The Works of Sydney Fowler Wright 1874 - 1965

The County Series of Contemporary Poetry No. I

Warwickshire And Staffordshire. (cloth)

Chosen and edited by S. Fowler Wright
Author of 'The Song of Songs', 'The Riding of Lancelot', 'Deluge',

Published by: Fowler Wright Ltd., 240, High Holborn, W.C.I.
Printed by: Fowler Wright Ltd., at their works145, Drummond St., Hampstead Rd., London.


ACKNOWLEDGMENT.

TO THE MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (Born at Warwick on January 30, 1775)

      In youth how often at thy side I wander'd;
      What golden hours, hours numberless, were squander'd
        Among thy sedges, while sometimes
        I meditated native rhymes,
      And sometimes stumbled upon Latian feet;
        There, where soft mole-built seat
        Invited me, I noted down
        What must full surely win the crown;
      But first impatiently vain efforts made
      On broken pencil with a broken blade.

W. S. L.

PREFACE

        THIS volume is one of a series of County Anthologies of Contemporary Poetry, issued in connection with the work of The Poetry League, but the contributions included are not in any way confined to members of that organisation, though it may naturally be the case that the majority of the authors concerned are among its supporters.

        They are not all equally expert or experienced in craftsmanship. One - and not the least worthy - of the contributors to the first volume of the series, Warwickshire Poetry, is a girl of fourteen. Many others are of established reputation in contemporary literature. All are united in a common artistic purpose, and in the pursuit of ideality in an age         which is tragic in some aspects of its materialism.

        So compiled, this series is not intended to be comprehensive, though it is representative, and especially of the younger writers, from among whom must come the makers of English poetry for the next half century. But this claim of 'representative' will almost certainly be challenged by the 'modernist' fraternity, and their supporters. The very impartiality with which I have edited these, and earlier, anthologies has caused me to be accused of hostility to vers libre, and more broadly to experimental as opposed to traditional forms of poetic expression. But the fact is, as anyone may discover who will make sufficient enquiry, that the bulk of such work is negligible, outside the very narrow circle of the clique which cultivates it in a form which it would be outside the purpose of this introduction to consider in detail.

        Where it exists, and wherever its content is any thing more than despicable, I have never failed to recognise it, as in the highly experimental work of Mr. Olaf Stapledon, in Poets of Merseyside, or the very 'modern' art of Mrs. Dawson Scott, which found its first recognition in the pages of Poetry, and afterwards in the first series of Voices on the Wind, - to the preface of which volume I recommend any who are sufficiently interested, where these aspects of modern poetry are discussed more fully.

        So compiled, and with an impartial purpose of showing what the poetry of to-day actually is, rather than that which any of us would wish it to be, this series can hardly fail to be of some permanent interest and importance. It may be said that the poems vary greatly in quality. That is true. I have endeavoured to judge broadly and tolerantly, choosing different poems for different and sometimes opposite excellencies. Only, and always, requiring that they shall be sincere in expression, and in the worship, however humble, of that beauty which all art is born to serve.

        Those of us who are neither deaf to the music of words, nor ignorant of the technique of poetic construction, may yet realise that as 'the life is more than meat, and the body than raiment,' so poetry is degraded from its highest function if it be first regarded as an esoteric art, producing curiously patterned words as subjects for the admiration of the scholar, or the dissecting knife of the critic, rather than a vitalising force, which should be welcomed in any garb, however lowly.

        It has been suggested that each volume of this series should contain some biographical or other data of the authors concerned, but that would be outside the purpose of the work in which we are interested, which is to extend the love and cultivation of English poetry, rather than the knowledge of those who write it. Besides, the revelation of individuality is contained more certainly in the work of any artist than in the records of his ancestry or occupation. Soldiers and mechanics, peers and butchers, bankers and labourers, men and women of wealth and poverty, of toil and leisure, literate and illiterate, united in the love and practice of poetry, have contributed to make these pages representative of the interests and aspirations of their time and race.

        Poetry is the one art in which the British race is supreme, and by which it will be remembered when its material power may be no more than a legend of history. It is so widely read, and so readily appreciated, because we are a nation of poets. For among poets must be the only audience that poetry can ever win.

