Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A SABBATH DAY; IN FIVE WATCHES, by JOHN DRINKWATER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A SABBATH DAY; IN FIVE WATCHES, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: You were three men and women two
Last Line: The quiet festival of sleep.
Subject(s): Holy Family; Sabbath; Sunday


I. MORNING
(TO M. C.)
You were three men and women two,
And well I loved you, all of you,
And well we kept the Sabbath day.
The bells called out of Malvern town,
But never bell could call us down
As we went up the hill away.

Was it a thousand years ago
Or yesterday that men were so
Zealous of creed and argument?
Here wind is brother to the rain,
And the hills laugh upon the plain,
And the old brain-gotten feuds are spent.

Bring lusty laughter, lusty jest,
Bring each the song he names the best,
Bring eager thought and speech that's keen,
Tell each his tale and tell it out,
The only shame be prudent doubt,
Bring bodies where the lust is clean.

II. FULL DAY
(TO K. D.)
WE moved along the gravelled way
Between the laurels and the yews,
Some touch of old enchantment lay
About us, some remembered news
Of men who rode among the trees
With burning dreams of Camelot,
Whose names are beauty's litanies,
As Galahad and Launcelot.

We looked along the vaulted gloom
Of boughs unstripped of winter's bane,
As for some pride of scarf and plume
And painted shield and broidered rein,
And through the cloven laurel walls
We searched the darkling pines and pale
Beech-boles and woodbine coronals,
As for the passing of the Grail.

But Launcelot no travel keeps,
For brother Launcelot is dead,
And brother Galahad he sleeps
This long while in his quiet bed,
And we are all the knights that pass
Among the yews and laurels now.
They are but fruit among the grass,
And we but fruit upon the bough.

No coloured blazon meets us here
Of all that courtly company;
Elaine is not, nor Guenevere,
The dream is but of dreams that die.
But yet the purple violet lies
Beside the golden daffodil,
And women strong of limb and wise
And fierce of blood are with us still.

And never through the woodland goes
The Grail of that forgotten quest,
But still about the woodland flows
The sap of God made manifest
In boughs that labour to their time,
And birds that gossip secret things,
And eager lips that seek to rhyme
The latest of a thousand springs.

III. DUSK
(TO E. S. V.)
WE come from the laurels and daffodils
Down to the homestead under the fell,
We've gathered our hunger upon the hills,
And that is well.

Howbeit to-morrow gives or takes,
And leads to barren or flowering ways,
We've a linen cloth and wheaten cakes,
For which be praise.

Here in the valley at lambing-time
The shepherd folk of their watching tell
While the shadows up to the beacon climb,
And that is well.
Let be what may when we make an end
Of the laughter and labour of all our days
We've men to friend and women to friend,
For whom be praise.

IV. EVENSONG
(TO B. M.)
COME, let us tell it over,
Each to each by the fireside,
How that earth has been a swift adventure for us,
And the watches of the day as a gay song and a right song,
And now the traveller wind has found a bed,
And the sheep crowd under the thorn.

Good was the day and our travelling,
And now there is evensong to sing.

Night, and along the valleys
Watch the eyes of the homesteads.
The dark hills are very still and still are the stars.
Patiently under the ploughlands the wheat moves and the barley.
The secret hour of love is upon the sky,
And our thought in praise is aflame.

Sing evensong as well we may
For our travel upon this Sabbath day.
Earth, we have known you truly,
Heard your mutable music,
Have been your lovers and felt the savour of you,
And you have quickened in us the blood's fire and the heart's fire.
We have wooed and striven with you and made you ours
By the strength sprung out of your loins.

Lift the latch on its twisted thong,
And an end be made of our evensong.

V. NIGHT
(TO H. S. S.)
THE barriers of sleep are crossed
And I alone am yet awake,
Keeping another Pentecost
For that new visitation's sake
Of life descending on the hills
In blackthorn bloom and daffodils.

At peace upon my pillow lain
I celebrate the spirit come
In spring's immutable youth again
Across the lands of Christendom;
I hear in all the choral host
The coming of the Holy Ghost.
The sacrament of bough and blade,
Of populous folds and building birds
I take, till now an end is made
Of praise and ceremonial words,
And I too turn myself to keep
The quiet festival of sleep.





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