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Webling, Peggy Verses to men

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500 Copies printed. This is No. *T^

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2011 with funding from

University of Toronto

http://www.archive.org/details/versestomenOOwebl

ERSES

TO MEN

PEGGy WEBLING.

CONTENTS.

		PAGE
The Lovers' Evolution	7
To Nicholas		10
Four Young Men		11
Man's Inspiration		13
To an Artist		15
To a Poet		16
Consistent Man		17
The Victorian Papa .		18
Woman's Advantage over Man	20
Another on the same Theme	21
To my First Love	22
Three Little Poems on William —
1. When I was on the Stage	24
2. When I was in the Chair	24
3. When I was in the Garden	25
Ode to a Husband	26
Words of Warning —
1. To Young Bachelors	29
2. To Bridegrooms	29
A Tiny Love -Song	.	30

Verses in a different Vein.

To a Boy of Long Ago	33
In Memoriam —
1.	My Father	34
2.	William De Morgan	35
3.	Henry Page	36
Japanese	Love- Letters —
1.	To a Painter	40
2.	To False Toshimichi	41
3.	To a Youth of Nara	42
4.	To a Gardener	43
5.	To Silent Masao	44
6.	To Akira	45
7.	To Osamu .	46

PS

THE LOVERS' EVOLUTION. DRAWING BY

LEO BATES.

VERSES TO MEN

BY

PEGGY WEBLING.

THE LOVERS' EVOLUTION.

How gladly will 1 turn the page

That tells me of the "how" and "when,

Before the neolithic age

And men were unevolved as men.

If you will help me in the search To find ourselves, just you and me : You'll never leave me in the lurch? Turn back the volume — let us see !

We two existed, soul and soul, We two existed, heart and heart, Or little bits, if not the whole, One cell, perhaps, just split apart ;

Or floating in etheric mist, Two wavelets on the sea of space, Before the earth and sun had kissed. Two bubbles, bubbling to our place.

We met — and burst ! And then we slept

(If bubbles can be said to sleep),

While on the lazy eons crept,

From height to height, from deep to deep ;

Until we chanced again to meet, In fire and lava, smoke and flame ; Ah, dear one ! Recollect the heat And burning fury when we came !

The great volcanos hissed and broke. And shook the earth with horrid crash. And you and I went up in smoke. And dropped together, ash in ash.

When next we stirred no doubt the shock Of plunging worlds, in storm and strain, Had given us the form of rock. For you were hard and I was plain.

We could not move, and all alone We stood upon a desert bare ; For you were stone, and I was stone, But we exchanged a stony glare.

Then I was split and you were cleft, And downward to our ruin thrust, Till there was nothing of us left Except a little heap of dust.

And after that we slept away Long centuries of flood and flow, Until there dawned the happy day When all the earth began to grow.

Then you became a blade of grass, Pale and feeble, long and dank, And I became — well, let it pass — 'Twas something weedy, wet and rank.

We did not fall again it seems

Into the old unconscious nap,

For we had known the dawn of dreams,

And felt the first faint stir of sap.

So we evolved, through stem and blade, At last — O bliss without alloy ! — We wakened in the sun and shade To bask in vegetable joy.

O ! Vegetable love unknown To petty seedlings of to-day ! For we were glorious — overgrown — Huge monsters on the earth we lay ;

Just like the sun. or like the moon, O darlings of a tropic clime ! In solid circles, noon to noon, We grew and grew to golden prime.

Gigantic fungi did abound. And oozy plants with lobe and ball Of gruesome colour grew around ; The grass was like a forest tall.

The blazing sunshine pouring down, With soft and sultry, drenching dew, Tanned and burnt us copper-brown, And still we grew, and grew, and grew !

We did not think, we could not speak ; We had no language to express Our feelings, resting cheek to cheek. Supine and perfect, huge caress !

We ripened, rotted, side by side, Without remorse, or grief, or toil — For so we lived and so we died, And passed into the waiting soil.

But we had reached the perfect hour

Of all eternity, my own.

It was the very fruit and flower

Of rapture, dearest, we had known.

Let us recall that luscious place. The melting dew, the azure sky, The silence and the round embrace — Two perfect pumpkins — you and I !

