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diff --git a/9546.txt b/9546.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9945cf8 --- /dev/null +++ b/9546.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4641 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Georgian Poetry 1916-17, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Georgian Poetry 1916-17 + +Author: Various + +Illustrator: Sir Edward Howard Marsh + +Posting Date: February 16, 2013 [EBook #9546] +Release Date: December, 2005 +First Posted: October 8, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GEORGIAN POETRY 1916-17 *** + + + + +Produced by Clytie Siddall, Keren Vergon, and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + +Published November 1917 + + + + +GEORGIAN POETRY + + + + +1916-1917 + + + + +TO EDMUND GOSSE + + + + +FOURTH THOUSAND + +THE POETRY BOOKSHOP +35 DEVONSHIRE ST. THEOBALDS RD. +LONDON W.C.1 + +MCMXVIII + +PREFATORY NOTE + + +This third book of 'Georgian Poetry' carries to the end of a seventh +year the presentation of chosen examples from the work of contemporary +poets belonging to the younger generation. Of the eighteen writers +included, nine appear in the series for the first time. The +representation of the older inhabitants has in most cases been +restricted in order to allow full space for the new-comers; and the +alphabetical order of the names has been reversed, so as to bring more +of these into prominence than would otherwise have been done. + +My thanks for permission to print the poems are due to Messrs. Chatto & +Windus, Constable, Fifield, Heinemann, Macmillan, Elkin Mathews, Martin +Secker, and Sidgwick & Jackson, and to the Editors of the 'Nation', the +'New Statesman', and 'To-Day'. + +E.M. + +September 1917. + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +W.J. TURNER + + Romance (from 'The Hunter') + Ecstasy " " + Magic " " + The Hunter " " + The Sky-sent Death " " + The Caves of Auvergne + + +JAMES STEPHENS + + The Fifteen Acres (from 'The Adventures of Seumas Beg') + Check " " " + Westland Row " " " + The Turn of the Road " " + A Visit from Abroad " " + + +J. C. SQUIRE + + A House (from 'The Lily of Malud ') + To a Bull-dog " " " + The Lily of Malud " " " + + +SIEGFRIED SASSOON + + A Letter Home (from 'The Old Huntsman') + The Kiss " " " + The Dragon and the Undying " + To Victory " + 'They' " + 'In the Pink' " + Haunted " + The Death-Bed " + + +I. ROSENBERG + + 'Ah, Koelue ...' + + +ROBERT NICHOLS + + To---- (from 'Ardours and Endurances') + The Assault " " " + Fulfilment " " " + The Philosopher's Oration " + The Naiads' Music " " + The Prophetic Bard's Oration " + The Tower " + + +HAROLD MONRO + + Two Poems (from 'Strange Meetings') + Every Thing " " " + Solitude " " " + Week-end " " " + The Bird at Dawn " " + + +JOHN MASEFIELD + + Seven Poems (from 'Lollingdon Downs') + + +RALPH HODGSON + + The Gipsy Girl (from 'Poems') + The Bells of Heaven " + Babylon " + + +ROBERT GRAVES + + It's a Queer Time (from 'Over the Brazier') + David and Goliath (from 'Fairies and Fusiliers') + A Pinch of Salt " " + Star Talk (from 'Over the Brazier') + In the Wilderness " " + The Boy in Church (from 'Fairies and Fusiliers') + The Lady Visitor " " " + Not Dead " " " + + +WILFRID WILSON GIBSON + + Rupert Brooke (from 'Friends') + Tenants " " + For G. " " + Sea-Change " " + Battle (from 'Battle'): + I. The Return + II. The Dancers + III. Hit + Lament (from 'Whin') + + +JOHN FREEMAN + + Music Comes (from 'Stone Trees') + November Skies " " " + Discovery " " " + 'It was the Lovely Moon' " + Stone Trees " + The Pigeons (published in To-Day') + Happy is England Now (from 'Stone Trees') + + +JOHN DRINKWATER + + May Garden (from 'Tides') + The Midlands " " + The Cotswold Farmers " + Reciprocity " + Birthright (from 'Olton Pools') + Olton Pools " " " + + +WALTER DE LA MARE + + The Scribe (from 'Poems') + The Remonstrance " + The Ghost " + The Fool rings his Bells " + + +WILLIAM H. DAVIES + + The White Cascade (from 'Child Lovers') + Easter + Raptures + Cowslips and Larks + + +GORDON BOTTOMLEY + + Atlantis (from 'An Annual of New Poetry, 1917') + New Year's Eve, 1913 " " + In Memoriam, A. M. W. " " + + +MAURICE BARING + + In Memoriam, A. H. + + +HERBERT ASQUITH + + The Volunteer + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +W.J. TURNER + + + +ROMANCE + + +When I was but thirteen or so + I went into a golden land, +Chimborazo, Cotopaxi + Took me by the hand. + +My father died, my brother too, + They passed like fleeting dreams, +I stood where Popocatapetl + In the sunlight gleams. + +I dimly heard the master's voice + And boys far-off at play, +Chimborazo, Cotopaxi + Had stolen me away. + +I walked in a great golden dream + To and fro from school-- +Shining Popocatapetl + The dusty streets did rule. + +I walked home with a gold dark boy + And never a word I'd say, +Chimborazo, Cotopaxi + Had taken my speech away: + +I gazed entranced upon his face + Fairer than any flower-- +O shining Popocatapetl + It was thy magic hour: + +The houses, people, traffic seemed + Thin fading dreams by day, +Chimborazo, Cotopaxi + They had stolen my soul away! + + + +ECSTASY + + +I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn +Of boys who sought for shells along the shore, +Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea, +The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of green +That faintly creamed against the cold, smooth pebbles. + +The air was thin, their limbs were delicate, +The wind had graven their small eager hands +To feel the forests and the dark nights of Asia +Behind the purple bloom of the horizon, +Where sails would float and slowly melt away. + +Their naked, pure, and grave, unbroken silence +Filled the soft air as gleaming, limpid water +Fills a spring sky those days when rain is lying +In shattered bright pools on the wind-dried roads, +And their sweet bodies were wind-purified. + +One held a shell unto his shell-like ear +And there was music carven in his face, +His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking open +To catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roar +Of numberless caverns filled with singing seas. + +And all of them were hearkening as to singing +Of far-off voices thin and delicate, +Voices too fine for any mortal wind +To blow into the whorls of mortal ears-- +And yet those sounds flowed from their grave, sweet faces. + +And as I looked I heard that delicate music, +And I became as grave, as calm, as still +As those carved boys. I stood upon that shore, +I felt the cool sea dream around my feet, +My eyes were staring at the far horizon: + +And the wind came and purified my limbs, +And the stars came and set within my eyes, +And snowy clouds rested upon my shoulders, +And the blue sky shimmered deep within me, +And I sang like a carven pipe of music. + + + +MAGIC + +I love a still conservatory + That's full of giant, breathless palms, +Azaleas, clematis and vines, + Whose quietness great Trees becalms +Filling the air with foliage, + A curved and dreamy statuary. + +I like to hear a cold, pure rill + Of water trickling low, afar +With sudden little jerks and purls + Into a tank or stoneware jar, +The song of a tiny sleeping bird + Held like a shadow in its trill. + +I love the mossy quietness + That grows upon the great stone flags, +The dark tree-ferns, the staghorn ferns, + The prehistoric, antlered stags +That carven stand and stare among + The silent, ferny wilderness. + +And are they birds or souls that flit + Among the trees so silently, +And are they fish or ghosts that haunt + The still pools of the rockery!-- +For I am but a sculptured rock + As in that magic place I sit. + +Still as a great jewel is the air + With boughs and leaves smooth-carved in it, +And rocks and trees and giant ferns, + And blooms with inner radiance lit, +And naked water like a nymph + That dances tireless slim and bare. + +I watch a white Nyanza float + Upon a green, untroubled pool, +A fairyland Ophelia, she + Has cast herself in water cool, +And lies while fairy cymbals ring + Drowned in her fairy castle moat. + +The goldfish sing a winding song + Below her pale and waxen face, +The water-nymph is dancing by + Lifting smooth arms with mournful grace, +A stainless white dream she floats on + While fairies beat a fairy gong. + +Silent the Cattleyas blaze + And thin red orchid shapes of Death +Peer savagely with twisted lips + Sucking an eerie, phantom breath +With that bright, spotted, fever'd lust + That watches lonely travellers craze. + +Gigantic, mauve and hairy leaves + Hang like obliterated faces +Full of dim unattained expression + Such as haunts virgin forest places +When Silence leaps among the trees + And the echoing heart deceives. + + + +THE HUNTER + + +"But there was one land he dared not enter." + + +Beyond the blue, the purple seas, +Beyond the thin horizon's line, +Beyond Antilla, Hebrides, +Jamaica, Cuba, Caribbees, +There lies the land of Yucatan. + +The land, the land of Yucatan, +The low coast breaking into foam, +The dim hills where my thoughts shall roam +The forests of my boyhood's home, +The splendid dream of Yucatan! + +I met thee first long, long ago +Turning a printed page, and I +Stared at a world I did not know +And felt my blood like fire flow +At that strange name of Yucatan. + +O those sweet, far-off Austral days +When life had a diviner glow, +When hot Suns whipped my blood to know +Things all unseen, then I could go +Into thy heart O Yucatan! + +I have forgotten what I saw, +I have forgotten what I knew, +And many lands I've set sail for +To find that marvellous spell of yore, +Never to set foot on thy shore +O haunting land of Yucatan! + +But sailing I have passed thee by, +And leaning on the white ship's rail +Watched thy dim hills till mystery +Wrapped thy far stillness close to me +And I have breathed ''tis Yucatan! + +''Tis Yucatan, 'tis Yucatan!' +The ship is sailing far away, +The coast recedes, the dim hills fade, +A bubble-winding track we've made, +And thou'rt a Dream O Yucatan! + + + +THE SKY-SENT DEATH + + +"A German aeroplane flew over Greek territory dropping a bomb which +killed a shepherd." + + +'Sitting on a stone a Shepherd, +Stone and Shepherd sleeping, +Under the high blue Attic sky; +Along the green monotony +Grey sheep creeping, creeping'. + +Deep down on the hill and valley, +At the bottom of the sunshine, +Like great Ships in clearest water, +Water holding anchored Shadows, +Water without wave or ripple, +Sunshine deep and clear and heavy, +Sunshine like a booming bell +Made of purest golden metal, +White Ships heavy in the sky +Sleep with anchored shadow. + +Pipe a song in that still air +And the song would be of crystal +Snapped in silence, or a bronze vase +Smooth and graceful, curved and shining. +Tell an old tale or a history; +It would seem a slow Procession +Full of gestures; limbs and torso +White and rounded in the sunlight. + +'Sitting on a stone a Shepherd, +Stone and Shepherd sleeping, +Like a fragment of old marble +Dug up from the hillside shadow'. + +In the sunshine deep and soundless +Came a faint metallic humming; +In the sunshine clear and heavy +Came a speck, a speck of shadow-- +Shepherd lift your head and listen, +Listen to that humming Shadow! + +'Sitting on a stone the Shepherd, +Stone and Shepherd sleeping +In a sleep dreamless as water, +Water in a white glass beaker, +Clear, pellucid, without shadow; +Underneath a sky-blue crystal +Sees his grey sheep creeping'. + +In the sunshine clear and heavy +Shadow-fled a dark hand downward: +In the sunshine deep and soundless +Burst a star-dropt thing of thunder-- +Smoked the burnt blue air's torn veiling +Drooping softly round the hillside. + +Boomed the silence in returning +To the crater in the hillside, +To the red earth fresh and bleeding, +To the mangled heap remaining: +Far away that humming Shadow +Vanished in the azure distance. + +'Sitting on a stone no Shepherd, +Stone and Shepherd sleeping, +But across the hill and valley +Grey sheep creeping, creeping, +Standing carven on the sky-line, +Scattering in the open distance, +Free, in no man's keeping'. + + + +THE CAVES OF AUVERGNE + + +He carved the red deer and the bull + Upon the smooth cave rock, +Returned from war with belly full, + And scarred with many a knock, +He carved the red deer and the bull + Upon the smooth cave rock. + +The stars flew by the cave's wide door, + The clouds wild trumpets blew, +Trees rose in wild dreams from the floor, + Flowers with dream faces grew +Up to the sky, and softly hung + Golden and white and blue. + +The woman ground her heap of corn, + Her heart a guarded fire; +The wind played in his trembling soul + Like a hand upon a lyre, +The wind drew faintly on the stone + Symbols of his desire: + +The red deer of the forest dark, + Whose antlers cut the sky, +That vanishes into the mirk + And like a dream flits by, +And by an arrow slain at last + Is but the wind's dark body. + +The bull that stands in marshy lakes + As motionless and still +As a dark rock jutting from a plain + Without a tree or hill, +The bull that is the sign of life, + Its sombre, phallic will. + +And from the dead, white eyes of them + The wind springs up anew, +It blows upon the trembling heart, + And bull and deer renew +Their flitting life in the dim past + When that dead Hunter drew. + +I sit beside him in the night, + And, fingering his red stone, +I chase through endless forests dark + Seeking that thing unknown, +That which is not red deer or bull, + But which by them was shown: + +By those stiff shapes in which he drew + His soul's exalted cry, +When flying down the forest dark + He slew and knew not why, +When he was filled with song, and strength + Flowed to him from the sky. + +The wind blows from red deer and bull, + The clouds wild trumpets blare, +Trees rise in wild dreams from the earth, + Flowers with dream faces stare, +'O Hunter, your own shadow stands + Within your forest lair!' + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +JAMES STEPHENS + + + +THE FIFTEEN ACRES + + + I cling and swing + On a branch, or sing +Through the cool, clear hush of + Morning, O: + Or fling my wing + On the air, and bring +To sleepier birds a warning, O: + That the night's in flight, + And the sun's in sight, +And the dew is the grass adorning, O: + And the green leaves swing + As I sing, sing, sing, + Up by the river, + Down the dell, + To the little wee nest, + Where the big tree fell, + So early in the morning, O. + + I flit and twit + In the sun for a bit +When his light so bright is shining, O: + Or sit and fit + My plumes, or knit +Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O: + And she with glee + Shows unto me +Underneath her wings reclining, O: + And I sing that Peg + Has an egg, egg, egg, + Up by the oat-field, + Round the mill, + Past the meadow, + Down the hill, + So early in the morning, O. + + I stoop and swoop + On the air, or loop +Through the trees, and then go soaring, O: + To group with a troop + On the gusty poop +While the wind behind is roaring, O: + I skim and swim + By a cloud's red rim +And up to the azure flooring, O: + And my wide wings drip + As I slip, slip, slip + Down through the rain-drops, + Back where Peg + Broods in the nest + On the little white egg, + So early in the morning, O. + + + +CHECK + + +The night was creeping on the ground; +She crept and did not make a sound +Until she reached the tree, and then +She covered it, and stole again +Along the grass beside the wall. + +I heard the rustle of her shawl +As she threw blackness everywhere +Upon the sky and ground and air, +And in the room where I was hid: +But no matter what she did +To everything that was without, +She could not put my candle out. + +So I stared at the night, and she +Stared back solemnly at me. + + + +WESTLAND ROW + + +Every Sunday there's a throng +Of pretty girls, who trot along +In a pious, breathless state +(They are nearly always late) +To the Chapel, where they pray +For the sins of Saturday. + +They have frocks of white and blue, +Yellow sashes they have too, +And red ribbons show each head +Tenderly is ringleted; +And the bell rings loud, and the +Railway whistles urgently. + +After Chapel they will go, +Walking delicately slow, +Telling still how Father John +Is so good to look upon, +And such other grave affairs +As they thought of during prayers. + + + +THE TURN OF THE ROAD + + +I was playing with my hoop along the road + Just where the bushes are, when, suddenly, +There came a shout,--I ran away and stowed + Myself beneath a bush, and watched to see +What made the noise, and then, around the bend, + I saw a woman running. She was old +And wrinkle-faced, and had big teeth.