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Wessex Poems and Other Verses
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MIDDLE-AGE ENTHUSIASMS
To M. H
We passed where flag and flower
Signalled a jocund throng;
We said: “Go to, the hour
Is apt!” – and joined the song;
And, kindling, laughed at life and care,
Although we knew no laugh lay there.
We walked where shy birds stood
Watching us, wonder-dumb;
Their friendship met our mood;
We cried: “We’ll often come:
We’ll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!”
– We doubted we should come again.
We joyed to see strange sheens
Leap from quaint leaves in shade;
A secret light of greens
They’d for their pleasure made.
We said: “We’ll set such sorts as these!”
– We knew with night the wish would cease.
“So sweet the place,” we said,
“Its tacit tales so dear,
Our thoughts, when breath has sped,
Will meet and mingle here!”.
“Words!” mused we. “Passed the mortal door,
Our thoughts will reach this nook no more.”
IN A WOOD
See “THE WOODLANDERS”
Pale beech and pine-tree blue,
Set in one clay,
Bough to bough cannot you
Bide out your day?
When the rains skim and skip,
Why mar sweet comradeship,
Blighting with poison-drip
Neighbourly spray?
Heart-halt and spirit-lame,
City-opprest,
Unto this wood I came
As to a nest;
Dreaming that sylvan peace
Offered the harrowed ease —
Nature a soft release
From men’s unrest.
But, having entered in,
Great growths and small
Show them to men akin —
Combatants all!
Sycamore shoulders oak,
Bines the slim sapling yoke,
Ivy-spun halters choke
Elms stout and tall.
Touches from ash, O wych,
Sting you like scorn!
You, too, brave hollies, twitch
Sidelong from thorn
Even the rank poplars bear
Illy a rival’s air,
Cankering in black despair
If overborne.
Since, then, no grace I find
Taught me of trees,
Turn I back to my kind,
Worthy as these.
There at least smiles abound,
There discourse trills around,
There, now and then, are found
Life-loyalties.
1887: 1896.
TO A LADY
OFFENDED BY A BOOK OF THE WRITER’S
Now that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe,
Never to press thy cosy cushions more,
Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore,
Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:
Knowing thy natural receptivity
I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve,
My sombre image, warped by insidious heave
Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee.
So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams
Of me and mine diminish day by day,
And yield their space to shine of smugger things;
To M. H
We passed where flag and flower
Signalled a jocund throng;
We said: “Go to, the hour
Is apt!” – and joined the song;
And, kindling, laughed at life and care,
Although we knew no laugh lay there.
We walked where shy birds stood
Watching us, wonder-dumb;
Their friendship met our mood;
We cried: “We’ll often come:
We’ll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!”
– We doubted we should come again.
We joyed to see strange sheens
Leap from quaint leaves in shade;
A secret light of greens
They’d for their pleasure made.
We said: “We’ll set such sorts as these!”
– We knew with night the wish would cease.
“So sweet the place,” we said,
“Its tacit tales so dear,
Our thoughts, when breath has sped,
Will meet and mingle here!”.
“Words!” mused we. “Passed the mortal door,
Our thoughts will reach this nook no more.”
IN A WOOD
See “THE WOODLANDERS”
Pale beech and pine-tree blue,
Set in one clay,
Bough to bough cannot you
Bide out your day?
When the rains skim and skip,
Why mar sweet comradeship,
Blighting with poison-drip
Neighbourly spray?
Heart-halt and spirit-lame,
City-opprest,
Unto this wood I came
As to a nest;
Dreaming that sylvan peace
Offered the harrowed ease —
Nature a soft release
From men’s unrest.
But, having entered in,
Great growths and small
Show them to men akin —
Combatants all!
Sycamore shoulders oak,
Bines the slim sapling yoke,
Ivy-spun halters choke
Elms stout and tall.
Touches from ash, O wych,
Sting you like scorn!
You, too, brave hollies, twitch
Sidelong from thorn
Even the rank poplars bear
Illy a rival’s air,
Cankering in black despair
If overborne.
Since, then, no grace I find
Taught me of trees,
Turn I back to my kind,
Worthy as these.
There at least smiles abound,
There discourse trills around,
There, now and then, are found
Life-loyalties.
1887: 1896.
TO A LADY
OFFENDED BY A BOOK OF THE WRITER’S
Now that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe,
Never to press thy cosy cushions more,
Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore,
Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:
Knowing thy natural receptivity
I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve,
My sombre image, warped by insidious heave
Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee.
So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams
Of me and mine diminish day by day,
And yield their space to shine of smugger things;
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Последний отзыв
Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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