A poem by Violet Nicolson, Lawrence Hope, Adela Florence Cory Nicolson (1865 – 1904)
Oh, Masters, you who rule the world,
Will you not wait with me awhile,
When swords are sheathed and sails are furled,
And all the fields with harvest smile?
I would not waste your time for long,
I ask you but, when you are tired,
To read how by the weak, the strong
Are weighed and worshipped and desired.
When weary of the Mart, the Loom,
The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks,
The Barrack-square, the Engine-room,
The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,–
When tents are pitched and work is done,
While restful twilight broods above,
By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun,
See in my songs how women love.
We shared your lonely watch by night,
We knew you faithful at the helm,
Our thoughts went with you through the fight,
That saved a soul,–or wrecked a realm
Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you,
In pride and joy, when you prevailed,
And when you died, serene and true:
–We wept in silence when you failed!
Oh, brain that did not gain the gold!
Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword,
Here is the love, that is not sold,
Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!
You played and lost the game? What then?
The rules are harsh and hard we know,
You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men
Whom we in secret reverence so.
Your work was waste? Maybe your share
Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed;
Who knows but what your son shall wear
The laurels that his father missed?
Ay, you who win, and you who lose,
Whether you triumph,–or despair,–
When your returning footsteps choose
The homeward track, our love is there.
For, since the world is ordered thus,
To you the fame, the stress, the sword,
We can but wait, until to us
You give yourselves, for our reward.
To Whaler’s deck and Coral beach,
To lonely Ranch and Frontier-Fort,
Beyond the narrow bounds of speech
I lay the cable of my thought.
I fain would send my thanks to you,
(Though who am I, to give you praise?)
Since what you are, and work you do,
Are lessons for our easier ways.
‘Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow,
I know you not,–your tents are far.
My hope is but in song to show,
How honoured and dear you are.
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- Федор Сологуб – Астероид
- Grandmother’s Teaching poem – Alfred Austin
- To Beatrice Stuart–Wortley Ætat poem – Alfred Austin
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- Meg Merrilies poem – John Keats poems
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- Autumn – The Third Pastoral, or Hylas and Ægon poem – Alexander Pope poems | Poetry Monster
- Inscription to Chloris by Robert Burns
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- When Runnels Began To Leap And Sing poem – Alfred Austin
- Inexpensive Progress poem – John Betjeman poems | Poems and Poetry
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- women picking edible plants by Raj Arumugan
- what I want to know by Raj Arumugam
- what a poet must do by Raj Arumugam
- was it you, mooon? by Raj Arumugam
- walking with a staff by Raj Arumugam
- The village girl models for the artist, 1904 by Raj Arumugam
- The Discovery of the Kama Sutra by Raj Arumugam
- Taking yourself too seriously by Raj Arumugam
- Sohni and her love Mahinwal by Raj Arumugam
- sadness from the night by Raj Arumugam
- run home, run home butterfly by Raj Arumugam
- Rip van Winkle’s dream by Raj Arumugam
- Revenge of the Ghost of the Betrayed Husband by Raj Arumugam
- Poet Herodia of ancient Pincaeia by Raj Arumugam
- pissed-off cow by Raj Arumugam
- on the edge of the seat by Raj Arumugam
- on our conditioning by Raj Arumugam
- Old Man Poet by Raj Arumugam
- oh no – not another love poem! by Raj Arumugam
- of spiritual matters by Raj Arumugam
More external links (open in a new tab):
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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Violet Nicolson ( 1865 – 1904); otherwise known as Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory), was an English poetess who wrote under the pseudonym of Laurence Hope, however she became known as Violet Nicolson. In the early 1900s, she became a best-selling author. She committed suicide and is buried in Madras, now Chennai, India.