Short Poems

We are led forth amid the mystic moan
Of music sad with love unutterable
To ascend the wide slow stair of carven stone,
So wide a troop of mounted knights were able
To climb it easily. When the door is thrown
Open, I see clad in a cloak of sable
A skeleton form with lurid light above,
Who says, " I am the Lover of thy Love ."

Now with the sound of that great knight's slow saying
I seem to pass back many centuries.
It is another world I am surveying
Than this of comforts and philosophies:
There is a passion-storm the nations swaying
Of Faith that shatters old idolatries,
And a sworn soldier of that Faith am I.
But, " Where is the Lady of my Love? " I cry.

Ay, this is he — the statue rather battered
Of Cre├ºi Church — alive and full of vigour.
The ancient statuary by no means flattered,
Lord Hugo; he is brave, jollier, bigger,
As well I see, when through the groups all scattered
He moves towards me, a stupendous figure,
And gravely says, " You recognise my face
Of course. I am the Founder of your Race ".

Above the fire-place, where great red logs smoulder,
Although it is the heart of summer tide,
Painted full length, no younger and no older,
Than at this moment standing by its side,
I recognise . . . and faith! my blood runs colder
Somewhat . . . Myself . Yes, in my prime and pride,
Eyes that look dreamy, lip that arches merrily . . .
Myself , by Zeus. 'Tis a strange meeting, verily.

This motion was of love begot
It was so airy, light and good,
His wings into their feet he shot,
Or else himself into their blood.
But ask not how. The end will prove
That love's in them, or they're in love.
(from Love Restored)

Old Lewis thus the terms of peace to burnish,
Has lately let out Dunkirk ready furnished;
But whether 'tis by lease, or copyhold,
Or tenure in capite, we've not been told:
But this we hope, if yet he pulls his horns in,
He'll be obliged to give his tenants warning.

'Twas the man who burnt his ships,
Love, who set the Thames on fire
Joy can not be found in sips
('Twas the man who burnt his ships)
Break the goblet at your lips
For the wrath of your desire.
'Twas the man who burnt his ships,
Love, who set the Thames on fire.

When I tried to know myself
I discovered I was gone.
Loves and toils and books on shelf
When I tried to know myself
Hats and sticks and wood and delf
Were no longer I and one.
When I tried to know myself
I discovered I was gone.

Shall I fear a devil's horns
More than I should fear a cows?
If a spike his head adorns
Shall I fear a devil's horns?
Twenty spikes were on the thorns
Wreathed upon the Master's brows.
Shall I fear a devil's horns
More than I should fear a cows?

You might not be in love with me
If I were better than I am.
I might have ten arms like a tree
(You might not be in love with me)
And have all colours like the sea.
Have wings, or horns just like a ram
You might not be in love with me
If I were better than I am.