe and gay; + But sad the thoughts he brings to me. + + Once more the Irish hills rise green, + The lark springs to the sun once more, + Once more I tread the old boreen + And see you at the cabin door. + + The young May moon her cresset burns + In misty skies of Irish blue, + And for an hour my spirit turns + From dreary streets to dream of you + + O little, lilting birdeen, cease! + You stab my heart with every strain + Bringing me back old memories + Of days that will not come again. + + + + + THE WILD GEESE + + O pleasant are the fields of France, her vine-clad hills aglow, + And broad and smooth her rivers are, as singing on they go,-- + Durance and Seine and Loire and Rhone--but not for us they flow. + + And sweetly on a Frenchman's ear the songs of France may ring, + But not for us their melody who still amid their swing + The sobbing beat alone can hear of songs we used to sing. + + For, as the streams of Babylon, though broad and fair they swept, + Were waters of captivity, whereby the Hebrews wept, + Dreaming of dear Jerusalem, where their forefathers slept-- + + So dreaming by the waves of France we think on Sion too, + Heartsick with longing for the streams we and our fathers knew-- + Liffey and Lee and Avonmore and tawny Avondhu. + + And turning homeward yearning eyes that ne'er shall see her strand, + We tune our harps and strike once more the chords with faltering hand, + And sing again the song of home, far in a lonely land. + + "If we forget Jerusalem!" Ah, well we know the song-- + Our waters of captivity, bitter their waves and strong, + And faint our hearts for weariness, how long, O Lord, how long? + + + + + A SONG OF MEMORY + + Here as I sit in the dark and ponder, + Watching the firelight dance and gleam, + What brings them back to my mind, I wonder? + Those old days of laughter and dream. + Dear old days, when we roamed together + All the pathways that cross Slieve Rue, + Caring for naught in the sunny weather, + Laughing together, I and you. + + Voice of the west wind, calling, calling, + Sobbing beat of the Irish rain, + Whispering leaves and waters falling, + Ay, and you by my side again; + Out of the past I hear them ringing-- + All the songs of the days of old; + Hear the lark on the hillside singing, + See the gleam of the gorse's gold. + + Till, as I sit in the firelight dreaming, + Watching the shadows grow apace, + Out of the long dead years comes gleaming + There in the flames your laughing face; + All the days that are past and over + Gone in the turf smoke, curling blue, + And from their wreckage I recover + Song and sunshine and youth and you. + + + + + IN MEMORY OF A FAILURE + + O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, in blood and ashes lie + The dreams we dreamed, the faith we held, the hopes we builded high; + Once more the path that Emmet trod our bleeding feet must press, + Once more our hearts must bear the load of failure and distress; + But though the dream in ruin fell, yet this much still is true-- + O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, at least we died for you. + + O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, the hills with Spring are fair, + And fragrant blows the daffodil and violets scent the air, + Once more from out the morning sky the lark's gay challenge rings, + Mounting the blue to Heaven's gate, but not for us he sings, + And summer comes, and autumn tints with bronze and gold the fern, + And bees hum in the heather bloom, but we shall not return. + + O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, give us nor praise nor blame, + Only a little Irish dust to cover up our shame; + Only a sod of Irish ground our broken dream to hide, + Where some may pause and say a prayer and "'Twas for her they died;" + For though we brought you grief and pain, yet this much still is true-- + O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, at least we died for you. + + + + + THE UNCHRISTENED CHILD + + Alanna! Alanna! within the churchyard's round + There's many graves of childer' there, they lie in holy ground; + But yours is on the mountain side beneath the hawthorn tree-- + O fleet one, my sweet one, that's gone so far from me. + + Alanna! Alanna! When that small mound was made, + No mass was sung, no bell was rung, no priest above it prayed; + Unchristened childer's souls, they say, may ne'er see Heaven's light-- + O lone one, my own one, where strays your soul to-night? + + Alanna! Alanna! This life's a weary one, + And there's little time for thinking when the hours of work are done, + And the others have forgotten, but there's times I sit apart, + O fair one, my dear one, and hold you in my heart. + + Alanna! Alanna! If I were Mary mild, + And heard outside the gates of Heaven a little crying child, + What though its brow the chrisom lacked, I'd lift the golden pin, + O bright one, my white one, and bid you enter in. + + Alanna! Alanna! The mountain side is bare, + And the winds they do be blowing and the snows be lying there, + And unchristened childer's souls, they say, may ne'er see + Heaven's light-- + O lone one, my own one, where strays your soul to-night? + + + + + TO AUDREY, AGED FOUR + + Light feet, white feet, dancing down the ways, + Spilling out the honey from the flowery days, + May your paths forever flowery be and sweet, + Stony roads of sorrow wait not for your feet. + + Light feet, white feet, as you older grow, + Fain are we to keep you from all care and woe; + But if thorn and brier in your roadway be, + Light feet, white feet, meet them merrily. + + Light feet, white feet, as you dance along, + God, Who made you, keep you free from stain of wrong, + Give you song and sunshine, laughter, love and praise, + Light feet, white feet, dancing down the ways. + + + + + A LULLABY + + Little brown feet, that have grown so weary, + Plodding on through the heat of day, + Mother will hold you, mother will fold you + Safe to her breast; little feet, rest; + Now is the time to cease from play. + + Little brown hands, that through day's long hours + Never rested, be still at last; + Mother will rest you; come, then, and nest you + Here by her side, nestle and hide; + Creep to her heart and hold it fast. + + Little brown head, on my shoulder lying, + Night is coming and day is dead; + Mother will sing you songs, that shall bring you + Childhood's soft sleep, quiet and deep; + Sweet be your dreams, O dear brown head. + + + + + O LITTLEST HANDS AND DEAREST + + O littlest hands and dearest, + O golden heads and bright, + From out what dear dream country + Come you to me to-night? + For through the shadows falling + I hear your voices calling + Out of the magic spaces + Of infinite delight. + + I see your curls a-glimmer, + I see your dear eyes shine, + I feel the childish fingers + Slipped softly into mine; + You bring me back the May-time, + The old, delightful play-time + When all the world was laughter + And life seemed half divine. + + Thus, from the shades that gather + Around my path to-night + Your glad child-hands have drawn me + Back to your lands of light, + Giving me for my sadness + The medicine of your gladness, + O littlest hands and dearest, + O golden heads and bright. + + + + + A LOVE SONG + + Love came to me once more, + His wings all drenched with rain; + Silent his singing lips, + His eyes were dark with pain. + + Dead roses in his hands-- + Gone were the flowers of yore; + Only a poor, grey ghost, + Love lingered at my door. + + Wasted his rounded limbs + And grey his golden hair-- + Poor, shadowy, silent God, + Who once had been so fair. + + "O Love, great Love," I cried, + "Why come you thus to me?" + "I am Love's ghost," he said; + "Men name me Memory." + + + + + A SONG OF LOVE + + Love came