The Project Gutenberg eBook of Love Poems and Others

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Title: Love Poems and Others

Author: D. H. Lawrence

Release date: January 27, 2017 [eBook #54058]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, Eric Lehtonen, David Wilson

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE POEMS AND OTHERS ***

Transcriber’s Note

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

LOVE POEMS AND OTHERS

LOVE·POEMS

AND · OTHERS

BY·D. H. LAWRENCE

AUTHOR OF “THE WHITE PEACOCK” “THE TRESPASSER”

DUCKWORTH · AND · CO.

COVENT · GARDEN · LONDON

MCMXIII

Several of these Poems have appeared in the “English Review,” the “Nation,” and the “Westminster Gazette.”

CONTENTS

LOVE POEMS:—

PAGE

WEDDING MORN

i.

KISSES IN THE TRAIN

iii.

CRUELTY AND LOVE

v.

CHERRY ROBBERS

viii.

LILIES IN THE FIRE

ix.

COLDNESS IN LOVE

xi.

END OF ANOTHER HOME-HOLIDAY

xiii.

REMINDER

xvi.

BEI HENNEF

xviii.

LIGHTNING

xix.

SONG-DAY IN AUTUMN

xxi.

AWARE

xxiii.

A PANG OF REMINISCENCE

xxiv.

A WHITE BLOSSOM

xxv.

RED MOON-RISE

xxvi.

RETURN

xxviii.

THE APPEAL

xxix.

REPULSED

xxx.

DREAM-CONFUSED

xxxii.

COROT

xxxiii.

MORNING WORK

xxxv.

TRANSFORMATIONS

xxxvi.

RENASCENCE

xxxviii.

DOG-TIRED

xl.

MICHAEL-ANGELO

xli.

DIALECT POEMS:—

VIOLETS

xlii.

WHETHER OR NOT

xliv.

A COLLIER’S WIFE

liii.

THE DRAINED CUP

lvi.

THE SCHOOLMASTER:—

I.

A SNOWY DAY IN SCHOOL

lix.

II.

THE BEST OF SCHOOL

lx.

III.

AFTERNOON IN SCHOOL

lxiii.

WEDDING MORN

THE morning breaks like a pomegranate

In a shining crack of red,

Ah, when to-morrow the dawn comes late

Whitening across the bed,

It will find me watching at the marriage gate

And waiting while light is shed

On him who is sleeping satiate,

With a sunk, abandoned head.

And when the dawn comes creeping in,

Cautiously I shall raise

Myself to watch the morning win

My first of days,

As it shows him sleeping a sleep he got

Of me, as under my gaze,

He grows distinct, and I see his hot

Face freed of the wavering blaze.

Then I shall know which image of God

My man is made toward,

And I shall know my bitter rod

Or my rich reward.

And I shall know the stamp and worth

Of the coin I’ve accepted as mine,

Shall see an image of heaven or of earth

On his minted metal shine.

Yea and I long to see him sleep

In my power utterly,

I long to know what I have to keep,

I long to see

My love, that spinning coin, laid still

And plain at the side of me,

For me to count—for I know he will

Greatly enrichen me.

And then he will be mine, he will lie

In my power utterly,

Opening his value plain to my eye

He will sleep of me.

He will lie negligent, resign

His all to me, and I

Shall watch the dawn light up for me

This sleeping wealth of mine.

And I shall watch the wan light shine

On his sleep that is filled of me,

On his brow where the wisps of fond hair twine

So truthfully,

On his lips where the light breaths come and go

Naïve and winsomely,

On his limbs that I shall weep to know

Lie under my mastery.

KISSES IN THE TRAIN

I SAW the midlands

Revolve through her hair;

The fields of autumn

Stretching bare,

And sheep on the pasture

Tossed back in a scare.

And still as ever

The world went round,

My mouth on her pulsing

Neck was found,

And my breast to her beating

Breast was bound.

But my heart at the centre

Of all, in a swound

Was still as a pivot,

As all the ground

On its prowling orbit

Shifted round.

And still in my nostrils

The scent of her flesh,

And still my wet mouth

Sought her afresh;

And still one pulse

Through the world did thresh.

And the world all whirling

Around in joy

Like the dance of a dervish

Did destroy

My sense—and my reason

Spun like a toy.

But firm at the centre

My heart was found;

Her own to my perfect

Heart-beat bound,

Like a magnet’s keeper

Closing the round.

CRUELTY AND LOVE

WHAT large, dark hands are those at the window

Lifted, grasping the golden light

Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves

To my heart’s delight?

Ah, only the leaves! But in the west,

In the west I see a redness come

Over the evening’s burning breast—

—’Tis the wound of love goes home!

The woodbine creeps abroad

Calling low to her lover:

The sun-lit flirt who all the day

Has poised above her lips in play

And stolen kisses, shallow and gay

Of pollen, now has gone away

—She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,

And when above her his broad wings hover

Then her bright breast she will uncover

And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow

Saunters a man from the farm below,

Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed

Where hangs the swallow’s marriage bed.

The bird lies warm against the wall.

She glances quick her startled eyes

Towards him, then she turns away

Her small head, making warm display

Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway

Her out of the nest’s warm, busy ball,

Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies

In one blue stoop from out the sties

Into the evening’s empty hall.

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes

Hide your quaint, unfading blushes,

Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,

Till the distance folds over his ominous tread.

The rabbit presses back her ears,

Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes

And crouches low: then with wild spring

Spurts from the terror of his oncoming

To be choked back, the wire ring

Her frantic effort throttling:

Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!

Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies,

And swings all loose to the swing of his walk.

Yet calm and kindly are his eyes

And ready to open in brown surprise

Should I not answer to his talk

Or should he my tears surmise.

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair

Watching the door open: he flashes bare

His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes

In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise

He flings the rabbit soft on the table board

And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword

Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad

Blade of his hand that raise my face to applaud

His coming: he raises up my face to him

And caresses my mouth with his fingers, which still smell grim

Of the rabbit’s fur! God, I am caught in a snare!

I know not what fine wire is round my throat,

I only know I let him finger there

My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat

Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood:

And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down

His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood

Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood

Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown

Within him, die, and find death good.

