. The year's at the spring; an anthology of recent poetry. AR are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon,Mid the verdurous vales and thickets,Under the ghost of the moon ;And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest riseAnd toss into blossom gainst the phantom starsPale in the noonday skies. Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreamsI still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams ;Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delightOf the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night.
. The year's at the spring; an anthology of recent poetry. AR are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon,Mid the verdurous vales and thickets,Under the ghost of the moon ;And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest riseAnd toss into blossom gainst the phantom starsPale in the noonday skies. Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreamsI still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams ;Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delightOf the demi-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night. They haunt me—her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I seeBut shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me : 51 THE Y E A RS Ar THE S P R ING Still eyes look coldly upon me,Cold voices whisper and say— He Is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,They have stolen his wits away. WALTER DE LA MARE. 52 THE • TEJRS AT ? THE • SPRING Full Moon ONE night as Dick lay half asleep,Into his drowsy eyesA great still light began to creepFrom out the silent was the lovely moons, for when He raised his dreamy rays of silver filled the paneAnd streamed across his , for awhile, each gazed at each— Dick and the solemn moon—Till, climbing slowly on her vanished, and was gone. WALTER DE LA MARE 53 rHE • TEARS AT • THE • SPRING Nod OFTLY along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the suns last beam leans low On Nod the shepherds fold. The hedge is quick and green with briar,From their sand the conies creep ; And all the birds that fly in heavenFlock singing home to sleep. His lambs outnumber a noons roses. Yet, when nights shadows blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, booksubjectenglishpoetry, bookye
