John Drinkwater

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Deer

Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer.

They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody near

Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live,

Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,

Treading as in jungles free leopards do,

Printless as evelight, instant as dew.

The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheep

Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep

Delicate and far their counsels wild,

Never to be folded reconciled

To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are;

Lightfoot, and swift and unfamiliar,

These you may not hinder, unconfined

Beautiful flocks of the mind.

Moonlit Apples

At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,

And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those

Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes

   A cloud on the moon in the autumn light.

A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then

There is no souund at the top of the house of men

Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again

   Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.

They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;

On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams

Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,

   And quiet is the steep stair under.

In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.

And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep

Tryst with the moon,and deep is the silence, deep

   On moon-washed apples of wonder.

Southhampton Bells

I

Long ago some builder thrust

Heavenward in Southhampton town

His spire and beamed his bells,

Largely conceiving from the dust

That pinnacle for ringing down

Orisons and Noëls.

In his imagination rang,

Through generations challenging

His peal on simple men,

Who, as the heart within him sang,

In daily townfaring should sing

By year and year again.

II

Now often to their ringing go

The bellmen with lean Time at heel,

Intent on daily cares;

The bells ring high, the bells ring low,

The ringers ring the builder's peal

Of tidings unawares.

And all the bells might well be dumb

For any quickening in the street

Of customary ears;

And so at last proud builders come

With dreams and virtues to defeat

Among the clouding years.

III

Now, waiting on Southhampton sea

For exile, through the silver night

I hear Noël! Noël!

Through generations down to me

Your challenge, builder, comes aright.

Bell by obedient bell.

You wake an hour with me; then wide

Though be the lapses of your sleep

You yet shall wake again;

And thus, old builder, on the tide

Of immortality you keep

Your way from brain to brain.

Chorus from Lincoln

You who have gone gathering

   Cornflowers and meadowsweet,

Heard the hazels glancing down

   On September eves,

Seen the homeward rooks on wing

   Over fields of golden wheat,

And the silver cups that crown

   Water-lily leaves;

You who know the tenderness

   Of old men at eve-tide,

Coming from the hedgerows,

   Coming from the plough,

And the wandering caress

   Of winds upon the woodside,

When the crying yaffle goes

   Underneath the bow;

You who mark the flowing

   Of sap upon the May-time,

And the waters welling

   From the watershed,

You who count the growing

   Of harvest and hay-time,

Knowing these the telling

   Of your daily bread;

You who cherish courtesy

   With your fellows at your gate,

And about your hearthstone sit

   Under love's decrees,

You who know that death will be

   Speaking with you soon or late,

Kinsmen, what is mother-wit

   But the light of these?

Knowing these, what is there more

   For learning in your little years?

Are not these all gospels bright

   Shining on your day?

How then shall your hearts be sore

   With envy and her brood of fears

How forget the words of light

   From the mountain-way . . .

Blessed are the merciful . . .

   Does not every threshold seek

Meadows and the flight of birds

   For compassion still?

Blessed are the merciful . . .

   Are we pilgrims yet to speak

Out of Olivet the words

   Of knowledge and good-will?

Habitation

High up in the sky there, now, you know,

In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,

Tenantless, and no creature there to go

Near it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheep

Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hears

Under that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,

The windows are uncurtained; on the stairs

Silence is but by tip-toe silence met.

All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put by

From use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.

Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May --

A home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,

With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day

To the candles and linen . . . Yet in the silence creep,

This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,

Breathing upon that still, insensible place,

Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,

And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,

That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,

One room, and two, till the four are visited . . . they,

Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,

Signs that even the curious man would miss,

Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,

Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride

Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide

Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower . . .

The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb --

But we are there -- we are waiting ourselves who come.

Passage

When you deliberate the page

Of Alexander's pilgrimage,

Or say -- "It is three years, or ten,

Since Easter slew Connolly's men,"

Or prudently to judgment come

Of Antony or Absalom,

And think how duly are designed

Case and instruction for the mind,

Remember then that also we,

In a moon's course, are history.

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