CHERRY ROBBERS

UNDER the long, dark boughs, like jewels red

In the hair of an Eastern girl

Shine strings of crimson cherries, as if had bled

Blood-drops beneath each curl.

Under the glistening cherries, with folded wings

Three dead birds lie:

Pale-breasted throstles and a blackbird, robberlings

Stained with red dye.

Under the haystack a girl stands laughing at me,

With cherries hung round her ears—

Offering me her scarlet fruit: I will see

If she has any tears.

LILIES IN THE FIRE

I

AH, you stack of white lilies, all white and gold,

I am adrift as a sunbeam, and without form

Or having, save I light on you to warm

Your pallor into radiance, flush your cold

White beauty into incandescence: you

Are not a stack of white lilies to-night, but a white

And clustered star transfigured by me to-night,

And lighting these ruddy leaves like a star dropped through

The slender bare arms of the branches, your tire-maidens

Who lift swart arms to fend me off; but I come

Like a wind of fire upon you, like to some

Stray whitebeam who on you his fire unladens.

And you are a glistening toadstool shining here

Among the crumpled beech-leaves phosphorescent,

My stack of white lilies burning incandescent

Of me, a soft white star among the leaves, my dear.

II

Is it with pain, my dear, that you shudder so?

Is it because I have hurt you with pain, my dear?

Did I shiver?—Nay, truly I did not know—

A dewdrop may-be splashed on my face down here.

Why even now you speak through close-shut teeth.

I have been too much for you—Ah, I remember!

The ground is a little chilly underneath

The leaves—and, dear, you consume me all to an ember.

You hold yourself all hard as if my kisses

Hurt as I gave them—you put me away—

Ah never I put you away: yet each kiss hisses

Hot as a drop of fire wastes me away.

III

I am ashamed, you wanted me not to-night—

Nay, it is always so, you sigh with me.

Your radiance dims when I draw too near, and my free

Fire enters your petals like death, you wilt dead white.

Ah, I do know, and I am deep ashamed;

You love me while I hover tenderly

Like clinging sunbeams kissing you: but see

When I close in fire upon you, and you are flamed

With the swiftest fire of my love, you are destroyed.

’Tis a degradation deep to me, that my best

Soul’s whitest lightning which should bright attest

God stepping down to earth in one white stride,

Means only to you a clogged, numb burden of flesh

Heavy to bear, even heavy to uprear

Again from earth, like lilies wilted and sere

Flagged on the floor, that before stood up so fresh.

COLDNESS IN LOVE

AND you remember, in the afternoon

The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk

A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon

Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth,

And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon.

A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime

Of weed that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled

Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time

You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw

The words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime.

And all day long that raw and ancient cold

Deadened me through, till the grey downs darkened to sleep.

Then I longed for you with your mantle of love to fold

Me over, and drive from out of my body the deep

Cold that had sunk to my soul, and there kept hold.

But still to me all evening long you were cold,

And I was numb with a bitter, deathly ache;

Till old days drew me back into their fold,

And dim sheep crowded me warm with companionship,

And old ghosts clustered me close, and sleep was cajoled.

I slept till dawn at the window blew in like dust,

Like the linty, raw-cold dust disturbed from the floor

Of a disused room: a grey pale light like must

That settled upon my face and hands till it seemed

To flourish there, as pale mould blooms on a crust.

Then I rose in fear, needing you fearfully,

For I thought you were warm as a sudden jet of blood.

I thought I could plunge in your spurting hotness, and be

Clean of the cold and the must.—With my hand on the latch

I heard you in your sleep speak strangely to me.

And I dared not enter, feeling suddenly dismayed.

So I went and washed my deadened flesh in the sea

And came back tingling clean, but worn and frayed

With cold, like the shell of the moon: and strange it seems

That my love has dawned in rose again, like the love of a maid.

END OF ANOTHER HOME-HOLIDAY

I

WHEN shall I see the half moon sink again

Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden?

When will the scent of the dim, white phlox

Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window?

Why is it, the long slow stroke of the midnight bell,

(Will it never finish the twelve?)

Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach?

The moon-mist is over the village, out of the mist speaks the bell,

And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching, resigned:

Oh, little home, what is it I have not done well?

Ah home, suddenly I love you,

As I hear the sharp clean trot of a pony down the road,

Succeeding sharp little sounds dropping into the silence,

Clear upon the long-drawn hoarseness of a train across the valley.

The light has gone out from under my mother’s door.

That she should love me so,

She, so lonely, greying now,

And I leaving her,

Bent on my pursuits!

Love is the great Asker,

The sun and the rain do not ask the secret

Of the time when the grain struggles down in the dark.

The moon walks her lonely way without anguish,

Because no loved one grieves over her departure.

II

Forever, ever by my shoulder pitiful Love will linger,

Crouching as little houses crouch under the mist when I turn.

Forever, out of the mist the church lifts up her reproachful finger,

Pointing my eyes in wretched defiance where love hides her face to mourn.

Oh but the rain creeps down to wet the grain

That struggles alone in the dark,

And asking nothing, cheerfully steals back again!

The moon sets forth o’ nights

To walk the lonely, dusky heights

Serenely, with steps unswerving;

Pursued by no sigh of bereavement,

No tears of love unnerving

Her constant tread:

While ever at my side,

Frail and sad, with grey bowed head,

The beggar-woman, the yearning-eyed

Inexorable love goes lagging.

The wild young heifer, glancing distraught,

With a strange new knocking of life at her side

Runs seeking a loneliness.

The little grain draws down the earth to hide.

Nay, even the slumberous egg, as it labours under the shell,

Patiently to divide, and self-divide,

Asks to be hidden, and wishes nothing to tell.

But when I draw the scanty cloak of silence over my eyes,

Piteous Love comes peering under the hood.

Touches the clasp with trembling fingers, and tries

To put her ear to the painful sob of my blood,

While her tears soak through to my breast,

Where they burn and cauterise.

III

The moon lies back and reddens.

In the valley, a corncrake calls

Monotonously,

With a piteous, unalterable plaint, that deadens

My confident activity:

With a hoarse, insistent request that falls

Unweariedly, unweariedly,

Asking something more of me,

Yet more of me!