loitering down the way, + (Heart, but we two were young!) + Laughter light in his eyes there lay, + Music was on his tongue; + "Stay, Love, stay--walk with us, pray! + (Sweet were the songs he sung.) + + Love with us goes wandering still, + (Heart, but his songs are sweet!) + Suns may shine, or the rains beat chill, + What matter cold or heat? + Blue or grey, Love goes our way; + (Summer follows his feet.) + + Love, he has been a comrade true, + (Heart, how the seasons fly!) + Joy and Sorrow have found us too, + Greeted and passed us by; + So Love stay, they may go their way; + (And Love can never die.) + + + + + DEAD LOVE + + Fold the hands, grown still and cold; + Lay ye by + The broken bow that shall feel his hold + Nevermore, while the seasons fly. + Draw the shroud above his eyes, + Love, that laughs an hour and dies. + + Seek no more to entrance win + At his gate; + Silent now are the song and din, + Jest and dance, that were there of late. + Never more shall he arise, + Love, that laughs an hour and dies. + + Listen not, for ye shall catch + Nevermore + The sound of his finger on the latch, + Nor see him stand in the open door; + Ne'er shall see, in any guise, + Love, that laughs an hour and dies. + + + + + THE WIFE FROM THE SEA + + I snatched her from her home away-- + From her great waters, cool and free, + My sea-maid, in whose eyes there lay + The depths and dangers of the sea. + + I brought her where faint breezes sweep + Through lanes walled in with hedges high, + And sown with luscious grass and deep + At ease the fatted pastures lie. + + I gave her my poor cottage home, + The tame face of the countryside-- + Who knew the waves' withdrawing foam, + The thunder of the bursting tide. + + And day by day did I rejoice + To see her sit beside my door, + Nor knew that in her heart the voice + Of ocean called forever more. + + Until the grace I would not give + Death gave. His mighty hand set free + My wild sea-maid, that could not live + Without her waters' liberty. + + And I?--To me the fields are dear; + The steadfast earth is home to me. + Yet night by night in dreams I hear + Her spirit call me from the sea. + + + + + A STORM AT NIGHT + + All night the waves broke in upon the shore + Beneath my window, and I heard the rain + With querulous, weak fingers, evermore + Beating against the pane. + + And through the darkness saw--was it the sweep + Of some white sea-bird's wing above the foam, + That fain would cross those waters, wild and deep, + And find its mate and home? + + Or was it--oh, dear feet, why should you leave + The halls of Heaven, with all their warmth and light, + To come where winds wail and where waters grieve, + Seeking my door last night? + + Surely you came not; 'twas some bird's white breast + Flashed through the night, and not your waving hand, + Some sea-gull, weary of the waves' unrest, + That sought the steadfast land. + + And yet, amid the sobbing of the rain, + Outside my window in the dark and chill, + I heard your voice, that ever and again + Called, and would not be still-- + + Until the morning came, sullen and red, + With waves that beat still foaming on the shore, + The wind and rain had ceased, and lo! my dead + Had gone from me once more. + + + + + KITTY'S FEET + + Sure, I'm sitting here this evening, while the firelight flickers low, + And I'm looking through the shadows into eyes I used to know, + Through the years that lie between us, into tender eyes and sweet, + And I'm listening in the darkness for the sound of Kitty's feet-- + Kitty's feet, whose tripping faltered into silence long ago. + + Ah, 'tis well I mind those evenings, gathering shades about my chair, + And the sound of Kitty's footsteps dancing gaily down the stair + Through the hall and past the doorway, till I'd turn, her eyes to meet, + Well my heart it knew the measure that was danced by Kitty's feet-- + Kitty's feet that dance no longer, lying in the silence there. + + Yet to-night as I sit dreaming, while the shadows longer grow, + I can almost think I hear them, the dear steps I long for so; + Through the years that lie between us comes again the vision sweet, + And my heart once more is beating to the tune of Kitty's feet-- + Kitty's feet, that tripped so lightly past Death's portals long ago. + + + + + THE PORT O' MISSING SHIPS + + She lies across the western main, + Beyond the sunset's rim; + Her quays are packed with reeling mists-- + A city strange and dim: + And silent o'er her harbour bar + The ghostly waters brim. + + No sound of life is in her streets, + No creak of rope or spar + Comes ever from the water's edge + Where the great vessels are; + Yet ship by ship steals through the mists + Across her harbour bar. + + There many a good galleon + Has made her anchor fast, + And many a tall caravel + Her journeyings ends at last; + But no living eye may look upon + That harbour dim and vast. + + For one went down in tropic seas, + And one put fearless forth + To find her death in loneliness + 'Mid icebergs of the north; + Thus ship by ship and crew by crew + The ocean tried their worth. + + She lies across the western main + Beyond the sunset's rim, + Her quays are packed with reeling mists-- + A city strange and dim; + And silent o'er her harbour bar + The ghostly waters brim. + + + + + THE RIDE OF THE SHADOWS + + Behind the pines, when sunset gleams, + The white gates of the Land of Dreams + Stand open wide, + And all adown the golden road + That leads from that most blest abode + The shadows ride, + Who in the light of common day + May now no more abide. + + They leave their meads of asphodel, + The starry spaces where they dwell, + Where quiet lies: + They leave their windless, glassy sea, + The angel songs and melody + Of Paradise, + To walk again the old-time way + Once dear to mortal eyes. + + With beating heart I watch them ride + Across the gathering shades that hide + That country bright; + The faces that I loved of yore, + Eyes that shall smile on me no more + With mortal light; + Shadows of all good things and fair + Come from the past to-night. + + So, when the dying sunset gleams + Behind the hills, the Gate of Dreams + Stands open wide; + And all along the golden road + From those fair mansions of their God + Where they abide-- + Dear memories of the days that were-- + I see the shadows ride. + + + + + GHOSTS + + The sky is overcast, + The wind wails loud; + Grey ghosts go driving past + In driving cloud; + And, in the beating rain + Against the window-pane + Dead fingers beat again, + Dead faces crowd. + + O, grey ghosts, waiting still, + My fire burns bright; + Without is cold and chill, + Here, warm and light. + And would you have me creep + Outside to you, and sweep + With you along the steep + Of the grey night? + + Nay, once I held you dear, + Before you fled + Adown the shadowy, drear + Paths of the dead; + But now the churchyard mould + Has left you all too cold, + Your hands I cannot hold, + Your touch I dread. + + Yet linger patiently, + Ghosts of the past, + Soon there shall come to me + That morn's chill blast + That calls me too to tread + Those ways of doubt and dread, + And numbered with the dead + To lie at last. + + + + + OUR LADY OF DARKNESS + + When the toils of the day are over and the sun has sunk in the west, + And my lips are tired of laughter, and my heart is heavy for rest, + I will sit awhile in the shadows, till Our Lady of Darkness shall shed + The healing balms of her silence and her dreams upon my head. + + Ye seek in vain in your temples--she dwells not in aisles of stone; + Apart, and at peace, and silent, she waits in the night alone. + Her eyes are as moonlit waters, her brows with the stars are bound, + And her footsteps move to music, but no man has