The Project Gutenberg eBook of Verses This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Verses Author: Violet Jacob Release date: March 4, 2026 [eBook #78110] Language: English Original publication: London: William Heinemann, 1905 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78110 Credits: Mairi, Shawn Carraher and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES *** VERSES =THE GARDEN OF KAMA=; and other Love Lyrics from India. Arranged in Verse by +Laurence Hope+. Square 8vo, 5_s._ net. =STARS OF THE DESERT.= By +Laurence Hope+. Square 8vo, price 5_s._ net. _Uniform with the above (shortly)_ =LAST POEMS.= By +Laurence Hope+. +London+: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. VERSES BY VIOLET JACOB (MRS. ARTHUR JACOB) AUTHOR OF ‘THE SHEEP-STEALERS,’ ‘THE INTERLOPER’ LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1905 _All rights reserved._ TO THE IDEAL CRITIC I have to thank the Editors of the _Westminster Gazette_, _The English Illustrated Magazine_, and _Country Life_ for permission to reprint some of the following poems.--V. J. CONTENTS PAGE To H. M. C. 1 Half-way 2 White Magic 4 Serenade 5 The Shadow 6 The Mill-house 8 ‘I sleep but my Heart waketh’ 13 An Immortelle 14 The Two Queens 15 The Lost Track 16 At a Brookside 18 Revenant 18 To Aurelia, with a Pearl Necklace 19 Beyond the Walls 20 ‘Come on, come up, ye rovers’ 22 An Echo 24 A Young Moon 26 The Soul 27 The Ballad of Hakon 29 Ignis Fatuus 33 The Little Nightjar 34 Possession 36 Airlie Kirk 38 The Flute player 39 In Lower Egypt 42 Winter and Spring 44 A Tryst 45 The Call 47 Time and Space 49 A Translation 50 Glamour 52 Lenore in the Oliveyards 54 New Year’s Eve 55 Three Poems for Children-- I. The Lilacs 57 II. Dreams 58 III. The Snow Witch 61 The Valley of the Kings 62 The Lowland Ploughman 65 Late February 67 From a Train-window 68 Poems of India-- I. In a Mango-tope 70 II. Night in the Plains 73 III. The Resting-place 75 IV. Evening in the Opium Fields 77 V. ‘God is great’ 78 VI. A Mahommedan Graveyard 81 VII. Cherry-Blossom at Dagshai 83 VIII. ‘With Military Honours’ 85 IX. The Distant Temple 87 TO H. M. C. A silence falls on us to-day, Our lips are closed, we do not speak, But, in each other’s eyes we seek And find the thing that each would say. So deep it lies, a rock set fast, Washed hard by life, by love, by tears, Beneath the floods of time and years Built up and rooted in the past. And sometimes, when the tide is low, A voice comes up the Northern sea; Across the sands to you and me It calls from lands left long ago. By marshes lying dim and wide, Through wet, grey sea-fogs, creeping on, Back from that youth for ever gone It comes to us across the tide. How shall we speak? What words can say The thing for which no words are known, That calls to us from places lone Through past, through present, through to-day? ❦ HALF-WAY The world is not the dream of living gold We dreamed when we were young; Then, all the glory that the west could hold Burned, fold on fold, A molten veil across its portals flung Behind whose shade the years lay sleeping still, Like tales untold; But now, beyond the beeches bare and chill, Beyond the woods set far upon the hill, The clouds are cold. And life is not the journey that we planned As we set out with morn; We said, ‘We will rest here and view the land, Or take our stand Upon these hills and see the ripening corn, Or step aside along the mere to mark The wild-fowl band;’ But now, we know we must tread swift and stark, If we would cross the desert ere the dark Creeps on the sand. And death is not the dim and distant shade So far against the sky; The half-seen trap for others waiting laid, While we, arrayed In pride and plume of youth, go sweeping by. We thought to meet him with a spirit braced By conquests made; But now, we know, when half the road is traced, Our hope is but to reach him undisgraced And unafraid. ❦ WHITE MAGIC I saw the moon come out and stand last night Above the plains of cloud, Like a lone chief, who, at his tented door, Looks down upon the forest’s silent floor From a far battlement upon the height, And drops his mantle proud Into the swimming vapours of the light. O watcher on the planet-woven steep Whose shining feet are set Above the haunted glamour of the skies! Draw me, a slave, with thy compelling eyes, While the slow hours in soundless circle creep, Out through the world, while yet The world’s heart heaves beneath the veil of sleep. O pale-faced chief! The earth and heaven are still And thou and I awake; I come, with outstretched arms and spirit bound, Forth through the scattered graves where, lying sound, The dead are sown by field and fold and hill And mist-entangled brake; O pale chief! Draw me up into the height, Into the swimming light. ❦ SERENADE O roses, clustering on the sunny wall In fragrant groups of white and red together, Bend down, bend down your branches, one and all, Beneath the fair June sky and glowing weather; And say to her, I send her A message tender. And thou, convolvulus, upon the gate, With pale white bells and trails of light leaves swinging, Tell her my love for her is strong as fate, For ever true and like thy tendrils clinging; And kiss her, soft and shy, As she goes by. O jessamine, in wreaths of scented stars Across the balconies and stonework meeting, Climb up and enter at her window-bars And bear among your buds my loving greeting; Then whisper, sweet and slow, ‘He waits below.’ ❦ THE SHADOW What soul has swept your branches, cypress-tree, That you should point so high; That you, whose root among the graves may be, Look ever to the sky? Dark warden of the long-untended tomb Seen o’er some mouldering wall, Or set where fountained gardens are abloom And roses blush and fall. Scarcely the wind is voiceful as it sways Your column, dusk, austere; Scarcely the evening breeze that round you plays Brings music to the ear. Your earth-bound foot mortality retains Imprisoned in the sod, Your earth-freed spirit to that ether strains Which is the breath of God. The light o’er southern vineyards dying down Smiles on the landscape still, And lays the lengthening shadow of your crown On many a Tuscan hill. And, nearer home, where memory’s deathless sun Enwraps some tear-sown mound, Your shade, at day’s decline, O silent one, Slants eastward on the ground. By tomb or pleasance, convent-girdled height, In countries far or near, You bear a message from eternal light To us whose souls are here. O silent witness! dark where yonder sky In saffron splendour burns, ’Tis but the shadow that on earth must lie, The substance heavenward turns. ❦ THE MILL-HOUSE Beneath the drawbridge is the moat, On broadened leaves the lilies float, The white bud bursts its oozy coat. Up from the fields of ripened corn There comes the sound of voices borne From where the stooks stand newly shorn. Above her head the banner flies, A dragon blue with banded eyes, Grey in the sun the towers rise. Within, the knights sit in a row, And ladies, with their hands of snow; The golden cup goes to and fro. She heeds nor feast, nor song, nor wine, She only sees the weapons shine Upon the plains of Palestine. She only hears the trumpets bray Their summons through the Eastern day, The tramp of horses far away. Her heart sees all the far-off scene, And, with her heart, she hears the green Wild roll of waters in between. The light from the horizon’s rim Strikes, like the wings of seraphim, Upon the fountain’s circled brim. A shadow lies before her face, Sir Hugh has risen and left his place: “Elayne, the seasons march apace; Lo, patience is a good knight’s stay, Yet comes the time when men may say ‘Who waits too long will lose the day.’ The dial by the swinging vane Marks how the long hours wax and wane-- ’Tis time the priest were brought, Elayne. Yon knight who fights in Palestine, What is his love compared with mine? I will load your hair with jewels fine, You shall lie on silk, you shall sit, a queen, In costly raiment blue and green With golden roses wrought in between.” To where the crazy mill-house stands He has borne her with his iron hands, Her hair hangs down in russet bands; He has shorn a long tress of her hair And bound her feet so slim and fair, He has borne her out on the mill-house stair. “Elayne, Elayne, you are young to die, There is none to hear should you call or cry, Shall the water have you or shall I?” She makes no sound; beneath the ledge An eddy swirls among the sedge, He takes a step to the stairs’ edge. The mill-race, roaring far beneath, Seems like the sound of gloating death, She looks down and she holds her breath. “Elayne, what think you? Which is best?” Against the black heart in his breast She keeps her pale face closely prest. The mill-race, winding mile on mile, Sounds like an angry voice the while; He cannot see her drawn lips smile. Like some slim beast, some snake or stoat, She meets her teeth upon his throat, Her fingers grasp his leathern coat. On the top step they swing and sway, His breath comes short, his face is grey, The waters close with a splash of spray. The mill-race runs till it nears the moat, What thing does the water raise and float? --A drowned dead man with a mark on his throat. ❦ ‘I SLEEP BUT MY HEART WAKETH’ Here in the winding coil of waterways, Apart among the trees, where no feet pass, And little woodland rabbits on the grass Sit lightly cropping through the Autumn days, The troubling world, with all its weary moods, Is far away outside the circling woods. A golden rain of leaf is on the beech And red and gold the maze of branches glow To drop their wealth upon the grass below, As golden silence falls on golden speech; In long, wet flats, wherein the heron feeds, A golden sky is mirrored through the reeds. No voices come to still that other voice Which breathes along the labyrinth of trees To tell the tired soul to dwell at ease Among the best-loved visions of its choice: ‘Sleep in these groves,’ it says, ‘by spirits trod, While thine heart waketh to the sound of God.’ ❦ AN IMMORTELLE There is a secret garden where I dwell Hedged round about with thorn and Judas-tree, Barred in with iron like a prison cell And known to none but me. Black rocks encircle it; the nightshade wreath Twines in the bush its leaden-purple spray And the rank hellebore, with poisoned breath, Sighs on the air all day. I loved it not, yet I was wont to go To gaze my fill and all my plants compare, To taste the bitter herbs that thrive and grow, Spreading a carpet there. * * * * * But now, ’tis years, since, in that sorry place, I swung the wicket; for, all gloriously, A wingèd figure came with radiant face And bore away the key. And still--I have a little poison-flower I gathered there; and, though I would forget, I take it out in some friend-haunted hour To find it living yet. ❦ THE TWO QUEENS A man went down the path of life, And, where the vines were thick and green And grapes hung waiting for the knife, There smiled to him a queen. Love lit the eyes beneath her brow, His lips met hers a moment’s span; He said, ‘My heart is glad, for now I know I am a man.’ And, further on, among the corn, Another queen whose eyes made dim The very glory of the morn, Held out her hand to him. There was no time for speech or vow, He kissed it, kneeling on the sod, He said, ‘My soul is high, for now I feel I am a god.’ ❦ THE LOST TRACK When you have passed, and earth, grown dim behind you, Lies far upon the outworn verge of time, When my hand, searching, shall no longer find you In any clime; If I but dream your step, by hill or hollow, Has left some echo falling on the wind, I will arise and gird myself and follow Though I be blind. Or if, clear-sighted, I may but discover That, in the dew at dawn, your footsteps lie, Where, through long fields, the whistling of the plover Comes like a sigh; And, if they lead me down to Death’s black river, And, by the rocks, I hear the whirlpools spin, Though heart and soul may faint and body quiver I will wade in. O heart! beyond the tumult of the crossing, If there should be no sign, nor any trace, Only strange winds upon the grasses tossing And the wide space, Only eternity, with worlds to wander, A soul among the unknown souls of men, And, O my heart, no voice, no footstep yonder, What then? What then? ❦ AT A BROOKSIDE A running melody is in the noon Of grass-bound rivulet and tangled showers, Of sunlight, glancing through the cuckoo-flowers To mingle golden ripples with the tune; In the wide light my senses seem to swoon, Drugged by the monotone of rhythmic hours And voice of spring-fed watercourse that dowers This winding meadow-land with music’s boon. Caught in a shimmering net of sight and sound, And drawn, I know not whither, yet aware Am I of some soft touch, and, blown around My face, the plenitude of waving hair-- Nay, let me lie and dream this wondrous thing; My hand, one moment, held the hand of Spring! ❦ REVENANT In the dark hours I woke and heard the trees That tossed and buffeted before the blast, Straining and sighing while the gale went past; And, as a scourge whose wrath might none appease, The raindrops smote the pane and ran in seas, Gurgling against the frame; now thick and fast, And now like pebbles at the window cast By some lost spirit that could find no ease. And from the blackness of the dripping night I turned me, weary of its sodden gloom, Smiling to see the glow within the room And the red embers on the hearth alight; Then sudden ceased, and bowed my head again, Thinking of that one gravestone in the rain. ❦ TO AURELIA, WITH A PEARL NECKLACE Aurelia, think not to refuse Or scorn my gift, although These jewels must their lustre lose Upon thy neck of snow. But, if thine eyes should glance aside And deign to mark their shine, Deem them as emblems of the pride That fills this heart of mine. And if, for mine unworthy sake, The