Forty-Two Poems.

by James Elroy Flecker.

TO A POET

A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE

I who am dead a thousand years, And wrote this sweet archaic song, Send you my words for messengers The way I shall not pa.s.s along.

I care not if you bridge the seas, Or ride secure the cruel sky, Or build consummate palaces Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still, And statues and a bright-eyed love, And foolish thoughts of good and ill, And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind That falls at eve our fancies blow, And old Moeonides the blind Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown, Student of our sweet English tongue, Read out my words at night, alone: I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face, And never shake you by the hand, I send my soul through time and s.p.a.ce To greet you. You will understand.

RIOUPEROUX

High and solemn mountains guard Riouperoux, - Small untidy village where the river drives a mill: Frail as wood anemones, white and frail were you, And drooping a little, like the slender daffodil.

Oh I will go to France again, and tramp the valley through, And I will change these gentle clothes for clog and corduroy, And work with the mill-hands of black Riouperoux, And walk with you, and talk with you, like any other boy.

THE TOWN WITHOUT A MARKET

There lies afar behind a western hill The Town without a Market, white and still; For six feet long and not a third as high Are those small habitations. There stood I, Waiting to hear the citizens beneath Murmur and sigh and speak through tongueless teeth.

When all the world lay burning in the sun I heard their voices speak to me. Said one: "Bright lights I loved and colours, I who find That death is darkness, and has struck me blind."

Another cried: "I used to sing and play, But here the world is silent, day by day."

And one: "On earth I could not see or hear, But with my fingers touched what I was near, And knew things round and soft, and bra.s.s from gold, And dipped my hand in water, to feel cold, And thought the grave would cure me, and was glad When the time came to lose what joy I had."

Soon all the voices of a hundred dead Shouted in wrath together. Someone said, "I care not, but the girl was sweet to kiss At evening in the meadows." "Hard it is"

Another cried, "to hear no hunting horn.

Ah me! the horse, the hounds, and the great grey morn When I rode out a-hunting." And one sighed, "I did not see my son before I died."

A boy said, "I was strong and swift to run: Now they have tied my feet: what have I done?"

A man, "But it was good to arm and fight And storm their cities in the dead of night."

An old man said, "I read my books all day, But death has taken all my books away."

And one, "The popes and prophets did not well To cheat poor dead men with false hopes of h.e.l.l.

Better the whips of fire that hiss and rend Than painless void proceeding to no end."

I smiled to hear them restless, I who sought Peace. For I had not loved, I had not fought, And books are vanities, and manly strength A gathered flower. G.o.d grant us peace at length!

I heard no more, and turned to leave their town Before the chill came, and the sun went down.

Then rose a whisper, and I seemed to know A timorous man, buried long years ago.

"On Earth I used to shape the Thing that seems.

Master of all men, give me back my dreams.

Give me that world that never failed me then, The hills I made and peopled with tall men, The palace that I built and called my home, My cities which could break the pride of Rome, The three queens hidden in the sacred tree, And those white cloudy folk who sang to me.

O death, why hast thou covered me so deep?

I was thy sister's child, the friend of Sleep."

Then said my heart, Death takes and cannot give.

Dark with no dream is hateful: let me live!

THE BALLAD OF CAMDEN TOWN

I walked with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black, And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and n.o.ble face, A secret heart, and eyes Like water in a lonely place Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat, And broken chairs a few, Were all we had to grace our flat In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, And crown her head with daisies, And watch the streaming world beneath, And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale And empty stood our store, She left the latchkey on its nail, And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away Lest both of us should drown: Perhaps she feared to die, as they Who die in Camden Town.

What came of her? The bitter nights Destroy the rose and lily, And souls are lost among the lights Of painted Piccadilly.

What came of her? The river flows So deep and wide and stilly, And waits to catch the fallen rose And clasp the broken lily.

I dream she dwells in London still And breathes the evening air, And often walk to Primrose Hill, And hope to meet her there.

Once more together we will live, For I will find her yet: I have so little to forgive; So much, I can't forget.

MIGNON

Knowest thou the land where bloom the lemon trees, And darkly gleam the golden oranges?

A gentle wind blows down from that blue sky; Calm stands the myrtle and the laurel high.

Knowest thou the land? So far and fair!

Thou, whom I love, and I will wander there.

Knowest thou the house with all its rooms aglow, And shining hall and columned portico?