858. My Grief on the Sea FROM THE IRISH MY grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! Abandon'd, forsaken, To grief and to care, Relief from despair? My grief and my trouble! In the province of Leinster, b. 1861 BY The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown, Till wandering far, by moon and star, Those ashes shine like ruby wine, b. 1862 So rare the light, so rich the sight, 6 860. YE HENRY NEWBOLT He fell among Thieves b. 1862 E have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?' Blood for our blood,' they said. He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five, 6 He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees. He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride. He saw the gray little church across the park, The brasses black and red. He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all. He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof, He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew. And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood. Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white; He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height. "O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.' A sword swept. Over the pass the voices one by one 861. GILBERT PARKER Reunited WHEN you and I have play'd the little hour, Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death b. 1862 Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath, The first long breath of freedom; when the flower Of Recompense hath flutter'd to our feet, As to an actor's; and, the curtain down, We turn to face each other all aloneAlone, we two, who never yet did meet, Alone, and absolute, and free: O then, O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale? Clasp'd hands, press'd lips, and so clasp'd hands again; No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail, My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan Of joy, and then our infinite Alone. WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS b. 1865 862. Where My Books go LL the words that I utter, ALL And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring, And never rest in their flight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, Beyond where the waters are moving, |