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Read Write Inc.|
An incuene literacy programme by RUTH Miskin Z S

Story by Gill Munton oe

Illustrated by Tim Archbold. __
a
Glossary of terms & sr. SOSEPHy,
“OMPOERELL creo - (A.i8 a
FET. GREEN,2) SCle-
Fred Talk: Fred is a puppet who can only say and read words in pure sounds; oS SE
he cannot say the whole word. He never adds ‘uh’ after a consonant sound e.g. fuh, luh, muh.
(A slight ‘uh’ cannot be helped when saying the sounds b, d, g, j, w and y)

Grapheme: one letter or one group of letters used to write one sound e.g.
The sound 'f' can be written with the grapheme f (fun) ff (huff)
The sound ‘igh’ can be written with the grapheme igh (night) ori (kind) or ie (tie)

Green words: Words made up of the graphemes listed in the sound boxes on page 4

Red words: Common words with a grapheme not listed in the sound boxes

Challenge words: Topical words particular to this story

Syllables: Chunks within long words

Root: The part of the word that gives the most meaning
ISBN 1-84571-030-4
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oxford
poetry, 1919
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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Title: Oxford poetry, 1919

Editor: T. W. Earp
Siegfried Sassoon
Dorothy L. Sayers

Release date: November 3, 2015 [eBook #50378]

Most recently updated: October 22, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OXFORD

POETRY, 1919 ***
 OXFORD POETRY
1919

Uniform with this

Volume

OXFORD POETRY, 1914

(Out of Print)
OXFORD POETRY, 1915
OXFORD POETRY, 1916
OXFORD POETRY, 1917
OXFORD POETRY, 1918
 OXFORD POETRY
1919

EDITED BY
T. W. E., D. L. S., and S. S.

OXFORD
B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET
1920
The following authors wish to make acknowledgment for
permission kindly given to reprint: Mr. E. Dickinson, to the editor of
Coterie; Mr. P. H. B. Lyon, to the editor of the Spectator ("The Song
of Strength"); Mr. W. Force Stead, to the editor of the Poetry
Review.
 CONTENTS
H. M. ANDREWS (New College) PAGE
Song 1
T. H. W. ARMSTRONG (Keble)
Heritage 2
Watching 3
Loneliness 4
P. BLOOMFIELD (Balliol)
Twilight 5
VERA M. BRITTAIN (Somerville)
To a V.C. 6
H. I. BURT (Balliol)
From their Dust 7
F. W. BUTLER-THWING (New College)
The Tramp-Ship 8
Pilot and Clouds 9
E. P. CHASE (Magdalen)
Seven Mists 10
"I am clothed with Furtive Light" 10
W. R. CHILDE (Magdalen)
Les Hallucinés 11
E. A. C. CLARKE (Keble)
Flowers 12
L. M. COOPER (Lady Margaret Hall)
Lines for a Flyleaf of Herodotus 13
Crusoe was a Vagabond 14
ERIC DICKINSON (Exeter)
The Garden 16
B. EDWARDS (Lady Margaret Hall)
 The Man who has forgotten Time 18
In a Canoe (Oxford) 19
RALPH W. W. FOX (Magdalen)
Love weeping among the Crosses 20
On hearing that the Names carved upon an Old School Table
22
are to be removed
The Envious Poets 23
J. B. S. HALDANE (New College)
Complaint of the Blasphemous Bombers at Beit Aiessa 24
C. R. S. HARRIS (Corpus)
Sonnet 25
B. HIGGINS (B.N.C.)
Gallipoli: An Epitaph 26
Eventide 27
H. J. HOPE (Christ Church)
The Patrol 28
The Monk's Fancy 29
An Alpine Picture 30
G. H. JOHNSTONE (Merton)
Oxford in May 31
C. H. B. KITCHIN (Exeter)
Somme Film, 1916 32
Eschatological Sonnet 33
Epilogue 34
Ruler of Infinite Austerity 35
JOHN LANGDON-DAVIES (St. John's)
Quits! 36
P. H. B. LYON (Oriel)
The Secret Playroom 37
The Song of Strength 39
The Deserted Garden 41
G. A. MOSTYN (Balliol)
Les Miserables 42
A. S. MOTT (Merton)
Umbra 43
K. MOUNSEY (Home Student)
To a Little House in Oxford 44
R. M. S. PASLEY (University)
The Diver 45
V. de S. PINTO (Christ Church)
Station 46
Swans 47
H. S. REID (Somerville)
A Dream 48
E. RENDALL (Home Student)
Epitaph 49
D. L. SAYERS (Somerville)
For Phaon 50
Sympathy 51
Vials Full of Odours 52
W. FORCE STEAD (Queen's)
The Voice in the Night 53
L. A. G. STRONG (Wadham)
At Punnet's Town 55
Dallington 56
Eena-Mena-Mina-Mo 57
D. A. E. WALLACE (Somerville)
Impromptu in March 59
In New College Cloisters 60
The Beggar-Maiden 61
J. L. WING (Magdalen)
Louis Onze 62
 H. M. ANDREWS
(NEW COLLEGE)

SONG

I met a sage at the break of day,

And he welcomed me with a smile;
He spoke his words of encouragement
And we parted after a while.

