A Spring Harvest

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

Title: A Spring Harvest

Author: Geoffrey Bache Smith

Release Date: February 26, 2015 [EBook #48371]
Reposted: March 07, 2015 [textual corrections made]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SPRING HARVEST ***

Produced by Andrew Dunning.

Based on scans by the British Library.

A Spring Harvest

To HIS MOTHER

Geoffrey Bache Smith

Born

October 18th, 1894

Entered Corpus Christi College, Oxford, as Exhibitioner

October 1913

Received Commission

January 1915

Died of wounds at Warlencourt, France

December 3rd, 1916

A Spring Harvest

by

Geoffrey Bache Smith

Late Lieutenant in the Lancashire Fusiliers

Erskine Macdonald, Ltd.

London, W.C.1

All Rights Reserved

First published June 1918

Note

The poems of this book were written at very various times, one (“Wind over the Sea”) I believe even as early as 1910, but the order in which they are here given is not chronological beyond the fact that the third part contains only poems written after the outbreak of the war. Of these some were written in England (at Oxford in particular), some in Wales and very many during a year in France from November 1915 to December 1916, which was broken by one leave in the middle of May.

“The Burial of Sophocles,” which is here placed at the end, was begun before the war and continued at odd times and in various circumstances afterwards; the final version was sent me from the trenches.

Beyond these few facts no prelude and no envoi is needed other than those here printed as their author left them.

J. R. R. T.

1918.

Contents

Note 7

Contents 9

I. Two Legends 13

Glastonbury 13

Legend 21

II. First Poems 24

Rime 24

To an Elzevir Cicero 26

To a Dürer Drawing of Antwerp Harbour 27

Pure Virginia 28

A Preface for a Tale I have never told 29

A Sonnet 30

“It was all in the Black Countree” 31

To a Pianist 32

A Fragment 33

Sea Poppies 34

“O, sing me a Song of the Wild West Wind” 35

Ære Perennius 36

The Old Kings 37

“O there be Kings whose Treasuries” 38

A Study 39

The Eremite 40

The House of Eld 41

The South-west Wind 42

Schumann: Erstes Verlust 43

“Dark Boughs against a Golden Sky” 44

“Wind of the Darkness” 45

Creator Spiritus 46

Wind over the Sea 47

Songs on the Downs 48

III. Last Poems and “The Burial of Sophocles” 49

“We who have bowed ourselves to Time” 49

Anglia Valida in Senectute 50

“Dark is the World our Fathers left us” 51

Awakening 52

Ave atque Vale 53

“O, one came down from Seven Hills” 55

Sonnet to the British Navy 57

The Last Meeting 58

The New Age and the Old 59

To the Cultured 60

Afterwards 61

Domum redit Poeta 62

Memories 63

Intercessional 64

April 1916 65

“Over the Hills and Hollows Green” 66

Sonnet 67

“O Long the Fiends of War shall dance” 68

For R. Q. G. 69

“Sun and Shadow and Winds of Spring” 70

“Let us tell Quiet Stories of Kind Eyes” 71

“Save that Poetic Fire” 72

The Burial of Sophocles 73

“So we lay down the Pen” 78

If there be one among the Muses nine

Loves not so much Completion as the Will,

And less the austere saint than the fond sinner:

Loves scanty ruins, garlanded with years,

Better than lofty palaces entire:

To her I dedicate this spoiléd sheaf

Of rime that scarcely came to harvesting.

There is a window here in Magdalen

Composite, methinks, of fragments that stark Mars

Has scattered. Even so my verses be

Composite of memories and half-uttered dreams

Welded together sans due ordinance,

Which might have been far other, but that Mars

Scattered and harried them with his ruthless flail.

I. Two Legends

Glastonbury

Thither through moaning woods came Bedivere,

At gloomy breaking of a winter’s day,

Weary and travel-stained and sick at heart,

With a great wound gotten in that last fray

Ere he stood by, and watched the King depart

Down the long, silent reaches of the mere:

And all the earth was sad, and skies were drear,

And the wind cried, and chased the relict leaves

Like ships, that the storm-tossed ocean batters and heaves,

And they fly before the gale, and the mariners fear.

So he found at the last an hermitage

Hard by a little hill, and sheltering trees

That bent gaunt branches in the winter’s breeze;

And he drew rein, and leant, and struck the door:

Then presently came forth an hermit sage

And helped him to dismount with labour sore:

Straight went they in, but Bedivere being lame

Stumbled against the open door, and swooned,

And would have fallen, but the hermit caught

And laid him gently down; then hurrying brought

From a great chest a cordial, and came

That he might drink, and so beheld his wound.

Long time lay Bedivere betwixt life and death,

Like a torn traveller on a stormy height

’Twixt one wind and another: till his breath

Came easier, and he prospered. Then did sleep

Bathe him in soothing waters, soft and deep,

And left him whole, at breaking of the light,

So he beheld the old man, and desired

That he would tell of whom he was, and whence.

Whereat once more the ancient eyes were fired:

“I, I was Arthur’s bishop, at his court

And in his church I ministered, and thence

When at the last the whole was overthrown

With wrath and ill designings, straight I sought

A place where I might die, too feeble grown

To endure a new beginning to my years

When once the past was lost, and whelmed in tears.

Hither I came, where, in the dawns of time

Dim peoples, that the very stones forget,

Lived, loved, and fought, and wove the riddling rime

On a lake island mystically set.

They passed, and after ages manifold

Came wandering sainted Joseph (even he

That tended God’s frail body, and enrolled

In linen clothes of spicèd fragrancy).

He brought the vessel, vanished now from earth

That wrought destruction to the Table Round,

Since many deemed themselves above their worth

And sought in vain, and perished ere they found.”

Then Bedivere: “Alas the King! I saw

The unstayed overwhelming tide of war:

And when the opposèd standards were unfurled

Of Arthur and of Mordred, his base son,

Ere yet the noise of battle was begun

I heard the heralds crying to the world:

“‘Ye that have sought out pallid harmonies

Where never wind blows, save the gentle south:

Ye that have trafficked on the sounding seas

And fear nor cheerless rains, nor scorching drouth:

“‘Ye that have piled the rich, full-ripened crops

Of word and measure, till the rime, grown proud,

Did straight contemn the leaping mountain tops

And lose itself in air, and riven cloud:

“‘Ye that have lived a dangerous life of war

Whose speech has been bold words and heady boasts

Gather, for strife and death unknown before,

Come gather all unto the fronting hosts.’

