Poems by Alfred Noyes

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(It is supposed that Shadow-of-a-Leaf uses the word "clear" in a more ancient sense of "beautiful.")
O what is that whimpering there in the darkness?
(After a glimpse of a certain monument in New York, during the Victory Celebration)
They are buffeting out in the bitter grey weather,
Not with a flash that rends the blue
The neighbours gossiped idly at the door.
Shun the brush and shun the pen,
There came a crowder to the Mermaid Inn,
Fashion on fashion on fashion,
Long, long ago He said,
(On a certain goddess, acclaimed as "new" but known in Babylon.)
(On Certain of the Bolsheviki "Idealists.")
(On Certain Realists.)
(An Answer)
"There are no ghosts in America."
Now, in a breath, we'll burst those gates of gold,
John Kepler, from the chimney corner, watched
Dark, dark lay the drifters against the red West,
With shadowy pen I write,
I know a land, I, too,
Under an arch of glorious leaves I passed
But where's the brown drifter that went out alone?
Last night, I dreamed of Nippon....
On this high altar, fringed with ferns
Give me the pulse of the tide again
"You were weeping in the night," said the Emperor,
As I was walking
True type of all, from his own father's hand
"Our cavalry have rescued Nazareth from the enemy whose supermen described Christianity as a creed for slaves."
Give me the sunlight and the sea
This is the song of the wind as it came
The Temple Bell was out of tune,
The very best ship that ever I knew,
When hawthorn buds are creaming white,
How few are they that voyage through the night
Green wing and ruby throat,
The great roads are all grown over
It is not over yet-the fight
The man who discovered the use of a chair,
"I want to be new," said the duckling.
"And that a reply be received before midnight."
At noon, upon the mountain's purple height,
"If I could whisper you all I know,"
The old gentleman, tapping his amber snuff-box
(New Jersey, 1918)
O Mystery of life,
Out of her darkened fishing-ports they go,
(Written after hearing a line of Keats repeated by a passing stranger under the palms of Southern California.)
Why do we make our music?
Wonder in happy eyes
How should we praise those lads of the old Vindictive
(What the Ghosts Said)
Last night I rode with Touchstone on a bus
(Written after the British Service at Trinity Church, New York)
(An epistle from a narrow-minded old gentleman to a young artist of superior intellect and intense realism.)
Was it a dream?--that crowded concert-room
Now to those who search the deep,