Read Ebook: Eyes of Youth A Book of Verse by Padraic Colum Shane Leslie Viola Meynell Ruth Lindsay Hugh Austin Judith Lytton Olivia Meynell Maurice Healy Monica Saleeby & Francis Meynell. With four early poems by Francis Thompson & a foreword by Gilbert K. Chesterton by Various

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Ebook has 138 lines and 9526 words, and 3 pages

s fervour of nerve God hath appointed him this: a lustful and venomous bride.

Never supine lie they, the steeds of our folk, to the sting, Praying for deadness of nerve, their wounds the shame of the sun; They strive, but they strive for this: the fullness of passionate nerve; They pant, but they pant for this: the speed that outstrips the pain.

Sons of the dust, ye have stung: there is darkness upon my soul. Sons of the dust, ye have stung: yea, stung to the roots of my heart. But I have said in my breast: the birth succeeds to the pang, And sons of the dust, behold, your malice becomes my song.

SHANE LESLIE

I drew him then unto my knee, my friend who was dead, And I set my live lips over his, and my heart by his head.

I thought of an unrippled love and a passion unsaid, And the years he was living by me, my friend who was dead;

And the white morning ways that we went, and how oft we had fed And drunk with the sunset for lamp--my friend who was dead;

Now never the draught at my lips would thrill to my head-- For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; my friend he was dead.

Then I spake unto God in my grief: My wine and my bread And my staff Thou hast taken from me--my friend who is dead.

Are the heavens yet friendless to Thee, and lone to Thy head, That Thy desolate heart must have need of my friend who is dead?

To God then I spake yet again: not Peter instead Would I take, nor Philip nor John, for my friend who is dead.

All around I heard the whispering larches Swinging to the low-lipped wind; God, they piped, is lilting in our arches, For He loveth leafen kind.

Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber, Say confiding to the reed: God well knoweth us, Who loves to number Us and all our fairy seed.

Voices hummed as of a multitude Crowding from their lowly sod; 'Twas the stricken daisies where I stood, Crying to the daisies' God.

Away, the old monks said, Sweet honey-fly, From lilting overhead The lullaby You heard some mother croon Beneath the harvest moon. Go, hum it in the hive, The old monks said, For we were once alive Who now are dead.

The death of the grey withered grass Of man's is a sign, And his life is as wine That is spilt from a half-shivered glass. At a quarter to nine Went Dives to dine ...

Riches and plunder had met To furnish his feast-- Both succulent beast And fish from the fisherman's net; While he tasteth of dishes And all his soul wishes-- Nor knoweth his hour hath been set.

The death of the pale-sodden hay 'Neath the feet of the kine Is to man for a sign; At the striking of ten he was grey, And they carried him out Stiff-strangled with gout.

I never see the newsboys run Amid the whirling street, With swift untiring feet, To cry the latest venture done, But I expect one day to hear Them cry the crack of doom And risings from the tomb, With great Archangel Michael near; And see them running from the Fleet As messengers of God, With Heaven's tidings shod About their brave unwearied feet.

I dreamt that the heavens were beggared And angels went chanting for bread, And the cherubs were sewed up in sackcloth, And Satan anointed his head. I dreamt they had chalked up a price On the sun and the stars at God's feet, And the Devil had bought up the Church, And put out the Pope in the street.

I do remember thee so blest and filled With all life offered thee, Yet unsurprised I learn that thou hast willed To share or lose her fee.

It seems a very great and stalwart thing To toss defence away, To tear the golden feathers from thy wing And lie with shards of clay.

To some far vision's light thine eyes are set That mock life's treasure trove, And see the changing woof not woven yet As God would have it wove.

The red thou flauntest bravely, friend, for me Hast lost alarming power; For who but guilty men will quake their knee, And who but robbers cower?

For many hallowed things are symbolled red, Live fire and cleansing war, And the bright sealing Blood that Christ once shed, And Martyrs yet must pour.

O friend, choose one of these ourselves to link; For how could friendship be If from the foaming cup thou hast to drink The dregs come not to me?

Dividing much, thou makest little thine Except the gain of loss; Yet haply Christ's true peer hath better sign Than coronet--the Cross.

'Mid the quiet splendour of a pennoned crowd, Gently proud, Moved in armour, silvered in celestial forge, Great Saint George, Stands he in the crimson-woven air of fight Speared with light-- Hell is harried by the holy anger poured From his sword.

Where the sweated toilers of the river slum Shiver dumb, Passed to-day a poorly clad and poorly shod Knight of God; Where the human eddy smears with shame and rags Paving flags, Hell shall weakly wail beneath the words he cries Piteous-wise.

VIOLA MEYNELL

I led thy thoughts, having them for my own, To where my God His head to thee did bend. I bore thee in my bosom to His throne. O, the blest labour, and the treasured end!

Now like a ruined aqueduct I go Unburdened; thou by more fleet ways hast been With Him. Since thou thine own swift road dost know, Thou canst not brook such slow and devious mean.

