Archives: Poems

The fields were upholstered with poppies so red, 
  And black as my hat was each rook;
And the hedges were bordered, like quilts on a bed, 
  With the bombazine braid of the brook.

And I thought to myself, with an auctioneer's smirk, 
  As I gazed on the freehold so rare:
'O Lord, if on Earth these chaste shows are thy work, 
  Of what is the Kingdom up there?'

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IF I HAVE GIVEN YOU DELIGHT
 BY AUGHT THAT I HAVE DONE,   
LET ME LIE QUIET IN THAT NIGHT
 WHICH SHALL BE YOURS ANON:

AND FOR THE LITTLE, LITTLE SPAN
 THE DEAD ARE BORNE IN MIND,
SEEK NOT TO QUESTION OTHER THAN
 THE BOOKS I LEAVE BEHIND.

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England's on the anvil—hear the hammers ring—
        Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!
Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King— 
        England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line! 

England's on the anvil! Heavy are the blows!
        (But the work will be a marvel when it's done.) 
Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes. 
        England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into one! 

There shall be one people—it shall serve one Lord—
        (Neither Priest nor Baron shall escape!) 
It shall have one speech and law, soul and strength and sword. 
        England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into shape!

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1 
Our gloves are stiff with the frozen blood,
      Our furs with the drifted snow,
As we come in with the seal—the seal!
      In from the edge of the floe. 
Refrain 
Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq! 
      And the yelping dog-teams go,
And the long whips crack, and the men come back,
      Back from the edge of the floe!
2 
We tracked our seal to his secret place,
      We heard him scratch below,
We made our mark, and we watched beside,
       Out on the edge of the floe.
3 
We raised our lance when he rose to breathe,
      We drove it downward—so!
And we played him thus, and we killed him thus,
       Out on the edge of the floe.
4 
Our gloves are glued with the frozen blood,
       Our eyes with the drifting snow;
But we come back to our wives again,
       Back from the edge of the floe! 
Refrain 2 
Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
      And the loaded dog-teams go,
And the wives can hear their men come back,
       Back from the edge of the floe !

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••QUEEN VICTORIA

1 
From every quarter of your land
  They give God thanks who turned away
Death and the needy madman’s hand,
  Death-fraught, which menaced you that day. 
2 
One school of many made to make
   Men who shall hold it dearest right
To battle for their ruler’s sake, 
  And stake their being in the fight, 
3 
Sends greeting humble and sincere—
  Though verse be rude and poor and mean—
To you, the greatest as most dear—
  Victoria, by God’s grace Our Queen!  
4 
Such greeting as should come from those
  Whose fathers faced the Sepoy hordes,
Or served you in the Russian snows,
  And, dying, left their sons their swords.  
5 
And some of us have fought for you
  Already in the Afghan pass—
Or where the scarce-seen smoke-puffs flew
  From Boer marksmen in the grass;  
6 
And all are bred to do your will
   By land and sea—wherever flies
The Flag, to fight and follow still,
  And work your Empire’s destinies.  
7 
Once more we greet you, though unseen
   Our greeting be, and coming slow.
Trust us, if need arise, O Queen,
   We shall not tarry with the blow!

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I am made all things to all men– 
       Hebrew, Roman, and Greek– 
       In each one's tongue I speak,
Suiting to each my word,
That some may be drawn to the Lord!

I am made all things to all men– 
      In City or Wilderness 
      Praising the crafts they profess 
That some may be drawn to the Lord– 
By any means to my Lord! 

Since I was overcome 
      By that great Light and Word,
I have forgot or forgone
The self men call their own
(Being made all things to all men)
      So that I might save some 
      At such small price to the Lord,
As being all things to all men.

I was made all things to all men,
But now my course is done– 
And now is my reward... 
Ah, Christ, when I stand at Thy Throne 
With those I have drawn to the Lord,
 Restore me my self again!

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Today, across our fathers’ graves,
  The astonished years reveal
The remnant of that desperate host
   Which cleansed our East with steel. 

Hail and farewell! We greet you here,
  With tears that none will scorn—
O Keepers of the House of old,
  Or ever we were born! 

One service more we dare to ask—
  Pray for us, heroes, pray,
That when Fate lays on us our task
  We do not shame the Day!

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The drowsy carrier sways
    To the drowsy horses’ tramp.
His axles winnow the sprays
Of the hedge where the rabbit plays
     In the light of his single lamp. 

He hears a roar behind,
    A howl, a hoot, and a yell,
A headlight strikes him blind
And a stench o’erpowers the wind 
    Like a blast from the mouth of Hell. 

He mends his swingle-bar,
    And loud his curses ring;
But a mother watching afar
Hears the hum of the doctor’s car
    Like the beat of an angel’s wing! 

So, to the poet’s mood,
    Motor or carrier’s van,
Properly understood,
Are neither evil nor good—
    Ormuzd nor Ahriman!

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1 
This is the end of a Year 
        Auntie dear; 
        Drear—
  (Horridly, hopelessly drear) 
        As I write
        In the night;
  (From the depths of a frosty night) 
I've little to show for the year,
        I fear,
In the book of the Bank or the Heart. 
  (In cash or Flo's heart.) 
I'm twelve months older its true—
        Entre nous, 
That's all I can truthfully write 
        Tonight—
Painful, but painfully true.
2 
I'm drawing three hundred a year 
        Out here,
  But it's queer
I'd barter the 'bloomin' lot' 
        On the spot,
        (If I could)
        For the wood
Pavement of Kensington High– 
  Street, and a London sky,
And the noise of the local trains, 
  (Those merry city trains)
And the flashing theatre lights, 
        In the Strand,
  And the bustle and stir o'nights— 
  And 'the touch of a vanished hand'.
3 
(Do you think you could understand 
  What it is to live in the plains, 
(The doleful dusty plains)
        Alone, like a hermit crab,
  Where gas is never seen
        And there's half the world between 
        Yourself and a hansom cab?)
4 
So I dream of a thousand things, 
  (As I scribble & smoke and think) 
Of months with leaden wings,
  Bedraggled with printers' ink,
Of chalky Sussex cliffs,
  And how—were it not for the "ifs"—
(Those pestilent practical "if's"')
  I would pack up my traps and go
  By the bounding P and O
        And quit Lahore tonight 
  But that is impossible quite.
5 
For the facts of the case are this 
  (The prose of my being is this)
  On the table beneath my hand, 
  (In a neat little tape-bound row)
  Are the proofs which the printers expect 
  (The proofs which this child must correct)
      For tomorrow's issue you know. 
  And, in case I should be remiss,
      This legend is writ for a guide:— 
      (On their fat little backs for a guide)
      'Sir. Bearer is waiting outside
       Please arrange. Sir,—Yours to command 
       Badshee Shah'—So you see I am tied
        Verily, tight am I tied 
          To the land.
6 
And the moral hereof is plain 
        I maintain
I've lost my first love and the heat
  Of much primal conceit
(Nota Bene, There's lots of it yet
        You bet).
I've lost all the fun of the college, 
  And half my school knowledge,
I've lost my first trust in all men, 
  From Colombo to Quetta,
I've lost (shall I find her again?)
My Love from the place where I set her.
7 
I've gained what is called a 'good start' 
        A horse and a cart
  A gun and a few suits of clothes
        And a stock of 'strange oaths',
  A place at the Club
        And my grub.	
That is—if I face all the ills 
        Of fevers and chills,
  And, once in two years, take a tolera–
        Ble chance of a spasm of cholera. 
In view of which facts I may safely assert
  That I'm bound to Lahore till—I turns to its dirt.
And some fifteen years hence may be gaily employed 
In spreading the germs of malignant typhoid.
Or, with cowdung and straw, duly plastered and set,
I may guard my successor's young head from the wet.

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