I tr "., .I} "1 íÍt \. fÞ ') " - - A lVITSCELLANY OF POETRY c AMISCELLANY OF POETRY .. 1919 E cli;te.:L by W Kean-I Wth d.erora.tíons lyl1cri5 à1m -t! . "" -. (i ; t $ . -- y- t :r !i '8.'{ '_ '. '-. u ' . ' .'R : . , . . Íi' " .,. -.. . ., I . ,t 'll - . ..... I. , ttI' " . :. All British and American rights in the poems contained in this book are reserved to the contributing authors. FIRST EDITION 191 9 COpy- RIGHT To SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH . PREFATORY NOTE This frI iscellallY of Poetry, 1919, is issued to the public as a truly catholic anthology of contemporary poetry. The poems here printed are ne\v, in the sense that they have not previously been issued by their authors in book form -a fact which surely gives the 111 iscellany an unique place among modern collections. My deep thanks are due to my fellow-contributors for their generous and hearty co-operation, and to the editors of the English Review, To-day, Voices, New Witness, Observer, Saturday V estminster, Art and Letters, Cambridge Magazine and the Nation for permission to reprint certain poems. W. K. S. Seþtember, 1919 CONTENTS PAGE BINYON, LAURENCE- A Song Commercial Numbers The Children Dancing BRANFORD, F. V.- Farewell to Mathematics Return Over the Dead 13 14 16 19 21 23 25 CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH- Elegy in a Country Churchyard The Ballad of St. Barbara 26 27 CHURCH, RICHARD- Psyche goes forth to Life DAVIES, WILLIAM H.- The Villain Bird and Brook Passion's Hounds The Truth The Force of Love April's Lambs DEARMRR. GEOFFREY- Nous Autres She to Him DRINKWATER, J OHN- Malediction Spectral GIBSON. WILFRED WILSON- IN W AR-TIME- 1. Troopship 2. The Conscript 3. Air-Raid 4. In War-Time 5. Ragtime 6. Leave 7. Bacchanal 34 3 8 39 40 4 1 4 2 43 44 4 6 47 49 51 51 52 52 53 53 54 GOLDING, LOUIS- Shepherd Singing Ragtime The Singer of High State PAGE GOULD, GERALD- Freedoms (Eight SOl.mets) 55 59 60 HOUSMAN, LAURENCE- Summer Night 64 LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD- The Palaces of The Rose 65 IACAULAY, ROSE- Peace. June 28th, 1919 68 l\IASON. EUGENE- Antony and Cleopatra 7 0 MAYNARD, THEODORE- Dirge Desideravi Laus Deo! 72 74 75 l\iOORE, T. STURGE- Aforetime 77 MOULT, THOMAS- Down here the Hawthorn Invocation 91 94 NICHOLS, ROBERT- On Seeing a Portrait of Blake 95 PHILLPOTTS, EDEN- The Fall Ghosties at the Wedding 97 9 8 SABIN, ARTHUR K.- Four Lyrics 99 SACKVILLE, LADY !vIARGARET- The Return T o PAGB 101 102 SEYMOUR, \VILLIAM KEAN- Fruitage In the \V ood Siesta To One who Eats Larks If Beauty came to you 106 107 108 10 9 110 SHIPP. HORACE- Prison The Sixth Day III 113 SITWELL, EDITH Eventail The Lady with the Sewing Machine Portrait of a Barmaid Solo for Ear-Trumpet 114 115 116 II7 STUART. MURIEL- The Father The Shore Thélus Wood The Thief of Beauty 118 120 121 124- TITTERTON. W. R.- The High Wall The Broken Sword Night-Shapes The Silent Peuple 125 126 128 12 9 VISIAK, E. H.- Lamps and Lanterns Stranded 13 1 13 2 WAUGH, ALEC.- Rubble 133 WILLIAMS, CHARLES- Christmas Briseis 134 136 BIBLIOGR A.PHY (This list iucludes poelÜ"Lll works oll r). BINYON, LAURENcE.-Persephone (1890); Lyric Poems (1894) ; Poems (1895); Porphyrion and other poems (1898); The Supper (1897); Odes (1901); Death of Adam and other poems (1904); Penthesilea (1905); Dream come true (1905); Paris and CEnone (1906); Attila, a tragedy (1907); England and other poems (1909); Auguries (1913); The Winno'\\-ing-fan (1914); Bombastes in the Shades, a play (1915); The Anvil and other poems (1916); The Cause: poems of the war (1917); For the Fallen and other poems (1917); The New \Vorld (1918) ; The Four Years: Collected \Var Poems (1919). CHESTERTON, G. K.-Ballad of the White Horse (1911); The Wild Knight and other poems (1914); Poems (1915); Wine. Water and Song (1915). CHURCH, RICHARD.-Flood of Life and other poems (1917); Hurricane (1919). DAVIES, W. H.-New Poems (1907); Nature Poems and others (1908); Farewell to Poesy and other poems (1910); Songs of Joy and Others (1911); Foliage (1913); Bird of Paradise and other poems (1914); Child Lovers and other poems (1916); Collected Poems (1916); Forty Poems (1918). DRINKWATER, J OHN.-Poems (1903); Death of Leander and other poems (1906); Lyrical and other poems (1908); Cophetua, a play (1911); Poems of :Men and Hours (1911); Poems of Love and Earth (1912); Cromwell and other poems (1913); Rebdlion (1914); Swords and Ploughshares (1915); Olton Pools and other poems (1916); Pawns (1917); Poems (1908-14) (1917); Tides (1917); Abraham Lincoln (1918); Loyalties (1919). GIBSON, WILFRED \VILSON.-Golden Helm (1903); On the Threshold and Other Plays (1907); Stonefoldc; (1907); \Veb of Life (1908); Akra the Slave (1910); Daily Bread (1910); \\Tomenkind (1912); Fires (1912); Thorough- fares (1914); Borderlands (1914); Battle (1915); Friends (1916); Livelihood (1917). GOLDING, LOUIs.-Sorrow of War (1919). GOULD, GERALD.-Lyrics (1906); Poems (1911); My Lady's Book (1913); Monogamy (1918). HOUSMAN, LAURENcE.-Mendicant Rhymes (1906); Selected Poems (1908); The Winners (1915); Heart of Peace (1918). LE GAI,LIENNE, RICHARD.-My Ladies' Sonnets (1887); R.L.S., An Elegy (1895); Omar Repentant (1908); Orestes (1910); The Lone! y Dancer and other poems (1914); The Silk Hat Soldier and other poems (1915). MACAULAY, ROsE.-The Two Blind Countries (1914); Three Days (1919). MASON, EUGENE.-Flamma Vestalis and other poems (1890); The Field Floridus and other poems (1899); Vitrail and other Poems (1916). MAYNARD, THEODORE.-Laughs and Whifts of Song (1915) Drums of Defeat (1917); Folly and other poems (1918). MOORE, T. STURGE.-The Vinedresser and other poems (1899) ; Aphrodite against Artemis (1901) ; Absalom (1903) ; The Centaur's Booty (1903); Danæ (1903); Rout of the Amazons (1903); Pan's Prophecy (1904); Theseus, Medea and LYrics (1904); To Leda and other odes (1904); The Gazelles and other poems (! 904); A Sicilian Idyll and Judith (1911); Mariamne (1911); Collected Poems (1916). NICHOLS, ROBERT.-Ardours and Endurances (1917); Invoca- tion (1919). PHILLPOTTS, EDEN.-Up-Along and Down-Along (1905); Wild Fruit (1911); Demeter's Daughter (1911); The Iscariot (1912); Delight and other poems (1916); Plain Song (1917). SABIN, ARTHUR K.-Typhon and other poems (1902); Death of Icarus (1906); The Wayfa.rers (1907); Dante and Beatrice (1908) ; Medea and Circe and other poems (1911) ; New Poems (1914); War Harvest (1914); Five Poems (1914); Christmas, 1914. SACKVILLE, LADY MARGARET.-Poems (1901); A Hymn to Dionysus and other poems (1905); Hildris the Queen, a play (1908); Lyrics (1912); Songs of Aphrodite and other poems (1913); Pageant of War (1916). SEYMOUR, WILLIAM KEAN.-Street of Dreams (1914); To Verhaeren and other poems (1917); Twenty-four Poems (1918); Swords and Flutes (1919). SITWELL, EDITH.-The Mother and other poems (1915); Clowns' Houses (1918); (With Osbert Sitwell) Twentieth Century Harlequinade and other poems. STUART, MURIEL.-Christ at Carnival and other poems (1916) ; The Cockpit of Idols (1918). TITTERTON, W. R.-River Music and other poems (1900); Guns and Guitars (1918). VISIAK, E. H.-Buccaneer Ballads (1910); Flints and Flashes (1911); The Phantom Ship (1912); Battle Fiends and other poems (1916); Brief Poems (1919). WAUGH, ALEc.-Resentment (1918). WILLIAMS, CHARLEs.-The Silver Stair (1912); Poems of Con- formi ty (1917); Di v(){"ce (I n preparation). A SONG For 1Iercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth, There is no measure upon earth. Nay, they wither, root and stem, If an end be set to them. Overbrim and overflow, If your own heart you would know ; For the spirit born to bless Lives but in its own excess. .. Laurence Binyon . A. Laurence Binyon CO 1]\IERCIAL Gross, with protruding ears, Sleek hair, brisk glance, fleshy and yet alert, Red, full, and satisfied, Cased in obtuseness confident not to be hurt, He sits at a little table In the cro\vded congenial glare and noise, jingling Coin in his pocket; sips His glass, \vith hard eye impudently singling A \voman here and there:- Women and men, they arc all priced in his thought, All commodities staked In the market, sooner or later sold and bought. (( \Vere I he," you are thinking, You with the dreamer's forehead and pure eyes, (( What should I lose ?-All, All that is worthy the striving for, all my prize, " All the truth of me, all Life that is \vonder, pity, and fear, requiring Utter joy, utter pain, From the heart that the infinite hurts with deep desiring (( Why is it I am not he ? Chance? The grace of God? The mystery's plan ? He, too, is human stuff, A kneading of the old, brotherly slime of man. 14 U Am I a lover of men, And turn abhorring as fron1 fat slug or snake ? Lives obstinate in me too Something the power of angels could not unmake ? " o self-questioner! None Unlocks your ans\ver. Steadily look, nor flinch. This belongs to your kind, And kno\vs its aim and fails not itself at a pinch. It is here in the world and works, Not done \vith yet.-Up, then, let the test be tried! Dare your uttermost, be Compietely, and of your own, like him, be justified. Laurence Binyon 15 Laurence Binyon NUMBERS Trefoil and Quatrefoil ! What shaped those destinied small silent leaves Or numbered them under the soil ? I lift my dazzled sight From grass to sky, From humming and hot perfume To scorching, quivering light, Empty blue I-Why, As I bury my face afresh In a sunshot vivid gloom- Minute infinity's mesh, \Vhere spearing side by side Smooth stalk and furred uplift Their luminous green secrets from the grass I Tower to a bud and delicately divide- Do I think of the things unthought Before man was ? Bodiless Numbers ! When there was none to explore Your winding labyrinths occult, N one to delve your ore Of strange virtue, or do Your magical business, you Were there, never old nor new, Veined in the world and alive :- Before the Planets, Seven ; Before these fingers, Five! You that are globed and single, Crystal virgins, and you that part, Melt, and again mingle! We have hoisted sail in the night 16 On the oceans that you chart : Dark winds carry us onward, on; But you are there before us, silent Answers, Beyond the bounds of the sun. You body yourselves in the stars, inscrutable dancers, Native where we are none. La urence Binyon o inhuman Numbers! All things change and glide, Corrupt and crumble, suffer \vreck and decay, But, obstinate dark Integrities, you abide, And obey but them who obey. All things else are dyed In the colours of man's desire: But you no bribe nor prayer A vails to soften or sway. Nothing of me you share, Yet I cannot think you a wa y. And if I seek to escape you, still you are there Stronger than caging pillars of iron Not to be passed, in an air Where human wish and word Fall like a frozen bird. Music asleep In pulses of sound, in the waves ! Hidden runes rubbed bright! Dizzy ladders of thought in the night ! Are you masters or sla ves- Subtlest of man's slaves,- Shadowy Numbers? In a vision I sa'\v Old vulture Time, feeding On the flesh of the world; I saw 17 Laurence Binyon The home of our use undated- Seasons of fruiting and seeding Withered, and hunger and thirst Dead, with all they fed on : Till at last, when Time was sated, Only you persisted, Dædal Numbers, sole and same, Invisible skeleton frame Of the peopled earth we tread on- Last, as first. Because naught can avail To wound or to tarnish you; Because you are neither sold nor bought, Beca use you have not the po\ver to fail But live beyond our furthest thought, Strange Numbers, of infinite clue, Beyond fear, beyond ruth, You strengthen also me To be in my o\vn truth. 18 THE CHILDREN DANCING Laurence Binyon A\vay, sad thoughts, and teasing Perplexities, a\vay! Let other blood go freezing, We will be \vise and gay; For here is all heart -easing, An ecstasy at play! The children dancing, dancing, Light upon happy feet, Both eye and heart entrancing, Mingle, escape, and meet, . Come joyous-eyed advancing And floatingly retreat. Now slow, now s\vifter treading Their paces timed and true, An instant poised, then threadin A maze of printless clue, The music smoothly wedding To motions ever new. They launch in chime, and scatter In looping ripples; they Are l\iusic's airy matter, And their feet move, the way The raindrops shine and patter On tossing flowers in May. As if those flowers were singing For joy of the bright air, As if you saw them springing To dance the breeze-so fair The lissom bodies swinging, So light the flung-back hair. 19 La urence Binyon And through the mind enchanted A happy river goes, By its own young carol haunted And bringing, where it flows, What all the world has wanted But who in this world knows ? 20 FAREWELL TO MATHEMATICS I laboured on the anvil of my brain And beat a metal out of pageantry. Figure and form I carry in my train To load the scaffolds of Eternity. Where the masters are Building star on star ; \Vhere, in solemn ritual, The great Dead Mathematical Wait and wait and \vait for me. To the deliberate presence of the Sun (Bright cynosure of every darkling sign, \Vherein all numbers consummate in One,) Poised on the bolt of an Un-finite line, As one whose spirit's state, Is unafraid but desperate, Through far unfathomed fears, Through Time to timeless years, I soar, through Shade to Shine. They say that on a night there came to Euler, As eager-eyed he stared upon a star, And fought the far infinitude, a toiler Like to himself and me, for things that are Buried from the eyes alone Of men whose sight is made of stone, And led him out in ecstasy, Over the dim boundary By the pale gleam of a scimitar. F. V. Braniord 21 F. v. Branford Then Euler, mindful of thy lesser need, Be thou my pilot in this treacherous hour, That I be less unworth thy greater meed, o my strong brother in the halls of po\ver; For here and hence I sail Alone beyond the pale, Where square and circle coincide, And the parallels collide, And perfect pyramids flower. 22 RETURN The hearts of the mountains were void, The sea spake foreign tongues, From the speed of the \vind I gat me no breath, And the temples of Time were as sepulchres. I walked about the \\Todd in the midnight, I stood under ,vater, and over stars, I cast Life from me, I handled Death, I walked naked into lightning, I had so great a thirst for God. * * * * . The heart of the lountain overfloweth, The sea speaketh clear words, The Ark is brought to the Tabernacle. Lightnings, that \vithered in the sky, Are become great beacons roaring in a wind I see Death, lying in the arms of Life, And, in the womb of Death, I see Joy. I had saiò ' The spirit of the Earth is \vhite,' But lo! He is red with joy. He devoureth the meat of many nations, He absorbeth a vintage of scarlet. Though my head be ,vith the stars, All the flo\vers of Earth are singing in mine ears. Though my foot be plantEd on the sea-bed. Yet is it shod with the thunder. Sorrow for Earth Transient is passed away. Pain of martyr'd splendour is no more. They have ltft a fair child in my lap- A lusty infant shouting to the da\vn. F. V. Branford 23 F. V. Branford The Ogre of midnight hath perished. He shivered in the glare of the mountain, He screamed upon the sea-swords, His bowels rushed out upon the lances of the Wind. I shall look through the eye of Mountain, I shall set in my scabbard the sabre of Sea, And the spear of Wind shall be my hand's delight. I shall not descend from the Hill. Never go down to the Valley; For I see, on a snow-crowned peak, The glory of the Lord, Erect as Orion, Belted as to his blade. But the roots of the mountains mingle with mist, And raving skeletons run thereon. I shall not go hence, For here is my Priest, \Vho hath broken me in the waters of Disdain. Here is n1Y Jester, Who hath mended me on the wheels of .