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diff --git a/old/52236-0.txt b/old/52236-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 566c193..0000000 --- a/old/52236-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1458 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1914-1919, by Maurice Baring - -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/license - - -Title: Poems, 1914-1919 - -Author: Maurice Baring - -Release Date: June 4, 2016 [EBook #52236] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1914-1919 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images available by The Internet -Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - - POEMS: 1914-1919 - - _OTHER WORKS BY_ MAURICE BARING - - - WHAT I SAW IN RUSSIA - A YEAR IN RUSSIA - THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE - THE MAINSPRINGS OF RUSSIA - LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE - RUSSIAN ESSAYS AND STUDIES - AN OUTLINE OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE - ORPHEUS IN MAYFAIR - DEAD LETTERS - DIMINUTIVE DRAMAS - LOST DIARIES - FORGET-ME-NOT AND LILY OF THE VALLEY - THE GLASS MENDER - THE GREY STOCKING - COLLECTED POEMS - ROUND THE WORLD IN ANY NUMBER OF DAYS - R.F.C. H.Q. - - - - - POEMS: 1914-1919 - - BY - MAURICE - BARING - - LONDON - MARTIN SECKER - - LONDON: MARTIN SECKER (LTD) 1920 - - - To - N.L. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - In Memoriam A.H., 11 - Diffugere Nives, 1917, 19 - Julian Grenfell, 22 - Pierre, 23 - Icarus, 24 - Epitaph, 25 - August, 1918, 26 - Vita Nuova, 29 - Italy, 31 - Seville, 32 - Greece, 33 - Russia, 34 - A June Night in Russia, 35 - Harvest in Russia, 36 - Dostoyevsky, 37 - Beethoven, 38 - Mozart, 39 - Wagner, 40 - Shelley, 41 - Phèdre, 42 - The Wounded, 43 - Sonnets: 1913-1914, 47 - Elegy on the Death of Juliet’s Owl, 55 - Le Prince Errant, 57 - - ERRATA. - - Page 19, line 13 for, read; - Page 25, line 2 for latest, read last - Page 43, line 13 for obedient to, read remembering - -The Sonnet on page 24 has been translated from the French. - - - - - 1915-1918 - ἐν Τροίη ἀπόλοντο, ϕιλης ἀπὀ πατρίδος ἀίης - - - - - IN MEMORIAM, A.H. - -(_Auberon Herbert, Captain Lord Lucas, R.F.C.; killed November 3, -1916._) - - Νωμᾶται δ’έν ἀτρυγέτῳ χάει - - - The wind had blown away the rain - That all day long had soaked the level plain. - Against the horizon’s fiery wrack, - The sheds loomed black. - And higher, in their tumultuous concourse met, - The streaming clouds, shot-riddled banners, wet - With the flickering storm, - Drifted and smouldered, warm - With flashes sent - From the lower firmament. - And they concealed-- - They only here and there through rifts revealed - A hidden sanctuary of fire and light, - A city of chrysolite. - - We looked and laughed and wondered, and I said: - That orange sea, those oriflammes outspread - Were like the fanciful imaginings - That the young painter flings - Upon the canvas bold, - Such as the sage and the old - Make mock at, saying it could never be - And you assented also, laughingly. - I wondered what they meant, - That flaming firmament, - Those clouds so grey so gold, so wet so warm, - So much of glory and so much of storm, - The end of the world, or the end - Of the war--remoter still to me and you, my friend. - - Alas! it meant not this, it meant not that: - It meant that now the last time you and I - Should look at the golden sky, - And the dark fields large and flat, - And smell the evening weather, - And laugh and talk and wonder both together. - - The last, last time. We nevermore should meet - In France or London street, - Or fields of home. The desolated space - Of life shall nevermore - Be what it was before. - No one shall take your place. - No other face - Can fill that empty frame. - There is no answer when we call your name. - We cannot hear your step upon the stair. - We turn to speak and find a vacant chair. - Something is broken which we cannot mend. - God has done more than take away a friend - In taking you; for all that we have left - Is bruised and irremediably bereft. - There is none like you. Yet not that alone - Do we bemoan; - But this; that you were greater than the rest, - And better than the best. - - O liberal heart fast-rooted to the soil, - O lover of ancient freedom and proud toil, - Friend of the gipsies and all wandering song, - The forest’s nursling and the favoured child - Of woodlands wild-- - O brother to the birds and all things free, - Captain of liberty! - Deep