Dawns of the world, how I have known you all...
Dawns of the world, how I have known you all,
so many, and so varied, and the same!
dawns o'er the timid plains, or in the folds
of the arm'd hills, or by the unsleeping shore;
a chill touch on the chill flesh of the dark
that, shuddering, shrinks from its couch, and leaves
a homeless light, staring, disconsolate,
on the drear world it knows too well, the world
it fled and finds again, its wistful hope
unmet by any miracle of night,
that mocks it rather, with its shreds that hang
about the woods and huddled bulks of gloom
that crouch, malicious, in the broken combes,
witness to foulnesses else unreveal'd
that visit earth and violate her dreams
in the lone hours when only evil wakes.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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And shall the living waters heed
And shall the living waters heed
our vain desire, insensate Art!
and fill the common dust I knead
upgather'd from the trodden mart?
As well might they forsake their clime
of virgin green and blue, to creep
in cities where our tears are slime,
where our unquicken'd bodies sleep.
— But thou, O soul, hast stood for sure
in the far paradisal bower,
there where our passion sparkles pure
beneath the eternal morning hour.
and oft, in twilights listening,
my sleeping memories are stirr'd
by lavings of the unstaunched spring
upwelling in a sudden word.
Why shouldst thou come to squander here
the treasure of those deeps on me?
nay, where our fount is free and clear
stay there, and let me come to thee!
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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How Old is my heart, how old?
How old is my heart, how old, how old is my heart,
and did I ever go forth with song when the morn was new?
I seem to have trod on many ways: I seem to have left
I know not how many homes; and to leave each
was still to leave a portion of mine own heart,
of my old heart whose life I had spent to make that home
and all I had was regret, and a memory.
So I sit and muse in this wayside harbour and wait
till I hear the gathering cry of the ancient winds and again
I must up and out and leave the members of the hearth
to crumble silently into white ash and dust,
and see the road stretch bare and pale before me: again
my garment and my house shall be the enveloping winds
and my heart be fill'd wholly with their old pitiless cry.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Autumn
Autumn: the year breathes dully towards its death,
beside its dying sacrificial fire;
the dim world's middle-age of vain desire
is strangely troubled, waiting for the breath
that speaks the winter's welcome malison
to fix it in the unremembering sleep:
the silent woods brood o'er an anxious deep,
and in the faded sorrow of the sun,
I see my dreams' dead colours, one by one,
forth-conjur'd from their smouldering palaces,
fade slowly with the sigh of the passing year.
They wander not nor wring their hands nor weep,
discrown'd belated dreams! but in the drear
and lingering world we sit among the trees
and bow our heads as they, with frozen mouth,
looking, in ashen reverie, towards the clear
sad splendour of the winter of the far south.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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When Summer Comes In Her Glory
When summer comes in her glory and brave the whole earth blows,
when colours burn and perfumes impassion the gladden'd air
then methinks thy laughter seeks me on every breeze that goes
and I feel thy breathing warmth about me everywhere.
Or in the dreamy eve, when our soul is spread in the skies,
when Life for an hour is hush'd, and the gaze is wide to behold
what day may not show nor night, then sure it were no surprise
to find thee beside me sitting, the pitying eyes of old.
But ah, when the winter rains drive hard on the blacken'd pane
and the grief of the lonely wind is lost in the waste outside,
when the room is high and chill and I seek my place in vain,
I know that seas splash cold in the night and the world is wide.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Of old, on her terrace at evening
Of old, on her terrace at evening
— not here — in some long-gone kingdom
oh, folded close to her breast!
Our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness
(was it trees? or a shadowy passion
the pain of an old-world longing
that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?)
— the gloom of the forest
blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies
that shut in our lonely world.
Not here — in some long-gone world...
Close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp
no word did we utter, we stirr'd not:
the silence of Death, or of Love.
Only, round and over us,
that tearless infinite yearning,
and the Night with her spread wings rustling,
folding us with the stars.
Not here - in some long-gone kingdom
of old, on her terrace at evening,
[...] Read more
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Romance
Of old, on her terrace at evening
...not here...in some long-gone kingdom
O, folded close to her breast!...
--our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness
(was it trees? or a shadowy passion
the pain of an old-world longing
that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?)
--the gloom of the forest
blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies
that shut in our lonely world.
...not here...in some long-gone world...
close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp
no word did we utter, we stirr'd not:
the silence of Death, or of Love...
only, round and over us
that tearless infinite yearning
and the Night with her spread wings rustling
[...] Read more
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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I Am Shut Out Of Mine Own Heart
I am shut out of mine own heart
because my love is far from me,
nor in the wonders have I part
that fill its hidden empery:
the wildwood of adventurous thought
and lands of dawn my dream had won,
the riches out of Faery brought
are buried with our bridal sun.
And I am in a narrow place,
and all its little streets are cold,
because the absence of her face
has robb'd the sullen air of gold.
My home is in a broader day:
at times I catch it glistening
thro' the dull gate, a flower'd play
and odour of undying spring:
[...] Read more
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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I said, This Misery Must End
I SAID, This misery must end:
Shall I, that am a man and know
that sky and wind are yet my friend,
sit huddled under any blow?
so speaking left the dismal room
and stept into the mother-night
all fill’d with sacred quickening gloom
where the few stars burn’d low and bright,
and darkling on my darkling hill
heard thro’ the beaches’ sullen boom
heroic note of living will
rung trumpet-clear against the fight;
so stood and heard, and rais’d my eyes
erect, that they might drink of space,
and took the night upon my face,
till time and trouble fell away
and all my soul sprang up to feel
as one among the stars that reel
in rhyme on their rejoicing way,
breaking the elder dark, nor stay
[...] Read more
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Each day I see the long ships coming into port
Each day I see the long ships coming into port
and the people crowding to their rail, glad of the shore:
because to have been alone with the sea and not to have known
of anything happening in any crowded way,
and to have heard no other voice than the crooning sea's
has charmed away the old rancours, and the great winds
have search'd and swept their hearts of the old irksome thoughts:
so, to their freshen'd gaze, each land smiles a good home.
Why envy I, seeing them made gay to greet the shore?
Surely I do not foolishly desire to go
hither and thither upon the earth and grow weary
with seeing many lands and peoples and the sea:
but if I might, some day, landing I reck not where
have heart to find a welcome and perchance a rest,
I would spread the sail to any wandering wind of the air
this night, when waves are hard and rain blots out the land.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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