Crepuscular

    No creature stirs in the wide fields.
    The rifted western heaven yields
    The dying sun's illumination.
    This is the hour of tribulation
    When, with clear sight of eve engendered,
    Day's homage to delusion rendered,
    Mute at her window sits the soul.

    Clouds and skies and lakes and seas,
    Valleys and hills and grass and trees,
    Sun, moon, and stars, all stand to her
    Limbs of one lordless challenger,
    Who, without deigning taunt or frown.
    Throws a perennial gauntlet down:
    "Come conquer me and take thy toll."

    No cowardice or fear she knows,
    But, as once more she girds, there grows
    An unresignèd hopelessness
    From memory of former stress.
    Head bent, she muses whilst he waits:
    How with such weapons dint his plates?
    How quell this vast and sleepless giant
    Calmly, immortally defiant,
    How fell him, bind him, and control
    With a silver cord and a golden bowl?

John Collings Squire, Sir

John Collings Squire, also known as Sir John Squire, was an influential British poet, writer, historian, and influential literary editor of the early 20th century. He is best known for his role as editor of the London Mercury, a powerful literary journal of the time. Squire was a leading figure in the Georgian poetry movement, which sought to return English poetry to its traditional form and diction.

John Collings Squire, Sir

Starlight

John Collings Squire, Sir, Simple Poetry

Dialogue

John Collings Squire, Sir, Simple Poetry

The March

John Collings Squire, Sir, Simple Poetry

The Happy Night

John Collings Squire, Sir, Simple Poetry

English

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A Reasonable Protestation

    [To F., who complained of his vagueness and lack of dogmatic statement]

    Not, I suppose, since I deny
    Appearance is reality,
    And doubt the substance of the earth
    Does your remonstrance come to birth;
    Not that at once I both affirm
    'Tis not the skin that makes the worm
    And every tactile thing with mass
    Must find its symbol in the grass
    And with a cool conviction say
    Even a critic's more than clay
    And every dog outlives his day.
    This kind of vagueness suits your view,
    You would not carp at it; for you
    Did never stand with those who take
    Their pleasures in a world opaque.
    For you a tree would never be
    Lovely were it but a tree,
    And earthly splendours never splendid

John Collings Squire, Sir

In The Park

    This dense hard ground I tread.
    These iron bars that ripple past,
    Will they unshaken stand when I am dead
    And my deep thoughts outlast?

    Is it my spirit slips,
    Falls, like this leaf I kick aside;
    This firmness that I feel about my lips,
    Is it but empty pride?

    Mute knowledge conquers me;
    I contemplate them as they are,
    Faint earth and shadowy bars that shake and flee,
    Less hard, more transient far

    Than those unbodied hues
    The sunset flings on the calm river;
    And, as I look, a swiftness thrills my shoes
    And my hands with empire quiver.

    Now light the ground I tread,
    I walk not now but rather float;
    Clear but unreal is the scene outspread,
    Pitiful,...

John Collings Squire, Sir

Town

    Mostly in a dull rotation
    We bear our loads and eat and drink and sleep.
    Feeling no tears, knowing no meditation,
    Too tired to think, too clogged with earth to weep.

    Dimly convinced, poor groping wretches,
    Like eyeless insects in a murky pond
    That out and out this city stretches,
    Away, away, and there is no beyond.

    No larger earth, no loftier heaven,
    No cleaner, gentler airs to breathe.    And yet,
    Even to us sometimes is given
    Visions of things we other times forget.

    Some day is done, its labour ended,
    And as we sit and brood at windows high,
    A steady wind from far descended,
    Blows off the filth that hid the deeper sky;

    There are the empty waiting spaces,
    We w...

John Collings Squire, Sir

The Stronghold

    Quieter than any twilight
    Shed over earth's last deserts,
    Quiet and vast and shadowless
    Is that unfounded keep,
    Higher than the roof of the night's high chamber
    Deep as the shaft of sleep.

    And solitude will not cry there,
    Melancholy will not brood there,
    Hatred, with its sharp corroding pain,
    And fear will not come there at all:
    Never will a tear or a heart-ache enter
    Over that enchanted wall.

        But, O, if you find that castle,
        Draw back your foot from the gateway,
        Let not its peace invite you,
        Let not its offerings tempt you.
    For faded and decayed like a garment,
    Love to a dust will have fallen,
    And song and laughter will have gone with sorrow,

John Collings Squire, Sir

The Mind Of Man

    I

    Beneath my skull-bone and my hair,
    Covered like a poisonous well,
    There is a land: if you looked there
    What you saw you'd quail to tell.
    You that sit there smiling, you
    Know that what I say is true.

    My head is very small to touch,
    I feel it all from front to back,
    An earèd round that weighs not much,
    Eyes, nose-holes, and a pulpy crack:
    Oh, how small, how small it is!
    How could countries be in this?

    Yet, when I watch with eyelids shut,
    It glimmers forth, now dark, now clear,
    The city of Cis-Occiput,
    The marshes and the writhing mere,
    The land that every man I see
    Knows in himself but not in me.


    II

    Upon the borders of the...

John Collings Squire, Sir

In An Orchard

    Airy and quick and wise
    In the shed light of the sun,
    You clasp with friendly eyes
    The thoughts from mine that run.

    But something breaks the link;
    I solitary stand
    By a giant gully's brink
    In some vast gloomy land.

    Sole central watcher, I
    With steadfast sadness now
    In that waste place descry
    'Neath the awful heavens how

    Your life doth dizzy drop
    A little foam of flame
    From a peak without a top
    To a pit without a name.

John Collings Squire, Sir