“I saw the last dim battle in the mist

There, where a dreary waste of barren sand

Doth mark the ultimate leagues of this fair land;

Scarce we beheld the foe we struck, or wist

Which party had advantage: like thin wraiths

Fit to throng Lethe banks the warriors

Struck and o’ercame, or fell, unseen, unwept;

And alien hopes, lives, peoples, alien faiths

Were all confounded on those desolate shores.

And ever the mist seethed, and the waves kept

A hollow chanting, as they mourned the end

Of all mankind, and of created time.

How many fell therein of foe or friend

I know not, save that when the darkness came

And the mist cleared, I found at last the King,

His armour and visage fouled with blood and slime,

And fading in his eyes the ancient flame.

“I saw him make on Mordred with his spear,

And crying ‘Tide me death, betide me life,

He shall not live, that wrought the accursed thing,’

Put a dread ending to the outworn strife.

I saw them fall together, and, drawn near.

Knew that the King was wounded unto death.

“Then as he drew with growing pain his breath

I looked, and saw a long, black barge that stole

Across the waters, like a wandering soul

Returnèd from the woeful realm, to view

The ancient haunts well-loved that once it knew.

And when it touched the shallows I did bear

The dying Arthur as he bade, and there

I placed him ’mid dark forms: I could not tell

Whose they might be; and wept, and breathed farewell.”

Then spake the eremite: “Beyond yon door

There stands a chapel, ancient and weatherworn,

And there did worship in the days of yore

The sons of kings. The night ere you came hither

I was awakened by the sound of feet.

And I looked forth, and saw a body borne

By veilèd figures straight, as they knew whither,

In at the chapel gateway. I went down

And found that they had digged a grave, most meet

For one of saintly life, or king by birth:

They seemed some score, and by blown candles’ light

I saw that each with tears bedewed his gown

Ere sank the corse into the waiting earth,

Then prayed, and so went out into the night.”

Thereon the twain arose, and went straightway

Toward the old, dim chapel, and beheld

The stone beneath whose length the body lay:

Kneeling they closely scanned it all, and spelled

Graven in golden character, “Arcturus

Rex Quondamque Futurus.”

                                    Quoth Bedivere:

“Thank God this voice remaineth unto us;

Now I do mind me of a prophecy

Spoken long since in some emblazoned year,

How Arthur should escape mortality

And lie beneath the hills, in cavern deep

Or on some shore, where faery seas do break:

Around him all his warriors shall sleep,

Who at a great bell’s sounding shall awake

What time th’ old enemy spreads death and harm

Thorough his ancient realm, and the last woes

Go over her; his own victorious arm

Shall rid the stricken land of hate and foes.”

So leave we them, each head inaureoled

With the awakening spring’s young sunlight-gold.

Then, on an evening, hurrying footsteps rung

Without the door, and straight ’twas open flung,

They saw who stood therein, and each one knew

The face unspared by years and strife and shame,

Pale as the moon is pale on winter nights,

With deep eyes dreaming like September haze,

Or lit with lust of battle, eyes that few

Had looked on and forgot; in such wise came

Lancelot, the hero of immortal fights,

Lancelot, the golden knight of golden days.

“Whence cam’st thou, Lancelot?” “Even from the

    Queen,

The Queen that was, whom now a convent’s shade

Imprisons, and a dark and tristful veil

Enwraps those brows, that in old days were seen

Most puissant proud of all that ever made

The traitor honest, and the valorous frail.

“Yet evermore about her form there clings

And evermore shall cling, the ancient grace,

Like evening sunlight lingering on the mere:

And till the end of all created things

There shall be some one found, shall strive to trace

The immortal loveliness of Guinevere.

“Shall I not mind me of old ecstasies

In Camelot, beneath the ancient walls,

In shady paths, and marble terraces

Rose-fragrant, where eternal sunlight falls.

But ah! the last long kiss is ta’en and given,

And the last look in those unfathomed eyes,

The passionate last embrace is coldly riven,

And all is grief, beneath the pitiless skies.

“Gods of the burnt-out hearth, the wandered wind,

Gods of pale dawns that vanished long ago,

Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf.

The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf,

Gods half-forgot in the wild ages’ flow

Yours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned.”

Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rain

Swelled the lean brooks, until the gelid year

Shot forth its icy hand, and grasped again.

Again the hanging clouds were struck and furled

By winds of winter, until skies were clear,

And there was frost o’ nights, and all the world

Lay glistening to the newly risen sun.

Till came that season, wherein solemn days

Do celebrate the reign on earth begun

Of the most blessèd Child, whenas all ways

Were bound, and all the fields were white with snow.

Then in the chapel at high noon they three

Offered their quiet orisons and so

Came forth and looked upon the purity,

And when he saw the fields all stainless-white

Lancelot groaned in spirit, and spake: “How sore

And no wise joyous to a sinner’s sight

Is this dear land, where the snow lies untrod.

Even so once before the eyes of God

My soul lay all unspotted; now no more.”

“Courage, my son, and patience,” quoth the sage;

No sin there is, that shall not lose its stain

Through the great love of God, and His dear Son.

Repent and be forgiven: know that none

Shall sue before His throne, and sue in vain,

Nor shall one name be blotted from the page

If he that bears it turn to prayer and tears.”

Then Lancelot: “Though through the tale of years

That still are left before the longed-for earth

Receive my body, I should strive amain

To slay myself, and gain regenerate birth,

Alas it were all profitless and vain.

Verily, when I came unto this place

I railed on God, that I had lost my soul

And nothing gained: until a heavenly grace

Enwrapped me, like some sick man made half whole,

And now my grief is only for old sin.

But ah, what boots it? Lo, this barren tree

(He touched a shrub that grew beside the door),

This tree, methinks, shall bud and blossom before

I pass the gates divine, and enter in

To the fair country I must never see.”

But even as he spoke, the hand of God

Worked on the sombre branches, and straightway

They were all green with sap, and bud, and leaf,

As at the very bidding of the spring,

Burst forth, and soon each tender branch was gay

With flowers that nodded in the winter’s breeze

(So blossomed in old time the prophet’s rod),

And Lancelot stood and saw the wondrous thing.

Then softly spake the hermit, “Now is grief

Reproved, and sorrow cast out with the lees;

For God beholds the living, not the dead;

And He that took the semblance of a child

Loves He but penance, and the drooping head,

Has He not sung for joy, has He not smiled?”

