Collected Poems (15 page)

Sweep over me, O lovely winds,

    That shake the tasseled oak!

The patience of the ancient earth

    Turns blossom at your stroke,

The very grievance of the air

    Thins out to silver smoke.

Sweep over me, O youthful winds,

    And I will lie as dead

Upon the leaves that lived last year,

    With new leaves overhead.

Has your beneficence no balm

    For hearts grown wearièd?

There’s weariness of labor done

    That dark and sleep appease;

And fragrant weariness of flesh,

    Delightfuller than ease;

But there’s a weariness that comes

    More wearily than these,

With neither blossoms in its hair,

    Nor sleepy sound of rain,

Nor bearing ointments to allay

    The heart that’s sick with pain.

There is a weariness that comes

    And does not go again.

O ancient earth that never tires,

    O heavens that renew,

O winds that foam and flash and blow

    Forever fresh as dew,

There is a wounded thing that lies

    Face down, and calls on you.

To-night the tumult of the autumn wind

Rushes between the ragged grey of heaven

And earth’s autumnal grey — swift, swift and loud —

Filled with the wings of wild birds southward blown

And with the wings of leaves that only fly

Their red and golden flight when they are dead.

And we who keep unwillingly the earth,

Are caught, are caught up with the birds and the leaves,

Are whirled above the spare, unblossoming fields,

Along the pallid torrents of the air,

Far from the earth we know, past the dead moon,

Beyond the blue-lit, scattered spheres of night

That flicker down the dark like shaken leaves,

On, on, with the rushing wind of autumn,

Out to the stark, last outpost of creation

Where nothingness surges.…

From that wan strand where breaks that ebon tide,

Could we behold, were spirit vision ours,

The blowing legions of the homeless dead

In wraithy phosphorus against the void?

A little while, O winds that rush and call,

A little while, O leaves, and we shall know!

“Is that the sea, is that the sea?

O mother dear, lean close to me.

Just there, outside the window sill,

The creeping tides are never still.”

“Lie back, my son, the April breeze

Is dashing sunlight on the trees.”

“I hear the sea, I hear the sea;

The breakers keen and call to me!

My father’s blood was mixed with brine,

And, oh, my father’s blood is mine.”

“ ’Tis fever makes your eyes so blue

And stains your lips with that hot hue.”

“Look, look, a sail upon the sea!”

“ ’Tis sunlight on the dogwood tree.”

“It tacks! And now it comes straight on!”

“Merciful God, he is my son.”

“Mother, I must go down to the sea!”

“Nay, son, my son, stay home with me.”

“Look how they beckon, the sheet is spread.”

“We are alone and I am afraid.”

“They are calling me, calling me, I must go down.

They are sailing away to a strange, lonely town.

Mother, come with me.… Mother! … ’tis done.”

“God without pity! O son, little son!”

Between the battle over

    And the battle just begun

They give six days to wander

    And take their bit of fun

To the lads whose land lies under

    The rays of the rising sun.

No English home is theirs,

    They have no English friend —

Australia’s uncivilized,

    Squatters, you know, no end!

So up they come to London

    Their bob a day to spend.

And a lad may spend it in the pubs,

    Or girls are cheap as thought —

It’s not the warmth of English beer

    Or the harlot’s kiss that’s sought,

But those about to die have need

    Of tenderness, though bought.

Between the battle over

    And the battle not begun

They walk the streets of London,

    Strangers, frowned upon.

Yet their eyes are grey with the light

    Of the newly risen sun.

A wind from infinite skies

    Ruffles always their hair,

And the look of the birds of the sun,

    Lonely, disdainful, aware,

Is the look of their mouth and their eyes;

    They are the dreamers who dare.

They bear no arms because they must,

    They wage no conscript’s war,

They fight for neither English king,

    Nor tsar nor emperor;

They heard that freedom’s cause was struck,

    And freedom is their star.

Sons of the rising sun,

    With swift un-English eyes,

Not fair with white and red,

    But burnt by flaming skies,

And scornful with such youth

    As, boasting, fights and dies!

Along the Strand they swing

    With haversack and gun,

Their broad, brown hats caught up

    One side as if in fun,

And at their tunic’s throat

    The sign of the rising sun.

And London furnishes,

    Though pious-eyed, askance,

Her harlots and her pubs

    
To these whose very glance

Is sunlight, and who march

    To-morrow into France.

To these so infinitely young,

    So passionate to live,

That they can turn a harlot’s kiss

    To love, and gladly give

What’s left of them to death,

    And then have all to give.

Sons of the rising sun,

    I, from across the sea,

Drink to your gathered youth

    And your gallant chivalry.

And I would to God by your side

    We fought, as you, to be free.

December, 1916

Moses, Moses, seeing God

    In a bush that burned,

Moses, Moses, hearing God

    Advising, unconcerned,

I believe you, for myself

    Saw Him plain and heard —

Others saw a myrtle bush

    That held a mocking-bird.

