John Freeman

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Music Comes

Music comes

Sweetly from the trembling string

When wizard fingers sweep

Dreamily, half asleep;

When through remembering reeds

Ancient airs and murmurs creep,

Oboe oboe following,

Flute answering clear high flute,

Voices, voices -- falling mute,

And the jarring drums.

At night I heard

First a waking bird

Out of the quiet darkness sing . . .

Music comes

Strangely to the brain asleep!

And I heard

Soft, wizard fingers sweep

Music from the trembling string,

And through remembering reeds

Ancient airs and murmurs creep;

Obe oboe following,

Flute calling clear high flute,

Voices faint, falling mute,

And low jarring drums;

Then all those airs

Sweetly jangled -- newly strange,

Rich with change . . .

Was it the wind in the reeds?

Did the wind range

Over the trembling string;

Into flute and oboe pouring

Solemn music; sinking, soaring

Low to high,

Up and down the sky?

Was it the wind jarring

Drowsy far-off drums?

Strangely to the brain asleep

Music comes.

November Skies

Than these November skies

Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;

Into their grey the subtle spies

Of colour creep,

Changing that high austerity to delight,

Till ev'n the leaden interfolds are bright.

And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers

Ere a thin flushing cloud again

Shuts up that loveliness, or shares.

The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as

Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,

Holding in bright caprice their rain.

And when of colours none,

Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,

Is truly seen, --

In all the myriad grey,

In silver height and dusky deep, remain

The loveliest,

Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.

Discovery

Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright.

She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains

Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars,

But not like stars cold, severe, terrible.

Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped

Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide.

Hers the bright light within the quick green

Of every new leaf on the oldest tree.

It was her swimming made the river run

Shining as the sun;

Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark,

Singing in the incessant lark . . . .

All this was hers -- yet all this had not been

Except 'twas seen.

It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright;

My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins,

The vehemence of transfiguring thought --

Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains --

That made thy wonders wonderful.

For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee,

Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play,

Empty of meaning and so of all delight.

Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss,

Shaking thy rainly light all over the earth,

And I have paid thee with my thankfulness.

'It Was the Lovely Moon'

It was the lovely moon -- she lifted

Slowly her white brow among

Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted

Faintly, faintlier afar.

Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,

Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,

Watching the earth that dwindled under

Faintly, faintlier afar.

It was the lovely moon that lovelike

Hovered over the wandering, tired

Earth, her bosom grey and dovelike,

Hovering beautiful as a dove . . . .

The lovely moon: -- her soft light falling

Lightly on roof and poplar and pine --

Tree to tree whispering and calling,

Wonderful in the silvery shine

Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.

Stone Trees

Last night a sword-light in the sky

Flashed a swift terror on the dark.

In that sharp light the fields did lie

Naked and stone-like; each tree stood

Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.

Far off the wood

With darkness ridged the riven dark.

And cows astonied stared with fear,

And sheep crept to the knees of cows,

And conies to their burrows slid,

And rooks were still in rigid boughs,

And all things else were still or hid.

From all the wood

Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held

It seemed an age, or time was nought.

Sure never from that stone-like field

Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill

Grey granite trees was music wrought.

In all the wood

Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none . . .

Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep

And shivered, and the trees of stone

Bent and sighed in the gusty wind,

And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.

Far off the wood

Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.

From all the wood came no brave bird,

No song broke through the close-fall'n night,

Nor any sound from cowering herd:

Only the dog's long lonely howl

When from the window poured pale light.

And from the wood

The hoot came ghostly of the owl.

The Pigeons

The pigeons, following the faint warm light,

Stayed at last on the roof till warmth was gone,

Then in the mist that's hastier than night

Disappeared all behind the carved dark stone,

Huddling from the black cruelty of the frost.

With the new sparkling sun they swooped and came

Like a cloud between the sun and street, and then

Like a cloud blown from the blue north were lost,

Vanishing and returning ever again,

Small cloud following cloud across the flame

That clear and meagre burned and burned away

And left the ice unmelting day by day.

. . . Nor could the sun through the roof's purple slate

(Though his gold magic played with shadow there

And drew the pigeons from the streaming air)

With any fiery magic penetrate.

Under the roof the air and water froze,

And no smoke from the gaping chimney rose.

The silver frost upon the window pane

Flowered and branched each starving night anew,

And stranger, lovelier and crueller grew;

Pouring her silver that cold silver through,

The moon made all the dim flower bright again.