\Iirth. Here is my Champion, \Vho hath confounded mine ancient Enemy Ardgay-the slayer of Giants. 24 OVER THE DEAD. Who in the splendour of a simple thought, \Vhether for England or her enemies, Went in the night, and in the morning died; Each bleeding piece of human earth that lies Stark to the carrion wind, and groaning cries For burial-each Jesu crucified- Hath surely won the thing he dearly bought, For wrong is right, when wrong is greatly wrought. Yet is the Nazarene no thigh of Thor, To play Oß partial fields the puppet king Bearing the battle down with bloody hand. Serene he towers above the gods of war, A naked man where shells go thundering- The great unchallenged Lord of No-Man's Land. F. V. Branford 25 Gilbert ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD I{eith Chesterton The men that worked for England They have their graves at home; And bees and birds of England About the cross can roam. But they that fought for England, Following a falling star, Alas, alas, for England They have their graves afar" And they that rule in England In stately conclave met, Alas, alas, for England, They have no graves as yet. THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA (St. Barbara is the þatroness of artillery, and oj those who are in fear of sudden death.) \Vhen the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain, We stood and drank of the last free air we never could love again ; They had led us back from a lost battle, to halt we knew not \v here, And stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair. The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless lands, And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands: II There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome; And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home. Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor, Tha t lead to a low door at last: and beyond there is no door. " The Breton to the Norman spoke, like a little child spake he, But his sea-blue eyes \vere empty as his home beside the sea: II There are more windo\vs in one house than there are eyes to see; There are more doors in a man's house, but God has hid the key ; Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnesseth Barbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death. " Gilbert Keith Chesterton 27 Gilbert Keith Chesterton I t seemed the wheel of the worlds stood still an instant in its turning, More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of Valmy mill, While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning, Still as the heart of a whirlwind, the heart of the world stood still. II Barbara the beautiful had praise of lute and pen, Her hair was like a summer night, dark and desired of men, Her feet like birds from far away that linger and light in doubt, And her face was like a window where a man's first love looked out. II Her sire was master of many slaves, a hard man of his hands; They built a tower about her in the desolate golden lands, Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs, planned with an ancient plan, And set two windows in the tower, like the two eyes of a " man. OUf guns were set towards the foe; we had no word for firing ; Grey in the gate\va ys of St. Gond the Guard of the tyrant shone; Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and retiring, The Breton line went backwards and the Breton tale went on. 28 H Her father had sailed across the sea from the harbour of Africa, When all the slaves took up their tools for the bidding of Barbara ; She smote the bare wall with her hand, and bade them smite again, She poured them wealth of wine and meat to stay them in their pain, And cried through the lifted thunder of thronging ham- mer and hod: , Throw open the third window in the third name of God! J Then the hearts failed and the tools fell; and far towards the foam 1\Ien saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming home." Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word is flying, Before the touch, before the time, we may not lose a breath. Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be no replying Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to Death. " '. There were two windows in your tower, Barbara" Barbara, For all between the sun and moon in the lands of Africa. Hath a man three eyes, Barbara, a bird three \vings, That you have riven roof and wall to look upon vain things ? ' Her voice was like a wandering thing that falters, yet is free, Whose soul has drunk in a distant land of the rivers of liberty. Gilbert Keith Chesterton 29 Gilbert Keith Chesterton There are more ,vings than the wind knows, or eyes than see the sun, In the light of the lost ,vindo,v and the wind of the doors undone; For out of the first lattice are the red lands that break And out of the second lattice, sea like a green snake, But out of the third lattice, under low eaves like wings Is a new corner of the sky and the other side of things.' " It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond uttering, A casement and a chasm and a thunder of doors undone, A seraph's strong ,ving shaken out the shock of its unshuttering That split the shattered sunlight from a light behind the sun. " Then he drew sword and dra ve her where the judges sat and said: ( Cæsar sits above the Gods, Barbara the maid, Cæsar hath made a treaty with the moon and with the sun All the gods that men can praise, praise him everyone. There is peace with the anointed of the scarlet oils of Bel, With the Fish God, where the whirlpool is a winding stair to hell, With the pathless pyramids of slime, ,vhere the mitred negro lifts To his black cherub in the cloud abominable gifts, With the leprous silver cities where the dumb priests dance and nod, But not with the three windows and the last name of God.' " 3 0 They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies rend and shiver us . . . Barbara, Barbara, Vle may not loose a breath- Be at the bursting doors of doom, and in the dark deliver us, Who loosen the last window on the sun of sudden death. H Barbara, the beautiful, stood up as a queen set free. Whose mouth is set to a terrible cup and the trumpet of liberty ; , I have looked forth from a windo\v that no man now shall bar, Cæsar's toppling battle towers shall never stretch so far; The slaves are dancing in their chains, the child laughs at the rod, Beca use of the bird of the three wings, and the third face of God.' The s\vord upon his shoulder shifted and shone and fell,. And Barbara lay very small and crumpled like a shell." \Vha t wall upon what hinges turned stands open like a door ? Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human eyes, \Vhat light upon what ancient way shines to a far off floor, The line of the lost land of France or the plains of Paradise ? H Cæsar smiled above the gods, his lip of stone was curledJ- His iron armies wound like chains round and round the- world. And the strong slayer of his own that cut down flesh for grass, Smiled, too, and went to his own tower like a walking tower of brass 1 Gilbert Keith Chesterton 3 1 Gilbert Keith Chesterton And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb: and fax towards the foam len saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming home . . . . "Blood of his blood upon the sword stood red but never dry, He wiped it slowly, till the blade was blue as the blue sky: But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack, spat down a blinding brand, And all of him lay back and fiat as his shadow on the sand. " The touch and the tornado; all our guns give tongue together, St. Barbara for the gunnery and God defend the right- They are stopped and gapped and battered as we blast away the weather, Building window upon window to our lady of the light; For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are falling, falling, They are reeling, they are running, as the shameful years have run, She is risen for all the humble, she has heard the con- quered calling, St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the gun. They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of their own flatteries, \Vhose lip is curled to order as its barbered hair is curled . . . -Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St. Barbara of the batteries! That blow the new white window in the wall of all 3 2 the world. For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites hard Through the rending of the doorways, through the death- gap of the Guard, For the shout of the Three Colours is in Condé and beyond, A nd the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of St. Gond ; Through l\londemont and out of it, through Morin marsh and on, With earthquake of salutation the impossible thing is gone ; Gaul, charioted and charging, great Galli upon a gun, Tiptoe on all her thousand years, and trumpeting to the sun, As day returns, as death returns, s\vung backward for a span, Back on the barbarous reign returns the battering-ram of Ian. While that the east held hard and hot like pincers in a forge, Came like the west wind roaring up the cannon of St. George, Where the hunt is up and racing over stream and swamp and tarn, And their batteries, black with battle, hold the bridge- heads of the Marne ; And across the carnage of the Guard by Paris in the plain The Normans to the Bretons cried; and the Bretons cheered again ; But he that told the tale went home to his house beside the sea And burned before St. Barbara, the light of the windows three. Three candles for an unknown thing, never to come again" That opened like the eye of God on Paris in the plain. Gilbert Keith Chesterton 33 Richard Church PSYCHE GOES FORTH TO LIFE \Vhat are these tears of loneliness to-night ? I-Iark! In my neighbour's house the music swells), Joins with the wind and fills the empty skies And dies a\vay, like echo of old age Sighing and dying in the heart that fails. Ah! the cruel beauty . . . . . how it creeps Into my home, into my waiting heart! Who am I that I wait to-night? . . . . Alas, \Vhere is the old content of maidenhood, The calmness and the laughter and the song, The pati nt hands unshaken as the needle Plied to the gentle rhythm that my lips Murmured, untroubled girlhood at their brink ?' Was that but yesterday? . . . . Ho\v long ago,. How the swift moments flow along the flood. For yesterday was sweet indifference-; These little drooping breasts had never known This pain that swells them out and makes them ache- For Love to touch them, for the nestling lips To trouble them as a warm lifting wind Murmurs bet\veen two s\velled and ripening grapes Whispering of future wines of mad delight. Ah, let me learn of this! A rapture fills Ivly limbs, and in my womb there stirs a craving For life . . . life! Oh, wonderful, the vision that glow.s. About me in such radiance, the light, the strife Of music, hue and perfume of the rose. Oh garden of desire, where one awaits My coming with the sudden knowledge glowing Deep in my eyes, made sombre as the day 34 Is sombre in the summer noon of light. Now I perceive I am a sacred temple Long closed about the hidden flame of life, Closed \vith \-vhite ivories and gliding shapes Of river waves, and waves upon the sea Rising and gliding. Every magic curve Of these unheeded arms, this supple waist- So are my eyes set on the infinite- Are ministering music unto life Calling love forth to worship in my shrine, To fill this temple with the prophecy Of further, \vider, deeper life to come. Hark! The music of the night is rising up ! l\Iy neighbour's house is all a flame of song. I n1ust abide until the prelude closes, Until his heart has ceased its preparation And he comes forth into the dying year, Leaves his house of inspiration empty, And \vith a loneliness of heart creeps forth Eagerly into the night, and gropes his way With outstretched nerveless hands unto my hOIne, Where I wait, alone! I hear his lips Iurmur again, and moan, and murmur again Tones of the broken prelude, vainly trying To call me forth, who am waiting in my home, Waiting in sweet imprisonment, the bonds Of love restraining me from running forth To greet him and to lead him to my soul. Oh the swift pain, the agony of waiting, Galled \vith these terrible sweet bonds of love That \vill not let me rise, though my cold hands Richard Church 35 Richard Are wrung with grief . . . . for do I not behold Church Upon the outer night the rising fire, The danger and the terror of love's flight; Do I not know my lover; that his eyes Are blinded by this madness of the skies. Do I not hear him moaning in the night For one to lead him to his waiting love, To lead him to the temple of delight, To the white ivory casket where his soul Is set with lovely secrets? Do I not hear The little echoes roll, and fade, and fret About the murmuring foliage of the garden Wherein the temple lies? Do I not fear Lest in the outer glories he be lost .A.nd thwarted of his heart's desire, that flies Like a dove before his coming, and alights \Vithin the inner courtyard of my soul Bearing such messages of him \vho comes Tha t all the altars of my love are kindled To flame ere he approaches, which fades away And counterfeits the s\veetest death that ever Sighed the approach of day, and left the stars Iore bright to be entranced of the dawn? Be patient, Oh, my heart 1 A little while And he shall pierce the darkness of the night That flows between my home and his. The song The youth, the early light that he has lost Are as a little strength submerged and drowned In this fierce rage that bids him seek me out And take me in the darkness of my home, And change, and fill me, as the virgin night Is changed to day, and as the moonlight sky Is emptied of her sterile ray, and filled 36 With overflooding light that spills to earth A golden augury of later fruits And a diviner birth. Richard Church Hark! Hark!.... He com He has found the temple of his soul's desire. . . , Be still, Oh beating heart, be still . . . . be still, Lest he be troubled now his sacred fire Creeps through this temple to your inmost shrine. And I at last am his, and he is mine! 37 William H. Davies THE VILLAIN While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed whereJer they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; vVhile every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood. -'" ..4 1. ... ,-' .