So they grew old together, and the years

Pressed no more to their lips the cup of tears

(They had drained all, maybe). And ever less

Seemed all things mortal, as in quietness

They pondered the eternal mysteries

(The noblest heritage of all men born),

Such as are writ upon the face of dawn,

Or in the glamour of a moonlit night,

Or in the autumn swallow’s southern flight,

Or in the breaking of the restless seas:

Or dreamed rich, hallowed dreams of aureate days

While yet the King was young, and sunlight fell

On bower and roof of ancient Camelot:

Of triumph clarion, and thanksgiving bell,

When all was song, and laughter, and high praise,

Even when as yet the accursed thing was not.

Then would loom out from the chill mists of time

The faces and the forms remembered still,

The King and Guinevere, and Galahad,

That rode upon a peerless quest and dire,

Kay, swift and hasty as a flame of fire,

And gentle Percival, whom to give made glad;

Merlin, contriver of the riddling rime,

And Gawain, silent harbinger of ill.

So as the day draws ever toward the dark,

Ever toward peace the great wind’s sounding breath,

And ever toward the further shore the bark

They drew to the dark, silent realm of death.

Far, far away from their old palace-halls

Where once they lived a splendid life and vain,

That now are scattered stones and crumbled walls

In some soft vale, or by the echoing main,

Beneath the springing grass, and very deep

They three do lie, where never mornings rise

To ope the portals of their dazèd eyes,

Nor ever mortal footstep breaks their sleep,

And near beside lies Arthur, even he

That was King once, and yet again shall be.

Legend

Grey, ancient abbeys, you may see them yet,

In that high plain above the western sea:

A broken arch or two, a few worn stones

Piled one upon another, and for paving

Uneven fragments with tall grass between:

Grass that is always green, winter and summer,

The grass that grows on long-forgotten graves.

It was a springtime morning long ago,

A morning of blue skies and whitest clouds,

And singing birds, and singing streams, and woods

That shone like silver, yet untouched with green:

The brethren of an abbey of the plain

—Whereof what now is ruin yet was whole—

Were labouring as holy brethren must,

Quietly, and in peace: and elder ones

Paced in the cloister, and some, older still,

Too old to work or dream, sat in the sunlight,

The sunlight which they soon should see no more.

And there came from the wood upon the hill

One clothed in the sere habit of a monk,

That passed in at the portal of the abbey:

Brighter his face than is the face of spring,

And joy was in his tread, as in his soul.

And some that paced the cloister paused to glance

    at him,

And one that went upon an errand stayed,

And some that laboured left their work, and came

Gathering round him, and he spake, and said:

    “Very fair the golden morning

        As in yonder wood I strayed,

    And I heard diviner music

        Than the greatest harpers made,

    For a sweet bird sang before me

        Songs of laughter, and of tears.

    All that I have loved and longed for,

        As I measured out my years.

    Sang of blessed shores and golden

        Where the old, dim heroes be,

    Distant isles of sunset glory,

        Set beyond the western sea.

    Sang of Christ and Mary Mother

        Hearkening unto angels seven

    Playing on their golden harp-strings

        In the far courts of high Heaven.”

So they stood by, and listened to his speech,

Rhythmic, for that great joy was in his soul:

But while they wondered whence he was, and who,

He cast his eyes around, and, shuddering, cried:

“Who are ye, that I thought to be my brothers?

Strangers and sons of strangers! Where are they

I left behind me but an hour ago?”

Then was there whispering among the throng,

And wonder not a little, and some scorn;

Till he that spake, with anguish in his eye,

Cried: “Take me to a cell, that I may pray.”

’Twas done, and in the golden afternoon

A brother entered, and found none within,

Only a sere monk’s habit, and much dust,

As of a body crumbled in the grave.

And while they wondered what these things might be,

At last spake forth the oldest of them all,

Burdened with hundred winters in his soul:

“I can remember, when my years were young,

Hearing the old monks say, one went from here

When spring was on the earth, as it is now,

Some five-score years ago, and was not seen

Again, though search was made in all the land.”

And some believed this was the same, and all

Forgot it in a sennight’s silent toil.

Save one, that saw, and seeing understood,

And for the greater glory of High God

Wrote down the story in a mighty book,

And limned the old saint hearkening to the bird

With bright hues, and you still may read and see.

II. First Poems

Rime

O scholar grey, with quiet eyes,

Reading the charactered pages, bright

With one tall candle’s flickering light,

In a turret chamber under the skies;

O scholar, learned in gramarye,

Have you seen the manifold things I see?

Have you seen the forms of tracèd towers

Whence clamorous voices challenge the hours:

Gaunt tree-branches, pitchy black

Against the long, wind-driven wrack

Of scurrying, shuddering clouds, that race

Ever across the pale moon’s face?

Have you heard the tramp of hurrying feet.

There beneath, in the shadowy street,

Have you heard sharp cries, and seen the flame

Of silvery steel, in a perilous game,

A perilous game for men to play,

Hid from the searching eyes of day?

Have you heard the great awakening breath,

Like trump that summons the saints from death,

Of the wild, majestical wind, which blows

Loud and splendid, that each man knows

Far, O far away is the sea,

Breaking, murmuring, stark and free?

All these things I hear and see,

I, a scholar of gramarye:

All are writ in the ancient books

Clear, exactly, and he that looks

Finds the night and the changing sea,

The years gone by, and the years to be:

(He that searches, with tireless eyes

In a turret-chamber under the skies)

Passion and joy, and sorrow and laughter,

Life and death, and the things thereafter.

To an Elzevir Cicero

Dust-covered book, that very few men know,

    Even as very few men understand

    The glory of an ancient, storied land

In the wild current of the ages’ flow,

Have not old scholars, centuries ago

    Caressed you in the hollow of their hand,

    The while with quiet, kindly eyes they scanned

Your pages, yellowed now, then white as snow?

A voice there is, cries through your every word,

Of him, that after greatest glory came

    Down the grey road to darkness and to tears;

A voice like far seas in still valleys heard,

Crying of love and death and hope and fame

    That change not with the changing of the years.

To a Dürer Drawing of Antwerp Harbour

Figured by Dürer’s magic hand wast thou,

    That, lightning-like, traced on the lucid page

    Rough, careless lines, with wizardry so sage

That yet the whole was fair, I know not how:

Ships of gaunt masts, and stark, sea-smitten prow,

    Idle, yet soon again to sweep the main

    In the swift service of old merchants’ gain,

Where are ye now, alas, where are ye now?

