_The Dead Poet._

When I grow old they'll come to me and say: Did you then know him in that distant day?

Did you speak with him, touch his hand, observe The proud eyes' fire, soft voice and light lips' curve?

And I shall answer: This man was my friend; Call to my memory, add, improve, amend And count up all the meetings that we had And note his good and touch upon his bad.

When I grow older and more garrulous, I shall discourse on the dead poet thus: I said to him ... he answered unto me...

He dined with me one night in Trinity...

I supped with him in King's ... Ah, pitiful The twisted memories of an ancient fool And sweet the silence of a young man dead!

Now far in Lemnos sleeps that golden head, Unchanged, serene, for ever young and strong, Lifted above the chances that belong To us who live, for he shall not grow old And only of his youth there shall be told Magical stories, true and wondrous tales, As of a G.o.d whose virtue never fails, Whose limbs shall never waste, eyes never fall, And whose clear brain shall not be dimmed at all.

PASTORAL PIECES

_The Vision in the Wood._

The husht September afternoon was sweet With rich and peaceful light. I could not hear On either side the sound of moving feet Although the hidden road was very near.

The laden wood had powdered sun in it, Slipped through the leaves, a quiet messenger To tell me of the golden world outside Where fields of stubble stretched through counties wide.

And yet I did not move. My head reposed Upon a tuft of dry and scented gra.s.s And, with half-seeing eyes, through eyelids closed, I watched the languid chain of shadows pa.s.s, Light as the slowly moving shade imposed By summer clouds upon a sea of gla.s.s, And strove to banish or to make more clear The elusive and persistent dream of her.

And then I saw her, very dim at first, Peering for nuts amid the twisted boughs, Thought her some warm-haired dryad, lately burst Out of the chambers of her leafy house, Seeking for nuts for food and for her thirst Such water as the woodland stream allows, After the greedy summer has drunk up All but a drain within the mossy cup.

Then I, beholding her, was still a s.p.a.ce And marked each posture as she moved or stood, Watching the sunlight on her hair and face.

Thus with calm folded hands and quiet blood I gazed until her counterfeited grace Faded and left me lonely in the wood, Glad that the G.o.ds had given so much as this, To see her, if I might not have her kiss.

_The Idyll._

This is the valley where we sojourn now, Cut up by narrow brooks and rich and green And shaded sweetly by the waving bough About the trench where floats the soft serene Arun with waters running low and low Through banks where lately still the tide has been; Here is our resting-place, you walk with me And watch the light die out in Amberley.

The light that dies is soft and flooding still, Shed from the broad expanse of all the skies And br.i.m.m.i.n.g up the s.p.a.ce from hill to hill, Where yet the sheep in their sweet exercise, Roaming the meadows, crop and find their fill And to each other speak with moaning cries; We on the hill-side standing rest and see The light die out in brook and gra.s.s and tree.

Lately we walked upon the lonely downs And through the still heat of the heavy day We heard the medley of low drifting sounds And through the matted brambles found a way Or lightly trod upon enchanted grounds Musing, or with rich blackberries made delay, Where feed such fruit on the rich air, until We struck like falling stars from Bignor Hill.

Down the vast slope, by chalky roads and steep, With trees and bushes hidden here and there, By circling turns into the valley deep We came and left behind the hill-top air For this cool village where to-night we sleep, A country meal, a country bed to share, With sleepy kisses and contented dreams Over a land of still and narrow streams.

The light is ebbing in the dusky sky, The valley floor is in the shadow. Hark!

With rushing and mysterious noises fly The bats already, looking for the dark With blinking still and unaccustomed eye.

Now over Rackham Mount a steady spark Burns, rising slowly in the rising night, And pledges peace and promises delight.

Now from the east the wheeling shade appears And softly night into the valley falls, Soft on the meadows drop her dewy tears, Softly a darkness on the crumbled walls.

Now in the dusk the village disappears, Men's songs are hushed there and the children's calls, While night in pa.s.sage swallows up the land And in the shadow your hand seeks my hand.

Only the glimmering stars in heaven lie And unseen trees with rustling still betray How all the valley lives invisibly, Where dim sweet odours, remnants of the day, Float from the sleeping fields to please and die, Borne up by roaming airs, that drift away Beyond our hearing, vagabond and light, To visit the cool meadows of the night.

_The Pursuit of Daphne._

Daphne is running, running through the gra.s.s, The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes.

I saw the nymph, the G.o.d, I saw them pa.s.s And how a mounting flush of tender rose Invaded the white bosom of the la.s.s And reached her shoulders, conquering their snows.

He wasted all his breath, imploring still: They pa.s.sed behind the shadow of the hill.

The mad course goes across the silent plain, Their flying footsteps make a path of sound Through all the sleeping country. Now with pain She runs across a stretch of stony ground That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again She hastens through a wood where flowers abound, Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads And for her healing give their trodden heads.

Her sisters, from their coverts unbetrayed, Look out in fright and see the two go by, Each unrelenting, and reflect dismayed How fear and anguish glisten in her eye.

By them unhelped goes on the fleeting maid Whose breath is coming short in agony: Hard at her heels pursues the golden boy, She flies in fear of him, she flies from joy.

His arrows scattered on the countryside, His shining bow deserted, he pursues Through hindering woodlands, over meadows wide And now no longer as he runs he sues But breathing deep and set and eager-eyed.

His flashing feet disperse the morning dews, His hands most roughly put the boughs away, That cross and cling and join and make delay.

Across small shining brooks and rills they leap And now she fords the waters of a stream; Her hot knees plunge into the hollows deep And cool, where ancient trout in quiet dream; The silver minnows, wakened from their sleep In sunny shallows, round her ankles gleam; She scrambles up the gra.s.sy bank and on, Though courage and quick breath are nearly done.

Now in the dusky spinneys round the field, The fauns set up a joyous mimicry, Pursuing of light nymphs, who lightly yield, Or startle the young dryad from her tree And shout with joy to see her limbs revealed And give her grace and bid her swiftly flee: The hunt is up, pursuer and pursued Run, double, twist, evade, turn, grasp, elude.

The woodlands are alive with chase and cry, Escape and triumph. Still the nymph in vain, With heaving breast in lovely agony And wide and shining eyes that show her pain, Leads on the G.o.d and now she knows him nigh And sees before her the unsheltered plain.

His hot hand touches her white side and she Thrusts up her hands and turns into a tree.

There is an end of dance and mocking tune, Of laughter and bright love among the leaves.

The sky is overcast, the afternoon Is dull and heavy for a G.o.d who grieves.

The woods are quiet and the oak-tree soon The ruffled dryad in her trunk receives.

Cold grow the sunburnt bodies and the white: The nymphs and fauns will lie alone to-night.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

_Ode on Beauty._

Infinite peace is hanging in the air, Infinite peace is resting on mine eyes, That just an hour ago learnt how to bear Seeing your body's flaming harmonies.

The grey clouds flecked with orange are and gold, Birds unto rest are falling, falling, falling, And all the earth goes slowly into night, Steadily turning from the harshly bright Sunset. And now the wind is growing cold And in my heart a hidden voice is calling.

Say, is our sense of beauty mixed with earth When lip on lip and breast on breast we cling, When ecstasy brings short bright sobs to birth And all our pulses, both our bodies sing?

When through the haze that gathers on my sight I see your eyelids, know the eyes behind See me and half not see me, when our blood Goes roaring like a deep tremendous flood, Calm and terrific in unhasty might, Is then our inner sight sealed up and blind?