REMINDER

DO you remember

How night after night swept level and low

Overhead, at home, and had not one star,

Nor one narrow gate for the moon to go

Forth to her field of November.

And you remember,

How towards the north a red blot on the sky

Burns like a blotch of anxiety

Over the forges, and small flames ply

Like ghosts the shadow of the ember.

Those were the days

When it was awful autumn to me,

When only there glowed on the dark of the sky

The red reflection of her agony,

My beloved smelting down in the blaze

Of death—my dearest

Love who had borne, and was now leaving me.

And I at the foot of her cross did suffer

My own gethsemane.

So I came to you,

And twice, after great kisses, I saw

The rim of the moon divinely rise

And strive to detach herself from the raw

Blackened edge of the skies.

Strive to escape;

With her whiteness revealing my sunken world

Tall and loftily shadowed. But the moon

Never magnolia-like unfurled

Her white, her lamp-like shape.

For you told me no,

And bade me not to ask for the dour

Communion, offering—“a better thing.”

So I lay on your breast for an obscure hour

Feeling your fingers go

Like a rhythmic breeze

Over my hair, and tracing my brows,

Till I knew you not from a little wind:

—I wonder now if God allows

Us only one moment his keys.

If only then

You could have unlocked the moon on the night,

And I baptized myself in the light

Of your love; we both have entered then the white

Pure passion, and never again.

I wonder if only

You had taken me then, how different

Life would have been: should I have spent

Myself in waste, and you have bent

Your pride, through being lonely?

BEI HENNEF

THE little river twittering in the twilight,

The wan, wondering look of the pale sky,

This is almost bliss.

And everything shut up and gone to sleep,

All the troubles and anxieties and pain

Gone under the twilight.

Only the twilight now, and the soft “Sh!” of the river

That will last for ever.

And at last I know my love for you is here,

I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight,

It is large, so large, I could not see it before

Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,

Troubles, anxieties and pains.

You are the call and I am the answer,

You are the wish, and I the fulfilment,

You are the night, and I the day.

What else—it is perfect enough,

It is perfectly complete,

You and I,

What more——?

Strange, how we suffer in spite of this!

LIGHTNING

I FELT the lurch and halt of her heart

Next my breast, where my own heart was beating;

And I laughed to feel it plunge and bound,

And strange in my blood-swept ears was the sound

Of the words I kept repeating,

Repeating with tightened arms, and the hot blood’s blindfold art.

Her breath flew warm against my neck,

Warm as a flame in the close night air;

And the sense of her clinging flesh was sweet

Where her arms and my neck’s blood-surge could meet.

Holding her thus, did I care

That the black night hid her from me, blotted out every speck?

I leaned me forward to find her lips,

And claim her utterly in a kiss,

When the lightning flew across her face,

And I saw her for the flaring space

Of a second, afraid of the clips

Of my arms, inert with dread, wilted in fear of my kiss.

A moment, like a wavering spark,

Her face lay there before my breast,

Pale love lost in a snow of fear,

And guarded by a glittering tear,

And lips apart with dumb cries;

A moment, and she was taken again in the merciful dark.

I heard the thunder, and felt the rain,

And my arms fell loose, and I was dumb.

Almost I hated her, she was so good,

Hated myself, and the place, and my blood,

Which burned with rage, as I bade her come

Home, away home, ere the lightning floated forth again.

SONG-DAY IN AUTUMN

WHEN the autumn roses

Are heavy with dew,

Before the mist discloses

The leaf’s brown hue,

You would, among the laughing hills

Of yesterday

Walk innocent in the daffodils,

Coiffing up your auburn hair

In a puritan fillet, a chaste white snare

To catch and keep me with you there

So far away.

When from the autumn roses

Trickles the dew,

When the blue mist uncloses

And the sun looks through,

You from those startled hills

Come away,

Out of the withering daffodils;

Thoughtful, and half afraid,

Plaiting a heavy, auburn braid

And coiling it round the wise brows of a maid

Who was scared in her play.

When in the autumn roses

Creeps a bee,

And a trembling flower encloses

His ecstasy,

You from your lonely walk

Turn away,

And leaning to me like a flower on its stalk,

Wait among the beeches

For your late bee who beseeches

To creep through your loosened hair till he reaches,

Your heart of dismay.

AWARE

SLOWLY the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze,

Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so

Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze

See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know

I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart;

I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.

A PANG OF REMINISCENCE

HIGH and smaller goes the moon, she is small and very far from me,

Wistful and candid, watching me wistfully, and I see

Trembling blue in her pallor a tear that surely I have seen before,

A tear which I had hoped that even hell held not again in store.

A WHITE BLOSSOM

A TINY moon as white and small as a single jasmine flower

Leans all alone above my window, on night’s wintry bower,

Liquid as lime-tree blossom, soft as brilliant water or rain

She shines, the one white love of my youth, which all sin cannot stain.

RED MOON-RISE

THE train in running across the weald has fallen into a steadier stroke

So even, it beats like silence, and sky and earth in one unbroke

Embrace of darkness lie around, and crushed between them all the loose

And littered lettering of leaves and hills and houses closed, and we can use

The open book of landscape no more, for the covers of darkness have shut upon

Its written pages, and sky and earth and all between are closed in one.

And we are smothered between the darkness, we close our eyes and say “Hush!” we try

To escape in sleep the terror of this immense deep darkness, and we lie

Wrapped up for sleep. And then, dear God, from out of the twofold darkness, red

As if from the womb the moon arises, as if the twin-walled darkness had bled

In one great spasm of birth and given us this new, red moon-rise

Which lies on the knees of the darkness bloody, and makes us hide our eyes.

The train beats frantic in haste, and struggles away

From this ruddy terror of birth that has slid down

From out of the loins of night to flame our way

With fear; but God, I am glad, so glad that I drown

My terror with joy of confirmation, for now

Lies God all red before me, and I am glad,

As the Magi were when they saw the rosy brow

Of the Infant bless their constant folly which had

Brought them thither to God: for now I know

That the Womb is a great red passion whence rises all

The shapeliness that decks us here-below:

Yea like the fire that boils within this ball

Of earth, and quickens all herself with flowers,

God burns within the stiffened clay of us;

And every flash of thought that we and ours

Send up to heaven, and every movement, does

Fly like a spark from this God-fire of passion;

And pain of birth, and joy of the begetting,

And sweat of labour, and the meanest fashion

Of fretting or of gladness, but the jetting

Of a trail of the great fire against the sky

Where we can see it, a jet from the innermost fire:

And even in the watery shells that lie

Alive within the cozy under-mire,

A grain of this same fire I can descry.