in your heart the restless seed was sown; - The vagrant spirit fretted in your feet; - We wondered could you tarry long, - And brook for long the cramping street, - Or would you one day sail for shores unknown, - And shake from you the dust of towns, and spurn - The crowded market-place--and not return? - You found a sterner guide; - You heard the guns. Then, to their distant fire, - Your dreams were laid aside; - And on that day, you cast your heart’s desire - Upon a burning pyre; - You gave your service to the exalted need, - Until at last from bondage freed, - At liberty to serve as you loved best, - You chose the noblest way. God did the rest. - - So when the spring of the world shall shrive our stain, - After the winter of war, - When the poor world awakes to peace once more, - After such night of ravage and of rain, - You shall not come again. - You shall not come to taste the old Spring weather, - To gallop through the soft untrampled heather, - To bathe and bake your body on the grass. - We shall be there, alas! - But not with you. When Spring shall wake the earth, - And quicken the scarred fields to the new birth, - Our grief shall grow. For what can Spring renew - More fiercely for us than the need of you? - - That night I dreamt they sent for me and said - That you were missing, “missing, missing--dead”: - I cried when in the morning I awoke, - And all the world seemed shrouded in a cloak; - But when I saw the sun, - And knew another day had just begun, - I brushed the dream away, and quite forgot - The nightmare’s ugly blot. - So was the dream forgot. The dream came true. - Before the night I knew - That you had flown away into the air - Forever. Then I cheated my despair. - I said - That you were safe--or wounded--but not dead. - Alas! I knew - Which was the false and true. - - And after days of watching, days of lead, - There came the certain news that you were dead - You had died fighting, fighting against odds, - Such as in war the gods - Æthereal dared when all the world was young; - Such fighting as blind Homer never sung, - Nor Hector nor Achilles never knew; - High in the empty blue. - - High, high, above the clouds, against the setting sun, - The fight was fought, and your great task was done. - - Of all your brave adventures this the last - The bravest was and best; - Meet ending to a long embattled past, - This swift, triumphant, fatal quest, - Crowned with the wreath that never perisheth, - And diadem of honourable death; - Swift Death aflame with offering supreme - And mighty sacrifice, - More than all mortal dream; - A soaring death, and near to Heaven’s gate; - Beneath the very walls of Paradise. - Surely with soul elate, - You heard the destined bullet as you flew, - And surely your prophetic spirit knew - That you had well deserved that shining fate. - - Here is no waste, - No burning Might-have-been, - No bitter after-taste, - None to censure, none to screen, - Nothing awry, nor anything misspent; - Only content, content beyond content, - Which hath not any room for betterment. - - God, Who had made you valiant, strong and swift, - And maimed you with a bullet long ago, - And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift, - And checked your youth’s tumultuous overflow, - Gave back your youth to you, - And packed in moments rare and few - Achievements manifold - And happiness untold, - And bade you spring to Death as to a bride, - In manhood’s ripeness, power and pride, - And on your sandals the strong wings of youth. - He let you leave a name - To shine on the entablatures of truth, - Forever: - To sound forever in answering halls of fame. - - For you soared onwards to that world which rags - Of clouds, like tattered flags, - Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite, - The mansions white; - And losing all, you gained the civic crown - Of that eternal town, - Wherein you passed a rightful citizen - Of the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken. - - Surely you found companions meet for you - In that high place; - You met there face to face - Those you had never known, but whom you knew; - Knights of the Table Round, - And all the very brave, the very true, - With chivalry crowned; - The captains rare, - Courteous and brave beyond our human air; - Those who had loved and suffered overmuch, - Now free from the world’s touch. - And with them were the friends of yesterday, - Who went before and pointed you the way; - And in that place of freshness, light and