        Gathered from such diverse sources, there are yet certain broad deviations observable in the poetry of different counties, which are brought into unusual relief by this method of publication. They are rather variations in subject and outlook, than in any more technical qualities. Where they occur, they throw occasional unexpected lights upon the influences of environment, and the racial characteristics of the localities in which they originate. But it may be largely accidental that some counties appear to be much richer than others in their poetic output. Experience has shown that the response is universal, wherever an intelligent effort be made to organise the lovers of poetry, even in areas which have appeared the most hopeless and apathetic at the first enquiry.

        In conclusion, a word of thanks is due to the many lovers of literature, editors, librarians, and members of the P.L., in all parts of the country through whose generous enthusiasm and unselfish help the production of these books has been made possible. They are too numerous for individual mention, and it would be invidious to make a selection among the names of those who have shared in a common enterprise.

S. FOWLER WRIGHT (Editor of Poetry and the Play).

CONTENTS.

L. KYLE BENNET
        TO MARGOT IN ABSENCE
JESSIE ARDEN BRANSON
        CHERRY STREET, BIRMINGHAM
        IF THERE WERE DREAMS
N. H. BRETTELL
        BEAUTY AND THE BRIDGE-BUILDER
        THE BLUE DRESS
        THESE WORDS
DORA BURTON
        MY FRIEND
FLORENCE CLEE, F.S.P.
        THE OLD YEAR
        DUDLEY CASTLE
EVELYN COUCHMAN
        A SONNET FOR WARWICKSHIRE: HOME
        RESOLVE
        DE PROFUNDIS
SIDNEY H. COULSON
        CRUSADER OF ARLEY
        SECOND THOUGHTS
MARGARET S. DANGERFIELD
        IN A NURSING-HOME
        LINES WRITTEN ON BOARD THE HOUSE-BOAT �WOLF�
        THE EXILE
M. DAVIS
        THE GARDENER
M. DEVENPORT
        THE CLOISTERS
LEONARD DINELEY
        A BRIDAL THOUGHT
        DEEP IN NOVEMBER
        APRIL AND DORETTE
        POPPIES
S. EABORN
        THE DESERTED MARSH
ELISE EMMONS
        TO FREDERICK WALSH
        �NOWT�
PHYLLIS FOOKS
        �TIME AND TIDE WAIT FOR NO MAN�
ALISON FOSTER
        TIGER-LILIES
        THE APPLE-ORCHARD
        A SUPPLIANT
        SONG TO APOLLO
        FOXGLOVES
        THE BLACKBIRD
EVA MARY GREW
        THE STRANGE AND BROKEN ROAD
        �MUTUAL LOVE, THE CROWN OF ALL OUR BLISS�
        LATE AUTUMN
        CITY SPARROWS
        WORCESTER CATHEDRAL       
A. G. GUEST
        THE SONG OF THE MILESTONE
        A PAIR OF SIMPLE FOLK
        SEPTEMBER
ARTHUR HARRIS
        FROM �THE FORTRESS OF FOLLY�
PHYLLIS HASTINGS
        PASSION AND TENDERNESS
        FOREST OF CHERRIES
PORTIA HOBBS
        TO A SHEPHERD
ALBERT HOUNAM
        GRASS
C. EDITH IRONMONGER
        FLOWER-BOATS
        CHINA
        CHOPIN�S BALLADE IN G MINOR
        TO THE HANDS OF A GREAT MUSICIAN
OLIVE J. IRONMONGER
        INSPIRATION
R. EDWARDS JAMES
        THE HALL OF MEMORY
E. WOODWARD JEPHCOTT
        TO A CLOUDED YELLOW BUTTERFLY
        THE SANDPIPER
        JACK -BY-THE-HEDGE
KATHLEEN LEITCH MacCUAIG
        SCOTLAND
        LOVE
        TO A GIRL SEEN READING IN A TRAM
E. W. MOORE
        THE STORM-COCK
        TO ROBERT BURNS
E. E. MORLEY
        THE DAFFODIL-SPIKES ARE SHOWING IN THE GARDEN
        A SONNET
        THAT BLACKBIRD�S SONG       
HELEN CLAYTON MORRIS
        THE HALL OF FORGOTTEN THINGS
        I DO NOT ASK
        THE LUMBER-ROOM       
MARION MUCKLEY
        THE PHANTOM LOVER
        THE NUN
        MY LADY OF THE WOOD
        OLD TOM
WINIFRED NEGUS
        MY CHRISTMAS GIFT
L. N. NORRIS-ROGERS
        IN AN OLD GARDEN
JOAN M. GRANT PARTRIDGE
        THE DRAGON SHOP
THE GREEN HARPER O� THE GLEN
        EXILED
STANLEY PENN
        A STREAM IN ARTOIS
        A WORKER�S COMRADES
        MY GARDEN
        SOLACE
        LIGHT AT EVENTIDE
ELLA N. RENNIE
        ISOLATION
ETHEL M. RICHARDSON RICE
        LOVE�S DEPUTY
        WHERE ENGLISH SKYLARKS SOAR AND SING
        THE BULL-DOG
        THE CONQUEROR
ISABEL CHASE RUDLAND
        ENGLAND TO HER DEAD CHILDREN
        LINES ON A SUNSET
        TO -
E. MARSTON RUDLAND
        SAINT JOAN OF ARC
W. N. SCOTT
        EVENING
        TO A GRAMOPHONE
        ON RE-READING WORDSWORTH
J.A. L. SHERCLIFF
        L� AVENTURE
        SONG OF A CANDLE-FLAME DONE TO DEATH BY A LOVELY LADY
ANNA SPODE
        NATIVITY OF ST JOHN THE BAPTIST
EVA SPURWAY
        VANITY
        L�ILE DE CYTHERE
ESTELLE STEEL-HARPER
        NIGHT
        MAN MAY BE MASTER OF HIS MIND
        WOMAN�S LOVE
        IN MEMORY OF AN OLD FRIEND
        REALIZATION
A.E. STREET
        THE BELOVED OF THE GODS
K. SUMNER
        THE CHOICE
LUCY J. TAYLOR
        ROBIN
THELMA THWAITE
        THE WEAVER OF DREAMS
        FEAR
        RETURN AND DEPARTURE
ETHEL M. WARD
        THE MOP (STRATFORD-ON-AVON)
DORIS WESTWOOD
        MORNING
        JUNE IN LONDON
SYLVIA WHYTE
        TO YOU
S. FOWLER WRIGHT
        DÉSIRÉE
        A NEW SONG FOR DAFFODILS
        LIFE
        FAITH
        GOD
        KNIGHT-ERRANT

S. FOWLER WRIGHT
DÉSIRÉE

      What mean the blood-red blooms that rose

        The garth in which you dwell?
      Such gardens of desire enclose
        So cold a citadel.


      What though thine heart's environs make
        Delight to hear and see,
      If none from raptured walls shall take
        That frore virginity?


      What though that closed approach may glass
        An opal's changing fire,
      If none to rule its light may pass
        The gardens of desire?


      The autumn mists thy garth shall grieve:
        The scentless roses fall,
      The lustres of thy siege shall leave
        An unadventured wall.


      Slow fall the night's unchanging snows,
        Where the red roses fell,
      No gardens of desire enclose
        So lost a citadel.

A NEW SONG FOR DAFFODILS

      Who wills may sing the violet,

          Her modest, lurking ways,
        Her snare, in scented darkness set
          That chastest thought betrays;

            Who will may sing the primrose pale;
              The lily�s white allure;
            But here�s queenlier heart to hail,
              Shameless, and bold, and pure.

            Not August�s ardent call can wake
              That hidden heart agleam;
            Not Winter�s sieging cold can take
              The fortress of her dream;

            But when before Hyperion�s gates,
              With barren fields and wide,
            Her lord a willing earth awaits,
              An unattempted bride,

            Straight upward as Athene�s spear,
              From sodden fields and cold,
            She flings to taunt the tarrying year,
              Her tossing grace of gold.

            Straight upward as Athene�s spear
              Her slender strength defies
            The rigour of the waking year,
              Laughing - unbent - she dies.

            Who wills may sing the violet,
              The lily�s white allure,
            But here�s a heart that�s queenlier yet,
              Shameless, and bold, and pure.

      LIFE

          The hawk�s slow shadow passed an hour ago;
          A thin death rustles in the wheat below;
          Stark winter lies behind, and waits before.
          For these things is the lark�s high song the less?

            Is not his song the more?


          From his soared heaven of light, with heart elate,
          He cries God�s challenge down the winds of fate,
          While from blue heaven, and life�s unconquered song,
          Death learns, for all the bitter doom he bears,
            He is not quite so strong.

          FAITH

              �He stands alone, and there is no man near Him:

                Of Triune Gods is He:
              He holds the Gates of Wrath, ye well may fear Him:
                There is no place to flee.�

                So cry the Churches, �midst their fierce contending,
                  The while with hands perverse
                They twist each strand of hope, their fibres blending
                  To form a binding curse.


                �The son of man?� ...Suppose, beyond contesting,
                  He died, and does not live, -
                Hope for the sinful, for the weary resting,
                  He was not God to give, -


                Though for a thousand dawns He did not waken
                  To any waiting eyes, -
                Though, by the Father that He dreamed forsaken,
                  In Joseph�s tomb He lies -


                He lies alone, not any God is near Him,
                  Among our human dead?
                Then those who loved, with never cause to fear Him,
                  Would follow where He led.

            GOD

                Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him. - Job.

                We have cast the count of evil: we have felt the

                  most of pain:
                We have seen His foes make triumph: we have
                  watched His servants slain.
                Do we curse the God that failed them? Do we ask
                  why evil be?
                Or resume the quest of peril as a sea-bird seeks the
                  sea?


                We have seen delight go past us: we have felt our
                  strength decay:
                We have learnt that dawn is sunset in the skies that
                  last were day.
                But we hail the God that leads us to the sombre
                  strife ahead,
                Though the pall of night be round us, and beneath
                  our feet the dead.


                For the God our hearts have chosen is the God of
                  those who fight
                Where the dusts of battle blind them, who are
                  wounded in the night;
                And our God were God no longer if the final stake
                  were won.
                What were use to days unceasing of a God whose
                  work were done?


                In the past beyond beginning, for the endless years
                  to be,
                He hath joined eternal issue with a foe that shall
                  not flee.
                He shall conquer, lose, and conquer, through the
                  changeless change of days,
                Where his lines of flankless battle face the star-dust�s
                  skirtless haze.


                Should He lose by final triumph, should He fail to
                  fail anew.
                There were there an end to valour, there were
                  nought to think or do.
                In the pause of last negation, when the evil days
                  were done,
                We should seek for wrong or danger, as a sun-flower
                  seeks the sun.


                For the times of gift or mercy, for the hero days
                  that were,
                We should pray with deeper passion than the world�s
                  most woeful prayer,
                We should old forlorn disaster as a larger life recall, For the light that leaves no shadow is the darkest
                  night of all.

            KNIGHT-ERRANT

                He rode where fate or fancy led,

                  Though all but stars were alien found;
                Alone he dured in hardihed
                  The ventures of enchanted ground.


                By paths that daylight never knew,
                  Or brake that held the haunting fey,
                Or where the flaunting pennons flew,
                  Or where the covert lances lay.


                Sometime at lonely woodland shrine
                  The cross of pain his reverence drew,
                Death-symbol of that first, divine
                  Knight-errant that his order knew.


                To lead the strife; to share the toil;
                  To hurt ignore; to death contemn;
                When clamorous voices claimed the spoil,
                  Careless of heart, to yield it them.


                So rode he, lost to cloud or shine,
                  Though frost were keen, or fast were long;
                Still in his eyes the dream divine,
                  And in his heart the fount of song.


                    Announcement

                    THE INFERNO
                    (from the Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri)
                    Newly Translated into English Verse by
                    S. Fowler Wright
                    Royal 8vo, pp. xvi+178. 10s. 6d. net.

                    End of this file.