Then as the lonely, chanting, stifled voice
Droned on, I saw heart-breaking Peace,
Green happy hedges, dreaming crofts and farms,
England—before the War!
Last night I heard Masefield.
He stood downcast on a little platform,
While I careened, helm up, full canvassed
Close-hauled on happy seas.
He stood limply on a little platform
World-blind before the rows of set, still, faces,
Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word
“Beauty.”
KLEPHTIC
“It would be strange if with such ample survival of the ancient polytheism in modern law there were no reminiscence of the Fauns, the Satyrs, the Pans of the olden world."—Rennell Rodd.
FAR in the mountains,
The mountains of Greece,
The cone fires burn.
Mid the pines and rocks,
And the tall shepherds wear
The curly white fleece,
And a man, with a beard,
Like a horse’s mane,
Plays a small pipe,
A carvéd pipe,
Till the goats come straggling in,
And the bees come drowsing by,
And the olives come dropping down;
And he will be playing like that,
And they will be coming like that,
Long after our solemn mummings cease
In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.
Far in the mountains,
The mountains of Greece,
The values are strange—
The worth of a tree,
The strength of a rock,
The health of a sheep,
The length of a brook,
The dip of a bird,
The wisdom of mules.
They will offer you grapes,
Or a horn-spoon of curd,
Or wine in a cup,
Or honey and bread;
And they will keep all these values,
These dear simple values
Long after our silly values cease,
In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.
In the mountains, the mountains of Greece
They lie in a cave,
And hark to wood-sounds,
Perhaps cross themselves,
Saying, aghast!
“There be wild things,
Hidden things, dread things.
Strange things, weird things, great things.”
(They quake, and are not very brave,)
But when they sleep and dream,
They dream as far as they please.
As grand and great as they please—
Of miles of red-fezzed Turks
Done to death by one Greek,
Of clouds that turn into men,
Of fountains with golden rain,
Of seas and golden ships,
Of reveling women and maids,
And hosts of little boys
Dressed in skins of fur,
Dancing and playing pipes;
And of Someone very strange,
With horns perhaps, but a smile,
A smile like hot sweet fire—
And they will be dreaming like that,
And thinking like that,
Long after our stupid teachings are dead.
Yea—Yea—Yea—
Long after we are dead,
In the mountains,
The mountains of Greece.