Archives: Poems

1 
    To our first critics send we these 
          In memory of two years ago
          When, in the 'Children's Room' below,
    We laboured at our poesies.
2 
    And often after supper time,
          Miss Georgie laid her work aside
          (Kindest of critics) to decide
    The merits of some halting rhyme.
3 
    Then by the Syndicate of Three
          The red-hot verse was duly tried—
          This thing or that was set aside,
    Or shapéd to perfecte degree.
4 
    And far into the night we sate,—
          (With ink and thoughts that gaily flowed) 
          Dashed from the lyric to the ode
    Nor e'en an epic seemed too great.
5 
    The morn  brought  council—ever  wise, 
          And ever kind and freely given,
          As though the writers twain had striven
    In verse that should outlive the skies.
6 
    And you shall find, if you will look,
          How much your words have stayed with us,
          When verse was written thus and thus 
    Among the pages of 'Our Book'.
7 
    For even now, as then, we feel
          The rhyming brochure we submit
          Will reach, when you have studied it,
    Our Court of Ultimate Appeal.

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 The memory of a maiden's sympathy,
    The memory of the talk between us twain— 
A memory that will not go from me
        Until we meet again.

Now Love's first triumph turns to mockery, 
    And Love's own homage alters to disdain— 
God give you comfort, as you gave it me 
        Until we meet again.

I thank you—for I hold you very dear,
    I send you these rough first-fruits of my brain. 
God keep you safe throughout the waning year
        Until we meet again.

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Though the 'Englishman' deride it, 
Though the captious 'Statesman' chide it, 
Your dear judgment shall decide it
        Yours alone.
For the good that in each line is, 
From the title page to Finis,
        Is your own.

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    Who is the Public I write for?
        Men 'neath an Indian sky
    Cynical, seedy and dry,
        Are these then the people I write for?
            No, not I.

    How should they know whom I write for
        Papers that Praise me or scoff?—
    More than six thousand miles off
       Lives the dear Public I write for,
            Under an English sky.

    Will she look at the rhymes I have written?
        Send me a long letter back,
    Telling in plain white and black
        All that she thinks of the rhymes I have written?
            Let her reply . 

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Between the gum-pot and the shears,
        The awful emblems of my trade—
    First-fruits of two hot Indian years—
        These rhymes were made.

    Will he who left with passing years
        The weapons of his accolade,
    The gum-pot and the office shears
        For labour staid

    At leaders on the inner leaf
       Finance, War, Famine, Trade or Crimes,
    Past Master of my Craft in brief
        Accept those rhymes? 

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Love's fiery chariot, Delia, take
Which Vulcan wrought for Venus’ sake.
Wings shall not waft thee, but a flame
Hot as my heart—as nobly tame:
Lit by a spark, less bright, more wise
Than linked lightnings of thine eyes!
Seated and ready to be drawn 
Come not in muslins, lace or lawn,
But, for thy thrice imperial worth,
Take all the sables of the North,
With frozen diamonds belted on,
To face extreme Euroclydon!
Thus in our thund’ring toy we’ll prove
Which is more blind, the Law or Love;
And may the jealous Gods prevent
Our fierce and uncontrouled descent!

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1 
There's no wind along these seas,
  Out oars for Stavanger!
  Forward all for Stavanger!
So we must wake the white-ash breeze,
  Let fall for Stavanger!
  A long pull for Stavanger!
2 
Oh, hear the benches creak and strain!
  (A long pull for Stavanger!)
She thinks she smells the Northland rain!
  (A long pull for Stavanger!)
3 
She thinks she smells the Northland snow,
And she's as glad as we to go,
4 
She thinks she smells the Northland rime,
And the dear dark nights of winter-time.
5 
She wants to be at her own home pier,
To shift her sails and standing gear.
6 
She wants to be in her winter-shed,
To strip herself and go to bed,
7 
Her very bolts are sick for shore,
And we-we want it ten times more!
8 
So all you Gods that love brave men,
Send us a three-reef gale again!
9 
Send us a gale, and watch us come,
With close-cropped canvas slashing home!
10 
But–there's no wind on all these seas,
  A long pull for Stavanger!
So we must wake the white-ash breeze,
  A long pull for Stavanger!

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“And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he 
told it his brethren and they hated him
 yet the more.” —Genesis xxxvii. 5.


Oh ye who hold the written clue
    To all save all unwritten things,
And, half a league behind, pursue
    The accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,
    Look! To your knee your baby brings
        The oldest tale since Earth began—
    The answer to your worryings:
        “Once on a time there was a Man.”

He, single-handed, met and slew
    Magicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.
He lonely ’mid his doubting crew—
    “In all the loneliness of wings”—
    He fed the flame, he filled the springs,
        He locked the ranks, he launched the van
Straight at the grinning Teeth of Things.
        “Once on a time there was a Man.”

The peace of shocked Foundations flew
    Before his ribald questionings.
He broke the Oracles in two,
    And bared the paltry wires and strings.
    He headed desert wanderings;
        He led his soul, his cause, his clan
A little from the ruck of Things.
        “Once on a time there was a Man.”

Thrones, Powers, Dominions block the view
    With episodes and underlings—
The meek historian deems them true
    Nor heeds the song that Clio sings—
    The simple central truth that stings
        The mob to boo, the priest to ban;
Things never yet created things—
        “Once on a time there was a Mean.”

A bolt is fallen from the blue.
    A wakened realm full circle swings
Where Dothan’s dreamer dreams anew
    Of vast and farborne harvestings;
    And unto him an Empire clings
        That grips the purpose of his plan.
 My Lords, how think you of these things?
        Once—in our time—is there a Man?




 

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There once were four people at Euchre
Who played for mere Love—not for Lucre—
 But the row that they made
 O'er each diamond & spade
 Was suggestive of warfare not Euchre.

  

 

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