CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Child Lovers And other Poems By William H. Davies Author of " Songs of Joy," etc. etc. ndon : A. C, Fifield, 191 6. is. net. Child Lovers, and other Poems By the same Author Poetry The Soul's Destroyer. 1906. 4th edition, is. Fifield. New Poems. 1907. 2nd edition, is. 6d. Mathews. Nature Poems. 1908. 3rd thousand, is. Fifield. Farewell to Poesy. 191 o. 2nd thousand, is. Fifield. Songs of Joy. 1911. 2s. 6d. Fifield. Foliage. 1913. is. 6d. Mathews. Birds of Paradise. 1914. is. Methuen. Prose The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp. With Preface by Bernard Shaw. 1907. 3rd edition. 6s. Fifield. Child Lovers And other Poems By William H. Davies Author of " Songs of Joy," etc. etc. London : A. C. Fifield, 13, Clifford's Inn, E.G. 1916. Au rights reserved X WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED, PRINTERS PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND Contents rAGE The Inexpressible . . . . ^ This Night 8 The Visitor 9 April's Charms ID Kitty and I II Thou Comest, May 12 The Hospital Waiting-Room 13 The White Cascade 14 The One Singer . 15 The Inquest 16 The Two Children 18 Come, Thou Sweet Wonder • 19 Charms 20 Friends . 21 The Power of Silence . . 22 A Mother to Her Sick Child • 23 The White Monster • 24 Child Lovers • 25 My Lady Comes . • 27 Body and Spirit . . 28 The Author thanks the editors of the following magazines for permission to reprint these poems : Nation, English Review, New Statesman, Poetry and Drama, Forum, Book of Homage, and Country Life. The Inexpressible THINKING of my caged birds indoors, My books, whose music serves my will ; Which, when I bid them sing, will sing, And when I sing myself are still ; And that my scent is drops of ink, Which, were my song as great as I, Would sweeten man till he was dust. And make the world one Araby ; Thinking how my hot passions make Strong floods of shallows that run cold — Oh how I burn to make my dreams Lighten and thunder through the world ! This Night THIS night, as I sit here alone, And brood on what is dead and gone. The owl that's in this Highgate Wood, Has found his fellow in my mood ; To every star, as it doth rise — Oh-o-o ! Oh-o-o ! he shivering cries. And, looking at the Moon this night. There's that dark shadow in her light. Ah ! Life and Death, my fairest one. Thy lover is a skeleton ! "And why is that?" I question — "why?" Oh-o-o ! oh-o-o ! the owl doth cry. The Visitor SHE brings that breath, and music too, That comes when April's days begin ; And sweetness Autumn never had In any bursting skin. She's big with laughter at the breasts. Like netted fish they leap : Oh God, that I were far from here. Or lying fast asleep ! April's Charms WHEN April scatters coins of primrose gold Among the copper leaves in thickets old, And singing skylarks from the meadows rise, To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies; When I can hear the small woodpecker ring Time on a tree for all the birds that sing; And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long — The simple bird that thinks two notes a song; When 1 can hear the woodland brook, that could Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood ; Upon whose banks the violets make their home. And let a few small strawberry blossoms come : When I go forth on such a pleasant day. One breath outdoors takes all my care away ; It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold Of wood that's green and fill a grate with gold. lo Kitty and I THE gentle wind that waves The green boughs here and there, Is showing how my hand Waved Kitty's finer hair. The Bee, when all his joints Are clinging to a Blossom, Is showing how I clung To Kitty's softer bosom. The Rill, when his sweet voice Is hushed by water-cresses, Is Kitty's sweeter voice Subdued by my long kisses. Those little stars that shine So happy in the skies. Are those sweet babes I saw, Whose heaven was Kitty's eyes. The Moon, that casts her beam Upon the hill's dark crest. Is Kitty's whiter arm Across my hairy breast. The hazel nuts, when paired Unseen beneath the boughs. Are Kitty and myself, Whenever Chance allows. II Thou Comest, May THOU comest, May, with leaves and flowers. And nights grow short, and days grow long ; And for thy sake in bush and tree, The small birds sing, both old and young; And only I am dumb and wait The passing of a fish-like state. You birds, you old grandfathers now, That have such power to welcome spring, I, but a father in my years, Have nothing in my mind to sing ; My lips, like gills in deep-sea homes. Beat time, and still no music comes. 