A Sheaf of Verses: Poems. Radclyffe Hall

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      Who is even more cold than I."

ON A BATTLE FIELD

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      Once o'er this hill whereon we stand,

      Just you and I, hand clasp'd in hand

      Amid the silence, and the space,

      A mighty battle rent the air,

      With dying curse and choking prayer;

      'Mid shot and shell death stalked apace.

      Is it conceivable to you—

      So much at peace—because we two

      Are close together, or to me?

      The silent beauty of the noon

      Seems like a Heaven-granted boon,

      Aglow with tender ecstasy.

      A little mist of hazy blue

      Is slowly hiding from our view

      The city's domes and slender spires,

      As thro' a bridal veil the sun

      Subdued and shy lights one by one

      The virgin clouds with blushing fires.

      The wind has fallen; very low

      We hear his wings brush past, and know

      He creeps away to dream and rest;

      How sweet to be alone, to feel

      You breathe one longing sigh, and steal

      A little closer to my breast.

      Is anything worth while but this?

      We may not perish for a kiss,

      Yet thus it were not hard to die!

      War strews the earth with countless dead,

      And after all is done and said,

      The end is love, and you and I!

TO ——

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      The world that thro' its vale of tears

      Looks out upon Eternity

      Has yet one smile for us, and we

      Still youthful in the count of years,

      May add our smiles, and kiss the lips

      Of life, for whosoever sips

      The wine within that ruddy bowl

      Has quaffed defiance to the spheres.

      Beloved, see, I drink thereto!

      And pass the goblet on to you.

THE ALL-MOTHER'S AWAKENING

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      To-day the still, deep mind of the Earth

      Has steeped in longing her wistful eyes,

      A sense of wonder and glad surprise

      Thrills thro' her heart with a thought of birth.

      The grave All-Mother looks up and smiles,

      Her breath comes balmy from sunlit mouth,

      Her bosom bare to the ardent south

      Is fanned by perfume from fruitful miles.

      All winter long has the dear Earth slept

      In drifts of snow, 'neath the bane of frost,

      Her children sought for the Mother lost,

      Yet found her not, and in anguish wept.

      All winter long have my senses cried

      For warmth of sun, and the blue of sky,

      The hard north answered to mock my sigh,

      And all the glory of life denied.

      The cold mists drifting on land and sea,

      Like ghosts of passions burnt out and chill,

      Smote heart and soul with the fear of ill,

      That cast its awfulness over me.

      The dank gray sails, and the dank gray shore,

      They melted each in the other's face,

      With clammy kiss, in a wan embrace

      That left them colder than e'en before.

      And thro' the boughs of the moss-grown trees

      The sap flowed sluggish, or not at all,

      While here and there would a dead leaf fall,

      Like thought of harrowing memories.

      Then from the heart of the Universe

      There rose a wail of unending woe,

      An anguished prayer from the deeps below:

      "Oh! Mother, lift from our souls the curse!"

      "Oh! Mother, quicken thy sacred womb,

      With fire that throbs in the veins of Spring,

      Behold the numbness of everything,

      And only thou can avert the doom."

      "Oh! Mother, hear us!" But silent still

      The Earth slept on, as it were in death.

      Her ice-bound bosom stirred not with breath,

      So fast she lay 'neath the winter's will.

      I joined my prayer to СКАЧАТЬ