Beautiful poems from a groundbreaking publication that is part of early LGBT literature.

the fourth book of songs under the bow this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org underneath the bow a book of verses by michael field the fourth book of songs the table of the fourth book one a shady silence fills two the iris was yellow the moon was pale three in winter afternoons are short four a valley of oak trees five she was a royal lady born six leyda was weary of her state the crown was heavy on her head 7. ah how beautiful is youth the fourth book of songs

a shady silence fills that deep mid-eventide the rockless land of hills where two slow rivers glide the knots beneath the gloom have failed in song yet something through the comb comes like a sound along though very far as yet though no one is in sight nor could a mortal said such alien echoes moving through the night just not an hour to fear the sun has gone to bed the clouds from dusk are clear and there are overhead but one or two large stars a bat or two yet hark a jingle mars the peaceful mountain view like the far cry of pounds chasing a distant prey the chime of yelping sounds oh will it sink or will it swell this way it comes as the wind with little noise at first exultantly combined hallous and bays outburst upon that solitude where two streams meet then in the scramble route of shoulders ears and feet the bayhounds rush along and drive before their jaws a wincing naked throng at flight from heated breath and thorny claws these are the souls that moan because upon their birth god's water was not thrown are those who left the earth impenitent unblessed now all must fly while summer is at rest and haunted furiously be caught and bitten through by dogs of fairy breed sleek creatures ebb and blue with lusting teeth and for ordained speed they scour the mountainside the upland township then skirt the dark valley wide a cloud of dogs and men behind tall ladies rays each dressed in green each with a smile at face and presence of a queen who breathe from stealing lips clap when a soul is caught and urged with corded whips the stragglers of the pack to fiendish sport their dogs have ceased to whine the whining does not cease one cannot watch the kind that chew their cut in peace for still the length occurs it almost seems phantasmal haunt the furs haunt the two voiceless dreams the sprites themselves have ghosts that it is hard to lay and echoes walk in hosts long after the live echoes pass away

the iris was yellow the moon was pale and the air was stiller than snow there was even light through the veil but a vaporous sheet clung about my feet and i dared no further go i had passed the pond i could see the style the path was plain for more than a mile yet i dared no further go the iris beds shone in my face windwist a noiseless music began to blow a music that moved through the mist that had not begun that would never be done with that music i must go and i found myself in the heart of the tune wheeling round to the whir of the moon with the sheets of mist below in my hands how warm were the little hands strange little hands that i did not know i did not think of the elven bands nor of anything in that whirling ring here a [ __ ] began to crawl the little hands dropped that had clung so tight and i saw again by the pale dawn light the iris heads in a row

a ballad in winter afternoons are short it was a winter afternoon the milking was already done i took my man i took my gun that we might have some sport we stooped behind the tallest break there was a bush of golden furs the furs has scent so rich and full it makes the sense a little dull i hardly felt awake or could it be the war of game that sudden little spring of noise robin was shouting in the wind he must have left me far behind so faint his whistle came i felt the bushes with...