One watches weather-signs of day;
One of his maid most dear
Dreams; and they do not hear
The birds that sing and sing; they do not see
Wide wealds of blue beyond their windy lea,
Nor blossoms red and white on every tree.
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I never asked you to be perfect—did I?—
Of mastering love. I never prayed that youMight stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman,Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post.Oh yes, I know the way to heaven was easy.We found the little kingdom of our passionThat all can share who walk the road of lovers.In wild and secret happiness we stumbled;And gods and demons clamoured…
I watch you, gazing at me from the wall,
If, mastering time’s illusion, I could callYou back to share this quiet candle-shine.For you were young, three hundred years ago;And by your looks I guess that you were wise…Come, whisper soft, and Death will never knowYou’ve slipped away from those calm, painted eyes.Strange is your voice… Poor ninny, dead so long,And all your pride forgotten…
Old English songs, you bring to me
To birds that through the mysteryOf earliest morn make tuneful din,While hamlet steeples sleepilyAt cock-crow chime out three and four,Till maids get up betime and goWith faces like the red sun lowClattering about the dairy floor.
I am that fantasy which race has wrought
Paeaned by the senses five like bells that chime.I am that cramped and crumbling house of clayWhere mansoul weaves the secret webs of thought.Venturer–automaton–I cannot tellWhat powers and instincts animate and betrayAnd do their dreamwork in me. Seed and star,Sown by the wind, in spirit I am farFrom self, the dull control with whom I…
You’ve heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented,
Of my old, silly sweetness I’ve repented–My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry.You are aware that once I sought the Grail,Riding in armour bright, serene and strong;And it was told that through my infant wailThere rose immortal semblances of song.But now I’ve said good-bye to Galahad,And am no more the knight of dreams and show:For…
Down in the hollow there’s the whole Brigade
I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played,And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low.Crouched among thistle-tufts I’ve watched the glowOf a blurred orange sunset flare and fade;And I’m content. To-morrow we must goTo take some cursèd Wood … O world God made!July 3rd, 1916.