Freshet backed on freshet swelled and swept their world from

  sight;

  Till the emboldened floods linked arms and, flashing forward,

  droned them —

  Drowned my Seven Cities and their peoples in one night!

  Low among the alders lie their derelict foundations,

  The beams wherein they trusted and the plinths whereon they

  built —

  My rulers and their treasure and their unborn populations,

  Dead, destroyed, aborted, and defiled with mud and silt!

  The Daughters of the Palace whom they cherished in my Cities,

  My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May —

  Their bridegrooms of the June-tide-all have perished in my

  Cities,

  With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play.

  I was Lord of Cities — I will build anew my Cities,

  Seven set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood.

  Nor will I rest from search till I have filled anew my Cities

  With peoples undefeated of the dark, enduring blood.

  To the sound of trumpets shall their seed restore my Cities,

  Wealthy and well-weaponed, that once more may I behold

  All the world go softly when it walks before my Cities,

  And the horses and the chariots fleeing from them as of old!

  Songs of Seventy Horses

  “The Miracle of Saint Jubanus”

  From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)

  Once again the Steamer at Calais — the tackles

  Easing the car-trays on to the quay. Release her!

  Sign-refill, and let me away with my horses.

  (Seventy Thundering Horses!)

  Slow through the traffic, my horses! It is enough — it is France!

  Whether the throat-closing brick-fields by Lille, or her paves

  Endlessly ending in rain between beet and tobacco;

  Or that wind we shave by — the brutal North-Easter,

  Rasping the newly dunged Somme.

  (Into your collars, my horses!) It is enough — it is France!

  Whether the dappled Argonne, the cloud-shadows packing

  Either horizon with ghosts; or exquisite, carven

  Villages hewn from the cliff, the torrents behind them

  Feeding their never-quenched lights.

  (Look to your footing, my horses!) It is enough — it is France!

  Whether that gale where Biscay jammed in the corner

  Herds and heads her seas at the Landes, but defeated

  Bellowing smokes along Spain, till the uttermost headlands

  Make themselves dance in the mist.

  (Breathe-breathe deeply, my horses!) It is enough — it is France!

  Whether the broken, honey-hued, honey-combed limestone,

  Cream under white-hot sun; the rosemary bee-bloom

  Sleepily noisy at noon and, somewhere to Southward,

  Sleepily noisy, the Sea.

  (Yes it is warm here, my horses!) It is enough — it is France!

  Whether the Massif in Spring, the multiplied lacets

  Hampered by slips or drifts; the gentians, under

  Turbaned snow, pushing up the heavens of Summer

  Though the stark moors lie black.

  (Neigh through the icicled tunnels: — “It is enough — it is France!”)

  The Song of the Sons

  One from the ends of the earth — gifts at an open door —

  Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!

  From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,

  Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed!

  Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude?

  Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?

  Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in —

  We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.

  Not in the dark do we fight — haggle and flout and gibe;

  Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.

  Gifts have we only to-day — Love without promise or fee —

  Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!

  A Song of Travel

  Canadian

  Where’s the lamp that Hero lit

  Once to call Leander home?

  Equal Time hath shovelled it

  ‘Neath the wrack of Greece and Rome.

  Neither wait we any more

  That worn sail which Argo bore.

  Dust and dust of ashes close

  All the Vestal Virgin’s care;

  And the oldest altar shows

  But an older darkness there.

  Age-encamped Oblivion

  Tenteth every light that shone.

  Yet shall we, for Suns that die,

  Wall our wanderings from desire?

  Or, because the Moon is high,

  Scorn to use a nearer fire?

  Lest some envious Pharaoh stir,

  Make our lives our sepulcher?

  Nay! Though Time with petty Fate

  Prison us and Emperors,

  By our Arts do we create

  That which Time himself devours —

  Such machines as well may run

  ‘Gainst the Horses of the Sun.

  When we would a new abode,

  Space, our tyrant King no more,

  Lays the long lance of the road

  At our feet and flees before,

  Breathless, ere we overwhelm,

  To submit a further realm!

  A Song of the White Men

  1899

  Now, this is the cup the White Men drink

  When they go to right a wrong,

  And that is the cup of the old world’s hate —

  Cruel and strained and strong.

  We have drunk that cup — and a bitter, bitter cup —

  And tossed the dregs away.

  But well for the world when the White Men drink

  To the dawn of the White Man’s day!

  Now, this is the road that the White Men tread

  When they go to clean a land —

  Iron underfoot and levin overhead

  And the deep on either hand.

  We have trod that road — and a wet and windy road —

  Our chosen star for guide.

  Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread

  Their highway side by side!

  Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold —

  When they build their homes afar —

  “Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons

  And, failing freedom, War.”

  We have proved our faith — bear witness to our faith,

  Dear souls of freemen slain!

  Oh, well for the world when the White Men join

  To prove their faith again!

  Song of the Wise Children

  1902

  When the darkened Fifties dip to the North,

  And frost and the fog divide the air,

  And the day is dead at his breaking-forth,

  Sirs, it is bitter beneath the Bear!

  Far to Southward they wheel and glance,

  The million molten spears of morn —

  The spears of our deliverance

  That shine on the house where we were born.

