PENANCE

"Why do you sit, O pale thin man,

   At the end of the room

By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?

  --It is cold as a tomb,

And there's not a spark within the grate;

   And the jingling wires

   Are as vain desires

   That have lagged too late."

"Why do I?  Alas, far times ago

   A woman lyred here

In the evenfall; one who fain did so

   From year to year;

And, in loneliness bending wistfully,

   Would wake each note

   In sick sad rote,

   None to listen or see!

"I would not join.  I would not stay,

   But drew away,

Though the winter fire beamed brightly . . . Aye!

   I do to-day

What I would not then; and the chill old keys,

   Like a skull's brown teeth

   Loose in their sheath,

   Freeze my touch; yes, freeze."

-o0o-

SITTING ON THE BRIDGE

Sitting on the bridge

Past the barracks, town and ridge,

At once the spirit seized us

To sing a song that pleased us -

As "The Fifth" were much in rumour;

It was "Whilst I'm in the humour,

Take me, Paddy, will you now?"

And a lancer soon drew nigh,

And his Royal Irish eye

Said, "Willing, faith, am I,

O, to take you anyhow, dears,

To take you anyhow."

But, lo! - dad walking by,

Cried, "What, you lightheels! Fie!

Is this the way you roam

And mock the sunset gleam?"

And he marched us straightway home,

Though we said, "We are only, daddy,

Singing, 'Will you take me, Paddy?'"

- Well, we never saw from then

If we sang there anywhen,

The soldier dear again,

Except at night in dream-time,

Except at night in dream.

Perhaps that soldier's fighting

In a land that's far away,

Or he may be idly plighting

Some foreign hussy gay;

Or perhaps his bones are whiting

In the wind to their decay! . . .

Ah! - does he mind him how

The girls he saw that day

On the bridge, were sitting singing

At the time of curfew-ringing,

"Take me, Paddy; will you now, dear?

Paddy, will you now?"

-o0o-

IF IT'S EVER SPRING AGAIN

If it's ever spring again,

   Spring again,

I shall go where went I when

Down the moor-cock splashed, and hen,

Seeing me not, amid their flounder,

Standing with my arm around her;

If it's ever spring again,

   Spring again,

I shall go where went I then.

If it's ever summer-time,

   Summer-time,

With the hay crop at the prime,

And the cuckoos - two - in rhyme,

As they used to be, or seemed to,

We shall do as long we've dreamed to,

If it's ever summer-time,

   Summer-time,

With the hay, and bees achime.

-o0o-

THE PHANTOM HORSEWOMAN

Queer are the ways of a man I know: 

He comes and stands 

In a careworn craze, 

And looks at the sands 

And the seaward haze 

With moveless hands 

And face and gaze, 

Then turns to go - 

And what does he see when he gazes so? 

They say he sees as an instant thing 

More clear than to-day, 

A sweet soft scene 

That once was in play 

By that briny green; 

Yes, notes alway 

Warm, real, and keen, 

What his back years bring -

A phantom of his own figuring. 

Of this vision of his they might say more: 

Not only there 

Does he see this sight, 

But everywhere 

In his brain - day, night, 

As if on the air 

It were drawn rose bright - 

Yea, far from that shore 

Does he carry this vision of heretofore: 

A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, 

He withers daily, 

Time touches her not, 

But she still rides gaily 

In his rapt thought 

On that shagged and shaly 

Atlantic spot, 

And as when first eyed 

Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide. 

A MERRYMAKING IN QUESTION

"I will get a new string for my fiddle,

And call to the neighbours to come,

And partners shall dance down the middle

Until the old pewter-wares hum:

And we'll sip the mead, cider, and rum!"

From the night came the oddest of answers:

A hollow wind, like a bassoon,

And headstones all ranged up as dancers,

And cypresses droning a croon,

And gargoyles that mouthed to the tune.

-o0o-

SHE REVISITS ALONE THE CHURCH OF HER MARRIAGE

I have come to the church and chancel,

Where all's the same!

