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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/33774-8.txt b/33774-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..40fd7b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/33774-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1048 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mice & Other Poems, by Gerald Bullett + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mice & Other Poems + +Author: Gerald Bullett + +Release Date: September 20, 2010 [EBook #33774] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICE & OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + MICE & OTHER POEMS + + by Gerald Bullett + + _With a General Note by + Sir Arthur Quiller Couch_ + + ONE FLORIN 1921 + + + + +MICE AND OTHER POEMS + + + PRINTED IN CAMBRIDGE + AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS + AND SOLD IN LONDON BY + SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, + HAMILTON, KENT & Co + + FIRST IMPRESSION JANUARY 1921 + + + + + MICE + & OTHER POEMS + by Gerald Bullett + + Perkin Warbeck + 9 Market Hill + Cambridge + + + + + _Uniform with this volume_ + + HOME-MADE VERSES + BY D. B. HASELER AND + R. H. D'ELBOUX + + LAUGHING GAS AND + OTHER POEMS + BY MARGUERITE FEW + + + GERALD BULLETT + IS THE AUTHOR OF + THE PROGRESS OF KAY + + PUBLISHED BY + CONSTABLE & CO. LONDON + + + + +NOTE + + +If the mental attitude of any critic has ever, in his approach to a +first book of verse, been conciliated by an appreciative notice from +some older pen, I should say (speaking out of no little experience) that +either the author was dead and the fact advertised in the preface, or, +alternatively, that the critic was possessed by a gentler spirit than +mine. I am sure at any rate that artistic work, great or small, should +be sternly judged on what it is rather than on what it promises. The +late J. Comyns Carr, in the days when he wrote dramatic criticism, let +loose this restive truth in a couple of short sentences--'We are told +that So-and-so is a promising young actor. Personally I don't care how +much he promises so long as he never again performs.' + +Let me, then, pass over Mr Gerald Bullett's verses with the simple +remark that I believe in them (he himself calls them 'MICE'--no +overweening title, however boldly printed. Yet mice were dear to Apollo +Smintheus, and his proper emblem): and let me come to the general +purpose of this Note. + +It is meant to preface a series of small volumes of verse by young +writers, mostly Cambridge men. That, since the War, young men in +extraordinary numbers have taken to expressing themselves in verse is a +plain fact, not to be denied: that they choose, as often as not, to +express themselves in 'numbers' extraordinary to us can as hardly be +contested. But the point is, they have a crowding impulse to say +something; and to say it with the emotional seriousness proper to +Poetry. For my part, I love the discipline of verse: but I love the +impulse better. Time will soften--I hope not too soon, lest it sugar +down and sentimentalise--a certain bitterness of resentment observable +in this booklet and its next followers: but, as nothing in verse is +nobler than true tradition, anything is more hopeful than convention. + +So these booklets have been planned to give youth its chance to make +spoons or spoil horns. If anyone object that the print and page +over-dignify the content of any one volume in the proposed series, why, +that must be a particular criticism, which cannot honestly (I think) be +enlarged to blame the publisher's wish, and the care he has taken, that +what pretends, however modestly, to be a work of the Muse, should step +forth to the public in honourable dress. + + ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Mice 9 + + Rest 10 + + 'The Strength, the Mellow Music, + and the Laughter' 11 + + Ashes 12 + + 'Du bist wie eine Blume' 13 + + Home 14 + + 'Maître de Ballet' 15 + + The Grudge 16 + + Wedding Day 17 + + Crucifixion 18 + + Spring in Winter 19 + + The Exile 20 + + Sonnet for Helen 21 + + Song 22 + + Musings 23 + + The Poet 24 + + 'If all the trees were magic trees' 26 + + 'Alone with these my poems...' 28 + + + + +_'The Exile' is reprinted by courtesy of the Proprietors of Punch_ + + + + +Mice + + + I see the broken bodies of women and men, + Temples of God ruined; I see the claws + Of sinister Fate, from the reach of whose feline paws + Never are safe the bodies of women and men. + + Almighty Cat, it sits on the Throne of the World, + With paw outstretched, grinning at us, the mice, + Who play our trivial games of virtue and vice, + And pray--to That which sits on the Throne of the World! + + From our beginning till all is over and done, + Unwitting who watches, pursuing our personal ends, + Hither and thither we scamper....The paw descends; + The paw descends and all is over and done. + + + + +Rest + + + Here is tranquillity and silvan shade; + For now, emerging from that waste of sand + Which was my life, I reach a fruitful glade, + A pool of water in a thirsty land. + + Your gentle soul a well of beauty is, + And crystal clear the sunlit deeps thereof; + And from that fountain of unmeasured bliss + I draw the living water of your love. + + Here is the goal of all my wandering, + Here is oblivion of my bitterness, + And here the temple where my heart shall sing + Your eyes that light me and your lips that bless. + + + + +_The strength, the mellow music, and the laughter_ + + + The steadfast beauty of her eyes is balm, + And in her touch there's healing for my hurt; + She is unshaken as a vessel girt + Mid waters of unutterable calm. + + The years grow fragrant with her fragrance: they, + Sipping her sweetness, leave her yet more sweet. + Laden with divers colours, at her feet + They shed their motley silks and go their way + + Like withered dreams. So youth must follow after, + Youth that is brief and beauty that is grass; + But from her gentle soul shall never pass + The strength, the mellow music, and the laughter. + + + + +Ashes + + + Bury the ashes. The life, the gleam + Of love is gone: we have killed with kisses + The fragile soul of rapture: this is + Only the hollow husk of a dream, + The bitter waking, the end thereof. + Come, bury the ashes of love. + + The music falters; the flame is spent; + The vision is gone, the splendour faded, + Leaving only a pitiful jaded + Half-desire, and a discontent. + The end of love is a weary kiss-- + Surely hate were better than this! + + + + +_Du bist wie eine Blume_ + + + So like a flower, so gentle, + So fair, so pure thou art, + That musing on thy beauty + Brings sadness to my heart. + + I lay my hands, in spirit, + Upon thy gleaming hair, + Praying that God may keep thee + So sweet, so pure, so fair. + + _From the German of Heine_ + + + + +Home + + + Five weary days...and I shall creep + Into the shadow of her hair + And of her loveliness drink deep + + And lose my desolation there, + Feeling her cool lips quench my own. + Lying so still, we shall not dare + + To let one murmur like a stone + Into the pool of silence fall. + All senses will be fused in one: + + Peace will surround us with a wall + Of visible music, moments go + Melodiously by, and all + + The stillness brim with beauty; so + Our hearts will whisper, throbbing fast: + 'Must time undeviating flow + And bear this fragile moment past?' + + + + +_Maître de Ballet_ + + + On a gossamer thread + Of light that stretches + From dark to dark + Over the void + We giddily jig + To the mad music + The Master makes. + + From the Green Room + He calls us forth, + Sensitive puppets, + Live automata, + And with a gesture + Sets us jerkily + Dancing the tightrope. + + From a seat in the stalls + Of the cosmic theatre + Silently + He watches our antics. + + When we call to him + 'Master, Master! + Help, we are falling!' + Out of the darkness + Comes no word + ....Only a chuckle. + + + + +The Grudge + + + _We grudged not those that were dearer than all we possessed, + Lovers, brothers, sons. + Our hearts were full, and out of a full heart + We gave our beloved ones._ (Laurence Binyon) + + + We are of baser quality: we have been + Tried by fire and judged a spurious gold. + We are little of soul; and yet in our pigmy way + We have suffered and loved with a love that cannot be told. + + Being less than you, we did not eagerly quaff + The cup of gall: we prayed that it might pass. + We are not gods: we are pitiful human stuff; + And the blood of our passion has stained Gethsemane's grass. + + We were not blind to the vision. We heard the call + And followed, or watched our belovèd steadfastly go. + But our grief is naked, and shivers, and will not be soothed + By splendid phrases, or clothed in a moral glow. + + We cannot say for our comfort: 'Losing them, + We gain a glimpse of noble terrible heights, + A cleansing exquisite pain, a sacred grief, + A dream to cherish'--we think of the vanished lights; + + We think of the fine nerves shattered, the warm blood chilled, + The laughter silenced, the zest and the beauty gone, + The desolation of wasted wonderful dreams + That will never be lived, of work that cannot be done. + + + + +Wedding Day + + + Was it for this we loved: to settle down + (Having once paid the necessary fee) + In some nice suburb not too far from town, + To eat and sleep and kiss complacently, + Loving by rote as decent people do: + Was it for this we hungered, I and you? + + A lover's vows are gossamer, they say; + But we have registered our mutual vow + For seven and sixpence, dearest. Yesterday + There was but love to bind our hearts, but now + We owe it to the Vicar to be good + And love each other as we said we would. + + That promise at the altar is a link + (Which only death can break) between us two; + For every time I kiss you I shall think: + 'How this would please the Vicar if he knew!' + And we shall put our youthful dreams to bed, + And so live on--long after we are dead. + + We are made one. One mind will serve us both. + ('Oh yes, we think Locke's novels rather sweet!') + In ever-living witness of our troth + You'll serve the vegetables, I the meat... + O happiness! It is our wedding day! + Embrace me, dear: the Prayer Book says you may. + + + + +Crucifixion + + + We wage eternal war on the losing side; + Ever defeated we by the sinister foe + That only pathetic piety seeks to hide + In a theological costume of long ago. + + The goal we seek to attain will never be ours: + All our hopes will end in ashes and dust; + All our dreams will be dead desolate flowers, + Plucked by the pitiless Hand we were taught to trust. + + Doomed to eternal defeat in the endless strife, + Scornful of Chance the Almighty, we worship with pride + The divine, frail, terrible Beauty of Life + On the Cross of Fate incessantly crucified. + + + + +Spring in Winter + + + My memories of you are singing birds + In the green forest of my mind, where I + May roam, recapturing your whispered words, + Or on a bank of glowing bluebells lie, + Listening for ever. Spring is come again + In all her glory; the erst withered trees + That creaked, like living skeletons in pain, + Defying the wind, have donned green garments: these + New shoots, these blossoms and these buds, the springing + Grass, and the sky where many colours blend, + My songsters by the magic of their singing + Have in a moment made. My thoughts of you + Are music which to all my spirit's rue + Is the ineffable answer and the end. + + + + +The Exile + + + Now I return to my own land and people, + Old familiar things so to recover, + Hedgerows and little lanes and meadows, + The friendliness of my own land and people. + + I have seen a world-frieze of glowing orange, + Palms painted black on the satin horizon, + Palm-trees in the dusk and the silence standing + Straight and still against a background of orange; + + A gorgeous magical pomp of light and colour, + A dream-world, a sparkling gem in the sunlight, + The minarets and domes of an Eastern city; + And in the midst of all the pomp of colour + + My heart cried out for my own land and people; + My heart cried out for the lush meadows of England, + The hedgerows and little lanes of England, + And for the faces of my own people. + + + + +Sonnet for Helen + + + When you're very old, when in the candlelight your hair + Silver shews--when by the fire you spinning sit and weaving, + You will croon my verses, but in wonder, scarce believing + 'Ronsard hymned my beauty in the days when I was fair.' + + Never servant could you have, tho' half-asleep she were, + But would rouse herself to listen to your lyric grieving, + Wake to hear my name and your glory, my achieving, + My immortal praise of your beauty past compare. + + I shall be beneath the earth, an unsubstantial shade; + Where the myrtles throw their shadow will my bones be laid. + You will be a squatting crony sighing by the fire, + + Sighing for the love you scorned, recalling it with sorrow. + Live, O live and love to-day; delay not till the morrow: + Gather now the roses of youth and desire. + + _From the French of Ronsard_ + + + + +Song + + + How did we dim that wistful dream, + That shy first love without caress, + That breathless wonder, that supreme + Vision of all love's loveliness? + + For surely had we parted then, + Kissed once with tears and said Good-bye, + We had been speaking truly when + We said our love could never die. + + Because we did a moment cling, + With trembling senses cling and kiss-- + Does it not seem a bitter thing + That bliss should die of too much bliss? + + Love is a fair and fragile flower + Which Youth must needs, poor foolish boy, + Pluck greedily....Within the hour + He weeps to see his withered joy. + + + + +Musings + + + Be calmer, O my Grief, be quieter: + The dusk you craved enfolds us; everywhere + The twilight veil of blue-grey gossamer + Falls, bringing peace to some, to others care. + + While thralls of Pleasure, that most merciless + Of tyrants, hasten to his board (although + His wine is gall, and his fruit, bitterness), + Come with me, O my Grief, and let us go + + Far from them. See the bygone years that throng + Heaven's balconies; see smiling Sorrow, strong + In fortitude, rise from the waters; see + + The dying sun, low sinking, disappear + Beyond the verge. The rustling mystery + Of night approaches--hear, beloved, hear. + + _From the French of Baudelaire_ + + + + +The Poet + + + Where the flowers are most tall, + Heedless of his mother's call, + Wooden sword in his hand + Tightly clasped, I see him stand. + + He is pondering with eyes + Full of four-year-old surmise + Two great hollyhocks that sway + This way, that way, + Till they almost touch his cheek. + Queer, solemn souls they seem, + Spell-bound, lost in dream, + Always just about to speak... + + Then he with thirsty eyes + Drinks the intoxicating skies. + Done with earth, he bestrides + The galloping white horses, rides + The blue valleys and the red hills + Of sunset, and his pocket fills + With golden apples. Days pass, + Long full days... + + The grass + Suddenly stirs, and he plunges + Into the perilous wood and lunges + Stoutly at the dragon's head + Till the fiery beast is dead... + + Now that dusk is fast falling + He'll obey his mother's calling. + Out of Fairyland with slow + Thoughtful steps he turns to go. + Yet there's just time to float + In the water-butt his boat + Made of cork and spent matches: + So, at the last he snatches + Great adventure from the dread + Unrelenting jaws of Bed. + Round the magic world rides he, + And lives a breathless Odyssey. + + + + +_If all the trees were magic trees_ + + + If all the trees were magic trees + And talked among themselves, + If kings could sleep in daffodils + And bishops danced on window-sills, + If all the valleys changed to hills + And all the tens to twelves, + The world would be nonsensical, + And we should all be elves. + + If every street in Camden Town + Were paved with precious stones, + If modest souls began to drape + Their table-legs in decent crape, + If every squirrel wore a cape + And had the name of Jones, + I'd weave a robe of beetles' eyes + And jellyfishes' bones. + + If kingcups blossomed in the sky + And fell like golden rain + In grey half-light shot through and through + With shafts of green and shafts of blue, + If pink and purple chickweed grew + On every window pane, + All truly tidy folk would deem + The universe insane. + + If we were sensible enough + To hear the bluebells ring, + Were sight so true and hearts so wise + That we could see with glowing eyes + Enchantment flaming from the skies + And joy in everything, + Then every girl a queen would be, + And every boy a king. + + + + +_Alone with these my poems..._ + + + Alone with these my poems, when night is still, + Earth seems but a speck of fluttering dust, + Moth-like, in a waste of eternity. + + Alone with these symbols of human thought, + All our measureless system of whirling worlds + Seems itself a symbol, a chance phrase + In a poem wrought by the hand of a brooding god, + Where we ourselves are less than commas and dots. + And had he smeared out with careless thumb + All life, from its first birth in the waters + To the ultimate dissolution of stars and suns, + He had made no more than an ill-timed caesura. + + Alone with these my poems, when night is still, + I am less than a speck of dust on the wing of a moth + Fluttering in a waste of eternity. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mice & Other Poems, by Gerald Bullett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICE & OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 33774-8.txt or 33774-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/7/33774/ + +Produced by Mark C. