The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems

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 www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Poems

Author: Katherine Mansfield

Release date: April 14, 2019 [eBook #59276]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

file was produced from images generously made available

by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

Transcriber’s Note:

Cover created by Transcriber and placed in the Public Domain.

POEMS

By the same author:

THE GARDEN PARTY

THE DOVES’ NEST

BLISS

POEMS

BY KATHERINE MANSFIELD

LONDON: CONSTABLE & CO. LTD.

First published 1923

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW

TO ELIZABETH OF THE GERMAN GARDEN

WHO LOVED CERTAIN OF THESE POEMS

AND THEIR AUTHOR

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

xi

POEMS: 1909–1910

IN THE RANGITAKI VALLEY

3

SPRING WIND IN LONDON

4

BUTTERFLY LAUGHTER

6

THE CANDLE

7

LITTLE BROTHER’S SECRET

8

LITTLE BROTHER’S STORY

9

THE MAN WITH THE WOODEN LEG

10

WHEN I WAS A BIRD

11

THE ARABIAN SHAWL

12

SLEEPING TOGETHER

13

THE QUARREL

14

POEMS: 1911–1913

LONELINESS

17

THE MEETING

18

THE GULF

19

THE STORM

20

ACROSS THE RED SKY

21

VERY EARLY SPRING

22

THE AWAKENING RIVER

23

THE SEA-CHILD

24

THE EARTH-CHILD IN THE GRASS

25

TO GOD THE FATHER

26

THE OPAL DREAM CAVE

27

SEA

28

JANGLING MEMORY

29

THERE WAS A CHILD ONCE

30

THE SECRET

31

SEA SONG

32

COUNTRYWOMEN

34

STARS

35

DEAF HOUSE AGENT

36

POEMS AT THE VILLA PAULINE: 1916

VILLA PAULINE

39

CAMOMILE TEA

40

WAVES

41

THE TOWN BETWEEN THE HILLS

43

VOICES OF THE AIR

45

SANARY

46

TO L. H. B. (1894–1915)

47

POEMS: 1917–1919

NIGHT-SCENTED STOCK

51

NOW I AM A PLANT, A WEED....

53

THERE IS A SOLEMN WIND TO-NIGHT

54

OUT IN THE GARDEN

55

FAIRY TALE

56

COVERING WINGS

57

FIRELIGHT

59

SORROWING LOVE

60

A LITTLE GIRL’S PRAYER

61

THE WOUNDED BIRD

62

CHILD VERSES: 1907

A FAIRY TALE

65

OPPOSITES

67

SONG OF KAREN, THE DANCING CHILD

69

A JOYFUL SONG OF FIVE

70

THE CANDLE FAIRY

71

SONG BY THE WINDOW BEFORE BED

72

A LITTLE BOY’S DREAM

73

WINTER SONG

74

ON A YOUNG LADY’S SIXTH ANNIVERSARY

75

SONG OF THE LITTLE WHITE GIRL

76

A FEW RULES FOR BEGINNERS

77

A DAY IN BED

78

THE LONESOME CHILD

79

A FINE DAY

80

EVENING SONG OF THE THOUGHTFUL CHILD

81

A NEW HYMN

83

AUTUMN SONG

84

THE BLACK MONKEY

85

THE PILLAR BOX

86

THE QUARREL

87

GROWN-UP TALK

88

THE FAMILY

89

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

In her Journal, on January 22, 1916, Katherine Mansfield told her plans as her writer to her dead brother. She wanted to pay “a sacred debt” to her country, New Zealand, because “my brother and I were born there.” “Then,” she continued, “I want to write poetry.”

“I feel always trembling on the brink of poetry,” she whispers to her brother. “The almond tree, the birds, the little wood where you are, the flowers you do not see, the open window out of which I lean and dream that you are against my shoulder, and the times that your photograph ‘looks sad.’ But especially I want to write a kind of long elegy to you ... perhaps not in poetry. No, perhaps in prose. Almost certainly in a kind of special prose.”

This “special prose” was the peculiar achievement of her genius. It seems to me that nothing like Prelude or At the Bay or The Voyage or The Doves’ Nest had ever been written in English before. English prose was turned to a new and magical use, made crystal-clear, and filled with rainbow-beauties that are utterly indefinable. What might, in another writer of genius, have become poetry, Katherine Mansfield put into her stories.

Nevertheless, she had written and, at long intervals, continued to write poetry. Perhaps her poetry is not quite poetry, just as her prose is not quite prose. Certainly, whatever they are, they belong to the same order; they have the same simple and mysterious beauty, and they are, above all, the expression of the same exquisite spirit. To my sense they are unique.

Comparatively few of these poems have been published; and of these few hardly one, except those which have appeared after her death in The Adelphi, over her own name. All those which were published in her lifetime, with two exceptions, appeared in papers which we edited together—in Rhythm, when we were young; in The Athenaeum, when we were older. The reason of this restriction was that she had tried in vain to get them published in other places. I remember her telling me when first we met that the beautiful pieces now gathered together as “Poems, 1911–1913” had been refused, because they were unrhymed, by the only editor who used to accept her work. He wanted her to write nothing but satirical prose. This treatment made her very reserved about her verses. Those she published in Rhythm appeared as translations from an imaginary Russian called Boris Petrovsky; those she published in The Athenaeum appeared over the pseudonym of Elizabeth Stanley. Her cousin, to whom this book is dedicated, was the only person to penetrate this latter disguise.

The poems have been roughly grouped in periods. Katherine Mansfield’s practice was suddenly to spend several days in writing poetry, and then to abandon poetry wholly for months and years together. “Poems at the Villa Pauline,” with the exception of the sonnet to L. H. B., were written in curious circumstances. Villa Pauline was a four-roomed cottage on the shore of the Mediterranean where we lived in 1916. For the whole of one week we made a practice of sitting together after supper at a very small table in the kitchen and writing verses on a single theme which we had chosen. It seems to me now almost miraculous that so exquisite a poem as, for instance, “Voices of the Air,” should have been thus composed.

The Child Verses at the end of the volume were written when Katherine Mansfield was still at Queen’s College. They were saved from destruction by one of her friends.

POEMS 1909–1910

IN THE RANGITAKI VALLEY

O VALLEY of waving broom,

O lovely, lovely light,

O heart of the world, red-gold!

Breast high in the blossom I stand;

It beats about me like waves

Of a magical, golden sea.

The barren heart of the world

Alive at the kiss of the sun,

The yellow mantle of Summer

Flung over a laughing land,

Warm with the warmth of her body,

Sweet with the kiss of her breath.

O valley of waving broom,

O lovely, lovely light,

O mystical marriage of Earth

With the passionate Summer sun!

To her lover she holds a cup

And the yellow wine o’erflows.

He has lighted a little torch

And the whole of the world is ablaze.

Prodigal wealth of love!

Breast high in the blossom I stand.

1909.

SPRING WIND IN LONDON

I BLOW across the stagnant world,

I blow across the sea,

For me, the sailor’s flag unfurled,

For me, the uprooted tree.

My challenge to the world is hurled;

The world must bow to me.

I drive the clouds across the sky,

I huddle them like sheep;

Merciless shepherd-dog am I

And shepherd-watch I keep.

If in the quiet vales they lie

I blow them up the steep.

Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,

In every living thing;

On the moon’s yellow wings I glide,

On the wild rose I swing;

On the sea-horse’s back I ride,

And what then do I bring?

And when a little child is ill

I pause, and with my hand

I wave the window curtain’s frill

That he may understand

Outside the wind is blowing still.

... It is a pleasant land.

O stranger in a foreign place,

See what I bring to you.

This rain—is tears upon your face;

I tell you—tell you true

I came from that forgotten place

Where once the wattle grew.

All the wild sweetness of the flower

Tangled against the wall.

It was that magic, silent hour....

The branches grew so tall

They twined themselves into a bower.

The sun shone ... and the fall

Of yellow blossom on the grass!

You feel that golden rain?

Both of you could not hold, alas,

(Both of you tried—in vain)

A memory, stranger. So I pass....

It will not come again.

1909.

BUTTERFLY LAUGHTER

IN the middle of our porridge plates

There was a blue butterfly painted

And each morning we tried who should reach the butterfly first.

Then the Grandmother said: “Do not eat the poor butterfly.”

That made us laugh.

Always she said it and always it started us laughing.

It seemed such a sweet little joke.

I was certain that one fine morning

The butterfly would fly out of the plates,

Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,

And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.

THE CANDLE

BY my bed, on a little round table

The Grandmother placed a candle.

She gave me three kisses telling me they were three dreams

And tucked me in just where I loved being tucked.

Then she went out of the room and the door was shut.

I lay still, waiting for my three dreams to talk;

But they were silent.

Suddenly I remembered giving her three kisses back.

Perhaps, by mistake, I had given my three little dreams.

I sat up in bed.

The room grew big, oh, bigger far than a church.

The wardrobe, quite by itself, as big as a house.

And the jug on the washstand smiled at me:

It was not a friendly smile.

I looked at the basket-chair where my clothes lay folded:

The chair gave a creak as though it were listening for something.

Perhaps it was coming alive and going to dress in my clothes.

But the awful thing was the window:

I could not think what was outside.

No tree to be seen, I was sure,

No nice little plant or friendly pebbly path.

Why did she pull the blind down every night?

It was better to know.

I crunched my teeth and crept out of bed,

I peeped through a slit of the blind.

There was nothing at all to be seen.

But hundreds of friendly candles all over the sky

In remembrance of frightened children.

I went back to bed ...

The three dreams started singing a little song.

LITTLE BROTHER’S SECRET

WHEN my birthday was coming

Little Brother had a secret:

He kept it for days and days

And just hummed a little tune when I asked him.

But one night it rained

And I woke up and heard him crying:

Then he told me.

“I planted two lumps of sugar in your garden

Because you love it so frightfully

I thought there would be a whole sugar tree for your birthday,

And now it will all be melted.”

O the darling!

LITTLE BROTHER’S STORY

WE sat in front of the fire;

Grandmother was in the rocking chair doing her knitting

And Little Brother and I were lying down flat.

“Please tell us a story, Grandmother,” we said.

But she put her head on one side and began counting the stitches,

“Suppose you tell me one instead.”

I made up one about a spotted tiger

That had a knot in his tail;

But though I liked this about the knot,

I did not know why it was put there.

So I said: “Little Brother’s turn.”

“I know a perfect story,” he cried, waving his hands.

Grandmother laid down her knitting.

“Do tell us, dear.”

“Once upon a time there was a bad little girl

And her Mummy gave her the slipper, and that’s all.”

It was not a very special story.

But we pretended to be very pleased

And Grandmother gave him jumps on her lap.

THE MAN WITH THE WOODEN LEG

THERE was a man lived quite near us;

He had a wooden leg and a goldfinch in a green cage.

His name was Farkey Anderson,

And he’d been in a war to get his leg.

We were very sad about him,

Because he had such a beautiful smile

And was such a big man to live in a very small house.

When he walked on the road his leg did not matter so much;

But when he walked in his little house

It made an ugly noise.

Little Brother said his goldfinch sang the loudest of all birds,

So that he should not hear his poor leg

And feel too sorry about it.

WHEN I WAS A BIRD

I CLIMBED up the karaka tree

Into a nest all made of leaves

But soft as feathers.

I made up a song that went on singing all by itself

And hadn’t any words, but got sad at the end.

There were daisies in the grass under the tree.

I said just to try them:

“I’ll bite off your heads and give them to my little children to eat.”

But they didn’t believe I was a bird;

They stayed quite open.

The sky was like a blue nest with white feathers

And the sun was the mother bird keeping it warm.

That’s what my song said: though it hadn’t any words.

Little Brother came up the patch, wheeling his barrow.

I made my dress into wings and kept very quiet.

Then when he was quite near I said: “Sweet, sweet!”

For a moment he looked quite startled;

Then he said: “Pooh, you’re not a bird; I can see your legs.”

But the daisies didn’t really matter,

And Little Brother didn’t really matter;

I felt just like a bird.

THE ARABIAN SHAWL

“IT is cold outside, you will need a coat—

What! this old Arabian shawl!

Bind it about your head and throat,

These steps ... it is dark ... my hand ... you might fall.”

What has happened? What strange, sweet charm

Lingers about the Arabian shawl ...

Do not tremble so! There can be no harm

In just remembering—that is all.

“I love you so—I will be your wife,”

Here, in the dark of the Terrace wall,

Say it again. Let that other life

Fold us like the Arabian shawl.

“Do you remember?” ... “I quite forget,

Some childish foolishness, that is all,

To-night is the first time we have met ...

Let me take off my Arabian shawl!”

SLEEPING TOGETHER

SLEEPING together ... how tired you were ...

How warm our room ... how the firelight spread

On walls and ceiling and great white bed!

We spoke in whispers as children do,

And now it was I—and then it was you

Slept a moment, to wake—“My dear,

I’m not at all sleepy,” one of us said...

Was it a thousand years ago?

I woke in your arms—you were sound asleep—

And heard the pattering sound of sheep.

Softly I slipped to the floor and crept

To the curtained window, then, while you slept,

I watched the sheep pass by in the snow.

O flock of thoughts with their shepherd Fear

Shivering, desolate, out in the cold,

That entered into my heart to fold!

A thousand years ... was it yesterday

When we, two children of far away,

Clinging close in the darkness, lay

Sleeping together?... How tired you were...

THE QUARREL

OUR quarrel seemed a giant thing,

It made the room feel mean and small,

The books, the lamp, the furniture,

The very pictures on the wall—

Crowded upon us as we sat

Pale and terrified, face to face.

“Why do you stay?” she said, “my room

Can never be your resting place.”

“Katinka, ere we part for life,

I pray you walk once more with me.”

So down the dark, familiar road

We paced together, silently.

The sky—it seemed on fire with stars!

I said:—“Katinka dear, look up!”

Like thirsty children, both of us

Drank from that giant loving cup.

“Who were those dolls?” Katinka said.

“What were their stupid, vague alarms?”

And suddenly we turned and laughed

And rushed into each other’s arms.

POEMS 1911–1913

LONELINESS

NOW it is Loneliness who comes at night

Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed.

Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,

I watch her softly blowing out the light.

Motionless sitting, neither left nor right

She turns, and weary, weary droops her head.

She, too, is old; she, too, has fought the fight.

So, with the laurel she is garlanded.

Through the sad dark the slowly ebbing tide

Breaks on a barren shore, unsatisfied.