Gone are ye all, and vanished very long,

    Sunk with great glory in the storied wars,

        Or conquered by the leaping breakers wild:

And yet we love your image, like some song

    That tells of ancient days and high, because

        Old Dürer looked upon you once and smiled.

Pure Virginia

York River Returns

Like smoke that vanishes on the morning breeze

    Are passed the first beginnings of the world,

    When time was even as a bud still curled,

And scarce the limit set of lands and seas;

Like smoke, like smoke the composite auguries

    Of Hebrew and of Hellene are all furled,

    Fulfilled or else forgot, and idly hurled

This way or that way, as the great winds please:

Aye, and like smoke of this delicious herb

    Brought by strange ways the curious mind may guess,

        From where the parrot and the leopard be,

My thoughts, that should be strong, the years to curb

    Go up, and vanish into nothingness

        On a blue cloud of exquisite fragrancy.

A Preface for a Tale I have never told

Herein is nought of windy citadels

Where proud kings dwell, that with an iron hand

Deal war or justice: here no history

Of valiant ships upon the wine-dark seas

Passing strange lands and threading channels strait

Between embalmed islands: here no song

That men shall sing in battle and remember

When they are old and grey beside the fire:

Only a story gathered from the hills

And the wind crying of forgotten days,

A story that shall whisper, “All things change—

For friends do grow indifferent, and loves

Die like a dream at morning: bitterness

Is the sure heritage of all men born,

And he alone sees truly, who looks out

From some huge aery peak, considering not

Fast-walled cities, or the works of men,

But turns his gaze unto the mountain-tops

And the unfathomable blue of heaven

That only change not with the changing years”——

A tale that shod itself with ancient shoon

And wrapped its cloak, and wandered from the west.

A Sonnet

There is a wind that takes the heart of a man,

    A fresh wind in the latter days of spring,

    When hate and war and every evil thing

That the wide arches of high Heaven span

Seems dust, and less to be accounted than

    The omened touches of a passing wing:

    When Destiny, that calls himself a king,

    Goes all forgotten for the song of Pan:

For why? Because the twittering of birds

    Is the best music that was ever sung,

Because the voice of trees finds better words

    Than ever poet from his heartstrings wrung:

Because all wisdom and all gramarye

Are writ in fields, O very plain to see.

“It was all in the Black Countree”

It was all in the Black Countree,

What time the sweet o’ the year should be,

I saw a tree, all gaunt and grey,

As mindful of a winter’s day:

And that a lonely bird did sit

Upon the topmost branch of it,

Who to my thought did sweeter sing

Than any minstrel of a king.

To a Pianist

When others’ fingers touch the keys

Then most doleful threnodies

Chase about the air, and run

Like Pandæmonium begun.

Rhythm strained and false accord

In a ceaseless stream are poured;

Then sighs are heard, and men depart

To seek the sage physician’s art,

Or silence, and a little ease,

When others’ fingers touch the keys.

When your fingers touch the keys

Hark, soft sounds of summer seas

In a melody most fair

Whisper through the pleasant air,

Or a winding mountain stream

Glitters to the pale moonbeam,

Or a breeze doth stir the tops

Of springtime larches in a copse,

Or the winds are loosed and hurled

About the wonder-stricken world

With immortal harmonies,

When your fingers touch the keys.

A Fragment

————

And some came down in a great wind

    Under grey scurrying skies

To where the long wave-beaten shore

    For ever shrieks and cries.

O, fling aside your toil, your care,

    When one cries of the sea,

And the great waves that foam and toss,

    And the white clouds that flee:

Let us forget our weariness,

    Forget that we have sinned,

So we but sail, what matters it

    If Death ride on the wind?

Storm from the sky, storm from the sea

    Beat on them as they stood,

And a great longing sprang in them

    To cross the roaring flood. . . .

Sea Poppies

’Twixt lonely lands and desert beach,

Where no wind blows and no waves reach,

A sunken precinct here we keep,

With woven wiles of endless sleep;

Our twisted stems of sere-hued green,

Our pallid blooms what sun has seen?

And he that tastes our magic breath

Shall sleep that sleep whose name is death.

Wild clouds are scurrying overhead,

The wild wind’s voice is loud and dread,

Sounding the knell of the dying day,

Yet here is silence and gloom alway.

And a great longing seizes me

To burst my bondage and be free,

To look on winds’ and waters’ strife,

And breathe in my nostrils the breath of life.

Give me not dim and slumbrous ease,

But sounding storm and labouring seas,

Not peaceful and untroubled years,

But toil and warfare and passion and tears.

And I would fall in valorous fight,

And lie on lofty far-seen height.

Yet how to burst these prison-bands,

Forged by unseen spirit-hands?

O seek not to burst our prison bands

Forged by unseen spirit-hands.

Clashing battle and labouring sea,

    These be for others, not for thee.

Thou lover of storm and passion and war

Break’st our charmed circle never more.

“O, sing me a Song of the Wild West Wind”

O, sing me a song of the wild west wind,

    And his great sea-harrying flail,

Of hardy mariners, copper skinned,

    That fly with a bursting sail.

They see the clouds of crispèd white

    That shadow the distant hills,

And filled are they with a strange delight

    As shaking away old ills.

O, give me a boat that is sure and stark,

    And swift as a slinger’s stone,

With a sail of canvas bronzèd dark,

    And I will go out alone:

Nor fear nor sorrow my soul shall keep

    When around me lies the sea,

And I will return with the night, and sleep

    In the wind’s wild harmony.

Ære Perennius

Written on Commemoration Sunday, Corpus Christi College, Oxford

We praise, we praise the immortal dead,

    Who strove beneath unheeding skies

For truth that raised the drooping head,

    For light that gladdened weary eyes:

The martyr’s cross, the warrior’s sword,

    How should they be of lesser worth

Than some unprofitable hoard

    In ancient mines below the earth?

The song that one alone has sung,

    The great uncompromising page,

Are these but glittering baubles, flung

    About the world from age to age?

But ruin’d columns, wondrous tall,

    Built in old time with labour sore,

The mighty deeds done once for all,

    The voice heard once, and heard no more?

Rather they shine as doth the star

    About the close of winter’s day,

That cheers the traveller afar

    And draws him on, and points the way.

————

We praise, we praise the immortal dead.