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mice & Other Poems + +Author: Gerald Bullett + +Release Date: September 20, 2010 [EBook #33774] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICE & OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div id="container"> + +<hr /> + +<h1><big>MICE</big><br /> +<small>& OTHER POEMS</small></h1> + +<hr class="hr3" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="395" alt="" title="" /> + + +<p class="center">MICE<br /> +& OTHER POEMS<br /> +by Gerald Bullett<br /> +<br /> +<i>With a General Note by<br /> +Sir Arthur Quiller Couch</i><br /> +<br /> +<span style="float: left;">ONE FLORIN</span> +<span style="float: right;">1921</span></p> +</div> + + +<hr /> + +<h2>MICE AND OTHER POEMS</h2> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 120px;"> +<img src="images/logo.jpg" width="120" height="116" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr class="hr3" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 18em;"> +<p class="noi">PRINTED IN CAMBRIDGE +AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS +AND SOLD IN LONDON BY +SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, +HAMILTON, KENT & Co</p> +</div> + +<hr class="white" /> + +<p class="center">FIRST IMPRESSION JANUARY 1921</p> + + +<hr class="hr3" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="title1">MICE</span><br /> +<span class="title2">& OTHER POEMS</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class="author">by Gerald Bullett</span><br /> +<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> +<span class="pub">Perkin Warbeck<br /> +9 Market Hill<br /> +Cambridge</span></p> + + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"><i>Uniform with this volume</i><br /> +<br /> +HOME-MADE VERSES<br /> +<small><span class="smcap">By D. B. HASELER AND<br /> +R. H. D'ELBOUX</span></small><br /> +<br /> +LAUGHING GAS AND<br /> +OTHER POEMS<br /> +<small><span class="smcap">By MARGUERITE FEW</span></small></p> + +<hr class="white" /> + +<p class="center">GERALD BULLETT<br /> +<small>IS THE AUTHOR OF</small><br /> +THE PROGRESS OF KAY<br /> +<br /> +<small>PUBLISHED BY<br /> +CONSTABLE & CO. LONDON</small></p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2>NOTE</h2> + + +<p class="cap">IF the mental attitude of any critic has ever, in his approach to a +first book of verse, been conciliated by an appreciative notice from +some older pen, I should say (speaking out of no little experience) that +either the author was dead and the fact advertised in the preface, or, +alternatively, that the critic was possessed by a gentler spirit than +mine. I am sure at any rate that artistic work, great or small, should +be sternly judged on what it is rather than on what it promises. The +late J. Comyns Carr, in the days when he wrote dramatic criticism, let +loose this restive truth in a couple of short sentences—'We are told +that So-and-so is a promising young actor. Personally I don't care how +much he promises so long as he never again performs.'</p> + +<p>Let me, then, pass over Mr Gerald Bullett's verses with the simple +remark that I believe in them (he himself calls them 'MICE'—no +overweening title, however boldly printed. Yet mice were dear to Apollo +Smintheus, and his proper emblem): and let me come to the general +purpose of this Note.</p> + +<p>It is meant to preface a series of small volumes of verse by young +writers, mostly Cambridge men. That, since the War, young men in +extraordinary numbers have taken to expressing themselves in verse is a +plain fact, not to be denied: that they choose, as often as not, to +express themselves in 'numbers' extraordinary to us can as hardly be +contested. But the point is, they have a crowding impulse to say +something; and to say it with the emotional seriousness proper to +Poetry. For my part, I love the discipline of verse: but I love the +impulse better. Time will soften—I hope not too soon, lest it sugar +down and sentimentalise—a certain bitterness of resentment observable +in this booklet and its next followers: but, as nothing in verse is +nobler than true tradition, anything is more hopeful than convention.</p> + +<p>So these booklets have been planned to give youth its chance to make +spoons or spoil horns. If anyone object that the print and page +over-dignify the content of any one volume in the proposed series, why, +that must be a particular criticism, which cannot honestly (I think) be +enlarged to blame the publisher's wish, and the care he has taken, that +what pretends, however modestly, to be a work of the Muse, should step +forth to the public in honourable dress.</p> + +<p class="right">ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH</p> + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><a name="contents" id="contents"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<table summary="Contents"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Mice</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#mice">9</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Rest</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#rest">10</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">'The Strength, the Mellow Music, +and the Laughter'</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#strength">11</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Ashes</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#ashes">12</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">'Du bist wie eine Blume'</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#du">13</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Home</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#home">14</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">'Maître de Ballet'</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#ballet">15</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Grudge</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#grudge">16</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Wedding Day</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#wedding">17</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Crucifixion</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#crucifixion">18</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Spring in Winter</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#spring">19</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Exile</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#exile">20</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Sonnet for Helen</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#sonnet">21</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Song</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#song">22</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Musings</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#musings">23</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">The Poet</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#poet">24</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">'If all the trees were magic trees'</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#trees">26</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="tdl">'Alone with these my poems...'</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#alone">28</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<hr class="white" /> + +<p class="center"><i>'The Exile' is reprinted by courtesy of the Proprietors of Punch</i></p> + +<hr /> + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +<a name="mice" id="mice"></a>Mice</h2> + +<div class="block34"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">I see</span> the broken bodies of women and men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Temples of God ruined; I see the claws<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of sinister Fate, from the reach of whose feline paws<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never are safe the bodies of women and men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Almighty Cat, it sits on the Throne of the World,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With paw outstretched, grinning at us, the mice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who play our trivial games of virtue and vice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pray—to That which sits on the Throne of the World!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From our beginning till all is over and done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unwitting who watches, pursuing our personal ends,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hither and thither we scamper....The paw descends;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The paw descends and all is over and done.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +<a name="rest" id="rest"></a>Rest</h2> + +<div class="block28"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Here</span> is tranquillity and silvan shade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For now, emerging from that waste of sand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which was my life, I reach a fruitful glade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pool of water in a thirsty land.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your gentle soul a well of beauty is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And crystal clear the sunlit deeps thereof;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from that fountain of unmeasured bliss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I draw the living water of your love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here is the goal of all my wandering,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here is oblivion of my bitterness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here the temple where my heart shall sing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your eyes that light me and your lips that bless.