A strange wind flows ... then silence. I am fain

To turn to Loneliness, to take her hand,

Cling to her, waiting, till the barren land

Fills with the dreadful monotone of rain.

1911.

THE MEETING

WE started speaking,

Looked at each other, then turned away.

The tears kept rising to my eyes

But I could not weep.

I wanted to take your hand

But my hand trembled.

You kept counting the days

Before we should meet again.

But both of us felt in our hearts

That we parted for ever and ever.

The ticking of the little clock filled the quiet room.

“Listen,” I said. “It is so loud,

Like a horse galloping on a lonely road,

As loud as that—a horse galloping past in the night.”

You shut me up in your arms.

But the sound of the clock stifled our hearts’ beating.

You said, “I cannot go: all that is living of me

Is here for ever and ever.”

Then you went.

The world changed. The sound of the clock grew fainter,

Dwindled away, became a minute thing.

I whispered in the darkness, “If it stops, I shall die.”

1911.

THE GULF

A GULF of silence separates us from each other.

I stand at one side of the gulf, you at the other.

I cannot see you or hear you, yet know that you are there.

Often I call you by your childish name

And pretend that the echo to my crying is your voice.

How can we bridge the gulf? Never by speech or touch.

Once I thought we might fill it quite up with tears.

Now I want to shatter it with our laughter.

1911.

THE STORM

I RAN to the forest for shelter,

Breathless, half sobbing;

I put my arms round a tree,

Pillowed my head against the rough bark.

“Protect me,” I said. “I am a lost child.”

But the tree showered silver drops on my face and hair.

A wind sprang up from the ends of the earth;

It lashed the forest together.

A huge green wave thundered and burst over my head.

I prayed, implored, “Please take care of me!”

But the wind pulled at my cloak and the rain beat upon me.

Little rivers tore up the ground and swamped the bushes.

A frenzy possessed the earth: I felt that the earth was drowning

In a bubbling cavern of space. I alone—

Smaller than the smallest fly—was alive and terrified.

Then, for what reason I know not, I became triumphant.

“Well, kill me!” I cried and ran out into the open.

But the storm ceased: the sun spread his wings

And floated serene in the silver pool of the sky.

I put my hands over my face: I was blushing.

And the trees swung together and delicately laughed.

1911.

ACROSS THE RED SKY

ACROSS the red sky two birds flying,

Flying with drooping wings.

Silent and solitary their ominous flight.

All day the triumphant sun with yellow banners

Warred and warred with the earth, and when she yielded

Stabbed her heart, gathered her blood in a chalice,

Spilling it over the evening sky.

When the dark plumaged birds go flying, flying,

Quiet lies the earth wrapt in her mournful shadow,

Her sightless eyes turned to the red sky

And the restlessly seeking birds.

1911.

VERY EARLY SPRING

THE fields are snowbound no longer;

There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.

The snow has been caught up into the sky—

So many white clouds—and the blue of the sky is cold.

Now the sun walks in the forest,

He touches the boughs and stems with his golden fingers;

They shiver, and wake from slumber.

Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.

... Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears....

A wind dances over the fields.

Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,

Yet the little blue lakes tremble

And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.

1911.

THE AWAKENING RIVER

THE gulls are mad-in-love with the river,

And the river unveils her face and smiles.

In her sleep-brooding eyes they mirror their shining wings.

She lies on silver pillows: the sun leans over her.

He warms and warms her, he kisses and kisses her.

There are sparks in her hair and she stirs in laughter.

Be careful, my beautiful waking one! you will catch on fire.

Wheeling and flying with the foam of the sea on their breasts,

The ineffable mists of the sea clinging to their wild wings,

Crying the rapture of the boundless ocean,

The gulls are mad-in-love with the river.

Wake! we are the dream thoughts flying from your heart.

Wake! we are the songs of desire flowing from your bosom.

O, I think the sun will lend her his great wings

And the river will fly away to the sea with the mad-in-love birds.

1911.

THE SEA CHILD

INTO the world you sent her, mother,

Fashioned her body of coral and foam,

Combed a wave in her hair’s warm smother,

And drove her away from home.

In the dark of the night she crept to the town

And under a doorway she laid her down,

The little blue child in the foam-fringed gown.

And never a sister and never a brother

To hear her call, to answer her cry.

Her face shone out from her hair’s warm smother

Like a moonkin up in the sky.

She sold her corals; she sold her foam;

Her rainbow heart like a singing shell

Broke in her body: she crept back home.

Peace, go back to the world, my daughter,

Daughter, go back to the darkling land;

There is nothing here but sad sea water,

And a handful of sifting sand.

1911.

THE EARTH-CHILD IN THE GRASS

IN the very early morning

Long before Dawn time

I lay down in the paddock

And listened to the cold song of the grass.

Between my fingers the green blades,

And the green blades pressed against my body.

“Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?”

Sang the grass.

“Why does she weep on my bosom,

Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?

Foolish little earth child!

It is not yet time.

One day I shall open my bosom

And you shall slip in—but not weeping.

Then in the early morning

Long before Dawn time

Your lover will lie in the paddock.

Between his fingers the green blades

And the green blades pressed against his body ...

My song shall not sound cold to him

In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair

In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses.

Long and long he will lie there ...

Laughing—not weeping.”

1911.

TO GOD THE FATHER

TO the little, pitiful God I make my prayer,

The God with the long grey beard

And flowing robe fastened with a hempen girdle

Who sits nodding and muttering on the all-too-big throne of Heaven.

What a long, long time, dear God, since you set the stars in their places,

Girded the earth with the sea, and invented the day and night.

And longer the time since you looked through the blue window of Heaven

To see your children at play in a garden....

Now we are all stronger than you and wiser and more arrogant,

In swift procession we pass you by.

“Who is that marionette nodding and muttering

On the all-too-big throne of Heaven?

Come down from your place, Grey Beard,

We have had enough of your play-acting!”

It is centuries since I believed in you,

But to-day my need of you has come back.

I want no rose-coloured future,

No books of learning, no protestations and denials—

I am sick of this ugly scramble,

I am tired of being pulled about—

O God, I want to sit on your knees

On the all-too-big throne of Heaven,

And fall asleep with my hands tangled in your grey beard.

1911.

THE OPAL DREAM CAVE

IN an opal dream cave I found a fairy:

Her wings were frailer than flower petals,

Frailer far than snowflakes.

She was not frightened, but poised on my finger,

Then delicately walked into my hand.

I shut the two palms of my hands together

And held her prisoner.

I carried her out of the opal cave,

Then opened my hands.

First she became thistledown,

Then a mote in a sunbeam,

Then—nothing at all.

Empty now is my opal dream cave.

1911.

SEA

THE Sea called—I lay on the rocks and said:

“I am come.”

She mocked and showed her teeth,

Stretching out her long green arms.

“Go away!” she thundered.

“Then tell me what I am to do,” I begged.

“If I leave you, you will not be silent,

But cry my name in the cities

And wistfully entreat me in the plains and forests;

All else I forsake to come to you—what must I do?”

“Never have I uttered your name,” snarled the Sea.

“There is no more of me in your body

Than the little salt tears you are frightened of shedding.

What can you know of my love on your brown rock pillow....

Come closer.”

1911.

JANGLING MEMORY

HEAVENS above! here’s an old tie of yours—

Sea-green dragons stamped on a golden ground.