--The end + Of her red shawl caught on a bush and rolled +Right off her, and her hair fell down.--Her face + Was awful white, and both her eyes looked sick, +And she was talking queer. 'O God of Grace!' + Said she, 'where is the child?' and flew back quick +The way she came, and screamed, and shook her hands; +... Maybe she was a witch from foreign lands. + + + +A VISIT FROM ABROAD + + +A speck went blowing up against the sky + As little as a leaf: then it drew near +And broadened.--'It's a bird,' said I, + And fetched my bow and arrows. It was queer! +It grew from up a speck into a blot, +And squattered past a cloud; then it flew down +All crumply, and waggled such a lot + I thought the thing would fall.--It was a brown +Old carpet where a man was sitting snug + Who, when he reached the ground, began to sew +A big hole in the middle of the rug, + And kept on peeping everywhere to know +Who might be coming--then he gave a twist + And flew away.... I fired at him but missed. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +J.C. SQUIRE + + + +A HOUSE + + +Now very quietly, and rather mournfully, + In clouds of hyacinth the sun retires, +And all the stubble-fields that were so warm to him + Keep but in memory their borrowed fires. + +And I, the traveller, break, still unsatisfied, + From that faint exquisite celestial strand, +And turn and see again the only dwelling-place + In this wide wilderness of darkening land. + +The house, that house, O now what change has come to it. + Its crude red-brick facade, its roof of slate; +What imperceptible swift hand has given it + A new, a wonderful, a queenly state? + +No hand has altered it, that parallelogram, + So inharmonious, so ill-arranged; +That hard blue roof in shape and colour's what it was; + No, it is not that any line has changed. + +Only that loneliness is now accentuate + And, as the dusk unveils the heaven's deep cave, +This small world's feebleness fills me with awe again, + And all man's energies seem very brave. + +And this mean edifice, which some dull architect + Built for an ignorant earth-turning hind, +Takes on the quality of that magnificent + Unshakable dauntlessness of human kind. + +Darkness and stars will come, and long the night will be, + Yet imperturbable that house will rest, +Avoiding gallantly the stars' chill scrutiny, + Ignoring secrets in the midnight's breast. + +Thunders may shudder it, and winds demoniac + May howl their menaces, and hail descend; +Yet it will bear with them, serenely, steadfastly, + Not even scornfully, and wait the end. + +And all a universe of nameless messengers + From unknown distances may whisper fear, +And it will imitate immortal permanence, + And stare and stare ahead and scarcely hear. + +It stood there yesterday; it will to-morrow, too, + When there is none to watch, no alien eyes +To watch its ugliness assume a majesty + From this great solitude of evening skies. + +So lone, so very small, with worlds and worlds around, + While life remains to it prepared to outface +Whatever awful unconjectured mysteries + May hide and wait for it in time and space. + + + +TO A BULL-DOG + + +(W. H. S., Capt. [Acting Major] R. F. A.; killed, April 12, 1917) + + +We shan't see Willy any more, Mamie, + He won't be coming any more: +He came back once and again and again, + But he won't get leave any more. + +We looked from the window and there was his cab, + And we ran downstairs like a streak, +And he said, 'Hullo, you bad dog,' and you crouched to the floor, + Paralysed to hear him speak, + +And then let fly at his face and his chest + Till I had to hold you down, +While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat, + And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne. + +We went upstairs to the studio, + The three of us, just as of old, +And you lay down and I sat and talked to him + As round the room he strolled. + +Here in the room where, years ago + Before the old life stopped, +He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe, + He would pick up the threads he'd dropped, + +Fondling all the drawings he had left behind, + Glad to find them all still the same, +And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings + ... Every time he came. + +But now I know what a dog doesn't know, + Though you'll thrust your head on my knee, +And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness + That you find so dull in me. + +And all your life you will never know + What I wouldn't tell you even if I could, +That the last time we waved him away + Willy went for good. + +But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug + Sleeping in the warmth of the stove, +Even through your muddled old canine brain + Shapes from the past may rove. + +You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream, + How we brought home a silly little pup, +With a big square head and little crooked legs + That could scarcely bear him up, + +But your tail will tap at the memory + Of a man whose friend you were, +Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog + When he found you on his chair; + +Who'd make you face a reproving finger + And solemnly lecture you +Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish: + And you'll dream of your triumphs too, + +Of summer evening chases in the garden + When you dodged us all about with a bone: +We were three boys, and you were the cleverest, + But now we're two alone. + +When summer comes again, + And the long sunsets fade, +We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two + That since the war we've played. + +And though you run expectant as you always do + To the uniforms we meet, +You'll never find Willy among all the soldiers + In even the longest street, + +Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought, + Even now were the old words said, +If I tried the old trick and said 'Where's Willy?' + You would quiver and lift your head, + +And your brown eyes would look to ask if I was serious, + And wait for the word to spring. +Sleep undisturbed: I shan't say 'that' again, + You innocent old thing. + +I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa, + While you lie asleep on the floor; +For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of, + And he won't be coming here any more. + + + +THE LILY OF MALUD + + +The lily of Malud is born in secret mud. +It is breathed like a word in a little dark ravine +Where no bird was ever heard and no beast was ever seen, +And the leaves are never stirred by the panther's velvet sheen. + +It blooms once a year in summer moonlight, +In a valley of dark fear full of pale moonlight: +It blooms once a year, and dies in a night, +And its petals disappear with the dawn's first light; +And when that night has come, black small-breasted maids, +With ecstatic terror dumb, steal fawn-like through the shades +To watch, hour by hour, the unfolding of the flower. + +When the world is full of night, and the moon reigns alone +And drowns in silver light the known and the unknown, +When each hut is a mound, half blue-silver and half black, +And casts upon the ground the hard shadow of its back, +When the winds are out of hearing and the tree-tops never shake, +When the grass in the clearing is silent but awake +'Neath a moon-paven sky: all the village is asleep +And the babes that nightly cry dream deep: + + From the doors the maidens creep, +Tiptoe over dreaming curs, soft, so soft, that not one stirs, +And stand curved and a-quiver, like bathers by a river, +Looking at the forest wall, groups of slender naked girls, +Whose black bodies shine like pearls where the moonbeams fall. + +They have waked, they knew not why, at a summons from the night, +They have stolen fearfully from the dark to the light, +Stepping over sleeping men, who have moved and slept again: +And they know not why they go to the forest, but they know, +As their moth-feet pass to the shore of the grass +And the forest's dreadful brink, that their tender spirits shrink: +They would flee, but cannot turn, for their eyelids burn +With still frenzy, and each maid, ere she leaves the moonlit space, +If she sees another's face is thrilled and afraid. + +Now like little phantom fawns they thread the outer lawns +Where the boles of giant trees stand about in twos and threes, +Till the forest grows more dense and the darkness more intense, +And they only sometimes see in a lone moon-ray +A dead and spongy trunk in the earth half-sunk, +Or the roots of a tree with fungus grey, +Or a drift of muddy leaves, or a banded snake that heaves. + +And the towering unseen roof grows more intricate, and soon +It is featureless and proof to the lost forgotten moon. +But they could not look above as with blind-drawn feet they move +Onwards on the scarce-felt path, with quick and desperate breath, +For their circling fingers dread to caress some slimy head, +Or to touch the icy shape of a hunched and hairy ape, +And at every step they fear in their very midst to hear +A lion's rending roar or a tiger's snore.... +And when things swish or fall, they shiver but dare not call. + +O what is it leads the way that they do not stray? +What unimagined arm keeps their bodies from harm? +What presence concealed lifts their little feet that yield +Over dry ground and wet till their straining eyes are met +With a thinning of the darkness? + +And the foremost faintly cries in awed surprise: +And they one by one emerge from the gloom to the verge +Of a small sunken vale full of moonlight pale. +And they hang along the bank, clinging to the branches dank, +A shadowy festoon out of sight of the moon; +And they see in front of them, rising from the mud, +A single straight stem and a single pallid bud +In that little lake of light from the moon's calm height. + +A stem, a ghostly bud, on the moon-swept mud +That shimmers like a pond; and over there beyond +The guardian forest high, menacing and strange, +Invades the empty sky with its wild black range. + +And they watch hour by hour that small lonely flower +In that deep forest place that hunter never found. + +It shines without sound, as a star in space. + +And the silence all around that solitary place +Is like silence in a dream; till a sudden flashing gleam +Down their dark faces flies; and their lips fall apart +And their glimmering great eyes with excitement dart +And their fingers, clutching the branches they were touching, +Shake and arouse hissing leaves on the boughs. + +And they whisper aswoon: Did it move in the moon? + +O it moved as it grew! +It is moving, opening, with calm and gradual will +And their bodies where they cling are shadowed and still, +And with marvel they mark that the mud now is dark, +For the unfolding flower, like a goddess in her power, +Challenges the moon with a light of her own, +That lovelily grows as the petals unclose, +Wider, more wide with an awful inward pride +Till the heart of it breaks, and stilled is their breath, +For the radiance it makes is as wonderful as death. + +The morning's crimson stain tinges their ashen brows +As they part the last boughs and slowly step again +On to the village grass, and chill and languid pass +Into the huts to sleep. + Brief slumber, yet so deep +That, when they wake to day, darkness and splendour seem +Broken and far-away, a faint miraculous dream; +And when those maidens rise they are as they ever were +Save only for a rare shade of trouble in their eyes. +And the surly thick-lipped men, as they sit about their huts +Making drums out of guts, grunting gruffly now and then, +Carving sticks of ivory, stretching shields of wrinkled skin, +Smoothing sinister and thin squatting gods of ebony, +Chip and grunt and do not see. + But each mother, silently, +Longer than her wont stays shut in the dimness of her hut, +For she feels a brooding cloud of memory in the air, +A lingering thing there that makes her sit bowed +With hollow shining eyes, as the night-fire dies, +And stare softly at the ember, and try to remember, +Something sorrowful and far, something sweet and vaguely seen +Like an early evening star when the sky is pale green: +A quiet silver tower that climbed in an hour, +Or a ghost like a flower, or a flower like a queen: +Something holy in the past that came and did not last.... +But she knows not what it was. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +SIEGFRIED SASSOON + + + +A LETTER HOME + + +('To Robert Graves') + + +I + +Here I'm sitting in the gloom +Of my quiet attic room. +France goes rolling all around, +Fledged with forest May has crowned. +And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, +Thinking how the fighting started, +Wondering when we'll ever end it, +Back to Hell with Kaiser send it, +Gag the noise, pack up and go, +Clockwork soldiers in a row. +I've got better things to do +Than to waste my time on you. + + +II + +Robert, when I drowse to-night, +Skirting lawns of sleep to chase +Shifting dreams in mazy light, +Somewhere then I'll see your face +Turning back to bid me follow +Where I wag my arms and hollo, +Over hedges hasting after +Crooked smile and baffling laughter, +Running tireless, floating, leaping, +Down your web-hung woods and valleys, +Garden glooms and hornbeam alleys, +Where the glowworm stars are peeping, +Till I find you, quiet as stone +On a hill-top all alone, +Staring outward, gravely pondering +Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. + + +III + +You and I have walked together +In the starving winter weather. +We've been glad because we knew +Time's too short and friends are few. +We've been sad because we missed +One whose yellow head was kissed +By the gods, who thought about him +Till they couldn't do without him. +Now he's here again; I've seen +Soldier David dressed in green, +Standing in a wood that swings +To the madrigal he sings. +He's come back, all mirth and glory, +Like the prince in a fairy story. +Winter called him far away; +Blossoms bring him home with May. + + +IV + +Well, I know you'll swear it's true +That you found him decked in blue +Striding up through morning-land +With a cloud on either hand. +Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches +Arm-in-arm with oaks and larches; +Hides all night in hilly nooks, +Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. +Yet, it's certain, here he teaches +Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. +And I'm sure, as here I stand, +That he shines through every land, +That he sings in every place +Where we're thinking of his face. + + +V + +Robert, there's a war in France; +Everywhere men bang and blunder, +Sweat and swear and worship Chance, +Creep and blink through cannon thunder. +Rifles crack and bullets flick, +Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. +Bones are smashed and buried quick. +Yet, through stunning battle storms, +All the while I watch the spark +Lit to guide me; for I know +Dreams will triumph, though the dark +Scowls above me where I go. +_You_ can hear me; _you_ can mingle +Radiant folly with my jingle. +War's a joke for me and you +While we know such dreams are true! + + + +THE KISS + + +To these I turn, in these I trust; +Brother Lead and Sister Steel. +To his blind power I make appeal; +I guard her beauty clean from rust. + +He spins and burns and loves the air, +And splits a skull to win my praise; +But up the nobly marching days +She glitters naked, cold and fair. + +Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this; +That in good fury he may feel +The body where he sets his heel +Quail from your downward darting kiss. + + + +THE DRAGON AND THE UNDYING + + +All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings +And beats upon the dark with furious wings; +And, stung to rage by his own darting fires, +Reaches with grappling coils from town to town; +He lusts to break the loveliness of spires, +And hurls their martyred music toppling down. + +Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, +Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas. +Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night, +And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams. +Tenderly stooping earthward from their height, +They wander in the dusk with chanting streams; +And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung, +To hail the burning heavens they left unsung. + + + + +TO VICTORY + + +Return to greet me, colours that were my joy, +Not in the woeful crimson of men slain, +But shining as a garden; come with the streaming +Banners of dawn and sundown after rain. + +I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver, +Radiance through living roses, spires of green +Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood, +Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen. + +I am not sad; only I long for lustre,-- +Tired of the greys and browns and the leafless ash. +I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers +Far from the angry guns that boom and flash. + +Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness, +Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice; +Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness, +When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with up-lifted voice. + + + + +'THEY' + + +The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back +They will not be the same; for they'll have fought +In a just cause: they lead the last attack +On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought +New right to breed an honourable race. +They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.' + +'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply. +For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; +Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; +And Bert's gone syphilitic; you'll not find +A chap who's served that hasn't found _some_ change.' +And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!' + + + +'IN THE PINK' + + +So Davies wrote: 'This leaves me in the pink.' +Then scrawled his name: 'Your loving sweet-heart, Willie' +With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink +Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, +For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend. +Winter was passing; soon the year would mend. + +He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark +He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, +When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark +In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm +With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear +The simple, silly things she liked to hear. + +And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge +Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. +Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, +And everything but wretchedness forgotten. +To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. +And still the war goes on; _he_ don't know why. + + + +HAUNTED + + +Evening was in the wood, louring with storm. +A time of drought had sucked the weedy pool +And baked the channels; birds had done with song. +Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon, +Or willow-music blown across the water +Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill. + +Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding, +His face a little whiter than the dusk. +A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head. + +The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs +Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours +Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in. + +He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove +To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him, +But stood, the sweat of horror on his face. + +He blundered down a path, trampling on thistles, +In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees. +And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought, +And half remembered starlight on the meadows, +Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men, +Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep +And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves, +And far off the long churring night-jar's note. + +But something in the wood, trying to daunt him, +Led him confused in circles through the brake. +He was forgetting his old wretched folly, +And freedom was his need; his throat was choking; +Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs, +And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps. +Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!' +Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom, +Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns, +He peers around with boding, frantic eyes. +An evil creature in the twilight looping +Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off, +He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered +Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double, +To shamble at him zigzag, squat and bestial. + +Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls +With roaring brain--agony--the snapt spark-- +And blots of green and purple in his eyes. +Then the slow fingers groping on his neck, +And at his heart the strangling clasp of death. + + + +THE DEATH-BED + + +He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped +Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls; +Aqueous like floating rays of amber light, +Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep,-- +Silence and safety; and his mortal shore +Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death. + +Some one was holding water to his mouth. +He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped +Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot +The opiate throb and ache that was his wound. +Water--calm, sliding green above the weir; +Water--a sky-lit alley for his boat, +Bird-voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers +And shaken hues of summer: drifting down, +He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept. + +Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward, +Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve. +Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars +Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; +Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, +Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes. + +Rain; he could hear it rustling through the dark; +Fragrance and passionless music woven as one; +Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers +That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps +Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace +Gently and slowly washing life away. + + * * * * * + +He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain +Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore +His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs. +But some one was beside him; soon he lay +Shuddering because that evil thing had passed. +And Death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared. + +Light many lamps and gather round his bed. +Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live. +Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet. +He's young; he hated war; how should he die +When cruel old campaigners win safe through? + +But Death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went, +And there was silence in the summer night; +Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep. +Then, far away, the thudding of the guns. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +I. ROSENBERG + + + +'AH, KOELUE ...' + + +Ah, Koelue! +Had you embalmed your beauty, so +It could not backward go, +Or change in any way, +What were the use, if on my eyes +The embalming spices were not laid +To keep us fixed, +Two amorous sculptures passioned endlessly? +What were the use, if my sight grew, +And its far branches were cloud-hung, +You small at the roots, like grass, +While the new lips my spirit would kiss +Were not red lips of flesh, +But the huge kiss of power? +Where yesterday soft hair through my fingers fell, +A shaggy mane would entwine, +And no slim form work fire to my thighs, +But human Life's inarticulate mass +Throb the pulse of a thing +Whose mountain flanks awry +Beg my mastery--mine! +Ah! I will ride the dizzy beast of the world +My road--my way! + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +ROBERT NICHOLS + + + +TO---- + + +Asleep within the deadest hour of night +And turning with the earth, I was aware +How suddenly the eastern curve was bright, +As when the sun arises from his lair. +But not the sun arose: it was thy hair +Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light. + +Since then I know that neither night nor day +May I escape thee, O my heavenly hell! +Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay; +And should I dare to die, I know full well +Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell, +Whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way. + + + +THE ASSAULT + + +The beating of the guns grows louder. +'Not long, boys, now'. +My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder. +Hurricanes grow +As guns redouble their fire. +Through the shaken periscope peeping, +I glimpse their wire: +Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping, +Spouting like shocks of meeting waves, +Death's fountains are playing, +Shells like shrieking birds rush over; +Crash and din rises higher. +A stream of lead raves +Over us from the left ... (we safe under cover!) +Crash! Reverberation! Crash! +Acrid smoke billowing. Flash upon flash. +Black smoke drifting. The German line +Vanishes in confusion, smoke. Cries, and cry +Of our men, 'Gah, yer swine! +Ye're for it', die +In a hurricane of shell. + +One cry: +'We're comin' soon! look out!' +There is opened hell +Over there; fragments fly, +Rifles and bits of men whirled at the sky: +Dust, smoke, thunder! A sudden bout +Of machine guns chattering ... +And redoubled battering, +As if in fury at their daring!... + +No good staring. + +Time soon now ... home ... house on a sunny hill ... +Gone like a flickered page: +Time soon now ... zero ... will engage.... + +A sudden thrill-- +'Fix bayonets!' +Gods! we have our fill +Of fear, hysteria, exultation, rage, +Rage to kill. + +My heart burns hot, whiter and whiter, +Contracts tighter and tighter, +Until I stifle with the will +Long forged, now used +(Though utterly strained)-- +O pounding heart, +Baffled, confused, +Heart panged, head singing, dizzily pained-- +To do my part. + +Blindness a moment. Sick. +There the men are! +Bayonets ready: click! +Time goes quick; +A stumbled prayer ... somehow a blazing star +In a blue night ... where? +Again prayer. +The tongue trips. Start: +How's time? Soon now. Two minutes or less. +The gun's fury mounting higher ... +Their utmost. I lift a silent hand. Unseen I bless +Those hearts will follow me. +And beautifully, +Now beautifully my will grips, +Soul calm and round and filmed and white! + +A shout: 'Men, no such order as retire!' + +I nod. + The whistle's 'twixt my lips ... +I catch +A wan, worn smile at me. +Dear men! +The pale wrist-watch ... +The quiet hand ticks on amid the din. +The guns again +Rise to a last fury, to a rage, a lust: +Kill! Pound! Kill! Pound! Pound! +Now comes the thrust! +My part ... dizziness ... will ... but trust +These men. The great guns rise; +Their fury seems to burst the earth and skies! + +They lift. + +Gather, heart, all thoughts that drift; +Be steel, soul, +Compress thyself +Into a round, bright whole. +I cannot speak. + +Time. Time! + +I hear my whistle shriek, +Between teeth set; +I fling an arm up, +Scramble up the grime +Over the parapet! +I'm up. Go on. +Something meets us. +Head down into the storm that greets us. + +A wail. +Lights. Blurr. +Gone. +On, on. Lead. Lead. Hail. +Spatter. Whirr! Whirr! +'Toward that patch of brown; +Direction left'. Bullets a stream. +Devouring thought crying in a dream. +Men, crumpled, going down.... +Go on. Go. +Deafness. Numbness. The loudening tornado. +Bullets. Mud. Stumbling and skating. +My voice's strangled shout: +'Steady pace, boys!' +The still light: gladness. +'Look, sir. Look out!' +Ha! ha! Bunched figures waiting. +Revolver levelled quick! +Flick! Flick! +Red as blood. +Germans. Germans. +Good! O good! +Cool madness. + + + + +FULFILMENT + + +Was there love once? I have forgotten her. +Was there grief once? grief yet is mine. +Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir +More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine. + +Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, +Lined by the wind, burned by the sun; +Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, +As whose children we are brethren: one. + +And any moment may descend hot death +To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast +Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath +Not less for dying faithful to the last. + +O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, +Oped mouth gushing, fallen head, +Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony! +O sudden spasm, release of the dead! + +Was there love once? I have forgotten her. +Was there grief once? grief yet is mine. +O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, +All, all, my joy, my grief, my love, are thine! + + + + +THE PHILOSOPHER'S ORATION + +(From 'A Faun's Holiday') + + +Meanwhile, though nations in distress +Cower at a comet's loveliness +Shaken across the midnight sky; +Though the wind roars, and Victory, +A virgin fierce, on vans of gold +Stoops through the cloud's white smother rolled +Over the armies' shock and flow +Across the broad green hills below, +Yet hovers and will not circle down +To cast t'ward one the leafy crown; +Though men drive galleys' golden beaks +To isles beyond the sunset peaks, +And cities on the sea behold +Whose walls are glass, whose gates are gold, +Whose turrets, risen in an hour, +Dazzle between the sun and shower, +Whose sole inhabitants are kings +Six cubits high with gryphon's wings +And beard and mien more glorious +Than Midas or Assaracus; +Though priests in many a hill-top fane +Lift anguished hands--and lift in vain-- +Toward the sun's shaft dancing through +The bright roof's square of wind-swept blue; +Though 'cross the stars nightly arise +The silver fumes of sacrifice; +Though a new Helen bring new scars, +Pyres piled upon wrecked golden cars, +Stacked spears, rolled smoke, and spirits sped +Like a streaked flame toward the dead: +Though all these be, yet grows not old +Delight of sunned and windy wold, +Of soaking downs aglare, asteam, +Of still tarns where the yellow gleam +Of a far sunrise slowly breaks, +Or sunset strews with golden flakes +The deeps which soon the stars will throng. + +For earth yet keeps her undersong +Of comfort and of ultimate peace, +That whoso seeks shall never cease +To hear at dawn or noon or night. +Joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright, +Too thin, too bright, for those to hear +Who listen with an eager ear, +Or course about and seek to spy, +Within an hour, eternity. +First must the spirit cast aside +This world's and next his own poor pride +And learn the universe to scan +More as a flower, less as a man. +Then shall he hear the lonely dead +Sing and the stars sing overhead, +And every spray upon the heath, +And larks above and ants beneath; +The stream shall take him in her arms; +Blue skies shall rest him in their calms; +The wind shall be a lovely friend, +And every leaf and bough shall bend +Over him with a lover's grace. +The hills shall bare a perfect face +Full of a high solemnity; +The heavenly clouds shall weep, and be +Content as overhead they swim +To be high brothers unto him. + +No more shall he feel pitched and hurled +Uncomprehended into this world; +For every place shall be his place, +And he shall recognize its face. +At dawn he shall upon his path; +No sword shall touch him, nor the wrath +Of the ranked crowd of clamorous men. +At even he shall home again, +And lay him down to sleep at ease, +One with the Night and the Night's peace. +Ev'n Sorrow, to be escaped of none, +But a more deep communion +Shall be to him, and Death at last +No more dreaded than the Past, +Whose shadow in the brain of earth +Informs him now and gave him birth. + + + +THE NAIADS' MUSIC + +(From 'A Faun's Holiday') + +Come, ye sorrowful, and steep +Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep: +For our kisses lightlier run +Than the traceries of the sun +By the lolling water cast +Up grey precipices vast, +Lifting smooth and warm and steep +Out of the palely shimmering deep. + +Come, ye sorrowful, and take +Kisses that are but half awake: +For here are eyes O softer far +Than the blossom of the star +Upon the mothy twilit waters, +And here are mouths whose gentle laughters +Are but the echoes of the deep +Laughing and murmuring in its sleep. + +Come, ye sorrowful, and see +The raindrops flaming goldenly +On the stream's eddies overhead +And dragonflies with drops of red +In the crisp surface of each wing +Threading slant rains that flash and sing, +Or under the water-lily's cup, +From darkling depths, roll slowly up +The bronze flanks of an ancient bream +Into the hot sun's shattered beam, +Or over a sunk tree's bubbled hole +The perch stream in a golden shoal: +Come, ye sorrowful; our deep +Holds dreams lovelier than sleep. + +But if ye sons of Sorrow come +Only wishing to be numb: +Our eyes are sad as bluebell posies, +Our breasts are soft as silken roses, +And our hands are tenderer +Than the breaths that scarce can stir +The sunlit eglantine that is +Murmurous with hidden bees. +Come, ye sorrowful, and steep +Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep. + +Come, ye sorrowful, for here +No voices sound but fond and clear +Of mouths as lorn as is the rose +That under water doth disclose, +Amid her crimson petals torn, +A heart as golden as the morn; +And here are tresses languorous +As the weeds wander over us, +And brows as holy and as bland +As the honey-coloured sand +Lying sun-entranced below +The lazy water's limpid flow: +Come, ye sorrowful, and steep +Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep. + + + +THE PROPHETIC BARD'S ORATION + +(From 'A Faun's Holiday') + +'Be warned! I feel the world grow old, +And off Olympus fades the gold +Of the simple passionate sun; +And the Gods wither one by one: +Proud-eyed Apollo's bow is broken, +And throned Zeus nods nor may be woken +But by the song of spirits seven +Quiring in the midnight heaven +Of a new world no more forlorn, +Sith unto it a Babe is born, +That in a propped, thatched stable lies, +While with darkling, reverent eyes +Dusky Emperors, coifed in gold, +Kneel mid the rushy mire, and hold +Caskets of rubies, urns of myrrh, +Whose fumes enwrap the thurifer +And coil toward the high dim rafters +Where, with lutes and warbling laughters, +Clustered cherubs of rainbow feather, +Fanning the fragrant air together, +Flit in jubilant holy glee, +And make heavenly minstrelsy +To the Child their Sun, whose glow +Bathes them His cloudlets from below.... +Long shall this chimed accord be heard, +Yet all earth hushed at His first word: +Then shall be seen Apollo's car +Blaze headlong like a banished star; +And the Queen of heavenly Loves +Dragged downward by her dying doves; +Vulcan, spun on a wheel, shall track +The circle of the zodiac; +Silver Artemis be lost, +To the polar blizzards tossed; +Heaven shall curdle as with blood; +The sun be swallowed in the flood; +The universe be silent save +For the low drone of winds that lave +The shadowed great world's ashen sides +As through the rustling void she glides. +Then shall there be a whisper heard +Of the Grave's Secret and its Word, +Where in black silence none shall cry +Save those who, dead-affrighted, spy +How from the murmurous graveyards creep +The figures of eternal sleep. +Last: when 'tis light men shall behold, +Beyond the crags, a flower of gold +Blossoming in a golden haze, +And, while they guess Zeus' halls now blaze, +Shall in the blossom's heart descry +The saints of a new hierarchy!' + +He ceased ... and in the morning sky +Zeus' anger threatened murmurously. +I sped away. The lightning's sword +Stabbed on the forest. But the word +Abides with me. I feel its power +Most darkly in the twilit hour, +When Night's eternal shadow, cast +Over earth hushed and pale and vast, +Darkly foretells the soundless Night +In which this orb, so green, so bright, +Now spins, and which shall compass her +When on her rondure nought shall stir +But snow-whorls which the wind shall roll +From the Equator to the Pole ... + +For everlastingly there is +Something Beyond, Behind: I wis +All Gods are haunted, and there clings, +As hound behind fled sheep, the things +Beyond the Universe's ken: +Gods haunt the Half-Gods, Half-Gods men, +And Man the brute. Gods, born of Night, +Feel a blacker appetite +Gape to devour them; Half-Gods dread +But jealous Gods; and mere men tread +Warily lest a Half-God rise +And loose on them from empty skies +Amazement, thunder, stark affright, +Famine and sudden War's thick night, +In which loud Furies hunt the Pities +Through smoke above wrecked, flaming cities. + +For Pan, the Unknown God, rules all. +He shall outlive the funeral, +Change, and decay, of many Gods, +Until he, too, lets fall his rods +Of viewless power upon that minute +When Universe cowers at Infinite! + + + +THE TOWER + + +It was deep night, and over Jerusalem's low roofs +The moon floated, drifting through high vaporous woofs. +The moonlight crept and glistened silent, solemn, sweet, +Over dome and column, up empty, endless street; +In the closed, scented gardens the rose loosed from the stem +Her white showery petals; none regarded them; +The starry thicket breathed odours to the sentinel palm; +Silence possessed the city like a soul possessed by calm. + +Not a spark in the warren under the giant night, +Save where in a turret's lantern beamed a grave, still light: +There in the topmost chamber a gold-eyed lamp was lit-- +Marvellous lamp in darkness, informing, redeeming it! +For, set in that tiny chamber, Jesus, the blessed and doomed, +Spoke to the lone apostles as light to men en-tombed; +And spreading his hands in blessing, as one soon to be dead, +He put soft enchantment into spare wine and bread. + +The hearts of the disciples were broken and full of tears, +Because their lord, the spearless, was hedged about with spears; +And in his face the sickness of departure had spread a gloom, +At leaving his young friends friendless. + They could not forget the tomb. +He smiled subduedly, telling, in tones soft as voice of the dove, +The endlessness of sorrow, the eternal solace of love; +And lifting the earthly tokens, wine and sorrowful bread, +He bade them sup and remember one who lived and was dead. +And they could not restrain their weeping. + But one rose up to depart, +Having weakness and hate of weakness raging within his heart, +And bowed to the robed assembly whose eyes gleamed wet in the light. +Judas arose and departed: night went out to the night. + +Then Jesus lifted his voice like a fountain in an ocean of tears, +And comforted his disciples and calmed and allayed their fears. +But Judas wound down the turret, creeping from floor to floor, +And would fly; but one leaning, weeping, barred him beside the door. +And he knew her by her ruddy garment and two yet-watching men: +Mary of Seven Evils, Mary Magdalen. +And he was frighted at her. She sighed: 'I dreamed him dead. +We sell the body for silver....' + Then Judas cried out and fled +Forth into the night!... The moon had begun to set: +A drear, deft wind went sifting, setting the dust afret; +Into the heart of the city Judas ran on and prayed +To stern Jehovah lest his deed make him afraid. + +But in the tiny lantern, hanging as if on air, +The disciples sat unspeaking. Amaze and peace were there. +For _his_ voice, more lovely than song of all earthly birds, +In accents humble and happy spoke slow, consoling words. + +Thus Jesus discoursed, and was silent, sitting up-right, and soon +Past the casement behind him slanted the sinking moon; +And, rising for Olivet, all stared, between love and dread, +Seeing the torrid moon a ruddy halo behind his head. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +HAROLD MONRO + + + +TWO POEMS + +(Numbers I and X in 'Strange Meetings') + + +I + +If suddenly a clod of earth should rise, +And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love, +How one would tremble, and in what surprise +Gasp: 'Can _you_ move?' + +I see men walking, and I always feel: +'Earth! How have you done this? What can you be?' +I can't learn how to know men, or conceal +How strange they are to me. + + +II + +A flower is looking through the ground, +Blinking at the April weather; +Now a child has seen the flower: +Now they go and play together. + +Now it seems the flower will speak, +And will call the child its brother-- +But, oh strange forgetfulness!-- +They don't recognize each other. + + + +EVERY THING + + +Since man has been articulate, +Mechanical, improvidently wise, +(Servant of Fate), +He has not understood the little cries +And foreign conversations of the small +Delightful creatures that have followed him +Not far behind; +Has failed to hear the sympathetic call +Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind +Reposeful Teraphim +Of his domestic happiness; the Stool +He sat on, or the Door he entered through: +He has not thanked them, overbearing fool! +What is he coming to? + +But you should listen to the talk of these. +Honest they are, and patient they have kept, +Served him without his 'Thank you' or his 'Please'. +I often heard +The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word, +Murmuring, before I slept. +The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud, +Then bowed, +And in a smoky argument +Into the darkness went. + +The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:-- +'Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know +Why; and he always says I boil too slow. +He never calls me "Sukie, dear," and oh, +I wonder why I squander my desire +Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire.' + +Now the old Copper Basin suddenly +Rattled and tumbled from the shelf, +Bumping and crying: 'I can fall by myself; +Without a woman's hand +To patronize and coax and flatter me, +I understand +The lean and poise of gravitable land.' +It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout, +Twisted itself convulsively about, +Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare, +It stares and grins at me. + +The old impetuous Gas above my head +Begins irascibly to flare and fret, +Wheezing into its epileptic jet, +Reminding me I ought to go to bed. + +The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door +Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor +Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot. +Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot +Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again. +The Putty cracks against the window-pane. +A piece of Paper in the basket shoves +Another piece, and toward the bottom moves. +My independent Pencil, while I write, +Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock +Stirs all its body and begins to rock, +Warning the waiting presence of the Night, +Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain +Ticking of ordinary work again. + +You do well to remind me, and I praise +Your strangely individual foreign ways. +You call me from myself to recognize +Companionship in your unselfish eyes. + +I want your dear acquaintances, although +I pass you arrogantly over, throw +Your lovely sounds, and squander them along +My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong. + +Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat. +You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat, +Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak, +Your touch grow kindlier from week to week. +It well becomes our mutual happiness +To go toward the same end more or less. +There is not much dissimilarity, +Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine, +Between the purposes of you and me, +And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine. + + + +SOLITUDE + + +When you have tidied all things for the night, +And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep, +You'll pause a moment in the late firelight, +Too sorrowful to weep. + +The large and gentle furniture has stood +In sympathetic silence all the day +With that old kindness of domestic wood; +Nevertheless the haunted room will say: +'Some one must be away.' + +The little dog rolls over half awake, +Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you, +Wags his tail very slightly for your sake, +That you may feel he is unhappy too. + +A distant engine whistles, or the floor +Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door. + +Silence is scattered like a broken glass. +The minutes prick their ears and run about, +Then one by one subside again and pass +Sedately in, monotonously out. + +You bend your head and wipe away a tear. +Solitude walks one heavy step more near. + + + +WEEK-END + + +I + +The train! The twelve o'clock for paradise. + Hurry, or it will try to creep away. +Out in the country every one is wise: + We can be only wise on Saturday. +There you are waiting, little friendly house: + Those are your chimney-stacks with you between, +Surrounded by old trees and strolling cows, + Staring through all your windows at the green. +Your homely floor is creaking for our tread; + The smiling tea-pot with contented spout +Thinks of the boiling water, and the bread + Longs for the butter. All their hands are out + To greet us, and the gentle blankets seem + Purring