The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tides, by John Drinkwater This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Tides A Book of Poems Author: John Drinkwater Release Date: July 16, 2016 [EBook #52584] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIDES *** Produced by Bryan Ness, Carolyn Jablonski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: bookcover] This is the first book issued by The Beaumont Press 20 copies have been printed on Japanese vellum signed by the author and numbered 1 to 20 and 250 copies on hand-made paper numbered 21 to 270 This is No. 232 TIDES A BOOK OF POEMS BY JOHN DRINKWATER DEDICATION TO GENERAL SIR IAN HAMILTON Because the darling chivalries, That light your battle-line, belong To music’s heart no less than these, I bring you my campaigns of song. CONTENTS Page DEDICATION 5 A MAN’S DAUGHTER There is an old woman who looks each night 9 VENUS IN ARDEN Now Love, her mantle thrown, 11 COTSWOLD LOVE Blue skies are over Cotswold 12 THE MIDLANDS Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill 13 MAY GARDEN A shower of green gems on my apple tree 15 PLOUGH The snows are come in early state, 16 POLITICS You say a thousand things, 17 BIRMINGHAM—1916 Once Athens worked and went to see the play, 19 INSCRIPTION FOR A WAR MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN They nothing feared whose names I celebrate. 20 TREASON What time I write my roundelays, 21 MY ESTATE I have four loves, four loves are mine, 22 WITH DAFFODILS I send you daffodils, my dear, 23 FOR A GUEST ROOM All words are said, 24 ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book, 25 THE OLD WARRIOR Sorrow has come to me, 26 THE GUEST Sometimes I feel that death is very near, 27 REVERIE Here in the unfrequented noon, 28 PENANCES These are my happy penances. To make 36 COLOPHON 37 A MAN’S DAUGHTER There is an old woman who looks each night Out of the wood. She has one tooth, that isn’t too white. She isn’t too good. She came from the north looking for me, About my jewel. Her son, she says, is tall as can be; But, men say, cruel. My girl went northward, holiday making, And a queer man spoke At the woodside once when night was breaking, And her heart broke. For ever since she has pined and pined, A sorry maid; Her fingers are slack as the wool they wind, Or her girdle-braid. So now shall I send her north to wed, Who here may know Only the little house of the dead To ease her woe? Or keep her for fear of that old woman, As a bird quick-eyed, And her tall son who is hardly human, At the woodside? She is my babe and my daughter dear, How well, how well. Her grief to me is a fourfold fear, Tongue cannot tell. And yet I know that far in that wood Are crumbling bones, And a mumble mumble of nothing that’s good, In heathen tones. And I know that frail ghosts flutter and sigh In brambles there, And never a bird or beast to cry— Beware, beware,— While threading the silent thickets go Mother and son, Where scrupulous berries never grow, And airs are none. And her deep eyes peer at eventide Out of the wood, And her tall son waits by the dark woodside, For maidenhood. And the little eyes peer, and peer, and peer; And a word is said. And some house knows, for many a year, But years of dread. VENUS IN ARDEN Now love, her mantle thrown, Goes naked by, Threading the woods alone, Her royal eye Happy because the primroses again Break on the winter continence of men. I saw her pass to-day In Warwickshire, With the old imperial way, The old desire, Fresh as among those other flowers they went, More beautiful for Adon’s discontent. Those other years she made Her festival When the blue eggs were laid And lambs were tall, By the Athenian rivers while the reeds Made love melodious for the Ganymedes. And now through Cantlow brakes, By Wilmcote hill, To Avon-side, she makes Her garlands still, And I who watch her flashing limbs am one With youth whose days three thousand years are done. COTSWOLD LOVE Blue skies are over Cotswold And April snows go by, The lasses turn their ribbons For April’s in the sky, And April is the season When Sabbath girls are dressed, From Rodboro’ to Campden, In all their silken best. An ankle is a marvel When first the buds are brown, And not a lass but knows it From Stow to Gloucester town. And not a girl goes walking Along the Cotswold lanes But knows men’s eyes in April Are quicker than their brains. It’s little that it matters, So long as you’re alive, If you’re eighteen in April, Or rising sixty-five, When April comes to Amberley With skies of April blue, And Cotswold girls are briding With slyly tilted shoe. THE MIDLANDS Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill Aslant my window sleeps, beneath a sky Deep as the bedded violets that fill March woods with dusky passion. As I lie Abed between cool walls I watch the host Of the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain, And drowsily the habit of these most Beloved of English lands moves in my brain, While silence holds dominion of the dark, Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark. I see the valleys in their morning mist Wreathed under limpid hills in moving light, Happy with many a yeoman melodist: I see the little roads of twinkling white Busy with fieldward teams and market gear Of rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tell The many-minded