# BIRD AND BROOK William H. Davies ly song, that's bird-like in its kind, Is in the mind, Love-in the mind ; And in my season I am moved No more or less from being loved ; No woman's love has power to bring My song back when I cease to sing; Nor can she, when my season's strong, Prevent my mind from song. But where I feel your woman's part, Is in the heart, Love-in the heart ; For when that bird of mine broods long, And I'd be sad without my song, Your love then makes my heart a brook That dreams in many a quiet nook, And makes a steady, murmuring sound Of joy the whole year round. 39 William H. Da vies PASSION'S HOUNDS With mighty leaps and bounds, I followed Passion's hounds, Þ.iy hot blood had its day; Lust, Gluttony, and Drink, I chased to Hell's black brink, Both night and day. I ate like three strong men, I drank enough for ten, Each hour rnust haTe its glass: Yes, Drink and Gluttony Have starved more brains, say I, Than Hunger has. And now, when I grow old, And my slo\v blood is cold, And feeble is my breath- I'm followed by those hounds, Whose mighty leaps and bounds Hunt me to death. 4 0 THE TRUTH Since I have seen a bird one day, His head pecked more than half a way; That hopped about, with but one eye, Ready to fight again, and die- Ofttimes since then their private lives Have spoilt that joy their music gives. So, when I ee this robin now, Like a red apple on the bough, And question why he sings so strong, For love, or for the love of song; Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill "Vhose silver tongue is never still- Ah, now there comes this thought unkind, Born of the knowledge in my mind: He sings in triumph that last night He killed his father in a fight ; And now he'll take his mother's blood- The last strong rival for his food. William H. Da vies 4 1 William H. Davies THE FORCE OF LOVE Have I now found an angel in Unrest, That wakeful Love is more desired than sleep: Though you seem calm and gentle, you shall show The force of this strong love in me so deep. Yes, I will make you, though you seem so calm, Look from your blue eyes that divinest joy As was in Juno's, when she made great Jove Forget the war and half his heaven in Troy. And I will press your lips until they mix With my poor quality their richer wine: Be my Parnassus now, and grow more green Each upward step towards your top divine. 4 2 APRIL'S LAMBS William H. Da vies Though I was born in April's prime, With many another lamb, Yet, thinking now of all my years, What am I but a tough old ram? " No woman thinks of years," said she, II Or any tough old rams, When she can hear a voice that bleats As tenderly as any lamb's." \. Georlre)' DE:armtl NOUS AUT RES We never feel the lust of steel Or fury-woken blood, We live and die and wonder why In mud, and mud, and mud, And horror first and horror last And Phantom Terror riding past. We hear and hear the hounds of Fear Nearer and more near. We feel their breath . . Only the nights befriend And mitigate the hell, Of those who ponder, see and hear, Too well. The nights, and Death- The end. We feel but never fear His breath. Day after weary day.. In vain, in vain, in vain, We turn to Thee and pray, We cry and cry again- I' 0 lord of Battle, why Should we alone be sane? " \Ve stifle cries with lightless eyes And face eternal nigl'lt ; We stifle cries to sacrifice Our eyes for Human Sight. And many give that men may live, A life, a limb, a brain, That fellow men may understand And be for ever sane. What matter if we lose a hand 44 It others wander hand ill hand; Or lose a foot if others greet The dawn of peace with dancing feet: What matter if we die unheard If others hear the Poet's Word? Because we r ay from day to day The price 0 sacrifice; Because we face each dreary place Again. again, again. Lord. set us free from Sanity- Who feel no fighting thrill ; Must we remain for ever sane And never learn to kill ? No answer came. In very shame Our long-unheeded cry Grew bitterly more bitterly. " 0 why. 0 why, 0 why.. May we not feel the lust of steel The fury-woken thrill- For men may learn to live and die And never learn to kill ? " October, 1918 Geoffrey Dearmer 45 Geoffrey Dearmer SHE TO HIM The day you died, my Share of All My soul was tossed Hither and thither, like a leaf, And lost, lost, lost, From sounds and sight, Beneath the night Of gloom and grief. But- (Hush, for the \vind may hear) Soon, soon you came in solitude: And \ve renewed All happiness. Now, who shall guess How close we are, my dear? (Hush, for the wind may hear.) Yet- Other \vomen wait Their doors ajar; And listen, listen, listen, For the gate, And murmur, U Soon, the war \Viti seem a far, Dim agony of sleep." lay I be joyful, too, That day, For love of you rvlay I not turn away Nor-weep. 4 6 IALEDICTION Thrush, across the t\\ilight Here in the abbey close, Pouring from your lilac-bough Note on pebbled note, Why do you sing so, Making your song so bright, Swelling to a throbbing curve That brave little throat? Soon, but a season brief, The lice among your feathers, Stiff-winged and aimless-eyed, With song dead you shall fall ; Refuse of some clotted ditch, Seeking no more berries ; Why with lyric numbers now Do you the t\vilight call ? Proud in your ta\vny plumes Mottled in devising, Singing as though never sang Bird in close till no\v- Sharp are the javelins Of death that are seeking, Seeking even simple birds On a lilac-bough. Crushed, forlorn, a frozen thing, For no more nesting, - For no more speckled eggs In pattered cup of clay,- Soon your song shall come to this You who make the twilight yours, And echoes of the abbey, At the end of day. John Drinkwater 47 John Drinkwater In the song I hear it, The thud of a poor feathered death, In the swelling throat I see The splintering of song- What demon then has \vorked in me To tease my brain to bittemess- In me who have loved bird and tree So long, so long? Until I come to charity, Until I find peace again, My curse upon the fiend or god That will not let me hear A bird in song upon the bough But, hovering about the notes, There chimes the maniac beating Of bJack-winged fear. . 4 8 SPECTRAL What will the years tell ? Hush! If it would but speak- That shadow athwart the stream, In the gloom of a dream; Could my brain but spell The thought in the brain of that vveak Old ghost that hides in the gloom, Over there, of the chestnut bloom. I sit in the broad June light On the open bank of the river, In the summer of manhood, young; And over the \va ter bright Is a lair that is overhung With coned pink blooms that quiver And droop, till the water's breast Is of petal and leaf caressed. And the June sky glares on my prime- But there in the gloom, \vith Time, Huddled, with Time on its back, Is a shadow that is my \vrack. Yes, it is I in the lair, Peering and watching me there. Under the chestnut bloom MyoId age hides in the glocm. And the years to be have been, Could I spell the lore of that brain. But the river flows behveen, Over the weeds of pain, Over the snares of death, John Drinkwater 49 John Drinkwater. Maybe, should I leap to hold, With myself grown old, Council there in the gloom Under the chestnut bloom. And so, with instruction none, I go, and leave it there, My ghost with Time in its lair, And the things that must yet be done Tear at my heart unknown, And the years have tongues of stone With no syllable to make For consolation's sake. But peradventure yet I shall return To dare the weeds of death, And plunge through the coned pink bloc m, And cry on that spectre set In its silent ring of gloom, And stay my youth to learn The thing that myoid age saith. -.' . "- -. -\. ...:,.., IN WAR TIME 1 TROOPSHIP. (s.s. Baltic: l\1id-Atlantic : July, 1917) Dark waters into crystalline briHiance break About the keel, as through the moonless night The dark ship moves in its own moving lake Of phosphorescent cold moon-coloured light; And to the clear horizon, all around Drift pools of fiery beryl flashing bright As though, still flashing, quenchless, cold and white, A million moons in the dark green ,vaters drowned. And staring at the magic \vith eyes adream, That never till now have looked upon the sea, Boys from the l\1iddle- \V est lounge listlessly In the unlanterned darkness, boys who go Beckoned by some unchallengeable gleam To unknown lands to fight an unknown foe. THE CONSCRIPT. 2 Indifferent, flippant, earnest, but all bored, The doctors sit in the glare of electric light Watching the endless stream of naked white Bodies of men for whom their hasty a\vard Means life or death, maybe, or the living death Of mangled limbs, blind eyes or darkened brain: And the chairman, as his monocle falls again, Pronounces each doom \vith easy, indifferent breath. Then suddenly they all shudder as they see A young man move before them \vearily, Pallid and gaunt as one already dead; And they are strangely troubled as he stands With arms outstretched and drooping, thorn-crowned head, The nail-marks glowing in his feet and hands. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson SI Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 3 AIR-RAID. Night shatters in mid-heaven: the bark of guns, The roar of planes, the crash of bombs, and all The unshackled skiey pandemonium stuns The senses to indifference, when a fall Of masonry near by startles awake, Tingling wide-eyed, prick-eared, with bristling hair, Each sense within the body crouched aware Like some sore-hunted creature in the brake. Yet side by side we lie in the little room, Just touching hands, with eyes and ears that strain Keenly, yet dream-bewildered, through tense gloom, Listening in helpless stupor of insane Drugged nightmare panic fantastically wild, To the quiet breathing of our sleeping child. 4 IN WAR-TIME. As gaudy flies across a pewter plate, On the grey disk of the unrippling sea, Beneath an airless, sullen sky of slate Dazzled destroyers zig-zag restlessly, While underneath the sleek and livid tide, Blind monsters nosing through the soundless deep, Lean submarines among blind fishes glide And through primeval weedy forests sweep. Over the hot grey surface of my mind Glib, motley rurnours zig-zag without rest, While deep within the darkness of my breast )fonstrous desires, lean, sinister and blind, Slink through unsounded night and stir the slime And ooze of oceans of forgottep time. 52 5 RAGTIME. A minx in khaki struts the limelit boards: With false moustache, set smirk and ogling eyes And straddling legs and swinging hips she tries To swagger it like a soldier, \vhile the chords Of rampant ragtime jangle, clash, and clatter; And over the brassy blare and drumming din She strains to squirt her squeaky notes and thin Spirtle of sniggering lascivious patter. Then out into the jostling Strand I turn, And down a dark lane to the quiet river, One stream of silver under the full moon, And think of how cold searchlights flare and burn Over dank trenches where men crouch and shiver, Humming, to keep their hèarts up, that same tune. LEAVE. 6 Crouched on the crowded deck, we watch the sun In naked gold leap out of a cold sea Of shivering silver; and stretching drowsily Crampt legs and arms, relieved that night is done And the slinking, deep-sea peril past, we turn Westward to see the chilly, sparkling light Quicken the vVicklow Hills, till jewel-bright In their Spring freshness of dewy green they burn. And silent on the deck beside me stands A soldier, lean and brown, with restless hands, And eyes that stare unkindling on the life And rapture of green hills and glistening morn: He comes from Flanders home to his dead wife, And I, from England, to my son newborn. Wilfrid \Vilson Gibson 53 Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 7 BACCHANAL. (November, 1918.) Into the twilight of Trafalgar Square They pour from every quarter, banging drums And tootling penny trumpets: to a blare Of tin mouth-organs, while a sailor strums A solitary banjo, lads and girls, Locked in embraces, in a wild dishevel Of flags and streaming hair, with curdling skirls Surge in a frenzied, reeling, panic revel. Lads who so long have looked death in the face, Girls who so long have tended death's machines, Released from the long terror shriek and prance: And watching them, I see the outrageous dance, The frantic torches and the tambourines Tumultuous on the midnight hills of Thrace. 54 SHEPHERD SINGING RAGTIME The shepherd sings :- " V ay down in Dixie, Way down in Dixie, Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay " With shaded eyes he stands to look Across the hills where the clouds swoon, He singing, leans upon his crook, He sings, he sings no more. The wind is muffled in the tangled hairs Of sheep that drift along the noon. One mild sheep stares With amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June. Two skylarks soar \Vith singing flame Into the sun whence first they came. All else is only grasshoppers Or a brown wing the shepherd stirs, Who, like a tall tree moving, goes Where the pale tide of sheep-drift flows. See ! the sun smites With sea-drawn lights The turned wing of a gull that glows Aslant the violet, the profound Dome of the mid-June heights. Alas! again the grasshoppers, The birds, the slumber-winging bees, Alas! again for those and these Demure and sweet things drowned ; Drowned in vain raucous words men made Louis Golding 55 Louis Golding \\llere no lark rose with swift and sweet Ascent and where no dim sheep strayed About the stone immensities, \Vhere no sheep strayed and where no bees Probed any flowers nor swung a blade Of grass with pollened feet. He sings :- " In Dixie, Way down in Dixie, Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay Scrambled eggs in the new-mown hay . . . " The herring-gulls with peevish cries Rebuke the man who sings vain words ; His sheep-dog growls a low complaint, Then turns to chasing butterflies. But when the indifferent singing-birds From midmost down to dimmest shore Inn umera bl y confirm their songs, And grasshoppers make summer rhyme And solemn bees in the wild thyme Clash cymbals and beat gongs, The shepherd's words once more are faint, The shepherd's song once more is thinned Upon the long course of the wind, He sings, he sings no more. Ah, now the sweet monotonies Of bells that jangle on the sheep To the low limit of the hills ! Till the blue cup of music spills Into the boughs of lowland trees; Till thence the lowland singings creep 56 Into the silenced shepherd's head, Creep drowsily through his blood : The young thrush fluting all he knows, The ring-dove moaning his false woes, Almost the rabbit's tiny tread, The last unfolding bud. But now, Now a cool word spreads out along the sea. Now the day's violet is cloud-tipped with gold. Now dusk most silently Fills the hushed day with other wings than birds'. Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock,. To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence. So too the shepherd gathers in his flock, Because birds journey to their dens, Tired sheep to their still fold. A dark first bat swoops low and dips About the shepherd who no\v sings A song of timeless evenings ; For dusk is round him with wide wings, Dusk murmurs on his moving lips. There is not mortal man who knows From whence the shePherd's song arose: It came a thousand years ago. Once the world's shePherds woke to lead The folded sheep that they might feed On green downs where winds blow. One shePherd sang a golden word. A thousand miles away one heard. One sang it swift, one sang it slow. Louis Gol .ing 57 Louis Three skylarks heard, three skylarks told Golding All shePherds this same song of gold On all downs where w'inds blow. This is the song that shePherds must S'ing till the green downlands be dust And tide of sheep-drift no more flow: The song three skylarks told again To all the sheep and shePherd men On green downs where w1:nds blow. . THE SINGER OF HIGH STATE On hills too harsh for firs to climb, Where eagle dare not hatch her brood, Upon the peak of solitude, With anvils of black granite crude I forge austerities of rhyme. Such godlike stuff my spirit drinks I make grand odes of tempests there. The steel-winged eagle, if he dare To cleave these tracts of frozen air, Hearing such music, swoops and sinks. Stark clangours of forgotten wars, Tumults of primal love and hate, Through crags of song reverberate. Held by the Singer of High State, Battalions of the midnight pause. On hills uplift from Space and Time, Upon the peak of Solitude, With stars to give my furnace food, On anvils of black granite crude I forge austerities of rhyme. Louis Golding 59 Gerald Gould FREEDOMS 1 Those were our freedoms, and we come to this : The climbing road that lures the climbing feet Is lost: there lies no mist above the wheat, Where-thro' to glimpse the silver precipice, Far off, about whose base the white seas hiss In spray; the world grows narrow and complete; We have lost our perils in the certain sweet ; We have sold our great horizon for a kiss. To every hill there is a lowly slope, But some have heights beyond all height-so high They make new worlds for the adventuring eye. We for achievement have forgone our hope, And shall not see another morning ope, Nor the new moon come into the new sky. 2 Where is our freedom sought, and where to seek? The voices of the various world agree The future's ours: to hope is to be free: Only to doubt, to fear, is to be weak. Have you not felt upon your calm clear cheek The kiss of the bright wind .of liberty ? What more is there to ask, what more to be ? Peace, peace, my soul, and let the silence speak! To hope is to be free? Nay, hope's a slave To every chance; hope is the same as fear; Hope trembles at the wind, the star, the wave, The voice, the mood, the music; hope stands near The chilly threshold of the waiting grave, And wh n the silence speaks, hope does not hear. 60 3 In the old days came freedom with a sword. Ev'n so; but also freedom came with wings Fanning the faint and purple bloom that clings To the great twilight where our dreams are stored. Freedom was what the waters would afford That yet obeyed the white moon's whisperings, And freedom leapt and li5tened in the strings Of dulcimer and lute and clavichord. In the old days? But those old days are now. o merciful, 0 bright, 0 valiant brow, Can you seek freedom that way and I thi ? Not in the single note is music free, But 'where creation's climbing fires agree In multitudes, in flights, in silences. 4 Shall we mark off our little patch of power From time's compu1sive process? Shall we sit With memory, \varming our ,veak hands at it, And say: II So be it; we have had one hour" ? Surely the mountains are a better dower, With their dark scope and cloudy infinite, Than small perfection, trivial exquisite; 'Mid all that dark the brightness of a flower! Lovers are not themselves: they are more, they are all : For them are past and future spread together Like a green landscape lit by golden weather : For them the rhythmic change conjectural Of time and place is but the question whether Their God shall stand (as stand he must) or fall. Gerald Gould 61 Gerald Gould 5 o cold remembrance, careful-careless kiss, That does not wake to hope with \vaking day, And at the hour of bed-time does not say: Cl That wa for rapture, that for peace, but this Burns for the night's more terrible auspices, And pangs and sweets of doubt and disarray! "- Yet in one kiss two hearts ound once the way From perfect ignorance to perfect bliss. Love has so many voices, low' and high, Such range of reason, such delight of rhyme! Yet when I asked love such a simple thing As why the autumn comes where came the spring, The only soul that answered me was I, And love was silent then for the first time. 6 Our love is hurt, and the bad world goes on Moving to its conclusion: in a year This corn now reaped v..-iU come again to ear, The moon will shine as last night the moon shone; The tide, whose thought is the moon's thought, will don The silver livery of subjection. Dear, Is it not strange that hearts Ti]] hope and fear And break, when our hearts, broken now, are gone? If this were true, life's movement would rebel, And curdle to its source, as blood to the heart Yhen the cold fires of indignation start From their obscure lair in the body.-\Vell, If for us two to part were j list to part All years would have oI?-e pointless tale to tell. 62 7 The little things, the little restless things, The base and barren things, the things that spite The day, and trail processions through the night Of sad remembrances and questionings ; The poverties, stupidities and stings, The silted misery, the hovering blight; The things that block the paths of sound and sight ; The things that snare our thought and break its wings- How shall we bear these ?-we who suffer so The shattering sacrifice, the huge despair, The terrors loosed like lightnings on the air, To leave all nature blackened from that curse! The big things are the enemies we know, The little things the traitors. Which are worse? 8 Now must we gather up and conlprehend The volume of vicissitude, and take Account of loving, for each other's sake, And ask how love began and how will end (If there be any end of love, 0 friend Of mv worst hours and best desires !)-and stake OUT ãn upon the sweetness and the ache Of what men's stories and God's stars intend. You have my all: you are my all: you give, Out of your bounty and content of soul, The only strength that makes me fit to live- Since earth of spirit takes such heavy toll : Yet I, the weak, the faint, the fugitive, Stand here, an equal part of the great whole. Gerald Gould 63 Laurence Housman SUl\ll\IER NIGHT Light, like a closing flower, co\"'ers to earth her herds, Out of the world we only \vatch for the rise of moon; Darker the t\vilight glimmers, dulls the warble of birds, Over the silent field travels the night-jar's tune. Here, at my side, so close that even your breath I hear, Face and form that I love, now with the night made one, Pray not for any star! ('orne not, 0 moon, for fear Lest in thy light we lose our way ere the dream be done. Touch, and clasp, and be close! Kiss,oh kiss, and be warm ! What is here, 0 beloved, 50 like a sea without sound? Under the swathe at our feet, swifter than wings of storm, Summer speeds on his way: Spring lies dead in the ground. How like a closing flow r, cla5ped by a sleeping bee, Life folds over us now :-and here in the midst love lies. o beloved, 0 flower of night, no morrow's moon shall we see : Between a dusk and a dav we meet, and at dawn Time dies I . 64 THE PALACES OF THE ROSE (A VALENTINE) Which of my palaces? Gold one by one, Of all the splendid houses of my throne, This day in grave thought have lover-gone : Those roofs of stars where I have lived alone Gladly with God; those blue-encompassed bowers Hushed round \vith lakes, and guarded with still flowers, vVnere I have watched a face from eve till morn, . Wondering at being born- Then on from morn again till the next eve, Still with strange eyes, unable to believe; And yet, though week and month and year went by, Incredulous of my ensorcelled eye. o had I thus in trance for ever stayed, Still were she there in the reed-girdled isle, And I there still- I who go treading now Eternity, a-hungered mile by mile: Because I pressed one kiss upon her brow,- After a thousand years that seemed an hour Of looking on my flower, After that patient planetary fast, One kiss at last ; One kiss-and then strange dust that once wa.s she. Sa ve..c;t thou, Rose, " \\ at all this to me ? " This would I answer, if it pleast="th thee, Thou Rose and Nightingale so strangely one: That of my palaces, gold one by one, I fell a-thinking, pondering which to-day, The day of the Blessed Saint, Saint Valentine, Which of those many palaces of mine, I, with bowed head and lowly bended knee, Richard Le Gallienne 65 Richard Le Gallienne Might bring to thee. o which of all my lordly roofs that rise To kiss the starry skies May with great beams make safe that golden head, With all that treasure of hair showered and spread, Careless as though it \vere not gold at all- Yet in the midnight lighting the black hall ; And all that whiteness lying there as though It were but driven snow. Pondering on all these pinnacles and towers, That, a.s I come \vith trumpets, call me lord, And crown their battlements ,,,ith girlhood flo\vers, I can but think of one. 'T\"as not my sword That ,von it, nor was it aught I did or dreamed, But 0 it is a palace worthy thee! For all about it flows the eternal sea, A blue moat guarding an immortal queen; And over it an everlasting crown That, as the moon comes and the sun goes down, Adds jewel after jewel, gem on gem, To the august appropriate diadem Of her, in whom all potencies that are Wield sceptres and with quiet hands control, Kind as that fairy wand the evening star, Or the strong angel that \ve call the soul. Thou splendid girl that seemest the mother of all, Dear Ceres-Aphrodite, with every lure That draws the bee to honey, with the call Of moth-winged night to sinners, yet as pure As the white nun that counts the stars for beads ; Thou blest Madonna of all broken needs, Thou 1\1:elusine, thou sister of sorrowing man, Thou wave-like laughter, thou dear sob in the throat, 66 Thou all-enfolding mercy, and thou song That gathers up each wild and \\Tandering note, And takes and breaks and heals and breaks the heart With the omnipotent tenderness of art; And thou Intelligence of rose-leaves made That makes that little thing the brain afraid. For thee my Castle of the Spring prepares: On the four \vinds are sped my couriers, For thee the towered trees are hung \vith green; Once more for thee, 0 queen, The banquet hall \vith ancient tapestry Of woven vines gro\vs fair and still more fair. And ah! how in the minstrel gallery Again there is the sudden string and stir Of music touching the old instruments, \Vhile on the ancient floor The rushes as of yore Nymphs of the house of spring plait for your feet- Ancestral ornaments. ;:.. d And everywhere a hurrying to and fro, And whispers saying, " She is so sweet-so sweet" ; o violets, be ye. not too late to blow, o daffodils be fleet : For, when she comes, all must be in its place, AU ready for her entrance at the door, All gladness and all g10ry for her face, All flo\vers for her flower-feet a floor; And, for her sleep at night in that great bed Where her great locks are spread, o be ye ready, ye young woodland streams To sing her back her dreams. Richard Le Gallienne 67 Rose Macaulay PEACE June 28th. 1919 From the tennis lawn you can hear the guns going, Twenty miles away, Telling the people of the home counties That the peace was signed to-day. To-night there'll be feasting in the city; They \vill drink deep and eat- Keep peace the way you planned you would keep it (If we got the Boche beat). Oh, your plan and your word, they are broken, For vou neither dine nor dance; And there's no peace so quiet, so lasting, As the peace you keep in 'France. You'll be needing no Covenant of Nations To hold your peace intact. I t does not hang on the close guarding Of a frail and wordy pact. When ours screams, shattered and driven, Dust down the storming years, Yours will stand stark, like a grey fortress, Blind to the storm's tears. Our peace . . . . your peace . .. I see neither. They are a dream, and a dream. I only see you laughing on the tennis lawn I And brown and alive you seem, As you stoop over the tall red foxglove (1 t flowers again this year) 68 And imprison within a freckled bell A bee J \\'ild with fear . . . . * * * Oh J you cannot hear the noisy guns gcing : You sleep too far away. It is nothing to you J who have your (,wn peace, That our peace \vas signed to-day. Rose Macaulay t ' þ Âtl' . . Eugene Mason ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA THE CYNDUS 1 Beneath th' triumphal blue, th' riotous day, Her silvern gal1ey beats the black flood white, \Vhilst the long sillage hoards some close delight Of incense, flutes, and stir of silk array. From forth the pompous poop, her royal s\vay, Near where the mystic ha\vk stands poised for flight, The Queen, erect, stares out, flushed, exquisite, Like some great golden bird that spies her prey. The tryst IS kept: her spoilèd \varrior there: And the brown gipsy in the s\vooning air Spreads amber arms the purple glo\v stains red ; Nor hath she seen, nor known \vith shuddering breath, Symbols of Doom, those Youths Divine who shed Rose-leaves on sombre deeps-Desire and Death. BATTLE AT SUNSET 2 The shock was stern: the cohorts near to rout. Staying the flight, tribune, centurion, From heat of carnage 'neath th' enduring sun Breathe blood, and smell its sa vour as they shout. With haggard eyes, that count the dead about, Each spearman marks the archers, all undone, Whirl like heaped leaves before Euroclydon. From the brown faces sweat falls gout by gout. That fated hour-with many a shaft stuck o'er, Streaming in burnished brass and purple weed, Red with the scarlet flux of wounds full sore, \Vith trumpets shrilling forth their urgent need, Against the sunset, on his frighted steed- Surged, glorious, the ensanguined Emperor. 