    Do they not verily wait till we

Of the spoilt years unharvested

    Be also of their company?

The Old Kings

Far away from sunny rills,

Far away from golden broom,

Far away from any town

Whither merchants travel down—

In a hollow of the hills

In impenetrable gloom

Sit the old forgotten kings

Unto whom no poet sings,

Unto whom none makes bequest,

Unto whom no kingdoms rest,——

Only wayward shreds of dreams,

And the sound of ancient streams,

And the shock of ancient strife

On the further shore of life.

————

When our days are done, shall we

Enter their pale company?

“O there be Kings whose Treasuries”

O there be kings whose treasuries

    Are rich with pearls and gold

And silks and bales of cramasy

    And spices manifold:

Gardens they have with marble stairs

    And streams than life more fair,

With roses set and lavender

    That do enchant the air.

O there be many ships that sail

    The sea-ways wide and blue,

And there be master-mariners

    To sail them straight and true:

And there be many women fair

    Who watch out anxiously,

And are enamoured of the day

    Their dear ones come from sea:

But riches I can find enow

    All in a barren land,

Where sombre lakes shine wondrously

    With rocks on either hand:

And I can find enow of love

    Up there, alone, alone,

With none beside me save the wind,

    Nor speech except his moan.

For there far up among the hills

    The great storms come and go

In a most proud processional

    Of cloud and rain and snow:

There light and darkness only are

    A changing benison

Of the old gods who wrought the world

    And shaped the moon and sun.

A Study

In chamber hung with white,

Lit by the dawning light,

Upon a slender bed

She lies, as she were dead:

Most carven-ivory fair,

And palely gold her hair.

Lo, the sun’s yellow ray,

That, with the rise of day,

Through quartered casement came

To wake her life’s pale flame.

The Eremite

When the world is still in the hush of dawn,

And yet fast sleeping are hate and scorn,

From my grey lodging under the hill

I do go out, and wander at will.

Of nights when the riven clouds are hurled,

And strife and rancour possess the world,

I sit alone, with thoughts that are chill,

In my grey lodging under the hill.

The House of Eld

Now the old winds are wild about the house,

    And the old ghosts cry to me from the air

Of a far isle set in the western sea,

    And of the evening sunlight lingering there.

Ah! I am bound here, bound and fettered,

    The dark house crumbles, and the woods decay,

I was too fain of life, that bound me here;

    Away, old long-loved ghosts, away, away!

The South-west Wind

The south-west wind has blown his fill,

    And vanished with departing day:

The air is warm, and very still,

    And soft as silks of far Cathay.

This is a night when spirits stray.

    Their wan limbs bear them where they will;

They wring their pallid hands alway,

    Seeing the lights upon the hill.

Schumann: Erstes Verlust

O, dreary fall the leaves,

The withered leaves;

Among the trees

Complains the breeze,

That still bereaves.

All silent lies the mere,

The silver mere,

In saddest wise

Reflecting skies

Forlorn and sere.

Would autumn had not claimed its own

And would the swallows had not flown.

Skies overcast!

Leaves falling fast!

And she has passed

And left the woodland strown,

The woodland strown,

The silver mere,

The dying year,

And me alone.

Skies overcast!

Leaves falling fast!

Does she that passed

Dream of the woodland strown,

The woodland strown,

The silver mere,

The dying year,

And me alone?

“Dark Boughs against a Golden Sky”

Dark boughs against a golden sky,

    And crying of the winter wind:

And sweet it is, for hope is high,

    And sad it is, for we have sinned.

Perfect is nature’s every part

    In sunny rest, or windy strife:

But never yet the perfect heart,

    And never yet the perfect life!

Dark boughs against a golden sky,

    And crying of the winter wind:

And in the cold earth we must lie,

    What matter then if we have sinned?

For evermore and evermore

    Shall the great river onward roll:

And ever winding streams and poor

    Shall lose them in the mighty whole.

“Wind of the Darkness”

Wind of the darkness, breathing round us,

    Wind from the never-resting sea,

Lo, you have loosed the cords that bound us,

    Lo, you have set our spirits free:

Free to take wings, like the sea-bird lonely

    Beating hardily up the wind:

Fixed are his eyes on the waters only,

    Never a glance for the land behind.

Wind of the darkness, breathing round us,

    Wind from the never-resting sea.

Was it the old gods’ voice that found us

    Here, where the bars of prison be?

From the far isle that neither knoweth

    Change of season, nor time’s increase,

Where is plenty, and no man soweth:

    Calling to strife that shall end in peace.

Creator Spiritus

The wind that scatters dying leaves

    And whirls them from the autumn tree

Is grateful to the ship that cleaves

    With stately prow the scurrying sea.

Heedless about the world we play

    Like children in a garden close:

A postern bars the outward way

    And what’s beyond it no man knows:

For careless days, a life at will,

    A little laughter, and some tears,

These are sufficiency to fill

    The early, vain, untroubled years,

Till at the last the wind upheaves

    His unimagined strength, and we

Are scattered far, like autumn leaves,

    Or proudly sail, like ships at sea.

Wind over the Sea

    Only a grey sea, and a long grey shore,

    And the grey heavens brooding over them.

    Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot,

    Twilight of ceaseless eld, and when was youth?

    Is it not lonely here, beyond the years?

Out of the gathering darkness crashes a wind from the

    ocean,

Rushing with league-long paces over the plain of the

    waters,

Driving the clouds and the breakers before it in sudden

    commotion.

Who are these on the wind, riders and riderless horses?

Riders the great ones that have been and are, and those

    to come shall be:

These are the children of might, life’s champions and

    history’s forces.

Might I but grasp at a bridle, and fear not to be trodden

    under,

Swing myself into a saddle, and ride on greatly, exulting

On down the long straight road of the wind, a galloping

    thunder!

    Only a grey sea, and a long grey shore,

    And the grey heavens brooding over them,

    Twilight of hopes and purposes forgot,

    Twilight of ceaseless eld, for when was youth?

    Is it not lonely here, beyond the years?

Songs on the Downs

1

This is the road the Romans made,

    This track half lost in the green hills,

Or fading in a forest-glade

    ’Mid violets and daffodils.

The years have fallen like dead leaves,

    Unwept, uncounted, and unstayed

(Such as the autumn tempest thieves),

    Since first this road the Romans made.

2

A miser lives within this house,

His patron saint’s the gnawing mouse,

And there’s no peace upon his brows.