Progenitors of every kind

Of vegetable yet to be,

Within our bronzed and glowing rind

They lived in dreams for you and me ;

The mangle-wurzle and the swede, Potatoes and the marrow mild ; The water-melon, full of seed, Gay carrots and the parsnip wild ;

The dainty radish, red and white, And every gourd that Nature knows, Still soaring upward, height to height. To cabbage — broccoli — and rose.

The fancy reels ! We pause and pant Our wondrous dreams recalling thus, O, dearest ! every salad — plant — Aye, every pickle sprang from us !

O, happy fate ! We've met again, We're just the same, heart, brain and will. My cucumber ! Most cool of men ! O, take me ! I'm a turnip still !

TO NICHOLAS.

O, Nicholas, I love you well,

So well ! The hour has come and 1 will tell,

Just tell. We met, you smiled, I don't upbraid,

Upbraid, But still I know you only played,

Idly played. We tossed the ball with laugh and jest,

Foolish jest. Touched hands, by chance, and all the rest —

All the rest! O, Nicholas ! I thought you grand,

So grand ! But you? You didn't understand,

Understand. 1 loved your strength, adored your might,

Such might, I could not bear you out of sight,

My sight. I drew you near with all my charms,

Poor charms ! I held you close within my arms,

My arms. O, Nicholas, you loved me then.

Me then ! But you forgot, forgot me when- -

Ah, when — When she drew near with many gifts,

Sweet gifts, And all the joy that youth uplifts,

Uplifts. You smiled again, on her you smiled.

She smiled, With just the same old games beguiled,

Beguiled. O, Nicholas, I saw you kiss,

One kiss ! But I forgive you even this,

Forgive you this ! I'll let you go — I'll let it pass —

All pass ! Alas, O Nick! O, Nick, alas!

Alas! For I am old, but you and she,

You and she, Are very young — both under three,

Under three.

FOUR YOUNG MEN.

I can recall an era when

I fell in love with four young men !

I worshipped and admired them — hush !

I'd like to whisper, with a blush.

Although perchance I'll be derided,

All the passion was one-sided.

My father brought them to our house ;

I sat as quiet as a mouse

The while he called them each by name,

And told my mother how he came

To know them well — years acquainted —

And very cunningly he painted

The kind of men they were, and she

(Without a single thought of me),

Declared they should no longer roam,

And so they made themselves at home

Within our house, with welcome hearty.

Henceforth we boarded all the party !

They slept within the misty gloom

Of corners of the drawing-room.

They joked and sang for our delight,

And entertained us every night.

Each with each in friendship vying

To make us laugh, or set us crying.

With stories of their skill in fight —

For they were soldiers — and the might

Of love. Ah me! Twas love that stirred

My little heart, and every word

Made me love them more, and glory

In the splendour of their story.

But when I praised them and I raved

Of all the dangers they had braved.

My father yawned, my mother smiled

And said that they were " rather wild,"

While both declared their fights and passion

Were very fine, if out of fashion.

But I was faithful to romance.

The kind my lovers knew in France.

Yes, I was faithful to the Four,

Indeed I loved them more and more —

I love them still, why not confess it?

Although perhaps you wouldn't guess it,

For I am very changed since then.

But they have never changed — young men

They will remain, from age to age,

The heroes of a noble page,

Full of joy, and dash, and pathos,

Oh, my D'Artagnan and Athos !

Oh, my Porthos, oh, the bliss

Of loving you, my Aramis !

Take my homage and my cheers —

Brave, immortal Musketeers !

MAN'S INSPIRATION (And the Cause of Woman's Lack of It).

O, men who've flourished through the ages,

You old philosophers and sages,

All you poets who have written,

You dreamers by Ambition bitten,

You artists of the maul and mallet,

Of brush and chisel, oils and palette,

What has been the goal before you?

What is still the star that's o'er you?

What's the source of inspiration

You will find in every nation?

Woman ! Woman ! She's inspired you.

Woman ! Woman ! She has fired you !

Though you love her, or deceive her,

Though you marry her, or leave her,

Though she's sometimes out of fashion,

When War, for instance, is your passion,

You always do return to limn her,

She always starts your rhyming primer.

If Woman had not proved a roamer,

Where would be your poet Homer ?