- Brighter and larger in my dreams

Truly it shaped than now, meseems,

Is its substantial frame.

But, anyhow, I made my vow,

Whether for praise or blame,

Here in this church and chancel

Where all's the same.

Where touched the check-floored chancel

My knees and his?

The step looks shyly at the sun,

And says, "'Twas here the thing was done,

For bale or else for bliss!"

Of all those there I least was ware

Would it be that or this

When touched the check-floored chancel

My knees and his!

Here in this fateful chancel

Where all's the same,

I thought the culminant crest of life

Was reached when I went forth the wife

I was not when I came.

Each commonplace one of my race,

Some say, has such an aim -

To go from a fateful chancel

As not the same.

Here, through this hoary chancel

Where all's the same,

A thrill, a gaiety even, ranged

That morning when it seemed I changed

My nature with my name.

Though now not fair, though grey my hair,

He loved me, past proclaim,

Here in this hoary chancel,

Where all's the same.

-o0o-

I KNEW A LADY

I knew a lady when the days

   Grew long, and evenings goldened;

   But I was not emboldened

By her prompt eyes and winning ways.

And when old Winter nipt the haws,

   "Another's wife I'll be,

   And then you'll care for me,"

She said, "and think how sweet I was!"

And soon she shone as another's wife:

   As such I often met her,

   And sighed, "How I regret her!

My folly cuts me like a knife!"

And then, to-day, her husband came,

   And moaned, "Why did you flout her?

   Well could I do without her!

For both our burdens you are to blame!"

-o0o-

IN THE STUDY

He enters, and mute on the edge of a chair

Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there,

A type of decayed gentility;

And by some small signs he well can guess

That she comes to him almost breakfastless.

“I have called - I hope I do not err -

I am looking for a purchaser

Of some score volumes of the works

Of eminent divines I own, -

Left by my father - though it irks

My patience to offer them.” And she smiles

As if necessity were unknown;

"But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles

I have wished, as I am fond of art,

To make my rooms a little smart,

And these old books are so in the way.”

And lightly still she laughs to him,

As if to sell were a mere gay whim,

And that, to be frank, Life were indeed

To her not vinegar and gall,

But fresh and honey-like; and Need

No household skeleton at all.

-o0o-

A HOUSE WITH A HISTORY

There is a house in a city street

   Some past ones made their own;

Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet,

      And their babblings beat

   From ceiling to white hearth-stone.

And who are peopling its parlours now?

   Who talk across its floor?

Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow,

      Who read not how

   Its prime had passed before

Their raw equipments, scenes, and says

   Afflicted its memoried face,

That had seen every larger phase

      Of human ways

   Before these filled the place.

To them that house's tale is theirs,

   No former voices call

Aloud therein.  Its aspect bears

      Their joys and cares

   Alone, from wall to wall.

-o0o-

TO LIZBIE BROWNE

Dear Lizbie Browne, 

Where are you now? 

In sun, in rain? - 

Or is your brow 

Past joy, past pain, 

Dear Lizbie Browne? 

Sweet Lizbie Browne 

How you could smile, 

How you could sing! - 

How archly wile 

In glance-giving, 

Sweet Lizbie Browne! 

And, Lizbie Browne, 

Who else had hair 

Bay-red as yours, 

Or flesh so fair 

Bred out of doors, 

Sweet Lizbie Browne? 

When, Lizbie Browne, 

You had just begun 

To be endeared 

By stealth to one, 

You disappeared 

My Lizbie Browne! 

Ay, Lizbie Browne, 

So swift your life, 

And mine so slow, 

You were a wife 

Ere I could show 

Love, Lizbie Browne. 

Still, Lizbie Browne, 

You won, they said, 

The best of men 

When you were wed . . . 

Where went you then, 

O Lizbie Browne? 

