With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! Oh, the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! RECESSIONAL God of our fathers, known of old- The tumult and the shouting dies- Far-called our navies melt away- Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose For heathen heart that puts her trust AMEN. William Butler Yeats 1865 DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS* Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears. * Printed by permission from W. B. Yeats' Poetical Works. Copyright, 1906, by The Macmillan Company. THE ROSE OF THE WORLD* Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream? Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam, We and the labouring world are passing by: Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode : Stephen Phillips 1868 TWILIGHT+ I. Red skies above a level land And thought of thee; Sinking sun on reedy strand, * Printed by permission from W. B. Yeats' Poetical Works. Copyright, 1906, by The Macmillan Company. + Printed by permission from The Sin of David. The Macmillan Company. Copyright, 1904, by II. Only the heron sailing home, With heavy flight: And coming night. III. Dwindling day and drowsing birds, Dimness and returning herds, Alfred Noyes 1880 THE CALL OF THE SPRING * Come, choose your road and away, my lad, It's a long white road for the weary; But it rolls through the heart of the May. Though many a road would merrily ring And the miles are swift and sweet, And the graves of your friends are the mile-stones To the land where all roads meet. * Printed by permission from The Golden Hynde and Other Poems. Copyright, 1908, by The Macmillan Company. But the call that you hear this day, my lad, When the year's green fire in a soul's desire As the flowers break out of the earth. Over the sweet-smelling mountain-passes The wild-flowers cling to the crags and swing And the way, the way that you choose this day It rolls from the golden long ago To the land that we ne'er shall find; And all rough places and cheerless faces Come, choose your road and away, away, We'll follow the gypsy sun; For it's soon, too soon to the end of the day, And the day is well begun; And the road rolls on through the heart of the May. And there's never a May but one. There's a fir-wood here, and a dog-rose there, And a glimpse, maybe, of the warm blue sea, And warm to your breast in a tenderer nest |