I met a fair lady when all was bright,

And the sun was burning on high;
She turned to me with her deep, dark eyes
And sold herself for a lie.

I met a child when the world was dark

And I was drear and alone;
The child spoke naught,
But the dark became light;
The day of glory had come.

The barren ground shone with splendour high,

Bare branches dripped with gold,
And the earth was transformed to heaven,
Just as the sage foretold.
 T. H. W. ARMSTRONG
(KEBLE)

HERITAGE

Here in my glass is blood of kings,

The life-blood of a race that lies
Long dead. The jewels burning in your rings
Are an Egyptian woman's eyes.

Your beads are dead bones; even my breath

Breathes hot words that were others' pain.
Now these fair things are ours awhile, till death
Brings us to quiet sleep again.

Then we shall put our love aside

For lovers of a later birth,
And leave to them this body's fragrant pride,
For jewels, in the heart of earth.

WATCHING
Midnight at last! And you, I know,
Are sleeping there
Peaceful. Stars keep
Great guard upon you. Calm, and still, and white
You are. One moment all your pale swift hair
Is quiet as the night.

Here in this mud, this beastliness

Of war, the thought
Of your soft sleep
Soothes a tired mind as a rare ointment may
Comfort a wound, sweet-scented ointment brought
From strange lands, far away.

LONELINESS

I watched the moon behind the trees

Float in a sea of sky.
The aspen whispers in the breeze,
The rest is silence now. And I
Can feel my loneliness around
Me fall. No human face
There is. None speaks. Never a sound
Save whispering leaves in this still place.

I have two friends, and they are dead,

Perhaps about their graves
Are trees that whisper overhead,
While in the grass the nettle waves.
 P. BLOOMFIELD
(BALLIOL)

TWILIGHT

The day grows fainter, moonlit evening fills

With calm and cool the lilac-scented land,
And I feel—were I on the western hills,
At last, at last, now might I understand
These mysteries of Life; how things began,
And why I love my darling as I do,
And how came longing to the soul of Man,
And whether Death must sever me from you.
Ah, hush! A spirit moves abroad, whose veil
The poets would give all the world to raise,
But, failing, tell some wistful fairy-tale,
And laugh, and weep, and go their several ways.
The birds are sleeping: nay, I do not know
What's in the twilight, makes my heart beat so!
 VERA M. BRITTAIN
(SOMERVILLE)

TO A V.C.

Because your feet were stayed upon that road

Whereon the others swiftly came and passed,
Because the harvest you and they had sowed
You only reaped at last.

Tis not your valour's meed alone you bear

Who stand the object of a nation's pride,
For on that humble Cross you live to wear
Your friends were crucified.

They shared with you the conquest over fear,

Sublime self-disregard, decision's power,
But Death, relentless, left you lonely here
In recognition's hour.

Their sign is yours to carry to the end;

The lost reward of gallant hearts as true
As yours they called their leader and their friend
Is worn for them by you.
 H. I. BURT
(BALLIOL)

FROM THEIR DUST

Not in their immortality alone

Live those bright spirits who for honour spent
Their rich inheritance of years, and went
Gay-heartedly to meet the wide unknown.

Not though the fields where their young limbs were strown
Once more be chartered by the foeman's tent,
And all the achieving of their tournament
Be scattered to the winds or overthrown.

For from their memory and quickening dust

Shall spring the flashing squadrons of the dawn;
And they shall set their spears and ride afar
To seek and battle, thrust and counterthrust,
For grails from our beclouded eyes withdrawn,
The champion warriors of a holier war.
ERRATUM.
For H. I. Burt read H. T. Burt, to whom also should be attributed
"Pilot and Clouds" (page 9).
 F. W. BUTLER-THWING
(NEW COLLEGE)

THE TRAMP-SHIP

Sailing over summer seas,

Seeking ports of rest,
Dancing with the dancing breeze,
Host and guest.

Calmed beside the setting sun,

Lifeless on the deep,
Waiting till the halt be done
And the sleep.

Driving 'gainst the sullen storm,

Striking hard the foe,
Gallant heart and gallant form
Breast the snow.

Homeward, homeward in the years,

All thy pennons fly;
Bravely onward, smiles and tears,
Home to die.
July, 1911.

PILOT AND CLOUDS

Clouds, little clouds, tell me whither are you going to,
Spun by the sun of the shearing of the sea?
"Thither we are bound, where the West Wind is blowing to,
Off on a holiday, merrymakers we."