and crooning: 'Lie in us, and dream.' + + +II + +The key will stammer, and the door reply, + The hall wake, yawn, and smile; the torpid stair +Will grumble at our feet, the table cry: + 'Fetch my belongings for me; I am bare.' +A clatter! Something in the attic falls. + A ghost has lifted up his robes and fled. +The loitering shadows move along the walls; + Then silence very slowly lifts his head. +The starling with impatient screech has flown + The chimney, and is watching from the tree. +They thought us gone for ever: mouse alone + Stops in the middle of the floor to see. + Now all you idle things, resume your toil. + Hearth, put your flames on. Sulky kettle, boil. + + +III + +Contented evening; comfortable joys; + The snoozing fire, and all the fields are still: +Tranquil delight, no purpose, and no noise-- + Unless the slow wind flowing round the hill. +'Murry' (the kettle) dozes; little mouse + Is rambling prudently about the floor. +There's lovely conversation in this house: + Words become princes that were slaves before. +What a sweet atmosphere for you and me + The people that have been here left behind.... +Oh, but I fear it may turn out to be + Built of a dream, erected in the mind: + So if we speak too loud, we may awaken + To find it vanished, and ourselves mistaken. + + +IV + +Lift up the curtain carefully. All the trees + Stand in the dark like drowsy sentinels. + The oak is talkative to-night; he tells +The little bushes crowding at his knees +That formidable, hard, voluminous + History of growth from acorn into age. +They titter like school-children; they arouse + Their comrades, who exclaim: 'He is very sage.' +Look how the moon is staring through that cloud, + Laying and lifting idle streaks of light. +O hark! was that the monstrous wind, so loud +And sudden, prowling always through the night? + Let down the shaking curtain. They are queer, + Those foreigners. They and we live so near. + + +V + +Come, come to bed. The shadows move about, + And some one seems to overhear our talk. +The fire is low; the candles flicker out; + The ghosts of former tenants want to walk. +Already they are shuffling through the gloom. + I felt an old man touch my shoulder-blade; +Once he was married here; they love this room, + He and his woman and the child they made. +Dead, dead, they are, yet some familiar sound, + Creeping along the brink of happy life, +Revives their memory from under ground-- + The farmer and his troublesome old wife. + Let us be going: as we climb the stairs, + They'll sit down in our warm half-empty chairs. + + +VI + +Morning! Wake up! Awaken! All the boughs + Are rippling on the air across the green. +The youngest birds are singing to the house. + Blood of the world!--and is the country clean? +Disturb the precinct. Cool it with a shout. + Sing as you trundle down to light the fire. +Turn the encumbering shadows tumbling out. + And fill the chambers with a new desire. +Life is no good, unless the morning brings + White happiness and quick delight of day. +These half-inanimate domestic things + Must all be useful, or must go away. + Coffee, be fragrant. Porridge in my plate, + Increase the vigour to fulfil my fate. + + +VII + +The fresh air moves like water round a boat. + The white clouds wander. Let us wander too. +The whining, wavering plover flap and float. + That crow is flying after that cuckoo. +Look! Look!... They're gone. What are the great trees calling? + Just come a little farther, by that edge +Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling + Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge. +Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand. + Lie down and press your heart against the ground. +Let us both listen till we understand, + Each through the other, every natural sound.... + I can't hear anything to-day, can you, + But, far and near: 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!'? + + +VIII + +The everlasting grass--how bright, how cool! + The day has gone too suddenly, too soon. +There's something white and shiny in that pool-- + Throw in a stone, and you will hit the moon. +Listen, the church-bell ringing! Do not say + We must go back to-morrow to our work. +We'll tell them we are dead: we died to-day. + We're lazy. We're too happy. We will shirk. +We're cows. We're kettles. We'll be anything + Except the manikins of time and fear. +We'll start away to-morrow wandering, + And nobody will notice in a year.... + Now the great sun is slipping under ground. + Grip firmly!--How the earth is whirling round! + + +IX + +Be staid; be careful; and be not too free. +Temptation to enjoy your liberty +May rise against you, break into a crime, +And smash the habit of employing Time. +It serves no purpose that the careful clock + Mark the appointment, the officious train +Hurry to keep it, if the minutes mock + Loud in your ear: 'Late. Late. Late. Late again.' +Week-end is very well on Saturday: + On Monday it's a different affair-- +A little episode, a trivial stay + In some oblivious spot somehow, somewhere. + On Sunday night we hardly laugh or speak: + Week-end begins to merge itself in Week. + + +X + +Pack up the house, and close the creaking door. + The fields are dull this morning in the rain. +It's difficult to leave that homely floor. + Wave a light hand; we will return again. +(What was that bird?) Good-bye, ecstatic tree, + Floating, bursting, and breathing on the air. +The lonely farm is wondering that we + Can leave. How every window seems to stare! +That bag is heavy. Share it for a bit. + You like that gentle swashing of the ground +As we tread?... + It is over. Now we sit + Reading the morning paper in the sound + Of the debilitating heavy train. + London again, again. London again. + + + +THE BIRD AT DAWN + + +What I saw was just one eye +In the dawn as I was going: +A bird can carry all the sky +In that little button glowing. + +Never in my life I went +So deep into the firmament. + +He was standing on a tree, +All in blossom overflowing; +And he purposely looked hard at me, +At first, as if to question merrily: +'Where are you going?' +But next some far more serious thing to say: +I could not answer, could not look away. + +Oh, that hard, round, and so distracting eye: +Little mirror of all sky!-- +And then the after-song another tree +Held, and sent radiating back on me. + +If no man had invented human word, +And a bird-song had been +The only way to utter what we mean, +What would we men have heard, +What understood, what seen, +Between the trills and pauses, in between +The singing and the silence of a bird? + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +JOHN MASEFIELD + + + +SEVEN POEMS + + +[POEM NO.] I + +Here in the self is all that man can know +Of Beauty, all the wonder, all the power, +All the unearthly colour, all the glow, +Here in the self which withers like a flower; +Here in the self which fades as hours pass, +And droops and dies and rots and is forgotten +Sooner, by ages, than the mirroring glass +In which it sees its glory still unrotten. +Here in the flesh, within the flesh, behind, +Swift in the blood and throbbing on the bone, +Beauty herself, the universal mind, +Eternal April wandering alone; +The God, the holy Ghost, the atoning Lord, +Here in the flesh, the never yet explored. + + + +[POEM NO.] II + +What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt +Held in cohesion by unresting cells +Which work they know not why, which never halt, +Myself unwitting where their master dwells. +I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spin; +A world which uses me as I use them, +Nor do I know which end or which begin, +Nor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn. +So, like a marvel in a marvel set, +I answer to the vast, as wave by wave +The sea of air goes over, dry or wet, +Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave, +Or the great sun comes north, this myriad I +Tingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why. + + + +[POEM NO.] III + +If I could get within this changing I, +This ever altering thing which yet persists, +Keeping the features it is reckoned by, +While each component atom breaks or twists; +If, wandering past strange groups of shifting forms, +Cells at their hidden marvels hard at work, +Pale from much toil, or red from sudden storms, +I might attain to where the Rulers lurk; +If, pressing past the guards in those grey gates, +The brain's most folded, intertwisted shell, +I might attain to that which alters fates, +The King, the supreme self, the Master Cell; +Then, on Man's earthly peak, I might behold +The unearthly self beyond, unguessed, untold. + + + +[POEM NO.] IV + +Ah, we are neither heaven nor earth, but men; +Something that uses and despises both, +That takes its earth's contentment in the pen, +Then sees the world's injustice and is wroth, +And flinging off youth's happy promise, flies +Up to some breach, despising earthly things, +And, in contempt of hell and heaven, dies +Rather than bear some yoke of priests or kings. +Our joys are not of heaven nor earth, but man's, +A woman's beauty, or a child's delight, +The trembling blood when the discoverer scans +The sought-for world, the guessed-at satellite; +The ringing scene, the stone at point to blush +For unborn men to look at and say 'Hush.' + + + +[POEM NO.] V + +Roses are beauty, but I never see +Those blood drops from the burning heart of June +Glowing like thought upon the living tree +Without a pity that they die so soon, +Die into petals, like those roses old, +Those women, who were summer in men's hearts +Before the smile upon the Sphinx was cold +Or sand had hid the Syrian and his arts. +O myriad dust of beauty that lies thick +Under our feet that not a single grain +But stirred and moved in beauty and was quick +For one brief moon and died nor lived again; +But when the moon rose lay upon the grass +Pasture to living beauty, life that was. + + + +[POEM NO.] VI + +I went into the fields, but you were there +Waiting for me, so all the summer flowers +Were only glimpses of your starry powers; +Beautiful and inspired dust they were. + +I went down by the waters, and a bird +Sang with your voice in all the unknown tones +Of all that self of you I have not heard, +So that my being felt you to the bones. + +I went into the house, and shut the door +To be alone, but you were there with me; +All beauty in a little room may be, +Though the roof lean and muddy be the floor. + +Then in my bed I bound my tired eyes +To make a darkness for my weary brain; +But like a presence you were there again, +Being and real, beautiful and wise, + +So that I could not sleep, and cried aloud, +'You strange grave thing, what is it you would say?' +The redness of your dear lips dimmed to grey, +The waters ebbed, the moon hid in a cloud. + + + +[POEM NO.] VII + +Death lies in wait for you, you wild thing in the wood, +Shy-footed beauty dear, half-seen, half-understood, +Glimpsed in the beech-wood dim and in the dropping fir, +Shy like a fawn and sweet and beauty's minister. +Glimpsed as in flying clouds by night the little moon, +A wonder, a delight, a paleness passing soon. + +Only a moment held, only an hour seen, +Only an instant known in all that life has been, +One instant in the sand to drink that gush of grace, +The beauty of your way, the marvel of your face. + +Death lies in wait for you, but few short hours he gives; +I perish even as you by whom all spirit lives. +Come to me, spirit, come, and fill my hour of breath +With hours of life in life that pay no toll to death. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +RALPH HODGSON + + + +THE GIPSY GIRL + +'Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen, +A penny for three tries!' +Some threw and lost, some threw and won +A ten-a-penny prize. + +She was a tawny gipsy girl, +A girl of twenty years, +I liked her for the lumps of gold +That jingled from her ears; + +I liked the flaring yellow scarf +Bound loose about her throat, +I liked her showy purple gown +And flashy velvet coat. + +A man came up, too loose of tongue, +And said no good to her; +She did not blush as Saxons do, +Or turn upon the cur; + +She fawned and whined 'Sweet gentleman, +A penny for three tries!' +--But oh, the den of wild things in +The darkness of her eyes! + + + +THE BELLS OF HEAVEN + +'Twould ring the bells of Heaven +The wildest peal for years, +If Parson lost his senses +And people came to theirs, +And he and they together +Knelt down with angry prayers +For tamed and shabby tigers +And dancing dogs and bears, +And wretched, blind pit ponies, +And little hunted hares. + + + +BABYLON + +If you could bring her glories back! +You gentle sirs who sift the dust +And burrow in the mould and must +Of Babylon for bric-a-brac; +Who catalogue and pigeon-hole +The faded splendours of her soul +And put her greatness under glass-- +If you could bring her past to pass! + +If you could bring her dead to life! +The soldier lad; the market wife; +Madam buying fowls from her; +Tip, the butcher's bandy cur; +Workmen carting bricks and clay; +Babel passing to and fro +On the business of a day +Gone three thousand years ago-- +That you cannot; then be done, +Put the goblet down again, +Let the broken arch remain, +Leave the dead men's dust alone-- + +Is it nothing how she lies, +This old mother of you all, +You great cities proud and tall +Towering to a hundred skies +Round a world she never knew, +Is it nothing, this, to you? +Must the ghoulish work go on +Till her very floors are gone? +While there's still a brick to save +Drive these people from her grave. + +The Jewish seer when he cried +Woe to Babel's lust and pride +Saw the foxes at her gates; +Once again the wild thing waits. +Then leave her in her last decay +A house of owls, a foxes' den; +The desert that till yesterday +Hid her from the eyes of men +In its proper time and way +Will take her to itself again. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +ROBERT GRAVES + + + +IT'S A QUEER TIME + +It's hard to know if you're alive or dead +When steel and fire go roaring through your head. + +One moment you'll be crouching at your gun +Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun: +The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast-- +No time to think--leave all--and off you go ... +To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow, +To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime-- +Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West! + It's a queer time. + +You're charging madly at them yelling 'Fag!' +When somehow something gives and your feet drag. +You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain +And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay +In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day. +Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb! +You're back in the old sailor suit again. + It's a queer time. + +Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out-- +Great roar--the trench shakes and falls about-- +You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo! +Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, +Hanky to nose--that lyddite makes a stench-- +Getting her pinafore all over grime. +Funny! because she died ten years ago! + It's a queer time. + +The trouble is, things happen much too quick; +Up jump the Bosches, rifles thump and click, +You stagger, and the whole scene fades away: +Even good Christians don't like passing straight +From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate +To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime +Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well today ... + It's a queer time. + + + +GOLIATH AND DAVID + +('For D. C. T., killed at Fricourt, March 1916') + +Once an earlier David took +Smooth pebbles from the brook: +Out between the lines he went +To that one-sided tournament, +A shepherd boy who stood out fine +And young to fight a Philistine +Clad all in brazen mail. He swears +That he's killed lions, he's killed bears, +And those that scorn the God of Zion +Shall perish so like bear or lion. +But ... the historian of that fight +Had not the heart to tell it right. + +Striding within javelin range +Goliath marvels at this strange +Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength. +David's clear eye measures the length; +With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee, +Poises a moment thoughtfully, +And hurls with a long vengeful swing. +The pebble, humming from the sling +Like a wild bee, flies a sure line; +For the forehead of the Philistine; +Then ... but there comes a brazen clink +And quicker than a man can think +Goliath's shield parries each cast. +Clang! clang! and clang! was David's last +Scorn blazes in the Giant's eye, +Towering unhurt six cubits high. +Says foolish David, 'Damn your shield! +And damn my sling! but I'll not yield.' + +He takes his staff of Mamre oak, +A knotted shepherd-staff that's broke +The skull of many a wolf and fox +Come filching lambs from Jesse's flocks. +Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh +Can scatter chariots like blown chaff +To rout: but David, calm and brave, +Holds his ground, for God will save. +Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh! +Shame for Beauty's overthrow! +(God's eyes are dim, His ears are shut.) +One cruel backhand sabre cut-- +'I'm hit! I'm killed!' young David cries, +Throws blindly forward, chokes ... and dies. +And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim, +Goliath straddles over him. + + + +A PINCH OF SALT + +When a dream is born in you + With a sudden clamorous pain, +When you know the dream is true + And lovely, with no flaw nor stain, +O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch +You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much. + +Dreams are like a bird that mocks, + Flirting the feathers of his tail. +When you seize at the salt-box + Over the hedge you'll see him sail. +Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff: +They watch you from the apple bough and laugh. + +Poet, never chase the dream. + Laugh yourself and turn away. +Mask your hunger, let it seem + Small matter if he come or stay; +But when he nestles in your hand at last, +Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast. + + + +STAR-TALK + +'Are you awake, Gemelli, + This frosty night?' +'We'll be awake till reveille, +Which is Sunrise,' say the Gemelli, +'It's no good trying to go to sleep: +If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, + But rest is hopeless tonight, + But rest is hopeless tonight.' + +'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, + This frosty night?' +'Yes, and so are the Hyads: +See us cuddle and hug,' say the Pleiads, +'All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: +We huddle together like birds in a storm: + It's bitter weather tonight, + It's bitter weather tonight.' + +'What do you hunt, Orion, + This starry night?' +'The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, +And the Great Bear,' says Orion, +'With my starry quiver and beautiful belt +I am trying to find a good thick pelt + To warm my shoulders tonight, + To warm my shoulders tonight.' + +'Did you hear that, Great She-bear, + This frosty night?' +'Yes, he's talking of stripping _me_ bare +Of my own big fur,' says the She-bear, +I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: +The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, + And the frost so cruel tonight! + And the frost so cruel tonight! + +'How is your trade, Aquarius, + This frosty night?' +'Complaints is many and various +And my feet are cold,' says Aquarius, +'There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, +And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, + And the pump has frozen tonight, + And the pump has frozen tonight.' + + + +IN THE WILDERNESS + +Christ of his gentleness +Thirsting and hungering, +Walked in the wilderness; +Soft words of grace he spoke +Unto lost desert-folk +That listened wondering. +He heard the bitterns call +From ruined palace-wall, +Answered them brotherly. +He held communion +With the she-pelican +Of lonely piety. +Basilisk, cockatrice, +Flocked to his homilies, +With mail of dread device, +With monstrous barbed stings, +With eager dragon-eyes; +Great rats on leather wings +And poor blind broken things, +Foul in their miseries. +And ever with him went, +Of all his wanderings +Comrade, with ragged coat, +Gaunt ribs--poor innocent-- +Bleeding foot, burning throat, +The guileless old scape-goat; +For forty nights and days +Followed in Jesus' ways, +Sure guard behind him kept, +Tears like a lover wept. + + + +THE BOY IN CHURCH + +'Gabble-gabble ... brethren ... gabble-gabble!' + My window glimpses larch and heather. +I hardly hear the tuneful babble, + Not knowing nor much caring whether +The text is praise or exhortation, +Prayer or thanksgiving or damnation. + +Outside it blows wetter and wetter, + The tossing trees never stay still; +I shift my elbows to catch better + The full round sweep of heathered hill. +The tortured copse bends to and fro +In silence like a shadow-show. + +The parson's voice runs like a river + Over smooth rocks. I like this church. +The pews are staid, they never shiver, + They never bend or sway or lurch. +'Prayer,' says the kind voice, 'is a chain +That draws down Grace from Heaven again.' + +I add the hymns up over and over + Until there's not the least mistake. +Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover! + It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the Lake? +The red light from his mantle passes +Across the broad memorial brasses. + +It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking, + Lolling and letting reason nod, +With ugly, serious people linking + Prayer-chains for a forgiving God. +But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying +With furious zeal like madmen praying. + + + +THE LADY VISITOR IN THE PAUPER WARD + +Why do you break upon this old, cool peace, +This painted peace of ours, +With harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese, +With garish flowers? +Why do you churn smooth waters rough again, +Selfish old Skin-and-bone? +Leave us to quiet dreaming and slow pain, +Leave us alone. + + + +NOT DEAD + +Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, +I know that David's with me here again. +All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. +Caressingly I stroke +Rough bark of the friendly oak. +A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his. +Turf burns with pleasant smoke: +I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. +All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. +Over the whole wood in a little while +Breaks his slow smile. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +WILFRID WILSON GIBSON + + + +RUPERT BROOKE + +Your face was lifted to the golden sky +Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square, +As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air +Its tumult of red stars exultantly, +To the cold constellations dim and high; +And as we neared, the roaring ruddy flare +Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair +Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy. + +The golden head goes down into the night +Quenched in cold gloom--and yet again you stand +Beside me now with lifted face alight, +As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn ... +Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn, +And look into my eyes and take my hand. + + + +TENANTS + +Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways, +We came upon the little house asleep +In cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep, +In the white magic of the full moon-blaze. +Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze, +Fearful to break that quiet, and to creep +Into the home that had been ours to keep +Through a long year of happy nights and days. + +So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam, +So old and ghostly like a house of dream +It seemed, that over us there stole the dread +That even as we watched it, side by side, +The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and died +Within its walls, were sleeping in our bed. + + + +FOR G. + +All night under the moon + Plovers are flying +Over the dreaming meadows of silvery light, +Over the meadows of June, + Flying and crying-- +Wandering voices of love in the hush of the night. + +All night under the moon, + Love, though we're lying +Quietly under the thatch, in silvery light +Over the meadows of June + Together we're flying-- +Rapturous voices of love in the hush of the night? + + + +SEA-CHANGE + +Wind-flicked and ruddy her young body glowed +In sunny shallows, splashing them to spray; +But when on rippled, silver sand she lay, +And over her the little green waves flowed, +Coldly translucent and moon-coloured showed +Her frail young beauty, as if rapt away +From all the light and laughter of the day +To some twilit, forlorn sea-god's abode. + +Again into the sun with happy cry +She leapt alive and sparkling from the sea, +Sprinkling white spray against the hot blue sky, +A laughing girl ... and yet, I see her lie +Under a deeper tide eternally +In cold moon-coloured immortality. + + + +BATTLE + +I + +THE RETURN + +He went, and he was gay to go: + And I smiled on him as he went. +My boy! 'Twas well he couldn't know + My darkest dread, or what it meant-- + +Just what it meant to smile and smile + And let my son go cheerily-- +My son ... and wondering all the while + What stranger would come back to me. + + +II + +THE DANCERS + +All day beneath the hurtling shells + Before my burning eyes +Hover the dainty demoiselles-- + The peacock dragon-flies. + +Unceasingly they dart and glance + Above the stagnant stream-- +And I am fighting here in France + As in a senseless dream. + +A dream of shattering black shells + That hurtle overhead, +And dainty dancing demoiselles + Above the dreamless dead. + + +III + +HIT + + Out of the sparkling sea +I drew my tingling body clear, and lay +On a low ledge the livelong summer day, + Basking, and watching lazily +White sails in Falmouth Bay. + + My body seemed to burn +Salt in the sun that drenched it through and through +Till every particle glowed clean and new + And slowly seemed to turn +To lucent amber in a world of blue.... + +I felt a sudden wrench-- +A trickle of warm blood-- +And found that I was sprawling in the mud +Among the dead men in the trench. + + + +LAMENT + +We who are left, how shall we look again +Happily on the sun or feel the rain +Without remembering how they who went +Ungrudgingly and spent +Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain? + +A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings-- +But we, how shall we turn to little things +And listen to the birds and winds and streams +Made holy by their dreams, +Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things? + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +JOHN FREEMAN + + + +MUSIC COMES + +Music comes +Sweetly from the trembling string +When wizard fingers sweep +Dreamily, half asleep; +When through remembering reeds +Ancient airs and murmurs creep, +Oboe oboe following, +Flute answering clear high flute, +Voices, voices--falling mute, +And the jarring drums. + +At night I heard +First a waking bird +Out of the quiet darkness sing ... +Music comes +Strangely to the brain asleep! +And I heard +Soft, wizard fingers sweep +Music from the trembling string, +And through remembering reeds +Ancient airs and murmurs creep; +Oboe oboe following, +Flute calling clear high flute, +Voices faint, falling mute, +And low jarring drums; +Then all those airs +Sweetly jangled--newly strange, +Rich with change ... +Was it the wind in the reeds? +Did the wind range +Over the trembling string; + +Into flute and oboe pouring +Solemn music; sinking, soaring +Low to high, +Up and down the sky? +Was it the wind jarring +Drowsy far-off drums? + +Strangely to the brain asleep +Music comes. + + + +NOVEMBER SKIES + +Than these November skies +Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep; +Into their grey the subtle spies +Of colour creep, +Changing that high austerity to delight, +Till ev'n the leaden interfolds are bright. +And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers +Ere a thin flushing cloud again +Shuts up that loveliness, or shares. +The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as +Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain, +Holding in bright caprice their rain. + And when of colours none, +Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green, +Is truly seen,-- +In all the myriad grey, +In silver height and dusky deep, remain +The loveliest, +Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun. + + + +DISCOVERY + +Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright. +She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains +Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars, +But not like stars cold, severe, terrible. +Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped +Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide. +Hers the bright light within the quick green +Of every new leaf on the oldest tree. +It was her swimming made the river run +Shining as the sun; +Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark, +Singing in the incessant lark.... +All this was hers--yet all this had not been +Except 'twas seen. +It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright; +My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins, +The vehemence of transfiguring thought-- +Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains-- +That made thy wonders wonderful. +For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee, +Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play, +Empty of meaning and so of all delight. +Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss, +Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth, +And I have paid thee with my thankfulness. + + + +'IT WAS THE LOVELY MOON' + +It was the lovely moon--she lifted +Slowly her white brow among +Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted +Faintly, faintlier afar. +Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder, +Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness, +Watching the earth that dwindled under +Faintly, faintlier afar. +It was the lovely moon that lovelike +Hovered over the wandering, tired +Earth, her bosom grey and dovelike, +Hovering beautiful as a dove.... +The lovely moon:--her soft light falling +Lightly on roof and poplar and pine-- +Tree to tree whispering and calling, +Wonderful in the silvery shine +Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon. + + + +STONE TREES + +Last night a sword-light in the sky +Flashed a swift terror on the dark. +In that sharp light the fields did lie +Naked and stone-like; each tree stood +Like a tranced woman, bound and stark. + Far off the wood +With darkness ridged the riven dark. + +And cows astonied stared with fear, +And sheep crept to the knees of cows, +And conies to their burrows slid, +And rooks were still in rigid boughs, +And all things else were still or hid. + From all the