12 The Hospital Waiting-Room WE wait our turn, as still as mice, For medicine free, and free advice : Two mothers, and their little girls So small — each one with flaxen curls — And I myself, the last to come. Now as I entered that bare room, I was not seen or heard ; for both The mothers — one in finest cloth. With velvet blouse and crochered lace. Lips painted red, and powdered face ; The other ragged, whose face took Its own dull, white, and wormy look — Exchanged a hard and bitter stare. And both the children, sitting there, Taking example from that sight, Made ugly faces, full of spite. This woman said, though not a word From her red painted lips was heard — " Why have I come to this, to be In such a slattern's company?" The ragged woman's look replied — " If you can dress with so much pride, Why are you here, so neat, and nice, For medicine free, and free advice.'" And I, who needed richer food. Not medicine, to help my blood ; Who could have swallowed then a horse. And chased its rider round the course, Sat looking on, ashamed, perplexed. Until a welcome voice cried — " Next ! " 13 The White Cascade WHAT happy mortal sees that mountain now, The white cascade that's shining on its brow; The white cascade that's both a bird and star, That has a ten-mile voice and shines as far ? Though I may never leave this land again, Yet every spring my mind must cross the main To hear and see that water-bird and star That on the mountain sings, and shines so far. 14 The One Singer DEAD leaves from off the tree Make whirlpools on the ground ; Like dogs that chase their tails, Those leaves go round and round ; Like birds unfledged and young, The old bare branches cry ; Branches that shake and bend To feel the winds go by. No other sound is heard. Save from those boughs so bare — Hark ! who sings that one song ? 'Tis Robin sings so rare. How sweet ! like those sad tunes In homes where grief's not known ; Or that a blind girl sings When she is left alone. 15 The Inquest I TOOK my oath I would enquire, Without affection, hate, or wrath. Into the death of Ada Wright — So help me God ! I took that oath. When I went out to see the corpse. The four months babe that died so young, I judged it was seven pounds in weight. And little more than one foot long. One eye, that had a yellow lid, Was shut — so was the mouth, that smiled ; The left eye open, shining bright — It seemed a knowing little child. For as I looked at that one eye. It seemed to laugh, and say with glee : " What caused my death you'll never know — Perhaps my mother murdered me." When I went into court again. To hear the mother's evidence — It was a love-child, she explained. And smiled, for our intelligence. " Now, Gentlemen of the Jury," said The coroner — " this woman's child By misadventure met its death." " Aye, aye," said we. The mother smiled. i6 The Inquest And I could see that child's one eye Which seemed to laugh, and say with glee " What caused my death you'll never know- Perhaps my mother murdered me." 17 The Two Children " AH, little boy ! I see -tV You have a wooden spade. Into this sand you dig So deep— for what?" I said. " There's more rich gold," said he, " Down under where I stand, Than twenty elephants Could move across the land." "Ah, little girl with wool! — What are you making now?" "Some stockings for a bird, To keep his legs from snow." And there those children are. So happy, small, and proud : The boy that digs his grave. The girl that knits her shroud. Come, thou sweet Wonder COME, thou sweet Wonder, by whose power We more or less enjoy our years ; That mak'st a child forget the breast, And dri'st at once the children's tears, Till sleep shall bring their minds more rest. Come to my heavy rain of care, And make it weigh like dew ; charm me With Beauty's hair, her eyes or lips ; With mountain dawn, or sunset sea That's like a thousand burning ships. 19 Charms SHE walks as lightly as the fly Skates on the water in July. To hear her moving petticoat, For me is music's highest note. Stones are not heard, when her feet pass. No more than tumps of moss or grass. When she sits still, she's like the flower To be a butterfly next hour. The brook laughs not more sweet, when he Trips over pebbles suddenly. My Love, like him, can whisper low — When he comes where green cresses grow. She rises like the lark, that hour He goes halfway to meet a shower. A fresher drink is in her looks Than Nature gives me, or old books. When I in my Love's shadow sit, I do not miss the sun one bit. When she is near, my arms can hold All that's worth having in this world. And when I know not where she is. Nothing can come but comes amiss. 20 Friends THEY'RE creeping on the stairs outside, They're whispering soft and low ; Now up, now down, I hear his friends, And still they come and go. The sweat that runs my side, from that Hot pit beneath my shoulder, Is not so cold as he will be. Before the night's much older. My fire I feed with naked hands, No sound shall reach their ears ; I'm moving like the careful cat, That stalks a rat it fears. And as his friends still come and go, A thoughtful head is mine : Had Life as many friends as Death, Lord, how this world would shine ! And since I'll have so many friends. When on my death-bed lying — I wish my life had more love now. And less when I am dying. 