Ha! Ha! Ha! What children we were in those days.

Do you love me enough to wear it now?

Have you the courage of your pristine glories?

Ha! Ha! Ha! You laugh and shrug your shoulders.

Those were the days when a new tie spelt a fortune:

We wore it in turn—I flaunted it as a waist-belt.

Ha! Ha! Ha! What easily satisfied babies.

“I think I’ll turn it into a piano duster.”

“Give it to me, I’ll polish my slippers on it!”

Ha! Ha! Ha! The rag’s not worth the dustbin.

“Throw the shabby old thing right out of the window;

Fling it into the faces of other children!”

Ha! Ha! Ha! We laughed and laughed till the tears came!

1911.

THERE WAS A CHILD ONCE

THERE was a child once.

He came to play in my garden;

He was quite pale and silent.

Only when he smiled I knew everything about him,

I knew what he had in his pockets,

And I knew the feel of his hands in my hands

And the most intimate tones of his voice.

I led him down each secret path,

Showing him the hiding-place of all my treasures.

I let him play with them, every one,

I put my singing thoughts in a little silver cage

And gave them to him to keep ...

It was very dark in the garden

But never dark enough for us. On tiptoe we walked among the deepest shades;

We bathed in the shadow pools beneath the trees,

Pretending we were under the sea.

Once—near the boundary of the garden—

We heard steps passing along the World-road;

O how frightened we were!

I whispered: “Have you ever walked along that road?”

He nodded, and we shook the tears from our eyes....

There was a child once.

He came—quite alone—to play in my garden;

He was pale and silent.

When we met we kissed each other,

But when he went away, we did not even wave.

1912.

THE SECRET

IN the profoundest ocean

There is a rainbow shell,

It is always there, shining most stilly

Under the greatest storm waves

And under the happy little waves

That the old Greek called ‘ripples of laughter.’

And you listen, the rainbow shell

Sings—in the profoundest ocean.

It is always there, singing most silently!

1912.

SEA SONG

I WILL think no more of the sea!

Of the big green waves

And the hollowed shore,

Of the brown rock caves

No more, no more

Of the swell and the weed

And the bubbling foam.

Memory dwells in my far away home,

She has nothing to do with me.

She is old and bent

With a pack

On her back.

Her tears all spent,

Her voice, just a crack.

With an old thorn stick

She hobbles along,

And a crazy song

Now slow, now quick

Wheeks in her throat.

And every day

While there’s light on the shore

She searches for something,

Her withered claw

Tumbles the seaweed;

She pokes in each shell

Groping and mumbling

Until the night

Deepens and darkens,

And covers her quite,

And bids her be silent,

And bids her be still.

The ghostly feet

Of the whispery waves

Tiptoe beside her.

They follow, follow

To the rocky caves

In the white beach hollow ...

She hugs her hands,

She sobs, she shrills,

And the echoes shriek

In the rocky hills.

She moans: “It is lost!

Let it be! Let it be!

I am old. I’m too cold.

I am frightened ... the sea

Is too loud ... it is lost,

It is gone...” Memory

Wails in my far away home.

1913.

COUNTRYWOMEN

THESE be two

Country women.

What a size!

Grand big arms

And round red faces;

Big substantial

Sit down places;

Great big bosoms firm as cheese

Bursting through their country jackets;

Wide big laps

And sturdy knees;

Hands outspread,

Round and rosy,

Hands to hold

A country posy

Or a baby or a lamb—

And such eyes!

Stupid, shifty, small and sly

Peeping through a slit of sty,

Squinting through their neighbours’ plackets.

1914.

STARS

MOST merciful God

Look kindly upon

An impudent child

Who wants sitting on.

This evening late

I went to the door

And then to the gate

There were more stars—more

Than I could have expected,

Even I!

I was simply amazed

Almighty, August!

I was utterly dazed,

Omnipotent! Just

In a word I was floored,

Good God of Hosts—Lord!

That at this time of day

They should still blaze away,

That thou hadst not rejected

Or at least circumspected

Their white silver beauty—

Was it spite ... Was it duty..?

1914.

DEAF HOUSE AGENT

THAT deaf old man

With his hand to his ear—

His hand to his head stood out like a shell,

Horny and hollow. He said, “I can’t hear,”

He muttered, “Don’t shout,

I can hear very well!”

He mumbled, “I can’t catch a word;

I can’t follow.”

Then Jack with a voice like a Protestant bell

Roared—“Particulars! Farmhouse! At 10 quid a year!”

“I dunno wot place you are talking about,”

Said the deaf old man.

Said Jack, “What the HELL!”

But the deaf old man took a pin from his desk, picked a piece of wool the size of a hen’s egg from his ear, had a good look at it, decided in its favour and replaced it in the aforementioned organ.

1914.

POEMS AT THE VILLA PAULINE 1916

VILLA PAULINE

BUT, ah! before he came

You were only a name:

Four little rooms and a cupboard

Without a bone,

And I was alone!

Now with your windows wide

Everything from outside

Of sun and flower and loveliness

Comes in to hide,

To play, to laugh on the stairs,

To catch unawares

Our childish happiness,

And to glide

Through the four little rooms on tip-toe

With lifted finger,

Pretending we shall not know

When the shutters are shut

That they still linger

Long, long after.

Lying close in the dark

He says to me: “Hark,

Isn’t that laughter?”

1916.

CAMOMILE TEA

OUTSIDE the sky is light with stars;

There’s a hollow roaring from the sea.

And, alas! for the little almond flowers,

The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,

In that horrible cottage upon the Lee

That he and I should be sitting so

And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,

The horn of the moon is plain to see;

By a firefly under a jonquil flower

A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,

So snug, so compact, so wise are we!

Under the kitchen-table leg

My knee is pressing against his knee.

Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,

The tap is dripping peacefully;

The saucepan shadows on the wall

Are black and round and plain to see.

1916.

WAVES

I SAW a tiny God

Sitting

Under a bright blue Umbrella

That had white tassels

And forkèd ribs of gold.

Below him His little world

Lay open to the sun.

The shadow of His hat

Lay upon a city.

When he stretched forth His hand

A lake became a dark tremble.

When he kicked up His foot

It became night in the mountain passes.

But thou art small!

There are gods far greater than thou;

They rise and fall,

The tumbling gods of the sea.

Can thy heart heave such sighs,

Such hollow savage cries,

Such windy breath,

Such groaning death?

And can thy arm enfold

The old,

The cold,

The changeless dreadful places

Where the herds

Of horned sea-monsters

And the screaming birds

Gather together?

From those silent men

That lie in the pen

Of our pearly prisons,

Canst thou hunt thy prey?

Like us canst thou stay

Awaiting thine hour,

And then rise like a tower

And crash and shatter?

There are neither trees nor bushes

In my country,

Said the tiny God.

But there are streams

And waterfalls

And mountain-peaks

Covered with lovely weed.

There are little shores and safe harbours,

Caves for cool and plains for sun and wind.

Lovely is the sound of the rivers,

Lovely the flashing brightness

Of the lovely peaks.

I am content.

But Thy kingdom is small,

Said the God of the Sea.

Thy kingdom shall fall;

I shall not let thee be.

Thou art proud!

With a loud

Pealing of laughter,

He rose and covered

The tiny God’s land

With the tip of his hand,

With the curl of his fingers:

And after—

The tiny God

Began to cry.

