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prank； it is an irony of man； a rallying of art； a mockery of time；
a burlesque of poetry； divine with tenderness。 The six lines in
which this fancy sports are amongst the loveliest in all
literature： the 〃little town；〃 the 〃peaceful citadel；〃were ever
simple adjectives more happy？ But John Keats's final moral here is
undeniably a failure； it says so much and means so little。 The Ode
to Autumn is an exterior ode； and not in so high a rank； but lovely
and perfect。 The Psyche I love the least； because its fancy is
rather weak and its sentiment effusive。 It has a touch of the
deadly sickliness of Endymion。 None the less does it remain just
within the group of the really fine odes of English poets。 The
eloquent Melancholy more narrowly escapes exclusion from that
group。
End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Flower of the Mind； by Alice Meynell
More below。 。 。
LATER POEMS
Contents：
The Shepherdess
〃I am the Way〃
Via； et Veritas； et Vita
Why wilt Thou Chide？
The Lady Poverty
The Fold
Cradle…song at Twilight
The Roaring Frost
Parentage
The Modern Mother
West Wind in Winter
November Blue
Chimes
Unto us a Son is given
A Dead Harvest
The Two Poets
A Poet's Wife
Veneration of Images
At Night
THE SHEPHERDESS
She walksthe lady of my delight …
A shepherdess of sheep。
Her flocks are thoughts。 She keeps them white；
She guards them from the steep。
She feeds them on the fragrant height；
And folds them in for sleep。
She roams maternal hills and bright；
Dark valleys safe and deep。
Into that tender breast at night
The chastest stars may peep。
She walksthe lady of my delight …
A shepherdess of sheep。
She holds her little thoughts in sight；
Though gay they run and leap。
She is so circumspect and right；
She has her soul to keep。
She walksthe lady of my delight …
A shepherdess of sheep。
〃I AM THE WAY〃
Thou art the Way。
Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal；
I cannot say
If Thou hadst ever met my soul。
I cannot see …
I； child of processif there lies
An end for me；
Full of repose； full of replies。
I'll not reproach
The way that goes； my feet that stir。
Access； approach；
Art Thou； time； way； and wayfarer。
VIA； ET VERITAS； ET VITA
〃You never attained to Him？〃 〃If to attain
Be to abide； then that may be。〃
〃Endless the way； followed with how much pain！〃
〃The way was He。〃
〃WHY WILT THOU CHIDE？〃
Why wilt thou chide；
Who hast attained to be denied？
Oh learn； above
All price is my refusal； Love。
My sacred Nay
Was never cheapened by the way。
Thy single sorrow crowns thee lord
Of an unpurchasable word。
Oh strong； Oh pure！
As Yea makes happier loves secure；
I vow thee this
Unique rejection of a kiss。
I guard for thee
This jealous sad monopoly。
I seal this honour thine。 None dare
Hope for a part in thy despair。
THE LADY POVERTY
The Lady Poverty was fair：
But she has lost her looks of late；
With change of times and change of air。
Ah slattern； she neglects her hair；
Her gown； her shoes。 She keeps no state
As once when her pure feet were bare。
Oralmost worse； if worse can be …
She scolds in parlours； dusts and trims；
Watches and counts。 Oh； is this she
Whom Francis met； whose step was free；
Who with Obedience carolled hymns；
In Umbria walked with Chastity？
Where is her ladyhood？ Not here；
Not among modern kinds of men；
But in the stony fields； where clear
Through the thin trees the skies appear；
In delicate spare soil and fen；
And slender landscape and austere。
THE FOLD
BEHOLD；
The time is now！ Bring back； bring back
Thy flocks of fancies； wild of whim。
Oh lead them from the mountain…track …
Thy frolic thoughts untold。
Oh bring them inthe fields grow dim …
And let me be the fold。
Behold；
The time is now！ Call in； O call
Thy posturing kisses gone astray
For scattered sweets。 Gather them all
To shelter from the cold。
Throng them together； close and gay；
And let me be the fold！
CRADLE…SONG AT TWILIGHT
The child not yet is lulled to rest。
Too young a nurse； the slender Night
So laxly holds him to her breast
That throbs with flight。
He plays with her and will not sleep。
For other playfellows she sighs；
An unmaternal fondness keep
Her alien eyes。
THE ROARING FROST
A flock of winds came winging from the North；
Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth
With a resounding call！
Where will they close their wings and cease their cries …
Between what warming seas and conquering skies …
And fold； and fall？
PARENTAGE
〃When Augustus Caesar legislated against the unmarried citizens of
Rome； he declared them to be； in some sort； slayers of the people。〃
Ah no； not these！
These； who were childless； are not they who gave
So many dead unto the journeying wave；
The helpless nurslings of the cradling seas；
Not they who doomed by infallible decrees
Unnumbered man to the innumerable grave。
But those who slay
Are fathers。 Theirs are armies。 Death is theirs；
The death of innocences and despairs；
The dying of the golden and the grey。
The sentence； when these speak it； has no Nay。
And she who slays is she who bears； who bears。
THE MODERN MOTHER
Oh what a kiss
With filial passion overcharged is this！
To this misgiving breast
The child runs； as a child ne'er ran to rest
Upon the light heart and the unoppressed。
Unhoped； unsought！
A little tenderness； this mother thought
The utmost of her meed
She looked for gratitude； content indeed
With thus much that her nine years' love had bought。
Nay； even with less。
This mother； giver of life； death； peace； distress；
Desired ah！ not so much
Thanks as forgiveness； and the passing touch
Expected； and the slight； the brief caress。
Oh filial light
Strong in these childish eyes； these new； these bright
Intelligible stars！ Their rays
Are near the constant earth； guides in the maze；
Natural； true； keen in this dusk of days。
WEST WIND IN WINTER
Another day awakes。 And who …
Changing the worldis this？
He comes at whiles； the Winter through；
West Wind！ I would not miss
His sudden tryst： the long； the new
Surprises of his kiss。
Vigilant； I make haste to close
With him who comes my way。
I go to meet him as he goes；
I know his note； his lay；
His colour and his morning rose；
And I confess his day。
My window waits； at dawn I hark
His call； at morn I meet
His haste around the tossing park
And down the softened street；
The gentler light is his； the dark；
The greyhe turns it sweet。
So too； so too； do I confess
My poet when he sings。
He rushes on my mortal guess
With his immortal things。
I feel； I know him。 On I press …
He finds me 'twixt his wings。
NOVEMBER BLUE
The colour of the electric lights has a strange effect in giving a
complementary tint to the air in the early evening。ESSAY ON
LONDON。
O； Heavenly colour！ London town
Has blurred it from her skies；
And hooded in an earthly brown；
Unheaven'd the city lies。
No longer standard…like this hue
Above the broad road flies；
Nor does the narrow street the blue
Wear； slender pennon…wise。
But when the gold and silver lamps
Colour the London dew；
And； misted by the winter damps；
The shops shine bright anew …
Blue comes to earth； it walks the street；
It dyes the wide air through；
A mimic sky about their feet；
The throng go crowned with blue。
CHIMES
Brief； on a flying night；
From the shaken tower；
A flock of bells take flight；
And go with the hour。
Like birds from the cote to the gales；
AbruptO hark！
A fleet of bells set sails；
And go to the dark。
Sudden the cold airs swing。
Alone； aloud；
A verse of bells takes wing
And flies with the cloud。
UNTO US A SON IS GIVEN
Given； not lent；
And not withdrawnonce sent …
This Infant of mankind； this One；
Is still the little welcome Son。
New every year；
New…born and newly dear；
He comes with tidings and a song；
The ages long； the ages long。
Even as the cold
Keen winter grows not old；
As childhood is so fresh； foreseen；
And spring in the familiar green；
Sudden as sweet
Come the expected feet。
All joy is young； and new all art；
And He； too； Whom we have by heart。
A DEAD HARVEST ＇IN KENSINGTON GARDENS＇
Along the graceless grass of town
They rake the rows of red and brown；
Dead leaves； unlike the rows of hay；
Delicate； neither gold nor grey；
Raked long ago and far away。
A narrow silence in the park；
Between the lights a narrow dark。
One street rolls on the north； and one；
Muffled； upon the south doth run。
Amid the mist the work is done。
A futile crop； for it the fire
Smoulders； and； for a stack； a pyre。
So go the town's lives on the breeze；
Even as the sheddings of the trees；
Bosom nor barn is filled with these。
THE TWO POETS
Whose is the speech
That moves the voices of this lonely beech？
Out of the long West did this wild wind come …
Oh strong and silent！ And the tree was dumb；
Ready and dumb； until
The dumb gale struck it on the darkened hill。
Two memories；
Two powers； two promises； two silences
Closed in this cry； closed in these thousand le