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<div class="block30"> +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +<a name="strength" id="strength"></a><i>The strength, the mellow music, +and the laughter</i></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> steadfast beauty of her eyes is balm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in her touch there's healing for my hurt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is unshaken as a vessel girt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mid waters of unutterable calm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The years grow fragrant with her fragrance: they,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sipping her sweetness, leave her yet more sweet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laden with divers colours, at her feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They shed their motley silks and go their way<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like withered dreams. So youth must follow after,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Youth that is brief and beauty that is grass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But from her gentle soul shall never pass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The strength, the mellow music, and the laughter.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +<a name="ashes" id="ashes"></a>Ashes</h2> + +<div class="block24"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Bury</span> the ashes. The life, the gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of love is gone: we have killed with kisses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fragile soul of rapture: this is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only the hollow husk of a dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bitter waking, the end thereof.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come, bury the ashes of love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The music falters; the flame is spent;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The vision is gone, the splendour faded,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving only a pitiful jaded<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half-desire, and a discontent.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The end of love is a weary kiss—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surely hate were better than this!<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +<a name="du" id="du"></a><i>Du bist wie eine Blume</i></h2> + +<div class="block24"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">So</span> like a flower, so gentle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So fair, so pure thou art,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That musing on thy beauty<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brings sadness to my heart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I lay my hands, in spirit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon thy gleaming hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Praying that God may keep thee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So sweet, so pure, so fair.<br /></span> + +<p class="right"><i>From the German of Heine</i></p> +</div></div></div> + + + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +<a name="home" id="home"></a>Home</h2> + +<div class="block24"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Five</span> weary days...and I shall creep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the shadow of her hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And of her loveliness drink deep<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And lose my desolation there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feeling her cool lips quench my own.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lying so still, we shall not dare<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To let one murmur like a stone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the pool of silence fall.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All senses will be fused in one:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Peace will surround us with a wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of visible music, moments go<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Melodiously by, and all<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The stillness brim with beauty; so<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our hearts will whisper, throbbing fast:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Must time undeviating flow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bear this fragile moment past?'<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +<a name="ballet" id="ballet"></a><i>Maître de Ballet</i></h2> + +<div class="block16"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">On</span> a gossamer thread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of light that stretches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From dark to dark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the void<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We giddily jig<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the mad music<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Master makes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the Green Room<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He calls us forth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sensitive puppets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Live automata,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with a gesture<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sets us jerkily<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dancing the tightrope.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From a seat in the stalls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the cosmic theatre<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silently<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He watches our antics.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When we call to him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Master, Master!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Help, we are falling!'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the darkness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes no word<br /></span> +<span class="i0">....Only a chuckle.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +<a name="grudge" id="grudge"></a>The Grudge</h2> + +<blockquote> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>We grudged not those that were dearer than all we possessed,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Lovers, brothers, sons.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Our hearts were full, and out of a full heart</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>We gave our beloved ones.</i><br /></span> +<p class="right nt">(Laurence Binyon)</p> +</div></div> +</blockquote> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">We</span> are of baser quality: we have been<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tried by fire and judged a spurious gold.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We are little of soul; and yet in our pigmy way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We have suffered and loved with a love that cannot be told.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Being less than you, we did not eagerly quaff<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cup of gall: we prayed that it might pass.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We are not gods: we are pitiful human stuff;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the blood of our passion has stained Gethsemane's grass.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We were not blind to the vision. We heard the call<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And followed, or watched our belovèd steadfastly go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But our grief is naked, and shivers, and will not be soothed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By splendid phrases, or clothed in a moral glow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We cannot say for our comfort: 'Losing them,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We gain a glimpse of noble terrible heights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A cleansing exquisite pain, a sacred grief,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dream to cherish'—we think of the vanished lights;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We think of the fine nerves shattered, the warm blood chilled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The laughter silenced, the zest and the beauty gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The desolation of wasted wonderful dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That will never be lived, of work that cannot be done.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +<a name="wedding" id="wedding"></a>Wedding Day</h2> + +<div class="block30"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Was</span> it for this we loved: to settle down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Having once paid the necessary fee)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In some nice suburb not too far from town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To eat and sleep and kiss complacently,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loving by rote as decent people do:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was it for this we hungered, I and you?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A lover's vows are gossamer, they say;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we have registered our mutual vow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For seven and sixpence, dearest. Yesterday<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was but love to bind our hearts, but now<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We owe it to the Vicar to be good<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And love each other as we said we would.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That promise at the altar is a link<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Which only death can break) between us two;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For every time I kiss you I shall think:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'How this would please the Vicar if he knew!'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we shall put our youthful dreams to bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so live on—long after we are dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We are made one. One mind will serve us both.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">('Oh yes, we think Locke's novels rather sweet!')<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ever-living witness of our troth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll serve the vegetables, I the meat...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O happiness! It is our wedding day!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Embrace me, dear: the Prayer Book says you may.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +<a name="crucifixion" id="crucifixion"></a>Crucifixion</h2> + +<div class="block32"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">We</span> wage eternal war on the losing side;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever defeated we by the sinister foe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That only pathetic piety seeks to hide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a theological costume of long ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The goal we seek to attain will never be ours:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All our hopes will end in ashes and dust;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All our dreams will be dead desolate flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plucked by the pitiless Hand we were taught to trust.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Doomed to eternal defeat in the endless strife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scornful of Chance the Almighty, we worship with pride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The divine, frail, terrible Beauty of Life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the Cross of Fate incessantly crucified.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +<a name="spring" id="spring"></a>Spring in Winter</h2> + +<div class="block34"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">My</span> memories of you are singing birds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the green forest of my mind, where I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May roam, recapturing your whispered words,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or on a bank of glowing bluebells lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Listening for ever. Spring is come again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all her glory; the erst withered trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That creaked, like living skeletons in pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Defying the wind, have donned green garments: these<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New shoots, these blossoms and these buds, the springing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grass, and the sky where many colours blend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My songsters by the magic of their singing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have in a moment made. My thoughts of you<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are music which to all my spirit's rue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the ineffable answer and the end.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +<a name="exile" id="exile"></a>The Exile</h2> + +<div class="block32"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Now</span> I return to my own land and people,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old familiar things so to recover,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hedgerows and little lanes and meadows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The friendliness of my own land and people.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have seen a world-frieze of glowing orange,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Palms painted black on the satin horizon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Palm-trees in the dusk and the silence standing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Straight and still against a background of orange;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A gorgeous magical pomp of light and colour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dream-world, a sparkling gem in the sunlight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The minarets and domes of an Eastern city;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the midst of all the pomp of colour<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My heart cried out for my own land and people;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My heart cried out for the lush meadows of England,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hedgerows and little lanes of England,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And for the faces of my own people.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +<a name="sonnet" id="sonnet"></a>Sonnet for Helen</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">When</span> you're very old, when in the candlelight your hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silver shews—when by the fire you spinning sit and weaving,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You will croon my verses, but in wonder, scarce believing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Ronsard hymned my beauty in the days when I was fair.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Never servant could you have, tho' half-asleep she were,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But would rouse herself to listen to your lyric grieving,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wake to hear my name and your glory, my achieving,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My immortal praise of your beauty past compare.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shall be beneath the earth, an unsubstantial shade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the myrtles throw their shadow will my bones be laid.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You will be a squatting crony sighing by the fire,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sighing for the love you scorned, recalling it with sorrow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Live, O live and love to-day; delay not till the morrow:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gather now the roses of youth and desire.<br /></span> + +<p class="right"><i>From the French of Ronsard</i></p> +</div></div> + + + + +<hr /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +<a name="song" id="song"></a>Song</h2> + +<div class="block26"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">How</span> did we dim that wistful dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shy first love without caress,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That breathless wonder, that supreme<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vision of all love's loveliness?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For surely had we parted then,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kissed once with tears and said Good-bye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We had been speaking truly when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We said our love could never die.