  Flying-fish about our bows,

  Flying sea-fires in our wake:

  This is the road to our Father’s House,

  Whither we go for our souls’ sake!

  We have forfeited our birthright,

  We have forsaken all things meet;

  We have forgotten the look of light,

  We have forgotten the scent of heart.

  They that walk with shaded brows,

  Year by year in a shining land,

  They be men of our Father’s House,

  They shall receive us and understand.

  We shall go back by the boltless doors,

  To the life unaltered our childhood knew —

  To the naked feet on the cool, dark floors,

  And the high-ceiled rooms that the Trade blows through:

  To the trumpet-flowers and the moon beyond,

  And the tree-toad’s chorus drowning all —

  And the lisp of the split banana-frond

  That talked us to sleep when we were small.

  The wayside magic, the threshold spells,

  Shall soon undo what the North has done —

  Because of the sights and the sounds and the smells

  That ran with our youth in the eye of the sun.

  And Earth accepting shall ask no vows,

  Nor the Sea our love, nor our lover the Sky.

  When we return to our Father’s House

  Only the English shall wonder why!

  The Song of the Women

  How shall she know the worship we would do her?

  The walls are high, and she is very far.

  How shall the woman’s message reach unto her

  Above the tumult of the packed bazaar?

  Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,

  Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing.

  Go forth across the fields we may not roam in,

  Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city,

  To whatsoe’er fair place she hath her home in,

  Who dowered us with walth of love and pity.

  Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing —

  “I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing.”

  Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her,

  But old in grief, and very wise in tears;

  Say that we, being desolate, entreat her

  That she forget us not in after years;

  For we have seen the light, and it were grievous

  To dim that dawning if our lady leave us.

  By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failing

  By Love’s sad harvest garnered in the spring,

  When Love in ignorance wept unavailing

  O’er young buds dead before their blossoming;

  By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,

  In past grim years, declare our gratitude!

  By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not,

  By fits that found no favor in their sight,

  By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,

  By nameless horrors of the stifling night;

  By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover,

  Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!

  If she have sent her servants in our pain

  If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;

  If she have given back our sick again.

  And to the breast the wakling lips restored,

  Is it a little thing that she has wrought?

  Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.

  Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings,

  And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,

  In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,

  Who have been helpen by ther in their need.

  All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat

  Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.

  Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest!

  Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea

  Proclaim the blessing, mainfold, confessed.

  Of those in darkness by her hand set free.

  Then very softly to her presence move,

  And whisper: “Lady, lo, they know and love!”

  The Songs of the Lathes

  1918

  Being the Words of the Tune Hummed at Her Lathe by Mrs. L. Embsay, Widow

  The fans and the beltings they roar round me.

  The power is shaking the floor round me

  Till the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.

  It is good for me to be here!

  Guns in Flanders — Flanders guns!

  (I had a man that worked ‘em once!)

  Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

  Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

  Shells for guns in Flanders! Feeds the guns!

  The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,

  The bays and the galleries they loom over me,

  With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance —

  It is good for me to be here!

  The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.

  Our lights give warning, and fade over us.

  (Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)

  Oh, it’s good for me to be here.

  The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,

  Eating up the fields I used to know round me;

  And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector’s office —

  So long have I been here!

  I’ve seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,

  Through the bit that isn’t painted round our sky-light rim,

  And the sunshine through the window slope according to the seasons,

  Twice since I’ve been here.

  The trains on the sidings they call to us

  With the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;

  And we send ‘em what we’ve finished, and they take it where it’s wanted,

  For that is why we are here!

  Man’s hate passes as his love will pass.

  God made Woman what she always was.

  Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgiveness

  So long as they are here!

  Once I was a woman, but that’s by with me.

  All I loved and looked for, it must die with me;

  But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,

  And I serve His Judgments here!

  Guns in Flanders — Flanders guns!

  (I had a son that worked ‘em once!)

  Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

  Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!

  Shells for guns in Flanders! Feeds the guns!

  A Song to Mithras

  Hymn of the XXX Legion: circa A.D. 350

  “On the Great Wall” - Puck of Pook’s Hill

  Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!

  “Rome is above the Nations, but thou art over all!”

  Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,

  Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

  Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat.

  Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet.

  Now in the ungirt hour – now lest we blink and drowse,

  Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

  Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main –

  Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!

  Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,

  Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

  Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great Bull dies,

  Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh, take our sacrifice!

  Many roads Thou hast fashioned – all of them lead to Light!

  Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright.

  The Sons of Martha

  The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;

  But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.

  And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,

  Her Sons must wait upon Mary’s Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

  It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.

  It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.

  It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,

  Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

  They say to mountains, “Be ye removed.” They say to the lesser floods, “Be dry.”

  Under their rods are the rocks reproved — they are not afraid of that which is high.

  Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit — then is the bed of the deep laid bare,

  That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

  They finger death at their gloves’ end where they piece and repiece the living wires.

  He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.

  Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,

  And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

  To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.

  They are concerned with matters hidden — under the earthline their altars are —

  The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,

  And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city’s drouth.

  They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.

  They do not teach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they dam’-well choose.

  As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,

  Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren’s days may be long in the land.

  Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat —