Archives: Poems

The night was very silent, and the moon was going down, 
  And the winds of dawn were chilling all the sea.
The full tide turned in silver o'er the ridge's length of brown, 
When a little muffled figure left the dim-seen, sleeping town
  By the white road that leadeth to the sea.

The night was very silent, and the tide was falling fast, 
  And the dawn was breaking dimly o'er the sea;
The early boats like shadows with their lanterns flitted past, 
And the little muffled figure by the sand-hills stayed at last,
  Where the waste land opens on the sea.

The night is well-nigh ended, and the moon has gone to rest
  And the winds of dawn are lashing all the sea.
But the weariness is over and the doubt is all confessed, 
And hope is re-arisen and the wrong is all redressed,
But the little muffled figure lays her head upon his breast 
  Who has waited for her coming by the sea.

The night is passed and done with, and the day is cold and white
  As the loosed winds riot o'er the sea,
But the woe is passed and done with as a shadow of the night, 
And the little muffled figure flitteth, singing, out of sight
  To the fishing-town that faces on the sea.

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The Doorkeepers of Zion,
    They do not always stand
 In helmet and whole armour,
    With halberds in their hand;
 But, being sure of Zion,
    And all her mysteries,
 They rest awhile in Zion,
 Sit down and smile in Zion;
 Ay, even jest in Zion;
    In Zion, at their ease. 

The Gatekeepers of Baal,
    They dare not sit or lean,
 But fume and fret and posture
    And foam and curse between;
 For being bound to Baal,
    Whose sacrifice is vain,
 Their rest is scant with Baal,
 They glare and pant for Baal,
 They mouth and rant for Baal,
    For Baal in their pain! 

But we will go to Zion,
    By choice and not through dread,
 With these our present comrades
    And those our present dead;
 And, being free of Zion
    In both her fellowships,
 Sit down and sup in Zion—
 Stand up and drink in Zion
 Whatever cup in Zion
     Is offered to our lips!

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South and far south below the Line,
  Our Admiral leads us on,
Above, undreamed-of planets shine–
  The stars we know are gone.
Around, our clustered seamen mark
  The silent deep ablaze
With fires, through which the far-down shark
  Shoots glimmering on his ways. 

The sultry tropic breezes fail
  That plagued us all day through;
Like molten silver hangs our sail,
  Our decks are dark with dew.
Now the rank moon commands the sky.
  Ho! Bid the watch beware
And rouse all sleeping men that lie
  Unsheltered in her glare.

How long the time 'twixt bell and bell!
  How still our lanthorns burn!
How strange our whispered words that tell
  Of England and return!
Old towns, old streets, old friends, old loves,
  We name them each to each,
While the lit face of Heaven removes
  Them farther from our reach.

Now is the utmost ebb of night
  When mind and body sink,
And loneliness and gathering fright
  O'erwhelm us, if we think–
Yet, look, where in his room apart, 
  All windows opened wide, 
Our Admiral thrusts away the chart
  And comes to walk outside. 

Kindly, from man to man he goes,
  With comfort, praise, or jest,
Quick to suspect our childish woes,
  Our terror and unrest.
It is as though the sun should shine–
  Our midnight fears are gone!
South and far south below the Line,
  Our Admiral leads us on!

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'Tell mee where is Fancie bred 
In ye Hearte or in ye Heade?'
Surely neither heade nor Hearte 
Fancie's Gifts to Men imparte:
Rather, saith ye thinkinge Minde, 
Fancie cometh from behinde. 

Beeswax in ye studie chair 
Breedeth Fancies rich and rare 
Inspiration never came
Save in fashion strange and tame—
Baito for ye laggard Thought
Or your Worke shall come to naught.

Manie Yeeres have taught you this 
What ye Use of Beeswax is,
(And if I your Thoughts should guide 
It were neere to parricide)—
Wherefore I your Son Prepare,
Not ye Beeswax but ye Chair.

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This is a fan for my mother
               No other.
Shall I then descant on its use
               In manner diffuse. 
Maunder of passion and sighs
And the light of your luminous eyes
I am a novice these jobs on
They are the stroke of A Dobson. 

No 'tis a chaperone's fan
               Dreaded  by Man— 
Signalling over the room
               The signal of doom—
When the hours of the night have grown small 
               At the end of a ball
And Trixie the wilful demurs
At the hookum for carriage and furs— 
Wherefore your offspring would urge 
Use it dear mum for a scourge.

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1 
Where run your colts at pasture?
  There hide your mares to breed?
’Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
  Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
  Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
   All purple to the stars! 
2 
Who holds the rein upon you?
  The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
  The glut of all the sea.
’Twixt tide and tide’s returning
  Great store of newly dead,—
The bones of those that faced us,
  And the hearts of those that fled. 
3 
Afar, off shore and single,
  Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
  And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges—
  A million hooves unshod—
Break forth the mad White Horses
  To seek their meat from God! 
4 
Girth-deep in hissing water
  Our furious vanguard strains—
Through mist of mighty tramplings
  Roll up the fore-blown manes—
A hundred leagues to leeward,
  Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
  The coming of the herd! 
5 
Whose hand may grip your nostrils—
  Your forelock who may hold?
E’en they that use the broads with us—
  The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
  That rope us where we run—
They know the strong White Horses
  From father unto son. 
6 
We breathe about their cradles,
  We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
  We nuzzle at their door;
By day with stamping squadrons,
  By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
  To call them from their loves. 
7 
And come they for your calling?
  No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
  Above their fathers’ grave;
And, kin of those we crippled,
  And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
  To school the herds anew. 
8 
What service have ye laid them,
  Oh jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
  Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
  Our snow-backed leaders graze—
A guard behind their plunder,
  And a veil before their ways. 
9 
With march and countermarchings—
  With weight of wheeling hosts—
Stray mob or bands embattled—
  We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
  That bids the stranger fly,
At peace within our pickets
  The wild white riders lie. 

              *       *       *
 10  
Trust ye the curdled hollows—
  Trust ye the neighing wind—
Trust ye the moaning groundswell—
  Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman’s armies—
  To chill and snap his sword—
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
  The Horses of the Lord!

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When that with meat and drink they had fulfilled
Not temperately but like him conceived
In monstrous jest at Meudon, whose regale
Stands for exemplar of Gargantuan greed,
In his own name supreme, they issued forth
Beneath new firmaments and stars astray,
Circumvoluminant; nor had they felt
Neither the passage nor the sad effect
Of many cups partaken, till that frost
Wrought on them hideous, and their minds deceived.
Thus choosing from a progeny of roads,
That seemed but were not, one most reasonable,
Of purest moonlight fashioned on a wall,
Thither they urged their chariot whom that flint
But tressed received, itself unscathed—not they.

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