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    Ardours and Endurances Also a Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies
    Ardours and Endurances Also a Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies
    Ardours and Endurances Also a Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies
    Ebook230 pages1 hour

    Ardours and Endurances Also a Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies

    By Robert Nichols

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Ardours and Endurances Also a Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies

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      Book preview

      Ardours and Endurances Also a Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies - Robert Nichols

      Project Gutenberg's Ardours and Endurances, by Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols

      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/license

      Title: Ardours and Endurances

             Also a Faun's Holiday & Poems and Phantasies

      Author: Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols

      Release Date: May 4, 2012 [EBook #39614]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARDOURS AND ENDURANCES ***

      Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      ARDOURS AND ENDURANCES

      ARDOURS AND

      ENDURANCES

      ALSO A FAUN'S HOLIDAY &

      POEMS AND PHANTASIES BY

      ROBERT NICHOLS

      Author of Invocation: War Poems and Others

      NEW YORK

      FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

      PUBLISHERS

      CONTENTS

      My thanks are due to the editor of the Times and of the Nation, to the editors of the Palatine Review, and to Messrs. Blackwell, Oxford, the publishers of Oxford Poetry, 1915, and Oxford Poetry, 1916, for permission to reprint certain of these poems.

      R. M. B. N.

      1917.

      INTRODUCTION

      1. Of the nature of the poet:

      "We are (often) so impressed by the power of poetry that we think of it as something made by a wonderful and unusual person: we do not realize the fact that all the wonder and marvel is in our own brains, that the poet is ourselves. He speaks our language better than we do merely because he is more skilful with it than we are; his skill is part of our skill, his power of our power; generations of English-speaking men and women have made us sensible to these things, and our sensibility comes from the same source that the poet's power of stimulating it comes from. Given a little more sensitiveness to external stimuli, a little more power of associating ideas, a co-ordination of the functions of expression somewhat more apt, a sense of rhythm somewhat keener than the average—given these things we should be poets, too, even as he is.... He is one of us."

      2. Of what English poetry consists:

      "English poetry is not a rhythm of sound, but a rhythm of ideas, and the flow of attention-stresses (i.e., varying qualities of words and cadence) which determines its beauty is inseparably connected with the thought; for each of them is a judgment of identity, or a judgment of relation, or an expression of relation, and not a thing of mere empty sound.... He who would think of it as a pleasing arrangement of vocal sounds has missed all chance of ever understanding its meaning. There awaits him only the barren generalities of a foreign prosody, tedious, pedantic, fruitless. And he will flounder ceaselessly amid the scattered timbers of its iambuses, spondees, dactyls, tribrachs, never reaching the firm ground of truth."

      "An Introduction To the Scientific Study Of

      English Poetry,"[1] by Mark Liddell.

      [1] Published by Grant Richards (1902). This remarkable book, establishing English poetry as a thing governed from within by its own necessities, and not by rules of æsthetics imposed on it from without, formulates principles which, unperceived, have governed English poetry from the earliest times, which find their greatest exemplar in Shakespeare, and which, though beginning to be realized by the less pedantic of the moderns, are in its pages for the first time lucidly expounded and—such is their adequacy—can, in the end, only be regarded as indubitably proven.—R. M. B. N., 1917.

      BOOK I

      ARDOURS AND

      ENDURANCES

      To THE Memory of my Trusty and

      Gallant Friends: HAROLD STUART

      GOUGH (King's Royal Rifle Corps) and

      RICHARD PINSENT (the Worcester

      Regiment)

      "For what is life if measured by the space,

      Not by the act?"

      Ben Jonson.

      THE SUMMONS

      I.—TO——

      Asleep within the deadest hour of night

      And, turning with the earth, I was aware

      How suddenly the eastern curve was bright,

      As when the sun arises from his lair.

      But not the sun arose: it was thy hair

      Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light.

      Since then I know that neither night nor day

      May I escape thee, O my heavenly hell!

      Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay

      And should I dare to die, I know full well

      Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell,

      Whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way.

      II.—THE PAST

      How to escape the bondage of the past?

      I fly thee, yet my spirit finds no calms

      Save when she deems her rocked within those arms

      To which, from which she ne'er was caught or cast.

      O sadness of a heart so spent in vain,

      That drank its age's fuel in an hour:

      For whom the whole world burning had not power

      To quick with life the smouldered wick again!

      III.—THE RECKONING

      The whole world burns, and with it burns my flesh.

      Arise, thou spirit spent by sterile tears;

      Thine eyes were ardent once, thy looks were fresh,

      Thy brow shone bright amid thy shining peers.

      Fame calls thee not, thou who hast vainly strayed

      So far for her; nor Passion, who in the past

      Gave thee her ghost to wed and to be paid;

      Nor Love, whose anguish only learned to last.

      Honour it is that calls: canst thou forget

      Once thou wert strong? Listen; the solemn call

      Sounds but this once again. Put by regret

      For summons missed, or thou hast missed them all.

      Body is ready, Fortune pleased; O let

      Not the poor Past cost the proud Future's fall.

      FAREWELL TO PLACE

      OF COMFORT

      FAREWELL TO PLACE OF COMFORT

      For the last time, maybe, upon the knoll

      I stand. The eve is golden, languid, sad....

      Day like a tragic actor plays his rôle

      To the last whispered word, and falls gold-clad.

      I, too, take leave of all I ever had.

      They shall not say I went with heavy heart:

      Heavy I am, but soon I shall be free;

      I love them all, but O I now depart

      A little sadly, strangely, fearfully,

      As one who

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