rest, - - Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keep - Over their King’s long sleep, - Surely they made a place for you, - Their long-expected guest, - Among the chosen few, - And welcomed you, their brother and their friend, - To that companionship which hath no end. - - And in the portals of the sacred hall - You hear the trumpet’s call, - At dawn upon the silvery battlement, - Re-echo through the deep - And bid the sons of God to rise from sleep, - And with a shout to hail - The sunrise on the city of the Grail: - The music that proud Lucifer in Hell - Missed more than all the joys that he forwent. - You hear the solemn bell - At vespers, when the oriflammes are furled; - And then you know that somewhere in the world, - That shines far-off beneath you like a gem, - They think of you, and when you think of them - You know that they will wipe away their tears, - And cast aside their fears; - That they will have it so, - And in no otherwise; - That it is well with them because they know, - With faithful eyes, - Fixed forward and turned upwards to the skies, - That it is well with you, - Among the chosen few, - Among the very brave, the very true. - - - - - DIFFUGERE NIVES, 1917 - - _To J. C. S._ - - - The snows have fled, the hail, the lashing rain, - Before the Spring. - The grass is starred with buttercups again, - The blackbirds sing. - - Now spreads the month that feast of lovely things - We loved of old. - Once more the swallow glides with darkling wings - Against the gold. - - Now the brown bees about the peach trees boom - Upon the walls; - And far away beyond the orchard’s bloom - The cuckoo calls. - - The season holds a festival of light, - For you, for me, - The shadows are abroad, there falls a blight - On each green tree. - - And every leaf unfolding, every flower - Brings bitter meed; - Beauty of the morning and the evening hour - Quickens our need. - - All is reborn, but never any Spring - Can bring back this; - Nor any fullness of midsummer bring - The voice we miss. - - The smiling eyes shall smile on us no more; - The laughter clear, - Too far away on the forbidden shore, - We shall not hear. - - Bereft of these until the day we die, - We both must dwell; - Alone, alone, and haunted by the cry: - “Hail and farewell!” - - Yet when the scythe of Death shall near us hiss - Through the cold air, - Then on the shuddering marge of the abyss - They will be there. - - They will be there to lift us from sheer space - And empty night; - And we shall turn and see them face to face - In the new light. - - So shall we pay the unabated price - Of their release, - And found on our consenting sacrifice - Their lasting peace. - - The hopes that fall like leaves before the wind, - The baffling waste, - And every earthly joy that leaves behind - A mortal taste. - - The uncompleted end of all things dear, - The clanging door - Of Death, forever loud with the last fear, - Haunt them no more. - - Without them the awakening world is dark - With dust and mire; - Yet as they went they flung to us a spark, - A thread of fire. - - To guide us while beneath the sombre skies - Faltering we tread, - Until for us like morning stars shall rise - The deathless dead. - - - - - JULIAN GRENFELL - - - Because of you we will be glad and gay, - Remembering you, we will be brave and strong; - And hail the advent of each dangerous day, - And meet the last adventure with a song. - And, as you proudly gave your jewelled gift, - We’ll give our lesser offering with a smile, - Nor falter on that path where, all too swift, - You led the way and leapt the golden stile. - - Whether new paths, new heights to climb you find, - Or gallop through the unfooted asphodel, - We know you know we shall not lag behind, - Nor halt to waste a moment on a fear; - And you will speed us onward with a cheer, - And wave beyond the stars that all is well. - - - - - PIERRE - - - I saw you starting for another war, - The emblem of adventure and of youth, - So that men trembled, saying: “He forsooth - Has gone, has gone, and shall return no more.” - And then out there, they told me you were dead, - Taken and killed; how was it that I knew, - Whatever else was true, that was not true? - And then I saw you pale upon your bed, - - Scarcely two years ago, when you were sent - Back from the margin of the dim abyss; - For Death had sealed you with a warning kiss, - And let you go to meet a nobler fate: - To serve in fellowship, O fortunate: - To die in battle with your regiment. - - - - - ICARUS - - - Here fell the daring Icarus in his prime, - He who was brave enough to scale the skies; - And here bereft of plumes his body lies, - Leaving the valiant envious of that climb. - O rare performance of a soul sublime, - That with small loss such great advantage buys! - Happy mishap! fraught with so rich a prize, - That bids the vanquished triumph over time. - - So new a path his youth did not dismay, - His wings but not his noble heart said nay; - He had the glorious sun for funeral fire; - He died upon a high adventure bent; - The sea his grave, his goal the firmament. - Great is the tomb, but greater the desire. - - - - - EPITAPH - - - Here murdered by the frenzied, not the free, - Lies the latest monarch of a star-crossed line; - Anointed Emperor by right divine, - From Arctic icefields to the Aral sea, - From Warsaw to the walls of Tartary. - His country’s travail claimed a high design; - Too stubborn to respond, he shrank supine - Before the large demand of destiny. - - Bereft of crown, and throne, and hearth and name, - Grief lent him majesty, and suffering - Gave him a more than regal diadem. - His people kissed the desecrated hem - Of robes not now of splendour but of shame, - And knelt before their undiminished King. - - - - - AUGUST, 1918 - - (_In a French Village._) - - - I hear the tinkling of the cattle bell, - In the broad stillness of the afternoon; - High in the cloudless haze the harvest moon - Is pallid as the phantom of a shell. - A girl is drawing water from a well, - I hear the clatter of her wooden shoon; - Two mothers to their sleeping babies croon, - And the hot village feels the drowsy spell. - - Sleep, child, the Angel of Death his wings has spread; - His engines scour the land, the sea, the sky; - And all the weapons of Hell’s armoury - Are ready for the blood that is their bread; - And many a thousand men to-night must die, - So many that they will not count the Dead. - - - - - POEMS WRITTEN - - BEFORE THE WAR - - - - - VITA NUOVA - - - I watched you in the distance tall and pale, - Like a swift swallow in a pearly sky; - Your eyelids drooped like petals wearily, - Your face was like a lily of the vale. - You had the softness of all Summer days, - The silver radiance of the twilight hour, - The mystery of bluebell-haunted ways, - The passion of the white syringa’s flower. - - I watched you, and I knew that I had found - The long-delaying, long-expected Spring; - I knew my heart had found a tune to sing; - That strength to soar was in my spirit’s wing; - That life was full of a triumphant sound, - That death could only be a little thing. - - Ω Κάλα, ὧ χαρίεσσα - - I saw you by the Summer candlelight:-- - You put to shame the sparkle of the gems, - The lights, the flashing of the diadems, - The moon and all the stars of Summer night. - I saw you in the radiant morning hour:-- - You put to shame the white rose and the red; - Your chiselled lips, your little lovely head, - Were fairer than the petals of a flower. - - And on the shaven surface of the lawn, - You moved like music, and you smiled like dawn,-- - The leaves, the flowers, the dragon-flies, the dew, - Beside you seemed the stuff of coarser clay; - And all the glory of the Summer day - A background for the wonder that was you. - - - - - ITALY - - - The almond trees of Tuscany in flower, - Narcissus and the tulip growing wild; - White oxen; and like a lily undefiled, - Beyond the misty plain, the marble tower; - The roses and the corn upon the hill, - The Judas-tree against the solid blue; - The fire-flies, and the downy owl’s too-whoo, - Thy Aziola, Shelley, plaintive still. - - The lisp of Baiæ’s phosphorescent foam; - And Venice like a bubble made of dew, - A shell transfigured with the rainbow’s hue; - The Appian Way beneath a sullen sky, - (The shepherd’s pipe is like a seagull’s cry) - And in a silver rift, eternal Rome. - - - - - SEVILLE - - - The orange blossoms in the Alcazar, - Where roses and syringas are in flower; - The blinding glory of the morning hour; - The eyes that gleam behind a twisted bar; - The women on the balconies,--a smile; - The barrel-organs, and the blazing heat; - The awning hanging high across the street; - A dark mantilla in a sombre aisle. - - A fountain tinkling in a shady court; - The gold arena of the bull-ring’s feast; - The coloured crowd acclaiming perilous sport; - The sudden silence when they hold their breath, - While the _torero_ gently plays with death, - And flicks the horns of the tremendous beast. - - - - - GREECE - - - The Spring had scattered poppies on the land, - The Spring was saying her secret to the breeze; - In the translucent shallows of green seas, - A fisherman, a trident in his hand, - Was casting shining fishes to the sand, - And wading in the water to his knees; - And still I hear the crickets and the bees, - The hidden hoofs, the ringing saraband. - - I see the temples above the breaking foam, - The pillars pink as dawn in the silver dust; - The Parthenon at sunset large and dim, - Smouldering against the purple mountain’s crust; - And far away on the ocean’s blazing rim, - The phantom ship that brought Ulysses home. - - - - - RUSSIA - - - What can the secret link between us be? - Why does your song’s unresting ebb and flow - Speak to me in a language that I know? - Why does the burden of your mystery - Come like the message of a friend to me? - Why do I love your vasts of corn or snow, - The tears and laughter of your sleepless woe, - The murmur of your brown immensity? - - I cannot say, I only know that when - I hear your soldiers singing in the street, - I know it is with you that I would dwell; - And when I see your peasants reaping wheat, - Your children playing on the road, your men - At prayer before a shrine, I wish them well. - - - - - A JUNE NIGHT IN RUSSIA - - - A concert. Hark to the prelude’s opening bar! - Played by the sheep bells tinkling on the hill; - Dogs bark and frogs are croaking near the mill, - The watchman’s rattle beats the time afar. - Like water bubbling in a magic jar, - The nightingale begins a liquid trill, - Another answers; and the world’s so still, - You’d think that you could hear that falling star. - - I scarcely see for light the stars that swim - Aloof in skies not dark but only dim. - The women’s voices echo far away. - And on the road two lovers sing a song: - They sing the joy of love that lasts a day: - The sorrow of love that lasts a whole life long. - - - - - HARVEST IN RUSSIA - - - The breeze has come at last. The day was long; - And in the lustrous air the dark bats fly; - And Hark! It is the reapers passing by, - I hear the burden of their peaceful song. - A voice intones; and swift the answering throng - Take up the theme and build the harmony; - The music swells and soars into the sky - And dies away intense, and clear and strong. - - Now through the trees the stately shapes I see - Of women with the attributes of toil, - Calm in their sacerdotal majesty; - And backward, through the drifting mist of years, - I see the festal rites that blessed the soil, - As old as the first drop of mortal tears. - - - - - DOSTOYEVSKY - - - You healed the sore, you made the fearful brave, - They bless you for your lasting legacy; - The balm, the tears, the fragrant charity - You sought and treasured in your living grave. - The gifts you humbly took you greatly gave, - For solace of the soul in agony, - When through the bars the brutal passions pry, - And mock the bonds of the celestial slave. - - You wandered in the uttermost abyss; - And there, amidst the ashes and the dust, - You spoke no word of anger or of pride; - You found the prints of steps divine to kiss; - You looked right upwards to the stars, you cried: - “_Hosanna to the Lord, for He is just._” - - - - - BEETHOVEN - - - More mighty than the hosts of mortal kings, - I hear the legions gathering to their goal; - The tramping millions drifting from one pole, - The march, the counter-march, the flank that swings. - I hear the beating of tremendous wings, - The shock of battle and the drums that roll; - And far away the solemn belfries toll, - And in the field the careless shepherd sings. - - There is an end unto the longest day. - The echoes of the fighting die away. - The evening breathes a benediction mild. - The sunset fades. There is no need to weep, - For night has come, and with the night is sleep, - And now the fiercest foes are reconciled. - - - - - MOZART - - - The sunshine, and the grace of falling rain, - The fluttering daffodil, the lilt of bees, - The blossom on the boughs of almond trees, - The waving of the wheat upon the plain-- - And all that knows not effort, strife or strain, - And all that bears the signature of ease, - The plunge of ships that dance before the breeze - The flight across the twilight of the crane: - And all that joyous is, and young, and free, - That tastes of morning and the laughing surf; - The dawn, the dew, the newly turned-up turf, - The sudden smile, the unexpressive prayer, - The artless art, the