heard the sound. + + No incense burns at her altar--at her shrine no lamplight gleams, + But she guards the Fountains of Quiet, and she keeps the key of Dreams, + And I will sit in the shadows and pray her, of her grace, + To open her guarded visions and grant me to dream of your face. + + I ask not to break the silence, but only that you shall stand, + As oft you stood in the old-time, with your hand upon my hand; + So I will sit very quiet, that Our Lady of Darkness may shed + Her balms of healing and silence and of dreams upon my head. + + + + + DALUAN + + Daluan, the Shepherd, + When winter winds blow chill, + Goes piping o'er the upland, + Goes piping by the rill; + And whoso hears his music + Must follow where he will. + + Daluan, the Shepherd, + (So the old story saith) + He pipes the tunes of laughter, + The songs of sighing breath; + He pipes the souls of mortals + Through the dark gates of Death. + + Daluan, the Shepherd, + Who listens to his strain + Shall look no more on laughter, + Shall taste no more of pain, + Shall know no more the longing + That eats at heart and brain. + + Daluan, the Shepherd-- + Beside the sobbing rill, + And through the dripping woodlands, + And up the gusty hill, + I hear the pipes of Daluan + Crying and calling still. + + + + + DEAD--AND LIVING + + _The Question_ + + If we should tap on your pane to-night, dear, + Standing here in the dark outside, + As in the far-off days and bright, dear, + Say, would you fling the window wide? + + Nay, you would turn to the firelight's gold, dear, + Saying, "'Tis but a dream that fled;" + Deep we lie in the churchyard mould, dear, + Who shall remember to love the dead? + + (Ah, the dead, who shall come no more, dear, + Gone and forgotten, so you say-- + Standing here in the dark at your door, dear,-- + Dead and forgotten and gone for aye.) + + Your hours pass with laughter and song, dear, + Do we blame you that you forget? + All our years are empty and long, dear, + We, in our graves, remember yet. + + We remember, and ofttimes rise, dear, + From our beds 'neath the churchyard sod, + Walking ever, with wistful eyes, dear, + Old-time ways that in life we trod. + + We remember, who are forgot, dear-- + Do we blame you that you forget? + How should we live in your lightest thought, dear? + Only--the dead remember yet. + + + _The Reply_ + + Do we forget?--We cannot hear your call; + Your tap upon the pane + Sounds to our ears but as the leaves that fall, + Or beat of sobbing rain. + + We cannot see you standing at the door, + Or passing through the gloom; + We strain our ears, yet hear your step no more + In the familiar room. + + And seeing not--but waiting, with a numb, + Bewildered heart and brain, + And hearing not--but only winds that come + And wail against the pane, + + And dreaming of you in some brighter sphere, + We--we, too--grieve and fret + That you, whom still we hold so dear, so dear, + Should all so soon forget. + + + + + THE MASTER OF SHADOWS + + Into the western waters + Slow sinks the sunset light, + And the voice of the Wind of Shadows + Calls to my heart to-night-- + + Calls from the magic countries, + The lost and the lovely lands + Where stands the Master of Shadows, + Holding the dreams in his hands. + + All the dreams of the ages + Gather around him there, + Visions of things forgotten + And of things that never were. + + Birds in the swaying woodlands, + Creatures furry and small, + Turn to the Master of Shadows + And he gives of his dreams to all. + + Lo! I am worn and weary, + Sick of the garish light; + Blow, thou Wind of the Shadows, + Into my heart to-night. + + Out of the magic countries, + The lost and the lovely lands, + Where he, the Master of Shadows, + Waits, with the dreams in his hands. + + + + + _DIANE AU BOIS_ + + Through the sere woods she walks alone, + With bow unstrung and empty quiver; + Her hounds are dead, her maidens gone, + She walks alone forever; + Watching the while with wistful eyes + Her crescent shining in the skies. + + The flutes of Pan are silent now, + Hushed is the sound of Faunus' singing; + Through winds that shake the withering bough + No dryad's voice is ringing. + Syrinx has left her river deep, + E'en old Silenus sound doth sleep. + + The startled deer before her flee, + The nightingales with music meet her; + Yet never mortal eye shall see + Or mortal voices greet her. + Her shrines with weeds are overgrown, + Their fires are out; their worship done. + + Yet sometimes, so 'twas told to me, + The children playing in the meadows + May hear her song, that mournfully + Comes floating through the shadows, + And sometimes see, through boughs grown bare, + The moonlit brightness of her hair. + + And, it may be, her weary feet, + White gleaming through those dusky spaces, + May, after many wanderings, meet + The dear, familiar places; + And find, beyond the sunset's gold, + Ghosts of the Gods she knew of old. + + + + + THE RED HORSE + + He came and whinnied at my door, + The wild red horse, with flowing mane; + And I--I crossed the threshold o'er, + Leaving behind my wonted life, + And hope of joy, and fear of pain, + And clasp of friend, and kiss of wife, + And clinging touch of childish hands, + And love and laughter, grief and glee, + And rode him out across the sands + Beside a dark, mysterious sea. + + Across my face his mane was blown, + I saw the eddying stars grow dim, + And suddenly the past had grown + A dream of weariness gone by, + And I was fain to ride with him + Forever up a darkening sky, + And hear the far, thin, fairy tune + That through the darkness seemed to beat, + Until at length the crescent moon + Was lying underneath our feet. + + And there the unknown beaches lay + With stars for silvery pebbles strown, + And thin and faint and far away + Came all the noises of the world, + And up those glimmering reaches blown + The whispering waves of darkness curled. + And there my wild steed paused at last, + And there, wrapped round in dreams, I lie, + And in the wind that whistles past + I hear a far, faint, fairy cry. + + + + + THE ADVENTURERS + + We rode from the north, a valiant band, + With shining armour and swords aflame, + Till we came at length to a silent land-- + To a sunless, shadowy land we came, + A desolate land, without a name. + + No songs of birds in that land were known, + No voices of human joy or pain, + But mists on the silent winds were blown, + And shadows clung to our bridle rein, + Dim forms that no answer gave again. + + Then some grew tired of those weary ways + And hied them back to a happier coast, + And many followed some phantom face + Down one of the winding ways that crossed + That shadowy land, and so were lost. + + And the rust grew red on our harness bright, + And dull grew our swords, and a dream the Quest, + And ever wearier grew the fight + With thronging phantoms that round us pressed, + And ever our hearts grew sick for rest. + + Till, few and feeble who were so strong, + Weary, who dreamed we could never tire, + We won at last through those ways so long, + And, bathed in the sunset, dome and spire, + We saw the City of Heart's Desire. + + + + + THE WATCHER OF THE THRESHOLD + + Silent amid the shadows + Outside my door, + The Watcher of the Threshold + Waits evermore. + + One day the door will open, + And I shall see + The Watcher of the Threshold + Beckon to me. + + And I must leave the firelight, + And seek the gloom + Where stands that shadowy figure + Outside my room. + + In vain it is to question + Of how, or why, + The Watcher of the Threshold + Makes no reply. + + Only amid the shadows + Silent he stands, + With eyes that hold a secret, + And folded hands. + + Still standing in the darkness + Outside my door, + The Watcher of