7 0 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 3 From the high terrace they might see far down, Egypt asleep, by plague of heat opprest ; Old Father Nile, in beauty manifest, Roll his rich flood towards many a famous town. And 10, the Roman felt 'neath mail and gown (Captain and slave, soothing a child to rest) Relax and fail on his triumphant breast That body made for love, by love o'erthrown. Lifting her silken head and blanchèd face To him whose senses reel at such rare grace And piercing sweetness, she prefer her lips; But stooping close, his ardent eyes behold In those deep eyes, sewn thick with points of gold, A hazardous sea bestrewn váth fleeing ships. From the French of José l\Iaria de Heredia Eugene Mason 7 1 Theodore Maynard DIRGE If on a day it should befall That love must have her funeral; And men -y,"eep tears that love is dead, That never more her gracious head Can turn to meet their eye and hold Their hearts with chains of silky gold; That never more her hands can be As dear as was virginity ; That in her coffin there is laid Beauty, the body of a maid, The body of one so piteous-sweet, 'Vith candles burning ather feet And cow led monks singing requiem I think I would not go with them, Her lordly lovers, to the place Where lies that lovely mournful face, That curving throat and marvellous hair Under the sconces' yellow flare- How shall a man be comforted When love is dead, \vhen love is dead? But I would make my moan apart, Keeping my dreams within my heart- For guarded as a sepulchre Shall be the house I built for her Of silver spires and pinnacles With carillons of mellow bells, A house of song for her delight Whose joy \vas as the strong sunlight- But now love's ultimate word is said, . For love is d ad, for love is dead! 7 2 But even should '=.11 hope be lost Some memory, like a thin white ghost, Might stealthily move in midnight hours Among those silent sacred towers, And glimmer on the moonlit lawn Until the cold ironic dawn Arises from her saffron bed- When love is dead, when love is dead . . . . .. . . L Theodore Maynard . Theodore DESIDERA VI )'1 a ynard Lest, tortured by the world's strong sin, Her little bruised heart should die- Give her your heart to shelter in, o earth and sky! Kneel, sun, to clothe her round about With rays to keep her body warm; And, kind moon, shut the shadows out That work her harm. Yes, even shield her from my will's Wild folly-hold her safe and close !- For my rough hand in touching spills Life from the rose. But teach me, too, that I may learn Your passion classical and cool ; To me, who tremble so and burn, Be pitiful ! 74 LA US DEO! Praise! that when thick night circled over me In chaos ere my time or world began, Thy finger shaped my body cunningly, Thy thought conceived me ere I was a man! Thy Spirit breathed upon me in the dark \\Therein I strangely grew, Bestowing glowing powers to the spark The mouth of heaven blew! Praise! that a babe I leapt upon the world Spread at my feet in its magnificence, With trees as giants, flowers as flags unfurled, And rains as diamonds in their excellence ! Praise! for the solemn splendour of surprise That came with breaking day; For all the ranks of stars that met my eyes When sunset burned away! Praise! that there burst on my unfolding heart The coloured radiance of leafy June, With choirs of song-birds perfected in art, And nightingales beneath the summer moon- Praise! that this beauty, an unravished bride Doth hold her lover still ; Doth hide and beckon, laugh at me, and hide Upon each grassy hill. Praise! that I know the dear capricious sky In every infinitely varied mood- Yet under her maternal wings can lie The smallest chick among her countless brood ! Praise! that I hear the strong winds wildly race Their chariots on the sea, But feel them lift my hair and stroke my face Softly and tenderly! Theodore :rvIa ynard 75 Theodore la ynard PraIse. for the joy and gladness thou didst send, When I have sat in gracious fello\vship In firelight for an evening with a friend, When wine and magic entered at the lip! For laughter which the fates can overthrow Thy mercy doth accord- To Thee, who didst my godlike joy bestow, I lift my glass, 0 Lord! Praise! that a lady leaning from her height, A lady pitiful, a tender maid, A queen majestical unto my sight, Spoke words of love to me, and sweetly laid Her hand within my own unworthy hand! (Rise, soul, to greet thy guest, Mysterious love, whom none shall understand, Though love be all confessed !) Praise! that upon my bent and bleeding back Was stretched some share of Thy redeeming cross, Some poverty as largess for my lack, Some loss that shall prevent my utter loss! Praise! that thou gayest me to keep joy sweet The sanguine salt of pain ! Praise! for the weariness of questing feet That else might quest in vain! 7 6 AFORETIl\IE TO GORDON BOTTOMLEY Dear exile from the hurrying crowd, At work I muse to you aloud; Thought on my anvil softens, glows, And I forget our art has foes ; For life, the mother of beauty, seems A joyous sleep \vith waking dreams. Then the toy armoury of the brain Opining, judging, looks as vain As trowels silver gilt for use Of mayors and kings, who have to lay Foundation stones in hope they may Be honoured for walls others build. I, in amicable muse, With fathomless wonder only filled, Whisper over to your ear ljstening two hundred odd miles north, And give thought chase that, were you here, Our talk would never run to earth. Man can answer no momentous question: Whence comes his spirit? Has it lived before? Reason fails; hot springs of feeling spout Their snowy columns high in the dim land Of his surmise-violent divine decisions That often rule him: and at times he views Portraits of places he has never been to, Yet more minute and vivid than remembrance, Of boyhood homes, sail between sleep and waking Like some mirage, refuting all experience With topsy-turvy ships, That steals by in dead calms through tropic haze: And many a man in his climacteric years, T. Sturge 1vloore 77 T. Sturge Moore Thoughts and remembered words have roused from sleep With knowledge that he lacked on lying do\vn: And I, Japped in a trance of reverie, doubt Some spore of episodes Anterior far beyond this body's birth, Dispersed like puffs of dust impalpable, Wind-carried round this globe for centuries, May, breathed with common air, yet swim the blood, And striking root in this or that brain, raise Imaginations unaccountable; One such seems hall -implied in all I am, And many times re-pondered shapes like this : A child myself I watched a woman loll Like to a clot of seaweed thrown ashore; Heavy and limp as cloth soaked in black dye, She glooms the noontide dazzle where a bay Bites into vineyarded flats close-fenced by hills, Over whose tops lap forests of cork and fir And reach in places half down their rough slopes. Lower, some fe\\'" cleared fields square on the thickets Of junipers and longer thorns than furze So clumped that they are trackless even for goats I know two things about that woman: first She is asia ve and I am free, and next As mothers need their sons' love she needs mine. Longings to utter fond compassionate sounds Stir through me, checked by knowing wiser folk Reprobate such indulgence. III at ease, Mute, yet her captive, I thrust brown toes through Loose sand no daily large tides overwhelm To cake and roll it firm and smooth and clean As the Atlantic remakes shores, you know. But there, like trailing skirts, long flaws of wind Obliterate the prints feet during calms 7 8 Track over and over its always lonely stretch, Till some will have it ghosts must rove at night For folk by day are rare, yet a still week Leaves hardly ten yards anywhere uncrossed; Tempest spreads all revirginate like snow, Half burying dead wood snapped off from tossed trees, Since right along the foreshore, out of reach Of furious driven waves, three hundred pines Straggle the marches between sand and soil. Like maps of stone-walled fields their branching roots Hold the silt still so that thin grass grows there, Its blades whitened with travelling powdery drift The besom of the lightest breeze sets stirring. That woman's gaze toils \vorn from remote years, Yet forward yearns through the bright spacious noon, Beyond the farthest isle, "Those filmy shape Floats faint on the sea-line. I. scooping grains up with the frail half-shell Pale green and white-lined of sea-urchin, knew What her eyes sought as often children know Of grief or sin they could not name or think of Yet sooth or shrink from J so I saw and longed To heal her tender wound and yet said naught. The energy of bygone joy and pain Had left her listless figure charged with magic That caught and held my idleness near hers. Resentful of her power J my spirit chafed Against its own deep pity, as though it \vere Raised ghost and she the \vitch had bid it haunt me. WhatJs more I knew this slave by rights should glean And faggot drift-wood, not lounge there and waste My father's food dreaming his time away. For then as now the common-minded rich Grudged ease to those whose toil brought them in meaas For every waste of life. At length I spoke, T. Sturge IHoore 79 T. Sturge Moore Insulting both my inarticulate soul And her with acted anger: "Lazy wretch, Is it for eyes like yours to watch the sea As though you waited for a homing ship? My father might with reason spend his hours Scanning the far horizon; for his Swan Whose outward lading was full half a vintage Is now months overdue." She turned on me Her languor knit and, through its homespun wrap, Her muscular frame gave hints of rebel will, While those great caves of night, ber eyes, faced mine, Dread with the silence of unuttered wrongs : At last she spoke as one who must be heeded. Truly I am not clear Vlhether her meaning was conveyed in words (She mingled accents of an eastern tongue With deformed phrases of our native Latin) Or whether thought from her gaze poured through mine. The gravity of recollected life Was hers, condensed and, like a vision, flashed Suddenly on the guilty mind, a whole Compact, no longer a mere tedious string Of moments negligible, each so small As they were lived, but stark like a slain man Who would alive have been ourself with twice The skill, the knowledge, the vitality Actually ours. Yea, as a tree may view With fingerless boughs and lorn pole impotent, An elephant gorged upon its leaves depart, Men often have reviewed an unwieldy past, That like a feasted Mammoth, leisured and slow, Turned its back on their warped bones. Even thus, Momentous with reproach, her grave regard Made me feel mean, cashiered of rank and right, My limbs that twelve good years had nursed were 80 numbed And all their fidgety quicksilver grew stiff, Novel and fevering hallucinations Invaded my attention. So daylight When shutters are thrown back spreads through a house; As then the dreams and terrors of the night Decamp, so from my mind were driven All its own thoughts and feelings. Close she leant Propped on a swarthy arm, while the other helped With eloquent gesture potent as wizard wand, Veil the world off as with an airv web, Or flowing tent a -gleam with pictured folds. These taut en and distend-one sea of wheat, Islanded with black cities, borders now The voluminous blue pavilion of day. There-under to the nearest of those to\vns This woman younger by ten years made haste 'Vhile at her side ran a small boy of six. They neared the walls, half a huge double gate Lay prostrate, though the other by stone hinges Hung to its flanking tower. The path they followed Threaded an old paved road \vhose flags ,vere edged \Vith dry grass and dry \veeds, even cactuses Had pushed the stones up or found root in muck heaps; The path struck up the slope of the fallen door, Basalt like midnight, o'er which dusty feet Had greyed a passage, for it rested on Some débris fallen from the left-hand to\ver, And from its upper edge rude blocks like steps Led down into the straight main street, that ran Past eyeless buildings mined as it were from coal, And earthquake-raised to light. Palaces and Roofless ,vide-flighted colonnaded temples, The uncemented walls piled-plumb with blocks Squared, polished, fitted \vith dæmonic patience. Each gaping threshold high again as need be T. Sturge ::\Ioore 81 T. Sturge Moore Waited a nine-foot lord to enter hall, Where the least draughty corner sheltered now Half-tented hut or improvised small home For Arab, brown, light-footed and proud-necked As was this \voman \vith the compelling voice. Their present hutched and hived within that past As bees in the parchment chest of Samson's lion; And all seem conscious that their life \vas sweet, Like mice who clean their faces after meals And have such grace of movement, when unscared, As wins the admiration even of those Whose stores they rob and soil. I sa\V her eyes Young with contentment in her son And smaller babe and in their handsome sire, And kne\v that many a supper had been relished With hearts as joyous as \vaited \vhile she cooked And served upon returning to their cot In hall \vhere once far other hearts caroused. They and their tribe could never reap a tithe Of the vast harvest rustling round those ruins, And over which a half-moon soon set forth From black hills mounded up both east and south, While north-west her light played on distant summits; All the huge interspace floored \vith standing corn Which kings afar send soldiery to reap, Who now, beside a long canal cut straight In ancient days, have pitched their noisy camp Which on that vast staid silence makes a bruise Of blare and riot that its robust health Will certainly heal in a brief lapse of time. One night, re-thought on after ten whole years, Is like the condor high above the Andes, A speck \vith difficulty found again Once the attention quits it. And I next Descried our woman under breathless noon, 82 Bathing in a clear lane of gliding \vater Whose banks seem lonely as the path of light Crossing mid ocean south of Capricorn. Her son steals warily after a butterfly And is as hushed 'with hope to capture it As are the birds \vith heat. An insect hum Circles the spot as round a cymbal's rim, Long after it has clanged, tingles a throb Which in a dream forgets the parent sound, Oppressed by this protracted and awe-filled pause, She hardly dares to wade the stream and moves As though in dread to \vake some sleeping god, Yet still she nears and nears the further bank 'Vhere there is shade under a shumac's eaves. The brilliant surface cut her right in two, And the reflection of her bronzed torso Hid all beneath the polished gliding mirror; How her face listened to that sleep divine \Vhose audible breath \vas tuned to dreams of bliss [ Sudden, as though the \voof of heaven were tom, A strident shout rang from some neighbour shrubs Three Nubian soldiers ran upon her \vith Delighted oily faces. Screaming first Commands to her small son to make for home, She laboured to recross the current as \vhen In nightmares the scared soul expects to die Tortured by mutiny in limbs like lead, But as the playful lion of the sea Climbs the rock ledges hard by Fingal's cave To throw himself down into deep green baths, While others barking follow his vigorous lead, The foremost Abyssinian thre\v his weight Before her \vith a splash that hid them both, As the explosion of light-filled liquid parcels T. Sturge l\loore 83 T. Sturge 1'Ioore Shot forth in all directions. In his arms She re-appeared, a tragic terrified face Bcside his coarse one laughing with success. Squeezing her \vith a pantomime of love, He tun1S to follow an arrow \vith his eyes That his companion, still upon the bank, Has aimed towards her son's small head that bobbed Like a black cork across the basking com. But from the level of the sunk stream bed Neither he nor she could see the target aimed at, Yet in the pause they heard the poor child scream ; A second arrow, second scream; she fought, But soon like bundle bound, hung o'er his shoulder, Helpless as a mouse in cat's mouth carried off In search of quiet, there to play with it. Those arrows missed ?-or did they not? The child Shrieked twice, yet scarcely like a wounded thing She thought and hoped and still but thinks and hopes. Where is that boy? Where is her husband now? While she submitted body to force and soul To the great shuddering violence of despair How had their life progressed in that far place? Compassion fused my consciousness with hers And second-sighted eloquence arose To claim my mind for rostrum, But obstinately tranced My eyes clung to their vision; For regions to explore allure the boy No stretch of thought or sea of feeling tempts. Entranced, the mind I then had, haunted Those basalt ruins. High On sable towers Some silky patriarchal goat appears And ponders silent streets, or suddenly Some nanny, her huge bag s\vollen with milk, Trots out on galleries thai unfenced run 84 Round vacant courts, there, stopped by plaintive kid , Lets them complete their meal. While always, always, Throughout, those mazed, sullen and sun-soaked walls, The steady, healthy wind, Which often blows for 'weeks without a lull Across that upland plain, Flutes staidly. 1Yloaning Continuously as seas Or fore."ts before storm, And, gathering moment, Articulated by her woe, begins \Vith second-sighted eloquence To wail through me, Nigh as unheeded, As though it still had been Meaningless wind. For ah! the heart is cowed And dares not use her strength, Hears the kind impulse plead Against the common avaricious fear, Grants it but life, though sovereignty was due Or doles it sway but one day out of seven Or one a year. So, so, and ever, so In the close-curtained court Those causes are deferred Which most import; These wait man's leisure. These daily matters elbow; Merely because His panic meanness Jibs blindly ere it hear What wisdom has prepared, T. Sturge Moore 85 T. Sturge Moore Bolts headlong ere it see Her face unfold its smile. Man after man, race after race Drops jaded by the iterancy Of petty fear. Even as horses on the green steppe5 grazing, Hundreds scattered through lonely peacefulness, If shadow of cloud or red fox breaking earth Delude but one with dream of a stealthv foe, All are stampeded. W Their frantic torrent draws in, With dire attraction, cumulative force, Stragglers grazing miles from where it started; On it thunders quite devoid of meaning. The tender private soul Thus takes contagion from the sordid crowd, And shying at mere dread of loss, Loses the whole of life. Thus, in the vortex of a base turmoil, Those myriad million energies wear down That might have raised mankind To live the life of gods. Had but my soul been his, As his "vas mine, Those wind-resembling accents Had found fit auditor. Their second-sighted eloquence, Welcomed with acclamation, Had fired action. But that was ages since: he was not then What now I am, Who have no longer The opportunity then mine, then missed,- Who still am dazed and troubled Surmising others mine, others missed. 86 Passionate, never-wearied voice Tombed in thy brittle shell, This human heart Thou croonest age on age, " Give and ask not, Help and blame not," Heeded less than large and mottled cowry The which at least some child may hold to ear All smiles to listen. Thou findest parables; With fond imagination Adorning truth For the successive Unpersuaded Generations. This boy, myself that was, Musing visions by that woman raised, Watched that land she came from, towned with ruins Send mile-long files of laden camels out With grain to hostile cities,- Kne\v too the blue entrancing plain of waters Teemed with fresh shoals, buoyed up indifferently, Fisher-trader-pirate bark,- Even the straight thought whispered at his ear, " Thy lips might join with hers as with some cousin's, Here, now, at noon, Hugging her berea véd sadness close, And still, to-night, with equal satisfaction, Thy mother's blind contentment with her SOD." WhiJe half-seduced, half-chafed, his mind was shaken As with conflicting gusts a choppy sea, His eyes, still greedy of their visions, Fastened a swarthy town enisled in wheat, T. Sturge Moore 87 T. Sturge Moore And to the ebon threshold of each house, Conjured forth the man that each was planned for: Great creatures smiling with his father's smile, l\Iuscular, \vealthy and self-satisfied, \Vearing loud-coloured raiment, earrings, chains, Armlet and buckle, all of clanking gold. His spirit drank from theirs great draughts of pride And read their minds more clearly than hi5 own; All, with one counsel like a chorus, dinned His soul that then was mine, 'Vith truths well-proved in action. H Love is chaos, For order's sake Whatever must be, should be," Roared those bulb of Bashan. Then their proud chant argued, H How should this woman know Her little lad again, Who either now is bones Under the fertile field, Or well nigh a grown man ? Say they should cross at market Both slaves would pass on, not a start the wiser. \Vhat is she then to him Or he to her After these years ? To drag a life that might have been but is not With toil of mind and heart, Through dreary year on year, Neglecting for i s sake the life that is, Spells folly and ingratitude to those Who treat their slaves well. Thy father's household and thyself should be More to her now than those who maybe dead, The place she lives in dearer 88 Than any unattainable far land Where she is more forgotten than old dreams. Why make the day of evil worse By dwelling on it after it has past? Near things alone are real, Now is the whole of time: Places beyond the horizon are but pictures; !vlemory cheats the eye 'with an illusion! " tc Your thoughts are sound, bold builders, I am my father's son. Behold this home-shore, these our hills, this bay, And this our slave!- Up, work, look sharp about it ! II Bounding a foot and fast retiring from her, I stoop for stones strewn thick about the sand, Aim them, fling them, And, as my idle arm resumes the knack, Score a hit and laugh To see her stumble hurt, behind the pine trunks. " Unless you work, I throw again, To it and steady at it. rvlark me, drab, we Camilli Mean what we say." Stone after stone still flies, But aimed to knock chips from the pine-boles now; For she is busy gathering sticks, increasing Her distance as she may. The noon is sultry, Heated and clammy, I, Towards the live waves turning, slip my tunic, Then run in naked. Cooled and soothed by swimming, Both mind and heart from their late tumult tuned To placid acquiescent health, T. Sturge l\loore 89 T. Sturge Moore I float, suspended in the limpid water, Passive, rhythmically governed; So tranced worlds travel the dark shoreless ether. II Where should this stream of pictures tend ? " No, Bottomley, you will not ask; To you I am quite free to send The unexpected, unexplained, You will Dot take me thus to task. So they be painted well, they live; If ill, they yet may cling to fame Associated with your name. In which case you, and not I, give That we are both contented with. 90 DOWN HERE THE HAWTHORN Down here the hawthorn. And a stir of wings, Spring-lit wings that wake Sudden tumult in the brake, Tumult of blossom tide, tumult of foaming mist Where the bright bird's tumultuous feathers kissed. White mists are blinding me, White mist of hedgero\v, white mist of wings. Down here the hawthorn And a stir of wings . . . . Softly swishing, swift with spray All along the green lanewa y Dewdimmed, sunwashed, windsweet and winter-free They flash upon the light, They swing across the sight, I cannot see, I cannot see! . . . Down here the flowering hawthorn flings Sleet of petals, petalled shells Spread the coloured air that sings Magic and a myriad spells Spun by my count of Springs. Down here the hawthorn And the flower-foam stirred By a Spring-lit bird. White ha\vthorn mist is blinding me. I lower my gaze, and on this old Brown bridle road Crusted with golden moss and mould The hedgerow flings Lush carpetings, Blossom \voven carpetings light lain Under the farmer's lumbering load; Thomas Moult 9 1 Thomas I\loult And, floating past the spent March wrack, The footstep trail, the traveller's track. Down here the hawthorn . . . . 'White mists are blinding me, White mists that rime the fresh green bank Where fernleaf -fall And sorrel tall Upwaving, rank on rank, Shall flush the bed whereon the windflowers sank. I turn these Spring-bewildered eyes of mine, I seek above the surf of hedgerow line Where peeping branches reach, and reaching twine Faint cherry or plum or eglantine. But with pretence of whisperings The year's young mischief-wind shall take By storm these f'hy striplings, And soon or later shake Their slender limbs, and make Free with their clinging may- Strip from them in a single boisterous day Their first and last vesture of pale bloom spray. So, as to meet such lack In bush or brack, The kindly hedgerows make Sure of a Springtime for these frailer things, Shedding on each the lavish creamthorn flake. Down here the hawthorn . . . . On all the green leaf-clusters round me clings Thickly a spray of gentle blossomings Everywhere as with many bells The young year with white magic swells. The morning rings. White mist is blinding me, I cannot see, I cannot see ! 9 2 Blind grows the coloured air that sings The marvel of a myriad spells Spun by my count of Springs. SJeet of petals, petalled shells Falling with sudden poignancy (As the sleet stings) Upon the lightheart-hope which only clear sight knows. And slowly drifts, Lingering among the snows Nor, though the snow Hfts, Ever goes The wistful heartache as the fresh Spring flows \Vith slipping sureness to the time of the rose, and the withered rose. Down here the hawthorn And heaping blossom stirred By a joy-swift bird. White mists are blinding me, White mist of hedgerow, white mist of wings;. The bird's flight flings Deep carpetings Over the wrack Of my life's track. Down here the hawthorn The air of coloured years is blurred By the Spring, by a bird. White mists are blinding me, White mists on the years to be. I cannot see, I cannot see . . . . Thomas Iou1t 93 Thomas INVOCATION Iou1t Hurl down, harsh hills, your bitterness Of wind and storm. Stem ye the drift of herded men With your uncouthness So, tasting of your power, they press Back shrinking where upon their vvarm Safe ways of smoothness They feed their various lusts again. Guard ye, wild hills, with scar and whip Your outlawry Lest alien-hearted pigmies tame Your trackless boulders, And with their unclean cunning slip The leash of ci vilry Fast round your shoulders. o keep ye from that shame. Or they shall surely come, black hordes Swarming as lice With their obscenities and greed Across your fastness, Even your peaks that swing white swords, Rent, splintered ice Into the vastness Of skies where fanged winds feed. Hurl down, harsh hills, your bitterness, Guard ye with flail Of shattering wind and thong of sleet Your pride uplifting To the impaled stars; be pitiless Before this unquiet trail Of man-herds drifting Against your stone still feet. 94 PAEAN ON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF BLAKE. Something moves in his dust, Flame sleeps beneath the crust; a whence had he those eyes Lit with celestial surprise? From what world blew that gust? Are we near to Paradise? Gather a chaplet of five stars And the opalescent hue Of the aureole brightness cast- Red, hardly red, and blue, scarce blue,- Round th' immaculate frosty moon, Splintering light in glacial spars, 'Vhen November's loudening blast Sweeps heaven's floor till burnishèd }Iore crystal than at August noon, So we fit radiance may cast Before his feet, around his head. flow visits he an earthly place, 'Vanders among a mortal race? Ho\v \vere his footsteps led That still about his face Lingers a ghostly trace Of a secret influence shed By a Hand the world denies, In a land her most son flies, As a gift upon him thrust For an end he knoweth not, Yet will shine because he must, Ro hert N icho1s. 95 Robert Nichols Shine and sing because he must Reap a wrong he soweth not Of contempt anger and distrust For a 'world which bo\veth not To the Flame \vhich binds our dust. Go net the moon, go snare the sun, Set them upon his either hand! Beneath his heels Leviathan Roll your thick coils! His head be sp2.nned By rainbows tripled! Set a gem At the Cross-scabbard of his s\vord vVhiter than lamb\vool or lilystem! Place on his brow the diadem Given the \varrior of the Lord, The crown-turrets of Jerusalem! ., ..... . " to . " , . . ... " . I '.. THE FALL Eden Phillpotts I'll sing a song of kings and queens And falling leaves and flying lain, Wit h Tin1e to mo\v, and Fate who gleans Their good and evil, boon and bane. r'll sing a song of lea ves and rains And flying queens and falling kings. Yet doubt not reason still remains Snug hidden at the core of things. For every year an autumn brings To round the root and fat the hea.Yes And haply garner queens and kings "Vith falling rain and flying leaves. The rain is salt with tears of queens The leaves are red with blood of kings ; Unkno\ving what the mystery means vVe puzzle at these splendid things. For why great kings and rains should fall, And wherefore leaves and queens shoula fly, Or such rare \vonders be at all, You cannot tell; no more can 1. Yet this we know: ne\\" leaves and rain Anon shall crown the vernal scene, But dust of dynasts not again Blows up into a king or queen. 9ï Eden Phillpotts GHOSTIES AT THE 'VEDDING. T urn down a glass afore his place ; Draw up the dog-eared chair; For though we shall not see his face, I think he \vill be here Our wedding day to share. Turn up the glass where she would be And put a red rose there. Her quick, grey eyes \ve cannot see, But weren't they everywhere, And shall not they be here? Though them old blids are in the grave And their good light's gone out, \Ve'd sooner their kind ghosties have Than all the living rout As will be there no doubt. For some are dead as cannot die, Some flown as cannot flee. You still do fancy 'em near by. 'Tis so with him and she, At any rate to we. 98 FOUR LYRICS I. \Vhen old Anacreon sang the wine Which made his utterance divine, Perchance the eyes he gazed into \Vere lucent as the sun-touched dew- Brighter, perchance, than yours; and yet Eyes like yours, smoulderingly lit With the calm passion of the spirit, No young Greek maid did e'er inherit Ah! twenty years are not enough To mould to such celestial stuff A soul, my dear, as yours is moulded, Wherein all dreams of life lie folded, And through whose doors a friend may slip Into serene companionship. II. She came, as one who in the light Of many a sunset hour had grown Half sad, half glad, because the night So soon about her would be thrown. With melancholy ages old, And laughter fragrant as the Spring, She came, and in her low voice told Tales of rich joy and sorrowing. She led me to her garden, fair \Vith flowers I love and whispering trees, And to her arbour sheltered there In peace, all redolent of peace. \Vith rapt delight of halting speech, And commune, such as those have felt Whose minds move silent each by each, Whose hopes are kindred hopes, we dwelt. Arthur K. Sabin 99 Arthur 1(. Sa bin But though \vith love and dreams of gold She wove rare charms about that nest, ly heart lay aching still, and co]d : I could not rest, 1 could not rest. III. The birds are quiet on the boughs, And quiet are my slumbering trees o come a short while to my house And share these evening silences. Come! for the sunset's weary smile Has faded; night is falling deep: And we will rest a little while And talk together ere we sleep. IV. It may be that in future years, When life serenely yields its best Of steadfast joy and fleeting tears, And, blessing, you move on, thrice blest,- Amid glad tasks of love and home, And fond caresses every day, A softened thought of me shaH come And fly to reach me when you pray; Then I shall tremble where I sit Unhelped through those gray years to be, As, like a benediction, it Shall flood in sweetness over me. 100 '- , THE RETURN Last night, within our little town The Dead came marching through; In a long line, like living men, Just as they used to do. Only, so long a line it seemed You'd think the Judgment Day Had dawned, to see them slo,vly pass, With faces turned one way. They walked no longer foe and foe But brother bound to brother ; Poor men, common men they walked Friendly to one another. Just as in life they might have done Who stabbed and slew instead . So quietly and evenly they walked These million gentle dead. 1fargaret Sackville 101 Margaret Sackville T O 1. 1 Was it for you the aching past alone Lived, that on you might fan the shadow of it ? For you, for you kings climbed a ravished throne, And all these menacing, quenched fires were lit. Wars that have left no more than a grey trace, Where are they? Scattered foam, blown dust-ah, me ! How have they found their way into your face? The new day is not yours, you only see A battle raging in a desert place, And blood-stained warriors seeking Sanctuary. 2 I cannot love you in the street; I met You in the street once and turned my head away, But I will meet you where the red sunset With forlorn fire flashes the leaping spray. We are too old, too old for all this noise, No wine of such new vintage shall control Us who have known, what passionate joys Once in some far, dark City of the Soul. We are kings still and have, as kings, the choice To spurn the proffered half and claim the whole. 3 Let us find out a new way; for it is plain That all these old, worn, trodden roads suffice Only those who will return again Seeking shelter in their homes from Paradise. Oh! let us find some solitary, green Forgotten garden, where the sunrays fall 102 All blind and blurred and indistinct between Cypresses lofty as earth's boundary wall ; Beneath whose shade shall glimmer forth half seen Your face through the soft darkness when I call. II. 1 If one, with visionary pen, should write The love which might be ours, how would he can These strange, perplexing fires veiled servants light Do\vn the dark vistas of our empty hall? That love \vhich might be ours, ho\v \vou1d he name That love? No bitter leaving of the brine, No white or fading blossom t\\Tined like flame Round any bro\v, Christian or Erycine, Not all those loves blown to a windy fame Shall find their counterpart in yours and mine. 2 Not Tristram, not Isolde, wild shades which dip Their pinions like blown gulls in a waste sea, Nor those mute lovers, who still, lip on lip, Float on for ever, though they have ceased to be, Not any of those who loved once ;-far apart We wander; the years have made us weak, we fail To rush together with a single heart, And we shall meet at last, only as pale Autumnal mists no sun's shaft cleaves apart When all the winds are still and no ships sail. Margaret Sackville 1 0 3 Margaret Sack ville III. t Yet we shall meet -it maybe ,ve shall meet And count our days up-gathered, one by one, Like poppies plucked among the burnished "vheat, Beneath the red gaze of the August sun; And all our scatterei dreams shall flutter home At last. Oh! silent, age-long wandering What since your setting forth have ye become ? What gift from those far waters do ye bring ?- A sþlash of rain, salt taste of frozen foam, Green sea-weed trailing from a broken wing. t) .L. Or we shall find each other -on the brink Of sleep some day, when the cool evening airs Bluw bubbles round the pool \vhere wood-birds drink; Or in the common Inn of wayfarers: Both weary, both beside the ,vide fireplace Drowsing, till at some sudden spark up-blown Shall each a wake to find there face to face You and I very tired and alone ; And lo! your welcome from my eyes shall gaze And in your eyes there shall I find my own. 3 I will pursue thee down these solitudes Therefore, and thou shalt yet escape me not. I will set traps for thee of subtle moods And wound thee with the arrows of my thought. In thickest forest "va ys though thou lie hid, 10 4 Or in some autumn vale of Brocelinde, Or in whatever place of magic for bid, I will pierce through the \voven branches like a wind, And drag thee from thy hiding-place amid The secret laughter of the fairy-kind. 4 Oh, triumph still delaying! I must pass Lonely a long time yet, for I know well No fugitive fair dream that ever was Left anywhere traces where her footprints fell. I, lonely hunter in the woods of sleep, The hunt is up-away! I ride, I ride On a white steed, where black-boughed fir-trees keep Watch and the kindly world is shut outside. I am afraid, the haunted woods are deep I I am afraid-afraid! Where dost thou hide? . , . . ... . .. .... '. :. . Margaret Sackville \Villiam Kean Seymour FRUITAGE For her the proud stars bend, he ees, As never yet, dim sorceries Breaking in silver magic ,vide On the blue midnight's s\\Tirling tide, With arrowy mist and spearing flame That out of central beauty came. The innumerate splendours of the skies Are thronging in her shining eyes; Her body is a fount of light In the plumed garden of the night ; Her lily breasts have kno\vn the bliss Of the cool air's unfaltering kiss. She is made one \vith loveliness, Enfranchised from the \vorld's distress. Given utterly to joy, a bride With a bride's hunger satisfied. Now, though she heavily walk, and know The sharp premonitory throe And the life lea ping in the gloom Of her most blessed and chosen \vomb, I t is as though foot never was So light upon the glimmering grass. She is shot through with the stars' light, Helped by their calm, unwavering might. In tall, lone-swaying gravity Stoops to her there the eternal tree "'nose myriad fruitage ripens on Beneath the light of moon and sun. 106 IN THE WOOD Lone shadows move, The night air stirs ; This hour of dying Dreams was hers. In this dusk place Her throat gleamed white In glimmering beauty Of starlight. Nightingales sang Exultant bliss; The snared stars saw us Sway, and kiss. Now the bats whirr, The barn owls hoot, Her loveliness Is dust, is mute. Peace comes not here, No dream-bird trills: They haunt her lodging In the hills. 10 7 William Rean Seymour William Kean Seymour SIESTA Bring me some oranges on blue china, With a jade-and-silver spoon, And drowse on your silken mats beside me In the burning noon. Bring me red wine in cups of crystal, With melons on chrysoprase, And place them softly with jewelled fingers Before my gaze. Hasten, my dove of scented whisperings, My lily, my Xacán t Bring bubbling pipes for the cool shadows, And my peacock fan. And bid Isárrib, my chief musician, Weave quiet songs within, That my soul in the circles of a great glamour Ma y float and spin. And 0, you gaudy and whistling parrots In your high, flowered maze, Still your harsh, petulant quarrelling With the mocking jays. 108 TO ONE WHO EATS LARKS Ah, my brave Vitellius ! Ah, your tastes are marvellous! When you eat your singing birds Do you leave the bones-and words, The proud music in the throat? . . . . Not a note, not a note? Doubtless they were not so pleasant As the brains of a young pheasant, Or flamingoes' tongues, whose duty Never was to utter beauty. But they sang, but they fluted And your rasping lies confuted, And your ugliness laid bare With a lyric in the air. So you bought them on a string, Dangling balls that used to sing, And you gave them to the cook With a fat and happy look. But you ask me why this fuss ! Ah, my brave Vitelli us, I am never sure your stringers May not string you other singers, May not tire of lark and wren And attempt to sell you men. Please forgive me, but I've made Certain songs. . . . and I'm afraid I \Villiam Rean Seymour log William Kean Seymour IF BEAUTY CA lE TO YOU If Beauty came to you, Ah, would you know her grace, And could you in your shadowed prison View Unscathed her face? Stepping as noiselessly As moving moth-wings, so Might she come suddenly to you or me And we not know. Amid these clangs and cries, Alas, how should we hear The shy, dim-woven music of her sighs As she draws near, Threading through monstrous, black, Uncharitable hours, Where tbe soul sbapes its own abhorrèd rack Of wa ted powers ? 110 PRISON I. The dreadful days go up and up, to fall Through twilight to the sleepless dusk again, Like tortured flies upon a window pane. Wingless or broken-winged, They crawl and craw] . . . . Meaningless, striving-nowhere after all, Till one is tired of heeding. Tired. A stain of drab unloveliness the days remain Unmoving now, save that across the wall, A patch of sun behind a shadow of bars, Creeps in a stupor, Greys , Grins bloodily, Falters and dies. Outside a day may slip From noon-glow to a miracle of stars With hours that flush and flood eternity ; Whilst here The stagnant waters drip . . . . and drip. II. They tell me I have sinned; that long ago <\tVeeks-or a cycle of eternity) This thing of dead desire lived lustily, Was stirred with passion, and sinned. I t may be so ; As seas or hills may be. I only know God's world has shrunken, Horace Shipp III Horace Shipp And that misery, Shrinking my heart, has closed her walls on me, Till in the dead, still soul the senses grow Carious as the ulcer of thought eats deep. Heavy, the slow lusts pace the barren mind From end to end. Barred door and window, Wall inexorable. And the horrors creep on padded feet like warders. Then the blind, pitiful night When hot tears scald and fall. III. Grey day-break and the silence of the cell : The dull, numb pain of walång, Stillness . . . Fear clutching oblivion; And then to hear The brazen, blasphemous tolling of tbe bell, A crash of doors, Loud-clanging tins, The swell of brutal voices nearer and more near, Bursts at the last about you. Clangour. Queer delight of movement. Then . . . the door shuts. Hell darkens about you with the turning key, The silence bums and sears you like a flame; It battens as the worm that never dies ; Crawls back from distant noises; palpably Lurks through the rhythm of the feet of shame, Watching and watching out of hooded eyes. 112 THE SIXTH DAY II And God said' Let us make man in our image and let hi1n have dominion' . . . . JJ God made you in His image, yet I saw You stoop and seize a blind mole from the snare. Blind. Blind with terror . . . Blind Your teeth gleamed bare behind the taut, white ]ips. The trapper's law knows neither hate nor love. You watched it paw, Frantic with lust of life, the yielding air And were amused. God's Image! Did you care, pitying one moment, see the swift hands claw For life and darkness, know and hate your trap? I saw your knuckles gleam, your hand swing free; A cry ; The blind face crashed against the wall. Then death and stillness and- You grinned. fa yha p, Snaring the blind mole of humanity, God made you in His image after all. Horace Shipp 113 Edith Si twell EVENT AIL Lovely Semiramis Closes her slanting eyes: Dead is she long ago, From her fan sliding slow Parrot-bright fire's feathers Gilded as June weathers, Plumes like the greenest grass Twinkle down; as they pass Through the green glooms in Hell, Fruits with a tuneful smell- Gra pes like an emerald rain Where the full moon has lain, Greengages bright as grass, l\ielons as cold as glass Piled on each gilded booth Feel their cheeks growing smooth ; Apes in plumed head-dresses \\'hence the bright heat hisses, Nubian faces sly, Pursing mouth, slanting eye, Feel the Arabian Winds floating from that fan: See how each gilded face Paler grows, nods a pace : It Oh, the fan's blowing Cld O d I . 0 I" o Win s . . .. t IS snowing . 114 THE LADY WITH THE SEWING-l\:IACHINE Across the fields as green as spinach, Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich, Stands a high house; if at all, Spring comes like a Paisley shawl- Patternings meticulous And youthfully ridiculous. In each room the yellow sun Shakes like a canary, run On run, roulade, and watery trill- Yellow, meaningless. and shrill. Face as white as any clock's, Cased in parsley-dark curled locks- All day long you sit and sew, Stitch life down for fear it grow, Stitch life down for fear we guess At the hidden ugliness. Dusty voice that throbs with heat, Hoping with your steel-thin beat To put stitches in my mind, Make it tidy, make it kind, You shall not: I'll keep it free Though you turn earth, sky and sea To a patchwork quilt to keep Your mind nug and warm in sleep I Edith Sitwell 115 Edith Sitwell PORTRAIT OF A BARMAID Metallic waves of people jar Through crackling green toward the bar Where on the tables chattering-white The sharp drinks quarrel with the light. Those coloured muslin blinds the smiles, Shroud "vooden faces in their wiles- Sometimes they splash like water (you Yourself reflected in their hue). The conversation loud and bright Seems spinal bars of shunting light In firework-spurting greenery. o complicate machinery For building Babel, iron crane Beneath your hair, that blue-ribbed mane In noise and murder like the sea Without its mutability! Outside the bar where j angling heat Seems out of tune and off the beat- A concertina's glycerine Exudes, and mirrors in the green Your soul: pure glucose edged with hints Of tentative and half-soiled tints. 