changes of the year, Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well; I see the sun persuade the mist away, Till town and stead are shining to the day. I see the wagons move along the rows Of ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower, I see the lissom husbandman who knows Deep in his heart the beauty of his power, As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids on The harvest home. I hear the rickyard fill With gossip as in generations gone, While wagon follows wagon from the hill. I think how, when our seasons all are sealed, Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field. I see the barns and comely manors planned By men who somehow moved in comely thought, Who, with a simple shippon to their hand, As men upon some godlike business wrought; I see the little cottages that keep Their beauty still where since Plantaganet Have come the shepherds happily to sleep, Finding the loaves and cups of cider set; I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old, Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold. And now the valleys that upon the sun Broke from their opal veils, are veiled again, And the last light upon the wolds is done, And silence falls on flocks and fields and men; And black upon the night I watch my hill, And the stars shine, and there an owly wing Brushes the night, and all again is still, And, from this land of worship that I sing, I turn to sleep, content that from my sires I draw the blood of England’s midmost shires. MAY GARDEN A shower of green gems on my apple tree This first morning of May Has fallen out of the night, to be Herald of holiday— Bright gems of green that, fallen there, Seem fixed and glowing on the air. Until a flutter of blackbird wings Shakes and makes the boughs alive, And the gems are now no frozen things, But apple-green buds to thrive On sap of my May garden, how well The green September globes will tell. Also my pear tree has its buds, But they are silver yellow, Like autumn meadows when the floods Are silver under willow, And here shall long and shapely pears Be gathered while the autumn wears. And there are sixty daffodils Beneath my wall.... And jealousy it is that kills This world when all The spring’s behaviour here is spent To make the world magnificent. PLOUGH The snows are come in early state, And love shall now go desolate If we should keep too close a gate. Over the woods a splendour falls Of death, and grey are the Gloucester walls, And grey the skies for burials. But secret in the falling snow I see the patient ploughman go, And watch the quiet furrows grow. POLITICS You say a thousand things, Persuasively, And with strange passion hotly I agree, And praise your zest, And then A blackbird sings On April lilac, or fieldfaring men, Ghostlike, with loaded wain, Come down the twilit lane To rest, And what is all your argument to me? Oh yes—I know, I know, It must be so— You must devise Your myriad policies, For we are little wise, And must be led and marshalled, lest we keep Too fast a sleep Far from the central world’s realities. Yes, we must heed— For surely you reveal Life’s very heart; surely with flaming zeal You search our folly and our secret need; And surely it is wrong To count my blackbird’s song, My cones of lilac, and my wagon team, More than a world of dream. But still A voice calls from the hill— I must away— I cannot hear your argument to-day. BIRMINGHAM—1916 Once Athens worked and went to see the play, And Thomas Atkins kissed the girls of Rome, In council in Victoria Square to-day Are grey-beard Nazarenes, with shop and home And counting-house and all the friendly cares That Joseph knew; in Bull Ring markets meet Gossips as once at Babylonian fairs, And Helen walks in Corporation Street. Now Troy is Homer; and of Nazareth Grave histories are of one love that was strong; Athens is beauty; Rome an immortal death; And Babylon immortal in a song.... Perplexed as ours these cities were of old; And shall our name greatly as these be told? INSCRIPTION FOR A WAR MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN They nothing feared whose names I celebrate. Greater than death they died; and their estate Is here on Cotswold comradely to live Upon your lips in every draught I give. TREASON What time I write my roundelays, I am as proud as princes gone, Who built their empires in old days, As Tamburlaine or Solomon; And wisely though companions then Say well it is and well I sing, Assured above the praise of men I am a solitary king. But when I leave that straiter mood, That lonely hour, and put aside The continence of solitude, I fall in treason to my pride, And if a witling’s word be spent Upon my song in jealousy, In anger and in argument I am as derelict as he. MY ESTATE I have four loves, four loves are mine, My wife who makes all beauty be, Tom Squire and Master Candleshine, And then my grey dog Timothy. My wife makes bramble-berry pies, And she is bright as bramble dew, She knows the way the weather flies, And tells me every thing to do. Tom Squire he is my neighbour man, His apples fall upon my grass, And in the morning, when we can, We say good-morning as we pass. And Master Candleshine the True, Considering some fault of mine, Says—“Had it been for me to do, It had been hard for Candleshine.” When I have thought all things that be, And drop the latch and climb