A many ancient trees and thin

Do fold the place their shade within,

And moan, as for remembered sin.

III. Last Poems and “The Burial of Sophocles”

“We who have bowed ourselves to Time”

We who have bowed ourselves to time

Now arm an uneventful rime

    With panoply of flowers

    Through the long summer hours. . . .

But now our fierce and warlike Muse

Doth soft companionship refuse,

    And we must mount and ride

    Upon a steed untried. . . .

We who have led by gradual ways

Our placid life to sterner days

    And for old quiet things

    Have set the strife of kings,

Who battled have with bloody hands

Through evil times in barren lands,

    To whom the voice of guns

    Speaks and no longer stuns,

Calm, though with death encompassèd,

That watch the hours go overhead

    Knowing too well we must

    With all men come to dust. . . .

Crave of our masters’ clemency

Silence a little space that we

    Upon their ear may force

    Tales of our trodden course.

Anglia Valida in Senectute

(On the Declaration of War)

Not like to those who find untrodden ways;

    But down the weary paths we know,

Through every change of sky and change of days

    Silent, processional we go.

Not unto us the soft, unlaboured breath

    Of children’s hopes and children’s fears:

We are not sworn to battle to the death

    With all the wrongs of all the years:

We are old, we are old, and worn and school’d with ills,

    Maybe our road is almost done,

Maybe we are drawn near unto the hills

    Where rest is and the setting sun:

But yet a pride is ours that will not brook

    The taunts of fools too saucy grown,

He that is rash to prove it, let him look

    He kindle not a fire unknown.

Since first we flung our gauntlet to the skies

    And dared the high Gods’ will to bend,

A fire that still may burn deceit and lies

    Burn and consume them to the end.

“Dark is the World our Fathers left us”

Dark is the world our fathers left us,

    Wearily, greyly the long years flow,

Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us,

    Far is the high gods’ song and low:

Sombre the crests of the mountains lonely,

    Leafless, wind-ridden, moan the trees:

Down in the valleys is twilight only,

    Twilight over the mourning seas:

Time was when earth was always golden,

    Time was when skies were always clear:

Spirits and souls of the heroes olden,

    Faint are cries from the darkness, hear!

Tear ye the veil of time asunder

    Tear the veil, ’tis the gods’ command,

Hear we the sun-stricken breakers thunder

    Over the shore where the heroes stand.

————

Dark is the world our fathers left us,

    Heavily, greyly the long years flow,

Almost the gloom has of hope bereft us,

    Far is the high gods’ song and low.

Awakening

Gold-crested towers against the veilèd skies,

Sere branches of the winter trees beneath,

And a low song, and heavy-lidded eyes;

Is there aught else in all the world beside?

Is not time stilled and ended in this hour?

————

Up, and away! the belted squadrons ride!

Ave atque Vale

In Oxford, evermore the same

    Unto the uttermost verge of time,

Though grave-dust choke the sons of men,

    And silence wait upon the rime,

At evening now the skies set forth

    Last glories of the dying year:

The wind gives chase to relict leaves:

    And we, we may not linger here.

A little while, and we are gone:

    God knows if it be ours to see

Again the earliest hoar-frost white

    On the long lawns of Trinity.

In Merton, of the many courts

    And doorways good to wander through,

Gable and spire shall glitter white

    Or tawny gold against the blue:

And still the winter sun shall smile

    At noonday, or at sunset hour

On Magdalen, girt with ancient trees,

    Beneath her bright immortal tower.

Though nevermore we tread the ways

    That our returning feet have known

Past Oriel, and Christ Church gate

    Unto those dearer walls, our own.

————

Oxford is evermore the same,

    Unto the uttermost verge of time,

Though grave-dust choke the sons of men,

    And silence wait upon the rime.

“O, one came down from Seven Hills”

O, one came down from seven hills

    And crossèd seven streams:

All in his hands were thyme and grass

    And in his eyes were dreams:

He passèd by a seven fields

    With early dews all grey

And entered in the stricken town

    About the break of day.

“O you old men that stand and talk

    About the market-place,

There is much trouble in your eyes

    And anguish in your face:

O woman in a silent room

    Within a silent house,

There is no pleasure in your voice

    Or peace upon your brows.”

“O how should such as we rejoice

    Who weep that others die,

Who quake, and curse ourselves, and watch

    The vengeful hours go by?

O better far to fly the grief

    That wounds, and never kills;

O better far to fly the town

    And seek the seven hills——”

“I will go pray the seven gods

    Who keep the seven hills

That they do grant your city peace,

    And easement of her ills.”

“Nay, rather pray the seven gods

    To launch the latest pain;

For there be many things to do

    Ere we see peace again.”

“Then I’ll go praise the seven gods

    With hymns and chauntings seven,

Such as shall split the mountain-tops

    And shrivel up blue heaven:

That there be men who mock at threats

    And wag their heads at strife,

Love home above their own hearts’ blood

    And honour more than life.”

Sonnet to the British Navy

Lest force aspire to brand an alien name

    Upon the immortal empire of the free:

Lest fire and sword and slaughter strive to tame

    This isle, was ne’er so tamed, and ne’er shall be.

Ye guard the ocean barrier, undismayed

    ’Midst hidden perils for a brave man’s fears,

In iron craft that many smiths have made

    With peaceful labour in the old, dead years.

In a small vessel, of one Smith ill-wrought

    I must soon venture on another deep,

And dare, with little hope, and little thought

    Of praise and honour and untroubled sleep:

So, as each sails upon his perilous sea,

    I pray High God He strengthen you, and me.

The Last Meeting

We who are young, and have caught the splendour of

        life,

    Hunting it down the forested ways of the world,

Do we not wear our hearts like a banner unfurled

    (Crowned with a chaplet of love, shod with the sandals

        of strife)?

Now not a lustre of pain, nor an ocean of tears

    Nor pangs of death, nor any other thing

That the old tristful gods on our heads may bring

    Can rob us of this one hour in the midst of the years.

The New Age and the Old

Like the small source of a smooth-flowing river,

    Like the pale dawn of a wonderful day,

Comes the New Age, from High God, the good giver,

    Comes with the shouts of the children at play:

As an old leaf whirls faster and faster

    From the sere branch that once gave it fair birth,

Into the arms of the devil, its master,

    Be the old age swept away from the earth!