pearls neglected be, Still keep them; and the bauble make Into a rosary. And when, perchance, desiring grace, In prayer thy spirit pleads, String thou thy kisses in their place And I will tell the beads. ❦ BEYOND THE WALLS The firelight plays since dusk began To gather in the room, Beyond the pane the daylight’s span Grows to the evening gloom; But my heart is out with the gipsy man In his lair among the broom. Beside the farm both barn and stack Dark in the steading rise, Up in the loaning green, the track Along the firwood lies, Where the gipsy sits with his brows of black, And the black light in his eyes. He marks the swift owl skim the trees When twilight turns to grey, He hears the whisper up the leas Before the coming day, And the secret hours of the world he sees And the soul of night at play. His ceiling is the drooping bough, The fir-trees’ ragged limb, When from the hills the western sough Sings o’er the lowlands dim; And the polestar, hanging above the Plough, Is the lantern-flame for him. O weary roof and crowding wall That bar the scented air! O chain and key whose ceaseless thrall Lies on a world of care, There are no bolts shot in the firwood tall But the joy of life is there! O to be out when spring has drest The green moss for a bed, To roam by plain and wooded crest Till the rose-hips turn to red; And to lay me down for the last long rest, With the great sky overhead! ❦ ‘COME ON, COME UP, YE ROVERS’ Come on, come up, ye rovers Whose ships at anchor ride, The west wind stirs the clovers, And O! the world is wide: So, up with your chains as the sun goes down And out upon the tide! There drives on the Atlantic The torn scud of the rain, And lines of foam leap frantic Against the coast of Spain, Where the air is full of the souls of men Who sailed the Spanish Main. Where Rocca’s light is burning On plunging miles of sea, Eastward and eastward turning, By Crete and Tripoli, There is a spirit abroad in the wind That cries aloud to me. The coast drops low behind you, The gull swoops round the spars; Shall small men’s limits bind you Whose milestones are the stars? Whose signposts stand where Orion swings Above earth’s locks and bars? Come up, ye sons of morning, This world was built for you! Far off, Heaven’s light’s adorning The lands where dreams come true; And the Angel that sits at the Gates of the East Shall open and let you through. ❦ AN ECHO When all the world is young and apple-bloom Is rose and white upon the orchard tree, When all the threads of Spring’s ethereal loom Weave a green garment for her phantasy; That voice of youth and growth and vanished years Comes through all time, in floating cadence, still, Through mists of life and long-forgotten tears, The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill. The hidden streams in many a marshy place Their chains of little standing pools unfold, Like silver mirrors for Spring’s wanton face Tossed at her feet and framed in marigold. Hark to her footsteps down the sloping fields Dancing in measure to the music shrill, That, from its budding depth, the coppice yields, The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill. O Youth, O Time, O Change--O haunting note! When from our life we shed mortality, When all our joys and passions are remote, All that the ear could hear or eye could see; Haply, across the gulf where Time lies bound, Some shadow of a voice may reach us still, Like that long echo from enchanted ground, The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill. ❦ A YOUNG MOON A crescent hung above the trees, A sweep of fading sky; A parting shiver in the breeze, And day lies down to die. A silver curve above the murk Where weary cities slave And heart and hand are seamed with work Whose goal is but the grave. Within the young moon’s slender arm The old moon’s shadow lies, That wraith whose evanescent charm Melts back to Paradise. O’er one, o’er all, the wonder swings; A gleam sad eyes may see; A lamp that flies on hidden wings To light my love and me; A vigil-taper, lone, apart, High above field and town O’er many a spot where some poor heart Has laid its burden down. ❦ THE SOUL I laid a rose upon my loved one’s bier Beside her quiet face; A red rose, scented with the fadeless year When Love’s eyes met us in the noonday clear In a fair place. I set it very softly down to lie Amid her heavy hair; And then, methought, the Soul that hovered by Looked towards me through the dimness with a sigh As I stood there. I laid my empty world upon the pyre, Beside her open hand; A world that life had stocked with youth and fire, Fortune and fame and wealth and world’s desire, And strength to stand. She knew each aim, fulfilled or unfulfilled, That ever had been mine; And then, methought, the Soul above her willed Towards me through the dusk, a whisper stilled, Whisper or sign? I laid my heart upon my loved one’s breast, Beside her silent heart; Sorrow and vigil shared, the worst, the best, All, all it held she knew who lay at rest, Till we did part. Ah me! it seemed as if her pale lips shook With pity as she lay, As though she wore that unforgotten look; And then, methought, the Soul came down and took My heart away. ❦ THE BALLAD OF HAKON Across the stretching reed-beds The dusk and twilight flee, And thick the sea-fog covers The roaring Northern Sea. O Hakon, grey-eyed Hakon With tawny yellow hair, Why are you standing all alone? Why are you waiting there? Across the stretching reed-beds, Amid the falling light, Comes tripping fair maid Mettelil Among the bents to-night. ‘O Mettelil, you have tarried, The dark is drawing on, Were you with young Herr Axel This long long hour that’s gone? I watched him by the reed-beds, I saw him pause and wait, Till twilight came I looked for you-- O Mettelil, it is late! Goodbye, goodbye, Maid Mettelil, The raven cries o’erhead, A stormy wind rolls in from sea, Mettelil, my heart is dead!’ * * * * * Across the roaring ocean The plunging war-ships go, And Hakon, armed to battle, Sails out to meet the foe. Where’er the press is thickest, Upon the prow he stands; Around him fly the arrows Shot by the foeman’s hands. The air is wild with shrieking Of those that fight and drown. The blows fall thick round Hakon But none can strike him down. ‘O Death that I am seeking, Why com’st thou not to me? I would my heart lay cold and still Beneath the rolling sea!’ At home sits fair Maid Mettelil, The tears are in her eyes, And, ere a month is come and gone, In kirkyard ground she lies. And sadly home comes Hakon, Weary his face has grown, All through the night he wanders Beside the kirkyard lone. ‘Mettelil, the leaves are falling, The north wind whistles free, The chill mist wraps me in its shroud, Come back, come back to me!’ Between the glimmering headstones, Beneath the branches black, A form comes quickly gliding And stands at Hakon’s back. ‘Turn round, turn round now, Hakon, And hold me to your breast And touch my cold lips once with yours, For then my soul can rest.’ She wound her white arms round him, She touched his tawny hair, ‘O Hakon, hold me faster, My grave is opening there!’ He held her close and closer, Lower he bent his head-- An icy wind swept o’er his heart, One kiss, and he was dead. ❦ IGNIS FATUUS ‘Little Goblin at the fire, Have you found the Heart’s Desire? Have you seen it in your flitting by night or by noon?’ ‘O it may be in the swell Of the mist-wreath up the fell, Or the long clouds trailing at the tail o’ the moon.’ ‘Little Goblin in the cold, Have you seen it on the wold, Where the winds with flying voices run free as they rave?’ ‘O it may be in the sigh Of a time that is gone by Or the long grass growing by the brink o’ the grave.’ ‘Little Goblin in the trees, Looking down the darkening leas, Have you seen no golden country where the heart finds rest?’ ‘O, it may be where the night Comes to quench the flaming light, In the far lands lying through the fire o’ the west.’ ❦ THE LITTLE NIGHTJAR When the moon is on the wall And her shadow on the door, When darkness on the orchard lies like sea upon the shore, The apple-boughs are silver with the silence swimming through, With the halo of the dew; Hark! what little shrieking nightjar ever gave so soft a call When the moon is on the wall? When the moon is on the wall There’s a sound among the trees; O master on the settle, with the sheep dog at your knees, At the little nightjar’s voice does he stir to wake and growl? Does the hooting of the owl Make him prick his ears and quiver, make his hackles rise and fall When the moon is on the wall? When the moon is on the wall And the fire has sunk and died, The maid sits still to listen for the lad that lurks outside-- Good master, dozing o’er your pipe, how fast is slumber’s thrall When the moon is on the wall! * * * * * O! but ’tis strange how shadows move that lay so still, so still, And stranger yet how close they draw before the night grows chill, And the little nightjar shrieks no more from out the elm-tree tall, And the moon has left the wall. ❦ POSSESSION She has laid her snare And her eyes hold midnight’s sign, Like pools in a moonless land Lit up by the stars that shine; With her burning hair She has bound you, strand by strand, She holds your heart in her hand, But your soul is mine. She has set her feet In a path where roses blow, She plays with your heart, the sea Plays thus with its dead below, And the game is sweet; But your soul is here with me, O Man; it is yours and free-- But it cannot go. We shall stand, we two, And her lips shall hold the sum Of notes in a syren’s tone, But mine shall be closed and dumb; And, the whole day through, Shall her eyes allure your own, But I will stand like a stone And your soul shall come. ❦ AIRLIE KIRK A little spot of tangled ground Set in the folding hill, From curlew-haunted braes the sound Of flitting voices shrill; The high October sky unrolled Above the plough-land’s crest, Rank mallows by the hearthstone cold With the field-mouse for guest; Gudeman, it is long since the fire went out And time that we went to rest. The naked rafters overhead Stand up like withered hands; I mind me when the roof-tree spread Where now the burdock stands. The threshold’s deep between the whin And fast in briers twined; Where little feet ran out and in The track is hard to find; Gudeman, it is long since we closed the door And left what it held behind. Down in the strath the kirk is set Upon the running burn; It’s many roads we’ve trod, and yet It’s here we must return. Old lights along the fields are laid, Old shadows lie as deep, But new eyes watch them as they fade Among the grazing sheep, And it’s time we went down to Airlie kirk And laid ourselves down to sleep. ❦ THE FLUTE PLAYER In the window’s shade ere the dusk has spread Over plain and hill, And the tulip-flowers in the garden-bed Have a glory still; When the world of toil and the world of ease Are alike at rest; I can hear him play in the belt of trees Where the fields slope west. And the notes run high and the notes run low In a rambling stream; Like an old voice calling from long ago, A dream of a dream. His eyes are afire with the secret light Of a land unknown, And the tree-stems echo his footsteps’ flight Upon moss and stone. There is no more staying nor rest for me When his flute is heard, It is out, out, out to the melody Without sign or word. The lamps may be lit in the shuttered room And the door be fast, Or a long day faint with a summer’s bloom On the hedges cast; Let the path be winding in crowded ways Or in woods profound, It is all forgotten when once he plays And I hear the sound. Though foot may ache and though heart may fail And the brain grow numb, It is follow, follow the flying trail Till the flute is dumb. For life was a breath of the early spring, When at first he came, And, now that the harvest is ripening, It is still the same; And it well may be when the last dusk falls On my little day, When the last sun colours the crumbling walls Of the house of clay; I shall hear him playing beyond the hill Where the fields slope west, And follow him on till his steps are still And the flute at rest. ❦ IN LOWER EGYPT Above the ancient waters of the Nile The mists of earth and dusk of heaven meet, Where, slow along the bank, the camel-file Moves, like a passing dream, on velvet feet; And, as the choral voices of a dream, The night sounds play their chant upon the stream. The crane stands silent; all the fields exhale A band of fertile damp along the shore; The same moon, red and low behind the veil, That lit Old Egypt, lights for me once more The mirage of a kingdom that has been, And, through the mist, the shadow of a queen. Rise up, O Royal Egypt, from the dusk With all the weight of tresses on thine head Heavy with golden nets and faint with musk, Girt with the lotus from the river-bed, And eyes that once, with their devouring fire, Lit for men’s hearts a sacrificial pyre. O Serpent, by a serpent slain at last! Come through the vapourous fields with garments trailed, Embroidered with the lotus-leaf, made fast With gems; with green and Tyrian purple veiled; Turn but thy face, that I may see and know The witchcraft throned in Egypt long ago. There is a sound of flute and wavering reed, The measured throb of falling oars that beat, A tall prow swimming noiseless through the weed, The shifting glimmer of a silken sheet; And, from the dim luxuriance drawn nigh, The feet of Royal Egypt passing by. And now, her foot is set upon the barge, The flutes play up, the fans ply to and fro, The ripples, dying at the river-marge, Curl, as the prow swings out upon the flow, And its retreating music and its state Leave, once again, the dusk inviolate: Only, across the tillage lying low, There comes the creak of well-wheels working late. ❦ WINTER AND SPRING O wet green winter grass, Sodden and chill with rain, There are some footsteps that will never pass Along the fields again. O fresh blue air of Spring, When lights lie long upon the slope, There are two eyes to which you cannot bring Your lights of youth and hope. O white syringa-tree, Year in, year out, below your feet There is one heart to all eternity That will not stir nor beat. ❦ A TRYST Here, where our two ways part, That, for a little time, ran side by side, That now must turn and turning must divide, Look, look and see how straight through Eden’s heart, Unbarred, unbroken, lay the double track; The dark has fallen and the sun has set, The world lies round us, limitless, and yet I will come back. Across the plain of life There stretches this enchanted forest’s band, Haunted of crying voices, stirred and fanned, Swept through by airs whose breath, I know, is rife In that far bourn wherein no man may lack His sure fulfilment; look on leaf and flower-- In the dim dawn of some unnumbered hour I will come back. So meet me here: good-bye; The light that lies on all this golden time Shall burn on the horizon and shall climb Like some vast city’s glow into the sky, Unquenched by darkness or the cloudy wrack; In flesh or spirit--which, it matters not, --Remembered or unlooked for or forgot-- I will come back. ❦ THE CALL The stars above the apple boughs, Like distant gazers, stand aloof, Watching the white walls of the house, Watching the room below the roof. There is the night-hush over all Beneath the crescent hanging low, And, through the dark, there comes a call From hidden lips whose voice I know. And every root and stem and leaf, Sends out its scented breath to me; The fox is waiting like a thief, The bird is watching from the tree. And, in the room below the thatch, While the white house in sleep is drowned, Up to the open window-latch There come strange whispers from the ground. * * * * * I will arise and steal upon the stair, Where the tall clock counts up Time’s gathered hoard Telling its numbers to the empty air, My naked feet upon the creaking board. Out, out across the threshold I will go Into the night, the sighing, luring night, And all the eyes above, around, below, Like lamps upon my path shall peer and glow Till thorn and thicket are alive with light. I will lie down upon my mother Earth, Heart to her heart and soul upon her soul, Until the sounds that in the night have birth Above my head their harmonies unroll; And over me the little pattering feet Shall come and go; and every bush and tree Shall send from out its shades a cloudy fleet Of flitting wings whose softly-thronging beat Shall neither stay nor turn because of me. ❦ TIME AND SPACE ‘How far, O friend, are you and I apart While all these wastes of sea between us roll?’ ‘So far, that now, the beating of your heart Has merged into the flutter of your soul.’ ‘How far, my dear, has your hand gone from mine In these long days and months since they have met?’ ‘So far that memory has forgot to pine, Believing that its touch is present yet.’ ‘And O! how far, when night has fallen between, Shall we be set in all the years untold?’ ‘So near that you, when trouble’s blast is keen, Shall feel my shade between you and the cold.’ ❦ A TRANSLATION (FROM THE GERMAN) 1 In the valley with moonlight streaming, In depths of the forest free, An old and forgotten dreaming Is weaving its spell round me. 2 Dim columns, ghostlike and lonely, Range darkly on yonder mound, To the bat and the owlet only Familiar trysting ground. 3 From the rocks come memories ringing, The west wind whispers and calls, And towers of gold are springing From ruin and crumbling walls. 4 In a haze, through cloudland blowing, Is wafted the old love--dead; She draws me towards her, glowing With radiance of youth that’s fled. 5 Like bliss from a far past carried Comes softly her whispered vow; And what in the years lay buried Stands living before me now. 6 Then, soft as it came, the vision Is gone; from the forest space, Where we kissed in the woods Elysian Has faded her vanished face. 7 The golden dreamland of wonder Has fled on the passing wind, The desolate walls up yonder Are all that remain behind. 8 And, under the branches sweeping, I walk in the dawn alone, For day on the hills is creeping And the glory of dreams has flown. ❦ GLAMOUR It seems as though Spring’s light and waving leaves Were part of youth alone; As though the shadows, dancing by the eaves In shifting web on wall and window thrown, Forgot how nature weaves. Still throbs the chorus of the birds content, Still, clouded with the may, Cream-white, the hedges trail their load of scent, Winding along the border of the way, The same, yet different. It seems as though the pear-tree’s bridal veil Had lost its fluttered lace; The butterflies that dart their splendour frail Through sun and blossom in their endless chase On duller pinions sail. What joy has faded out from field and tree? What glamour from the air? Are not the cowslips grouped as cunningly, Whispering together like young maidens fair To wait the errant bee? All, all the hues that Springtime ever wore Return as fair again; The ribes hangs its tassels as of yore, Pungent and sweet beneath the dropping rain At every cottage door. But what is lost? Nay, naught from nature’s flow Of magic infinite; Unchanged the earth, the skies of long ago-- Yet, once we saw them through the morning light And now the sun is low. ❦ LENORE IN THE OLIVEYARDS (FOR MUSIC) When, stooping from the walls of Heaven, the night Lets down on earth her star-bespangled hair, And all the pavement of the winding stair Is grey beneath a waning crescent’s light, Look down upon the planted olive-trees, A maze of twisted stem and silver leaf; This is the message sighing on the breeze ‘Joy sails on flying wings and youth is brief.’ (HE SINGS) ‘Come down, come down, the little Loves are peeping Between the stems and shadows on the grass And all the prying eyes of earth are sleeping, The sands are running in the hour-glass; The red anemone a crown shall weave you, Be-jewelled with the dew and spiked with flame, And all the little waiting Loves receive you Beneath the branches whispering your name. Come down, Lenore; the cock will soon be crowing, The noisy birds awake that now are dumb; Can new hours match the moments that are going? Who knows? Not you nor I, Lenore. Come.’ ❦ NEW YEAR’S EVE Go far from me, ye brood Of little Hates and Sins who thus intrude, Hide with the perished leaf below the mould; The Old Year’s shade is dim-- A touch, no more, upon the round world’s rim-- And all the sky a-glitter in the cold. Stand closer, Faith and Truth And the long Patience that outlasts its youth, The hour is at the change; and, drawing near, There is a footstep’s sound, A measured fall upon the iron ground, And the earth, spell-bound, waits the coming year. Come from your graves, O Lost! And stand, this once, beside me in the frost And turn, once more, your eyes upon my own; Leave, for the past’s old sake, Some look, some comrade’s sign for me to take, That, in the tossings of the time unknown, I may not be alone. ❦ THREE POEMS FOR CHILDREN I. THE LILACS The fields and garden-borders Are bright because of spring, The clouds of guelder roses Are out and blossoming; And close beside the gateway, Tall, upon either hand, Their green robes shot with sunlight, Like queens, the Lilacs stand. And one is crowned with purple, And one is crowned with white; Look! where the wind is passing They bow to left and right, And trails of scent they scatter As royal gifts to all, To every creature dwelling Within the garden-wall. O queen in plumes of purple! Throw me a breath of joy, You are all grand and glorious And I a little boy; But ask the lovely lady With white plumes in her hair To scent my heart with sweetness, To make it pure and fair. ❦ II. DREAMS This is a thing that no one knows; When every hedge in summer blows With twining vetch and brier-rose, When every bud has burst its sheath, The white convolvulus’ wreath Is hung with blossoms underneath. They are so faint and pale and shy They almost look as if they’d die Before the sun has left the sky. What children, even if they tried, Could ever guess that, far inside Each bell, a little sprite may hide? And who’d suppose that, in the night, When no one’s there to see the sight, They all unclose their trumpets white? And, when the world is fast asleep, Out of the flowers these fairies creep And down into the lanes they peep. They see the little tinker-boys Who have no home, no nurse, no toys, And O! so few of children’s joys. And, as they watch them lying there With weary heads and feet all bare, They hover round them in the air; Such lovely dreams for them they make That their tired feet no longer ache, And they are happy when they wake. What do they show them? Glorious things; Whole palaces of queens and kings And birds that fly on golden wings. And silent waters, winding far Through groves of trees where angels are, Lit by the trail of one blue star. And, when they wake, these visions stay To help them on along their way And keep them cheerful all the day. _You_ want such dreams, you say to me? --Ah, if these wonders you would see A tinker’s child you’d have to be, To wander far and wander wide From New Year’s Day to Christmastide, And then--you’d have to sleep outside. But now the white moon walks the sky, So, from your beds, thank God on high, Because so soft and safe you lie. --And yet, some day, however blest, You too may weary of your rest And think, perhaps, that dreams are best. ❦ III. THE SNOW WITCH When all the world is under snow, And the wind, crying in the north, Sends its wild choir of voices forth, Now shrieking loud, now falling low, The Snow Witch with her ice-crowned hair Is hurling snowflakes everywhere. Her garments are the Northern Lights Beyond the bare arms of the trees; And, from her height, she looks and sees Earth’s towns and hamlets lit o’ nights; And sighs, mayhap, far up above, For one poor hearth alight with love. ❦ THE VALLEY OF THE KINGS Northward upon the stream our boat is creeping, The sky above is pearl, the river pearl, And soon will coming night her shades unfurl Like some great bird on stealthy pinions sweeping, As the effulgence chills And young stars stand above the Theban hills Within whose fastnesses the kings are sleeping. To them the roll of time is but a dreaming, To them the lotus, mouldered on their breasts, Still dripping from the Nile, in beauty rests, As when the mourners broke those blossoms streaming And shook the silver shower, The pallid glory of the royal flower Fit guerdon for a royal spirit deeming. To-night it seems that peak and rugged boulder Stand o’er their soundless dwellings for a sign; Surely some cipher of a hand divine Is graven yonder on the mountain’s shoulder, Hidden in shadows vast That melt to greyness as the boat slips past With the slow current, and the sky grows colder. Mayhap, the phantom of a past endeavour, Born of that ancient striving to the light, Has wrapt the secret sepulchres with might And haunts the valley of the Nile for ever; Breathing eternally A note of immortality to be, Resounding ceaselessly and dying never. While, round the sleepers, sounds of feet have broken The stillness that encompassed them so long, And the loud voices of an idle throng Within those halls of death have idly spoken; While sacrilegious hands Have loosed about them the funereal bands To rob their bosoms of life’s symbolled token, From one unchanging hope can none divide them, Although its outward emblem be despoiled; Though silence and the peace for which they toiled A world whose ways they knew not has denied them, That hope its wings has spread Within the rifled strongholds of the dead As the wings shadowed on the wall beside them. Changeless, unaltered still the soul’s desire is, Fixed as the hills whose heights we leave behind To merge in fading colours undefined, Purple and amethyst and rose and iris, And, to the dripping oar, The dusk is closing down along the shore, The brooding dusk of Isis and Osiris. ❦ THE LOWLAND PLOUGHMAN The team is stabled up, my lass, The dew lies thick and grey; Beyond the world, the long green light Clings to the edge of day. By farm and fold the work is still, Their breath the beanflowers yield, And, in the dusk, the gowans stand Like moons along the field. A little ghost alone, my dear, The night moth flitters by; Beside the hedge I’m lonely too, Although no ghost am I. Leave the gudeman to mind the hearth, The wife to mend the fire, Nor heed the lads whose voices come In mirth from yard and byre. The evening star is up, my dear, And oh! the night is sweet, Come through the heavy drops that bend The grasses at your feet. For I am young and I am strong And well can work for two, And ’tis a year, come Martinmas, I’ve loved no lass but you. And, in a year, come Martinmas, Before the fields are sown, I will not need to walk nor stray Between the lights alone. For then the cot beyond the farm A happy man will hold, A wife who wears a golden ring To match her hair of gold. ❦ LATE FEBRUARY Blue vistas of an avenue Range, line on line, against the sky; Away, beyond, the low hills lie To frame this landscape in with blue. And clear and far the light is spread As though earth smiled to feel the stir, The first faint thrill that moves in her Who, all these months, has lain as dead. Fresh year, fresh sky, fresh hope--and yet A sigh is in the lengthening days; Between the trunks the blackbird strays Whose long-drawn note is called regret. White snowdrops, close among the roots, Scored at your drooping hearts with green, What scents from springs that once have been Cling, like old griefs, among your shoots? Yes, like old griefs; and we, who view, Year after year, life’s deathless round, Feel their spent throb in every wound And know that they are deathless too. ❦ FROM A TRAIN-WINDOW