I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair, Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng. It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song. Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race. Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife, And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring, By another’s hand shall colours stand in similitude of life; And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing. For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same. They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth, And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world’s acclaim; For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth. But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness, Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live, Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress-- What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give? Well--here in a little side-show tent to-day some people stand, One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin, And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate’s relentless hand, And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein. You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look; You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear; Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book. O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here! MID-OCEAN IN WAR-TIME (For My Mother) The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon’s serene and silver-veilèd face, Make of this vessel an enchanted place Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, And the old stars, in their unending race, Shall heed and envy young humanity. And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, These waters blush a strange and awful red. Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey Rises from decks that crash with flying lead. And these stars smile their immemorial way On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead! QUEEN ELIZABETH SPEAKS My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, My soul is black with shame ... but I gave Shakespeare gold. So after æons of flame, I may, by grace of God, Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare’s feet have trod. IN MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE