Poets of Our Day (Google eBook)

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Naomi Gwladys Royde-Smith
Metheun, 1908 - English poetry - 279 pages
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Page 141 - Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o
Page 273 - THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare ; Caolte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling Away, come away: Empty your heart of its mortal dream. The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart; And if any gaze on our rushing band, We come between him and the deed of his hand, We come between him and the hope of his heart.
Page 72 - Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.
Page 271 - The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, The full round moon and the star-laden sky, And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves, Had hid away earth's old and weary cry. And then you came with those red mournful lips, And with you came the whole of the world's tears, And all the trouble of her labouring ships, And all the trouble of her myriad years.
Page 148 - Merry, merry England is waking as of old, With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold : For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Page 89 - And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted...
Page 43 - Breathed on us there, and loosed the bands Of death, and taught us, whispering, The secret of some wonder-thing. Then all your face grew light, and seemed To hold the shadow of the sun; The evening faltered, and I deemed That time was ripe, and years had done Their wheeling underneath the sun. So all desire and all regret, And fear and memory, were naught; One to remember or forget The keen delight our hands had caught; Morrow and yesterday were naught. The night has fallen, and the tide . . . Now...
Page 148 - ... Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. Love is in the greenwood, building him a house Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs ; Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies ; And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes. Hark ! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep ; Marian is waiting, is Robin Hood asleep ? Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.
Page 104 - St. Andrews by the Northern sea, A haunted town it is to me! A little city, worn and grey, The grey North Ocean girds it round. And o'er the rocks, and up the bay, The long sea-rollers surge and sound. And still the thin and biting spray Drives down the melancholy street, And still endure, and still decay, Towers that the salt winds vainly beat. Ghost-like and shadowy they stand Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand.
Page 65 - We feather'd his trail up-wind A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag, a kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, A stag, a runnable stag. Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap, yap, And

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