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Because we did a moment cling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With trembling senses cling and kiss—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Does it not seem a bitter thing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That bliss should die of too much bliss?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Love is a fair and fragile flower<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which Youth must needs, poor foolish boy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pluck greedily....Within the hour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He weeps to see his withered joy.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +<a name="musings" id="musings"></a>Musings</h2> + +<div class="block30"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Be</span> calmer, O my Grief, be quieter:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dusk you craved enfolds us; everywhere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The twilight veil of blue-grey gossamer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Falls, bringing peace to some, to others care.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While thralls of Pleasure, that most merciless<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of tyrants, hasten to his board (although<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His wine is gall, and his fruit, bitterness),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come with me, O my Grief, and let us go<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Far from them. See the bygone years that throng<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heaven's balconies; see smiling Sorrow, strong<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In fortitude, rise from the waters; see<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The dying sun, low sinking, disappear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond the verge. The rustling mystery<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of night approaches—hear, beloved, hear.<br /></span> + +<p class="right"><i>From the French of Baudelaire</i></p> +</div></div></div> + + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +<a name="poet" id="poet"></a>The Poet</h2> + +<div class="block24"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Where</span> the flowers are most tall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heedless of his mother's call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wooden sword in his hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tightly clasped, I see him stand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He is pondering with eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full of four-year-old surmise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two great hollyhocks that sway<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This way, that way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till they almost touch his cheek.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Queer, solemn souls they seem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spell-bound, lost in dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Always just about to speak...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then he with thirsty eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drinks the intoxicating skies.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Done with earth, he bestrides<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The galloping white horses, rides<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blue valleys and the red hills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of sunset, and his pocket fills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With golden apples. Days pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long full days...<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">The grass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suddenly stirs, and he plunges<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the perilous wood and lunges<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stoutly at the dragon's head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the fiery beast is dead...<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now that dusk is fast falling<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He'll obey his mother's calling.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of Fairyland with slow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thoughtful steps he turns to go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet there's just time to float<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the water-butt his boat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made of cork and spent matches:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, at the last he snatches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great adventure from the dread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unrelenting jaws of Bed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round the magic world rides he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lives a breathless Odyssey.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +<a name="trees" id="trees"></a><i>If all the trees were magic trees</i></h2> + +<div class="block26"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">If</span> all the trees were magic trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And talked among themselves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If kings could sleep in daffodils<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bishops danced on window-sills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If all the valleys changed to hills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the tens to twelves,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The world would be nonsensical,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And we should all be elves.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If every street in Camden Town<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were paved with precious stones,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If modest souls began to drape<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their table-legs in decent crape,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If every squirrel wore a cape<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And had the name of Jones,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">I'd weave a robe of beetles' eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And jellyfishes' bones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If kingcups blossomed in the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fell like golden rain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In grey half-light shot through and through<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With shafts of green and shafts of blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If pink and purple chickweed grew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On every window pane,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">All truly tidy folk would deem<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The universe insane.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If we were sensible enough<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hear the bluebells ring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were sight so true and hearts so wise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That we could see with glowing eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enchantment flaming from the skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And joy in everything,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Then every girl a queen would be,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And every boy a king.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + + + +<hr class="white" /> + +<h2><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +<a name="alone" id="alone"></a><i>Alone with these my poems...</i></h2> + +<div class="block30"> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Alone</span> with these my poems, when night is still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Earth seems but a speck of fluttering dust,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moth-like, in a waste of eternity.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Alone with these symbols of human thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All our measureless system of whirling worlds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seems itself a symbol, a chance phrase<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a poem wrought by the hand of a brooding god,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where we ourselves are less than commas and dots.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And had he smeared out with careless thumb<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All life, from its first birth in the waters<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the ultimate dissolution of stars and suns,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had made no more than an ill-timed caesura.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Alone with these my poems, when night is still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am less than a speck of dust on the wing of a moth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fluttering in a waste of eternity.<br /></span> +</div></div></div> + +<hr class="white" /> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mice & Other Poems, by Gerald Bullett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICE & OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 33774-h.htm or 33774-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/7/33774/ + +Produced by Mark C. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mice & Other Poems + +Author: Gerald Bullett + +Release Date: September 20, 2010 [EBook #33774] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICE & OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + + + MICE & OTHER POEMS + + by Gerald Bullett + + _With a General Note by + Sir Arthur Quiller Couch_ + + ONE FLORIN 1921 + + + + +MICE AND OTHER POEMS + + + PRINTED IN CAMBRIDGE + AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS + AND SOLD IN LONDON BY + SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, + HAMILTON, KENT & Co + + FIRST IMPRESSION JANUARY 1921 + + + + + MICE + & OTHER POEMS + by Gerald Bullett + + Perkin Warbeck + 9 Market Hill + Cambridge + + + + + _Uniform with this volume_ + + HOME-MADE VERSES + BY D. B. HASELER AND + R. H. D'ELBOUX + + LAUGHING GAS AND + OTHER POEMS + BY MARGUERITE FEW + + + GERALD BULLETT + IS THE AUTHOR OF + THE PROGRESS OF KAY + + PUBLISHED BY + CONSTABLE & CO. LONDON + + + + +NOTE + + +If the mental attitude of any critic has ever, in his approach to a +first book of verse, been conciliated by an appreciative notice from +some older pen, I should say (speaking out of no little experience) that +either the author was dead and the fact advertised in the preface, or, +alternatively, that the critic was possessed by a gentler spirit than +mine. I am sure at any rate that artistic work, great or small, should +be sternly judged on what it is rather than on what it promises. The +late J. Comyns Carr, in the days when he wrote dramatic criticism, let +loose this restive truth in a couple of short sentences--'We are told +that So-and-so is a promising young actor. Personally I don't care how +much he promises so long as he never again performs.' + +Let me, then, pass over Mr Gerald Bullett's verses with the simple +remark that I believe in them (he himself calls them 'MICE'--no +overweening title, however boldly printed. Yet mice were dear to Apollo +Smintheus, and his proper emblem): and let me come to the general +purpose of this Note. + +It is meant to preface a series of small volumes of verse by young +writers, mostly Cambridge men. That, since the War, young men in +extraordinary numbers have taken to expressing themselves in verse is a +plain fact, not to be denied: that they choose, as often as not, to +express themselves in 'numbers' extraordinary to us can as hardly be +contested. But the point is, they have a crowding impulse to say +something; and to say it with the emotional seriousness proper to +Poetry. For my part, I love the discipline of verse: but I love the +impulse better. Time will soften--I hope not too soon, lest it sugar +down and sentimentalise--a certain bitterness of resentment observable +in this booklet and its next followers: but, as nothing in verse is +nobler than true tradition, anything is more hopeful than convention. + +So these booklets have been planned to give youth its chance to make +spoons or spoil horns. If anyone object that the print and page +over-dignify the content of any one volume in the proposed series, why, +that must be a particular criticism, which cannot honestly (I think) be +enlarged to blame the publisher's wish, and the care he has taken, that +what pretends, however modestly, to be a work of the Muse, should step +forth to the public in honourable dress. + + ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Mice 9 + + Rest 10 + + 'The Strength, the Mellow Music, + and the Laughter' 11 + + Ashes 12 + + 'Du bist wie eine Blume' 13 + + Home 14 + + 'Maitre de Ballet' 15 + + The Grudge 16 + + Wedding Day 17 + + Crucifixion 18 + + Spring in Winter 19 + + The Exile 20 + + Sonnet for Helen 21 + + Song 22 + + Musings 23 + + The Poet 24 + + 'If all the trees were magic trees' 26 + + 'Alone with these my poems...' 28 + + + + +_'The Exile' is reprinted by courtesy of the Proprietors of Punch_ + + + + +Mice + + + I see the broken bodies of women and men, + Temples of God ruined; I see the claws + Of sinister Fate, from the reach of whose feline paws + Never are safe the bodies of women and men. + + Almighty Cat, it sits on the Throne of the World, + With paw outstretched, grinning at us, the mice, + Who play our trivial games of virtue and vice, + And pray--to That which sits on the Throne of the World! + + From our beginning till all is over and done, + Unwitting who watches, pursuing our personal ends, + Hither and thither we scamper....The paw descends; + The paw descends and all is over and done. + + + + +Rest + + + Here is tranquillity and silvan shade; + For now, emerging from that waste of sand + Which was my life, I reach a fruitful glade, + A pool of water in a thirsty land. + + Your gentle soul a well of beauty is, + And crystal clear the sunlit deeps thereof; + And from that fountain of unmeasured bliss + I draw the living water of your love. + + Here is the goal of all my wandering, + Here is oblivion of my bitterness, + And here the temple where my heart shall sing + Your eyes that light me and your lips that bless. + + + + +_The strength, the mellow music, and the laughter_ + + + The steadfast beauty of her eyes is balm, + And in her touch there's healing for my hurt; + She is unshaken as a vessel girt + Mid waters of unutterable calm. + + The years grow fragrant with her fragrance: they, + Sipping her sweetness, leave her yet more sweet. + Laden with divers colours, at her feet + They shed their motley silks and go their way + + Like withered dreams. So youth must follow after, + Youth that is brief and beauty that is grass; + But from her gentle soul shall never pass + The strength, the mellow music, and the laughter. + + + + +Ashes + + + Bury the ashes. The life, the gleam + Of love is gone: we have killed with kisses + The fragile soul of rapture: this is + Only the hollow husk of a dream, + The bitter waking, the end thereof. + Come, bury the ashes of love. + + The music falters; the flame is spent; + The vision is gone, the splendour faded, + Leaving only a pitiful jaded + Half-desire, and a discontent. + The end of love is a weary kiss-- + Surely hate were better than this! + + + + +_Du bist wie eine Blume_ + + + So like a flower, so gentle, + So fair, so pure thou art, + That musing on thy beauty + Brings sadness to my heart. + + I lay my hands, in spirit, + Upon thy gleaming hair, + Praying that God may keep thee + So sweet, so pure, so fair. + + _From the German of Heine_ + + + + +Home + + + Five weary days...and I shall creep + Into the shadow of her hair + And of her loveliness drink deep + + And lose my desolation there, + Feeling her cool lips quench my own. + Lying so still, we shall not dare + + To let one murmur like a stone + Into the pool of silence fall. + All senses will be fused in one: + + Peace will surround us with a wall + Of visible music, moments go + Melodiously by, and all + + The stillness brim with beauty; so + Our hearts will whisper, throbbing fast: + 'Must time undeviating flow + And bear this fragile moment past?' + + + + +_Maitre de Ballet_ + + + On a gossamer thread + Of light that stretches + From dark to dark + Over the void + We giddily jig + To the mad music + The Master makes. + + From the Green Room + He calls us forth, + Sensitive puppets, + Live automata, + And with a gesture + Sets us jerkily + Dancing the tightrope. + + From a seat in the stalls + Of the cosmic theatre + Silently + He watches our antics. + + When we call to him + 'Master, Master! + Help, we are falling!' + Out of the darkness + Comes no word + ....Only a chuckle. + + + + +The Grudge + + + _We grudged not those that were dearer than all we possessed, + Lovers, brothers, sons. + Our hearts were full, and out of a full heart + We gave our beloved ones._ (Laurence Binyon) + + + We are of baser quality: we have been + Tried by fire and judged a spurious gold. + We are little of soul; and yet in our pigmy way + We have suffered and loved with a love that cannot be told. + + Being less than you, we did not eagerly quaff + The cup of gall: we prayed that it might pass. + We are not gods: we are pitiful human stuff; + And the blood of our passion has stained Gethsemane's grass. + + We were not blind to the vision. We heard the