wood +Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear. + +In that cold trance the earth was held +It seemed an age, or time was nought. +Sure never from that stone-like field +Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill +Grey granite trees was music wrought. + In all the wood +Even the tall poplar hung stone still. + +It seemed an age, or time was none ... +Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep +And shivered, and the trees of stone +Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, +And rain swept as birds flocking sweep. + Far off the wood +Rolled the slow thunders on the wind. + +From all the wood came no brave bird, +No song broke through the close-fall'n night, +Nor any sound from cowering herd: +Only a dog's long lonely howl +When from the window poured pale light. + And from the wood +The hoot came ghostly of the owl. + + + +THE PIGEONS + +The pigeons, following the faint warm light, +Stayed at last on the roof till warmth was gone, +Then in the mist that's hastier than night +Disappeared all behind the carved dark stone, +Huddling from the black cruelty of the frost. +With the new sparkling sun they swooped and came +Like a cloud between the sun and street, and then +Like a cloud blown from the blue north were lost, +Vanishing and returning ever again, +Small cloud following cloud across the flame +That clear and meagre burned and burned away +And left the ice unmelting day by day. + +... Nor could the sun through the roof's purple slate +(Though his gold magic played with shadow there +And drew the pigeons from the streaming air) +With any fiery magic penetrate. +Under the roof the air and water froze, +And no smoke from the gaping chimney rose. +The silver frost upon the window pane +Flowered and branched each starving night anew, +And stranger, lovelier and crueller grew; +Pouring her silver that cold silver through, +The moon made all the dim flower bright again. + +... Pouring her silver through that barren flower +Of silver frost, until it filled and whitened +A room where two small children waited, frightened +At the pale ghost of light that hour by hour +Stared at them till though fear slept not they slept. +And when that white ghost from the window crept, +And day came and they woke and saw all plain +Though still the frost-flower blinded the window pane, +And touched their mother and touched her hand in vain, +And wondered why she woke not when they woke; +And wondered what it was their sleep that broke +When hand in hand they stared and stared, so frightened; +They feared and waited, and waited all day long, +While all the shadows went and the day brightened, +All the ill shadows but one shadow strong. + +Outside were busy feet and human speech +And daily cries and horns. Maybe they heard, +Painfully wondering still, and each to each +Leaning, and listening if their mother stirred-- +Cold, cold, +Hungering as the long slow hours grew old, +Though food within the cupboard idle lay +Beyond their thought, or but beyond their reach. +The soft blue pigeons all the afternoon +Sunned themselves on the roof or rose at play, +Then with the shrinking light fluttered away; +And once more came the icy-hearted moon, +Staring down at the frightened children there +That could but shiver and stare. + +How many hours, how many days, who knows? +Neighbours there were who thought they had gone away +To return some luckier or luckless day. +No sound came from the room: the cold air froze +The very echo of the children's sighs. +And what they saw within each other's eyes, +Or heard each other's heart say as they peered +At the dead mother lying there, and feared +That she might wake, and then might never wake, +Who knows, who knows? +None heard a living sound their silence break. + +In those cold days and nights how many birds, +Flittering above the fields and streams all frozen, +Watched hungrily the tended flocks and herds-- +Earth's chosen nourished by earth's wise self-chosen! +How many birds suddenly stiffened and died +With no plaint cried, +The starved heart ceasing when the pale sun ceased! +And when the new day stepped from the same cold East +The dead birds lay in the light on the snow-flecked field, +Their song and beautiful free winging stilled. + +I walked under snow-sprinkled hills at night, +And starry sprinkled skies deep blue and bright. +The keen wind thrust with his knife against the thin +Breast of the wood as I went tingling by, +And heard a weak cheep-cheep,--no more--the cry +Of a bird that crouched the smitten wood within ... +But no one heeded that sharp spiritual cry +Of the two children in their misery, +When in the cold and famished night death's shade +More terrible the moon's cold shadows made. +How was it none could hear +That bodiless crying, birdlike, sharp and clear? + +I cannot think what they, unanswered, thought +When the night came again and shadows moved +As the moon through the ice-flower stared and roved, +And that unyielding Shadow came again. +That Shadow came again unseen and caught +The children as they sat listening in vain, +Their starved hearts failing ere the Shadow removed. +And when the new morn stepped from the same cold East +They lay unawakening in the barren light, +Their song and their imaginations bright, +Their pains and fears and all bewilderment ceased.... +While the brief sun gave +New beauty to the death-flower of the frost, +And pigeons in the frore air swooped and tossed, +And glad eyes were more glad, and grave less grave. + +There is not pity enough in heaven or earth, +There is not love enough, if children die +Like famished birds--oh, less mercifully. +A great wrong's done when such as these go forth +Into the starless dark, broken and bruised, +With mind and sweet affection all confused, +And horror closing round them as they go. +There is not pity enough! + +And I have made, children, these verses for you, +Lasting a little longer than your breath, +Because I have been haunted with your death: +So men are driven to things they hate to do. +Jesus, forgive us all our happiness, +As Thou dost blot out all our miseries. + + + +HAPPY IS ENGLAND NOW + +There is not anything more wonderful +Than a great people moving towards the deep +Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor +Is aught so dear of all held dear before +As the new passion stirring in their veins +When the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep. + +Happy is England now, as never yet! +And though the sorrows of the slow days fret +Her faithfullest children, grief itself is proud. +Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summer +That turns to bitterness turns then to gladness +Since for this England the beloved ones died. + +Happy is England in the brave that die +For wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers; +Happy in those that give, give, and endure +The pain that never the new years may cure; +Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns, +Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea. + +What'er was dear before is dearer now. +There's not a bird singing upon his bough +But sings the sweeter in our English ears: +There's not a nobleness of heart, hand, brain +But shines the purer; happiest is England now +In those that fight, and watch with pride and tears. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +JOHN DRINKWATER + + + +MAY GARDEN + +A shower of green gems on my apple tree + This first morning of May +Has fallen out of the night, to be + Herald of holiday-- +Bright gems of green that, fallen there, +Seem fixed and glowing on the air. + +Until a flutter of blackbird wings + Shakes and makes the boughs alive, +And the gems are now no frozen things, + But apple-green buds to thrive +On sap of my May garden, how well +The green September globes will tell. + +Also my pear tree has its buds, + But they are silver-yellow, +Like autumn meadows when the floods + Are silver under willow, +And here shall long and shapely pears +Be gathered while the autumn wears. + +And there are sixty daffodils + Beneath my wall.... +And jealousy it is that kills + This world when all +The spring's behaviour here is spent +To make the world magnificent + + + +THE MIDLANDS + +Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill + Aslant my window sleeps, beneath a sky +Deep as the bedded violets that fill + March woods with dusky passion. As I lie +Abed between cool walls I watch the host + Of the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain, +And drowsily the habit of these most + Beloved of English lands moves in my brain, +While silence holds dominion of the dark, +Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark. + +I see the valleys in their morning mist + Wreathed under limpid hills in moving light, +Happy with many a yeoman melodist: + I see the little roads of twinkling white +Busy with fieldward teams and market gear + Of rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tell +The many-minded changes of the year, + Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well; +I see the sun persuade the mist away, +Till town and stead are shining to the day. + +I see the wagons move along the rows + Of ripe and summer-breathing clover-flower, +I see the lissom husbandman who knows + Deep in his heart the beauty of his power, +As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids on + The harvest home. I hear the rickyard fill +With gossip as in generations gone, + While wagon follows wagon from the hill. +I think how, when our seasons all are sealed, +Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field. + +I see the barns and comely manors planned + By men who somehow moved in comely thought, +Who, with a simple shippon to their hand, + As men upon some godlike business wrought; +I see the little cottages that keep + Their beauty still where since Plantagenet +Have come the shepherds happily to sleep, + Finding the loaves and cups of cider set; +I see the twisted shepherds, brown and old, +Driving at dusk their glimmering sheep to fold. + +And now the valleys that upon the sun + Broke from their opal veils, are veiled again, +And the last light upon the wolds is done, + And silence falls on flock and fields and men; +And black upon the night I watch my hill, + And the stars shine, and there an owly wing +Brushes the night, and all again is still, + And, from this land of worship that I sing, +I turn to sleep, content that from my sires +I draw the blood of England's midmost shires. + + + +THE COTSWOLD FARMERS + +Sometimes the ghosts forgotten go +Along the hill-top way, +And with long scythes of silver mow +Meadows of moonlit hay, +Until the cocks of Cotswold crow +The coming of the day. + +There's Tony Turkletob who died +When he could drink no more, +And Uncle Heritage, the pride +Of eighteen-twenty-four, +And Ebenezer Barleytide, +And others half a score. + +They fold in phantom pens, and plough +Furrows without a share, +And one will milk a faery cow, +And one will stare and stare, +And whistle ghostly tunes that now +Are not sung anywhere. + +The moon goes down on Oakridge lea, +The other world's astir, +The Cotswold Farmers silently +Go back to sepulchre, +The sleeping watchdogs wake, and see +No ghostly harvester. + + + +RECIPROCITY + +I do not think that skies and meadows are +Moral, or that the fixture of a star +Comes of a quiet spirit, or that trees +Have wisdom in their windless silences. +Yet these are things invested in my mood +With constancy, and peace, and fortitude, +That in my troubled season I can cry +Upon the wide composure of the sky, +And envy fields, and wish that I might be +As little daunted as a star or tree. + + + +BIRTHRIGHT + +Lord Rameses of Egypt sighed + Because a summer evening passed; +And little Ariadne cried + That summer fancy fell at last +To dust; and young Verona died + When beauty's hour was overcast. + +Theirs was the bitterness we know + Because the clouds of hawthorn keep +So short a state, and kisses go + To tombs unfathomably deep, +While Rameses and Romeo + And little Ariadne sleep. + + + +OLTON POOLS + +Now June walks on the waters, +And the cuckoo's last enchantment +Passes from Olton pools. + +Now dawn comes to my window +Breathing midsummer roses, +And scythes are wet with dew. + +Is it not strange for ever +That, bowered in this wonder, +Man keeps a jealous heart?... + +That June and the June waters, +And birds and dawn-lit roses, +Are gospels in the wind, + +Fading upon the deserts, +Poor pilgrim revelations?... +Hist ... over Olton pools! + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +WALTER DE LA MARE + + + +THE SCRIBE + +What lovely things +Thy hand hath made, +The smooth-plumed bird +In its emerald shade, +The seed of the grass, +The speck of stone +Which the wayfaring ant +Stirs, and hastes on! + +Though I should sit +By some tarn in Thy hills, +Using its ink +As the spirit wills +To write of Earth's wonders, +Its live willed things, +Flit would the ages +On soundless wings +Ere unto Z +My pen drew nigh, +Leviathan told, +And the honey-fly: +And still would remain +My wit to try-- +My worn reeds broken, +The dark tarn dry, +All words forgotten-- +Thou, Lord, and I. + + + +THE REMONSTRANCE + +I was at peace until you came +And set a careless mind aflame; +I lived in quiet; cold, content; +All longing in safe banishment, +Until your ghostly lips and eyes + Made wisdom unwise. + +Naught was in me to tempt your feet +To seek a lodging. Quite forgot +Lay the sweet solitude we two +In childhood used to wander through; +Time's cold had closed my heart about, + And shut you out. + +Well, and what then?... O vision grave, +Take all the little all I have! +Strip me of what in voiceless thought +Life's kept of life, unhoped, unsought!-- +Reverie and dream that memory must + Hide deep in dust! + +This only I say: Though cold and bare +The haunted house you have chosen to share, +Still 'neath its walls the moonbeam goes +And trembles on the untended rose; +Still o'er its broken roof-tree rise +The starry arches of the skies; +And 'neath your lightest word shall be + The thunder of an ebbing sea. + + + +THE GHOST + +'Who knocks?' 'I, who was beautiful +Beyond all dreams to restore, +I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, +And knock on the door.' + +'Who speaks?' 'I--once was my speech +Sweet as the bird's on the air, +When echo lurks by the waters to heed; +'Tis I speak thee fair.' + +'Dark is the hour!' 'Aye, and cold.' +'Lone is my house.' 'Ah, but mine?' +'Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleamed in vain.' +'Long dead these to thine.' + +Silence. Still faint on the porch +Brake the flames of the stars. +In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand +Over keys, bolts, and bars. + +A face peered. All the grey night +In chaos of vacancy shone; +Nought but vast sorrow was there-- +The sweet cheat gone. + + + +THE FOOL RINGS HIS BELLS + +Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee; +And thou, poor Innocency; +And Love--a lad with broken wing; +And Pity, too: +The Fool shall sing to you, +As Fools will sing. + +Aye, music hath small sense. +And a time's soon told, +And Earth is old, +And my poor wits are dense; +Yet I have secrets,--dark, my dear, +To breathe you all: Come near. +And lest some hideous listener tells, +I'll ring the bells. + +They're all at war! +Yes, yes, their bodies go +'Neath burning sun and icy star +To chaunted songs of woe, +Dragging cold cannon through a mire +Of rain and blood and spouting fire, +The new moon glinting hard on eyes +Wide with insanities! + +Hush!... I use words +I hardly know the meaning of; +And the mute birds +Are glancing at Love +From out their shade of leaf and flower, +Trembling at treacheries +Which even in noonday cower. + +Heed, heed not what I said +Of frenzied hosts of men, +More fools than I, +On envy, hatred fed, +Who kill, and die-- +Spake I not plainly, then? +Yet Pity whispered, 'Why?' + +Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go. +Mine was not news for child to know, +And Death--no ears hath. He hath supped where creep +Eyeless worms in hush of sleep; +Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws +Athwart his grinning jaws-- +Faintly the thin bones rattle and ... there, there, +Hearken how my bells in the air +Drive away care!... + +Nay, but a dream I had +Of a world all mad. +Not simple happy mad like me, +Who am mad like an empty scene +Of water and willow tree, +Where the wind hath been; +But that foul Satan-mad, +Who rots in his own head, +And counts the dead, +Not honest one--and two-- +But for the ghosts they were, +Brave, faithful, true, +When, head in air, +In Earth's clear green and blue +Heaven they did share +With Beauty who bade them there.... + +There, now!--Death goes-- +Mayhap I have wearied him. +Aye, and the light doth dim, +And asleep's the rose, +And tired Innocence +In dreams is hence.... +Come, Love, my lad, +Nodding that drowsy head, +'Tis time thy prayers were said. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +WILLIAM H. DAVIES + + + +THE WHITE CASCADE + +What happy mortal sees that mountain now, +The white cascade that's shining on its brow; + +The white cascade that's both a bird and star, +That has a ten-mile voice and shines as far? + +Though I may never leave this land again, +Yet every spring my mind must cross the main + +To hear and see that water-bird and star +That on the mountain sings, and shines so far. + + + +EASTER + +What exultations in my mind, +From the love-bite of this Easter wind! +My head thrown back, my face doth shine +Like yonder Sun's, but warmer mine. +A butterfly--from who knows where-- +Comes with a stagger through the air, +And, lying down, doth ope and close +His wings, as babies work their toes: +Perhaps he thinks of pressing tight +Into his wings a little light! +And many a bird hops in between +The leaves he dreams of, long and green, +And sings for nipple-buds that show +Where the full-breasted leaves must grow. + + + +RAPTURES + +Sing for the sun your lyric, lark, + Of twice ten thousand notes; +Sing for the moon, you nightingales, + Whose light shall kiss your throats; +Sing, sparrows, for the soft warm rain, + To wet your feathers through; +And when a rainbow's in the sky, + Sing you, cuckoo--Cuckoo! + +Sing for your five blue eggs, fond thrush, + By many a leaf concealed; +You starlings, wrens, and blackbirds, sing + In every wood and field: +While I, who fail to give my love + Long raptures twice as fine, +Will for her beauty breathe this one-- + A sigh, that's more divine. + + + +COWSLIPS AND LARKS + +I hear it said yon land is poor, +In spite of those rich cowslips there-- +And all the singing larks it shoots +To heaven from the cowslips' roots. +But I, with eyes that beauty find, +And music ever in my mind, +Feed my thoughts well upon that grass +Which starves the horse, the ox, and ass. +So here I stand, two miles to come +To Shapwick and my ten-days-home, +Taking my summer's joy, although +The distant clouds are dark and low, +And comes a storm that, fierce and strong, +Has brought the Mendip hills along: +Those hills that when the light is there +Are many a sunny mile from here. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +GORDON BOTTOMLEY + + + +ATLANTIS + +What poets sang in Atlantis? Who can tell +The epics of Atlantis or their names? +The sea hath its own murmurs, and sounds not +The secrets of its silences beneath, +And knows not any cadences enfolded +When the last bubbles of Atlantis broke +Among the quieting of its heaving floor. + +O, years and tides and leagues and all their billows +Can alter not man's knowledge of men's hearts-- +While trees and rocks and clouds include our being +We know the epics of Atlantis still: +A hero gave himself to lesser men, +Who first misunderstood and murdered him, +And then misunderstood and worshipped him; +A woman was lovely and men fought for her, +Towns burnt for her, and men put men in bondage, +But she put lengthier bondage on them all; +A wanderer toiled among all the isles +That fleck this turning star of shifting sea, +Or lonely purgatories of the mind, +In longing for his home or his lost love. + +Poetry is founded on the hearts of men: +Though in Nirvana or the Heavenly courts +The principle of beauty shall persist, +Its body of poetry, as the body of man, +Is but a terrene form, a terrene use, +That swifter being will not loiter with; +And, when mankind is dead and the world cold, +Poetry's immortality will pass. + + + +NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1913 + +O, Cartmel bells ring soft to-night, +And Cartmel bells ring clear, +But I lie far away to-night, +Listening with my dear; + +Listening in a frosty land +Where all the bells are still +And the small-windowed bell-towers stand +Dark under heath and hill. + +I thought that, with each dying year, +As long as life should last +The bells of Cartmel I should hear +Ring out an aged past: + +The plunging, mingling sounds increase +Darkness's depth and height, +The hollow valley gains more peace +And ancientness to-night: + +The loveliness, the fruitfulness, +The power of life lived there +Return, revive, more closely press +Upon that midnight air. + +But many deaths have place in men +Before they come to die; +Joys must be used and spent, and then +Abandoned and passed by. + +Earth is not ours; no cherished space +Can hold us from life's flow, +That bears us thither and thence by ways +We knew not we should go. + +O, Cartmel bells ring loud, ring clear, +Through midnight deep and hoar, +A year new-born, and I shall hear +The Cartmel bells no more. + + + +IN MEMORIAM, A. M. W. + +SEPTEMBER 1910 + +(For a Solemn Music) + + +Out of a silence +The voice of music speaks. + +When words have no more power, +When tears can tell no more, +The heart of all regret +Is uttered by a falling wave +Of melody. + +No more, no more +The voice that gathered us +Shall hush us with deep joy; +But in this hush, +Out of its silence, +In the awaking of music, +It shall return. + +For music can renew +Its gladness and communion, +Until we also sink, +Where sinks the voice of music, +Into a silence. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +MAURICE BARING + + + +IN MEMORIAM, A. H. + +(Auberon Herbert, Captain Lord Lucas, R. F. C. killed November 3, 1916) + +[Greek: Nomatai d'en atrugetou chaei] + + +The wind had blown away the rain +That all day long had soaked the level plain. +Against the horizon's fiery wrack, +The sheds loomed black. +And higher, in their tumultuous concourse met, +The streaming clouds, shot-riddled banners, wet +With the flickering storm, +Drifted and smouldered, warm +With flashes sent +From the lower firmament. +And they concealed-- +They only here and there through rifts revealed +A hidden sanctuary of fire and light, +A city of chrysolite. + +We looked and laughed and wondered, and I said: +That orange sea, those oriflammes outspread +Were like the fanciful imaginings +That the young painter flings +Upon the canvas bold, +Such as the sage and the old +Make mock at, saying it could never be; +And you assented also, laughingly. +I wondered what they meant, +That flaming firmament, +Those clouds so grey so gold, so wet so warm, +So much of glory and so much of storm, +The end of the world, or the end +Of the war--remoter still to me and you, my friend. + +Alas! it meant not this, it meant not that: +It meant that now the last time you and I +Should look at the golden sky, +And the dark fields large and flat, +And smell the evening weather, +And laugh and talk and wonder both together. + +The last, last time. We nevermore should meet +In France or London street, +Or fields of home. The desolated space +Of life shall nevermore +Be what it was before. +No one shall take your place. +No other face +Can fill that empty frame. +There is no answer when we call your name. +We cannot hear your step upon the stair. +We turn to speak and find a vacant chair. +Something is broken which we cannot mend. +God has done more than take away a friend +In taking you; for all that we have left +Is bruised and irremediably bereft. +There is none like you. Yet not that alone +Do we bemoan; +But this; that you were greater than the rest, +And better than the best. + +O liberal heart fast-rooted to the soil, +O lover of ancient freedom and proud toil, +Friend of the gipsies and all wandering song, +The forest's nursling and the favoured child +Of woodlands wild-- +O brother to the birds and all things free, +Captain of liberty! + +Deep in your heart the restless seed was sown; +The vagrant spirit fretted in your feet; +We wondered could you tarry long, +And brook for long the cramping street, +Or would you one day sail for shores unknown, +And shake from you the dust of towns, and spurn +The crowded market-place--and not return? +You found a sterner guide; +You heard the guns. Then, to their distant fire, +Your dreams were laid aside; +And on that day, you cast your heart's desire +Upon a burning pyre; +You gave your service to the exalted need, +Until at last from bondage freed, +At liberty to serve as you loved best, +You chose the noblest way. God did the rest. + +So when the spring of the world shall shrive our stain, +After the winter of war, +When the poor world awakes to peace once more, +After such night of ravage and of rain, +You shall not come again. +You shall not come to taste the old spring weather, +To gallop through the soft untrampled heather, +To bathe and bake your body on the grass. +We shall be there, alas! +But not with you. When Spring shall wake the earth, +And quicken the scarred fields to the new birth, +Our grief shall grow. For what can Spring renew +More fiercely for us than the need of you? + +That night I dreamt they sent for me and said +That you were missing, 'missing, missing--dead': +I cried when in the morning I awoke, +And all the world seemed shrouded in a cloak; +But when I saw the sun, +And knew another day had just begun, +I brushed the dream away, and quite forgot +The nightmare's ugly blot. +So was the dream forgot. The dream came true. +Before the night I knew +That you had flown away into the air +For ever. Then I cheated my despair. +I said +That you were safe--or wounded--but not dead. +Alas! I knew +Which was the false and true. + +And after days of watching, days of lead, +There came the certain news that you were dead. +You had died fighting, fighting against odds, +Such as in war the gods +AEthereal dared when all the world was young; +Such fighting as blind Homer never sung, +Nor Hector nor Achilles never knew, +High in the empty blue. +High, high, above the clouds, against the setting sun, +The fight was fought, and your great task was done. + +Of all your brave adventures this the last +The bravest was and best; +Meet ending to a long embattled past, +This swift, triumphant, fatal quest, +Crowned with the wreath that never perisheth, +And diadem of honourable death; +Swift Death aflame with offering supreme +And mighty sacrifice, +More than all mortal dream; +A soaring death, and near to Heaven's gate; +Beneath the very walls of Paradise. +Surely with soul elate, +You heard the destined bullet as you flew, +And surely your prophetic spirit knew +That you had well deserved that shining fate. + +Here is no waste, +No burning Might-have-been, +No bitter after-taste, +None to censure, none to screen, +Nothing awry, nor anything misspent; +Only content, content beyond content, +Which hath not any room for betterment. + +God, Who had made you valiant, strong and swift, +And maimed you with a bullet long ago, +And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift, +And checked your youth's tumultuous overflow, +Gave back your youth to you, +And packed in moments rare and few +Achievements manifold +And happiness untold, +And bade you spring to Death as to a bride, +In manhood's ripeness, power and pride, +And on your sandals the strong wings of youth. +He let you leave a name +To shine on the entablatures of truth, +For ever: +To sound for ever in answering halls of fame. + +For you soared onwards to that world which rags +Of clouds, like tattered flags, +Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite, +The mansions white; +And losing all, you gained the civic crown +Of that eternal town, +Wherein you passed a rightful citizen +Of the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken. + +Surely you found companions meet for you +In that high place; +You met there face to face +Those you had never known, but whom you knew: +Knights of the Table Round, +And all the very brave, the very true, +With chivalry crowned; +The captains rare, +Courteous and brave beyond our human air; +Those who had loved and suffered overmuch, +Now free from the world's touch. +And with them were the friends of yesterday, +Who went before and pointed you the way; +And in that place of freshness, light and rest, +Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keep +Over their King's long sleep, +Surely they made a place for you. +Their long-expected guest, +Among the chosen few, +And welcomed you, their brother and their friend, +To that companionship which hath no end. + +And in the portals of the sacred hall +You hear the trumpet's call, +At dawn upon the silvery battlement, +Re-echo through the deep +And bid the sons of God to rise from sleep, +And with a shout to hail +The sunrise on the city of the Grail: +The music that proud Lucifer in Hell +Missed more than all the joys that he forwent. +You hear the solemn bell +At vespers, when the oriflammes are furled; +And then you know that somewhere in the world, +That shines far-off beneath you like a gem, +They think of you, and when you think of them +You know that they will wipe away their tears, +And cast aside their fears; +That they will have it so, +And in no otherwise; +That it is well with them because they know, +With faithful eyes, +Fixed forward and turned upwards to the skies, +That it is well with you, +Among the chosen few, +Among the very brave, the very true. + + + + + + * * * * * + + + + + +HERBERT ASQUITH + + + +THE VOLUNTEER + +Here lies the clerk who half his life had spent +Toiling at ledgers in a city grey, +Thinking that so his days would drift away +With no lance broken in life's tournament: +Yet ever 'twixt the books and his bright eyes +The gleaming eagles of the legions came, +And horsemen, charging under phantom skies, +Went thundering past beneath the oriflamme. + +And now those waiting dreams are satisfied; +From twilight to the halls of dawn he went; +His lance is broken; but he lies content +With that high hour, in which he lived and died. +And falling thus, he wants no recompense, +Who found his battle in the last resort; +Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence, +Who goes to join the men of Agincourt. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Georgian Poetry 1916-17, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GEORGIAN POETRY 1916-17 *** + +***** This file should be named 9546.txt or 9546.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/5/4/9546/ + +Produced by Clytie Siddall, Keren Vergon, and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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