116 SOLO FOR EAR-TRUMPET The carriage brushes through the bright Leaves (violent jets from life to light) ; Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves Between the showers of bright hot leaves The window-glasses glaze our faces And jar them to the very basis- But they could never put a polish Upon my manners or abolish My most distinct disinclination For calling on a rich relation! In her house-(bulwark built between The life man lives and visions seen)- The sunlight hiccups white as chalk, Grown drunk with emptiness of talk, And silence hisses like a snake- Invertebrate and rattling ache . .. .. .. Then suddenly Eternity Drowns all the houses like a sea And down the street the Trump of Doom. Blares madly-shakes the drawing-room Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn As dank dark nettles. DO'wn the horn Of her ear-trumpet I convey The news that " It is Judgment Day! " " Speak louder: I don't catch, my dear." I roared: " It is the Trumþ we hear! " (( The What?" "THE TRUMP!" "I shall complain! .. . . .. the boy-scouts practising again." Edith Sitwell 117 rYI urie] Stuart THE FATHER The evening found us whom the day had fled, Once more in bitter anger, you and I, Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing Our anger would not decently let die, But dragged between us, shamed and shivering Until each other's taunts we scarcely heard, Until we lost the sense of all we said, And knew not who first spoke the fatal word. I t seemed that even every kiss we wrung We killed at birth with shuddering and hate, As if we feared a thing too passionate. However close we clung One hour the next hour found us separate, Estranged, and Love most bitter on our tongue. To-night we quarrelled over one small head, Our fruit of last year's maying, the white bud Blown from our stormy kisses and the dead First rapture of our wild, estranging blood. You clutched him: there was panther in your eyes, We breathed like beasts in thickets, on the wall Our shadows in huge challenge seemed to rise, The room grew dark with anger. Yet through all The shame and hurt and pity of it you were Still strangely and imperishably dear, As one who loves the wild day none the less That breaks in bitter hands the buds of Spring, Whose cold hand stops the breath of loveliness, And drives the wailing ghost of beauty past, Making the rose,-even the rose, a thing For pain to be remembered by at last. 118 I said: II My son shall wear his father's sword." You said: "Shall hands once blossoms at my breast Be stained with blood ?" I ans\vered ,vith a word Iore bitter, and your own, the bitterest Stung me to sullen anger, and I said : " My son shall be no coward of his line Because his mother choose"; you turned your head And your eyes grew implacable in mine. And like a trodden snake you turned to meet The foe \vith sudden hissing . . . . then you smiled, And broke our Hfe in pieces at my feet, II Your child ? " you said: II Your child ? II 1\1 uriel Stuart 119 Muriel Stuart THE SHORE The low bay melts into a ring of silver, And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble. Forsaking her because the moon persuades him. But the black wood that leans and sighs above her No tide can turn. no moon can slave nor summon. Then comes the dark: on sleepy, shell-strewn beaches, 0' er long pale leagues of sand and cold, clear water She hears the tide go out towards the moonlight. The wood still leans . . . . weeping she turns to seek him. And his black hair all night is on her bosom. 120 THELUS WOOD I came by night to Thèlus wood, And though in dark and desperate places Stubborned \yith wire and brown \vith blood Undaunted April crept and sewed Her violets in dead men's faces, And in a soft and sno\vy shroud Dre\v the scarred fields \vith gentle stitch ; Though in the valley where the ditch Was hoarse with nettles, blind \vith mud. She stroked the golden-headed bud, And loosed the fern, she dared not here To touch nor tend this murdered thing; The wind went wide of it, the year Upon this breast stopped short of Spring : Beauty turned back from Thèlus Wood. From broken brows the dim eyes stared, Blistered and maimed the \vide stumps grinned From the black mouth of Thèlus bared In laughter at some monstrous jest. No creature moved there, ,veed nor wind. Huge arms, half-torn from savage breast, Hung wide, and tangled limbs and faces Lay, as if giants blind and stark With violent, with perverse embraces Groped for each other in the dark. A moaning rose-not of the ,vind, -There was no wind, but hollo\vly From its dim bed of mud each tree Ga ve forth a sound, till trees and mud Seemed but a single, sighing mouth, A wound that spoke with lips uncouth, And cried to me from Thèlus Wood. Iuriel St uart 121 )1 uriel Stuart I heard one tree say: II This was I Who drew great clouds across the sky To weep against me." This one said: II I made a gloom where love might lie All day and dream it night, a bed Secret and soft, the birds' song had A twilight sound the whole day there." One said: II Last night I shook my hair Before the mirror of the moon." II I saw a corpse to-day," said one II That was but buried yester-year." And one, the smallest, sweetest thing- A fair child-tree made never stir. Dead before God had tended her In the green nurseries of Spring. She lay, the loveliest, loneliest, Among the old and ruined trees, And at each small and broken wrist The white flowers grew like bandages. Then from the ruined churchyard where Old vaults and graves lay turned and tossed And earth from earth was shaken bare. Came murmurings of a tongueless host That to each ghastly brother said: II Who raised us from our sleep? Is this The resurrection of the dead? Upon our bodies no flesh grows, No bright blood through our temples springs, No glory spreads, no trumpet blows. The air is not white and blind with wings. And yet dragged up before us lie The woods of Thèlus at our feet. And strange hills sentinel the sky, 122 And where the road went yawns a pIt. The world is finished: let us sleep. God has forgotten: we shall keep Here a sweet, safe Eternity. There is no other end than this, And this is death, and that is peace." But even as they ceased the stone Were loosed, the earth shook where I stood, And from far off the crouching guns Swung slowly round on Thèlus \Vood. 12 3 Muriel Stuart Muriel Stuart THE THIEF OF BEAUTY The mind is Beauty's thief, the poet takes The golden spendthrift's trail among the blooms \Vhere she stands tossing silver in the lakes, And twisting bright swift threads on airy looms. Her ring the poppy snatches. and the rose With laughter plunders all her gusty plumes. The poet gleans and gathers as she goes Heedless of summer's end certain and soon, Of winter rattling at the door of June. II. When Beauty lies hand-folded, pale and still, Forsaken of her lovers and her lords, And winter keeps cold \vatch upon the hill, Then he lets fall his bale of coloured words. At frosty midnight June shall rise in flame, Move at his magic with her bells and birds, The rose will redden as he speaks her name. He shall release earth's frozen bosom there, And with great words shall cuff the whining air. !24 THE HIGH WALL I will build up a wall for Freedom to dwell therein, A high wall with towers And steel fangs for a gate. For Freedom that lacks a home falleth by pit and gin, A prey to the alien powers That lie in wait. I \viTI build up a house for her where the ,vays divide, A house set on a hill, With a lamp in the topmost tower, And a trumpet calling to arms, and a flag like a flame blown wide, And a sword to save and to kill As her bridal dower. I will take her to wife, she that is life an. death; Life-for a trumpet calls ; Death-for it calls me still. And I shall know love-a star, and a fluttering breath Till the shadow of silence falls In the house on the hill. I will build up a house for her where the ways divide, Four-square on the rock. A high house and a great; So, when I fly, spent, back from a broken ride, Her key shall cry in the lock. She shall stand in the gate. She shall stand in the gate-the prize of the world to win, Stand steel-shod, Crowned with a cloud of flowers. I will build up a \vall, a wall, for Freedom to dwell therein In the name of the most high God, A wall with to\vers. W. R. Titterton 12 5 w. R. Titterton THE BROKEN SWORD Soldier, soldier, burnishing your sword, Is there no place for a wayfaring man in the courts of your lord ? A couch, and a crust, and a song, and a flagon of wine? Haggard, begrimed though I be, and out at heel, A lean, grey hop-and-go-one with a crutch of steel, Brother-at-arms with death? Behold the sign: I have tasted great weather on high, white, green-tur- reted cliffs by the sea. I have tramped the tough heather, the purple, the brown, By pools of peat water; from the night to the day, Till the moon has dropped down: the ghost of a minim, low down, In a high-piping treble of grey. In shy, dim recesses, mid tresses, green tresses. Slow dipping, caressing, I've heard A whisper, a chuckle of laughter, a scamper; and high, High up in the air the cry, the call of a bird. And when the night came with a flicker of wings I have heard the earth breathing quiet and slow Like a pulse in the tiny, wild tumult of things. I have sung to the sun, and the moon and the stars, In valleys uncharted of tumbled sea meadows I have shouted aloud 'neath a sky whipped to smoke in the fret of my spars And I fought as I fared; and my couch was a camp ; and my songs were my scars. Soldier! Soldier! Cosetting your sword ! Have you no place for a harper-at-arms in the courts of your lord- 126 Prim fountains, clipped trees, and trim gardens, and music, and rest ? Nay, keep your sugared delights and your margents embroidered! l\1y life is the best. In my ears is the sound of a bugle blown, and my pulses like kettle-drums beat For the hungry blind onset, the rally, the stubborn defeat. I, too, could have polished, and polished, and jeered at the wayfaring man who passed by. But I follo\v the fighting Apollo. And I stand unashamed; and I raise up my shard of a sword; and I cry t he old cry. Please God they shall find but a hilt in mv hand when I die! 12 7 W. R. Titterton w. R. Titterton NIGHT-SHAPES Dark hurrying shapes beset my path that night- Pushing and buffeting; and in my brain Dark hurrying shapes beset my soul. In vain I struggled; as a fevered dreamer might ; Or some spent, breathless swimmer, in despite Of desperate stroke, thrust headlong to the main. The waking nightmare, monstrous and inane, Whirled, rushed, and huddled in its random flight. Like a spent s\vimmer, battling with a swoon, Silent I fought, yet seemed to cry aloud. \\Then, at the challenge of a marching tune, Heard in a sudden stillness of the crowd, I looked aloft, and saw the great round moon Steadfast behind her ragged rout of cloud. THE SILENT PEOPLE The Silent People of No Man's Land Calm they lie, With a stare and vacant smile At the vacant sky. Over them swept the battle, And stirred them not. Armies passed over, beyond them. They are forgot. Ca1ml y the earth deals \vith them, l\Ielts them away. Nothing is left of them now but bones, Bones and clay. Bones of the VaHey of Judgment, Bones stripped clean. \Ve fought, day in, day out, and the others, With this between. Dawn comes white and finds them Star k and cold. T\vilight creeps over and covers them, Fold on fold. Night cannot hide them from us. In the dark, again, We see the Silent People \Vho once were men. The Silent People of No Man'c; Land, They rise, they rise, \Vith the glory of utter loss In th ir stary eyes. Beckoning, beckoning, calling, Pointing the way. But the da\vn comes white, and finds them Bones and clay. VV. R. Titterton 129 'Iv". R. Titterton \Yinds of the world blo\v o'er them Your serenade ! Touch like a lute the broken earth \Vhere our dead are laid! Broken bones of the martyrs, Reliques of pain, Anoint them, anoint them with sunlight, Robe them in rain. The Silent People of No Man's Land Calm they lie, · Bones, broken and bleached, Under the sky. Over them sweeps the tempest, And stirs them not. We pass over, beyond them, They are forgot. 13 0 LAMPS AND LANTERNS When I had sight, great glamour was In myriad lamps of coloured glass : Old lamps for new I never sold : For old were new, and new were o1d. And Chinese lanterns, paper globes, \Vere Dragon Gods in tissue robes That stood on air with squat round shoon, Beneath the thin, receded l\foon. E. H. Visiak 13 1 E. H. Visiak STRANDED Dusk gathers. On the seaward hedge The wild hops, hanging bright, Gleamas a foa1n-sþray flung on ,(.,-edge Fr01n a sea of golden light. A ship lies heavy on the sands Above the warped, "Tan tide, Whose \va ves thrust ineffectual hands Beneath its murmuring side. They cannot lift the monstrous hulk, Nor break the ghostly spell ; The ship lies dreaming, all her bulk Racked on a shoal of hell. I hear the sullen timbers creak, \Vith echoings deep and numb; No other sound: nor groan nor shriek ; For agony is dumb t But at the seams, in every crack, A beaded sweat appears: The soul that's stretched on such a rack Can shed no other tears ! 13 2 RUBBLE We may fill the daytime with friendship And laughter and song; But however the laughter may trip And the words break in song On a loved one's lip; And however gaily the road may bend Into the sky, It must come to this in the end, That we stand And watch the last friend Turn with a half-felt sigh And a wave of the hand; And silence is over the day, Shadows faU, And our happine.c;s crumbles away Like a wall That nobody cares for, That falls stone by stone Till its grandeur is rubble once more, And we are alone. Alec Waugh 133 Charles \Vil1iams CHRISTMAS Worrl through the world went On Christmas morn,- I Tiding;;! behold, a Townsman is born! ' Then in their council Smiled the high lorrls : r Sword for world-conquest I Mid a world's swords. Need shall our armies Ha ve of each birth, In that last battle Wins us the earth.' Still were the priesthood, Singing the Mass: I Lo, is our creed come Truly to pass? Blesséd and broken Crumbs that we give, Say! say, 0 chalice, Can a creed live r Then to lord Shakespeare, Brooding alone, While in a vision Lear was shown, While his just loathing Hung over men, 1..0, from the darkness Came Imogen. 134 Then said a free maid, Heart against mine,- I Take me, lord governor, Who am all thine! Thou that hast blessed me With a new light, Ah, is thy handmaid Fair in thy sight? ' Then said our Lady,- I Clean is the hut, Fined are the pl tters, And the door shut. Sit, 0 son Jesus! Sit thou, sweet friend ! Poor folk have supper And their woes end.' I Now,' said our Father, I All things are won : Welcome, 0 Saviour ! Welcome, 0 Son! More than creation Lives now again, God hath borne Godhead Nowise in vain.' Word went through Sarras On Easter morn,- I Tidings! behold a Townsman is born! ' Char les \"il1iams 135 Charles Williams BRISEIS The footfalls of the parting Myrmidons And counter-cries of leaguer and of town Are hushed behind her as the silks drop down; Alone she stands, and \vonderingly cons Heads circleted with gold or helmed with bronze ; Higher her eyes from crown to loftier cro\vn Creep, till they faU, nigh-blasted, at the fro\vn Of Argos, throned in his pavilions And mid his captains \vrathfully aware How the plague smites the host, how by the sea Beyond the ships, with vengeful prayer and oath, Rages the young Achilles, of whose wrath Innocent, ignorant, a captive, she Sees but the dropped staff on the voided chair. ,I..- !.-. . \:  .. . Printed at The Morland Press Ltd. 190 Ebury Street S. W.1 ,--