My love is a bush in bloom,

    My love is a bird in the air,

My love is an April day,

    And a wind with golden hair.

A melody is my love

    That trembles and glistens and goes,

A forest in bud is my love

    Where hidden laughter flows.

Good-bye, O sweet-lipped maiden,

    O trusted friend, adieu!

My old love is my new love

    And dearer far than you.

The leaves, the little birds, and I,

The fleece clouds and the sweet, sweet sky,

The pages singing as they ride

Down there, down there where the river is wide —

Heigh-ho, what a day! What a lovely day!

Even too lovely to hop and play

               With my sheep,

                         Or sleep

               In the sun!

And so I lie in the deep, deep grass

And watch the pages as they pass,

And sing to them as they to me

Till they turn the bend by the poplar tree.

And then — O then, I sing right on

To the leaves and the lambs and myself alone!

               For I think there must be

                         Inside of me

                                        A bird!

Who would not love to go

Out where the breakers blow,

Curling and green and slow,

    With a rose sail?

Lands there are far away,

Marvelous in the spray,

Turquoise by night, by day

    Gold as the grail.

Morning’s the time to start

Just with a tipsy heart.

Wisdom a tiny part

    Taking, you fail.

Do you remember how the twilight stood

And leaned above the river just to see

If still the crocus buds were in her hood

And if her robes were gold or shadowy?

Do you remember how the twilight stood

When we were lovers and the world our wood?

And then, one night, when we could find no word

But silence trembled like a heart — like mine! —

And suddenly that moon-enraptured bird

Awoke and all the darkness turned to wine?

How long ago that was! And how absurd

For us to own a wood that owned a bird!

They tell me there are magic gardens still,

And birds that sleep to wake and dream to sing,

And streams that pause for crocus skies to fill;

But they that told were lovers and ’twas spring.

Yet why the moon to-night’s a daffodil

When it is March — Do you remember still?

I watch the farmers in their fields

    And marvel secretly.

They are so very calm and sure,

    They have such dignity.

They know such simple things so well,

    Although their learning’s small,

They find a steady, brown content

    Where some find none at all.

And all their quarrellings with God

    Are soon made up again;

They grant forgiveness when He sends

    His silver, tardy rain.

Their pleasure is so grave and full

    When gathered crops are trim,

You know they think their work was done

    In partnership with Him.

Then, why, when there are fields to buy,

    And little fields to rent,

Do I still love so foolishly

    Wisdom and discontent?

There is a land beyond the lands you know,

Circled by silver veils of woven rain

And green, clear sunsets with the moon in tow

And woods and dark savannahs of wild grain.

I have not wandered in the forests there,

I have not watched its willowed waters flow,

I have not breathed its leafy, upland air,

And yet, and yet, it is the land I know.

Its people’s speech that my heart echoes so

To you were wild birds singing in their vine,

And other dreams and other loves they know,

But all their dreams and all their loves are mine.

They are my people! I am lost with you

And only guess the ways that I should go;

Forever homesick, baffled, yearning to

My native land that I shall never know.

    Sebastien, Sebastien,

The archer of the King I be.

Strip off thine armor, strong and bright,

And naked stand against yon tree

For target to mine arrows’ flight;

This is the King’s command to thee.

O Archer, draw thy long grey bow,

Thine arrows loosen, wing by wing;

Naked I stand against the tree;

I am obedient to the King.

    Sebastien, Sebastien,

I fit an arrow in my bow,

With poisoned laughter it is shod.

O naked knight, with head bent low,

Thus slaves bend down to take the rod —

I doubt if blood so meek can flow!

O marksman pale, with eyes of mist,

Close to my side I heard it sing!

And thou must choose a goodlier shaft

Than laughter levelled at my King.

    Sebastien, Sebastien,

I choose me seven arrows old,

And never the heart of man they miss;

Two red, one green, two black, one gold,

And one soft-falling like a kiss.

Call up thy spirits, Knight, be bold!

Blood, blood, it flows! and oh, the kiss

Upon my heart of that warm thing!

Yet shoot another sheaf, for still

I am but wounded for my King!

    Sebastien, Sebastien,

Behold a barb that takes away

The love of one thou lovest best.

The love it takes it does not slay,

But leaves it in another’s breast.…

With tears the ancient barb is grey.

Oh, can it be the King ordains

This agony that slays the spring?

But for the years that thou wast loved,

Kneel down, O heart, and bless the King.

    Sebastien, Sebastien,

Dost thou still turn thy pain to praise?

Wilt thou not die, though crimson-flecked?

Then take the shaft that never strays,

’Tis called “The Death of Self-Respect” —

Its song is laughter, and it slays.

There is no quarry left for death,

And I am dead without death’s sting …

Take all, take all; Thou gavest all,

O Lord of mine, my Lord the King!

    Sebastien, Sebastien,

What is the faith that flows and fills

Thy heart with strength, thine eyes with light

While ruby-red the life-blood spills?

Look up, look up, O dying Knight —

That faith this blunted arrow kills!