English

A pallid rout stepping like phantoms
beneath the arching boughs
have come with angel hands and wretched voices
to the valley and this choir of perish'd stones.

Valid was my anguish — as though a turbulent dove
had scatter'd the leafy silence.
Now in airless vistas, dim and blind my limbs will loiter
while the senses stray to vast defeats.

A rocking bell
peals in a grey tower.
The sound has broken down the strong defences
of age and innocence.

Cecily come with your virginal tremors

1

I, said the moon, who have been a maiden
worshipp'd of man
am now but a burnish'd emblem
of the sun's span.

But the old witch in me yet
is wooing, wooing.
And mine is the light of day
in this memorial noon.

2

O hallowed is the moon and holy
A bowl of languish'd fire. The years are cold

How gravelye wise was that Senatours counsaile
who fearinge leaste Idlenes a foe to Courage
Woolde breede unfitt people for warr and travayle
advysede nott to rase the walles off Carthage
Hee tymelye foresawe the pride of Romayne youth
who wantinge the exercyse off forrayne warres
Impatient throughe pleasure and pamperinge slouth
woulde breake forth at laste to strife and cyvell Jarrs
So fares itt ofte in an ydle natione
as in a Bodye where humors do abownde
For lyke a disease engendreth ambytion

Yff other love then yours do lodge within my Breste
let never pleasinge thought henceforth frequent my mynde
Or iff my constante hope elswhere do seke for reste
let my desyres in vayne still stryve agaynst the winde
Or if my vowed faith be ever founde untrue
let all the fruits I reape be rygor for good will
Or yf I doe adore another Saynte then yow
let me in restles toile loose all my labour still
Or iff that daungers dreade my lykinge can decaye
let then my faintinge harte be shrynde in fowle defame

Whom love commaundes and holdes as humble thrall
Transformed is each daye to sundry formes
I lyke ytt nott but cannott doo with all
For he that loves must needes endure those stormes
I first of all was chaungde into a harte;
Within whose flancke the murtheringe shafte did lye
Then to a swanne that syngs the dolefull parte,
Which doth presage the tyme that he muste dye
Then to a springe as cleare as cristall glasse
And by myne eyes I dyd unlade the same
The Salamander after that I was

Hadd not Pirythous to hell gone downe
the faithe of Theseus hadd byne unknowne
Nor Nisus by his ende hadd wonn renowne
hadd not Euryalus bynne overthrowne
The frindelye Pyllades hadd bynne concealde
hadd he nott lovede Orestes in his Rage
Nor Pythias fame so loude hadd bynn revealde
butt that for hym Damon dyd lyffe engage
Nor I false frynde hadd knowen thy fained hart
had fortune never bent her browes on mee
Butt for revenge off such thy vile desarte
I onely wishe that happie day to see

Shut out the sound. — These June birds shrill
Their easy ecstasies too well
To make a music for the thoughts
That deep within discordantly delve
This fallow mind. Now seal
The circling conscience in a whiten'd wall
Of calm decision. So reach the still
Mental height where Time will bring
A naked peace — the while an avid throng
Hustles in the dim sunken gulf.

There only this remains: to be a self
Determined by the building brain —
The mind in a heaven attained alone.
Sects climb by fallible stairs

Sonnet

In that yow sway the Scepter and the Crowne
And doo in Pompe lyke stately Juno Raigne
Onely your selfe enjoyes nott such renowne,
Prynces elswhere lyke Roialtye retayne
In that yow doo in shape and Bewtye bright
The fairest of those hevenly three surpasse
Who for theyr Judge dyd chuse the Troyan knight
Nature affirmes her guyfte and good ytt was
In that yow are Mynervas darlinge deare

We've wander'd by the well-lov'd ways
That burgeon with remembrances
Of time that's flown:
Our song is low,—a farewell song,—
But its theme shall linger with us long,
Loud blown from out thy breezes, Sedbergh,
To our hearts from out thy breezes blown.

We've seen thee smile and sternly frown;
Or grief or joy becomes thy crown,
Shine-, shadow-dress'd:
Our eyes have drain'd the cup to-day,
But the wine shall ever with us stay,
So press'd from out thy vintage, Sedbergh,

Arraign'd before his worldly gods
He would have said:
" I, Cornelius Vane,
A fly in the sticky web of life,
Shot away my right index finger.

I was alone, on sentry, in the chill twilight after dawn,
And the act cost me a bloody sweat.
Otherwise the cost was trivial — they had no evidence,
And I lied to the wooden fools who tried me.
When I returned from hospital
They made me a company cook:
I peel potatoes and other men fight."

For nearly a year Cornelius peeled potatoes