And then within the screaming birds that fly

Across the lightning when the storm leaps higher;

And then the swirling, flaming folk that try

To come like fire-flames at their fierce desire,

They are as earth’s dread, spurting flames that ply

Awhile and gush forth death and then expire.

And though it be love’s wet blue eyes that cry

To hot love to relinquish its desire,

Still in their depths I see the same red spark

As rose to-night upon us from the dark.

RETURN

NOW I am come again, you who have so desired

My coming, why do you look away from me?

Why does your cheek burn against me—have I inspired

Such anger as sets your mouth unwontedly?

Ah, here I sit while you break the music beneath

Your bow; for broken it is, and hurting to hear:

Cease then from music—does anguish of absence bequeath

Me only aloofness when I would draw near?

THE APPEAL

YOU, Helen, who see the stars

As mistletoe berries burning in a black tree,

You surely, seeing I am a bowl of kisses,

Should put your mouth to mine and drink of me.

Helen, you let my kisses steam

Wasteful into the night’s black nostrils; drink

Me up I pray; oh you who are Night’s Bacchante,

How can you from my bowl of kisses shrink!

REPULSED

THE last, silk-floating thought has gone from the dandelion stem,

And the flesh of the stalk holds up for nothing a blank diadem.

The night’s flood-winds have lifted my last desire from me,

And my hollow flesh stands up in the night abandonedly.

As I stand on this hill, with the whitening cave of the city beyond,

Helen, I am despoiled of my pride, and my soul turns fond:

Overhead the nightly heavens like an open, immense eye,

Like a cat’s distended pupil sparkles with sudden stars,

As with thoughts that flash and crackle in uncouth malignancy

They glitter at me, and I fear the fierce snapping of night’s thought-stars.

Beyond me, up the darkness, goes the gush of the lights of two towns,

As the breath which rushes upwards from the nostrils of an immense

Life crouched across the globe, ready, if need be, to pounce

Across the space upon heaven’s high hostile eminence.

All round me, but far away, the night’s twin consciousness roars

With sounds that endlessly swell and sink like the storm of thought in the brain,

Lifting and falling like slow breaths taken, pulsing like oars

Immense that beat the blood of the night down its vein.

The night is immense and awful, Helen, and I am insect small

In the fur of this hill, clung on to the fur of shaggy, black heather.

A palpitant speck in the fur of the night, and afraid of all,

Seeing the world and the sky like creatures hostile together.

And I in the fur of the world, and you a pale fleck from the sky,

How we hate each other to-night, hate, you and I,

As the world of activity hates the dream that goes on on high,

As a man hates the dreaming woman he loves, but who will not reply.

DREAM-CONFUSED

IS that the moon

At the window so big and red?

No one in the room,

No one near the bed——?

Listen, her shoon

Palpitating down the stair?

—Or a beat of wings at the window there?

A moment ago

She kissed me warm on the mouth,

The very moon in the south

Is warm with a bloody glow,

The moon from far abysses

Signalling those two kisses.

And now the moon

Goes slowly out of the west,

And slowly back in my breast

My kisses are sinking, soon

To leave me at rest.

COROT

THE trees rise tall and taller, lifted

On a subtle rush of cool grey flame

That issuing out of the dawn has sifted

The spirit from each leaf’s frame.

For the trailing, leisurely rapture of life

Drifts dimly forward, easily hidden

By bright leaves uttered aloud, and strife

Of shapes in the grey mist chidden.

The grey, phosphorescent, pellucid advance

Of the luminous purpose of God, shines out

Where the lofty trees athwart stream chance

To shake flakes of its shadow about.

The subtle, steady rush of the whole

Grey foam-mist of advancing God,

As He silently sweeps to His somewhere, his goal,

Is heard in the grass of the sod.

Is heard in the windless whisper of leaves

In the silent labours of men in the fields,

In the downward dropping of flimsy sheaves

Of cloud the rain skies yield.

In the tapping haste of a fallen leaf,

In the flapping of red-roof smoke, and the small

Foot-stepping tap of men beneath

These trees so huge and tall.

For what can all sharp-rimmed substance but catch

In a backward ripple, God’s purpose, reveal

For a moment His mighty direction, snatch

A spark beneath His wheel.

Since God sweeps onward dim and vast,

Creating the channelled vein of Man

And Leaf for His passage, His shadow is cast

On all for us to scan.

Ah listen, for Silence is not lonely:

Imitate the magnificent trees

That speak no word of their rapture, but only

Breathe largely the luminous breeze.

MORNING WORK

A GANG of labourers on the piled wet timber

That shines blood-red beside the railway siding

Seem to be making out of the blue of the morning

Something faery and fine, the shuttles sliding,

The red-gold spools of their hands and faces shuttling

Hither and thither across the morn’s crystalline frame

Of blue: trolls at the cave of ringing cerulean mining,

And laughing with work, living their work like a game.

TRANSFORMATIONS

I

THE TOWN

OH you stiff shapes, swift transformation seethes

About you: only last night you were

A Sodom smouldering in the dense, soiled air;

To-day a thicket of sunshine with blue smoke-wreaths.

To-morrow swimming in evening’s vague, dim vapour

Like a weeded city in shadow under the sea,

Beneath an ocean of shimmering light you will be:

Then a group of toadstools waiting the moon’s white taper.

And when I awake in the morning, after rain,

To find the new houses a cluster of lilies glittering

In scarlet, alive with the birds’ bright twittering,

I’ll say your bond of ugliness is vain.

II

THE EARTH

OH Earth, you spinning clod of earth,

And then you lamp, you lemon-coloured beauty;

Oh Earth, you rotten apple rolling downward,

Then brilliant Earth, from the burr of night in beauty

As a jewel-brown horse-chestnut newly issued:—

You are all these, and strange, it is my duty

To take you all, sordid or radiant tissued.

