OTHER POEMS

THE BUSY HEART

Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted, I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.

(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted) I'll think of Love in books, Love without end; Women with child, content; and old men sleeping; And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain; And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping; And the young heavens, forgetful after rain; And evening hush, broken by homing wings; And Song's n.o.bility, and Wisdom holy, That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things, Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly, One after one, like tasting a sweet food.

I have need to busy my heart with quietude.

LOVE

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate, Where that comes in that shall not go again; Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.

They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then, When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking, And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying Of credulous hearts, in heaven--such are but taking Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.

Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder, Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.

Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder, But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.

All this is love; and all love is but this.

UNFORTUNATE

Heart, you are restless as a paper sc.r.a.p That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind; Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind.

Between the small hands folded in her lap Surely a shamed head may bow down at length, And find forgiveness where the shadows stir About her lips, and wisdom in her strength, Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!"...

She will not care. She'll smile to see me come, So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.

She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me, And open wide upon that holy air The gates of peace, and take my tiredness home, Kinder than G.o.d. But, heart, she will not care.

THE CHILTERNS

Your hands, my dear, adorable, Your lips of tenderness --Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well, Three years, or a bit less.

It wasn't a success.

Thank G.o.d, that's done! and I'll take the road, Quit of my youth and you, The Roman road to Wendover By Tring and Lilley Hoo, As a free man may do.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly, The tears that follow fast; And the dirtiest things we do must lie Forgotten at the last; Even Love goes past.

What's left behind I shall not find, The splendour and the pain; The splash of sun, the shouting wind, And the brave sting of rain, I may not meet again.

But the years, that take the best away, Give something in the end; And a better friend than love have they, For none to mar or mend, That have themselves to friend.

I shall desire and I shall find The best of my desires; The autumn road, the mellow wind That soothes the darkening shires.

And laughter, and inn-fires.

White mist about the black hedgerows, The slumbering Midland plain, The silence where the clover grows, And the dead leaves in the lane, Certainly, these remain.

And I shall find some girl perhaps, And a better one than you, With eyes as wise, but kindlier, And lips as soft, but true.

And I daresay she will do.

HOME

I came back late and tired last night Into my little room, To the long chair and the firelight And comfortable gloom.

But as I entered softly in I saw a woman there, The line of neck and cheek and chin, The darkness of her hair, The form of one I did not know Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still, Watching her neck and hair.

I made a step to her; and saw That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight That made me see her there.

It was a chance of shade and light And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth, That night, how could I sleep?

I lay and watched the lonely gloom; And watched the moonlight creep From wall to basin, round the room.

All night I could not sleep.

THE NIGHT JOURNEY

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line; The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.

Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine, Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes

Glares the imperious mystery of the way.

Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway, Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again....

As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise, Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love; And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes, Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move

Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing; And, gathering power and purpose as he goes, Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing, Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,

Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal, Out of the fire, out of the little room....

--There is an end appointed, O my soul!