'Twas lovely Helen to discover

His Muse pursued the Trojan lover,

If Menelaus had been the tripper,

Would any Greek have turned a skipper ?

Would any Greek have sailed the ocean ?

We hear 'em laughing at the notion.

"Twas Woman, on a Summer even,

Took your Dante up to Heaven

To show him all the angel legions,

(But left him at the lower regions).

WThat of Petrarch's finest sonnet?

The stamp of Laura is upon it.

What of Shakespeare's poems and drama?

Every play has got its charmer.

Your Spenser's verses, light and airy,

Revolve about a lady fairy.

And even Milton felt the duty

Of dwelling on the grace and beauty

Of Adam's bride — and he was really

Inclined to look on girls severely.

No doubt your Shelley's voice is soaring

Above Elysian fields, adoring

13

Lovely Woman, there you'd find him, With Keats and Coleridge close behind him. Wherever Byron's ghostly shade is. You may be sure he's with the ladies. And as for Burns, no pen surpasses Your Robbies to commend the lasses. Now, if we turn to later glory Of poets, 'tis the same old story. Take Swinburne, Tennyson, or Browning — Take em gay, or take em frowning —

Tis Woman still who sends em winging, 'Tis Woman who inspires their singing. Then all the artists, with their sketching, In oils, or water, chalk, or etching. As soon as they have learned to toddle In Art, accept her for the model Of perfect beauty — charming creature ! — And daub away at form and feature. Yes, Man has ever raised his paeans To lauding Woman through the eons, But Woman lacks — may Heaven protect her !■ A being who can thus affect her. She has but Man, and though he's teasing, Provocative and very pleasing. He's not a being (does he know it?) To turn a woman to a poet. Although she may (and does) adore him, She really cannot kneel before him. Although she does (or doesn't) doubt him, She verv soon knows all about him. Although her faith is rarely shaken,

Tis not his nature to awaken The flash of genius, or rapture, That artists from a woman capture. In brief, he'll never, never tire her. But don't expect him to inspire her.

M

TO AN ARTIST.

I see the moon-

Well, ah, well ! The hour is noon, In a dell,

No, in a pool-

List, oh, list ! I see a fool, In a mist.

Curve and dash

Hear, but hear ! I hear the splash

Of a tear.

The paint is green

Think, dear, think !

I catch the sheen Of a drink.

A hawk I spy

Dream, love, dream !

Or else a fly In the cream !

Fine ! Divine !

Rot? Not rot! I've found a line

No, a blot !

My heart is wrung, Frown, sweet, frown !

The paintings hung Upside down !

In other words : — " Dear Mr. Browne, I saw your picture when in town. Now, is it London in a fog? Oh, no, I've found the catalogue — ' Futurist Portrait of a Frog.'

15

TO A POET.

My poet ! On the day we met You showed your love of poesy,

For all the time we talked of rhyme — That is, of course, you talked to me,

For I sat still with eyes a-glisten,

Content to wonder and to listen.

Dear poet ! Do you recollect

The quatrain that you wrote for me?

I read it twice, I read it thrice, (I think you called it Rhapsody),

I read it in and out of season,

Alas ! It hadn't rhyme nor reason.

O poet ! Then a rhythm play, Twelve sonnets and a parody,

An epic long, a stack of song.

And verses blank (how blank to me !)

All these you jingled, hardly stopping,

Like Mr. Wegg, you're always " dropping.

You poet ! We have met to part I I'm bored to death with poetry.

You talk in feet — then down the street I wish they'd trot you far from me.

I've thrown aside my glasses rosy

To find you're dull — and dry — and prosy !

16

CONSISTENT MAN.

Consistent Man would have his wife Devote to him the whole of life, Putting all other claims aside The day that she becomes a bride. But though his mother is also wed Her husband does not count, instead Of him she should cherish most the one Whom she is proud to call her son. His sister's husband must also take Second place for her brother's sake, But woe if his daughter fails to see, However kind her brothers be, Whatever lovers fond may say, Father's the man she must obey. All other ladies should firmly claim Perfect freedom, in friendship's name, To ask his help who is always wise, Ready to order and advise, Domestic oracle and judge — O, Woman, you must never grudge To pay a tribute where you can To the consistency of Man !

17

THE VICTORIAN PAPA.

