PAGE 42

THE SPELL OF THE ROSE

"I mean to build a hall anon,
And shape two turrets there,
And a broad newelled stair,
And a cool well for crystal water;
Yes; I will build a hall anon,
Plant roses love shall feed upon,
And apple trees and pear."

He set to build the manor-hall,
And shaped the turrets there,
And the broad newelled stair,
And the cool well for crystal water;
He built for me that manor-hall,
And planted many trees withal,
But no rose anywhere.

And as he planted never a rose
That bears the flower of love,
Though other flowers throve
A frost-wind moved our souls to sever
Since he had planted never a rose;
And misconceits raised horrid shows,
And agonies came thereof.

"I'll mend these miseries," then said I,
And so, at dead of night,
I went and, screened from sight,
That nought should keep our souls in severance,
I set a rose-bush."This," said I,
"May end divisions dire and wry,
And long-drawn days of blight."

But I was called from earth - yea, called
Before my rose-bush grew;
And would that now I knew
What feels he of the tree I planted,
And whether, after I was called
To be a ghost, he, as of old,
Gave me his heart anew!

Perhaps now blooms that queen of trees
I set but saw not grow,
And he, beside its glow -
Eyes couched of the mis-vision that blurred me -
Ay, there beside that queen of trees
He sees me as I was, though sees
Too late to tell me so!

-o0o-

IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM

What do you see in that time-touched stone,
When nothing is there
But ashen blankness, although you give it
A rigid stare?

You look not quite as if you saw,
But as if you heard,
Parting your lips, and treading softly
As mouse or bird.

It is only the base of a pillar, they'll tell you,
That came to us
From a far old hill men used to name
Areopagus."

"I know no art, and I only view
A stone from a wall,
But I am thinking that stone has echoed
The voice of Paul,

"Paul as he stood and preached beside it
Facing the crowd,
A small gaunt figure with wasted features,
Calling out loud

"Words that in all their intimate accents
Pattered upon
That marble front, and were far reflected,
And then were gone.

"I'm a labouring man, and know but little,
Or nothing at all;
But I can't help thinking that stone once echoed
The voice of Paul."

-o0o-

ON STURMINSTER FOOT-BRIDGE
(onomatopoeic)

Reticulations creep upon the slack stream's face

When the wind skims irritably past,

The current clucks smartly into each hollow place

That years of flood have scrabbled in the pier's sodden base;

The floating-lily leaves rot fast.

On a roof stand the swallows ranged in wistful waiting rows,

Till they arrow off and drop like stones

Among the *eyot-withies at whose foot the river flows;

And beneath the roof is she who in the dark world shows

As a lattice-gleam when midnight moans.

eyot = a small island, usually in a river

-o0o-

MORE POEMS NEXT THURSDAY

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-