Read Ebook: Les conséquences politiques de la paix by Bainville Jacques

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Ebook has 783 lines and 48017 words, and 16 pages

TRENCH, HERBERT Musing on a Great Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 O dreamy, gloomy, friendly Trees . . . . . . . . . . . . 111

TYNAN, KATHARINE Farewell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 The Choice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 The Old Love . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66

WATSON, WILLIAM Estrangement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142 Ode in May . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80

WOODS, MARGARET L. Gaudeamus Igitur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 To the Forgotten Dead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

YEATS, W. B. A Dream of a Blessed Spirit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 A Dream of Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven . . . . . . . . . . 156 Down by the galley gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Into the Twilight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 The Folly of being Comforted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 The Lake Isle of Inisfree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 When you are Old . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

For permission to use copyright poems the English Association is greatly indebted to the authors; to the literary executors of Mary Coleridge , J. E. Flecker , Lionel Johnson , George Meredith , R. L. Stevenson , Arthur Symons , and Francis Thompson ; and to the following publishers in respect of the poems enumerated:

The Association desires also to acknowledge the generosity with which authors and publishers have waived or reduced customary copyright fees, in view of the special objects of their organisation. They regret that considerations of copyright have rendered it impossible to include poems by T. E. Brown, Thomas Hardy, W. E. Henley, and A. E. Housman.

POEMS OF TO-DAY

Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the briar's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.

Very old are the brooks; And the rills that rise Where snow sleeps cold beneath The azure skies Sing such a history Of come and gone, Their every drop is as wise As Solomon.

We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.

I laid me down upon the shore And dreamed a little space; I heard the great waves break and roar; The sun was on my face.

My idle hands and fingers brown Played with the pebbles grey; The waves came up, the waves went down, Most thundering and gay.

The pebbles, they were smooth and round And warm upon my hands, Like little people I had found Sitting among the sands.

The grains of sands so shining-small Soft through my fingers ran; The sun shone down upon it all, And so my dream began:

How all of this had been before; How ages far away I lay on some forgotten shore As here I lie to-day.

The waves came shining up the sands, As here to-day they shine; And in my pre-pelasgian hands The sand was warm and fine.

I have forgotten whence I came, Or what my home might be, Or by what strange and savage name I called that thundering sea.

I only know the sun shone down As still it shines to-day, And in my fingers long and brown The little pebbles lay.

Troy Town is covered up with weeds, The rabbits and the pismires brood On broken gold, and shards, and beads Where Priam's ancient palace stood.

The floors of many a gallant house Are matted with the roots of grass; The glow-worm and the nimble mouse Among her ruins flit and pass.

And there, in orts of blackened bone, The widowed Trojan beauties lie, And Simois babbles over stone And waps and gurgles to the sky.

Once there were merry days in Troy, Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals, The passing chariots did annoy The sunning housewives at their wheels.

And many a lovely Trojan maid Set Trojan lads to lovely things; The game of life was nobly played, They played the game like Queens and Kings.

So that, when Troy had greatly passed In one red roaring fiery coal, The courts the Grecians overcast Became a city in the soul.

In some green island of the sea, Where now the shadowy coral grows In pride and pomp and empery The courts of old Atlantis rose.

In many a glittering house of glass The Atlanteans wandered there; The paleness of their faces was Like ivory, so pale they were.

And hushed they were, no noise of words In those bright cities ever rang; Only their thoughts, like golden birds, About their chambers thrilled and sang.

They knew all wisdom, for they knew The souls of those Egyptian Kings

Who learned, in ancient Babilu, The beauty of immortal things.

They knew all beauty--when they thought The air chimed like a stricken lyre, The elemental birds were wrought, The golden birds became a fire.

And straight to busy camps and marts The singing flames were swiftly gone; The trembling leaves of human hearts Hid boughs for them to perch upon.

And men in desert places, men Abandoned, broken, sick with fears, Rose singing, swung their swords agen, And laughed and died among the spears.

The green and greedy seas have drowned That city's glittering walls and towers, Her sunken minarets are crowned With red and russet water-flowers.

In towers and rooms and golden courts The shadowy coral lifts her sprays; The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts, The shark doth haunt her hidden ways,

But, at the falling of the tide, The golden birds still sing and gleam, The Atlanteans have not died, Immortal things still give us dream.

The dream that fires man's heart to make, To build, to do, to sing or say A beauty Death can never take, An Adam from the crumbled clay.

I gathered with a careless hand, There where the waters night and day Are languid in the idle bay, A little heap of golden sand; And, as I saw it, in my sight Awoke a vision brief and bright, A city in a pleasant land.

I saw no mound of earth, but fair Turrets and domes and citadels, With murmuring of many bells; The spires were white in the blue air, And men by thousands went and came, Rapid and restless, and like flame Blown by their passions here and there.

Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?

All things I'll give you, Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may, Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein-- Only a moment, And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?

O, a gallant set were they, As they charged on us that day, A thousand riding like one! Their trumpets crying, And their white plumes flying, And their sabres flashing in the sun.

O, a sorry lot were we, As we stood beside the sea, Each man for himself as he stood! We were scattered and lonely-- A little force only Of the good men fighting for the good.

But I never loved more On sea or on shore The ringing of my own true blade, Like lightning it quivered, And the hard helms shivered, As I sang, "None maketh me afraid!"

This was her table, these her trim outspread Brushes and trays and porcelain cups for red; Here sate she, while her women tired and curled The most unhappy head in all the world.

O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm Of green days telling with a quiet beat-- O wave into the sunset flowing calm! O tired lark descending on the wheat! Lies it all peace beyond that western fold Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold Yon cloud with prophecies of linked ease-- Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees, To drowse beside her implements of war?

Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap Like a repentant child at length he hies, Not in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries: But when in winter's grave, bereft of light, With still, small voice divinelier whispering --Lifting the green head of the aconite, Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot-- She feels God's finger active at the root, Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring.

Sombre and rich, the skies; Great glooms, and starry plains. Gently the night wind sighs; Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned.

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