William Golding
From his 1934 published book 'Poems'
‘The Phoenix’
The phoenix rose again and flew
With crest and plume and pinion
In splendour from grey ashes flashing
Like a jewel turned beneath the sun.
In cities and in palaces,
Or toiling through the hot dumb sand
Bare-footed in the barren hills,
Men saw- and would not understand.
But some there were among the fields
That let the swerving plough jolt on
And stood and gazed against the light
Through wide eyes filled with tears as bright,
Until the burning bird was gone.
Oh Phoenix! Did they hear as I
The agony, the lonely cry
Of mateless, mateless, mateless Beauty,
Echoing in the desert sky?
‘Winged Horse’
Oh Pegasus, see him, Pegasus up in the night-
Beautiful sight in the solitude as he wheels
Flashing bright as a jewel in the upper light
Coltish for joy of the wide sky, kicking his heels!
But here, down here, my solitudes are dim-
Oh might I rise on his sunny wings for flight
In fields of crimson above the sea's rich rim.
Where day still wrestles with the angel of night!
Oh might I as Pegasus dive and wheel,
Freely shake hands with the laughing stars, and run
As free of the lively air as a bird may feel
In ways of thunder, about the blazing sun!
‘Song of the Flowers at the Land's End’
Darkness sits beneath the sea,
The sun is worn, the earth is cold,
And we are wild with mystery,
So young we be, and oh! So old.
An echo haunts the busy hours
Of all but recollected song
Sung soft among the ancient flowers
So long agone, so long, so long.
How often have we in our pain
Swayed to the 'Why?' but moments give
Faint answer that it must remain
Most sweet and terrible to live.
Darkness hovers on the sea,
The sun is set, the earth lies cold,
And we are wild with mystery,
So young we be, and ho! So old.
‘Mazed with Breakers’
Could I go out by the open door
And walk to the setting sun
By dark night or star-light
Till seven days were done,
Could I track down this evening
To heather and the sea
And hear dark waters moaning
Ah Christ! If that could be!
Surely heather were soft and sweet,
Surely peace would creep
Out of the looming sea with dusk,
And the waves would let me sleep.
The sea is roaring in my blood,
Crooning a wild tune.
I can no more say 'nay' to her
Than the tide to the master-moon.
‘Mr. Pope’
Mr. Pope walked in the park-
Trim rows of flowers
Embroider'd the well-ordered dark
Where marched the marshalled hours.
The trees stood silent, two by two
Pagodas lifted up their heads
From neatly weeded laurel-groves
And well-spaced flower-beds.
Then down a quiet gravel path-
For Mr. Pope eschewed the sod-
The gentleman pursued his way
To raise his hat to Mr. God.
‘Dear sir,’ he said, ‘I must confess
This is a chastely ordered land,
But one thing mars its loveliness,
The stars are rather out of hand’-
‘If they would dance a minuet
Instead of roaming wild and free
Or stand in rows all trim and neat
How exquisite the sky would be!’