1916.

THE TOWN BETWEEN THE HILLS

THE further the little girl leaped and ran,

The further she longed to be;

The white, white fields of jonquil flowers

Danced up as high as her knee

And flashed and sparkled before her eyes

Until she could hardly see.

So into the wood went she.

It was quiet in the wood,

It was solemn and grave;

A sound like a wave

Sighed in the tree-tops

And then sighed no more.

But she was brave,

And the sky showed through

A bird’s-egg blue,

And she saw

A tiny path that was running away

Over the hills to—who can say?

She ran, too.

But then the path broke,

Then the path ended

And wouldn’t be mended.

A little old man

Sat on the edge,

Hugging the hedge.

He had a fire

And two eggs in a pan

And a paper poke

Of pepper and salt;

So she came to a halt

To watch and admire:

Cunning and nimble was he!

“May I help, if I can, little old man?”

“Bravo!” he said,

“You may dine with me.

I’ve two old eggs

From two white hens

And a loaf from a kind ladie:

Some fresh nutmegs,

Some cutlet ends

In pink and white paper frills:

And—I’ve—got

A little hot-pot

From the town between the hills.”

He nodded his head

And made her a sign

To sit under the spray

Of a trailing vine.

But when the little girl joined her hands

And said the grace she had learned to say,

The little old man gave two dreadful squeals

And she just saw the flash of his smoking heels

As he tumbled, tumbled

With his two old eggs

From two white hens,

His loaf from a kind ladie,

The fresh nutmegs,

The cutlet-ends

In the pink and white paper frills.

And away rumbled

The little hot-pot,

So much too hot,

From the town between the hills.

1916.

VOICES OF THE AIR

BUT then there comes that moment rare

When, for no cause that I can find,

The little voices of the air

Sound above all the sea and wind.

The sea and wind do then obey

And sighing, sighing double notes

Of double basses, content to play

A droning chord for the little throats—

The little throats that sing and rise

Up into the light with lovely ease

And a kind of magical, sweet surprise

To hear and know themselves for these—

For these little voices: the bee, the fly,

The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,

The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,

The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.

1916.

SANARY

HER little hot room looked over the bay

Through a stiff palisade of glinting palms,

And there she would lie in the heat of the day,

Her dark head resting upon her arms,

So quiet, so still, she did not seem

To think, to feel, or even to dream.

The shimmering, blinding web of sea

Hung from the sky, and the spider sun

With busy frightening cruelty

Crawled over the sky and spun and spun.

She could see it still when she shut her eyes,

And the little boats caught in the web like flies.

Down below at this idle hour

Nobody walked in the dusty street

A scent of dying mimosa flower

Lay on the air, but sweet—too sweet.

1916.

TO L. H. B. (1894–1915)

LAST night for the first time since you were dead

I walked with you, my brother, in a dream.

We were at home again beside the stream

Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red.

“Don’t touch them: they are poisonous,” I said.

But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam

Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head

And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam.

“Don’t you remember? We called them Dead Man’s Bread!”

I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar

Of the dark water tumbling on the shore.

Where—where is the path of my dream for my eager feet?

By the remembered stream my brother stands

Waiting for me with berries in his hands ...

“These are my body. Sister, take and eat.”

1916.

POEMS 1917–1919

NIGHT-SCENTED STOCK

WHITE, white in the milky night

The moon danced over a tree.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely to swim in the lake!”

Someone whispered to me.

“Oh, do—do—do!” cooed someone else,

And clasped her hands to her chin.

“I should so love to see the white bodies—

All the white bodies jump in!”

The big dark house hid secretly

Behind the magnolia and the spreading pear-tree,

But there was a sound of music—music rippled and ran

Like a lady laughing behind her fan,

Laughing and mocking and running away ...

“Come into the garden—it’s as light as day!”

“I can’t dance to that Hungarian stuff,

The rhythm in it is not passionate enough,”

Said somebody. “I absolutely refuse...”

But he took off his socks and his shoes

And round her spun. “It’s like Hungarian fruit dishes

Hard and bright—a mechanical blue!”

His white feet flicked in the grass like fishes ...

Someone cried: “I want to dance, too!”

But one with a queer Russian ballet head

Curled up on a blue wooden bench instead.

And another, shadowy—shadowy and tall—

Walked in the shadow of the dark house wall,

Someone beside her. It shone in the gloom,

His round grey hat, like a wet mushroom.

“Don’t you think perhaps ...” piped someone’s flute ...

“How sweet the flowers smell!” I heard the other say—

Somebody picked a wet, wet pink

Smelled it and threw it away.

“Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?”

Asked somebody. Nobody would tell.

The faces and the hands moved in a pattern

As the music rose and fell,

In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern

Like flowers nodding under the sea ...

The music stopped and there was nothing left of them

But the moon dancing over the tree.

1917.

NOW I AM A PLANT, A WEED ...

NOW I am a plant, a weed,

Bending and swinging

On a rocky ledge;

And now I am a long brown grass

Fluttering like flame;

I am a reed;

An old shell singing

For ever the same;

A drift of sedge;

A white, white stone;

A bone;

Until I pass

Into sand again,

And spin and blow

To and fro, to and fro,

On the edge of the sea

In the fading light—

For the light fades.

But if you were to come you would not say:

“She is not waiting here for me;

She has forgotten.” Have we not in play

Disguised ourselves as weed and stones and grass

While the strange ships did pass

Gently, gravely, leaving a curl of foam

That uncurled softly about our island home ...

Bubbles of foam that glittered on the stone

Like rainbows? Look, darling! No, they are gone.

And the white sails have melted into the sailing sky ...

1917.

THERE IS A SOLEMN WIND TO-NIGHT

THERE is a solemn wind to-night

That sings of solemn rain;

The trees that have been quiet so long

Flutter and start again.

The slender trees, the heavy trees,

The fruit trees laden and proud,

Lift up their branches to the wind

That cries to them so loud.

The little bushes and the plants

Bow to the solemn sound,

And every tiniest blade of grass

Shakes on the quiet ground.

1917.

OUT IN THE GARDEN

OUT in the garden,

Out in the windy, swinging dark,

Under the trees and over the flower-beds,

Over the grass and under the hedge border,

Someone is sweeping, sweeping,

Some old gardener.

Out in the windy, swinging dark,

Someone is secretly putting in order,

Someone is creeping, creeping.

1917.

FAIRY TALE

NOW folds the Tree of Day its perfect flowers,

And every bloom becomes a bud again,

Shut and sealed up against the golden showers

Of bees that hover in the velvet hours....

Now a strain

Wild and mournful blown from shadow towers,

Echoed from shadow ships upon the foam,

Proclaims the Queen of Night.

From their bowers

The dark Princesses fluttering, wing their flight

To their old Mother, in her huge old home.

1919.

COVERING WINGS

LOVE! Love! Your tenderness,

Your beautiful, watchful ways

Grasp me, fold me, cover me;

I lie in a kind of daze,

Neither asleep nor yet awake,

Neither a bud nor flower.

Brings to-morrow

Joy or sorrow,

The black or the golden hour?

Love! Love! You pity me so!

Chide me, scold me—cry,

“Submit—submit! You must not fight!”

What may I do, then? Die?

But, oh, my horror of quiet beds!

How can I longer stay!