the stair, And want an eye for company, My grey dog Timothy is there. My loves are one and two and three And four they are, good loves of mine, Tom Squire, my grey dog Timothy, My wife and Master Candleshine. WITH DAFFODILS I send you daffodils, my dear, For these are emperors of spring, And in my heart you keep so clear So delicate an empery, That none but emperors could be Ambassadors endowed to bring My messages of honesty. My mind makes faring to and fro, Deft or bewildered, dark or kind, That not the eye of God may know Which motion is of true estate And which a twisted runagate Of all the farings of my mind, And which has honesty for mate. Only my hope for you is clean Of scandal’s use, and though, may be, Far rangers have my passions been,— Since thus the word of Eden went,— Yet of the springs of my content, My very wells of honesty, Are you the only firmament. FOR A GUEST ROOM All words are said, And may it fall That, crowning these, You here shall find A friendly bed, A sheltering wall, Your body’s ease, A quiet mind. May you forget In happy sleep The world that still You hold as friend, And may it yet Be ours to keep Your friendly will To the world’s end. For he is blest Who, fixed to shun All evil, when The worst is known, Counts, east and west, When life is done, His debts to men In love alone. ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book, She who so comforted those Grasmere days When song was at the flood, and thence I took A larger note of fortitude and praise. And in her ancient fastness beauty stirred, And happy faith was in my heart again, Because the virtue of a simple word Was durable above the lives of men. For reading there that quiet record made Of skies and hills, domestic hours, and free Traffic of friends, and song, and duty paid, I touched the wings of immortality. THE OLD WARRIOR Sorrow has come to me, Making the world to be Of sunken cheek; Faded my fields, and of Names that were most to love, I dare not speak. Would that my soul were blind, Since duty brings to mind All that is done, Saying, ‘How gladly you Walked with your chosen few Under my sun.’ I am an alien now; Tell me, good stranger, how Best may be borne His grief who comes at night To his own window-light Friendless, forlorn. No. I will pass. Again Of my delight in men Nothing shall tell. Now is my travel where My lost companions fare; Onward. Farewell. THE GUEST Sometimes I feel that death is very near, And, with half-lifted hand, Looks in my eyes, and tells me not to fear, But walk his friendly land, Comrade with him, and wise As peace is wise. Then, greatly though my heart with pity moves For dear imperilled loves, I somehow know That death is friendly so, A comfortable spirit; one who takes Long thought for all our sakes. I wonder; will he come that friendly way, That guest, or roughly in the appointed day? And will, when the last drops of life are spilt, My soul be torn from me, Or, like a ship truly and trimly built, Slip quietly to sea? REVERIE Here in the unfrequented noon, In the green hermitage of June, While overhead a rustling wing Minds me of birds that do not sing Until the cooler eve rewakes The service of melodious brakes, And thoughts are lonely rangers, here, In shelter of the primrose year, I curiously meditate Our brief and variable state. I think how many are alive Who better in the grave would thrive, If some so long a sleep might give Better instruction how to live; I think what splendours had been said By darlings now untimely dead Had death been wise in choice of these, And made exchange of obsequies. I think what loss to government It is that good men are content, Well knowing that an evil will Is folly-stricken too, and still Itself considers only wise For all rebukes and surgeries, That evil men should raise their pride To place and fortune undefied. I think how daily we beguile Our brains, that yet a little while And all our congregated schemes And our perplexity of dreams, Shall come to whole and perfect state. I think, however long the date Of life may be, at last the sun Shall pass upon campaigns undone. I look upon the world and see A world colonial to me, Whereof I am the architect, And principal and intellect, A world whose shape and savour spring Out of my lone imagining, A world whose nature is subdued For ever to my instant mood, And only beautiful can be Because of beauty is in me. And then I know that every mind Among the millions of my kind Makes earth his own particular And privately created star, That earth has thus no single state, Being every man articulate. Till thought has no horizon then I try to think how many men There are to make an earth apart In symbol of the urgent heart, For there are forty in my street, And seven hundred more in Greet, And families at Luton Hoo, And there are men in China, too. And what immensity is this That is but a parenthesis Set in a little human thought, Before the body comes to naught. There at the bottom of the copse I see a field of turnip tops, I see the cropping cattle pass There in another field, of grass, And fields and fields, with seven towns, A river, and a flight of downs, Steeples for all religious men, Ten thousand trees, and orchards ten, A mighty span that curves away Into blue beauty, and I lay All this as quartered on a sphere Hung huge in space, a thing of fear Vast as the circle of the sky