III

MEN

OH labourers, oh shuttles across the blue frame of morning,

You feet of the rainbow balancing the sky!

Oh you who flash your arms like rockets to heaven,

Who in lassitude lean as yachts on the sea-wind lie!

You who in crowds are rhododendrons in blossom,

Who stand alone in pride like lighted lamps;

Who grappling down with work or hate or passion,

Take strange lithe form of a beast that sweats and ramps:

You who are twisted in grief like crumpled beech-leaves,

Who curl in sleep like kittens, who kiss as a swarm

Of clustered, vibrating bees; who fall to earth

At last like a bean-pod: what are you, oh multiform?

RENASCENCE

WE have bit no forbidden apple,

Eve and I,

Yet the splashes of day and night

Falling round us no longer dapple

The same Eden with purple and white.

This is our own still valley

Our Eden, our home,

But day shows it vivid with feeling

And the pallor of night does not tally

With dark sleep that once covered its ceiling.

My little red heifer, to-night I looked in her eyes,

—She will calve to-morrow:

Last night when I went with the lantern, the sow was grabbing her litter

With red, snarling jaws: and I heard the cries

Of the new-born, and after that, the old owl, then the bats that flitter.

And I woke to the sound of the wood-pigeons, and lay and listened,

Till I could borrow

A few quick beats of a wood-pigeon’s heart, and when I did rise

The morning sun on the shaken iris glistened,

And I saw that home, this valley, was wider than Paradise.

I learned it all from my Eve

This warm, dumb wisdom.

She’s a finer instructress than years;

She has taught my heart-strings to weave

Through the web of all laughter and tears.

And now I see the valley

Fleshed all like me

With feelings that change and quiver:

And all things seem to tally

With something in me,

Something of which she’s the giver.

DOG-TIRED

IF she would come to me here,

Now the sunken swaths

Are glittering paths

To the sun, and the swallows cut clear

Into the low sun—if she came to me here!

If she would come to me now,

Before the last mown harebells are dead,

While that vetch clump yet burns red;

Before all the bats have dropped from the bough

Into the cool of night—if she came to me now!

The horses are untackled, the chattering machine

Is still at last. If she would come,

I would gather up the warm hay from

The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green

Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen.

I should like to drop

On the hay, with my head on her knee

And lie stone still, while she

Breathed quiet above me—we could stop

Till the stars came out to see.

I should like to lie still

As if I was dead—but feeling

Her hand go stealing

Over my face and my hair until

This ache was shed.

MICHAEL-ANGELO

GOD shook thy roundness in His finger’s cup,

He sunk His hands in firmness down thy sides,

And drew the circle of His grasp, O Man,

Along thy limbs delighted, thine, His bride’s.

And so thou wert God-shapen: His finger

Curved thy mouth for thee, and His strong shoulder

Planted thee upright: art not proud to see

In the curve of thine exquisite form the joy of the Moulder?

He took a handful of light and rolled a ball,

Compressed it till its beam grew wondrous dark,

Then gave thee thy dark eyes, O Man, that all

He made had doorway to thee through that spark.

God, lonely, put down His mouth in a kiss of creation,

He kissed thee, O Man, in a passion of love, and left

The vivid life of His love in thy mouth and thy nostrils;

Keep then the kiss from the adultress’ theft.

VIOLETS

SISTER, tha knows while we was on the planks

Aside o’ th’ grave, while th’ coffin wor lyin’ yet

On th’ yaller clay, an’ th’ white flowers top of it

Tryin’ to keep off ’n him a bit o’ th’ wet,

An’ parson makin’ haste, an’ a’ the black

Huddlin’ close together a cause o’ th’ rain,

Did t’ ’appen ter notice a bit of a lass away back

By a head-stun, sobbin’ an’ sobbin’ again?

—How should I be lookin’ round

An’ me standin’ on the plank

Beside the open ground,

Where our Ted ’ud soon be sank?

Yi, an’ ’im that young,

Snapped sudden out of all

His wickedness, among

Pals worse n’r ony name as you could call.

Let be that; there’s some o’ th’ bad as we

Like better nor all your good, an’ ’e was one.

—An’ cos I liked him best, yi, bett’r nor thee,

I canna bide to think where he is gone.

Ah know tha liked ’im bett’r nor me. But let

Me tell thee about this lass. When you had gone

Ah stopped behind on t’ pad i’ th’ drippin wet

An’ watched what ’er ’ad on.

Tha should ha’ seed her slive up when we’d gone,

Tha should ha’ seed her kneel an’ look in

At th’ sloppy wet grave—an’ ’er little neck shone

That white, an’ ’er shook that much, I’d like to begin

Scraïghtin’ my-sen as well. ’En undid her black

Jacket at th’ bosom, an’ took from out of it

Over a double ’andful of violets, all in a pack

Ravelled blue and white—warm, for a bit

O’ th’ smell come waftin’ to me. ’Er put ’er face

Right intil ’em and scraïghted out again,

Then after a bit ’er dropped ’em down that place,

An’ I come away, because o’ the teemin’ rain.

WHETHER OR NOT

I

DUNNA thee tell me its his’n, mother,

Dunna thee, dunna thee.

—Oh ay! he’ll be comin’ to tell thee his-sèn

Wench, wunna he?

Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,

He’s gone wi that—

—My gel, owt’ll do for a man i’ the dark,

Tha’s got it flat.

But ’er’s old, mother, ’er’s twenty year

Older nor him—

—Ay, an’ yaller as a crowflower, an’ yet i’ the dark

Er’d do for Tim.

Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?

It’s somebody’s lies.

—Ax him thy-sèn wench—a widder’s lodger;

It’s no surprise.

II

A widow of forty-five

With a bitter, swarthy skin,

To ha’ ’ticed a lad o’ twenty-five

An’ ’im to have been took in!

A widow of forty-five

As has sludged like a horse all her life,

Till ’er’s tough as whit-leather, to slive

Atween a lad an’ ’is wife!

A widow of forty-five.

A tough old otchel wi’ long

Witch teeth, an’ ’er black hawk-eyes as I’ve

Mistrusted all along!