Clouds, merry clouds, will you wait till I may fly to you,
Share in the frolic of your gay company?
"Nay, for the West Wind bids us say good-bye to you,
Save if your chariot be speedier than he."

Swift are my steeds: at the thunderous career of them

The high, lone silences that cradle you will flee.
"Think you our hilarity will tremble at the fear of them,
We who laugh in thunder and lighten in our glee?"

Then will I fly to you, dance with you, play with you,
Hover on your breast where the shadow cannot be.
"Hurry, brother, hurry, for we may not delay with you,
Off on a holiday, merrymakers we."
 E. P. CHASE
(MAGDALEN)

SEVEN MISTS

The beauty of the High is not in brilliance

Nor in a florid sculpturing of stone,
Nor radiant colours, brave design, smooth stones,
But the wide curve and placid flow,—and that
St. Mary's spire and seven twilight mists
Are hanging over Oxford towers to-night.

I am clothed with furtive light

Reflected from that pallid sun
When it sets, hardly bright,
Behind Merton tower, daylight done.

When the moon, silver-hued,

Through Cowley generated mist
Tears its way and glimmers nude
Above Magdalen tower, it keeps tryst

With that spirit of my soul

Which would glide through Oxford streets,
Still, unseen, without control,
With wide eyes scanning whom it meets.
 W. R. CHILDE
(MAGDALEN)

LES HALLUCINÉS

This is the singing of the sons of Hâli,

As they stand at their booth-doors when brazen eve
Covers the city of Chrysopolis
Like the vast cup of an inverted flower,
And into the pale blue cope of marble twilight
Steal up men's souls like incense strange and pure.

"This is the singing of the sons of Hâli,

To you, O seraphs, where you lean your breasts
Upon the perfumed clouds of sunsetting,
And your huge wings, enormous, like a swan's,
Alone cover with silver plumes of fire
Your long sides, strange as pictures in Toledo—

"O seraphs, with your melting eyes like girls',

And rosy breasts embosomed in the eve,
Vouchsafe to us a little rain of coins,
Of golden sequins tumbling through our sleep;
Give us of heavenly gold, we have none earthly,
And stab our souls with seeds of sworded fire."—
This is the singing of the sons of Hâli.
 E. A. C. CLARKE
(KEBLE)

FLOWERS

Shining, never-thirsty flowers,

That by the water-side
Do never plaintive cry for showers
To damp their local pride.

Lazy they wag their lovely heads,

Nodding that way and this,
Lithe bodies upon mossy beds
With lips bedewed that kiss.

The kindly and generous stream

That gently ripples by,
An idle, silvery dream,
Where sleeping fishes lie.

These delicate flowers of Mary

Lie long and overgrown,
While Martha's parched and weary
Stand in the sun and groan
 L. M. COOPER
(LADY MARGARET HALL)

LINES FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERODOTUS

No lover and no kinsmen pass

To honour the deep-buried dead.
The roads are covered up with grass
That burned beneath th' Immortals' tread.
No tramp of armed foe is heard,
Nor bowstrings' twang, nor arrows' hiss,
Nor sound to scare the nesting bird
On rocky Salamis.

Yet runs the Royal Road to-day,

From Sardis up to Suza town,
And still above the Rhamnian Way
The heights of Marathon look down:
Still from the blue, Ægean wave
The sea-wind sweeps with keen salt breath
The hills that saw the Spartan brave
Comb their long hair for death.

CRUSOE WAS A VAGABOND

Wise men pray for hearth and home, a comely wife to tend them,
And dread to feed the little folks that clamber on their knee;
Their fathers' fields to plough and sow—their old friends to befriend
them,
But Crusoe was a vagabond, and ran away to sea.

He strayed upon the docks of Hull, and smelt the tar and cordage,
He saw the bales of foreign ware piled high upon the quay,
He heard the seamen singing, and the outbound ship-bells ringing
Across the fog and darkness;—and he ran away to sea.

He might have dwelt by barn and dyke our fathers made before us,
And dipped his fat sheep yearly in the burn that turns the mill;
He might have heard the harvest home go up in lusty chorus,
When the last wain comes lumbering across the moonlit hill.

But he heard the loud surf thundering against the harbour wall,
The brown be-earringed sailor-men all swearing on the quay;
The salt was in his nostrils, and he cared no more at all
For barn or byre or cattle; but he ran away to sea.

The boys he knew are grey, old men, and soon their sons shall lay
them
To rest beside the little church upon the spur of hill:
The distant hum of chant and prayers, the feet of them that pray
them,
The sunlight and the blackbirds' song shall be about them still.

But he's a homeless wanderer from Rio Grande to Malabar,

And God knows who shall stand by him, or what his end shall be.
The wheeling gulls shall cry his dirge, the great waves drum his
burial,
When his poor old battered body slips into the greedy sea.
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