Dear Lizbie Browne, 

I should have thought, 

"Girls ripen fast," 

And coaxed and caught 

You ere you passed, 

Dear Lizbie Browne! 

But, Lizbie Browne, 

I let you slip; 

Shaped not a sign; 

Touched never your lip 

With lip of mine, 

Lost Lizbie Browne! 

So, Lizbie Browne, 

When on a day 

Men speak of me 

As not, you'll say, 

"And who was he?" - 

Yes, Lizbie Browne!

JUST CLOUDS

now online

http://justclouds-butsoimpressive.blogspot.com

-o0o-

GROWTH IN MAY

I enter a daisy-and-buttercup land,

And thence thread a jungle of grass:

Hurdles and stiles scarce visible stand

Above the lush stems as I pass.

Hedges peer over, and try to be seen,

And seem to reveal a dim sense

That amid such ambitious and elbow-high green

They make a mean show as a fence.

Elsewhere the mead is possessed of the neats,*

That range not greatly above

The rich rank thicket which brushes their teats,

And HER gown, as she waits for her Love.

* neat (archaic) - a bovine animal e.g. a cow

THE NEW BLOG JUST CLOUDS BEGINS TOMORROW

http://justclouds-butsoimpressive.blogspot.com

-o0o-

THE DIVISION

Rain on the windows, creaking doors,

With blasts that besom the green,

And I am here, and you are there,

And a hundred miles between!

O were it but the weather, Dear,

O were it but the miles

That summed up all our severance,

There might be room for smiles.

But that thwart thing betwixt us twain,

Which nothing cleaves or clears,

Is more than distance, Dear, or rain,

And longer than the years!

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED TODAY

-o0o-

AT A COUNTRY FAIR

At a bygone Western country fair

I saw a giant led by a dwarf

With a red string like a long thin scarf;

How much he was the stronger there

The giant seemed unaware.

And then I saw that the giant was blind,

And the dwarf a shrewd-eyed little thing;

The giant, mild, timid, obeyed the string

As if he had no independent mind,

Or will of any kind.

Wherever the dwarf decided to go

At his heels the other trotted meekly,

(Perhaps - I know not - reproaching weakly)

Like one Fate bade that it must be so,

Whether he wished or no.

Various sights in various climes

I have seen, and more I may see yet,

But that sight never shall I forget,

And have thought it the sorriest of pantomimes,

If once, a hundred times!

JUST CLOUDS

A NEW BLOG BEGINS ON MONDAY

http://justclouds-butsoimpressive.blogspot.com

-o0o-

A DAY-CLOSE IN NOVEMBER

The ten hours' light is abating,

And a late bird flies across,

Where the pines, like waltzers waiting,

Give their black heads a toss.

Beech leaves, that yellow the noon-time,

Float past like specks in the eye;

I set every tree in my June time,

And now they obscure the sky.

And the children who ramble through here

Conceive that there never has been

A time when no tall trees grew here,

A time when none will be seen. 

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WILL BE UPDATED ON SATURDAY

-o0o-

THE WOUND

I climbed to the crest,

And, fog-festooned,

The sun lay west

Like a crimson wound:

Like that wound of mine

Of which none knew,

For I'd given no sign

That it pierced me through.

-o0o-

BAGS OF MEAT

“Here’s a fine bag of meat,” 

   Says the master-auctioneer, 

   As the timid, quivering steer, 

   Starting a couple of feet 

   At the prod of a drover’s stick, 

   And trotting lightly and quick, 

   A ticket stuck on his rump, 

Enters with a bewildered jump. 

   ”Where he’s lived lately, friends, 

   I’d live till lifetime ends: 

   They’ve a whole life everyday 

   Down there in the Vale, have they! 

   He’d be worth the money to kill 

And give away Christmas for goodwill.” 

   ”Now here’s a heifer - worth more 

   Than bid, were she bone-poor; 

   Yet she’s round as a barrel of beer”; 

"She’s a plum," said the second auctioneer. 

"Now this young bull - for thirty pound? 

