Archives: Poems

1 
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
2 
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
3 
They say to mountains, " Be ye removèd" They say to the lesser floods "Be dry."
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd–they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit–then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
4 
They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
5 
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden–under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
6 
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
7 
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
8 
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd–they know the angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet–they hear the Word–they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and–the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!

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(Lady Dufferin’s Fund for medical aid to the Women of India) 

1 
How shall she know the worship we would do her?
The walls are high, and she is very far.
How shall the woman’s message reach unto her
Above the tumult of the packed bazaar?
Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,
Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing.
2 
Go forth across the fields we may not roam in,
Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city,
To whatsoe’er fair place she hath her home in,
Who dowered us with walth of love and pity.
Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing—
“I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing.”
3 
Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her,
But old in grief, and very wise in tears;
Say that we, being desolate, entreat her
That she forget us not in after years;
For we have seen the light, and it were grievous
To dim that dawning if our lady leave us.
4 
By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failing
By Love’s sad harvest garnered in the spring,
When Love in ignorance wept unavailing
O’er young buds dead before their blossoming;
By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,
In past grim years, declare our gratitude!
5 
By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not,
By fits that found no favor in their sight,
By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,
By nameless horrors of the stifling night;
By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover,
Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!
6 
If she have sent her servants in our pain
If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;
If she have given back our sick again.
And to the breast the wakling lips restored,
Is it a little thing that she has wrought?
Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.
7 
Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings,
And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,
In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,
Who have been helpen by ther in their need.
All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat
Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.
8 
Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest!
Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea
Proclaim the blessing, mainfold, confessed.
Of those in darkness by her hand set free.
Then very softly to her presence move,
And whisper: “Lady, lo, they know and love!” 
 

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His drink it is Saline Pyretic,
    He longs, but he shall not eat,
His soul is convulsed with emetic,
    His stomach is empty of meat.

His bowels are stirred by blind motions, 
    His form in the flannel is bound,
He has gargles, and powders, and potions, 
    And walks as not feeling the ground.

For the doctor has harrowed his being, 
    And of medicine wondrous the might is;
He suffers in agony, seeing
    He is prey to acute tonsilitis.

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 One from the ends of the earth—gifts at an open door—
 Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!
 From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,
 Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed!
 Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude?
 Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood? 

 Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in—
 We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.
 Not in the dark do we fight—haggle and flout and gibe;
 Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.
 Gifts have we only to-day—Love without promise or fee—
 Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!

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1 
 You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile—
  You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp—
You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile,
  And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
I travel with the cooking-pots and pails—
  I’m sandwiched ’tween the coffee and the pork—
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
  You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk! 
      With my “Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!”
         [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!]
      So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop;
         So I play ’em up to water and to bed.
2 
In the silence of the camp before the fight,
  When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight,
  Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
  Of the Patently Impossible and Vain—
And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred,
  Give me time to change my leg and go again. 
      With my “Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!”
         In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled.
      There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,
         I—the war-drum of the White Man round the world!
3 
By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
  Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,—
‘Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,
  In the silence of the herder’s hut alone—
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
  Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess—
I am Memory and Torment—I am Town!
  I am all that ever went with evening dress! 
      With my “Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!”
         [So the lights—the London Lights—grow near and plain!]
      So I rowel ’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh,
         Till I bring my broken rankers home again.
4 
In desire of many marvels over sea,
  Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
  Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.
He is blooded to the open and the sky,
  He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
  Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale. 
      With my “Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!”
         [Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
      Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
         For it’s “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!”
5 
Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear—
  Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel—
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer—
  Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
  Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
So I lead my reckless children from below
  Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine! 
      With my“Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”
         [And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
      So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
         Through the cañons to the waters of the West!
6 
And the tunes that mean so much to you alone—
  Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,
Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan—
  I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun—
  And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done,
  To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think. 
      With my “Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!”
         Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past,
      Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin
         And–the heavier repentance at the last!
7 
Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof—
  I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof—
  I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake
  When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
  Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings? 
      With my “Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!”
         [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]
      But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line
         And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die!
8 
The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre—
  [Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!] 
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire, 
  Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts! 
By the wisdom of the centuries I speak—
  To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth—
I, the joy of life unquestioned—I the Greek—
  I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth!  
      With my “Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”
         [What d’ye lack, my noble masters? What d’ye lack?]
      So I draw the world together link by link:
         Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

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1 
I was Lord of Cities very sumptuously builded.
Seven roaring Cities paid me tribute from afar.
Ivory their outposts were—the guardrooms of them gilded,
And garrisoned with Amazons invincible in war. 
2 
All the world went softly when it walked before my Cities—
Neither King nor Army vexed my peoples at their toil,
Never horse nor chariot irked or overbore my Cities,
Never Mob nor Ruler questioned whence they drew their spoil. 
3 
Banded, mailed and arrogant from sunrise unto sunset;
Singing while they sacked it, they possessed the land at large.
Yet when men would rob them, they resisted, they made onset
And pierced the smoke of battle with a thousand-sabred charge. 
4 
So they warred and trafficked only yesterday, my Cities.
To-day there is no mark or mound of where my Cities stood.
For the River rose at midnight and it washed away my Cities.
They are evened with Atlantis and the towns before the Flood. 
5 
Rain on rain-gorged channels raised the water-levels round them,
Freshet backed on freshet swelled and swept their world from sight,
Till the emboldened floods linked arms and, flashing forward, drowned them—
Drowned my Seven Cities and their peoples in one night! 
6 
Low among the alders lie their derelict foundations,
The beams wherein they trusted and the plinths whereon they built—
My rulers and their treasure and their unborn populations,
Dead, destroyed, aborted, and defiled with mud and silt! 
7 
The Daughters of the Palace whom they cherished in my Cities,
My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May—
Their bridegrooms of the June-tide—all have perished in my Cities,
With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play. 
8 
I was Lord of Cities—I will build anew my Cities,
Seven, set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood.
Nor will I rest from search till I have filled anew my Cities
With peoples undefeated of the dark, enduring blood. 
9 
To the sound of trumpets shall their seed restore my Cities
Wealthy and well-weaponed, that once more may I behold
All the world go softly when it walks before my Cities,
And the horses and the chariots fleeing from them as of old!

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1 
The God of Fair Beginnings 
  Hath prospered here my hand—
The cargoes of my lading,
  And the keels of my command.
For out of many ventures
  That sailed with hope as high,
My own have made the better trade,
  And Admiral am I. 
2 
To me my King’s much honour,
  To me my people’s love—
To me the pride of Princes
  And power all pride above;
To me the shouting cities,
  To me the mob’s refrain:—
“Who knows not noble Valdez,
   Hath never heard of Spain.” 
3 
But I remember comrades—
  Old playmates on new seas—
When as we traded orpiment
  Among the savages—
A thousand leagues to south’ard
  And thirty years removed—
They knew not noble Valdez,
  But me they knew and loved. 
4 
Then they that found good liquor,
  They drank it not alone,
And they that found fair plunder,
  They told us every one,
About our chosen islands
   Or secret shoals between,
When, weary from far voyage,
  We gathered to careen. 
5 
There burned our breaming-fagots
  All pale along the shore:
There rose our worn pavilions—
  A sail above an oar;
As flashed each yearning anchor
  Through mellow seas afire,
So swift our careless captains
  Rowed each to his desire. 
6 
Where lay our loosened harness?
  Where turned our naked feet?
Whose tavern ’mid the palm-trees?
  What quenchings of what heat?
Oh fountain in the desert!
  Oh cistern in the waste!
Oh bread we ate in secret!
  Oh cup we spilled in haste! 
7 
The youth new-taught of longing
  The widow curbed and wan,
The goodwife proud at season,
  And the maid aware of man—
All souls unslaked, consuming,
  Defrauded in delays,
Desire not more their quittance
  Than I those forfeit days! 
8 
I dreamed to wait my pleasure
  Unchanged my spring would bide:
Wherefore, to wait my pleasure,
  I put my spring aside
Till, first in face of Fortune,
  And last in mazed disdain,
I made Diego Valdez
   High Admiral of Spain. 
9 
Then walked no wind ’neath Heaven
   Nor surge that did not aid—
I dared extreme occasion,
   Nor ever one betrayed.
They wrought a deeper treason—
  (Led seas that served my needs!)
They sold Diego Valdez
  To bondage of great deeds. 
10 
The tempest flung me seaward,
  And pinned and bade me hold
The course I might not alter—
  And men esteemed me bold!
The calms embayed my quarry,
  The fog-wreath sealed his eyes;
The dawn-wind brought my topsails—
  And men esteemed me wise! 
11 
Yet, ’spite my tyrant triumphs,
  Bewildered, dispossessed—
My dream held I before me—
   My vision of my rest;
But, crowned by Fleet and People,
  And bound by King and Pope—
Stands here Diego Valdez
  To rob me of my hope. 
12 
No prayer of mine shall move him,
  No word of his set free
The Lord of Sixty Pennants
   And the Steward of the Sea.
His will can loose ten thousand
  To seek their loves again—
But not Diego Valdez,
  High Admiral of Spain. 
13 
There walks no wind ’neath Heaven
  Nor wave that shall restore
The old careening riot
  And the clamorous, crowded shore—
The fountain in the desert,
   The cistern in the waste,
The bread we ate in secret,
  The cup we spilled in haste. 
14 
Now call I to my Captains—
  For council fly the sign,
Now leap their zealous galleys,
  Twelve-oared, across the brine.
To me the straiter prison,
  To me the heavier chain—
To me Diego Valdez,
   High Admiral of Spain!

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Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
  Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—
   He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
  And the whisper spreads and widens far and near.
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—
   He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,
  When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
Comes a breathing hard behind thee—snuffle-snuffle through the night—
   It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
    In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear!
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek—
   It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pinetrees fall,
  When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer,
Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all—
  It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap—
  Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear—
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
  Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter—this is Fear!

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