1 sing the Victorian Papa,

I chant upon his pyre — Gone, like a dim and twinkling star.

Gone, like the wealth of Tyre !

Gone, like the power of ancient Rome,

Lost to the world and us. Type of the early Briton's home.

Scrapped," like the old horse-'bus.

Past, like the autocratic Czar,

Knocked, like the Prussian, flat —

I sing the Victorian Papa —

Crushed, like his own silk hat.

Hear me proclaim, in tones Gregorian,

In ancient days, called mid-Victorian,

There dwelt within the British islands,

Revered from Cornwall to the Highlands,

A Person who, without apology,

We place within the realms hagiology

(If that's a faulty rhyme, excuse it,

1 mean a Saint, so had to use it).

A Being — or an Institution —

Who'd won, no doubt by evolution.

The highest place among the people ;

He towered above them, like a steeple,

Looking down upon the masses

From out the lofty middle classes.

Although he stalked in form majestic

His greatest power was " pure domestic,'

But still he knew, to do him credit,

Indeed, he very often said it,

How ably he could rule the nation

And fill the most important station,

For all his views were sound and hoary —

A good, old bullet-headed Tory.

But, as I said, he lacked expansion.

His " House " was the domestic mansion.

And there he ruled, firm, autocratic,

Calm, but rarely diplomatic,

Benign and never supercilious,

In little matters, most punctilious ;

By habit grave, 'twas hard to win a

Smile from him except at dinner —

That is, if he approved the dishes

And found them equal to his wishes —

Then he could smile, be even merry.

18

(A splendid judge of port and sherry).

And tell you stories, long and prosy,

The sort of tales that make you dozy,

In lengthy sentences pedantic,

They drove his own " home circle " frantic.

His chief admirer, called Mama,

Had studied, learned and knew Papa,

Knew him in and out of season,

Upheld his views, and thought it treason

To press her own in any matter.

Content to listen and to flatter,

Proud to serve her lord and patron —

Cophetuas bride become a matron.

His boys displayed a different feeling

That often lead to ne'er-do-weeling.

His daughters were his greatest treasures,

He ruled their faith, and work, and pleasures.

He filled their minds with due sobriety

In ways of feminine propriety,

Approved their loves, or sent them packing,

In brief, they never found him lacking

In wisdom of parental carriage

Till they were " given away " in marriage.

All his friends were most respectable,

And very good, if not delectable.

He scorned or pitied ev'ry alien.

Religious views, Episcopalian.

Although his home was very pleasant,

He loved the Past and loathed the Present,

And looked upon the lower orders

As victims of the base marauders

Called Socialists — but all reforming,

Or new ideas, would set him storming.

He lived and died, to put it shortly,

Aloof and pompous, proud and portly.

I chant the Victorian Papa,

Who fell without a stab, And, arm in arm, with " dear Mama.

Fled, in a hansom cab !

Peer through the misty veil of Time, There you will see him loom,

A stately ghost in whiskered prime, Blind to his certain doom.

I see the Victorian Papa,

Dead, gone, with all his kith,

Lost in the bygone days afar, A dream — a tale — a myth !

19

WOMAN'S ADVANTAGE OVER MAN.

Be Man's the fame Of hero's name ; Be his the strife And thrill of life ; Be his a shower Of strength and power ; Of force and might, And glory bright — You do and can Deserve them, Man !

But Woman's bliss Much greater is. For love the best By Man possessed Is Woman's love. But joy above All he attains Is her's who gains. For life's short span, The love of Man.

ANOTHER ON THE SAME THEME.

Man, however long you live,

Whatever joys your life may give ;

If pride and glory, praise and fame

Be coupled with your work and name ;

Or if you dwell in deep repose.

With all the ease contentment knows ;

Or if you strive and gladly feel

The struggle and the stress of zeal ;

Or if you idly throw away

Your soul in pleasures of a day —

Read this for truth, you never can

Know Woman's rapture, loved by Man.

TO MY FIRST LOVE.