the Threshold + Waits evermore. + + + + + THE GREY RIDER + + Why ride so fast through the wind and rain, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + Lest a soul should call for me in vain + To-night, O Vanathee. + + Now, whose is the soul shall seek thine aid, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + The soul of one that is sore afraid + To-night, O Vanathee. + + O fears he the flurry of wind and rain, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + More deep is the dread that sears his brain + To-night, O Vanathee. + + Does he fear the tumult of clanging blows, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + Nay, darker still is the fear he knows + To-night, O Vanathee. + + Does he fear the loss of wife or child, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + Nay, a terror holds him that's still more wild + To-night, O Vanathee. + + O what should make him so sore afraid, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + He fears a wraith that himself has made + To-night, O Vanathee. + + Then how shall you cleanse from fear his mind, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + I will touch his eyes, and they shall be blind + To-night, O Vanathee. + + Yet still may he know the voice of fear, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + I will touch his ears that he shall not hear + To-night, O Vanathee. + + Yet that wraith may linger around his bed, + Grey Rider of the Shee? + No terror shall touch the quiet dead + To-night, O Vanathee. + + + _Shee, Sidhe_--Fairies. + + _Vanathee, Bean-an-Tighe_--Woman of the house. + + + + + JOAN THE MAID + + Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places, + Joan the Maid, with her great sword girt at her side; + Sheen of wings and shimmer of angel faces + Gather around her as she on doth ride. + + Rheims or Orleans may see her thus in splendour, + Never the old Domremy streets she knew, + Here she walks as a maiden, shy and slender, + Brushing with bare brown feet the evening dew. + + Oft do the children, playing in the meadows, + See her watching them, white and very fair, + Smiling lips and eyes that dream in the shadows, + Lilies of France she loved so in her hair. + + So she comes, through those quiet roadways stealing, + Where in the grey church still her people bend, + Unto the Maiden, their own saint, appealing; + Hears them name her saviour of France and friend. + + She has forgotten now the mocking faces, + Prison, and wounds, and torture of the flame; + Still, they say, she moves through the old-time places, + Joan the Maid, whence once, long since, she came. + + + + + NEWBURY TOWN + + Rupert's soldiers came riding, riding, + All in the sunshine riding down, + Scented curls on the breezes flowing, + Banners dancing and bugles blowing, + Gaily the troops came riding, riding, + Through the streets of Newbury town. + + Bells in the church towers all were swinging, + Flags were waving and flowers were strown; + Roses lay in the road before them, + Roses rained from the casements o'er them, + All in the streets, with shout and singing, + Prayed that the King might win his own. + + Rupert's soldiers came riding, riding, + All in the darkness riding down; + Never a church-bell chimed to greet them, + Never a maid came forth to meet them; + Broken, defeated, they came riding + Through the streets of Newbury town. + + Never more while the bells are calling + Rupert's soldiers come riding down; + They have ridden, with bugles blowing + Into a land beyond our knowing, + Never more shall their footsteps falling + Haunt the streets of Newbury town. + + Yet, as I sit here, idly dreaming, + Watching the water onward flow, + Still I see, in the sun or shadow, + Rupert's soldiers across the meadow, + Banners blowing and lovelocks streaming, + Riding back from the long ago. + + And in my dreams they still are riding, + Victor or vanquished, riding down; + Now with the roses strewn before them-- + Now with the darkness gathering o'er them-- + Rupert's soldiers, forever riding + Through the streets of Newbury town. + + + + + A CHRISTMAS HYMN + + No room for Thee, O Baby Jesukin, + No room within the inn; + Only the stable door is standing wide, + And there inside + The ox and ass their patient foreheads bow + Before Thee now. + + No room for Thee, O little Lord of all, + In cottage or in hall; + Yet o'er Thy stable angel voices sound + Telling around + To the wide world a Prince is born to them + In Bethlehem. + + No room for Thee--yet the wise Kings have sped + To kneel beside Thy bed, + Offering their gifts, myrrh, frankincense, and gold, + To Thee to hold; + And all the angel armies of the air + Are gathered there. + + No room for Thee--yet the wide earth is Thine, + And this poor heart of mine; + Though oft Thy Hand has tried its doors in vain, + Yet come again; + Wide open now it stands--O Light of Light, + Enter to-night. + + + + + THE SHEPHERDS' SONG + + We be silly shepherds, + Men of no renown, + Guarding well our sheepfolds + Hard by Bethlehem town; + Baby Jesus, guard us all, + Cot and sheepfold, bower and stall. + + Wild the wind was blowing, + Sudden all was still, + Laughter soft of angels + Rang from hill to hill. + Baby Jesus, Thou wast born + Ere that midnight paled to morn. + + Seek we now Thy presence + With our gifts of love; + Felix brings a lambkin, + I will give a dove. + Baby Jesus, small and sweet, + Lo, we lay them at Thy feet. + + + + + A CHRISTMAS CAROL + + Just a little baby lying in a manger, + God of Gods and Light of Lights, the mighty King of Kings, + Hark! the choiring angels chant their glad evangels, + All the air is pulsing with the music of their wings. + + Just a little baby on Mary's breast that bore Him, + Helpless feet, and clinging hands, and lips that knew no word, + And the darkness ringing with the angels' singing, + Sounding through the solemn night, "All glory to the Lord." + + Just a little baby wrapped in swaddling clothing-- + All the earth forever thrills rejoicing in that birth, + Through the centuries flying still hears those angels crying, + "Glory be to God on high, and peace, goodwill to earth." + + + + + _DE PROFUNDIS_ + + Lord, from this prison-house that we have built, + This dark abode of pain and misery, + Failure and guilt, + We stretch our hands, we stretch our hands to Thee, + Lord, set us free. + + O Lord, Thou knowest all--Thou knowest well + The groping hands, the eyes that would not see, + The feet that fell; + Yet are we fain--are fain to come to Thee, + Lord, set us free. + + Bitter the chains that we have borne so long, + The chains of sin we wove so heedlessly; + Lo, Thou art strong, + Out of the deeps we cry--we cry to Thee, + Lord, set us free. + + + + + THE CRY OF THE DAMNED + + Have you no pity for us?--You, who stand + Within that Heaven that we may never win, + Who know the golden streets of that fair land + Our weary feet are fain to be within. + Have you no ruth for us, who must abide + In the great horror of the night outside? + + We, too, once knew of laughter and delight, + Who now must walk these weary roads of pain; + Our hearts were pure as yours, our faces bright, + In that glad life we may not know again; + We might have gained your Heaven too--even we + Who dwell with madness and with memory. + + Within the pleasant pastures where your feet + Stray, comes there never thought of our distress? + Do our wails never mar your music sweet? + Our parched throats change your draught to bitterness? + Your chance was ours--we lost it; yes, we know + Ours was the fault--but, is it easier so? + + Yet was it ours?