   Worth that to manure your ground!” 

   ”Or to stand,” chimed the second one, 

   ”And have his picter done!” 

The beast was rapped on the horns and snout 

   To make him turn about. 

"Well," cried a buyer, "another crown - 

Since I’ve dragged here from Taunton Town!” 

   ”That calf, she sucked three cows, 

   Which is not matched for bouse 

   In the nurseries of high life 

By the first-born of a nobleman’s wife!” 

The stick falls, meaning, “A true tale’s told,” 

On the buttock of the creature sold, 

   And the buyer leans over and snips 

His mark on one of the animal’s hips. 

   Each beast, when driven in, 

Looks round at the ring of bidders there 

With a much-amazed reproachful stare, 

   As at unnatural kin, 

For bringing him to a sinister scene 

So strange, unhomelike, hungry, mean; 

His fate the while suspended between 

   A butcher, to kill out of hand, 

   And a farmer, to keep on the land; 

One can fancy a tear runs down his face 

When the butcher wins, and he’s driven from the place.

-o0o-

WELCOME HOME

To my native place

Bent upon returning,

Bosom all day burning

To be where my race

Well were known, 'twas much with me

There to dwell in amity.

Folk had sought their beds,

But I hailed: to view me

Under the moon, out to me

Several pushed their heads,

And to each I told my name,

Plans, and that therefrom I came.

"Did you? . . . Ah, 'tis true

I once heard, back a long time,

Here had spent his young time,

Some such man as you . . .

Good-night." The casement closed again,

And I was left in the frosty lane. 

-o0o-

IN CHURCH

 "And now to God the Father", he ends,

And his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles:

Each listener chokes as he bows and bends,

And emotion pervades the crowded aisles.

Then the preacher glides to the vestry-door,

And shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more.

The door swings softly ajar meanwhile,

And a pupil of his in the Bible class,

Who adores him as one without gloss or guile,

Sees her idol stand with a satisfied smile

And re-enact at the vestry-glass

Each pulpit gesture in deft dumb-show

That had moved the congregation so.

-o0o-

THE WEST-OF-WESSEX GIRL

A very West-of-Wessex girl, 

As blithe as blithe could be, 

Was once well-known to me, 

And she would laud her native town, 

And hope and hope that we 

Might sometime study up and down 

Its charms in company. 

But never I squired my Wessex girl 

In jaunts to Hoe or street 

When hearts were high in beat, 

Nor saw her in the marbled ways 

Where market-people meet 

That in her bounding early days 

Were friendly with her feet. 

Yet now my West-of-Wessex girl, 

When midnight hammers slow 

From Andrew's, blow by blow, 

As phantom draws me by the hand 

To the place - Plymouth Hoe - 

Where side by side in life, as planned, 

We never were to go! 

-o0o-

OLD FURNITURE

I know not how it may be with others

   Who sit amid relics of householdry

That date from the days of their mothers' mothers,

   But well I know how it is with me

      Continually.

I see the hands of the generations

   That owned each shiny familiar thing

In play on its knobs and indentations,

   And with its ancient fashioning

      Still dallying:

Hands behind hands, growing paler and paler,

   As in a mirror a candle flame

Shows images of itself, each frailer

   As it recedes, though the eye may frame

      Its shape the same.

On the clock's dull dial a foggy finger,

   Moving to set the minutes right

With tentative touches that lift and linger

   In the wont of a moth on a summer night,

      Creeps to my sight.

On this old viol, too, fingers are dancing -

   As whilom - just over the strings by the nut,

The tip of a bow receding, advancing

   In airy quivers, as if it would cut

      The plaintive gut.

And I see a face by that box for tinder,

   Glowing forth in fits from the dark,

And fading again, as the linten cinder

   Kindles to red at the flinty spark,

      Or goes out stark.

Well, well.  It is best to be up and doing,

   The world has no use for one today

Who eyes things thus - no aim pursuing!