When first we met — now let me see — 1 think that you were twenty-three. Both tall and straight, and very fair. With quite a shock of sunny hair. Your laughing, flashing, moody eyes Were just the colour of the ties From Liberty's 1 bought for you, A kind of tender, greyish-blue. Twas in the days you loved to be In Socialist society, But of the William Morris kind, And gave your talent, heart and mind To work in decorative art For love of beauty, quite apart From any thought of mere success Such as common men possess. You lived in Chelsea at a place, Hidden from the world's disgrace," Where you could see the river flow, From out your attic panes, below, And read your Carpenter, or Yeats, And smoke your pipe, and eat your cates (Of oatmeal !). So you passed your days In working, loving, joy and praise, And floated, like a leaf on stream, From hope to hope, from dream to dream. You knew your London well, but still The yearning call of wood and hill Was ever echoed in your mind, You loved the sun, the rain, the wind, The earth below, the skies above, And more than all — you loved me, love ! How oft you vowed, when I was nigh, That vou would marry by and bye.

When last we met — now, let me see — You looked, say, forty-two or three, I will be kind, though truth to say Your hair (the little left) was grey. Your eyes — those flashing, laughing eyes !• Were dull as any pool that lies Beneath the glimmer of the moon, And " spectacles were quite a boon," You said, and polished, with a smile. Your glasses, blinking all the while.

You spoke of Art and let me know

You gave it up, oh, long ago !

'Twas well enough in youth's brief day,

But afterwards it didn't pay ;

Your father's business — really fine,

'Twas something in the brewing line —

Became your own and would increase,

You did not doubt, in days of Peace,

For after all, how near, how dear

To Britain's heart is Britain's beer.

You lived in town? "Oh, yes, oh, yes!

1 live in town, and I confess

The country has no charms for me.

Except the little bits I see

When motoring — " And on you went,

Still yarning on, as if you meant

To wear me out with this and that.

Of pleasant, desultory chat.

I could not catch, from first to last,

One far, faint echo of the Past.

For nothing you have done to prove

The promise of your early love —

Except that you would married be.

But (thank the Lord !) 'tis not to me.

23

THREE LITTLE POEMS ON WILLIAM. I. When I was on the Stage.

Billy clapped me when me met. From the shilling seats he sat in.

Critics, you who love to get Notes and interviews,

Put that in !

Say I rant, my voice is bad,

Say no audience could enrapt be, Say I'm growing old, but add-

Billy clapped me I

2. When I was in the Chair.

It was a dull and sombre hall, With ugly pictures on the wall, With feeble lights, a platform bare, A hard, uncushioned, oaken chair-

I took the chair I

A lengthy speech, with frequent pause,

A poor debate and no applause

And then a change, a flash, a thrill. For you came in, I saw you, Bill,

O, welcome, Bill !

Again the speaker rose — a hit, A burst of eloquence and wit, A happy hour, a joyous " Chair," A big success, for you were there,

I saw you there !

M

3. When I was in the Garden.

For long I strayed in forest glade,

Like Rosalind in Arden ; Until I found the magic ground

Of an old-fashioned garden, My love has made, in sun and shade, And all around, sight, scent, and sound, It is a perfect garden.

The shapely box, the gaudy cox, The rose, the pink, the clover,

The pansies dight, the daisies bright, Are planted by my lover.

The bloomy stocks, the vivid phlox —

At noon and night, in dear delight — Are tended by my lover.

I prize them all, in Spring and Fall,

When it is fair or showery ; But one I prove my heart can move,

A little plant and flowery. The plant I call the best of all — The one I love the rest above —

Sweet William, sweet and flowery!

25

ODE TO A HUSBAND. (An Attempt to Write when Inspired by His Presence.)

Beloved, when 1 take my pen To write my thoughts of thee,

All other wise and fearless men, However great they be "

(Is that my husband at the gate?

Well, Thomas, you are rather late).

— However wise they be — O thou

Art perfect in my sight, I loved thee as I love thee now

(It is a drenching night !)

When first the star of love arose "

(My dear, you'd better change your clothes).

The star of love arose " (What's that?

Oh, Thomas, but you're wet ! There's quite a pool upon the mat,

I see you're dripping yet).

The star of love " (You needn't shout,

I'll come and get the dry things out).

The star of ' ' (There he is again !

Of course I'll help you, dear. That star must set it's very plain), " O love, when thou art near Tis like a soft, sweet summer breeze That faintly murmurs in the trees.

So wise thou art, so calm and still,

So gentle and so strong

(Well, Thomas, do you feel a chill?

