Short Poems

War through my soul has driven
Its jagged blades:
The riven
Dream fades—
So you'd better grieve, heart, in the gathering night,
Grieve, heart, in the loud twilight.

Miss Dorothy Sayers
Never cared about the Himalayas.
The height that gave her a thrill
Was Primrose Hill.

Sir Thomas à Mallory
Always went to the gallery.
He said, not without nous,
That it was the best place in the house.

The musician Grieg
Joined the Primrose League,
It gave him the idea of his chorus,
‘The Unburied Ichthyosaurus.’

Water thy plants with grace devine, and hope to live for aye
Then to thy saviour Christe incline, in him make stedfast stay
Rawe is the reason that doth lye within an Atheists head
Which saith the soule of man doth dye, when that the boddies dead

I cannot bend the Bow wherein to shoot I sue.
It is not made of oake but it is made of youe.
This bow must have a string the string must have a shaft
The shaft must have a noch, wherat my Lady laught.

When I rise above the earth,
And look down on the things that fetter me,
I beat my wings upon the air,
Or tranquil lie,
Surge after surge of potent strength
Like incense comes to me
When I rise up above the earth
And look down upon the things that fetter me.

Into the light where beauty doth not pale,
Into the glory that can never fail,
Beyond our yearning care, she passed from view.
Two nations loved and claimed her,—English flower,—
One gave her birth, one gave a regal dower,
But both—ah, both forgot how Heaven must love her too!

We rise not up to wonder of wingèd mirth,
We bow not down to the ground's abysmal prayer,
O birds like resurrection over the air,
O meek and lowly dead, possessing the earth!

So many charms were never, sure,
For one alone design'd.
The gods, to make you more complete,
Have robb'd all womankind.