   He should not continue in this stay,

      But sink away.

-o0o-

A BACKWARD SPRING

The trees are afraid to put forth buds,

And there is timidity in the grass;

The plots lie grey where gouged by spuds,

And whether next week will pass

Free of sly sour winds is the fret of each bush

Of barberry waiting to bloom.

Yet the snowdrop's face betrays no gloom,

And the primrose pants in its heedless push,

Though the myrtle asks if it's worth the fight

This year with frost and rime

To venture one more time

On delicate leaves and buttons of white

From the selfsame bough as at last year's prime,

And never to ruminate on or remember

What happened to it in mid-December.

-o0o-

THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN

I pitched my day’s leazings in Crimmercrock Lane,    

To tie up my garter and jog on again,    

When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said,    

In a way that made all o’ me colour rose-red,    

                “What do I see -           

                O pretty knee!”    

And he came and he tied up my garter for me.    

’Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind:    

Ah, ’tis easy to lose what we nevermore find! -    

Of the dear stranger’s home, of his name, I knew nought,            

But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought.    

                Then bitterly    

                Sobbed I that he    

Should ever have tied up my garter for me!    

Yet now I’ve beside me a fine lissom lad,            

And my slip’s nigh forgot, and my days are not sad;    

My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend,    

He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend;    

                No sorrow brings he,    

                And thankful I be            

That his daddy once tied up my garter for me!    

JOHN AND JANE

I

He sees the world as a boisterous place

Where all things bear a laughing face,

And humorous scenes go hourly on,

Does John.

II

They find the world a pleasant place

Where all is ecstasy and grace,

Where a light has risen that cannot wane,

Do John and Jane.

III

They see as a palace their cottage-place,

Containing a pearl of the human race,

A hero, maybe, hereafter styled,

Do John and Jane with a baby-child.

IV

They rate the world as a gruesome place,

Where fair looks fade to a skull's grimace, -

As a pilgrimage they would fain get done -

Do John and Jane with their worthless son.

John and Jane

-o=0=o-

SHE CHARGED ME

She charged me with having said this and that

To another woman long years before,

In the very parlour where we sat -

Sat on a night when the endless pour

Of rain on the roof and the road below

Bent the spring of the spirit more and more . . .

- So charged she me; and the Cupid's bow

Of her mouth was hard, and her eyes, and her face,

And her white forefinger lifted slow.

Had she done it gently, or shown a trace

That not too curiously would she view

A folly passed ere her reign had place,

A kiss might have ended it. But I knew

From the fall of each word, and the pause between,

That the curtain would drop upon us two

Ere long, in our play of slave and queen.

-o0o-

A POEM WILL BE ADDED TO THE COLLECTION EVERY DAY

-o=0=o-

Three Poems from

AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR

A Wife Waits

Will's at the dance in the Club-room below,

Where the tall liquor-cups foam;

I on the pavement up here by the Bow,

Wait, wait, to steady him home.

Will and his partner are treading a tune,

Loving companions they be;

Willy, before we were married in June,

Said he loved no one but me;

Said he would let his old pleasures all go

Ever to live with his Dear.

Will's at the dance in the Club-room below,

Shivering I wait for him here.

-o0o-

Former Beauties

These market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn,

And tissues sere,

Are they the ones we loved in years agone,

And courted here?

Are these the muslined pink young things to whom

We vowed and swore

In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom,

Or Budmouth shore?

Do they remember those gay tunes we trod

Clasped on the green;

Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod

A satin sheen?

They must forget, forget! They cannot know

What once they were,

Or memory would transfigure them, and show

Them always fair.

-o0o-

The Market Girl

Nobody took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb,

All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden herb;

And if she had offered to give her wares and herself with them too that day,

I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice away.

But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I passed nigh,

I went and I said "Poor maidy dear! - and will none of the people buy?"

And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must be,

And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won by me.

-o=0=o-

The next post is Monday and then the blog will be updated daily.