Ah me, how hot and weary here in town The days crawl by! How otherwise they go my heart records, Where the marsh meadows lie And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.
Here the sun grins along the dusty street Beneath pale skies: Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet, Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries — Through these I hear the song that the sea sings To the far meadowlands of Paradise.
O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn — O long sweet days — O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay With sedge and water mace — O fair marsh land desirable and dear — How far from you lie my life's weary ways!
Yet in my darkest night there shines a star More fair than day; There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white In the sad city way. That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam, That star shines only when the skies are gray.
For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane Before the light Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life, And turn to noon our night: We fight for freedom and the souls of men — Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!
MOTHER
A little room with scanty grace Of drapery or ordered ease; White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards, — But there's a hum of summer bees, The sun sends through the quiet place The scent that honeysuckle hoards.
Outside, the little garden glows With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright; Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood Where trail the briony and wild rose, And where grow blossoms of delight In an inviolate solitude.
Through that green world there blows an air That cools my forehead even here In this sad city's riotous roar — And from that room my ears can hear Tears and the echo of a prayer, And the world's voice is heard no more.
A BALLAD OF CANTERBURY
Across the grim, gray, northern sea The Danish warships went, Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men On blood and plunder bent; And they landed on a smiling land — The garden-land of Kent.
They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn, They set the ricks aflame; They slew the men with axe and sword, They slew the maids with shame; Until, to Canterbury town, Made mad with blood, they came.
Archbishop Alphege walked the wall And looked down on the foe. "Now fly, my lord!" his monks implored, "While yet a man may go!" "Shame on you, monks of mine," he cried, "To shame your bishop so!
"What, would you have the shepherd flee, Like any hireling knave? What, leave my church, my poor – God's poor, To a dark and prayerless grave? No! by the body of my Lord, My skin I will not save!"
And when men heard his true, strong word, They bore them as men should. For twenty nights and twenty days The foemen they withstood, And, day and night, shone tapers bright, And incense veiled the rood.
The warriors manned the walls without, The monks prayed on within, Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer And valour fared to win, Whispered a traitor, who stole out And let the foemen in.
Then through the quiet church there ran A sudden breath of fear; The monks made haste to bar the door, And hide the golden gear; And to their lord once more they cried, "Hide, hide! the foe is here!"
Through all the church's windows showed The sudden laugh of flame; Along the street went trampling feet, And through the smoke there came The voice of women, calling shrill Upon the Saviour's name.
And "Hide! oh, hide!" the monks all cried, "Nor meet such foes as these!" "Be still," he said, "hide if ye will, Live on, and take your ease! By my Lord's death, my latest breath, Like His, shall speak of peace!"
He strode along the dusky aisle, And flung the church doors wide; Bright armour shone, and blazing homes Lit up the world outside, And in the streets reeled to and fro A bloody human tide.
The mailed barbarians laughed aloud To see the brave blood flow; They trampled on the breast and hair Of girls their swords laid low, And on the points of reeking spears Tossed babies to and fro.
Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed Against the dark red tide. "Forbear, your cup of guilt is full! Your sins are red," he cried; "Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom The King of Heaven died!"
Drunken with blood and lust of fight, Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane. "Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep Before thy foolish fane! Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep, That thou mayst know their pain!"
He stood, and saw his monks all slain; The altar steps ran red; In horrid heaps men lay about, The dying with the dead; And the east brightened, and the sky Grew rosy overhead.
Then from the church a tiny puff Of smoke rose 'gainst the sky, Out broke the fire, and flame on flame Leaped palely out on high, Till but the church's walls were left For men to know it by.
And when the sweet sun laughed again O'er fields and furrows brown, The brave archbishop hid his eyes, Until the tears dropped down On the charred blackness of the wreck Of Canterbury town.
"Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word Unto thy timid sheep, And bid them greaten up their hearts, And to our feet dare creep, And bring a ransom here which we, Instead of thee, may keep!"