“One to be ready,

Two to be steady,

Three to be off and away!”

Darling heart—your gravity!

Your sorrowful, mournful gaze—

“Two bleached roads lie under the moon,

At the parting of the ways.”

But the tiny, tree-thatched, narrow lane,

Isn’t it yours and mine?

The blue-bells ring

Hey, ding-a-ding, ding!

And buds are thick on the vine.

Love! Love! grief of my heart!

As a tree droops over a stream

You hush me, lull me, darken me,

The shadow hiding the gleam.

Your drooping and tragical boughs of grace

Are heavy as though with rain.

Run! Run!

Into the sun!

Let us be children again.

1919.

FIRELIGHT

PLAYING in the fire and twilight together,

My little son and I,

Suddenly—woefully—I stoop to catch him.

“Try, mother, try!”

Old Nurse Silence lifts a silent finger:

“Hush! cease your play!”

What happened? What in that tiny moment

Flew away?

1919.

SORROWING LOVE

AND again the flowers are come

And the light shakes,

And no tiny voice is dumb,

And a bud breaks

On the humble bush and the proud restless tree.

Come with me!

Look, this little flower is pink,

And this one white.

Here’s a pearl cup for your drink,

Here’s for your delight

A yellow one, sweet with honey,

Here’s fairy money

Silver bright

Scattered over the grass

As we pass.

Here’s moss. How the smell of it lingers

On my cold fingers!

You shall have no moss. Here’s a frail

Hyacinth, deathly pale.

Not for you, not for you!

And the place where they grew

You must promise me not to discover,

My sorrowful lover!

Shall we never be happy again?

Never again play?

In vain—in vain!

Come away!

1919.

A LITTLE GIRL’S PRAYER

GRANT me the moment, the lovely moment

That I may lean forth to see

The other buds, the other blooms,

The other leaves on the tree:

That I may take into my bosom

The breeze that is like his brother,

But stiller, lighter, whose faint laughter

Echoes the joy of the other.

Above on the blue and white cloud-spaces

There are small clouds at play.

I watch their remote, mysterious play-time

In the other far-away.

Grant I may hear the small birds singing

The song that the silence knows ...

(The Light and the Shadow whisper together,

The lovely moment grows,

Ripples into the air like water

Away and away without sound,

And the little girl gets up from her praying

On the cold ground.)

1919.

THE WOUNDED BIRD

IN the wide bed

Under the green embroidered quilt

With flowers and leaves always in soft motion

She is like a wounded bird resting on a pool.

The hunter threw his dart

And hit her breast,—

Hit her but did not kill.

“O my wings, lift me—lift me!

I am not dreadfully hurt!”

Down she dropped and was still.

Kind people come to the edge of the pool with baskets.

“Of course what the poor bird wants is plenty of food!”

Their bags and pockets are crammed almost to bursting

With dinner scrapings and scraps from the servants’ lunch.

Oh! how pleased they are to be really giving!

“In the past, you know you know, you were always so fly-away.

So seldom came to the window-sill, so rarely

Shared the delicious crumbs thrown into the yard.

Here is a delicate fragment and here a tit-bit

As good as new. And here’s a morsel of relish

And cake and bread and bread and bread and bread.”

At night, in the wide bed

With the leaves and flowers

Gently weaving in the darkness,

She is like a wounded bird at rest on a pool.

Timidly, timidly she lifts her head from her wing

In the sky there are two stars

Floating, shining ...

O waters—do not cover me!

I would look long and long at those beautiful stars!

O my wings—lift me—lift me!

I am not so dreadfully hurt ...

1919.

CHILD VERSES 1907

A FAIRY TALE

NOW this is the story of Olaf

Who ages and ages ago

Lived right on the top of a mountain,

A mountain all covered with snow.

And he was quite pretty and tiny

With beautiful curling fair hair

And small hands like delicate flowers—

Cheeks kissed by the cold mountain air.

He lived in a hut made of pinewood

Just one little room and a door

A table, a chair, and a bedstead

And animal skins on the floor.

Now Olaf was partly a fairy

And so never wanted to eat

He thought dewdrops and raindrops were plenty

And snowflakes and all perfumes sweet.

In the daytime when sweeping and dusting

And cleaning were quite at an end,

He would sit very still on the doorstep

And dream—Oh, that he had a friend!

Somebody to come when he called them,

Somebody to catch by the hand,

Somebody to sleep with at night time,

Somebody who’d quite understand.

One night in the middle of Winter

He lay wide awake on his bed,

Outside there was fury of tempest

And calling of wolves to be fed—

Thin wolves, grey and silent as shadows;

And Olaf was frightened to death.

He had peeped through a crack in the doorpost,

He had seen the white smoke of their breath.

BUT suddenly over the storm wind

He heard a small voice pleadingly

Cry, “I am a snow fairy, Olaf,

Unfasten the window for me.”

So he did, and there flew through the opening

The daintiest, prettiest sprite;

Her face and her dress and her stockings,

Her hands and her curls were all white.

And she said, “O you poor little stranger

Before I am melted, you know,

I have brought you a valuable present,

A little brown fiddle and bow.

So now you can never be lonely,

With a fiddle, you see, for a friend,

But all through the Summer and Winter

Play beautiful songs without end.”

And then,—O she melted like water,

But Olaf was happy at last;

The fiddle he tucked in his shoulder,

He held his small bow very fast.

So perhaps on the quietest of evenings

If you listen, you may hear him soon,

The child who is playing the fiddle

Away up in the cold, lonely moon.

OPPOSITES

THE Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child

Walked out into the street

And splashed in all the puddles till

She had such shocking feet.

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child

Stayed quietly in the house

And sat upon the fender stool

As still as any mouse.

The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child,

Her hands were black as ink;

She would come running through the house

And begging for a drink.

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child,

Her hands were white as snow;

She did not like to play around,

She only liked to sew.

The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child

Lost hair ribbons galore;

She dropped them on the garden walks,

She dropped them on the floor.

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child,

O thoughtful little girl!

She liked to walk quite soberly,

It kept her hair in curl.

The Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child

When she was glad or proud

Just flung her arms round Mother’s neck

And kissed her very loud.

The Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child

Was shocked at such a sight,

She only offered you her cheek

At morning and at night.

O Half-Soled-Boots-With-Toecaps-Child,

Your happy laughing face

Does like a scented Summer rose

Make sweet the dullest place.

O Patent-Leather-Slipper-Child,

My dear, I’m well content,

To have my daughter in my arms,

And not an ornament.

SONG OF KAREN, THE DANCING CHILD

(O LITTLE white feet of mine)

Out in the storm and the rain you fly;

(Red, red shoes the colour of wine)

Can the children hear my cry?

(O little white feet of mine)

Never a child in the whole great town;

(Red, red shoes the colour of wine)

Lights out and the blinds pulled down.

(O little white feet of mine)

Never a light on a window pane,

(Red, red shoes the colour of wine)

And the wild wet cry of the rain.

(O little white feet of mine)

Shall I never again be still?

(Red, red shoes the colour of wine)

And away over valley and hill.

(O little white feet of mine)

Children, children, open the door!

(Red, red shoes the colour of wine)

And the wind shrieks Nevermore.

