Songs from Books — Story, Setting & Ideas

There was a strife 'twixt man and maid, 81 There was never a Queen like Balkis, 191 There were three friends that buried the fourth, 85 These are the Four that are never content, that have never been filled since the Dews began, 248 These were my companions going forth by night, 69 The Stranger within my gate, 100 The stream is shrunk--the pool is dry, 246 The torn boughs trailing o'er the tusks aslant, 133 The Weald is good, the Downs are best, 9 The wind took off with the sunset, 254 The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, 84 The World hath set its heavy yoke, 32 They burnt a corpse upon the sand, 33 They killed a child to please the Gods, 132 They shut the road through the woods, 6 This I saw when the rites were done, 79 This is the mouth-filling song of the race that was run by a Boomer, 186 Three things make earth unquiet, 124 Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings, 94 To-night, God knows what thing shall tide, 34 To the Heavens above us, 164

Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised, 136

Valour and Innocence, 196 Veil them, cover them, wall them round, 247

We be the Gods of the East, 82 We lent to Alexander the strength of Hercules, 145 We meet in an evil land, 78 What is a woman that you forsake her, 60 What is the moral? Who rides may read, 64 What of the hunting, hunter bold?, 247 'What's that that hirples at my side?', 283 When a lover hies abroad, 81 When first by Eden Tree, 140 When I left home for Lalage's sake, 102 When the cabin port-holes are dark and green, 182 When the drums begin to beat, 288 When the Earth was sick and the Skies were grey, 30 When the Great Ark, in Vigo Bay, 109 When the robust and Brass-bound Man commissioned first for sea, 263 When the water's countenance, 277 When ye say to Tabaqui, 'My Brother!' when ye call the Hyena to meat, 252 Where's the lamp that Hero lit 157 Who gives him the Bath? 54 Who knows the heart of the Christian? How does he reason? 75

Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him 85 You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old 250 Your jar of Virginny 105 Your tiercel's too long at hack, Sir. He's no eyass 206

I am the land of their fathers. In me the virtue stays. I will bring back my children, After certain days.

Under their feet in the grasses My clinging magic runs. They shall return as strangers, They shall remain as sons.

Over their heads in the branches Of their new-bought, ancient trees, I weave an incantation And draw them to my knees.

Scent of smoke in the evening. Smell of rain in the night, The hours, the days and the seasons, Order their souls aright;

Till I make plain the meaning Of all my thousand years-- Till I fill their hearts with knowledge. While I fill their eyes with tears.

See you the ferny ride that steals Into the oak-woods far? O that was whence they hewed the keels That rolled to Trafalgar.

And mark you where the ivy clings To Bayham's mouldering walls? O there we cast the stout railings That stand around St. Paul's.

See you the dimpled track that runs All hollow through the wheat? O that was where they hauled the guns That smote King Philip's fleet.

Out of the Weald, the secret Weald, Men sent in ancient years, The horse-shoes red at Flodden Field, The arrows at Poitiers.

See you our little mill that clacks, So busy by the brook? She has ground her corn and paid her tax Ever since Domesday Book.

See you our stilly woods of oak? And the dread ditch beside? O that was where the Saxons broke On the day that Harold died.

See you the windy levels spread About the gates of Rye? O that was where the Northmen fled, When Alfred's ships came by.

See you our pastures wide and lone, Where the red oxen browse? O there was a City thronged and known. Ere London boasted a house.

And see you, after rain, the trace Of mound and ditch and wall? O that was a Legion's camping-place, When Cæsar sailed from Gaul.

And see you marks that show and fade, Like shadows on the Downs? O they are the lines the Flint Men made, To guard their wondrous towns.

Trackway and Camp and City lost, Salt Marsh where now is corn; Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease, And so was England born!

She is not any common Earth, Water or wood or air, But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye, Where you and I will fare.

THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS