Produced by Bryan Ness, Carolyn Jablonski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
This is the first book issued by The Beaumont Press 20 copies have been printed on Japanese vellum signed by the author and numbered 1 to 20 and 250 copies on hand-made paper numbered 21 to 270 This is No. 232
Because the darling chivalries, That light your battle-line, belong To music’s heart no less than these, I bring you my campaigns of song.
A MAN’S DAUGHTER There is an old woman who looks each night 9
VENUS IN ARDEN Now Love, her mantle thrown, 11
COTSWOLD LOVE Blue skies are over Cotswold 12
THE MIDLANDS Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill 13
MAY GARDEN A shower of green gems on my apple tree 15
PLOUGH The snows are come in early state, 16
BIRMINGHAM—1916 Once Athens worked and went to see the play, 19
INSCRIPTION FOR A WAR MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN They nothing feared whose names I celebrate. 20
TREASON What time I write my roundelays, 21
MY ESTATE I have four loves, four loves are mine, 22
WITH DAFFODILS I send you daffodils, my dear, 23
ON READING THE MS. OF DOROTHY WORDSWORTH’S JOURNALS To-day I read the poet’s sister’s book, 25
THE OLD WARRIOR Sorrow has come to me, 26
THE GUEST Sometimes I feel that death is very near, 27
REVERIE Here in the unfrequented noon, 28
PENANCES These are my happy penances. To make 36
There is an old woman who looks each night Out of the wood. She has one tooth, that isn’t too white. She isn’t too good.
She came from the north looking for me, About my jewel. Her son, she says, is tall as can be; But, men say, cruel.
My girl went northward, holiday making, And a queer man spoke At the woodside once when night was breaking, And her heart broke.
For ever since she has pined and pined, A sorry maid; Her fingers are slack as the wool they wind, Or her girdle-braid.
So now shall I send her north to wed, Who here may know Only the little house of the dead To ease her woe?
Or keep her for fear of that old woman, As a bird quick-eyed, And her tall son who is hardly human, At the woodside?
She is my babe and my daughter dear, How well, how well. Her grief to me is a fourfold fear, Tongue cannot tell.