. . . Pouring her silver through that barren flower

Of silver frost, until it filled and whitened

A room where two small children waited, frightened

At the pale ghost of light that hour by hour

Stared at them till though fears slept not they slept.

And when that white ghost from the window crept,

And day came and they woke and saw all plain

Though still the frost-flower blinded the window pane,

And touched their mother and touched her hand in vain,

And wondered why she woke not when they woke;

And wondered what it was their sleep that broke

When hand in hand they stared and stared, so frightened;

They feared and waited, and waited all day long,

While all the shadows went and the day brightened,

All the ill shadows but one shadow strong.

Outside were busy feet and human speech

And daily cries and horns. Maybe they heard,

Painfully wondering still, and each to each

Leaning, and listening if their mother stirred --

Cold, cold,

Hungering as the long slow hour grew old,

Though food within the cupboard idle lay

Beyond their thought, or but beyond their reach.

The soft blue pigeons all the afternoon

Sunned themselves on the roof or rose at play,

Then with the shrinking light fluttered away;

And once more came the icy-hearted moon,

Staring down at the frightened children there

That could but shiver and stare.

How many hours, how many days, who knows?

Neighbours there were who thought they had gone away

To return some luckier or luckless day.

No sound came from the room: the cold air froze

The very echo of the childrens' sighs.

And what they saw within each other's eyes,

Or heard each other's heart say as they peered

At the dead mother lying there, and feared

That she might wake, and then might never wake,

Who knows, who knows?

None heard a lving sound their silence break.

In those cold days and nights how many birds,

Flittering above the fields and streams all frozen,

Watched hungrily the tended flocks and herds --

Earth's chosen nourished by earth's wise self-chosen!

How many birds suddenly stiffened and died

With no plaint cried,

The starved heart ceasing when the pale sun ceased!

And wen the new day stepped from the same cold East

The dead birds lay in the light on the snow-flecked field,

Their song and beautiful free winging stilled.

I walked under snow-sprinkled hills at night,

And starry sprinkled skies deep blue and bright.

The keen wind thrust with his knife against the thin

Breast of the wood as I went tingling by,

And heard a weak cheep-cheep, -- no more -- the cry

Of a bird that crouched the smitten wood within . . .

But no one heeded that sharp spiritual cry

Of the two children in their misery,

When in the cold and famished night death's shade

More terrible the moon's cold shadows made.

How was it none could hear

That bodiless crying, birdlike, shart and clear?

I cannot think what they, unanswered, thought

When the night came again and shadows moved

As the moon through the ice-flower stared and roved,

And that unyielding Shadow came again.

The children as they sat listening in vain,

Their starved hearts failing ere the Shadow removed.

And when the new morn stepped from the same cold East

They lay unawakening in the barren light,

Their song and their imaginations bright,

Their pains and fears and all bewilderment ceased. . . .

While the brief sun gave

New beauty to the death-flower of the frost,

And pigeons in the frore air swooped and tossed,

And glad eyes were more glad, and grave less grave.

There is not pity enough in heaven or earth,

There is not love enough, if children die

Like famished birds -- oh, less mercifully.

A great wrong's done when such as these go forth

Into the starless dark, broken and bruised,

With mind and sweet affection all confused,

And horror closing round them as they go.

There is not pity enough!

And I have made, children, these verses for you,

Lasting a little longer than your breath,

Because I have been haunted with your death:

So men are driven to things they hate to do.

Jesus, forgive us all our happiness,

As Thou dost blot out all our miseries.

Happy is England Now

There is not anything more wonderful

Than a great people moving towards the deep

Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor

Is aught so dear of all held dear before

As the new passion stirring in their veins

When the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.

Happy is England now, as never yet!

And though the sorrows of the slow days fret

Her faithfullest children, grief itself is proud.

Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summer

That turns to bitterness turns then to gladness

Since for this England the beloved ones died.

Happy is England in the brave that die

For wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers;

Happy in those that give, give, and endure

The pain that never the new years may cure;

Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns,

Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea.

What'er was dear before is dearer now.

There's not a bird singing upon his bough

But sings the sweeter in our English ears:

There's not a nobleness of heart, hand, brain

But shines the purer; happiest is England now

In those that fight, and watch with pride and tears.

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