WILLIAM H. DAVIES

1913

CONTENTS

THUNDERSTORMS

STRONG MOMENTS

A GREETING

SWEET STAY-AT-HOME

THE STARVED

A MAY MORNING

THE LONELY DREAMER

CHRISTMAS

LAUGHING ROSE

SEEKING JOY

THE OLD OAK TREE

POOR KINGS

LOVE AND THE MUSE

MY YOUTH

SMILES

MAD POLL

JOY SUPREME

FRANCIS THOMPSON

THE BIRD-MAN

WINTER'S BEAUTY

THE CHURCH ORGAN

HEIGH HO, THE RAIN

LOVE'S INSPIRATION

NIGHT WANDERERS

YOUNG BEAUTY

WHO I KNOW

SWEET BIRDS, I COME

THE TWO LIVES

HIDDEN LOVE

LIFE IS JOLLY

THE FOG

A WOMAN'S CHARMS

DREAMS OF THE SEA

THE WONDER MAKER

THE HELPLESS

AN EARLY LOVE

DREAM TRAGEDIES

CHILDREN AT PLAY

WHEN THE CUCKOO SINGS

RETURN TO NATURE

A STRANGE CITY

THUNDERSTORMS

My mind has thunderstorms, That brood for heavy hours: Until they rain me words, My thoughts are drooping flowers And sulking, silent birds. Yet come, dark thunderstorms, And brood your heavy hours; For when you rain me words, My thoughts are dancing flowers And joyful singing birds.

STRONG MOMENTS

Sometimes I hear fine ladies sing, Sometimes I smoke and drink with men; Sometimes I play at games of cards— Judge me to be no strong man then. The strongest moment of my life Is when I think about the poor; When, like a spring that rain has fed, My pity rises more and more. The flower that loves the warmth and light, Has all its mornings bathed in dew; My heart has moments wet with tears, My weakness is they are so few.

A GREETING

Good morning, Life—and all Things glad and beautiful. My pockets nothing hold, But he that owns the gold, The Sun, is my great friend— His spending has no end. Hail to the morning sky, Which bright clouds measure high; Hail to you birds whose throats Would number leaves by notes; Hail to you shady bowers, And you green fields of flowers. Hail to you women fair, That make a show so rare In cloth as white as milk— Be't calico or silk: Good morning, Life—and all Things glad and beautiful.

SWEET STAY-AT-HOME

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent: Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze. Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow For miles, as far as eyes can go; Thou hast not seen a summer's night When maids could sew by a worm's light; Nor the North Sea in spring send out Bright hues that like birds flit about In solid cages of white ice— Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place. Thou hast not seen black fingers pick White cotton when the bloom is thick, Nor heard black throats in harmony; Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie Flat on the earth, that once did rise To hide proud kings from common eyes, Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom Where green things had such little room They pleased the eye like fairer flowers— Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours. Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place, Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face; For thou hast made more homely stuff Nurture thy gentle self enough; I love thee for a heart that's kind—

Not for the knowledge in thy mind.

THE STARVED

My little Lamb, what is amiss? If there was milk in mother's kiss, You would not look as white as this. The wolf of Hunger, it is he That takes away thy milk from me, And I have much to do for thee. If thou couldst live on love, I know No babe in all the land could show More rosy cheeks and louder crow. Thy father's dead, Alas for thee: I cannot keep this wolf from me, That takes thy milk so bold and free. If thy dear father lived, he'd drive Away this beast with whom I strive, And thou, my pretty Lamb, wouldst thrive. Ah, my poor babe, my love's so great I'd swallow common rags for meat— If they could make milk rich and sweet. My little Lamb, what is amiss? Come, I must wake thee with a kiss, For Death would own a sleep like this.

A MAY MORNING

The sky is clear, The sun is bright; The cows are red, The sheep are white; Trees in the meadows Make happy shadows. Birds in the hedge Are perched and sing; Swallows and larks Are on the wing: Two merry cuckoos Are making echoes. Bird and the beast Have the dew yet; My road shines dry, Theirs bright and wet: Death gives no warning, On this May morning. I see no Christ Nailed on a tree, Dying for sin; No sin I see: No thoughts for sadness, All thoughts for gladness.

THE LONELY DREAMER

He lives his lonely life, and when he dies A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs; Because they liked his songs, and now their bird Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard. But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring Those blossoms there, of which he used to sing? Who'll kiss his mound, and wish the time would come To lie with him inside that silent tomb? And who'll forget the dreamer's skill, and shed A tear because a loving heart is dead? Heigh ho for gossip then, and common sighs— And let his death bring tears in no one's eyes.

CHRISTMAS

Christmas has come, let's eat and drink— This is no time to sit and think; Farewell to study, books and pen, And welcome to all kinds of men. Let all men now get rid of care, And what one has let others share; Then 'tis the same, no matter which Of us is poor, or which is rich. Let each man have enough this day, Since those that can are glad to pay; There's nothing now too rich or good For poor men, not the King's own food. Now like a singing bird my feet Touch earth, and I must drink and eat. Welcome to all men: I'll not care What any of my fellows wear; We'll not let cloth divide our souls, They'll swim stark naked in the bowls. Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see That hand of yours dislodge a flea,— While you sit at my side and beg, Or right foot scratching your left leg. Farewell restraint: we will not now Measure the ale our brains allow, But drink as much as we can hold. We'll count no change when we spend gold; This is no time to save, but spend, To give for nothing, not to lend. Let foes make friends: let them forget The mischief-making dead that fret

The living with complaint like this— "He wronged us once, hate him and his." Christmas has come; let every man Eat, drink, be merry all he can. Ale's my best mark, but if port wine Or whisky's yours—let it be mine; No matter what lies in the bowls, We'll make it rich with our own souls. Farewell to study, books and pen, And welcome to all kinds of men.

LAUGHING ROSE

If I were gusty April now, How I would blow at laughing Rose; I'd make her ribbons slip their knots, And all her hair come loose. If I were merry April now, How I would pelt her cheeks with showers; I'd make carnations, rich and warm, Of her vermilion flowers. Since she will laugh in April's face, No matter how he rains or blows— Then O that I wild April were, To play with laughing Rose.