Archbishop Alphege stood alone, Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed; Loaded with chains, with aching heart, And wounded in the side; And in his hour of utmost pain Thus to the Dane replied:
"Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow Before this thing shall be; If I be held till ransom come, I never shall be free; For by God's heart, God's poor shall never Be robbed to ransom me!"
They flung him in a dungeon dark, They heaped on him fresh chains, They promised him unnumbered ills And unimagined pains; But still he said, "No English shall Be taxed to profit Danes!"
Six months passed by; no ransom came; Their threats had almost ceased, When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve, A great and brutal feast; And they sent and dragged the Christian man Before the pagan beast.
Down the great hall, from east to west, The long rough tables ran; They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer, And then the drink began — At last in all that mighty hall Was not one sober man.
'Twas then they brought the bishop forth Before the drunken throng; And "Send for ransom!" Thorkill cried, "You are weak, and we are strong, Or, by the hand of Thor, you die — We have borne with you too long!"
The savage faces of the Danes Leered redly all around; The bones of beasts and empty cups Lay heaped upon the ground, And 'mid the crowd of howling wolves The Christian saint stood bound.
He looked in Thorkill's angry eyes And knew what thing should be, Then spake: "By God, who died to save The poor, and me, and thee, Thou art not strong enough – God's poor Shall not be taxed for me!"
"Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round The rising tumult ran. "I give my life, I give God's word, I give what gifts I can! Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves? Find you some other man!"
And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose With one fierce shout and yell; They flung at him the bones of beasts, They aimed right strong and well. "O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!" The bishop cried – and fell.
And so men call him "Saint," yet some Deemed this an unearned crown, Since 'twas not for the Church or faith He laid his brave life down; But otherwise men deemed of it In Canterbury town.
"Not for the Church he died," they said, "Yet he our saint shall be, Since for Christ's poor he gave his life, So for Christ's self died he. 'Who does it to the least of these, Has done it unto Me!'"
MORNING
It was about the time of day When all the lawns with dew are wet; I wandered down a steep wood-way, And there I met with Margaret — Her hands were full of boughs of may.
It was the merest chance we met: I could not find a word to say, And she was silent too – and yet For hand and lips I dared to pray — And Margaret did not say me nay.
Still on my lips her kisses stay, Her eyes are like the violet; Will time take this joy, too, away, And ever teach me to forget — And to forget without regret — The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?
THE PRAYER
They talk of money and of fame, Would make a fortune or a name, And gold and laurel both must be For ever out of reach of me.
And if I asked of God or fate The gift most gracious and most great, It would not be such gifts as these That I should pray for on my knees.
No, I should ask a greater grace — A little, quiet, firelit place, Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she Should hold my baby on her knee.
There she should sit and softly sing The songs my heart hears echoing; And I, made pure by joy, should come Not all unworthy to our home.
But if I dared to ask this grace, Would not God laugh out in my face? Since gold and fame indeed are His To give, but, ah! not this, not this!
THE RIVER MAIDENS
When autumn winds the river grieve, And autumn mists about it creep, The river maids all shivering leave The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.
The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow Alike are impotent to break The spell of sleep that laid them low — The lovely ladies will not wake.
But when the spring with lavish grace Strews blossom on the river's breast, Flowers fall upon each sleeping face And break the deep and dreamless rest.
Then with white arms that gleam afar Through alders green and willows gray, They rise where sedge and iris are, And laugh beneath the blossomed May.
They lie beside the river's edge, By fields with buttercups a-blaze; They whisper in the whispering sedge, They say the spell the cuckoo says.
And when they hear the nightingale And see the blossomed hawthorn tree, What time the orchard pink grows pale — The river maidens beckon me.
Through all the city's smoke appear White arms and golden hair a-gleam, And through the noise of life I hear "Come back – to the enchanted stream.
"Come back to water, wood and weir! See what the summer has to show! Come back, come back – we too are here." I hear them calling, and I go.
But when once more my dripping oar Makes music on the dreaming air, I vainly look to stream and shore For those white arms that lured me there.
