John Freeman

Where is that country? The unresting mind Like a lapwing nears and leaves it and returns. I know those unknown hill-springs where they rise, I know the answer of the elms to the wind When the wind on their heaving bosom lies And sleeps. I know the grouping pines that crown The long green hill and fling their darkness down, A never-dying shadow; and well I know How in the late months the whole wide woodland burns Unsmoking, and the earth hangs still as still. I know the town, the hamlets and the lone Shelterless cottage where the wind's least tone Is magnified, and his far-flung thundering shout Brings near the incredible end of the world. I know! Even in sleep-walk I should linger about Those lanes, those streets sure-footed, and by the unfenced stream go, Hearing the swift waters past the locked mill flow. Where is that country? It lies in my mind, Its trees and grassy shape and white-gashed hill And springs and wind and weather; its village stone And solitary stone are in my mind; And every thought familiarly returns To find its home, and birdlike circling still Above the smouldering beeches of November And the bare elms and rattled hedgerows of December. That native country lies deep in my mind For every thought and true affection's home. And like that mental land are you become, Part of that land, and I the thought that turns Towards home. And as in that familiar land I find Myself among each tree, spring, road and hill, And at each present step my past footsteps remember; So you in all my inward being lies, In you my history, my earth and stream and skies. Your late fire is it that in my boughs yet burns, Your stone that to my passing footfall cries.

Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark. In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark. Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark.

And cows astonished stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And conies to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid. From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed an age, or time was nought. Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill Gray granite trees was music wrought. In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none ... Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And shivered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds flocking sweep. Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.

From all the wood came no brave bird, No song broke through the close-fall'n night, Nor any sound from cowering herd: Only a dog's long lonely howl When from the window poured pale light. And from the wood The hoot came ghostly of the owl.

It was the lovely moon--she lifted Slowly her white brow among Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted Faintly, faintlier afar. Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder, Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness, Watching the earth that dwindled under Faintly, faintlier afar. It was the lovely moon that lovelike Hovered over the wandering, tired Earth, her bosom gray and dovelike, Hovering beautiful as a dove.... The lovely moon:--her soft light falling Lightly on roof and poplar and pine-- Tree to tree whispering and calling, Wonderful in the silvery shine Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.

Far off a lonely hound Telling his loneliness all round To the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;

And, answering, the sound Of that yet lonelier sea-hound Telling his loneliness to the solitary stars.

Hearing, the kennelled hound Some neighbourhood and comfort found, And slept beneath the comfortless high stars.

But that wild sea-hound Unkennelled, called all night all round-- The unneighboured and uncomforted cold sea.

There is a place of grass With daisies like white pools, Or shining islands in a sea Of brightening waves.

Swallows, darting, brush The waves of gentle green, As though a wide still lake it were, Not living grass.

Evening draws over all, Grass and flowers and sky, And one rich bird prolongs the sweet Of day on the edge of dark.

The grass is dim, the stars Lean down the height of heaven; And the trees, listening in all their leaves, Scarce-breathing stand.

Nothing is as it was: The bird on the bough sings on; The night, pure from the cloud of day, Is listening.

Small yellow stones That, lifted, through my idle fingers fall Leaving a score-- And these I toss between the parted lips Of the lapping sea, And the sea tosses again with millions more-- Yellow and white stones; Then drawing back her snaky long waves all, Leaves the stones Yellow and white upon the sandy shore.... As they were bones Yellow and white left on the silent shore Of an unfoaming far unvisioned Sea.

The angry wind That cursed at me Was nothing but an evil sprite Vexed with any man's delight.

And strange it seemed That a dark wind Should run down from a mountain steep And shout as though the world were asleep.

But when he ceased And silence was-- Who could but fear what evil sprite Crept through the tunnels of the night?

The moon gave no light. The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white, From the soft south west. The wind, that cannot rest, Soothed and then waked the darkness of the yew Until the tree was restless too.

Of all the winds I knew I thought, and how they muttered in the yew, Or raved under the eaves, Or nosed the fallen dry leaves, Or with harsh voice holloa'd the orchard round, With snapped limbs littering the ground.

And I thought how the yew Between the window and the west his shadow threw, Grave and immense, Darkening the dark past thought and sense, And how the moon would make the darkness heavenly bright: But the moon gave no light.