To the Cultured

Sons of culture, God-given,

First offspring of Heaven,

Athletic and tanned,

Well-built and not nervous,

With your golf and your tweeds

And your “noble editions,”

Quiet lives and few needs

(Say a thousand a year

For your earthly career)

Who can’t understand

Discontent and seditions,

May Heaven preserve us

From being like you.

What are we, what am I?

Poor rough creatures, whose life

Is “depressing” and “grey,”

Is a heart-breaking strife

With death and with shame

And your polite laughter,

Till—the world pass away

In smoke and in flame,

And some of us die,

And some live on after

To build it anew.

Afterwards

Afterwards, when

The old Gods’ hate

On the riven earth

No more is poured:

When weapons of war

Are all outworn

What shall become

Of the race of men?

One shall go forth

In the likeness of a child:

Under sere skies

Of a grey dawning:

One shall go forth

In the likeness of a child,

And desolate places

Shall spring and blossom:

One shall go forth

In the likeness of a child:

And men shall sing

And greatly rejoice:

All men shall sing

For the love that is in them,

And he shall behold it

And sing also.

Domum redit Poeta

O much desired from far away

    And long, I hold thee once again,

Thou undiminished treasury

    Of small delights, yet nowise vain:

The cat curled on the cosy hearth,

    The thrushes in the garden trees,

The memories of younger years,

    The quiet voices, and the peace.

Memories

Shapes in the mist, it is long since I saw you,

    Pale hands and faces, and quiet eyes,

Crowned with a garland the dead years wrought you

    Out of remembrance that never dies:

One among you is tall and supple

    Good to fight or to love beside,

Only the stain of a deadly quarrel,

    Only that and the years divide:

One there is with a face as honest,

    Heart as true, as the open sea,

One who never betrayed a comrade—

    Death stands now betwixt him and me.

One I loved with a passionate longing

    Born of worship and fierce despair,

Dreamed that Heaven were only happy

    If at length I should find him there.

Shapes in the mist, ye see me lonely,

    Lonely and sad in the dim firelight:

How far now to the last of all battles?

    (Listen, the guns are loud to-night!)

Whatever comes, I will strike once surely,

    Once because of an ancient tryst,

Once for love of your dear dead faces

    Ere I come unto you, Shapes in the mist.

Intercessional

There is a place where voices

    Of great guns do not come,

Where rifle, mine, and mortar

    For evermore are dumb:

Where there is only silence,

    And peace eternal and rest,

Set somewhere in the quiet isles

    Beyond Death’s starry West.

O God, the God of battles,

    To us who intercede,

Give only strength to follow

    Until there’s no more need,

And grant us at that ending

    Of the unkindly quest

To come unto the quiet isles

    Beyond Death’s starry West.

April 1916

Now spring is come upon the hills in France,

And all the trees are delicately fair,

As heeding not the great guns’ voice, by chance

Brought down the valley on a wandering air:

Now day by day upon the uplands bare

Do gentle, toiling horses draw the plough,

And birds sing often in the orchards where

Spring wantons it with blossoms on her brow—

Aye! but there is no peace in England now.

O little isle amid unquiet seas,

Though grisly messengers knock on many doors,

Though there be many storms among your trees

And all your banners rent with ancient wars;

Yet such a grace and majesty are yours

There be still some, whose glad heart suffereth

All hate can bring from her misgotten stores,

Telling themselves, so England’s self draw breath,

That’s all the happiness on this side death.

“Over the Hills and Hollows Green”

Over the hills and hollows green

    The springtide air goes valiantly,

Where many sainted singing larks

    And blessed primaveras be:

But bitterly the springtide air

    Over the desert towns doth blow,

About whose torn and shattered streets

    No more shall children’s footsteps go.

Sonnet

To-night the world is but a prison house,

And kindly ways, and all the springing grass

Are dungeon stones to him that may not pass

Among them, save with anguish on his brows:

And any wretched husbandman that ploughs

The upland acres in his habit spare

Is king, to those in palaces of glass

Who sit with grief and weariness for spouse.

O God, who madest first the world that we

Might happy live, and praise its pleasantness

In such wise as the angels never could,

Wherefore are hearts, fashioned so wondrously,

All spoiled and changed by human bitterness

Into the likenesses of stone and wood?

“O Long the Fiends of War shall dance”

O long the fiends of war shall dance

Upon the stricken fields of France:

And long and long their grisly cry

Shall echo up and smite the sky:

O long and long the tears of God

Shall fall upon a barren sod,

Save when, of His great clemency,

He gives men’s hearts in custody

Of grim old kindly Death, who knows

The mould is better than the rose.

For R. Q. G.

July 1916

O God, whose great inscrutable purposes

(Seen only of the one all-seeing eye)

Are as unchangeable as the azure sky,

And as fulfilled of infinite mysteries:

Are like a fast-locked castle without keys

Whereof the gates are very strong and high,

Impenetrable, and we poor fools die

Nor even know what thing beyond them is:

O God, by whom men’s lives are multiplied,

    Are scattered broadcast in the world like grain,

        And after long time reaped again and stored,

O Thou who only canst be glorified

    By man’s own passion and the supreme pain,

        Accept this sacrifice of blood outpoured.

“Sun and Shadow and Winds of Spring”

Sun and shadow and winds of spring,

    Love and laughter and hope and fame,

Cloud and storm-light over the hills,

    Tears and passion and sordid shame:

All, all are but as quenchèd fire

    And vanish’d smoke to him that lies

Amid the silence of the trees

    Under the silence of the skies.

“Let us tell Quiet Stories of Kind Eyes”

Let us tell quiet stories of kind eyes

    And placid brows where peace and learning sate:

Of misty gardens under evening skies

    Where four would walk of old, with steps sedate.

Let’s have no word of all the sweat and blood,

    Of all the noise and strife and dust and smoke

(We who have seen Death surging like a flood,

      Wave upon wave, that leaped and raced and broke).

Or let’s sit silently, we three together,

    Around a wide hearth-fire that’s glowing red,

Giving no thought to all the stormy weather

    That flies above the roof-tree overhead.

And he, the fourth, that lies all silently

    In some far-distant and untended grave,

Under the shadow of a shattered tree,

    Shall leave the company of the hapless brave,

And draw nigh unto us for memory’s sake,

    Because a look, a word, a deed, a friend,

Are bound with cords that never a man may break,

    Unto his heart for ever, until the end.

