All around I heard the whispering larches Swinging to the low-lipped wind; G.o.d, they piped, is lilting in our arches, For He loveth leafen kind.

Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber, Say confiding to the reed: G.o.d well knoweth us, Who loves to number Us and all our fairy seed.

Voices hummed as of a mult.i.tude Crowding from their lowly sod; 'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood, Crying to the daisies' G.o.d.

_THE BEE_

Away, the old monks said, Sweet honey-fly, From lilting overhead The lullaby You heard some mother croon Beneath the harvest moon.

Go, hum it in the hive, The old monks said, For we were once alive Who now are dead.

_OUTSIDE THE CARLTON_

The death of the grey withered gra.s.s Of man's is a sign, And his life is as wine That is spilt from a half-shivered gla.s.s.

At a quarter to nine Went Dives to dine ...

(Man, it is said, is as gra.s.s.)

Riches and plunder had met To furnish his feast-- Both succulent beast And fish from the fisherman's net; While he tasteth of dishes And all his soul wishes-- Nor knoweth his hour hath been set.

The death of the pale-sodden hay 'Neath the feet of the kine Is to man for a sign; At the striking of ten he was grey, And they carried him out Stiff-strangled with gout.

(Man, it is said, is as hay.)

_THE PATER OF THE CANNON_

Father of the thunder, Flinger of the flame, Searing stars asunder, _Hallowed be Thy Name_!

By the sweet-sung quiring Sister bullets hum, By our fiercest firing, _May Thy Kingdom come_!

By Thy strong apostle Of the Maxim gun, By his pentecostal Flame, _Thy Will be done_!

Give us, Lord, good feeding To Thy battles sped--Flesh, white grained and bleeding, _Give for daily bread_!

_FLEET STREET_

I never see the newsboys run Amid the whirling street, With swift untiring feet, To cry the latest venture done, But I expect one day to hear Them cry the crack of doom And risings from the tomb, With great Archangel Michael near; And see them running from the Fleet As messengers of G.o.d, With Heaven's tidings shod About their brave unwearied feet.

_NIGHTMARE_

I dreamt that the heavens were beggared And angels went chanting for bread, And the cherubs were sewed up in sackcloth, And Satan anointed his head.

I dreamt they had chalked up a price On the sun and the stars at G.o.d's feet, And the Devil had bought up the Church, And put out the Pope in the street.

_TO A n.o.bLEMAN BECOMING SOCIALIST_

I do remember thee so blest and filled With all life offered thee, Yet unsurprised I learn that thou hast willed To share or lose her fee.

It seems a very great and stalwart thing To toss defence away, To tear the golden feathers from thy wing And lie with shards of clay.

To some far vision's light thine eyes are set That mock life's treasure trove, And see the changing woof not woven yet As G.o.d would have it wove.

The red thou flauntest bravely, friend, for me Hast lost alarming power; For who but guilty men will quake their knee, And who but robbers cower?

For many hallowed things are symbolled red, Live fire and cleansing war, And the bright sealing Blood that Christ once shed, And Martyrs yet must pour.

O friend, choose one of these ourselves to link; For how could friendship be If from the foaming cup thou hast to drink The dregs come not to me?

Dividing much, thou makest little thine Except the gain of loss; Yet haply Christ's true peer hath better sign Than coronet--the Cross.

_ST. GEORGE-IN-THE-EAST_

'Mid the quiet splendour of a pennoned crowd, Gently proud, Moved in armour, silvered in celestial forge, Great Saint George, Stands he in the crimson-woven air of fight Speared with light-- h.e.l.l is harried by the holy anger poured From his sword.

Where the sweated toilers of the river slum Shiver dumb, Pa.s.sed to-day a poorly clad and poorly shod Knight of G.o.d; Where the human eddy smears with shame and rags Paving flags, h.e.l.l shall weakly wail beneath the words he cries Piteous-wise.

VIOLA MEYNELL

_THE RUIN_

I led thy thoughts, having them for my own, To where my G.o.d His head to thee did bend.

I bore thee in my bosom to His throne.

O, the blest labour, and the treasured end!

Now like a ruined aqueduct I go Unburdened; thou by more fleet ways hast been With Him. Since thou thine own swift road dost know, Thou canst not brook such slow and devious mean.

_THE DREAM_

I slept, and thought a letter came from you-- You did not love me any more, it said.

What breathless grief!--my love not true, not true ...

I was afraid of people, and afraid Of things inanimate--the wind that blew, The clock, the wooden chair; and so I strayed From home, but could not stray from grief, I knew.

And then at dawn I woke, and wept, and prayed, And knew my blessed love was still the same;-- And yet I sit and moan upon the bed For that dream-creature's loss. For when I came (I came, perhaps, to comfort her) she fled.

I would be with her where she wanders now, Fleeing the earth, with pain upon her brow.

_THE WANDERER_

All night my thoughts have rested in G.o.d's fold; They lay beside me here upon the bed.

At dawn I woke: the air beat sad and cold.

I told them o'er--Ah, G.o.d, one thought had fled.