untaught dignity,-- - You speak them in the passage of an air. - - - - - WAGNER - - - O strange awakening to a world of gloom, - And baffled moonbeams and delirious stars, - Of souls that moan behind forbidden bars, - And waving forests swept by wings of doom; - Of heroes falling in unhappy fight, - And winged messengers from eyries dim; - And mountains ringed with flame, and shapes that swim - In the deep river’s green translucent night. - - O restless soul, for ever seeking bliss, - Thirsty for ever and unsatisfied, - Whether the woodland starts to the echoing horn, - Or dying Tristram moans by shores forlorn, - Or Siegfried rides through fire to wake his bride, - And shakes the whirling planets with a kiss. - - - - - SHELLEY - - - Singer of cloud and star and rushing stream, - Let me bring but one garland to thy shrine, - For when a boy I drank of the dews divine - That in thy rainbow-coloured chalice gleam. - I scaled the silver ladder of thy dream, - And dizzy with the wonder of that wine, - I heard the song, and saw the eyes that shine - Unveiled, within the sanctuary supreme. - - Then, like Actæon I became the prey, - The hunted quarry of remorseless hounds; - Hark! in the distance I can hear them bay! - But in my heart the vision and the voice - Endure; and though they slay me, I rejoice-- - I saw that light, I heard those starry sounds. - - - - - PHÈDRE - - - Her gesture is the soaring of a hymn, - Her voice has robbed the spoil of Hybla’s bees; - And like the frozen music of a frieze, - Calm, as she moves majestic, every limb. - Clear as a crystal beaker’s sounding rim, - Her heart gives voice to sobbing melodies, - And her frame trembles, swept by passion’s breeze, - And sultry clouds her blazing eyes bedim. - - A faery caught in her own fatal snare, - A wounded eagle struggling to be free, - Whose Kingdom was the snow and the sun’s flame - More queenly than all empresses is she, - Discrowned albeit, defeated and in despair; - The stricken lily puts the rose to shame. - - - - - THE WOUNDED - - - The wounded lie and groan upon the plain; - And one there is whom it is vain to lift; - So give him water. It is the last gift, - And very soon he shall not thirst again. - All white and gold the Chief with a troop of horse - Trots by. The soldier opens smiling eyes; - And at the latest gasp of life he cries: - “Long live!” with all his feeble flickering force. - Before he said his say he died content. - And we, the wounded on life’s battlefield, - Enrolled and sent to war to fight and die, - When conquered by our mortal wound, we cry - “Long live!” obedient to our sacrament, - When God with all His universe rides by. - - Manchuria, 1904. - - - - - SONNETS: 1913-1914 - - - - - I - - - I saw you smiling over broken flowers, - Yourself a flower unbroken and more rare - Than petals that make sweet the moonlit air, - And load with scent the Summer’s golden hours. - Your perfect head, the ripple of your hair, - Like the soft sun that shines through April showers, - Leans from a fairyland of twinkling towers, - And beckons me to an enchanted stair. - - Your eyes, your eyes, divide me from my sleep; - The echo of your laughter makes me weep, - You fill the measureless world, you frailest thing! - And in the silence of my deepest dream, - Your beauty wanders like a whispering stream, - And brushes past me like an angel’s wing. - - - - - II - - - To-night the thoughts of you drift round my bed - Like thistledown; I weave them into rhymes; - And as I fall to sleep I hear their chimes - Building sweet music high above my head, - And prayers and poems all in praise of you; - And, happy in my fading dream, I say: - “There will be something ready with the day - To send to her, to speak for me, to sue.” - - But when the morning comes, the nimble words - Have fled into the air like frightened birds, - That answer my soft whistle with a scream; - And only the recalcitrant thoughts remain; - The baffled blind desire to find again - The accents that were docile in my dream. - - - - - III - - - I think God made your soul for better things - Than idly laughing with the noisy crew. - I think He meant the spirit that is you - To soar above the world with silver wings; - To hear the music of celestial strings; - To keep the flame within you always true - Unto your own high pole; and pure as dew - The fountain that within you sometimes sings. - - I think you are an exile in the noise - Of busy markets; alien to the toys - That dazzle others, firing them with