Monthly Archives: April 2023

April 15, 2023 · 9:32 pm

The Virgin’s Crown

They shall weave a crown of lilies for her head,
For her feet they shall bring the rose;
And the maiden that treads in the virgin’s tread
Shall follow wherever she goes.

And the crown of the virgin shall be of gold,
And the lilies shall be of snow,
And the rose that blooms at her feet shall unfold
Like the lily that buds below.

For the crown of the virgin is pure and white,
And the roses are sweet and fair,
And the lilies that bloom in the pale moonlight
Are the sign of the maidens’ prayer.

And the maiden that treads in the virgin’s tread
Shall follow wherever she goes,
For the crown of the virgin shall be her head,
And the rose shall bloom at her toes.

Published in Lord Alfred Douglas’s Sonnets (1908), Richards Press, along with three other poems by Olive.

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April 15, 2023 · 10:21 am

Easter Song

EASTER SONG

Oh the world’s all clad in green today,
With buttercups and daisies gay,
And the little clouds have wings of white,
And the sky is blue and the sun is bright.

The little birds that sang so well
In the winter’s worst are too glad to tell
Of the days that come, and the days that go,
And the winter gone and the world aglow.

All the earth is singing so,
For the Easter-tide and the roses blow,
And the hearts of men keep holiday,
For the world is sweet on Easter day.

The music of the bells doth rise,
From every belfry to the skies,
And all the little hills and dales
Are pealing out their Easter tales.

The flowers they bloom, the birds they sing,
For the glory of their risen King,
And the hearts of men keep holiday,
For the world is sweet on Easter day.

Published in “Poetry: A Magazine of Verse” in 1914.
From Olive Custance Collection,
University of Victoria, Special Collections.

This attribution is secondhand , so I am not 100% sure about it. I am currently checking.

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April 13, 2023 · 7:58 pm

The Secret Garden

Within a walled enclosure, green with box,
I found a garden of all beauty made.
A world of flowers grew there; every shade
Of colour fell upon the curious rocks
That gave the garden an enchanted look.
Here blue and purple muscari unrolled
Their slender spires of blue and purple gold;
Here sweet alyssum the winds of morning shook;
Here tulips spread their gaudy chalices;
Here bright anemones, with coloured flames,
Flared up among the other blossoms’ names,
A glory and a wonder to the bees;
And here was every flower that ever grew,
And every colour that the rainbow knew.

But this was not enough. I found a gate,
And, entering, I was in another world.
Here the imagination might unfurl
Its wings, and fly beyond the common state
Of human life, and find a new estate
In the dominion of the sun, and be
A radiant and resplendent entity.
Here was the fairyland of fable; great
Green trees, like giants standing in the sun,
With trunks of silver and with leaves of gold,
Whose branches all mysterious stories told
Of fairies and their doings, every one.
Here were the pools where water-nymphs arise,
And mirrors for the stars to see their eyes.

This was the garden of the hidden things,
The secret garden of the hidden springs.

“The Secret Garden” was first published in The Sketch in 1926.

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April 13, 2023 · 7:20 pm

In Memory of Rupert Brooke

Not where the grasses shiver on the plain,
Nor where the rustling banners toss their glint,
Nor in the shimmer of a silk-lined tent,
But where a thousand rifles lash the rain,
And lead leaps singing through the leaden sleet,
Your heart was stilled for evermore, O sweet.

Not where the evening hangs her purple fringes,
Nor where the dawn breaks like a rose in flame,
Nor where the lovers carve their tale of names
On some unfooted shore of singing syringes,
But where the wave shall never lift your feet,
You lie at peace for evermore, O sweet.

Not where the nightingale makes music meet,
Nor where the hyacinthine woods are gay,
Nor where the dim laurels shed their spray,
But where the drums are muffled in the street,
Your heart was stilled for evermore, O sweet.

O world of over-burdened loveliness,
That asked not of him half he had to give!
And thou, whose dulcet singing lips are mute,
But hast, as one whom beauty doth not bless,
Given all, gone on before us to the grave—
There is no pain like beauty, and no rest.

published in The New Witness in 1918

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