--The dazzled eyes and blind, + The wills that knew, but could not hold the good, + The groping feet, that failed the path to find, + The wild desires that filled the tainted blood? + Have you no ruth, who those bright barriers crossed, + For us, who saw them open--and are lost? + + + + + OUR LADY OF REMEMBRANCE + + She stoops to us from her dim recess + With weary and wistful eyes; + She has grown so tired of the censer's swing, + Of the white-robed choir and the songs they sing, + Of the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless, + And the feast and the sacrifice. + + They bow to her as the Mother blest + Of the great and awful God; + But her heart holds dearest His early years, + The childish laughter, the childish tears, + Ere His feet had the road of sorrows pressed, + Or the way to the cross had trod. + + Her thoughts go back to the days of yore-- + Away from the garish light, + And the organ's droning melody, + To the starry shores of Galilee, + To the vines that shaded her cottage door, + And the hush of the Eastern night. + + So she bends to us from her dim recess + With weary and wistful eyes, + And turns away from the tapers' light + To dream of the cool and the hush of night, + From the priest's pale hand, upraised to bless, + To the starry Eastern skies. + + + + + MAID MARY + + Maid Mary sat at her cottage door + By the Lake of Galilee; + Tall and stately her lilies were, + But never was lily one-half so fair + Or half so pure as she. + (O Mary, Maid and Mother of God, + I pray you, pray for me.) + + The shadows darkened along the shore + Of the Lake of Galilee; + What steps were those, as the twilight fell? + Lo, God's great angel, Gabriel: + "Hail, blessed of God!" spake he. + (O Gabriel, Prince of the hosts of God, + I pray you, pray for me.) + + Maid Mary knelt on her cottage floor + By the Lake of Galilee; + And kneeling, dreamed strange dreams and sweet + Of baby fingers and dimpled feet, + And a Holy Thing to be: + (O Christ, the Virgin-born Son of God, + I pray You, pray for me.) + + But she did not dream, as the night passed o'er + By the Lake of Galilee, + Of the weary ways that the feet should tread, + Of a thorny crown for a baby head, + Or a cross on Calvary. + (O Son of Mary, O thorn-crowned God, + I pray You, pray for me.) + + + + + THE TWO CROWNS + + The young King rode through the City street, + So gallant, gay and bold; + There were roses strewn 'neath his horse's feet, + His brows were bound with gold, + And his heart was glad for his people's cheers + Along his pathway rolled. + + Glad was his heart and bright his face, + For life and youth were fair; + And he rode through many a pleasant place-- + Broad street and sunny square-- + Till he came to the market-place and saw + A crucifix stand there. + + Hushed were the crowd's exultant cries, + To awe-struck silence grown; + For they saw the young King's laughing eyes + Grow grave beneath his crown, + As the crowned King looked up, for lo! + A crowned King looked down. + + Grave were the eyes above, and sad; + The face with pain was lined, + And the pierced hands no sceptre had; + Both brows a crown did bind. + But the earthly King was crowned with gold-- + The Christ with thorns entwined. + + Slowly the young King homeward rode + In awe and wondering; + He had looked that day on the face of God, + And learned that for a king + The lordliest crown his brows can bear + Is the crown of suffering. + + + + + A SPARROW IN CHURCH + + Thou, Who hast said no sparrow e'er shall fall + Without Thy knowledge, lend me now Thine aid. + I cry to Thee, O mighty Lord of all, + Thy little living creature, sore afraid. + + All my short life these fluttering wings have known + Only the freedom of Thy sun and rain, + And now they beat against these walls of stone-- + Lord of the sparrows, shall they beat in vain? + + The terrors of Thine House encompass me, + Upon Thine altar I myself have laid; + Hearken, O Lord, Thy sparrow calls to Thee, + Thy little living creature, sore afraid. + + + + + SEA-GULLS + + Where the dark green hollows lift + Into crests of snow, + Wheeling, flashing, floating by, + White against the stormy sky, + With exultant call and cry + Swift the sea-gulls go. + + Fearless, vagabond and free, + Children of the spray, + Spirits of old mariners + Drifting down the restless years-- + Drake's and Hawkins' buccaneers, + So do sea-men say. + + Watching, guarding, sailing still + Round the shores they knew, + Where the cliffs of Devon rise + Red against the sullen skies, + (Dearer far than Paradise) + 'Mid the tossing blue. + + Not for them the heavenly song; + Sweeter still they find + Than those angels, row on row, + Thunder of the bursting snow + Seething on the rocks below, + Singing of the wind. + + Fairer than the streets of gold + Those wild fields of foam, + Where the horses of the sea + Stamp and whinny ceaselessly, + Warding from all enemy + Shores they once called home. + + So the sea-gulls call and cry + 'Neath the cliffs to-day, + Spirits of old mariners + Drifting down the restless years-- + Drake's and Hawkins' buccaneers-- + So do sea-men say. + + + + + MY DOG AND I + + My dog and I, the hills we know + Where the first faint wild roses blow, + We know the shadowy paths and cool + That wind across the woodland dim, + And where the water beetles swim + Upon the surface of the pool. + + My dog and I, our feet brush through + Full oft, the fragrant morning dew, + Or, when the summer sun is high, + We linger where the river flows + Chattering and chuckling as it goes-- + Two happy tramps, my dog and I. + + Or, when the winter snows are deep, + Into some fire-lit nook we creep, + And, while the north wind howls outside, + See castles in the dancing blaze, + Or, dozing, dream of summer days + And woodland stretches, wild and wide. + + My dog and I are friends till death, + And when the chill, dark angel's breath + Shall call him from me, still I know, + Somewhere within the shadowy land + Waiting his master he will stand + Until my summons comes to go. + + And, in that life so strange and new, + We'll tramp the fields of heaven through, + Loiter the crystal river by; + Together walk the hills of God + As when the hills of earth we trod, + Forever friends, my dog and I. + + + + + SNOWDROPS + + February fair maids, + All along the lane, + Dancing with the breezes, + Nodding to the rain, + Whispering tales of Springtime + Through the snow and sleet, + February fair maids, + Brave and bright and sweet. + + February fair maids, + Soon you'll disappear, + Soon the swallow's twitter + Tells that Spring is here. + Soon the rose and lily + Laugh 'neath skies of blue-- + February fair maids, + None so brave as you. + + February fair maids, + Dancing down the lane, + Bowing to the breezes, + Smiling at the rain, + Lifting laughing faces + Through the snow and sleet-- + February fair maids, + Brave and bright and sweet. + + + + + SPRING + + Lo, the spring has come again! + Down the lane + Silent, first, the snowdrop came; + Green each bursting leaf-bud swells + In the dells + Where the crocus breaks in flame. + + Spring, with all the daffodils + On her hills, + Comes and wakes the world to mirth: + List with what reverberant glee + Streams set free + Tell their triumph to the earth. + + Hark! Once more the cuckoo's call, + Musical, magical, + Over all the land doth ring; + Little waves upon the beach, + Each to each + Laughing, whisper, "'Tis the Spring." + + + + + OCTOBER WIND + + The piper wind goes straying + Into the morning skies, + With fern seed in his pocket, + And laughter in his eyes, + And the swift clouds break, and follow + His magic melodies. + + The piper wind goes playing + His music, sweet and shrill, + And, brave in red and yellow, + The leaves dance on the hill; + And the purple plumes of aster + Nod gaily by the rill. + + The piper wind goes