greed; - And, like a seagull, lost upon the land, - You long for the large breakers and the sand, - The strong salt air, the surf, the drifting weed. - - - - - IV - - - The world was waiting for the thunder’s birth, - To-day, and cloud was piled on sullen cloud: - Then strong, and straight, and clean, and cool, and loud - The rain came down, and drenched the stifling earth. - The heavy clouds have lifted and rolled by; - The riotous wet leaves with music ring, - And now the nightingale begins to sing, - And tender as a rose-leaf is the sky. - - I wonder if some day this stifling care - That weighs upon my heart will fall in showers? - I wonder if the hot and heavy hours - Will roll away and leave such limpid air, - And if my soul will riot in the rain, - And sing as gladly as that bird again? - - - - - V - - - I picked this cornflower in the rustling rye, - These briar roses from a luscious hedge, - This purple iris in the woodland sedge. - It was the quaver of the dragon-fly, - Dropped like a piece of azure from the sky, - That led me to that pool amongst the trees-- - And there I lay and listened to the bees, - And murmured sadly to myself: “Good-bye.” - - Good-bye! these perished petals that I send - Will tell you that this truly is the end; - Good-bye to you and to the golden hours. - These briar roses grew beside the stream-- - No, no! I shall not send you faded flowers-- - I need them for the grave of my lost dream. - - Sosnofka, June 1914 - - - - - 1914-1915 - - - - - ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JULIET’S OWL - - - Juliet has lost her little downy owl, - The bird she loved more than all other birds - He was a darling bird, so white, so wise, - Like a monk hooded in a snowy cowl, - With sun-shy scholar’s eyes, - He hooted softly in diminished thirds; - And when he asked for mice, - He took refusal with a silent pride-- - And never pleaded twice. - He was a wondrous bird, as dignified - As any Diplomat - That ever sat - By the round table of a Conference. - - He was delicious, lovable and soft. - He understood the meaning of the night, - And read the riddle of the smiling stars. - When he took flight, - And roosted high aloft, - Beyond the shrubbery and the garden fence, - He would return and seek his safer bars, - All of his own accord; and he would plead - Forgiveness for the trouble and the search, - And for the anxious heart he caused to bleed, - And settle once again upon his perch, - And utter a propitiating note, - And take the heart - Of Juliet by his pretty winning ways. - His was the art - Of pleasing without effort easily. - His fluffy throat, - His sage round eye, - Sad with old knowledge, bright with young amaze, - Where are they now? ah! where? - Perchance in the pale halls of Hecate, - Or in the poplars of Elysium, - He wanders careless and completely free. - But in the regions dumb, - And in the pallid air, - He will not find a sweet, caressing hand - Like Juliet’s; not in all that glimmering land - Shall he behold a silver planet rise - As splendid as the light of Juliet’s eyes. - Therefore in weeping with you, Juliet, - Oh! let us not forget, - To drop with sprigs of rosemary and rue, - A not untimely tear - Upon the bier, - Of him who lost so much in losing you. - - - - - LE PRINCE ERRANT - - - I am the Prince of unremembered towers - Destroyed before the birth of Babylon; - And I was there when all the forest shone - While pale Medea culled her deadly flowers. - I heard the iron weeping of the King, - When Orpheus sang to life his buried joy; - And I beheld upon the walls of Troy - The woman who made of death a little thing. - - I heard the horn that shook the mountain tall, - When Roland lay a-dying, and the call - That fevered Tristram whispered o’er the sea, - And brought Iseult of Cornwall to his side. - I saw the Queen of Egypt like a bride - Go glorious to her dead Mark Antony. - - CENTER - Printed in England - at The Westminster Press - 411a Harrow Road - London W. 9 - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, 1914-1919, by Maurice Baring - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1914-1919 *** - -***** This file should be named 52236-0.txt or 52236-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/2/3/52236/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, Bryan Ness and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images available by The Internet -Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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