Where, struck with sunset light, the shining rails Converge upon our track, The smoky canopy of London veils The distant heaven with black. Behind us, dropping further in our wake, The lessening city lies, And all the landscape has begun to take A glamour from the skies. Scarcely a cloud the sun’s effulgence shields From evening’s stealthy hand; But half the crimson disc beyond the fields Stares on the level land. Through the moist meadows, broad on either side, Merged to one dusky plain, There sounds, the breathing stillness to divide, The clanking of the train. And cooling silence, like a wave of balm, After the city’s heat, Is spread around us, odourous and calm, With foam of meadowsweet. In the damp ditches ranging from the line Towards the lighted west Tall spires of blossom, dimly white, define A sweetness manifest. And now the last red rim is vanishing, Leaving the sky-line cold, And mists, transfigured, to the grasses cling Like gossamer of gold. The dusk descends; between us and the town The gliding miles increase; And on our souls there settles softly down An all-enfolding peace. ❦ POEMS OF INDIA I. IN A MANGO-TOPE[1] [1] Grove. Between the sky-line and my feet The stretch of lemon-grass is sere, And, from some hidden village near, There comes a single tom-tom’s beat. High noon is grey on bush and tree, The plain runs on without a change, As though, for once, the eye could range Through time into eternity. And round me, in the mango-tope, No sound disturbs the stillness wide But the horse tethered at my side Cropping the herbage of the slope. All human stress has died away, As if life, pausing, held apart, As if this vain world’s fretting heart Stood still to hear the silence pray. In many a mud-walled haunt of man To-night the screaming conch will blare --God knows what forces throng the air Above these plains of Hindoostan. From under every banyan-tree Whose roots entwine the reddened stone Carved with some god that lurks alone Beneath the aërial canopy, From every grove within the land Whose shadows hide a crumbling shrine There seems to come some unknown sign, Some touch of an undreamed-of hand. And where, without the village wall, Some woman’s soul went up in fire And the thick reek above the pyre Hung in mid-heaven like a pall, Around that altar in the plain, Hid though it be in jungle grass, Forgotten as the seasons pass, There clings the majesty of pain; The life-through-death that has not ceased, Which cannot drown in Lethe’s flood, That sign of sacrificial blood That stains and glorifies the East. O land so near the veil, where life Is lived beside the shore of death, Which treads the rose to taste its breath And wraps the garland round the knife, Beneath the chastening of thy sun, By tree and plain and jungle-shrine, Whose soul through silence touches thine, May know that life and death are one! ❦ II. NIGHT IN THE PLAINS The plains lie in the furnace of the year And sleep, repenting, hides from men his boon, And flagging life strains fitfully to hear The tardy footstep of the slow monsoon. All day the stones, the dust upon the plain, From never-changing skies the heat have drawn, And darkness brings no solace in its train --The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn. There is no rest; from out the heavy skies The burning planets hang; now near, now far, Shrilly the women’s voices fall and rise, Crying to Kali in the hot bazaar. There is no nightwatch but will end at last, There is no vigil but will pass away, The time wears on, the moon is setting fast --The breeze will rise an hour before the day. Life crouches low and fear is with the strong, On every side the crawling time to mark, There sound, like fevered pulses all night long, The tom-toms, throbbing in the stifling dark; A puff of odour from the jasmine-tree Comes by the well across the parching lawn, See where the hosts of heaven stand patiently, --The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn. The sick men toss, the breathless air is still; Along the ward one slow, soft whisper falls, Where Death’s grim angel waits to have his will Within the shadow of the whitewashed walls; And women’s steadfast eyes are fixed upon The lurking shape whose hand they keep at bay, Stand up, O souls of men, fight on, fight on! --The breeze will rise an hour before the day. Is that a shiver in the tamarind, Or some awakening bird that stirs the leaves? Turn, turn to sleep, there comes a breath of wind And mainas talk by the verandah-eaves; A little space to sleep and to forget Before the tyrant sun begins his sway, Ere in the heavens his brazen throne be set --God give us strength to face the coming day. ❦ III. THE RESTING-PLACE Brother, beside the jungle track, thy stone Half raised, a nameless, carven slab, I see, Half hidden by the tangle, secretly; Where roots join twisted hands above thy head, Where scarce a footfall passes save my own, Nor white man’s tread. I have been wandering since noon was high, And now, because the evening comes apace, Thy tomb shall be my rest a little space; From thy long-vanished hand this loan I take, Across the years this hospitality That thou dost make. The jungle has grown over thee, O friend, For, scarce a furlong from thy buried dust, Once stood a city where the great and just Built high the parapet and mosque and dome, Where now the creeper flings its tasselled end Around their home. How many centuries have come and gone Since first thou sawest, with awakened eyes, The green-scarfed houris proffering Paradise; Since thy young cresent moon, athwart this shade, Son of the Prophet, has in silver shone Where thou art laid! Mayhap, thy spirit loved what mine loves best; The tread of horses and the pride of life, The jungle’s magic and the joy of strife, The long nights spent beneath the spangled sky-- O dead Mahommedan! Thy passing guest By these accepts from thee this meed of rest _Salaam, O Bhai!_[2] [2] Brother. ❦ IV. EVENING IN THE OPIUM FIELDS As pageants, marshalled by a masterhand, So are the poppy-fields; in rose and red And foam of white and livid purple spread, Mile upon mile, they stretch on either hand; Dark by the well the heavy mangoes stand, Where labouring oxen pace with dusty tread And dripping water-skins climb up to shed Their gush upon the irrigated land. So cool the labyrinthine channels run, Flooding the grey stems with a maze of gold; For, as he nears his end, the dying sun Does all the plain within his arms enfold; Beneath the mangoe-trees long shadows creep, Like sleep’s tread falling through the flowers of sleep. ❦ V. ‘GOD IS GREAT’ “_Allāh hu akhbar! Allāh hu akhbar! La ilahā illalāh!