roaming + O'er upland, glade and plain, + He whispers to the sunshine, + He whistles through the rain, + He dreams among the pine trees + And wakes, and laughs again. + + The piper wind goes homing + Adown the sunset skies, + With fern seed in his pocket, + And laughter in his eyes; + And our hearts are fain to follow + His magic melodies. + + + + + OCTOBER + + Now, when the summer flowers are past and dead, + And, from the earth's wild bosom, brown and bare, + No trillium lifts its head; + When, in the hollows where the violets were + Purple and white and fair, + Only a few brown leaves are falling now, + The wind shakes from the bough: + + Now, when the tiger-lily's flame no more + Burns in the long, lush grasses on the hill, + And, by the river shore, + The smoky trail of asters, lingering still, + Thins, and the air grows chill + With the first feathery snowflakes, that anon + Fall softly and are gone: + + O let us leave this dull and dusty street, + The noise and heat and turmoil of the town + For country waysides sweet, + Lanes where the nuts are clustering, plump and brown, + Hedges blackberries crown; + Come, ere the shivering blasts of winter blow, + Let us make haste and go. + + + + + IN ARCADIE + + Heart of my heart, the long road lies + A streak of white across the down + To where the hill-tops touch the skies; + Then let us seek the mountain's crown + And cross its summit, bare and brown, + Heart of my heart, O come with me + To walk the ways of Arcadie. + + Heart of my heart, right merrily + The little winds of Springtime blow, + The air is full of melody, + The birds are singing, soft and low; + Heart of my heart, then let us go + Across the hills, and wander free + The pleasant paths of Arcadie. + + There sunny land and sunny sea + Lie drowsing in the noontide heat, + There song of bird and hum of bee + Mix in a music wild and sweet, + And in the thyme beneath our feet + Cicalas chirp their melody, + Across the hills in Arcadie. + + Or, when the twilight shadows steep + The hill-tops with a misty light, + And stars their quiet watches keep + Through the short hours of summer night, + And glow-worms burn their lanterns bright, + The streams still murmur sleepily + Across the hills in Arcadie. + + Heart of my heart, O let us leave + The toil and turmoil of the town, + And men that work and men that grieve, + And take the road across the down + And climb the hill-top, bare and brown; + Heart of my heart, O come with me + To walk the ways of Arcadie. + + + + + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + Wave your hand to him! Let him go + Back from the dusty paths we stray, + To the land where his boyhood's rivers flow; + He is not dead--he is just away, + Gone to laugh at 'Lizabuth Ann, + And swap old yarns with the Raggedy Man. + + Hush! Do you hear, in the distance dim, + Faint and sweet as an elfin tune, + Orphant Annie is calling him, + Counting him in with the old-time rune-- + Intry, mintry, eatery, corn, + Apple blossom and apple thorn. + + Wave your hand to him--call good-bye! + Faintly his answer echoes back; + Voices of children eagerly + Lure him on by the fairy track + To the wonder-world, where all hearts are gay; + He is not dead, he is just--away. + + + + + THE SANDMAN + + When the long, hot day is over, + And the sun drops down the west, + And the childish hands are weary, + And the childish feet must rest, + The Sandman steals through the portals + Where the dying sunlight gleams, + And touches the tired eyelids + And lulls them into dreams. + + Even so, when life is over, + And the long day's march is past, + We wait in gathering shadows + Till the Sandman comes at last. + Sad are our hearts and weary, + And long the waiting seems; + Lord, we are tired children; + Touch Thou our eyes with dreams. + + Take from the slackened fingers + The toys so heavy grown, + Give to Thy tired children + Visions of Thee alone; + Then, when at length the shadows + Darken adown the west, + Send to us Death, Thy Sandman, + To call Thine own to rest. + + + + + THE REMITTANCE MEN + + She stands in peace by her waters, + Our Mother, fair and wise, + And ever amid our dreaming + We see her hills arise; + We, who have sold our birthright, + Sons, who have failed at need, + Outcast, lost and dishonoured, + We know her fair indeed. + + Yes, we have sold our birthright-- + Well have we learned the cost-- + Drink-sodden, hateful bodies, + And souls forever lost; + We see the heights above us, + The depths into which we fall, + And we turn from that sight in horror, + Drinking to drown it all. + + Lo, we have lost her forever! + Exiled, unclean, alone; + Yet she was once our Mother, + Once we were sons of her own; + We--who have failed her and shamed her, + Cast from her shores so long, + Still in our dreams we see her, + Noble and wise and strong. + + Once in a far-off country + We named her great and fair, + They mocked us with scornful laughter, + "Lo, these are the sons she bare!" + Do we not feel our bondage, + We, who have owned her name, + When we dare not whisper her praises + Lest we whelm her in our shame? + + Yet do the outcasts love her, + Who once were bone of her bone, + Pray for her life and honour + Who dare not pray for their own; + Out of the hell we have chosen + Watch her, with longing eyes-- + She, who was once our Mother, + Excellent, just and wise. + + + + + THE LAST VOYAGE + + When I loose my vessel's moorings, and put out to sea once more + On the last and longest voyage that shall never reach the shore, + O Thou Master of the Ocean, send no tranquil tides to me, + But 'mid all Thy floods and thunders let my vessel put to sea. + + Let her lie within no tropic sea, dead rotten to the bone, + Till the lisping, sluggish waters claim my vessel for their own; + Till the sun shall scar her timbers, and the slimy weed shall crawl + O'er her planks that gape and widen, and the slow sea swallow all. + + Let her not go down in darkness, where the smoking mist-wreaths hide + The white signal of the breakers, dimly guessed at, overside; + While her decks are in confusion, and the wreck drops momently, + And she drifts in dark and panic to the death she cannot see. + + But out in the open ocean, where the great waves call and cry, + Leap and thunder at her taffrail, while the scud blows stinging by, + With the life still strong within her, struggling onward through + the blast, + Till one last long wave shall whelm her, and our voyaging is past. + + + + + BALLADE OF DREAMS + + We dreamed our dreams in full many lands, + By mount and forest, by stream and lea, + Dreams of the touch of old-time hands, + Dreams of a future destiny, + Dreams of battle and victory, + Laughter and love and wealth and fame; + Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- + Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name? + + Our rivers of dream had golden sands, + Our forests of Dream waved fair to see, + Our Dreamland Isles were enchanted strands + With shores of magic and mystery; + How should we dream of misery + With the blood of youth at our hearts aflame? + Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- + Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name? + + If a mortal now our fate demands + (We who so long forgotten be), + He shall seek in vain, for our wandering bands + Now wait here, all so dreamlessly; + O the restless hearts rest quietly, + And the fire is quenched that no frost could tame; + Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- + Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name? + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Prince, this world is all vanity, + And dream and deed, they are still the same; + Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- + Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name? + + + + + SHIPS OF OLD RENOWN + + Triremes of the Roman, cruising down to Antioch, + Longships of the Northmen, galleons of Spain, + Tall, gleaming caravels, swinging in the tideway, + Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again. + + Never shall those white sails, lifting on the sea-line, + Swoop like a swallow across the blinding blue, + Caracque and caravel, lying 'neath the waters, + Wait till the bugles shall call the last review. + + There in the darkness lie friend and foe together, + Drake's English pinnaces, the great Armada's host; + Quiet they lie in the silence of the sea-depths, + Waiting the call that shall sound from coast to coast. + + War-ship and merchantmen, lying in the slime there, + Galleys of the Algerine, and traders of Almayne, + Hoys of the Dutchman, and haughty ships of Venice, + Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again. + + + + + SEA-SONG + + I will go down to my sea again--to the waste of waters, wild and wide; + I am tired--so tired--of hill and plain and the dull tame face + of the country side. + + I will go out across the bar, with a swoop like the flight of a + sea-bird's wings, + To where the winds and the waters are, with their multitudinous + thunderings. + + My prows shall furrow the whitening sea, out into the teeth of the + lashing wind, + Where a thousand billows snarl and flee and break in a smother of + foam behind. + + O strong and terrible Mother Sea, let me lie once more on your cool + white breast, + Your winds have blown through the heart of me and called me back from + the land's dull rest. + + For night by night they blow through my sleep; the voice of waves + through my slumber rings; + I feel the spell of the steadfast deep; I hear its tramplings and + triumphings. + + And at last, when my hours of life are sped, let them make me no + grave by hill or plain-- + Thy waves, O Mother, shall guard my head. I will go down to my sea + again. + + + + + THE SEA-WIND + + I am weary of this country, with its hedges and its walls, + And all night I do be dreaming how the water calls and calls; + Of the booming of the breakers as they dash against the shore, + And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind I'll hear no more. + + I am weary of these meadows, where the sun comes scorching down + Till the ways are dry and dusty, and the grass is burnt and brown; + And forever through my dreaming come the great waves' lash and leap, + And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind upon the deep. + + Should I die here in this country, and its stifling turf be pressed + Hot and heavy o'er my bosom, O 'tis never I could rest; + Let me lie beneath the washing of the green and silent wave, + With the salt wind, the sea-wind, to sing above my grave. + + + + + MY PHILOSOPHY + + Life is a game that all must play; + Though you win or lose, though you gain or pay, + Whatever the cards you hold, I say, + Throw back your head and laugh. + + Keep Youth's fire at your heart aglow, + A clasp for a friend and a fist for a foe, + And then let come or joy or woe, + Throw back your head and laugh. + + Laugh, though the world upon you frown, + Laugh, though the deeps your soul shall drown, + Many a better man goes down-- + Throw back your head and laugh. + + And when Death's hand on your shoulder lies + And the world grows dim to your failing eyes, + Let him not say: "A coward dies." + Throw back your head and laugh. + + + + + EASTER, 1917 + + _I. M. Thomas MacDonagh_ + + He died for thee, O mournful Mother Erin! + A year ago he turned his face away + From the glad Spring, in her young green appearing; + He lingered not to listen to the lay + Of thrush or blackbird; turned him not aside + To watch the glory of the daffodils + That shone and fluttered on a hundred hills, + But where the mists had gathered, chill and grey, + He chose his path--and died. + + And now another Spring makes green the meadows, + The daffodils are golden once again, + The little winds are dancing with the shadows + The young leaves make; once more the world is fain + Of life and laughter--but he shall not see + The leaf-strewn hollows where the violets grow, + Or watch the hawthorn buds foam into snow, + No more shall feel the warm, soft, springtime rain, + For he has died for thee. + + And yet this year, 'mid all the Spring's rejoicing, + There sounds at times, I think, a sadder note; + This Spring no longer is the blackbird voicing + Such jubilation from his golden throat; + The winds, grown older, dance with feet of lead, + The daffodils are nodding listlessly, + The violet has no perfume for the bee, + The grasshopper has donned his dullest coat, + Remembering he is dead. + + Yet once again, O thrush, break into singing; + Laugh, daffodils, to feel the falling rain; + Winter is past, and the young earth is springing + Joyous to greet her risen Lord again: + And he who loved you--deem not that he lies + Unheeding of your grief beneath his mound, + No more the sleep of Death enwraps him round; + Rejoice, O Erin, Death to-day is slain, + But Valour never dies. + + + + + "HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD" + + April in England! Daffodils are growing + 'Neath every hedgerow, golden, tall and fair; + April! and all the little winds are blowing + The scents of Springtime through the sunny air; + April in England! God! that we were there! + + April in England! And her sons are lying + On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore; + April! We hear the thrushes' songs replying + Each unto each, above the cannons' roar. + April in England! Shall we see it more? + + April in England! There's the cuckoo calling + Down in her meadows, where the cowslip gleams; + April! And little showers are softly falling, + Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams. + April in England! How the shrapnel screams! + + April in England! Blood and dust and smother, + Screaming of horses, moans of agony; + April! Full many of thy sons, O Mother, + Never again those dewy dawns shall see. + April in England! God, keep England free. + + + + + THE KAISER + + "I am the Lord of War," he said, and bared + His blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone." + East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared, + His battle lines were thrown. + + Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep, + Roaring their challenge forth across the sea, + And France's voice was heard in thunders deep, + Calling on Liberty. + + And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe, + And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands, + And the great bear of Russia, growling low, + Turned from his northern lands. + + Far over land and sea the summons swept, + And Canada, among her fields of grain, + Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt, + Shouting, across the main. + + Australia, hasting from the southward, came; + Africa, India sprang into the fight. + "Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim; + Now God shall show the right." + + Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and saw + That ring of steel and fire about his throne, + And knew himself at last, with trembling awe, + The Lord of Death alone. + + + + + CAPTAINS ADVENTUROUS + + Captains adventurous, from your ports of quiet, + From the ghostly harbours where your sea-beat galleons lie, + Say, do your dreams go back across the sea-line + Where cliffs of England rise grey against the sky? + + Say, do you dream of the pleasant ports of old-time, + Orchards of old Devon, all afoam with snowy bloom? + Or have the mists that veil the Sea of Shadows + Closed from your