My dear, you may be wrong, You're nervous, as I said before, Don't wake the children ! Shut the door).

So gracious and benign thou art

In life's uncertain storm, So dauntless is that noble heart

(1*11 make your slippers warm).

That I shall never, never tire "

(You'd better let me stir the fire).

26

That I shall never tire of thee "

(What's that? I'll get your pipe,

The matches, Thomas? Let me see — There, dear!) 'The hour is ripe

When I will say, love, lord, and friend,

On thee alone I do deoend.

On thee alone ! I shrink, alack ! In weakness from the strife-

(Do put this cushion at your back), " And petty ills of life,

Thou bearest all without a fear "

(I'm sorry if it's draughty, dear).

Thou dost not brood, and no regret

Thy calm reflections stay. But trifles thou wilt ne'er forget '

(The plumber came to-day. You meant to let the landlord know? / did, my dear, some time ago).

To ev'ry duty thou dost fly, And fond affection seek "

(I wrote your Mother, by the bye,

Her birthday is next week, You know how happy she will be In saying you reminded me).

In happy days without annoy,

Of pleasure and of ease, I watch thee with a silent joy-

(Oh, Thomas, what a sneeze !) Thy ways are mild, thy thoughts sublime- (Yes, dear, it's nearly dinner time).

O, struggle on, my king of men, And work as ne'er before-

(You reached the office after ten,

And left at half-past four, But found the time to go through Punch? I'm glad you had a ripping lunch).

I stand aside and proudly gaze

To see thee battle on "

(My dear, I always spend my days

The same when you are gone. I tend the children, cook, and sew, One can't get any help you know).

27

I watch thee giving all thy life

In love that will not pass, Still toiling for thy bairns and wife

(Oh, yes, I cut the grass, You'll be surprised at such a crop, 'Twas done before I went to shop).

My own, for better or for worse I took thee, and I hold "

(Thank goodness, I'm a willing nurse, I think you've got a cold,

But really, dear, you needn't fret.

Or send for a physician yet).

O husband, let me end my rhyme In proof of love for thee

By saying this " (it's feeding time !)

" Beloved, thou shalt see "

(Your dinner, Thomas, in a trice, And how I pray you'll find it nice !)

28

WORDS OF WARNING.

I. To Young Bachelors.

Do not fear when She is sweet, For man is custom-trained to meet The dangers of an open fight. You need not tremble at the sight Of cunning Woman when she's moved To talk of love and being loved, Although it may be very charming, Take my word, it's not disarming, She's done it since the First of Days— You surely know her little ways?

But if she does not drop her eyes, And if she never, never sighs, And if she truly seems to see The joys of camaraderie, And makes you feel you really can — Well, treat her very like a man, O, then beware and fly to cover, Unless you want to be her lover, For Friendship is her chief, alack ! Of modern methods of attack.

2. To Bridegrooms.

A business maxim very sound In Woman's brain is often found. I warn you, lovers in your pride At having won a perfect bride, While still you marvel if it's true The angel can have chosen you. To recollect her settled plan Was this, in meeting every man — "No reasonable offer rejused."

29

A TINY LOVE-SONG.

The softest green In petals seen, The finest hue Of tender blue

We ever wist-

Twas Love-in-a-mist.

We joyed to meet In meadow sweet, And plucked the flower

Of Summer's hour

O, happy tryst, With Love-in-a-mist.

We met again In Autumn rain, And far and near The world was drear,

But, darling, list !

O, Love-in-a-mist !

The fairest day

Of blushing May,

Was not to me

So fair to see

For then I kissed My love in a mist.

30

Verses in a different Vein.

TO A BOY OF LONG AGO.

How wonderful it is to see

The first buds on the dark ash tree :

How wonderful it is to hear

The cuckoo calling far and near :

How wonderful it is to find

A poppy shaking in the wind :

How wonderful it is to know

Where the early violets grow :

How wonderful it is to look

Into the shallow, limpid brook :

More wonderful it is to dream

Beside a sleepy, silent stream :

Most wonderful it is to prove,

By all these wonders, God is love.

For wonderful it is to feel

His goodness o'er the quiet heart steal.