An’ me as ’as kep my-sen

Shut like a daisy bud,

Clean an’ new an’ nice, so’s when

He wed he’d ha’e summat good!

An’ ’im as nice an’ fresh

As any man i’ the force,

To ha’e gone an’ given his white young flesh

To a woman that coarse!

III

You’re stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,

Are you makin’ Brinsley way?

—I’m off up th’ line to Underwood

Wi’ a dress as is wanted to-day.

Oh are you goin’ to Underwood?

’Appen then you’ve ’eered?

—What’s that as ’appen I’ve ’eered-on, Missis,

Speak up, you nedna be feared.

Why, your young man an’ Widow Naylor,

Her as he lodges wi’,

They say he’s got her wi’ childt; but there,

It’s nothing to do wi’ me.

Though if it’s true they’ll turn him out

O’ th’ p’lice force, without fail;

An’ if it’s not true, I’d back my life

They’ll listen to her tale.

Well, I’m believin’ no tale, Missis,

I’m seein’ for my-sen;

An’ when I know for sure, Missis,

I’ll talk then.

IV

Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna

Sit noddin’ thy head at me;

My breast’s as red as thine, I reckon,

Flayed red, if tha could but see.

Nay, you blessed pee-whips,

You nedna screet at me!

I’m screetin’ my-sen, but are-na goin’

To let iv’rybody see.

Tha art smock-ravelled, bunny,

Larropin’ neck an’ crop

I’ th’ snow: but I’s warrant thee, bunny,

I’m further ower th’ top.

V

Now sithee theer at th’ railroad crossin’

Warmin’ his-sen at the stool o’ fire

Under the tank as fills the ingines,

If there isn’t my dearly-beloved liar!

My constable wi’ ’is buttoned breast

As stout as the truth, my sirs!—An’ ’is face

As bold as a robin! It’s much he cares

For this nice old shame and disgrace.

Oh but he drops his flag when ’e sees me,

Yes, an’ ’is face goes white ... oh yes

Tha can stare at me wi’ thy fierce blue eyes,

But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!

VI

Whativer brings thee out so far

In a’ this depth o’ snow?

—I’m takin’ ’ome a weddin’ dress

If tha maun know.

Why, is there a weddin’ at Underwood,

As tha ne’d trudge up here?

—It’s Widow Naylor’s weddin’-dress,

An’ ’er’s wantin it, I hear.

’Er doesna want no weddin-dress ...

What—but what dost mean?

—Doesn’t ter know what I mean, Tim?—Yi,

Tha must’ a’ been hard to wean!

Tha’rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy;

But tell me, isn’t it true

As ’er’ll be wantin’ my weddin’ dress

In a week or two?

Tha’s no occasions ter ha’e me on

Lizzie—what’s done is done!

—Done, I should think so—Done! But might

I ask when tha begun?

It’s thee as ’as done it as much as me,

Lizzie, I tell thee that.

—“Me gotten a childt to thy landlady—!”

Tha’s gotten thy answer pat,

As tha allers hast—but let me tell thee

Hasna ter sent me whoam, when I

Was a’most burstin’ mad o’ my-sen

An’ walkin’ in agony;

After thy kisses, Lizzie, after

Tha’s lain right up to me Lizzie, an’ melted

Into me, melted into me, Lizzie,

Till I was verily swelted.

An’ if my landlady seed me like it,

An’ if ’er clawkin’, tiger’s eyes

Went through me just as the light went out

Is it any cause for surprise?

No cause for surprise at all, my lad,

After lickin’ and snuffin’ at me, tha could

Turn thy mouth on a woman like her—

Did ter find her good?

Ay, I did, but afterwards

I should like to ha’ killed her!

—Afterwards!—an’ after how long

Wor it tha’d liked to ’a killed her?

Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,

I might lose my-sen.

—I’ll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,

An’ gi’e her thee back again.

I’ll ta’e thy word ‘Good-bye,’ Liz,

But I shonna marry her,

I shonna for nobody.—It is

Very nice on you, Sir.

The childt maun ta’e its luck, it maun,

An’ she maun ta’e her luck,

For I tell ye I shonna marry her—

What her’s got, her took.

That’s spoken like a man, Timmy,

That’s spoken like a man ...

“He up an’ fired off his pistol

An’ then away he ran.”

I damn well shanna marry ’er,

So chew at it no more,

Or I’ll chuck the flamin’ lot of you—

—You nedn’t have swore.

VII

That’s his collar round the candle-stick

An’ that’s the dark blue tie I bought ’im,

An’ these is the woman’s kids he’s so fond on,

An’ ’ere comes the cat that caught ’im.

I dunno where his eyes was—a gret

Round-shouldered hag! My sirs, to think

Of him stoopin’ to her! You’d wonder he could

Throw hisself in that sink.

I expect you know who I am, Mrs Naylor!

—Who yer are?—yis, you’re Lizzie Stainwright.

’An ’appen you might guess what I’ve come for?

—’Appen I mightn’t, ’appen I might.

You knowed as I was courtin’ Tim Merfin.

—Yis, I knowed ’e wor courtin’ thee.

An’ yet you’ve been carryin’ on wi’ him.

—Ay, an’ ’im wi’ me.

Well, now you’ve got to pay for it,

—An’ if I han, what’s that to thee?

For ’e isn’t goin’ to marry you.

—Is it a toss-up ’twixt thee an’ me?

It’s no toss-up ’twixt thee an’ me.

—Then what art colleyfoglin’ for?

I’m not havin’ your orts an’ slarts.

—Which on us said you wor?

I want you to know ’e’s non marryin’ you.

—Tha wants ’im thy-sen too bad.

Though I’ll see as ’e pays you, an’ comes to the scratch.

—Tha’rt for doin’ a lot wi’ th’ lad.

VIII

To think I should ha’e to haffle an’ caffle

Wi’ a woman, an’ pay ’er a price

For lettin’ me marry the lad as I thought

To marry wi’ cabs an’ rice.

But we’ll go unbeknown to the registrar,

An’ give ’er what money there is,

For I won’t be beholden to such as her

For anythink of his.

IX

Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,

An’ come wi’ me in here,

Ta’e off thy p’lice-man’s helmet

An’ look me clear.

I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,

I do, an’ that I do!