I slept, and thought a letter came from you-- You did not love me any more, it said. What breathless grief!--my love not true, not true ... I was afraid of people, and afraid Of things inanimate--the wind that blew, The clock, the wooden chair; and so I strayed From home, but could not stray from grief, I knew. And then at dawn I woke, and wept, and prayed, And knew my blessed love was still the same;-- And yet I sit and moan upon the bed For that dream-creature's loss. For when I came she fled. I would be with her where she wanders now, Fleeing the earth, with pain upon her brow.

All night my thoughts have rested in God's fold; They lay beside me here upon the bed. At dawn I woke: the air beat sad and cold. I told them o'er--Ah, God, one thought had fled.

Into what dark, deep chasm this wayward one Has sunk, I scarcely know; I will not chide. O Shepherd, leave me! Seek this lamb alone. The ninety-nine are here. They will abide.

O for the time when some impetuous breeze Will catch Thy garment, and, like autumn trees, Toss it and rend it till Thou standest free, And end Thy long secluded reverie!

Still now its beauty folds Thee, and--as she Who kissed Thy garment and had health from Thee-- I feel the sun, or hear some bird in bliss, And Thou hast then my sudden, humble kiss.

Since that with lips which moved in one we prayed, So that God ceased to hear us speak apart, What law irrevocable have we made? How shall He hear a solitary heart

When He did need that we, to have His ear, Should go aside and pray together there With urgent breath? Ah, now I pause and fear-- How shall uprise my lonely, separate prayer?

Upon one hand your kisses chanced to rest: I smiled upon the other hand and said "Poor thing," when you had gone: and then in quest Of pity rose a clamour from the dead-- Some way of mine, some word, some look, some jest Complained they too went all uncoveted ... That night I took these troubles to my breast, And played that you and I, my own, were wed; Those troubles were our child, with eyes of fear,-- A wailing babe, whom I, his mother dear, Must soothe to quiet rest and calm relief, And urge his eyes to sleeping by and by. "O hush," I said, and wept to see such grief; "Hush, hush, your father must not hear you cry."

But ah, what drew my bitter moans and sighs, And pierced my sleeping spirit, was that she Who with the saddest tears would close these eyes And with maternal passion mourn for me,

She on some pleasure-errand stayed away. Ah, bitter, bitter thought! Ah, lonely death To seek me in the night! And not till day Had come and soothed my fear, and calmed my breath,

And in the sun my new life I could kiss, And look with prayer and hope to future years, Did I discern God's mercy still in this-- That I was spared the anguish of her tears.

RUTH TEMPLE LINDSAY

Ah, wilt thou turn aside and see The little Child on Mary's knee? Enter the stable bleak and cold, Grope through the straw and myrrh and gold; Seek in the darkness near and far-- Lift up the lantern and the Star. Rough shepherds came to love and greet, There knelt three kings at Mary's feet. Ah! draw thee nigh the holy place-- He sleepeth well in her embrace, The little Saviour of thy race-- Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face.

But wilt thou come in years to be? She held Him dead across her knee. Stretch Him aloft on planks of wood; Offer Him gall for tears and blood. Blazon thy hatred far and near: Lift up the hammer and the spear. Red thorns about his head were wound-- There lay three nails upon the ground. Yea I Heed the Lover of thy race-- He lieth dead in her embrace. Ah! scourge thy soul with its disgrace: Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face.

Thou canst choose the eastern Circle for thy part, And within its sacred precincts thou shalt rest; Thou shalt fold pale, slender hands upon thy breast, Thou shalt fasten silent eyes upon thy heart. If there steal within the languor of thine ark The thunder of the waters of the earth, The human, simple cries of pain and mirth, The wails of little children in the dark, Thou shalt contemplate thy Circle's radiant gleam, Thou shalt gather self and God more closely still: Let the Piteous and the Foolish moan at will, So thou shelter in the sweetness of thy dream.

Thou canst bear a bloodstained Cross upon thy breast, Thou shalt stand upon the common, human sod, Thou shalt lift unswerving eyes unto thy God, Thou shalt stretch torn, rugged hands to east and west Thou shalt call to every throne and every cell-- Thou shalt gather all the answers of the Earth, Thou shalt wring repose from weariness and dearth, Thou shalt fathom the profundity of Hell-- But thy height shall touch the height of God above, And thy breadth shall span the breadth of pole to pole, And thy depth shall sound the depth of every soul, And thy heart the deep Gethsemane of Love.

The Lion, he prowleth far and near, Nor swerves for pain or rue; He heeded nought of sloth nor fear, He prowleth--prowleth through The silent glade and the weary street, In the empty dark and the full noon heat; And a little Lamb with aching Feet-- He prowleth too.

The Lion croucheth alert, apart-- With patience doth he woo; He waiteth long by the shuttered heart, And the Lamb--He waiteth too. Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill, Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue, The Lion followeth the fainting will-- And the Lamb--He followeth too.

From the thickets dim of the hidden way Where the debts of Hell accrue, The Lion leapeth upon his prey: But the Lamb--He leapeth too. Ah! loose the leash of the sins that damn, Mark Devil and God as goals, In the panting love of a famished Lamb, Gone mad with the need of souls.

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