He loved and made each tiny plant :

He knows and helps each busy ant ;

From hand of His there flutters forth

The little, blue-winged, timid moth :

He paints the harebell in the dell ;

He hides the scarlet pimpernel

So out of all eternity

A perfect hour for you and me

He gave — remember, e'er you smile,

If it is worth our Father's while

To care for all the living things

That creep, or fly with tiny wings,

It surely pleases Him to joy

A little girl and little boy ?

He pointed us the way to roam

That day we wandered far from home,

He led us to the water's edge,

And there we found among the sedge

A wild forget-me-not — His care

And loving thought had planted there.

33

VERSES IN MEMORIAM.

I. My Father.

I wander alone, and wander still

On the open road and the winding hill.

Where the meadows roll and the woodland dips.

And a quiet river a-dreaming slips

Through whisp'ring rushes and list'ning sedge,

And the willow weeps at the water's edge.

I wander alone, and I watch the Sun

Die in the West when his course is run,

And I see how the Day grows weak and pale

As Night draws near in a starry veil.

I wander alone, and wander still

On the Road of Life, and the winding hill

Is leading me down to the River of Death,

And the air is faint as a dying breath.

I ponder and dream on the days alas !

Gone for ever — but Night will pass,

And then I may find, as the Morning breaks,

And far from the grave my soul awakes.

The splendour and jov that I hoped to know

In my life upon earth so long ago !

The open road and the winding hill May still be there, and the meadows still, And the song of the lark and nightingale, And the lovely wood and the tender vale. Then I shall meet, at close of the day, My Father, who wandered the first away, Away from our Home, and he shall hear, However we changed, we held him dear. And both — as we wander side by side — Will know that we live and forget we died.

34

2. William De Morgan.

If we open wide his pages

Out will flock a crowd of friends — Ev'ry age o' the Seven Ages,

Where Life up-springs, floods, and ends Who can tell us the beginning

Of those tales of mirth and tears? All the ripe and seasoned spinning

In the noble work of years. Enough that we have prized his stories i

Enough that we have read and know Joseph Vance " and " Lossie's " glories, " Liza-anne " and "Uncle Mo.'** Deck his tomb with oleaster

Of fair Italia's valleys wide. But in the midst — oh, let us cast a

Little tuft of London Pride !

* Characters in Mr. De Morgan's novels.

35

3. Henry Page.

I close my door

And pace the floor At the end of the weary day.

I feel the woes,

The toil and throes Of the War which has passed away.

I find the gloom

Within my room Of the outer world, and I hear

The splash of rain

Against the pane As the hours of the night draw near.

In darkling mood

I sit and brood And the flame of my heart burns low,

And shadows fall

Across the wall, With the shadows of long ago.

The table' s bright

With circled light Of the reading lamp, but around

The darkness grows,

And darkly flows Like a silent stream to the ground.

I sit and dream,

And down the stream I float to a haven of rest,

Till I forget

The vague regret And the sorrows that fill my breast.

I hear the chime

Of passing Time As it backward slips, and I feel,

With senses stirred,

A whispered word, And a presence about me steal.

I lift my eyes,

Without surprise, And I look at a vacant chair,

Set in the shade

By firelight made, And I know who is waiting there.

36

I see my friend !

May God forefend I should tremble, or blanch with fear.

To meet the dead,

A soul that's fled, When memory draws it near.

I find his gaze.

Without amaze. Is bent on my face, and I see — Tis very strange.

But ev'ry change Is not in my friend, but in me.

The look he wears,

The form he bears Are the same, and the truth I tell.

He speaks my name.

And just the same Is the voice that I knew so well.

The veil of years.

The mist of tears, The struggle, the toil, and the pain.

The fret and strife,

The storm of life, Are gone, but the joys remain.

The lonely day

Is far away When he left us, and much since then

Of crown and cross.

Of gain and loss, Have I learned in the world of men.

But you, my friend —

What journeys end Has been yours, and what of the start?

Has Time flowed on,

Since you were gone, As it flows through a beating heart?

Have you, evolved.

The problem solved Of the meaning of Life and Death?

What do you know

Of joy and woe, Do they pass with the passing breath ?

37

Have love and hope

A wider scope, Do you think as you thought of old ?

What mystic seas,

And sun and breeze, Have you found as a tale untold?

Teach me your faith,

Beloved wraith ! In the aura around your head

I see a light,

A glory bright, As the clouds of the morning shed.