“Save that Poetic Fire”

Save that poetic fire

    Burns in the hidden heart,

Save that the full-voiced choir

    Sings in a place apart,

Man that’s of woman born,

    With all his imaginings,

Were less than the dew of morn,

    Less than the least of things.

The Burial of Sophocles

The First Verses

Gather great store of roses, crimson-red

    From ancient gardens under summer skies:

New opened buds, and some that soon must shed

    Their leaves to earth, that all expectant lies;

Some from the paths of poets’ wandering,

    Some from the places where young lovers meet,

Some from the seats of dreamers pondering,

    And all most richly red, and honey-sweet.

For in the splendour of the afternoon,

    When sunshine lingers on the glittering town

And glorifies the temples wondrous-hewn

    All set about it like a deathless crown,

We will go mingle with the solemn throng,

    With neither eyes that weep, nor hearts that bleed,

That to his grave with slow, majestic song

    Bears down the latest of the godlike seed.

Many a singer lies on distant isle

    Beneath the canopy of changing sky:

Around them waves innumerable smile,

    And o’er their head the restless seabirds cry:

But we will lay him far from sound of seas,

    Far from the jutting crags’ unhopeful gloom,

Where there blows never wind save summer breeze,

    And where the growing rose may clasp his tomb.

And thither in the splendid nights of spring,

    When stars in legions over heaven are flung,

Shall come the ancient gods, all wondering

    Why he sings not that had so richly sung:

There Heracles with peaceful foot shall press

    The springing herbage, and Hephæstus strong,

Hera and Aphrodite’s loveliness,

    And the great giver of the choric song.

And thither, after weary pilgrimage,

    From unknown lands beyond the hoary wave,

Shall travellers through every coming age

    Approach to pluck a blossom from his grave:

Some in the flush of youth, or in the prime,

    Whose life is still as heapèd gold to spend,

And some who have drunk deep of grief and time,

    And who yet linger half-afraid the end.

The Interlude

It was upon a night of spring,

Even the time when first do sing

The new-returnèd nightingales;

Whenas all hills and woods and dales

Are resonant with melody

Of songs that die not, but shall be

Unto the latest hour of time

Beyond the life of word or rime—

Whenas all brooks more softly flow

Remembering lovers long ago

That stood upon their banks and vowed,

And love was with them like a cloud:

There came one out of Athens town

In a spun robe, with sandals brown,

Just when the white ship of the moon

Had first set sail, and many a rune

Was written in the argent stars;

His feet were set towards the hills

Because he knew that there the rills

Ran down like jewels, and fairy cars

Galloped, maybe, among the dells,

And airy sprites wove fitful spells

Of gossamer and cold moonshine

Which do most mistily entwine:

And ever the hills called, and a voice

Cried: “Soon, maybe, comes thy choice

Twixt mortal immortality

Such as shall never be again,

’Twixt the most passionate-pleasant pain

And all the quiet, barren joys

That old men prate about to boys.”

————

He wandered many nights and days—

Whose morns were always crystal clear,

As lay the world in still amaze

Enchanted of the springing year,

And all the nights with wakeful eyes

Watched for another dawn to rise—

Till at the last the mountain tops

Received him, which like giant props

Stand, lest the all-encircling sky

Fall down, and men be crushed and die.

And so he reached a curvèd hill

Whereon the hornèd moon did seem

Her richest radiance to spill

In an inestimable stream,

Like jewels rare of countless price,

Or wizard magic turned to ice.

————

And as he reached the topmost crest of it,

Lo! the Olympian majesties did sit

In a most high and passionless conclave:

They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips,

And ever and anon the golden wave

Flowed of the drink divine, which only strips

This mortal frame of its mortality.

And there, and there was Aphrodite, she

That is more lovely than the golden dawn

And from a ripple of the sea was born:

And there was Hera, the imperious queen,

And Dian’s chastity, that hunts unseen

What time with spring the woodland boughs are green:

And there was Pan with mirth and pleasantness,

And Eros’ self that never knew distress

Save for the love of the fair Cretan maid;

There Hermes with the wings of speed arrayed,

And awful Zeus, the king of gods and men,

And ever at his feet Apollo sang

A measure of changing harmonies that rang

From that high mountain over all the world,

And all the sails of fighting ships were furled,

And men drew breath, and there was peace again.

But him that saw, the sight like flame

Or depths of waters overcame:

He swooned, nor heard how ceased the choir

Of strings upon Apollo’s lyre,

Nor saw he how the sweet god stood

And smiled on him in kindly mood,

And stooped, and kissed him as he lay;

Then lightly rose and turned away

To join the bright immortal throng

And make for them another song.

The Last Verses

O ageless nonpareil of stars

    That shinest through a mist of cloud,

O light beyond the prison bars

    Remote, unwavering, and proud;

Fortunate star and happy light,

Ye benison the gloom of night.

All hail, unfailing eye and hand,

    All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice,

That makest dead men understand,

    The very dead in graves rejoice:

Whose utterance, writ in ancient books,

Shall always live, for him that looks.

Many as leaves from autumn trees

    The years shall flutter from on high,

And with their multiple decease

    The souls of men shall fall and die,

Yet, while the empires turn to dust,

You shall live on, because you must.

O seven times happy he that dies

    After the splendid harvest-tide,

When strong barns shield from winter skies

    The grain that’s rightly stored inside:

There death shall scatter no more tears

Than o’er the falling of the years:

Aye, happy seven times is he

    Who enters not the silent doors

Before his time, but tenderly

    Death beckons unto him, because

There’s rest within for weary feet

Now all the journey is complete.

“So we lay down the Pen”

So we lay down the pen,

So we forbear the building of the rime,

And bid our hearts be steel for times and a time

    Till ends the strife, and then,

When the New Age is verily begun,

God grant that we may do the things undone.

————

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SPRING HARVEST ***

A Word from Project Gutenberg

We will update this book if we find any errors.

This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48371

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given away – you may do practically anything in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

The Full Project Gutenberg License

Please read this before you distribute or use this work.

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use & Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ web site (http://www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that

You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3. below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES – Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND – If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS,’ WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY – You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™'s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org .

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf . Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official page at http://www.pglaf.org

For additional contact information:

Dr. Gregory B. Newby

Chief Executive and Director

gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without wide spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII, compressed (zipped), HTML and others.

Corrected editions of our eBooks replace the old file and take over the old filename and etext number. The replaced older file is renamed. Versions based on separate sources are treated as new eBooks receiving new filenames and etext numbers.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.