Goes winding all the day.
Scant are the flowers that bloom
Beneath the bosky screen
And cage of golden gloom.
Few are the birds that call,
Shrill-voiced and seldom seen.
Where silence masters all,
And light my footsteps fall,
The whispering runnels only
With blazing noon confer;
And comes no breeze to stir
The tangled thickets lonely.
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I’d heard fool-heroes brag of where they’d been,
But you, good simple soldier, seasoned wellIn woods and posts and crater-lines of hell,Who dodge remembered ‘crumps’ with wry grimace,Endured experience in your queer, kind face,Fatigues and vigils haunting nerve-strained eyes,And both your brothers killed to make you wise;You had no babbling phrases; what you saidWas like a message from the maimed and dead.But memory…
October’s bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
In whose lament I hear a voice that grievesFor battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feudOf outraged men. Their lives are like the leavesScattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blownAlong the westering furnace flaring red.O martyred youth and manhood overthrown,The burden of your wrongs is on my head.
Observe these blue solemnities of sky
A mythologic welkin freaked with white!Listen : one tiny tinkling rivuletAccentuates the super-sultry stillnessThat drones on ripening landscapes which implySerene Parnassus plagued with amorous goats.* * * *Far down the vale Apollo has pursuedThe noon-bedazzled nymph whose hunted heartHolds but the trampling panic whence it fled,And now the heavens are piled with darkening troubleAnd counter-march…
I listen for him through the rain,
I know that he will come again;Loth was he ever to forsake me:He comes with glimmering of flowersAnd stir of music to awake me.Spirit of purity, he standsAs once he lived in charm and grace:I may not hold him with my hands,Nor bid him stay to heal my sorrow;Only his fair, unshadowed faceAbides with me…
Frail Travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers;
Of summer days, what sends them dancing throughThis fiery-blossom’d revel of the hours?Theirs are the musing silences betweenThe enraptured crying of shrill birds that makeHeaven in the wood while summer dawns awake;And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green.And they are as my soul that wings its wayOut of the starlit dimness into morn:And…
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.