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

TIDES

A BOOK OF POEMS BY

JOHN DRINKWATER

DEDICATION
TO GENERAL SIR IAN HAMILTON

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.

CONTENTS

A MAN’S DAUGHTER

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.

And yet I know that far in that wood

Are crumbling bones,

And a mumble mumble of nothing that’s good,

In heathen tones.

And I know that frail ghosts flutter and sigh

In brambles there,

And never a bird or beast to cry—

Beware, beware,—

While threading the silent thickets go

Mother and son,

Where scrupulous berries never grow,

And airs are none.

And her deep eyes peer at eventide

Out of the wood,

And her tall son waits by the dark woodside,

For maidenhood.

And the little eyes peer, and peer, and peer;

And a word is said.

And some house knows, for many a year,

But years of dread.

VENUS IN ARDEN

Now love, her mantle thrown,

Goes naked by,

Threading the woods alone,

Her royal eye

Happy because the primroses again

Break on the winter continence of men.

I saw her pass to-day

In Warwickshire,

With the old imperial way,

The old desire,

Fresh as among those other flowers they went,

More beautiful for Adon’s discontent.

Those other years she made

Her festival

When the blue eggs were laid

And lambs were tall,

By the Athenian rivers while the reeds

Made love melodious for the Ganymedes.

And now through Cantlow brakes,

By Wilmcote hill,

To Avon-side, she makes

Her garlands still,

And I who watch her flashing limbs am one

With youth whose days three thousand years are done.

COTSWOLD LOVE

Blue skies are over Cotswold

And April snows go by,

The lasses turn their ribbons

For April’s in the sky,

And April is the season

When Sabbath girls are dressed,

From Rodboro’ to Campden,

In all their silken best.

An ankle is a marvel

When first the buds are brown,

And not a lass but knows it

From Stow to Gloucester town.

And not a girl goes walking

Along the Cotswold lanes

But knows men’s eyes in April

Are quicker than their brains.

It’s little that it matters,

So long as you’re alive,

If you’re eighteen in April,

Or rising sixty-five,

When April comes to Amberley

With skies of April blue,

And Cotswold girls are briding

With slyly tilted shoe.

THE MIDLANDS

Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill

Aslant my window sleeps, beneath a sky

Deep as the bedded violets that fill

March woods with dusky passion. As I lie

Abed between cool walls I watch the host

Of the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,

And drowsily the habit of these most

Beloved of English lands moves in my brain,

While silence holds dominion of the dark,

Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.

I see the valleys in their morning mist

Wreathed under limpid hills in moving light,

Happy with many a yeoman melodist:

I see the little roads of twinkling white

Busy with fieldward teams and market gear

Of rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tell

The many-minded changes of the year,

Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well;

I see the sun persuade the mist away,

Till town and stead are shining to the day.

I see the wagons move along the rows

Of ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower,

I see the lissom husbandman who knows

Deep in his heart the beauty of his power,

As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids on

The harvest home. I hear the rickyard fill

With gossip as in generations gone,

While wagon follows wagon from the hill.

I think how, when our seasons all are sealed,

Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field.

I see the barns and comely manors planned

By men who somehow moved in comely thought,

Who, with a simple shippon to their hand,

As men upon some godlike business wrought;

I see the little cottages that keep

Their beauty still where since Plantaganet

Have come the shepherds happily to sleep,

Finding the loaves and cups of cider set;

I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old,

Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold.

And now the valleys that upon the sun

Broke from their opal veils, are veiled again,

And the last light upon the wolds is done,

And silence falls on flocks and fields and men;

And black upon the night I watch my hill,

And the stars shine, and there an owly wing

Brushes the night, and all again is still,

And, from this land of worship that I sing,

I turn to sleep, content that from my sires

I draw the blood of England’s midmost shires.

MAY GARDEN

A shower of green gems on my apple tree

This first morning of May

Has fallen out of the night, to be

Herald of holiday—

Bright gems of green that, fallen there,

Seem fixed and glowing on the air.