eyes all the memories of home? + + Feet of the Captains hurry through the stillness, + Ghostly sails of galleons are drifting to and fro, + Voices of mariners sound across the shadows, + Waiting the word that shall bid them up and go. + + "Lo now," they say, "for the grey old Mother calls us," + (Listening to the thunder of the guns about her shore) + "Death shall not hold us, nor years that lie between us, + Sail we to England, to strike for her once more." + + Captains adventurous, rest ye in your havens, + Pipe your ghostly mariners to keep their watch below; + Sons of your sons are here to strike for England, + Heirs of your glory--Beatty, Jellicoe. + + Yet shall your names ring on in England's story, + You, who were the prophets of the mighty years to be; + Drake, Blake, and Nelson, thundering down the ages, + Captains adventurous, the Masters of the Sea. + + + + + DRAKE'S DRUM + + Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon: + "Mariners, O Mariners, who warred so well with Spain, + Lo, the foe is here once more! Leave the ports of Heaven, + Haste across the jasper sea, and drive them home again." + + All the streets of Paradise echo to its rattle-- + Golden roads a-tremble to the chime of tramping feet; + Hawkins, Drake and Frobisher are marching forth to battle: + "Peter, open wide the gates. We're out to join the fleet." + + Pinnace, caravel, caracque--many a galleon drifting-- + Shadowy sails of old renown upon the shadowy sea; + Ghostly voices through the mists; "Lo, the white cliffs lifting; + Heaven's streets for those who will, but Devon's shores for me." + + Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon, + Calling, as in days of old it called to vanquish Spain; + Drake and Blake and Raleigh, they have left the ports of Heaven, + Homing back across the stars to England's cliffs again. + + + + + OUR DEAD + + Not where the English turf grows green we laid them, + Where their forefathers lie; + O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them + Arches an alien sky. + + No chime of bells from old-time towers above them; + No sound of English streams, + Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them, + Ever shall break their dreams. + + What matters it? The earth that o'er them closes + Its flowers as softly sheds + As English winds could bring the English roses + To rain upon their heads. + + And though an alien land their dust is keeping, + Still in their hearts with pride + They say: "Though England may not guard our sleeping, + Yet 'tis for her we died." + + And with each wind across the waves that sever + Them from the land they knew, + Shall blow this message through their hearts forever: + "England remembers too." + + + + + NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1916 + + Gregory fell beside the Marne, + And John where flows the Aisne; + But here to-night, ere midnight chime, + We three shall meet again. + + Though land and sea lie wide between, + Their ghosts this way shall win, + For, three true men, we made a bond + To watch the New Year in. + + We made it on a Flanders field + Where white the shell-smoke ran; + And who is Death to break the faith + That man has pledged to man? + + Then draw their chairs beside the fire + And brim their cups with wine; + For ere the bells of midnight swing + Their hands shall clasp with mine. + + Though Gregory lies where Marne runs down, + And John beside the Aisne, + Living and dead, ere midnight chime, + We three shall meet again. + + + + + TO IRELAND'S DEAD + + Ah, golden youths! who leave for evermore + Your ports of quiet breath, + Turning your prows from Life's familiar shore + Forth with adventurous Death. + + With that great comrade sailing, side by side, + To meet your warrior peers, + Whose names have starred the roll of Erin's pride + Down all the echoing years. + + Your sunlit sails flash for a moment's space, + Fade, waver and are gone; + But, straining through the mists, our spirits trace + A glory lingering on. + + Farewell, great fellowship! Sail on, nor mourn + Your ports of quiet breath; + Your prows with singing and with laughter turn + Forth with adventurous Death. + + + + + A SONG OF EXILE + + What is the news of England? + The April breezes blow, + Bringing to us faint odours + From lanes we used to know-- + Lanes, where the hawthorn hedges + Foam into blossoms white; + What is the news of England + For England's sons to-night? + + What is the news of England? + 'Neath her white cliffs the sea + Croons its soft song of summer, + The golden days to be. + Her hills are fair with promise, + Her woods with voices ring, + From every copse the cuckoo + Shouts to the jocund Spring. + + What is the news of England? + Once more the cowslip gleams + Gold in her misty meadows, + Gold by her murmuring streams. + Once more the April breezes + Blow secrets of delight + From the great heart of England + To England's sons to-night. + + + + + THE AIR-MEN + + We brought great ships to birth, + We builded towns and towers-- + Lords of the sea and earth, + Soon shall the sky be ours. + + Soon shall our navies drift + Like swallows down the wind, + Shall wheel and swoop and lift, + Leaving the clouds behind. + + The stars our keels shall know, + The eagle, as it flies, + Shall scream to see us go + Swift moving through the skies. + + High o'er the mountain-steep + Our winged fleets shall sail, + The serried squadrons sweep, + White-pinioned down the gale. + + We are the lords of the land, + We built us towns and towers, + The sea has felt our hand-- + Soon shall the sky be ours. + + + + + THE DEFEATED + + Cheer if you will the brave deed done, with laurels the victor crown, + But keep one leaf of your wreath of bay for the men who lost and are + down-- + For the fight in vain, for the cankered grain that in blood and tears + was sown. + + Honour the strong of heart and hand, the sure of will and of sight, + But what of the stumbling feet, the eyes that strain in vain for light? + Is there no gain for the tears and pain of the men who fell in the fight? + + Beaten--baffled--with standards lost--knowing no rallying cry, + Struggling still, but with failing strength, while stronger men + pass by:-- + Keep ye your bays; I give my praise to the men who lose and die. + + + + + THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD + + The sunny streets of Oxford + Are lying still and bare, + No sound of voice or laughter + Rings through the golden air; + And, chiming from her belfry, + No longer Christchurch calls + The eager, boyish faces + To gather in her halls. + + The colleges are empty, + Only the sun and wind + Make merry in the places + The lads have left behind. + But, when the trooping shadows + Have put the day to flight, + The Gentlemen of Oxford + Come homing through the night. + + From France they come, and Flanders, + From Mons, and Marne and Aisne, + From Greece and from Gallipoli + They come to her again; + From the North Sea's grey waters, + From many a grave unknown, + The Gentlemen of Oxford + Come back to claim their own. + + The dark is full of laughter, + Boy laughter, glad and young, + They tell the old-time stories, + The old-time songs are sung; + They linger in her cloisters, + They throng her dewy meads, + Till Isis hears their calling + And laughs among her reeds. + + But, when the east is whitening + To greet the rising sun, + And slowly, over Carfax, + The stars fade, one by one, + Then, when the dawn-wind whispers + Along the Isis shore, + The Gentlemen of Oxford + Must seek their graves once more. + + + + + + The Temple Press, Letchworth, England + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Spun-yarn and Spindrift, by Norah M. 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