Completed to the astonished eye; And then I think that all I see, Whereof I frame immensity Globed for amazement, is no more Than a shire’s corner, and that four Great shires being ten times multiplied Are small on the Atlantic tide As an emerald on a silver bowl ... And the Atlantic to the whole Sweep of this tributary star That is our earth is but ... and far Through dreadful space the outmeasured mind Seeks to conceive the unconfined. I think of Time. How, when his wing Composes all our quarrelling In some green corner where May leaves Are loud with blackbirds on all eves, And all the dust that was our bones Is underneath memorial stones, Then shall old jealousies, while we Lie side by side most quietly, Be but oblivion’s fools, and still When curious pilgrims ask—‘What skill Had these that from oblivion saves?’— My song shall sing above our graves. I think how men of gentle mind, And friendly will, and honest kind, Deny their nature and appear Fellows of jealousy and fear; Having single faith, and natural wit To measure truth and cherish it, Yet, strangely, when they build in thought, Twisting the honesty that wrought In the straight motion of the heart, Into its feigning counterpart That is the brain’s betrayal of The simple purposes of love; And what yet sorrier decline Is theirs when, eager to confine No more within the silent brain Its habit, thought seeks birth again In speech, as honesty has done In thought; then even what had won From heart to brain fades and is lost In this pretended pentecost, This their forlorn captivity To speech, who have not learnt to be Lords of the word, nor kept among The sterner climates of the tongue ... So truth is in their hearts, and then Falls to confusion in the brain, And, fading through this mid-eclipse, It perishes upon the lips. I think how year by year I still Find working in my dauntless will Sudden timidities that are Merely the echo of some far Forgotten tyrannies that came To youth’s bewilderment and shame; That yet a magisterial gown, Being worn by one of no renown And half a generation less In years than I, can dispossess Something my circumspecter mood Of excellence and quietude, And if a Bishop speaks to me I tremble with propriety. I think how strange it is that he Who goes most comradely with me In beauty’s worship, takes delight In shows that to my eager sight Are shadows and unmanifest, While beauty’s favour and behest To me in motion are revealed That is against his vision sealed; Yet is our hearts’ necessity Not twofold, but a common plea That chaos come to continence, Whereto the arch-intelligence Richly in divers voices makes Its answer for our several sakes. I see the disinherited And long procession of the dead, Who have in generations gone Held fugitive dominion Of this same primrose pasturage That is my momentary wage. I see two lovers move along These shadowed silences of song, With spring in blossom at their feet More incommunicably sweet To their hearts’ more magnificence, Than to the common courts of sense, Till joy his tardy closure tells With coming of the curfew bells. I see the knights of spur and sword Crossing the little woodland ford, Riding in ghostly cavalcade On some unchronicled crusade. I see the silent hunter go In cloth of yeoman green, with bow Strung, and a quiver of grey wings. I see the little herd who brings His cattle homeward, while his sire Makes bivouac in Warwickshire This night, the liege and loyal man Of Cavalier or Puritan. And as they pass, the nameless dead, Unsung, uncelebrate, and sped Upon an unremembered hour As any twelvemonth fallen flower, I think how strangely yet they live For all their days were fugitive. I think how soon we too shall be A story with our ancestry. I think what miracle has been That you whose love among this green Delightful solitude is still The stay and substance of my will, The dear custodian of my song, My thrifty counsellor and strong, Should take the time of all time’s tide That was my season, to abide On earth also; that we should be Charted across eternity To one elect and happy day Of yellow primroses in May. The clock is calling five o’clock, And Nonesopretty brings her flock To fold, and Tom comes back from town With hose and ribbons worth a crown, And duly at The Old King’s Head They gather now to daily bread, And I no more may meditate Our brief and variable state. PENANCES These are my happy penances. To make Beauty without a Covenant; to take Measure of time only because I know That in death’s market-place I still shall owe Service to beauty that shall not be done; To know that beauty’s doctrine is begun And makes a close in sacrifice; to find In beauty’s courts the unappeasable mind. HERE ENDS TIDES A BOOK OF POEMS by John Drinkwater the Typography and Binding arranged by Cyril William Beaumont Printed on his Press in London and Published by him at 75 Charing Cross Road in the City of Westminster Completed on the first day of September MDCCCCXVII [Illustration: SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS THE BEAUMONT PRESS] The Binding has been executed by F. Sangorski and G. Sutcliffe [Illustration: back cover] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE The author’s spelling and punctuation has been maintained. Repeating titles in the front of the book have been reduced. 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