For whenever I look thee i’ th’ face, I s’ll see

Her face too.

I wish tha could wesh ’er off’n thee,

For I used to think that thy

Face was the finest thing that iver

Met my eye....

X

Twenty pound o’ thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha’e I,

Thine shall go to pay the woman, an’ wi’ my bit we’ll buy

All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place,

An’ we’ll be married at th’ registrar—now lift thy face.

Lift thy face an’ look at me, man, up an’ look at me:

Sorry I am for this business, an’ sorry if I ha’e driven thee

To such a thing: but it’s a poor tale, that I’m bound to say,

Before I can ta’e thee I’ve got a widow of forty-five to pay.

Dunnat thee think but what I love thee—I love thee well,

But ’deed an’ I wish as this tale o’ thine wor niver my tale to tell;

Deed an’ I wish as I could stood at the altar wi’ thee an’ been proud o’ thee,

That I could ha’ been first woman to thee, as thou’rt first man to me.

But we maun ma’e the best on’t—I’ll rear thy childt if ’er’ll yield it to me,

An’ then wi’ that twenty pound we gi’e ’er I s’d think ’er wunna be

So very much worser off than ’er wor before—An’ now look up

An’ answer me—for I’ve said my say, an’ there’s no more sorrow to sup.

Yi, tha’rt a man, tha’rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes

As sulky an’ ormin’ as thine. Hast owt to say otherwise

From what I’ve arranged wi’ thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou art,

Kiss me then—there!—ne’er mind if I scraight—I wor fond o’ thee, Sweetheart.

A COLLIER’S WIFE

SOMEBODY’S knocking at the door

Mother, come down and see.

—I’s think it’s nobbut a beggar,

Say, I’m busy.

Its not a beggar, mother,—hark

How hard he knocks ...

—Eh, tha’rt a mard-’arsed kid,

’E’ll gi’e thee socks!

Shout an’ ax what ’e wants,

I canna come down.

—’E says “Is it Arthur Holliday’s?”

Say “Yes,” tha clown.

’E says, “Tell your mother as ’er mester’s

Got hurt i’ th’ pit.”

What—oh my sirs, ’e never says that,

That’s niver it.

Come out o’ the way an’ let me see,

Eh, there’s no peace!

An’ stop thy scraightin’, childt,

Do shut thy face.

“Your mester’s ’ad an accident,

An’ they’re ta’ein ’im i’ th’ ambulance

To Nottingham,”—Eh dear o’ me

If ’e’s not a man for mischance!

Wheers he hurt this time, lad?

—I dunna know,

They on’y towd me it wor bad—

It would be so!

Eh, what a man!—an’ that cobbly road,

They’ll jolt him a’most to death,

I’m sure he’s in for some trouble

Nigh every time he takes breath.

Out o’ my way, childt—dear o’ me, wheer

Have I put his clean stockings and shirt;

Goodness knows if they’ll be able

To take off his pit dirt.

An’ what a moan he’ll make—there niver

Was such a man for a fuss

If anything ailed him—at any rate

I shan’t have him to nuss.

I do hope it’s not very bad!

Eh, what a shame it seems

As some should ha’e hardly a smite o’ trouble

An’ others has reams.

It’s a shame as ’e should be knocked about

Like this, I’m sure it is!

He’s had twenty accidents, if he’s had one;

Owt bad, an’ it’s his.

There’s one thing, we’ll have peace for a bit,

Thank Heaven for a peaceful house;

An’ there’s compensation, sin’ it’s accident,

An’ club money—I nedn’t grouse.

An’ a fork an’ a spoon he’ll want, an’ what else;

I s’ll never catch that train—

What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt—

I s’d think he’ll get right again.

THE DRAINED CUP

THE snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress

Love, should I tell thee summat?

The snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress

An’ a thick mist sucks at the clots o’ snow,

An’ the moon above in a weddin’ dress

Goes fogged an’ slow—

Love, should I tell thee summat?

Tha’s been snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me,

Nay, I’m tellin’ thee summat.—

Tha’s bin snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me

While th’ clocks has a’ run down an’ stopped

An’ the short days withering silently

Unbeknown have dropped.

—Yea, but I’m tellin’ thee summat.

How many days dost think has gone?—

Now I’m tellin’ thee summat.

How many days dost think has gone?

How many days has the candle-light shone

On us as tha got more white an’ wan?

—Seven days, or none—

Am I not tellin’ thee summat?

Tha come to bid farewell to me—

Tha’rt frit o’ summat.

To kiss me and shed a tear wi’ me,

Then off and away wi’ the weddin’ ring

For the girl who was grander, and better than me

For marrying—

Tha’rt frit o’ summat?

I durstna kiss thee tha trembles so,

Tha’rt frit o’ summat.

Tha arena very flig to go,

’Appen the mist from the thawin’ snow

Daunts thee—it isna for love, I know,

That tha’rt loath to go.

—Dear o’ me, say summat.

Maun tha cling to the wa’ as tha goes,

So bad as that?

Tha’lt niver get into thy weddin’ clothes

At that rate—eh, theer goes thy hat;

Ne’er mind, good-bye lad, now I lose

My joy, God knows,

—An’ worse nor that.

The road goes under the apple tree;

Look, for I’m showin’ thee summat.

An’ if it worn’t for the mist, tha’d see

The great black wood on all sides o’ thee

Wi’ the little pads going cunningly

To ravel thee.

So listen, I’m tellin’ thee summat.

When tha comes to the beechen avenue,

I’m warnin’ thee o’ summat.

Mind tha shall keep inwards, a few

Steps to the right, for the gravel pits

Are steep an’ deep wi’ watter, an’ you

Are scarce o’ your wits.

Remember, I’ve warned the o’ summat.

An’ mind when crossin’ the planken bridge,

Again I warn ye o’ summat.

Ye slip not on the slippery ridge

Of the thawin’ snow, or it’ll be

A long put-back to your gran’ marridge,

I’m tellin’ ye.

Nay, are ter scared o’ summat?

In kep the thick black curtains drawn,

Am I not tellin’ thee summat?

Against the knockin’ of sevenfold dawn,

An’ red-tipped candles from morn to morn

Have dipped an’ danced upon thy brawn

Till thou art worn—

Oh, I have cost thee summat.

