Machinist's Song

The foot of my machine
Sails up and down
Upon the blue of this fine lady's gown.
Sail quickly, little boat,
With gifts for me,
Night and the goldy streets and liberty.

My Mission In The World

My mission in the world
Is to prolong
Rapture by turning it
Into a song.
A song of liberty
Bound by no rule!
No marble meaning's mine
Fixed for a school.
My singing ecstasy
Winged for the flight,
Each will hear differently,
And hear aright.

I made a heaven for you filled with stars,
Each star a song
Meant to give happy music to your ear,
Day and night long.
But in your workshop you are closed away
From the fair sky,
Deafened by noise until you cannot hear
My stars that sigh.
And when night comes your sleepy eyes are blind
To heavens blue;
That was a foolish toy, my dearest dear,
I made for you.

All Through The Day At My Machine

All through the day at my machine
There still keeps going
A strange little tune through heart and head
As I sit sewing:
'There is a child in Hungary,
A child I love in Hungary'
The words come flowing.
When I am walking home at night
That song comes after,
And under the trees in holiday time
Or hearing laughter:
'I have a son in Hungary,
My little son in Hungary'
Comes following after.

There's a band in the street, there's a band in the street.
It will play you a tune for a penny—
It will play you a tune, you a tune, you a tune,
And you, though you haven't got any,
For the music's free, and the music's bold.
It cannot really be bought and sold.
And the people walk with their heads held high
Whether or not they've a penny.
And the music's there as the bandsmen know,
For the poor though the poor are many.
Oh the music's free and the music's bold.
It cannot really be bought and sold.

Up In My Room On My Unmade Bed

Up in my room on my unmade bed
I sat and read.
There was work waiting for me below.
I didn't go.
For in my little green room the song
Flickered along.
If the singer had seen the way it fared
She would have stared,
Have wondered and stared at me who read
With tumbled bed,
Wide-open window, wide-open door,
Books on the floor.
Hers was a disciplined, comely, wise
Christina-guise.
But what's the hell of a mess to me
When I am free
And wind blows in and a delicate song
Flickers along.

I Must Be Dreaming Through The Days

I must be dreaming through the days
And see the world with childish eyes
If I'd go singing all my life
And my songs be wise
And in the kitchen or the house
Must wonder at the sights I see.
And I must hear the throb and hum
That moves to song in factory.
So much in life remains unsung,
And so much more than love is sweet.
I'd like a song of kitchenmaids
With steady fingers and swift feet.
And I could sing about the rest
That breaks upon a woman's day
When dinner's over and she lies
Upon her bed to dream and pray
Until the children come from school
And all her evening work begins.
There's more in life than tragic love
And all the storied, splendid sins.

Do You Remember Still The Little Song

Do you remember still the little song
I mumbled on the hill at Aura, how
I told you it was made for Katie's sake
When I was fresh from school and loving her
With all the strength of girlhood? And you said
You liked my song, although I didn't know
How it began at first and gabbled then
In a half voice, because I was too shy
To speak aloud, much less to speak them out —
Words I had joined myself — in the full voice
And with the lilt of proper poetry.
You could have hardly heard me. Here's the girl,
The little girl from school you never knew.
She made this song. Read what you couldn't hear.
How bright the windows are
When the dear sun shineth.
They strive to reflect the sun,
To be bright like the sun,
To give heat like the sun.
My heart too has its chosen one
And so to shine designeth.
The windows on the opposite hill that day
Shone bright at sunset too and made me think
Of the old patter I had half forgot,
Do you remember? I remind you now,
Who wandered yesterday for half an hour
Into St Francis, where I thought of you
And how I would be glad to love you well
If I but knew the way. The rhyme came back
Teasing me till I knew I hated it.
I couldn't take that way of loving you.
That was the girl's way. Hear the woman now.
Out of my thinking in the lonely church
And the day's labour in a friendly room
Tumbled a song this morning you will like.
I love my love
But I could not be
Good for his sake.
That frightens me.
Nor could I do
Such things as I should
Just for the sake
Of being good.
Deeds are too great
To serve my whim,
Be ways of loving
Myself or him.
Whether my deeds
Are good or ill
They're done for their own,
Not love's sake, still.
I didn't know it till the song was done
But that's Ramiro in a nutshell, eh,
With his contempt for individual souls
And setting of the deed above the man.
Perhaps I like him better than I thought,
Or would like, if he'd give me leave to scorn
Chameleon, adjectival good and ill
And set the deed so far above the man
As to be out of reach of morals too.
There you and I join issue once again.