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    Georgian Poetry 1916-1917
    Georgian Poetry 1916-1917
    Georgian Poetry 1916-1917
    Ebook208 pages1 hour

    Georgian Poetry 1916-1917

    By Edward Howard Marsh

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Georgian Poetry 1916-1917

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      Book preview

      Georgian Poetry 1916-1917 - Edward Howard Marsh

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Georgian Poetry 1916-17, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Georgian Poetry 1916-17

      Author: Various

      Illustrator: Sir Edward Howard Marsh

      Posting Date: February 16, 2013 [EBook #9546]

      Release Date: December, 2005

      First Posted: October 8, 2003

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GEORGIAN POETRY 1916-17 ***

      Produced by Clytie Siddall, Keren Vergon, and PG Distributed

      Proofreaders

      Table of Contents

      Prefatory Note

      This third book of Georgian Poetry carries to the end of a seventh year the presentation of chosen examples from the work of contemporary poets belonging to the younger generation. Of the eighteen writers included, nine appear in the series for the first time. The representation of the older inhabitants has in most cases been restricted in order to allow full space for the new-comers; and the alphabetical order of the names has been reversed, so as to bring more of these into prominence than would otherwise have been done.

      My thanks for permission to print the poems are due to Messrs. Chatto & Windus, Constable, Fifield, Heinemann, Macmillan, Elkin Mathews, Martin Secker, and Sidgwick & Jackson, and to the Editors of the Nation, the New Statesman, and To-Day.

      E. M.

      September 1917.

      Contents

      W. J. Turner

      Romance

      When I was but thirteen or so

      I went into a golden land,

      Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

      Took me by the hand.

      My father died, my brother too,

      They passed like fleeting dreams,

      I stood where Popocatapetl

      In the sunlight gleams.

      I dimly heard the master's voice

      And boys far-off at play,

      Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

      Had stolen me away.

      I walked in a great golden dream

      To and fro from school —

      Shining Popocatapetl

      The dusty streets did rule.

      I walked home with a gold dark boy

      And never a word I'd say,

      Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

      Had taken my speech away:

      I gazed entranced upon his face

      Fairer than any flower —

      O shining Popocatapetl

      It was thy magic hour:

      The houses, people, traffic seemed

      Thin fading dreams by day,

      Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

      They had stolen my soul away!

      Contents

      Ecstasy

      I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn

      Of boys who sought for shells along the shore,

      Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,

      The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of green

      That faintly creamed against the cold, smooth pebbles.

      The air was thin, their limbs were delicate,

      The wind had graven their small eager hands

      To feel the forests and the dark nights of Asia

      Behind the purple bloom of the horizon,

      Where sails would float and slowly melt away.

      Their naked, pure, and grave, unbroken silence

      Filled the soft air as gleaming, limpid water

      Fills a spring sky those days when rain is lying

      In shattered bright pools on the wind-dried roads,

      And their sweet bodies were wind-purified.

      One held a shell unto his shell-like ear

      And there was music carven in his face,

      His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking open

      To catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roar

      Of numberless caverns filled with singing seas.

      And all of them were hearkening as to singing

      Of far-off voices thin and delicate,

      Voices too fine for any mortal wind

      To blow into the whorls of mortal ears —

      And yet those sounds flowed from their grave, sweet faces.

      And as I looked I heard that delicate music,

      And I became as grave, as calm, as still

      As those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,

      I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,

      My eyes were staring at the far horizon:

      And the wind came and purified my limbs,

      And the stars came and set within my eyes,

      And snowy clouds rested upon my shoulders,

      And the blue sky shimmered deep within me,

      And I sang like a carven pipe of music.

      Contents

      Magic

      I love a still conservatory

      That's full of giant, breathless palms,

      Azaleas, clematis and vines,

      Whose quietness great Trees becalms

      Filling the air with foliage,

      A curved and dreamy statuary.

      I like to hear a cold, pure rill

      Of water trickling low, afar

      With sudden little jerks and purls

      Into a tank or stoneware jar,

      The song of a tiny sleeping bird

      Held like a shadow in its trill.

      I love the mossy quietness

      That grows upon the

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