call + And followed, or watched our beloved steadfastly go. + But our grief is naked, and shivers, and will not be soothed + By splendid phrases, or clothed in a moral glow. + + We cannot say for our comfort: 'Losing them, + We gain a glimpse of noble terrible heights, + A cleansing exquisite pain, a sacred grief, + A dream to cherish'--we think of the vanished lights; + + We think of the fine nerves shattered, the warm blood chilled, + The laughter silenced, the zest and the beauty gone, + The desolation of wasted wonderful dreams + That will never be lived, of work that cannot be done. + + + + +Wedding Day + + + Was it for this we loved: to settle down + (Having once paid the necessary fee) + In some nice suburb not too far from town, + To eat and sleep and kiss complacently, + Loving by rote as decent people do: + Was it for this we hungered, I and you? + + A lover's vows are gossamer, they say; + But we have registered our mutual vow + For seven and sixpence, dearest. Yesterday + There was but love to bind our hearts, but now + We owe it to the Vicar to be good + And love each other as we said we would. + + That promise at the altar is a link + (Which only death can break) between us two; + For every time I kiss you I shall think: + 'How this would please the Vicar if he knew!' + And we shall put our youthful dreams to bed, + And so live on--long after we are dead. + + We are made one. One mind will serve us both. + ('Oh yes, we think Locke's novels rather sweet!') + In ever-living witness of our troth + You'll serve the vegetables, I the meat... + O happiness! It is our wedding day! + Embrace me, dear: the Prayer Book says you may. + + + + +Crucifixion + + + We wage eternal war on the losing side; + Ever defeated we by the sinister foe + That only pathetic piety seeks to hide + In a theological costume of long ago. + + The goal we seek to attain will never be ours: + All our hopes will end in ashes and dust; + All our dreams will be dead desolate flowers, + Plucked by the pitiless Hand we were taught to trust. + + Doomed to eternal defeat in the endless strife, + Scornful of Chance the Almighty, we worship with pride + The divine, frail, terrible Beauty of Life + On the Cross of Fate incessantly crucified. + + + + +Spring in Winter + + + My memories of you are singing birds + In the green forest of my mind, where I + May roam, recapturing your whispered words, + Or on a bank of glowing bluebells lie, + Listening for ever. Spring is come again + In all her glory; the erst withered trees + That creaked, like living skeletons in pain, + Defying the wind, have donned green garments: these + New shoots, these blossoms and these buds, the springing + Grass, and the sky where many colours blend, + My songsters by the magic of their singing + Have in a moment made. My thoughts of you + Are music which to all my spirit's rue + Is the ineffable answer and the end. + + + + +The Exile + + + Now I return to my own land and people, + Old familiar things so to recover, + Hedgerows and little lanes and meadows, + The friendliness of my own land and people. + + I have seen a world-frieze of glowing orange, + Palms painted black on the satin horizon, + Palm-trees in the dusk and the silence standing + Straight and still against a background of orange; + + A gorgeous magical pomp of light and colour, + A dream-world, a sparkling gem in the sunlight, + The minarets and domes of an Eastern city; + And in the midst of all the pomp of colour + + My heart cried out for my own land and people; + My heart cried out for the lush meadows of England, + The hedgerows and little lanes of England, + And for the faces of my own people. + + + + +Sonnet for Helen + + + When you're very old, when in the candlelight your hair + Silver shews--when by the fire you spinning sit and weaving, + You will croon my verses, but in wonder, scarce believing + 'Ronsard hymned my beauty in the days when I was fair.' + + Never servant could you have, tho' half-asleep she were, + But would rouse herself to listen to your lyric grieving, + Wake to hear my name and your glory, my achieving, + My immortal praise of your beauty past compare. + + I shall be beneath the earth, an unsubstantial shade; + Where the myrtles throw their shadow will my bones be laid. + You will be a squatting crony sighing by the fire, + + Sighing for the love you scorned, recalling it with sorrow. + Live, O live and love to-day; delay not till the morrow: + Gather now the roses of youth and desire. + + _From the French of Ronsard_ + + + + +Song + + + How did we dim that wistful dream, + That shy first love without caress, + That breathless wonder, that supreme + Vision of all love's loveliness? + + For surely had we parted then, + Kissed once with tears and said Good-bye, + We had been speaking truly when + We said our love could never die. + + Because we did a moment cling, + With trembling senses cling and kiss-- + Does it not seem a bitter thing + That bliss should die of too much bliss? + + Love is a fair and fragile flower + Which Youth must needs, poor foolish boy, + Pluck greedily....Within the hour + He weeps to see his withered joy. + + + + +Musings + + + Be calmer, O my Grief, be quieter: + The dusk you craved enfolds us; everywhere + The twilight veil of blue-grey gossamer + Falls, bringing peace to some, to others care. + + While thralls of Pleasure, that most merciless + Of tyrants, hasten to his board (although + His wine is gall, and his fruit, bitterness), + Come with me, O my Grief, and let us go + + Far from them. See the bygone years that throng + Heaven's balconies; see smiling Sorrow, strong + In fortitude, rise from the waters; see + + The dying sun, low sinking, disappear + Beyond the verge. The rustling mystery + Of night approaches--hear, beloved, hear. + + _From the French of Baudelaire_ + + + + +The Poet + + + Where the flowers are most tall, + Heedless of his mother's call, + Wooden sword in his hand + Tightly clasped, I see him stand. + + He is pondering with eyes + Full of four-year-old surmise + Two great hollyhocks that sway + This way, that way, + Till they almost touch his cheek. + Queer, solemn souls they seem, + Spell-bound, lost in dream, + Always just about to speak... + + Then he with thirsty eyes + Drinks the intoxicating skies. + Done with earth, he bestrides + The galloping white horses, rides + The blue valleys and the red hills + Of sunset, and his pocket fills + With golden apples. Days pass, + Long full days... + + The grass + Suddenly stirs, and he plunges + Into the perilous wood and lunges + Stoutly at the dragon's head + Till the fiery beast is dead... + + Now that dusk is fast falling + He'll obey his mother's calling. + Out of Fairyland with slow + Thoughtful steps he turns to go. + Yet there's just time to float + In the water-butt his boat + Made of cork and spent matches: + So, at the last he snatches + Great adventure from the dread + Unrelenting jaws of Bed. + Round the magic world rides he, + And lives a breathless Odyssey. + + + + +_If all the trees were magic trees_ + + + If all the trees were magic trees + And talked among themselves, + If kings could sleep in daffodils + And bishops danced on window-sills, + If all the valleys changed to hills + And all the tens to twelves, + The world would be nonsensical, + And we should all be elves. + + If every street in Camden Town + Were paved with precious stones, + If modest souls began to drape + Their table-legs in decent crape, + If every squirrel wore a cape + And had the name of Jones, + I'd weave a robe of beetles' eyes + And jellyfishes' bones. + + If kingcups blossomed in the sky + And fell like golden rain + In grey half-light shot through and through + With shafts of green and shafts of blue, + If pink and purple chickweed grew + On every window pane, + All truly tidy folk would deem + The universe insane. + + If we were sensible enough + To hear the bluebells ring, + Were sight so true and hearts so wise + That we could see with glowing eyes + Enchantment flaming from the skies + And joy in everything, + Then every girl a queen would be, + And every boy a king. + + + + +_Alone with these my poems..._ + + + Alone with these my poems, when night is still, + Earth seems but a speck of fluttering dust, + Moth-like, in a waste of eternity. + + Alone with these symbols of human thought, + All our measureless system of whirling worlds + Seems itself a symbol, a chance phrase + In a poem wrought by the hand of a brooding god, + Where we ourselves are less than commas and dots. + And had he smeared out with careless thumb + All life, from its first birth in the waters + To the ultimate dissolution of stars and suns, + He had made no more than an ill-timed caesura. + + Alone with these my poems, when night is still, + I am less than a speck of dust on the wing of a moth + Fluttering in a waste of eternity. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mice & Other Poems, by Gerald Bullett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICE & OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 33774.txt or 33774.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/7/33774/ + +Produced by Mark C. 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