The secret tell !

O, what befell When your life in this world was o'er?

We grasp and fail

To lift the veil, But for you — you have gone before —

You know the truth,

In love and ruth Give an answer, the time draws near

When we must part,

With yearning heart I am waiting — O, let me hear

I heard him speak !

Across my cheek I felt the rush of the Spring ;

We seemed to stand

In meadow-land At an hour when the skylarks sing.

We talked of Rome,

And Jason's home, When the Argonauts sailed the sea,

The tales of Greece,

The Golden Fleece — All the books that he read to me.

We laughed and strayed

Where fairies played, In the heat of the Summer noon ;

We heard the song,

Sad, sweet and long, Which the mermaids sing to the moon.

38

We saw the sail

Amidst the gale Of the Mariners boat on its quest,

The seaman old

Whose tale was told In the ear of the Wedding Guest.

We saw the gleam

Adown the stream Of the flash of King Arthur's brand,

And ladies fair,

With golden hair, And their knights of a magic land.

Then up and down

Old London town, In the twilight hour o' the day,

When overhead

The skies are red, And the smoke is a misty grey.

When shadows meet

Across the street, And the distant roar and the hum

Have died away,

At close of day, To the sound of a muffled drum.

We lightly walked,

And still we talked, But never a word did he speak

Of days beyond,

Or broken bond Of his life — I forgot to seek,

For all the while

His dear old smile Would draw me away to the hours

Of laugh and jest,

Of work and rest, Of beauty — and youth — and flowers

A silence falls

Within the walls Once again of my little room.

The firelight gleams,

The lamplight streams, Once more in the gathering gloom.

The vacant chair

Is standing there, No sound is there here, no sight,

To prove he came

And spoke my name — But I know we have met to-night. 39

JAPANESE LOVE-LETTERS.

I. To a Painter.

The whole of Heaven I saw In a sweep of your brush's blue ; The sunny surface of the sea In a fish you drew For me.

The bloom of almond I felt With colour and perfume blent, The happy Springtime still to be, In a blossom you sent To me.

The sound of music I heard. And murmuring streams awoke, With caged song-birds all set free, In a word you spoke To me.

40

w'~ 1

2. To False Toshimichi.

As prisoned sunshine leaps From a burning tree ; So my heart was fired

And flamed for thee.

The empty prison turned

To ashes' deadened hue ;

So my heart burnt out —

With thee untrue.

41

3. To a Youth of Nara.

From the black earth To water fair, From water to The finer air, The lotus springeth up ; Tis thus she grows From dark to light, Until at last The heavens bright With sunshine fill her cup.

'Tis so with thee !

From darkling fears

To lucid thoughts

With bliss and tears,

The poet lifts his eyes —

He knows the earth

Is but a dream,

Beauty mirrored

In a stream —

When heavenly visions rise.

42

X.£.

4. To a Gardener.

By Nature's fiat

The roses riot In damask and crimson and white ;

With beauty springing,

And perfume flinging, In gardens of dear delight.

But all the roses

That June discloses, Blooming and blushing and fair,

Glowing as fire is,

Bow to the iris, Flower and flag of the air !

Take you the posies,

Sweet English roses, Sending once more if you can —

Beloved, as token

Of promise unbroken — The flag of your own Japan.

43

5. To Silent Masao.

The secret of the East I think I could discover. If I but understood My strange and stealthy lover.

I look into his eyes,

So dark and passion-gleaming-

But O ! his soul is rapt

In deep and mystic dreaming.

44

6. To Akira.

Look at the magnolia tree

In its glory, thou wilt see

However near a blossom's found,

On lowest branches, to the ground,

Its waiting chalice, purple-white,

Is lifted to the heaven's light.

So, Akira, I uplift

Heart and lips — an empty gift

Till thou shalt fill them from above,

In passing, with a beam of love.

45

7. To Osamu.

When shall I cease to love thee?

When lilies cease to blow. And when there falls on Fuji

The last of Heaven's snow !

46

4 i

Printers,

Swiss Cottage.

N.W.6

/COPIES of this Book 2/6 net (post free) to be obtained from the Author :

124 The Grove, London, W. 6.

PS

Webllng, Pegi

Verses to men

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

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