_” Aslant upon the dusty way The little mosque has thrown its shade, A streak of blue at noontime laid, To lengthen tardily with day; And now the hour has come to pray, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’ He stands upon the outer wall, His hand upraised, his sunken eyes Look westward to where Mecca lies; Ho! Islam’s men, it is the call To evening prayer; he cries to all, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’ Close to the wall below his feet A pomegranate, against the white, Flaunts, green and scarlet, in the light, Now glaring day has lost its heat; Ho! Islam’s men in field and street, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’ Dark figure, seeing inwardly Through evening mist and evening balms To Mecca, white among the palms, Across the rolling leagues of sea, At thy long cry they bend the knee, Soldier and prince and clod-- ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’ Spread at thy feet, around, beneath, The world wears on amid its tears, And few and evil are their years Fighting their way from birth to death, Soldier and prince and clod-- What shining city canst thou see, Far off, beyond the flood of fate, Where none are poor or desolate That thou dost cry eternally? There comes no answer, early, late, But ‘God is great, God is great, There is no god but God!’ “_Allāh hu akhbar! Allāh hu akhbar! La ilahā illalāh!_” ❦ VI. A MAHOMMEDAN GRAVEYARD Within the wall their graves are still and white, Their feet turned ever southward; all the dust Is thick in moonlight, and the banyans thrust Long roots into the glory of the night; Hanging like dusky tresses overhead, Where, by the highway’s side, lie Islam’s dead. Who sighs, who prays one prayer as he perceives, So near his passing foot, that township set With crumbling slab and little minaret Below the lattice of the banyan leaves? Who knows one name in all that silent throng Whose hands have ceased from work so long--so long? Each heart round which eternal shadow sleeps Has spent the hour that we have all to spend, Has waited for the coming of the end, And now, who thinks, who minds, who cares, who weeps? Who tells us how he faced the figure grim? ’Tis words to us--it was the world to him. How shall we nerve our hearts to bear that sight, The long horizon of advancing dark, That dread oblivion with no lamp nor spark Of love’s remembrance to make soft the night? What is there but the dull relief of tears That weakness wrings from us throughout our years? No, never that. Who stands and fights his pain Can still endure. But unto him who lies And seeks to ease him with his coward cries Relief is not nor any rest again; And who can tighten up the string anew That gives beneath the straining of the screw? O brothers! turn and look where courage stands Serene and still with never-changing eye, Courage to be forgot--to live--to die, Stand up like men and clench your failing hands; What man could dare to face the land unknown With but a coward’s heart to call his own? ❦ VII. CHERRY-BLOSSOM AT DAGSHAI Far down below this range to-day A waft of morning pureness fills The blue ravines that stretch away To lose themselves among the hills. And, like a shrouded diadem, Beyond the peaks set row on row, Looms northern India’s mystic gem, The crown of Himalayan snow. These lower heights which close us in A more ethereal jewel wear, There seems, where sheer descents begin, A radiant mirage in the air, For, with its veil of rose and foam A-quiver like transparent wings, To the stern ramparts of its home The wild hill cherry-blossom clings. Own sister to the clouds of dawn, Each magic tree o’erhangs the brink, Its slender stems like lattice drawn, Dark, on a fairyland of pink. Three days agone no sign was ours, No voice to cry the coming hope That autumn’s wave would break in flowers And roll in torrents down the slope; But as, when darkness rends apart, A shaft of glory pierces through, Joy’s hand has pierced the mountain’s heart And all the barren world is new. ❦ VIII. ‘WITH MILITARY HONOURS’ Take down the helmet from its dusty board, Lay down his sword Upon the flag that drapes his narrow bed; Pace, horses, with your load, Down the white road, Beneath the glare by Eastern sunlight shed. And you, ye passing men of other race, Make way, give place Before a freight more sacred than the gun; Dark eyes of each degree Look up and see That well-known pageant passing in the sun. With clank of chain and wheels the carriage goes, But his repose Nor sound of arms nor tramp of horse can dim; Forward; the dead-march rolls, Keep we our souls Strong for the last that love can do for him. Flowers, lie soft upon his weary breast, He is at rest, The fight he could but lose is over now; Lie light, ye heartsease bands, Like parting hands Laying a last caress upon his brow. Asters, twine purple like a velvet pall, Cry out to all, Ye heavy grave-flowers, of a new-made grief; A body striving sore That strives no more; His night was long but daylight brought relief. O trumpet voice of flaming marigold! Tell out with bold And certain tongue how great a heart lies here, Until the Trumpet’s tone Shall drown your own And that dear head upon its time-worn bier Shall wake and hear. ❦ IX. THE DISTANT TEMPLE Branch of the henna-tree, Blown in a temple garden far away In that unfading East across the sea, O for one waft of perfume from your spray To cheer the heart in me! Flower of the champa white, Sown by the evening wind where dusky feet Have worn the temple pavement with their beat, I would lie down and give my soul to-night Could I but breathe your sweet! Note of the temple gong At sunset clanging through the dusty gold, Since last I heard your nightly music told It seems as though the months were ages long And joy itself grown old. Heart of the East, my heart, Laden with your remembrance, may not rest; The very winds that blow from east to west From out that far horizon-line, impart Your whisper, trebly blest. Sound of the temple drum, Like distant beating of the march of fate, Through the long years your voice is never dumb, Calling, at sundown, from the temple gate To me, who cannot come. ❦ _Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._ Transcriber’s Notes Possible printer’s errors were generally retained, including odd and inconsistent hyphenations, spellings, and punctuations. _Italics_, =Bolds=, and +Small Caps+ have been marked as so. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of their respective stanza. Where missing in certain poems, the fleuron ❦ symbol/illustration has been silently added to the end. These poems have had their individual indentation or stanzas standardized within each poem: The Lost Track, The Soul, New Year’s Eve, With Military Honours. Quotation marks have been added to the 2nd stanza of Time and Space: ‘How far, my dear, has your hand gone from mine In these long days and months since they have met?’ In the 5th stanza of The Valley of the Kings, the final comma was kept instead of replacing it with a period. The section number of God is Great has been changed to “V.” to match the Table of Contents. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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