A JOYFUL SONG OF FIVE

COME, let us all sing very high

And all sing very loud

And keep on singing in the street

Until there’s quite a crowd;

And keep on singing in the house

And up and down the stairs;

Then underneath the furniture

Let’s all play Polar bears;

And crawl about with doormats on,

And growl and howl and squeak,

Then in the garden let us fly

And play at hide and seek;

And “Here we gather Nuts and May,”

“I wrote a Letter” too,

“Here we go round the Mulberry Bush,”

“The Child who lost its shoe”;

And every game we ever played.

And then—to stay alive—

Let’s end with lots of Birthday Cake

Because to-day you’re five.

THE CANDLE FAIRY

THE candle is a fairy house

That’s smooth and round and white,

And Mother carries it about

Whenever it is night.

Right at the top a fairy lives,

A lovely yellow one,

And if you blow a little bit

It has all sorts of fun.

It bows and dances by itself

In such a clever way,

And then it stretches very tall;

“Well, it grows fast,” you say.

The little chimney of the house

Is black and really sweet,

And there the candle fairy stands

Though you can’t see its feet.

And when the dark is very big

And you’ve been having dreams,

Then Mother brings the candle in;

How friendly like it seems!

It’s only just for Mothers that

The candle Fairy comes;

And if you play with it, it bites

Your fingers and your thumbs.

But still you love it very much

This candle Fairy, dear,

Because, at night, it always means

That Mother’s very near.

SONG BY THE WINDOW BEFORE BED

LITTLE Star, little Star,

Come down quick.

The Moon is a bogey-man;

He’ll eat you certain if he can.

Little Star, little Star,

Come down quick!

Little Star, little Star,

Whisper “Yes.”

The trees are just niggers all,

They look so black, they are so tall.

Little Star, little Star,

Whisper “Yes.”

Little Star, little Star,

Gone—all gone.

The bogey-man swallowed you,

The nigger trees are laughing too.

Little Star, little Star,

Gone—all gone.

A LITTLE BOY’S DREAM

TO and fro, to and fro

In my little boat I go

Sailing far across the sea

All alone, just little me.

And the sea is big and strong

And the journey very long.

To and fro, to and fro

In my little boat I go.

Sea and sky, sea and sky,

Quietly on the deck I lie,

Having just a little rest.

I have really done my best

In an awful pirate fight,

But we captured them all right.

Sea and sky, sea and sky,

Quietly on the deck I lie

Far away, far away

From my home and from my play,

On a journey without end

Only with the sea for friend

And the fishes in the sea.

But they swim away from me

Far away, far away

From my home and from my play.

Then he cried “O Mother dear.”

And he woke and sat upright,

They were in the rocking chair,

Mother’s arms around him—tight.

WINTER SONG

RAIN and wind, and wind and rain.

Will the Summer come again?

Rain on houses, on the street,

Wetting all the people’s feet.

Though they run with might and main.

Rain and wind, and wind and rain.

Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow.

Will the Winter never go?

What do beggar children do

With no fire to cuddle to,

P’raps with nowhere warm to go?

Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow.

Hail and ice, and ice and hail,

Water frozen in the pail.

See the robins, brown and red,

They are waiting to be fed.

Poor dears; battling in the gale!

Hail and ice, and ice and hail.

ON A YOUNG LADY’S SIXTH ANNIVERSARY

BABY Babbles—only one,

Now to sit up has begun.

Little Babbles quite turned two

Walks as well as I and you.

And Miss Babbles one, two, three

Has a teaspoon at her tea.

But her Highness at four

Learns to open the front door.

And her Majesty—now six,

Can her shoestring neatly fix.

Babbles, Babbles, have a care,

You will soon put up your hair!

SONG OF THE LITTLE WHITE GIRL

CABBAGE tree, cabbage tree, what is the matter?

Why are you shaking so? Why do you chatter?

Because it is just a white baby you see,

And it’s the black ones you like, cabbage tree?

Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, you’re a strange fellow

With your green hair and your legs browny-yellow.

Wouldn’t you like to have curls, dear, like me?

What! No one to make them? O poor cabbage tree!

Never mind, cabbage tree, when I am taller,

And if you grow, please, a little bit smaller,

I shall be able by that time, may be,

To make you the loveliest curls, cabbage tree.

A FEW RULES FOR BEGINNERS

BABIES must not eat the coal

And they must not make grimaces,

Nor in party dresses roll

And must never black their faces.

They must learn that pointing’s rude,

They must sit quite still at table,

And must always eat the food

Put before them—if they’re able.

If they fall, they must not cry,

Though it’s known how painful this is;

No—there’s always Mother by

Who will comfort them with kisses.

A DAY IN BED

I WISH I had not got a cold,

The wind is big and wild,

I wish that I was very old,

Not just a little child.

Somehow the day is very long

Just keeping here, alone;

I do not like the big wind’s song,

He’s growling for a bone.

He’s like an awful dog we had

Who used to creep around

And snatch at things—he was so bad,

With just that horrid sound.

I’m sitting up and nurse has made

Me wear a woolly shawl;

I wish I was not so afraid;

It’s horrid to be small.

It really feels quite like a day

Since I have had my tea;

P’raps everybody’s gone away

And just forgotten me.

And oh! I cannot go to sleep

Although I am in bed.

The wind keeps going creepy-creep

And waiting to be fed.

THE LONESOME CHILD

THE baby in the looking-glass

Is smiling through at me;

She has her teaspoon in her hand,

Her feeder on for tea.

And if I look behind her I

Can see the table spread;

I wonder if she has to eat

The nasty crusts of bread.

Her doll, like mine, is sitting close

Beside her special chair,

She has a pussy on her lap;

It must be my cup there.

Her picture-book is on the floor,

The cover’s just the same;

And tidily upon the shelf

I see my Ninepin game.

O baby in the looking glass,

Come through and play with me,

And if you will, I promise, dear,

To eat your crusts at tea.

A FINE DAY

AFTER all the rain, the sun

Shines on hill and grassy mead;

Fly into the garden, child,

You are very glad indeed.

For the days have been so dull,

Oh, so special dark and drear,

That you told me, “Mr. Sun

Has forgotten we live here.”

Dew upon the lily lawn,

Dew upon the garden beds;

Daintily from all the leaves

Pop the little primrose heads.

And the violets in the copse

With their parasols of green

Take a little peek at you;

They’re the bluest you have seen.

On the lilac tree a bird

Singing first a little note,

Then a burst of happy song

Bubbles in his lifted throat.

O the sun, the comfy sun!

This the song that you must sing,

“Thank you for the birds, the flowers,

Thank you, sun, for everything.”

EVENING SONG OF THE THOUGHTFUL CHILD

SHADOW children, thin and small,

Now the day is left behind,

You are dancing on the wall,

On the curtains, on the blind.

On the ceiling, children, too,

Peeping round the nursery door,

Let me come and play with you,

As we always played before.

Let’s pretend that we have wings

And can really truly fly

Over every sort of things

Up and up into the sky,

Where the sweet star children play—

It does seem a dreadful rule,

They must stay inside all day.

I suppose they go to school.

And to-night, dears, do you see,

They are having such a race

With their father moon—the tree

Almost hides his funny face.

Shadow children, once at night,

I was all tucked up in bed,

Father moon came—such a fright—

Through the window poked his head;

I could see his staring eyes,

O, my dears, I was afraid,

That was not a nice surprise,

And the dreadful noise I made!