21 The Power of Silence AND will she never hold her tongue, XV. About that feather in her hat ; Her scarf, when she has done with that, And then the bangle on her wrist ; And is my silence meant to make Her talk the more — the more she's kissed ? At last, with silence matching mine, She feels the passion deep and strong. That fears to trust a timid tongue. Say, Love — that draws us close together — Isn't she the very life of Death ? No more of bangle, scarf or feather. 22 A Mother to her Sick Child THOU canst not understand my words, No love for me was meant : The smile that lately crossed thy face Was but an accident. The music's thine, but mine the tears That make thy lullaby ; To-day I'll rock thee into sleep, To-morrow thou must die. And when our babies sleep their last. Like aged dames or men. They need nor mother's lullaby. Nor any rocking then. The White Monster 1AST night I saw the monster near ; the big J White monster that was like a lazy slug, That hovered in the air, not far away, As quiet as the black hawk seen by day. I saw it turn its body round about, And look my way ; I saw its big, fat snout Turn straight towards my face, till I was one In coldness with that statue made of stone, The one-armed sailor seen upon my right — With no more power than he to offer fight ; The great white monster slug that, even then. Killed women, children, and defenceless men. But soon its venom was discharged, and it, Knowing it had no more the power to spit Death on the most defenceless English folk, Let out a large, thick cloud of its own smoke ; And when the smoke had cleared away from there, I saw no sign of any monster near ; And nothing but the stars to give alarm — That never did the earth a moment's harm. Oh, it was strange to see a thing like jelly, An ugly, boneless thing all back and belly, Among the peaceful stars — that should have been A mile deep in the sea, and never seen : A big, fat, lazy slug that, even then. Killed women, children, and defenceless men. 24 Child Lovers SIX summers old was she, and when she came Her head was in an everlasting flame ; The golden fire it licked her neck and face, But left no mark of soot in any place. When this young thing had seen her lover boy, She threw her arms around his neck for joy ; Then, paired like hazel nuts, those two were seen To make their way towards the meadows green. Now, to a field they came at last, which was So full of buttercups they hid the grass ; 'Twas fit for kings to meet, and councils hold — You never saw so fine a cloth of gold. Then in a while they to a green park came, A captain owned it, and they knew his name ; And what think you those happy children saw ? The big, black horse that once was in a war. Now soon she tied her lover with some string, And laughed, and danced around him in a ring ; He, like a flower that gossamer has tied, Stood standing quiet there, and full of pride. Lord, how she laughed ! Her golden ringlets shook As fast as lambs' tails, when those youngsters suck ; Sweeter than that enchantress laughed, when she Shut IMerlin fast forever in a tree. 2-5 Child Lovers As they went home, that little boy began : " Love me and, when I'm a big sailor-man, I'll bring you home more coral, silk, and gold, Than twenty-five four-funnelled ships could hold. "And fifty coffins carried to their grave, Will not have half the lilies you shall have : Now say at once that you will be my love — And have a pearl ten stallions could not move." 26 My Lady Comes PEACE, mournful Bee, with that Man's deep voice from the grave ; My Lady comes, and Flowers Make all their colours wave ; And joyful shivers seize The hedges, grass and trees. My Lady comes, and leaves Above her head clap hands ; The Cow stares o'er the field, Up straight the Horse now stands ; Under her loving eyes Flowers change to butterflies. The grass comes running up To kiss her coming feet ; Then cease your grumble, Bee, When I my Lady meet ; And Arch, let not your stones Turn our soft sighs to groans. 27 Body and Spirit WHO stands before me on the stairs : Ah, is it you, my love ? My candle-light burns through your arm, And still thou dost not move ; Thy body's dead, this is not you — It is thy ghost my light burns through. Thy spirit this : I leap the stairs, To reach thy body's place ; I kiss and kiss, and still there comes No colour to thy face ; I hug thee for one little breath — For this is sleep, it is not death ! The first night she was in her grave. And I looked in the glass, 1 saw her sit upright in bed — Without a sound it was; I saw her hand feel in the cloth, To fetch a box of powder forth. She sat and watched me all the while, For fear I looked her way ; 1 saw her powder cheek and chin, Her fast corrupting clay ; Then down my lady lay, and smiled — She thought her beauty saved, poor child. 