I listen to the singing weir, I hold my breath where thrushes are, But I can never, never hear The voice that called me from afar.
Only when spring grows fair next year, Even where sin and cities be, I know what voices I shall hear, And what white arms will beckon me.
ON THE MEDWAY
I
In summer evening, love, We glide by grassy meadows, Red sun is shining, Day is declining, Peace is around, above. The poplar folds on high Dark wings against the sky; Through dreaming shadows On we move, Silently, you and I.
And seaward still we row, By sedge and bulrush sliding, Breezes are sending Ripples unending Over the way we go. Above the poplar tree The moon sails white and free, The boat goes gliding Swift or slow, But ever towards the sea.
II
Dip, drip, in and out The rhythmic oars move slowly, Mist-kissed, round about The pale sky reddens wholly; Chill, still, through waxing light Mystical and tender, Morn, born of starlit night, Clothes herself with splendour.
Rose-glows in eastern sky, In the north faint flushes; Boat, float idly by Past the sedge and rushes! Here, near the willow screen River-gods bathe gaily; White, bright against the green, Poets see them daily.
See, we, we alone Greet this fresh sun-waking, Too few, who hail day done, See it in the making! Sad, glad, we two see Dawn the earth adorning, Sigh: "Why can no noon be Worth so gold a morning?"
III
It was beside a wide, white weir, Where the foam dances in the sun, The butterflies are fair this year, And o'er the weir there hovered one — A far-off cottage curled its smoke Against a blue and perfect sky; There love triumphant laughed and woke, And we were silent – you and I.
Love stirred in sleep, reached out his hands, And sighed, and smiled, and stood upright, Then fell the careful cobweb bands With which our will had bound his might; His royal presence made us still, Our will was water, matched with his; Like water-spray he broke our will And joined our lips in our first kiss.
IV
Look out! The stars are shining, The dew makes gray the meadow! The jasmine stars are twining About your window bright; The glow-worms green are creeping On lawns all dressed in shadow, The roses all are sleeping — Good-night, my heart, good-night!
The nightingale is singing Her song of ceaseless sorrow, The night's slow feet pass, bringing The day when I rejoice; Belovèd beyond measure, Our bridal is to-morrow — Oh, thrill the night with pleasure! Oh, let me hear thy voice!
From cloudy confines sliding, The moon sails white and splendid; No roses now are hiding The glory of their grace; So, if my song thou hearest — For thee begun and ended — Light up the night, my dearest, And let me see thy face!
V
O gleaming, gliding river, Where ash and alder lean, Where sighing sedges shiver By willows gray and green; Upon thy shifting shadows The yellow lily lies, And all along thy meadows Grow flowers of Paradise.
The red-roofed village sleeping, Soft sounds of farm and fold, The dappled shadows creeping, The sunset's rose and gold, Twilight of mist and glamour, Noontide of sunlit ease, How, 'mid life's sordid clamour, Our hearts will long for these!
Yet, since at heart we treasure These weirs and woods and fields, This crown of lovely leisure Which Kentish country yields — These, these are ours for ever, Though dream-sweet days be done; Through all our dreams our river Will evermore flow on.
VI
When all is over, lay me down Far from this dull and jaded town, Not in a churchyard's ordered bound, But in some wide green meadow-ground.
No stone upon me! Above all Let no cold railing's shadows fall Across my rest. Dead, let me be What no one may be living – free.
Let no one mourning garments wear, And if you love me, shed no tear; Don't weight me with a clay-built heap, But plant the daisies where I sleep.
There is a certain field I know, I met my dear there, years ago; Perhaps, if you should speak them fair, They'd let you lay her lover there.
Laid there, perhaps my ears would hear The ceaseless singing of the weir, The soft wind sighing thro' the grass, And hear the little children pass.
Or, if my ears were stopped with clay From all sweet sounds of night and day, I should at least (so lay me there) Sleep better there than anywhere!