Let us make a fairy ring,

Shadow children, hand in hand,

And our songs quite softly sing

That we learned in fairyland.

Shadow children, thin and small,

See, the day is far behind;

And I kiss you—on the wall

On the curtains—on the blind.

A NEW HYMN

SING a song of men’s pyjamas,

Half-past-six has got a pair,

And he’s wearing them this evening,

And he’s looking such a dear.

Sing a song of frocks with pockets

I have got one, it is so’s

I can use my ’nitial hankies

Every time I blow my nose.

AUTUMN SONG

NOW’S the time when children’s noses

All become as red as roses

And the colour of their faces

Makes me think of orchard places

Where the juicy apples grow

And tomatoes in a row.

And to-day the hardened sinner

Never could be late for dinner,

But will jump up to the table

Just as soon as he is able,

Ask for three times hot roast mutton—

Oh! the shocking little glutton.

Come then, find your ball and racket,

Pop into your winter jacket,

With the lovely bear-skin lining.

While the sun is brightly shining,

Let us run and play together

And just love the autumn weather.

THE BLACK MONKEY

MY Babbles has a nasty knack

Of keeping monkeys on her back.

A great big black one comes and swings

Right on her sash or pinny strings.

It is a horrid thing and wild

And makes her such a naughty child.

She comes and stands beside my chair

With almost an offended air

And says:—“Oh, Father, why can’t I?”

And stamps her foot and starts to cry—

I look at Mother in dismay ...

What little girl is this, to-day?

She throws about her nicest toys

And makes a truly dreadful noise

Till Mother rises from her place

With quite a Sunday churchy face

And Babbles silently is led

Into the dark and her own bed.

Never a kiss or one Goodnight,

Never a glimpse of candle light.

Oh, how the monkey simply flies!

Oh, how poor Babbles calls and cries,

Runs from the room with might and main,

“Father dear, I am good again.”

When she is sitting on my knee

Snuggled quite close and kissing me,

Babbles and I, we think the same—

Why, that the monkey never came

Only a terrible dream maybe ...

What did she have for evening tea?

THE PILLAR BOX

THE pillar box is fat and red,

The pillar box is high;

It has the flattest sort of head

And not a nose or eye,

But just one open nigger mouth

That grins when I go by.

The pillar box is very round

But hungry all the day;

Although it doesn’t make a sound,

Folks know it wants to say,

“Give me some letter sandwiches

To pass the time away.”

“A postage stamp I like to eat

Or gummy letterette.”

I see the people on the street,

If it is fine or wet,

Give something to the greedy thing;

They never quite forget.

The pillar box is quite a friend

When Father goes away,

My Mother has such lots to send,

Fat letters every day,

And so I drop them in its mouth

When I go out to play.

THE QUARREL

WE stood in the vegetable garden

As angry and cross as could be

’Cause you said you wouldn’t beg pardon

For eating my radish at tea.

I said, “I shall go an’ tell Mummy.

I hope it is makin’ you ill.

I hope you’ve a pain in your tummy,

And then she will give you a pill.”

But you cried out, “Good-bye then—for ever.

Go and play with your silly old toys!

If you think you’re so grown up and clever,

I’ll run off and play with the Boys.”

GROWN-UP TALK

HALF-PAST-SIX and I were talking

In a very grown-up way;

We had got so tired with running

That we did not want to play.

“How do babies come, I wonder,”

He said, looking at the sky,

“Does God mix the things together

An’ just make it—like a pie?”

I was really not quite certain,

But it sounded very nice;

It was all that we could think of,

Besides a book said ‘sugar and spice.’

Half-Past-Six said—he’s so clever—

Cleverer than me, I mean ...

“I suppose God makes the black ones

When the saucepan isn’t clean.”

THE FAMILY

HINEMOA, Tui, Maina,

Ail of them were born together;

They are quite an extra special

Set of babies—wax and leather.

Every day they took an airing;

Mummy made them each a bonnet;

Two were cherry, one was yellow

With a bow of ribbon on it.

Really, sometimes we would slap them,

For if ever we were talking,

They would giggle and be silly,

Saying, “Mamma, take us walking.”

But we never really loved them

Till one day we left them lying

In the garden—through a hail-storm,

And we heard the poor dears crying.

Half-Past-Six said—“You’re a mother!

What if Mummy did forget you?”

So I said, “Well, you’re their Father.

Get them!” but I wouldn’t let you.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling inconsistences within poems were not changed, as they may be intentional.

Simple typographical errors were corrected.

Ellipses were retained as printed in the original book, whether mid-sentence, at the end of a line, or at the end of a sentence. The ellipsis in the title of the poem on page 53 is shown here with three dots, as that matches its appearance in the Table of Contents and is consistent with other ellipses in this book.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

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 an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks 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.

START: FULL LICENSE

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 www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and 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 other than 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 www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will 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™ website (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 the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager 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 are 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 information page at www.gutenberg.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. 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 business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

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

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread 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 www.gutenberg.org/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: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty 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.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website 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.

Table of Contents

POEMS

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

POEMS 1909–1910

IN THE RANGITAKI VALLEY

SPRING WIND IN LONDON

BUTTERFLY LAUGHTER

THE CANDLE

LITTLE BROTHER’S SECRET

LITTLE BROTHER’S STORY

THE MAN WITH THE WOODEN LEG

WHEN I WAS A BIRD

THE ARABIAN SHAWL

SLEEPING TOGETHER

THE QUARREL

POEMS 1911–1913

LONELINESS

THE MEETING

THE GULF

THE STORM

ACROSS THE RED SKY

VERY EARLY SPRING

THE AWAKENING RIVER

THE SEA CHILD

THE EARTH-CHILD IN THE GRASS

TO GOD THE FATHER

THE OPAL DREAM CAVE

SEA

JANGLING MEMORY

THERE WAS A CHILD ONCE

THE SECRET

SEA SONG

COUNTRYWOMEN

STARS

DEAF HOUSE AGENT

POEMS AT THE VILLA PAULINE 1916

VILLA PAULINE

CAMOMILE TEA

WAVES

THE TOWN BETWEEN THE HILLS

VOICES OF THE AIR

SANARY

TO L. H. B. (1894–1915)

POEMS 1917–1919

NIGHT-SCENTED STOCK

NOW I AM A PLANT, A WEED ...

THERE IS A SOLEMN WIND TO-NIGHT

OUT IN THE GARDEN

FAIRY TALE

COVERING WINGS

FIRELIGHT

SORROWING LOVE

A LITTLE GIRL’S PRAYER

THE WOUNDED BIRD

CHILD VERSES 1907

A FAIRY TALE

OPPOSITES

SONG OF KAREN, THE DANCING CHILD

A JOYFUL SONG OF FIVE

THE CANDLE FAIRY

SONG BY THE WINDOW BEFORE BED

A LITTLE BOY’S DREAM

WINTER SONG

ON A YOUNG LADY’S SIXTH ANNIVERSARY

SONG OF THE LITTLE WHITE GIRL

A FEW RULES FOR BEGINNERS

A DAY IN BED

THE LONESOME CHILD

A FINE DAY

EVENING SONG OF THE THOUGHTFUL CHILD

A NEW HYMN

AUTUMN SONG

THE BLACK MONKEY

THE PILLAR BOX

THE QUARREL

GROWN-UP TALK

THE FAMILY

Transcriber’s Notes

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE