To A Successful Man

(What the Ghosts Said)


And after all the labour and the pains,
    After the heaping up of gold on gold,
After success that locked your feet in chains,
    And left you with a heart so tired and old,

Strange--is it not?--to find your chief desire
    Is what you might have had for nothing then--
The face of love beside a cottage fire
    And friendly laughter with your fellow-men?

You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.
    You ruled a field that kings could never buy;
The glory of the sea was at your door;
    And all those quiet stars were in your sky.

The nook of ferns below the breathless wood
    Where one poor book could unlock Paradise ...
What will you give us now for that lost good?
    Better forget. You cannot pay the price.

You left them for the fame in which you trust.
    But youth, and hope--did you forsake them, too?
Courage! When dust at length returns to dust,
    In your last dreams they may come back to you.

Alfred Noyes

Alfred Noyes was an English poet, short-story writer, and playwright, best known for his ballads, particularly "The Highwayman" (1906). Born on September 16, 1880, in Wolverhampton, he published his first collection of poems, "The Loom of Years," in 1902. His narrative poetry and works often evoked strong imagery and emotion. Noyes also lectured in various universities across the United States. He passed away on June 25, 1958.

Alfred Noyes

Cotton-Wool

Alfred Noyes, Simple Poetry

The Old Meeting House

Alfred Noyes, Simple Poetry

Namesakes

Alfred Noyes, Simple Poetry

The Man Who Discovered The Use Of A Chair

Alfred Noyes, Simple Poetry

English

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Victory

(Written after the British Service at Trinity Church, New York)


I.

Before those golden altar-lights we stood,
    Each one of us remembering his own dead.
A more than earthly beauty seemed to brood
    On that hushed throng, and bless each bending head.

Beautiful on that gold, the deep-sea blue
    Of those young seamen, ranked on either side,
Blent with the khaki, while the silence grew
    Deep, as for wings--Oh, deep as England's pride.

Beautiful on that gold, two banners rose--
    Two flags that told how Freedom's realm was made,
One fair with stars of hope, and one that shows
    The glorious cross of England's long crusade;

Two flags, now joined, till that high will be done
Which sent them forth to make the whole world one...

Alfred Noyes

Dead Man's Morrice

There came a crowder to the Mermaid Inn,
    One dark May night,
Fiddling a tune that quelled our motley din,
    With quaint delight,
It haunts me yet, as old lost airs will do,
    A phantom strain:
Look for me once, lest I should look for you,
    And look in vain.

In that old wood, where ghosts of lovers walk,
    At fall of day,
Gleaning such fragments of their ancient talk
    As poor ghosts may,
From leaves that brushed their faces, wet with dew,
    Or tears, or rain,...
Look for me once, lest I should look for you,
    And look in vain.

Have we not seen them--pale forgotten shades
    That do return,
Groping for those dim paths, those fragrant glades,
    Those nooks of fern,
Only to find that, of the may ...

Alfred Noyes

Michael Oaktree

Under an arch of glorious leaves I passed
Out of the wood and saw the sickle moon
Floating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.

It was the quiet hour before the sun
Gathers the clouds to prayer and silently
Utters his benediction on the waves
That whisper round the death-bed of the day.
The labourers were returning from the farms
And children danced to meet them. From the doors
Of cottages there came a pleasant clink
Where busy hands laid out the evening meal.
From smouldering elms around the village spire
There soared and sank the caw of gathering rooks.
The faint-flushed clouds were listening to the tale
The sea tells to the sunset with one sigh.
The last white wistful sea-bird sought for peace,
And the last fishing-boat stole o'er the bar,
And fr...

Alfred Noyes

Five Criticisms - IV.

(On Certain Realists.)

You with the quick sardonic eye
For all the mockeries of life,
Beware, in this dark masque of things that seem,
Lest even that tragic irony,
Which you discern in this our mortal strife,
Trick you and trap you, also, with a dream.

Last night I saw a dead man borne along
The city streets, passing a boisterous throng
That never ceased to laugh and shout and dance:
And yet, and yet,
For all the poison bitter minds might brew
From themes like this, I knew
That the stern Truth would not permit her glance
Thus to be foiled by flying straws of chance,
For her keen eyes on deeper skies are set,
And laws that tragic ironists forget.

She saw the dead man's life, from birth to death,--
All that he knew of love and ...

Alfred Noyes

The Prospector

Where the ragged, snow-capped saw tooth
    Cuts the azure of the sky
And watches o'er the lonely land
    As ages wander by;
Where the sentinel pines in grandeur
    Murmur to the glacier stream
As it, ice-gorged, gluts the canyon,
    Never brightened by the gleam
Of sun at brightest noon day,
    Nor moon of Arctic night,
And whose only link with Heaven
    Is the fitful Northern Light.
Where the Whistler shrills in triumph
    And the Big Horn dreams in peace,
Where the Brown Bear skulks to cover
    Up where silence holds the lease;
Where the land is as God left it
    Nor has known the tread of man,
There's a treasure ledge a-waiting--
    Go and find it if you can.

If your heart be steeled to triumph
    Nor beats less at ...

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Compensations

Not with a flash that rends the blue
    Shall fall the avenging sword.
Gently as the evening dew
    Descends the mighty Lord.

His dreadful balances are made
    To move with moon and tide;
Yet shall not mercy be afraid
    Nor justice be denied.

The dreams that seemed to waste away,
    The kindliness forgot,
Were singing in your heart today
    Although you knew them not.

The sun shall not forget his road,
    Nor the high stars their rhyme,
The traveller with the heavier load
    Has one less hill to climb.

And, though a darker shadow fall
    On every struggling age,
How shall it be if, after all,
    He share our pilgrimage?

The end we mourn is not the end.
    The dust has nimble wings.
But tru...

Alfred Noyes