Look in the mirror an’ see thy-sen,

—What, I am showin’ thee summat.

Wasted an’ wan tha sees thy-sen,

An’ thy hand that holds the mirror shakes

Till tha drops the glass and tha shudders when

Thy luck breaks.

Sure, tha’rt afraid o’ summat.

Frail thou art, my saucy man,

—Listen, I’m tellin’ thee summat.

Tottering and tired thou art, my man,

Tha came to say good-bye to me,

An’ tha’s done it so well, that now I can

Part wi’ thee.

—Master, I’m givin’ thee summat.

THE SCHOOLMASTER

I

A SNOWY DAY IN SCHOOL

ALL the slow school hours, round the irregular hum of the class,

Have pressed immeasurable spaces of hoarse silence

Muffling my mind, as snow muffles the sounds that pass

Down the soiled street. We have pattered the lessons ceaselessly—

But the faces of the boys, in the brooding, yellow light

Have shone for me like a crowded constellation of stars,

Like full-blown flowers dimly shaking at the night,

Like floating froth on an ebbing shore in the moon.

Out of each star, dark, strange beams that disquiet:

In the open depths of each flower, dark restless drops:

Twin bubbles, shadow-full of mystery and challenge in the foam’s whispering riot:

—How can I answer the challenge of so many eyes!

The thick snow is crumpled on the roof, it plunges down

Awfully. Must I call back those hundred eyes?—A voice

Wakes from the hum, faltering about a noun—

My question! My God, I must break from this hoarse silence

That rustles beyond the stars to me.—There,

I have startled a hundred eyes, and I must look

Them an answer back. It is more than I can bear.

The snow descends as if the dull sky shook

In flakes of shadow down; and through the gap

Between the ruddy schools sweeps one black rook.

The rough snowball in the playground stands huge and still

With fair flakes settling down on it.—Beyond, the town

Is lost in the shadowed silence the skies distil.

And all things are possessed by silence, and they can brood

Wrapped up in the sky’s dim space of hoarse silence

Earnestly—and oh for me this class is a bitter rood.

II

THE BEST OF SCHOOL

THE blinds are drawn because of the sun,

And the boys and the room in a colourless gloom

Of under-water float: bright ripples run

Across the walls as the blinds are blown

To let the sunlight in; and I,

As I sit on the beach of the class alone,

Watch the boys in their summer blouses,

As they write, their round heads busily bowed:

And one after another rouses

And lifts his face and looks at me,

And my eyes meet his very quietly,

Then he turns again to his work, with glee.

With glee he turns, with a little glad

Ecstasy of work he turns from me,

An ecstasy surely sweet to be had.

And very sweet while the sunlight waves

In the fresh of the morning, it is to be

A teacher of these young boys, my slaves

Only as swallows are slaves to the eaves

They build upon, as mice are slaves

To the man who threshes and sows the sheaves.

Oh, sweet it is

To feel the lads’ looks light on me,

Then back in a swift, bright flutter to work,

As birds who are stealing turn and flee.

Touch after touch I feel on me

As their eyes glance at me for the grain

Of rigour they taste delightedly.

And all the class,

As tendrils reached out yearningly

Slowly rotate till they touch the tree

That they cleave unto, that they leap along

Up to their lives—so they to me.

So do they cleave and cling to me,

So I lead them up, so do they twine

Me up, caress and clothe with free

Fine foliage of lives this life of mine;

The lowest stem of this life of mine,

The old hard stem of my life

That bears aloft towards rarer skies

My top of life, that buds on high

Amid the high wind’s enterprise.

They all do clothe my ungrowing life

With a rich, a thrilled young clasp of life;

A clutch of attachment, like parenthood,

Mounts up to my heart, and I find it good.

And I lift my head upon the troubled tangled world, and though the pain

Of living my life were doubled, I still have this to comfort and sustain,

I have such swarming sense of lives at the base of me, such sense of lives

Clustering upon me, reaching up, as each after the other strives

To follow my life aloft to the fine wild air of life and the storm of thought,

And though I scarcely see the boys, or know that they are there, distraught

As I am with living my life in earnestness, still progressively and alone,

Though they cling, forgotten the most part, not companions, scarcely known

To me—yet still because of the sense of their closeness clinging densely to me,

And slowly fingering up my stem and following all tinily

The way that I have gone and now am leading, they are dear to me.

They keep me assured, and when my soul feels lonely,

All mistrustful of thrusting its shoots where only

I alone am living, then it keeps

Me comforted to feel the warmth that creeps

Up dimly from their striving; it heartens my strife:

And when my heart is chill with loneliness,

Then comforts it the creeping tenderness

Of all the strays of life that climb my life.

III

AFTERNOON IN SCHOOL

THE LAST LESSON

WHEN will the bell ring, and end this weariness?

How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart

My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start

Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,

I can haul them and urge them no more.

No more can I endure to bear the brunt

Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score

Of several insults of blotted page and scrawl

Of slovenly work that they have offered me.

I am sick, and tired more than any thrall

Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

And shall I take

The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul

Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume

Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll

Of their insults in punishment?—I will not!

I will not waste myself to embers for them,

Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,

For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep

Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep

Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell

It all for them, I should hate them—

—I will sit and wait for the bell.

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH

Transcriber’s note

The author’s representation of dialect exhibits some inconsistencies, which have been retained as printed.

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Table of Contents

Love Poems and Others

CONTENTS

LOVE POEMS:—

Wedding Morn

Kisses in the Train

Cruelty and Love

Cherry Robbers

Lilies in the Fire

Coldness in Love

End of another Home-Holiday

Reminder

Bei Hennef

Lightning

Song-Day in Autumn

Aware

A Pang of Reminiscence

A White Blossom

Red Moon-Rise

Return

The Appeal

Repulsed

Dream-Confused

Corot

Morning Work

Transformations

Renascence

Dog-Tired

Michael-Angelo

DIALECT POEMS:—

Violets

Whether or Not

A Collier’s Wife

The Drained Cup

THE SCHOOLMASTER:—

I. A Snowy Day in School

II. The Best of School

III. Afternoon in School

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE