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Poems, 1908-1919
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Debated text,
Your vision being unperplexed,
Your loving purpose pure.
I know you’ll speak of April flowers,
Or lambs in pen,
Or happy-hearted maids and men
Weaving their April hours.
Or rising to your thought will come,
For lessoning,
Those lovers of an older spring,
That now in tombs are dumb.
And brooding in your theme shall be,
Half said, half heard,
The presage of a poet’s word
To mock mortality.
…
The years are on your grave the while,
And yet, almost,
I think to see your surpliced ghost
Stand hesitant in the aisle,
Find me sole congregation there,
Assess my mood,
Know mine a kindred solitude,
And climb the pulpit-stair.
BUDS
The raining hour is done,
And, threaded on the bough,
The May-buds in the sun
Are shining emeralds now.
As transitory these
As things of April will,
Yet, trembling in the trees,
Is briefer beauty still.
For, flowering from the sky
Upon an April day,
Are silver buds that lie
Amid the buds of May.
The April emeralds now,
While thrushes fill the lane,
Are linked along the bough
With silver buds of rain.
And, straightly though to earth
The buds of silver slip,
The green buds keep the mirth
Of that companionship.
BLACKBIRD
He comes on chosen evenings,
My blackbird bountiful, and sings
Over the gardens of the town
Just at the hour the sun goes down.
His flight across the chimneys thick,
By some divine arithmetic,
Comes to his customary stack,
And couches there his plumage black,
And there he lifts his yellow bill,
Kindled against the sunset, till
These suburbs are like Dymock woods
Where music has her solitudes,
And while he mocks the winter’s wrong
Rapt on his pinnacle of song,
Figured above our garden plots
Those are celestial chimney-pots.
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.
Your vision being unperplexed,
Your loving purpose pure.
I know you’ll speak of April flowers,
Or lambs in pen,
Or happy-hearted maids and men
Weaving their April hours.
Or rising to your thought will come,
For lessoning,
Those lovers of an older spring,
That now in tombs are dumb.
And brooding in your theme shall be,
Half said, half heard,
The presage of a poet’s word
To mock mortality.
…
The years are on your grave the while,
And yet, almost,
I think to see your surpliced ghost
Stand hesitant in the aisle,
Find me sole congregation there,
Assess my mood,
Know mine a kindred solitude,
And climb the pulpit-stair.
BUDS
The raining hour is done,
And, threaded on the bough,
The May-buds in the sun
Are shining emeralds now.
As transitory these
As things of April will,
Yet, trembling in the trees,
Is briefer beauty still.
For, flowering from the sky
Upon an April day,
Are silver buds that lie
Amid the buds of May.
The April emeralds now,
While thrushes fill the lane,
Are linked along the bough
With silver buds of rain.
And, straightly though to earth
The buds of silver slip,
The green buds keep the mirth
Of that companionship.
BLACKBIRD
He comes on chosen evenings,
My blackbird bountiful, and sings
Over the gardens of the town
Just at the hour the sun goes down.
His flight across the chimneys thick,
By some divine arithmetic,
Comes to his customary stack,
And couches there his plumage black,
And there he lifts his yellow bill,
Kindled against the sunset, till
These suburbs are like Dymock woods
Where music has her solitudes,
And while he mocks the winter’s wrong
Rapt on his pinnacle of song,
Figured above our garden plots
Those are celestial chimney-pots.
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.
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