Until a flutter of blackbird wings

Shakes and makes the boughs alive,

And the gems are now no frozen things,

But apple-green buds to thrive

On sap of my May garden, how well

The green September globes will tell.

Also my pear tree has its buds,

But they are silver yellow,

Like autumn meadows when the floods

Are silver under willow,

And here shall long and shapely pears

Be gathered while the autumn wears.

And there are sixty daffodils

Beneath my wall....

And jealousy it is that kills

This world when all

The spring’s behaviour here is spent

To make the world magnificent.

PLOUGH

The snows are come in early state,

And love shall now go desolate

If we should keep too close a gate.

Over the woods a splendour falls

Of death, and grey are the Gloucester walls,

And grey the skies for burials.

But secret in the falling snow

I see the patient ploughman go,

And watch the quiet furrows grow.

POLITICS

You say a thousand things,

Persuasively,

And with strange passion hotly I agree,

And praise your zest,

And then

A blackbird sings

On April lilac, or fieldfaring men,

Ghostlike, with loaded wain,

Come down the twilit lane

To rest,

And what is all your argument to me?

Oh yes—I know, I know,

It must be so—

You must devise

Your myriad policies,

For we are little wise,

And must be led and marshalled, lest we keep

Too fast a sleep

Far from the central world’s realities.

Yes, we must heed—

For surely you reveal

Life’s very heart; surely with flaming zeal

You search our folly and our secret need;

And surely it is wrong

To count my blackbird’s song,

My cones of lilac, and my wagon team,

More than a world of dream.

But still

A voice calls from the hill—

I must away—

I cannot hear your argument to-day.

BIRMINGHAM—1916

Once Athens worked and went to see the play,

And Thomas Atkins kissed the girls of Rome,

In council in Victoria Square to-day

Are grey-beard Nazarenes, with shop and home

And counting-house and all the friendly cares

That Joseph knew; in Bull Ring markets meet

Gossips as once at Babylonian fairs,

And Helen walks in Corporation Street.

Now Troy is Homer; and of Nazareth

Grave histories are of one love that was strong;

Athens is beauty; Rome an immortal death;

And Babylon immortal in a song....

Perplexed as ours these cities were of old;

And shall our name greatly as these be told?

INSCRIPTION FOR A WAR MEMORIAL FOUNTAIN

They nothing feared whose names I celebrate.

Greater than death they died; and their estate

Is here on Cotswold comradely to live

Upon your lips in every draught I give.

TREASON

What time I write my roundelays,

I am as proud as princes gone,

Who built their empires in old days,

As Tamburlaine or Solomon;

And wisely though companions then

Say well it is and well I sing,

Assured above the praise of men

I am a solitary king.

But when I leave that straiter mood,

That lonely hour, and put aside

The continence of solitude,

I fall in treason to my pride,

And if a witling’s word be spent

Upon my song in jealousy,

In anger and in argument

I am as derelict as he.

MY ESTATE

I have four loves, four loves are mine,

My wife who makes all beauty be,

Tom Squire and Master Candleshine,

And then my grey dog Timothy.

My wife makes bramble-berry pies,

And she is bright as bramble dew,

She knows the way the weather flies,

And tells me every thing to do.

Tom Squire he is my neighbour man,

His apples fall upon my grass,

And in the morning, when we can,

We say good-morning as we pass.

And Master Candleshine the True,

Considering some fault of mine,

Says—“Had it been for me to do,

It had been hard for Candleshine.”

When I have thought all things that be,

And drop the latch and climb the stair,

And want an eye for company,

My grey dog Timothy is there.

My loves are one and two and three

And four they are, good loves of mine,

Tom Squire, my grey dog Timothy,

My wife and Master Candleshine.

WITH DAFFODILS

I send you daffodils, my dear,

For these are emperors of spring,

And in my heart you keep so clear

So delicate an empery,

That none but emperors could be