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Poems, 1908-1919
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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.
AT AN INN
We are talkative proud, and assured, and self-sufficient,
The quick of the earth this day;
This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,
And the Post Office up the way.
The stars in their changes, and heavenly speculation,
The habits of birds and flowers,
And character bred of poverty and riches,
All these are ours.
The world is ours, and these its themes and its substance,
And of these we are free men and wise;
Among them all we move in possession and judgment,
For a day, till it dies.
But in eighteen-hundred-and-fifty, who were the tenants,
Sure and deliberate as we?
They knew us not in the time of their ascension,
Their self-sufficiency.
And in nineteen-hundred-and-fifty this inn shall flourish,
And history still be told,
And the heat of blood shall thrive, and speculation,
When we are cold.
PERSPECTIVE
In the Wheatsheaf parlour I sat to see
The story of Chippington street go by,
The squire, and dames of little degree,
And drovers with cattle and flocks to cry.
And these were all as my creatures there,
Twinkling to and fro in the sun,
And placidly I had joy, had care,
Of all their labours and dealings done.
Into the parlour strode me then
Two fellows fiercely set at odds,
To whom the difference of men
Gave the sufficiency of God.
They saw me, and they stept beyond
To a chamber within earshot still,
And each on each of broken bond,
And honour, and inflexible will,
Railed. And loud the little inn grew,
But nothing I cared their quarrel to learn,
Though the issue tossing between the two
They deemed the bait of the world’s concern.
Only I thought how most are men
Fantastic when they most are proud,
And out of my laughter I looked again
On the flowing figures of Chippington crowd.
CROCUSES TO E. H. C
Desires,
Little determined desires,
Gripped by the mould,
Moving so hardly among
The earth, of whose heart they were bred,
That is old; it is old,
Not gracious to little desires such as these,
But apter for work on the bases of trees,
Whose branches are hung
Overhead,
Very mightily, there overhead.
Through the summer they stirred,
They strove to the bulbs after May,
Until harvest and song of the bird
Went together away;
And ever till coming of snows
They worked in the mould, for undaunted were those
Swift little determined desires, in the earth
Without sign, any day,
Ever shaping to marvels of birth,
Far away.
And we went
Without heed
On our way,
Never knowing what virtue was spent,
Day by day,
By those little desires that were gallant to breed
Such beauty as fortitude may.
Not once in our mind
Was that corner of earth under trees,
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.
AT AN INN
We are talkative proud, and assured, and self-sufficient,
The quick of the earth this day;
This inn is ours, and its courtyard, and English history,
And the Post Office up the way.
The stars in their changes, and heavenly speculation,
The habits of birds and flowers,
And character bred of poverty and riches,
All these are ours.
The world is ours, and these its themes and its substance,
And of these we are free men and wise;
Among them all we move in possession and judgment,
For a day, till it dies.
But in eighteen-hundred-and-fifty, who were the tenants,
Sure and deliberate as we?
They knew us not in the time of their ascension,
Their self-sufficiency.
And in nineteen-hundred-and-fifty this inn shall flourish,
And history still be told,
And the heat of blood shall thrive, and speculation,
When we are cold.
PERSPECTIVE
In the Wheatsheaf parlour I sat to see
The story of Chippington street go by,
The squire, and dames of little degree,
And drovers with cattle and flocks to cry.
And these were all as my creatures there,
Twinkling to and fro in the sun,
And placidly I had joy, had care,
Of all their labours and dealings done.
Into the parlour strode me then
Two fellows fiercely set at odds,
To whom the difference of men
Gave the sufficiency of God.
They saw me, and they stept beyond
To a chamber within earshot still,
And each on each of broken bond,
And honour, and inflexible will,
Railed. And loud the little inn grew,
But nothing I cared their quarrel to learn,
Though the issue tossing between the two
They deemed the bait of the world’s concern.
Only I thought how most are men
Fantastic when they most are proud,
And out of my laughter I looked again
On the flowing figures of Chippington crowd.
CROCUSES TO E. H. C
Desires,
Little determined desires,
Gripped by the mould,
Moving so hardly among
The earth, of whose heart they were bred,
That is old; it is old,
Not gracious to little desires such as these,
But apter for work on the bases of trees,
Whose branches are hung
Overhead,
Very mightily, there overhead.
Through the summer they stirred,
They strove to the bulbs after May,
Until harvest and song of the bird
Went together away;
And ever till coming of snows
They worked in the mould, for undaunted were those
Swift little determined desires, in the earth
Without sign, any day,
Ever shaping to marvels of birth,
Far away.
And we went
Without heed
On our way,
Never knowing what virtue was spent,
Day by day,
By those little desires that were gallant to breed
Such beauty as fortitude may.
Not once in our mind
Was that corner of earth under trees,
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