28 Body and Spirit Now down the stairs I leap half-mad, And up the street I start; I still can see her hand at work, And Oh, it breaks my heart : All night behind my back I see Her powdering, with her eyes on me. THE END The Works of " The Super-Tramp." Songs of Joy, and Others By William H, Davies Foolscap ^voy cloth gilt, 2s, 6d, net, postage 2d, " Mr. Bavies can write as no other mTLCi."— Morning Post. " If anyone thinks there is no fine poetry being written in England now, let him get this little book at once. . . , Really there can be no arguing about it." — English Revisw. " His latest volume is a treasury of noble verse, the typical expression of a rare and unique genius." — Black and White. " Mr. Davtes' poetry is unlike any other poetry that is written to-day. It is fresh and sweet like a voice from a younger and lustier vioiX^."— Daily News. " He is that rare thing in modern life, an artist who has nothing to do with commerce. His new volume is in every way a worthy addition to his already fine achievements."— T.P:s Weekly. Nature Poems, and Others By William H. Davies ^rd thousand. Grey Boards Series, Is. net, postage l\d* " It has the limpidity of Wordsworth. There Is a truth and freshness in the writing that is a pledge of the author's absolute sincerity." — Morning; Post. " He hai found himself, and has been divinely gifted with a power of expression equal to that of any man of our day." — Daily Chronicle. Farewell to Poesy By William H. Davies 2nd thousand. Grey Boards Series, Is, net, postage l^d. " William Davies bidding farewell to Poesy I It is not to be thought of. . . . Here are sixty pages of charming and delicious poetry. Here sounds again that clear, sweet note to which nothing, or very little, in contemporary literature can be likened." — The Nation (whole page review). The Auto-biography of a Super-Tramp By William H. Davies, with a Preface by Bernard Shaw 'ird Edition. '^20 pages, Crown 8vo, 6s. Canvas ' " One of the most remarkable human documents ever published."— ^or«/«^Zfarf«r. " His book ought to be read by every adult too old and respectable to turn beggar. It Is absorbingly real."— C/o*«. "The autobiography of a poet like Mr. Davies was bound to be good." — Daily Chronicle. London : A, C. Fifield, 13 Clifford's Inn, E.C. Mr. Fifield's New List Songs of Exuberance Together with "The Trenches,'' By Osbert Burdett Author of "The Silent Heavens." Small croivn Sfo, i6o pagesy cloth gilty 35. 6d, net } postage /{.d. In Songs of Exuberance Mr. Osbert Burdett begins with a long poem called "The Trenches," in which the subjective experiences of the new soldier are told in dialogue form. "No one could question Mr. Burdett's 'exuberance.'. . . Thought, expression, humour, pathos, everything in it is exuberant. ... In general his book shows delight in life.busy-mindedness, a fresh and very hospitable heart, and a jocund, if rather sententious personality." — Times Literary Suppletneni . Gold of Dawn By Richard Whitwell Ztid and enlarged edition, paper hoards, zs, net ; postage ^d, " This little book was first published in June, 1914, and it met with a response from those whom it was intended to serve which was more than gratifying. The edition having been exhausted, a new edition is now sent forth to accomplish a further work of service and of love." —J^row the Preface. ' "To me, these beautiful thoughts are full of the same intense clarity and inner beauty that we have learned to know in the Indian poet Tagore. The thoughts are the flowering of a rich mind, and the fragrance lingers when the book is put away." TJuosopky in Scotland. The Soul's Destroyer By William H. Davies Croivn St/o, ivrappersy \s. net ^ postage id^ Mr. Fificid begs to announce that he has taken over the stock and publication of the fourth edition of Mr. W. H. Davies' famous first volume of poems, originally published from a Kennington lodging bouse by the tramp author. A Voice from the Trees By Charles Herbert Frogley, 1 876- 1 9 14 With an Introduction by Philip H. Wicksteed, m.a. Crown SvOy 128 pages, can-vas and boards, 35, 6d. net ^ postage ^d, " His verse ... is redeemed again and again by a curious inner glow : it has force and inner cohesion as well as a sober sensuousness ; and . . . the lucidity and energy in these poems leave one with the impression that the writer, had he lived, would have broken through into a wider place." — AihencsHm. London: A. C. Fifield, 13 CliiFord's Inn, E.C, I^PAM PHLET BINDER i ^^^ Syracuia. Ni Yf I i Cornell University Library PR 600r.A93C5 Xhild lovers, and other poems. 3 1924 013 604 214 Date Due JULIC 1959 G Z PRINTED IN U. ^. A. ^ NO. 23233