The Project Gutenberg eBook, England over Seas , by Lloyd Roberts

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Title: England over Seas

Author: Lloyd Roberts

Release Date: January 24, 2005 [eBook #14782]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLAND OVER SEAS ***

E-text prepared by Al Haines

ENGLAND OVER SEAS

by

LLOYD ROBERTS

London
Elkin Mathews, Cork Street

M CM XIV

TO

HOPE

CONTENTS

ENGLAND'S FIELDS THE MADNESS OF WINDS YOUNG BLOOD THE HOMESTEADER HUSBANDS OVER SEAS THE COUNTRY GOES TO TOWN THE TRAIL FROM NAPOLI THE CHANGING YEAR RUNNERS OF THE RAIN SPRING MADNESS ONE MORNING WHEN THE RAIN-BIRDS CALL SPRING'S SINGING THE FLUTES OF THE FROGS MISS PIXIE A-FISHING THE BERRY PICKERS THE WOOD TRAIL THE FRUIT-RANCHER FROM EXILE THE WARM GREEN SEA THERE'S MUSIC IN MY HEART TO-DAY AUGUST ON THE RIVER THE WIND TONGUES MUSK-RATS THE KILL ON THE MARSHES THE SCARLET TRAILS AT THE YEAR'S END WINTER WINDS DEAD DAYS THE WINTER HARVEST FLOWERS OF THE SKY

England's Fields

    England's cliffs are white like milk,
      But England's fields are green;
    The grey fogs creep across the moors,
      But warm suns stand between.
  And not so far from London town, beyond the brimming street,
  A thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.

    Red-lipped poppies stand and burn,
      The hedges are aglow;
    The daisies climb the windy hills
      Till all grow white like snow.
  And when the slim, pale moon slides up, and dreamy night is near,
  There's a whisper in the beeches for lonely hearts to hear.

    Poppies burn in Italy,
      And suns grow round and high;
    The black pines of Posilipo
      Are gaunt upon the sky—
  And yet I know an English elm beside an English lane
  That calls me through the twilight and the miles of misty rain.

    Tell me why the meadow-lands
      Become so warm in June;
    Why the tangled roses breathe
      So softly to the moon;
  And when the sunset bars come down to pass the feet of day,
  Why the singing thrushes slide between the sprigs of May?

    Weary, we have wandered back—
      And we have travelled far—
    Above the storms and over seas
      Gleamed ever one bright star—
  O England! when our feet grow cold and will no longer roam,
  We see beyond your milk-white cliffs the round,
           green fields of home.

The Madness of Winds

  On all the upland pastures the strong winds gallop free,
    Trampling down the flowered stalks sleepy in the sun,
  Whirl away in blue and gold all their finery,
    Till naked crouch the gentle hosts where the winds have run.

  Along the rocking hillsides shaggy heads are bent;
    Out upon the tawny plains tortured dust leaps high;
  The red roof of the sunset is torn away and rent,
    And chaos lifts the heavy sea and bends the hollow sky.

  The winds are drunk with freedom—the crowded valleys roar;
    The madness surges through their veins, and when they gallop out
  The black rain follows close behind, the pale sun flees before,
    And recklessly across the world goes all the broken rout.

  I was striding on the uplands when the host was running mad,
    I saw them threshing through the leaves and daisy tops below,
  And as their feet came up the hill, my tired heart grew glad—
    Till at the music of their throats I knew that I must go.

  So the winds are now my brothers, they have joined me to their ranks,
    And when their rampant strength wells up and drives them singing forth,
  I am with them when they roll the fog across the oily banks,
    And tumble out the sleeping bergs that crowd beyond the north.

  The woods are drenched with moonlight and every leafs awake;
    The little beads of dew sit white on every twig and blade;
  A thousand stars are scattered thick beneath the forest lake;
    We pass—with only laughter for the havoc we have made.

  There's not a wind that brushes the long bright fields of corn,
    Or, shrieking, drives the broken wreck beneath a blackened sea,
  There's not a wind that draws the rain across the face of morn
    That does not rise when I arise and sink again with me.

Young Blood

  They took me from the forests and they put me in the town;
  They bid me learn the wisdom the wise men have laid down,
    To put by my childish ways
    And forget my Golden Days,
  With my feet upon the ladder that runs up to high renown.

  So I would not hear the voices that were calling day and night,
  And I would not see the visions that were ever in my sight;
    But I mingled with the throngs,
    Heard their curses and their songs,
  And raised the brimming glass on high to catch the yellow light.

  But I was not meant to wander where the wild things never came,
  Where the night-time was like day-time and the seasons were the same;
    Where the city's sullen roar
    Ever surged against my door,
  And the only peace was battle and the only goal was fame.

  For my blood pulsed hot within me and the prize seemed wondrous small;
  And my soul cried out for freedom in a world beyond a wall.
    Oh, fame can well be sung
    By those no longer young,
  By wisdom, age and learning; but youth transcends them all!

  So I'll let the spring of life well up and drown the empty quest;
  And I'll watch the stars more bright than fame gleam red along the crest;
    And taste the driving rain
    Between my lips again,
  And know that to the blood of youth the open road is best.

  With Spring-time in the woodlands will my pulses stir and thrill;
  I'll run below the wet young moon where myriad frogs pipe shrill;
    I'll forget the world of strife,
    Where fame is more than life;
  And I'll mate with youth and beauty when the sun is on the hill.

The Homesteader

  Mother England, I am coming, cease your calling for a season,
    For the plains of wheat need reaping, and the thrasher's at