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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by 
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+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: Some Imagist Poets, 1916
+       An Annual Anthology
+
+Author: Richard Aldington
+        Hilda Doolittle
+        John Gould Fletcher
+        Amy Lowell
+        D. H. Lawrence
+        F. S. Flint
+
+Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37469]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
+produced from scanned images of public domain material
+from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The New Poetry Series
+
+PUBLISHED BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+
+
+IRRADIATIONS. SAND AND SPRAY. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS.
+
+JAPANESE LYRICS. Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN.
+
+AFTERNOONS OF APRIL. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING.
+
+THE CLOISTER: A VERSE DRAMA. EMILE VERHAEREN.
+
+INTERFLOW. GEOFFREY C. FABER.
+
+STILLWATER PASTORALS AND OTHER POEMS. PAUL SHIVELL.
+
+IDOLS. WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG.
+
+TURNS AND MOVIES, AND OTHER TALES IN VERSE. CONRAD AIKEN.
+
+ROADS. GRACE FALLOW NORTON.
+
+GOBLINS AND PAGODAS. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS. _1916._
+
+A SONG OF THE GUNS. GILBERT FRANKAU.
+
+MOTHERS AND MEN. HAROLD T. PULSIFER.
+
+
+
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS, _1916_
+
+
+
+
+  SOME IMAGIST POETS
+  _1916_
+
+  AN ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  BOSTON AND NEW YORK
+  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+  The Riverside Press Cambridge
+  1916
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
+
+  _Published May 1916_
+
+  THIRD IMPRESSION
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+In bringing the second volume of _Some Imagist Poets_ before the
+public, the authors wish to express their gratitude for the interest
+which the 1915 volume aroused. The discussion of it was widespread,
+and even those critics out of sympathy with Imagist tenets accorded
+it much space. In the Preface to that book, we endeavoured to present
+those tenets in a succinct form. But the very brevity we employed has
+lead to a great deal of misunderstanding. We have decided, therefore,
+to explain the laws which govern us a little more fully. A few people
+may understand, and the rest can merely misunderstand again, a result
+to which we are quite accustomed.
+
+In the first place “Imagism” does not mean merely the presentation of
+pictures. “Imagism” refers to the manner of presentation, not to the
+subject. It means a clear presentation of whatever the author wishes
+to convey. Now he may wish to convey a mood of indecision, in which
+case the poem should be indecisive; he may wish to bring before his
+reader the constantly shifting and changing lights over a landscape,
+or the varying attitudes of mind of a person under strong emotion,
+then his poem must shift and change to present this clearly. The
+“exact” word does not mean the word which exactly describes the
+object in itself, it means the “exact” word which brings the effect
+of that object before the reader as it presented itself to the poet's
+mind at the time of writing the poem. Imagists deal but little with
+similes, although much of their poetry is metaphorical. The reason
+for this is that while acknowledging the figure to be an integral
+part of all poetry, they feel that the constant imposing of one
+figure upon another in the same poem blurs the central effect.
+
+The great French critic, Remy de Gourmont, wrote last Summer in _La
+France_ that the Imagists were the descendants of the French
+_Symbolistes_. In the Preface to his _Livre des Masques_, M. de
+Gourmont has thus described _Symbolisme_: “Individualism in
+literature, liberty of art, abandonment of existing forms.... The
+sole excuse which a man can have for writing is to write down
+himself, to unveil for others the sort of world which mirrors itself
+in his individual glass.... He should create his own aesthetics--and
+we should admit as many aesthetics as there are original minds, and
+judge them for what they are and not what they are not.” In this
+sense the Imagists are descendants of the _Symbolistes_; they are
+Individualists.
+
+The only reason that Imagism has seemed so anarchaic and strange to
+English and American reviewers is that their minds do not easily and
+quickly suggest the steps by which modern art has arrived at its
+present position. Its immediate prototype cannot be found in English
+or American literature, we must turn to Europe for it. With Debussy
+and Stravinsky in music, and Gauguin and Matisse in painting, it
+should have been evident to every one that art was entering upon an
+era of change. But music and painting are universal languages, so we
+have become accustomed to new idioms in them, while we still find it
+hard to recognize a changed idiom in literature.
+
+The crux of the situation is just here. It is in the idiom employed.
+Imagism asks to be judged by different standards from those employed
+in Nineteenth-Century art. It is small wonder that Imagist poetry
+should be incomprehensible to men whose sole touchstone for art is
+the literature of one country for a period of four centuries. And it
+is an illuminating fact that among poets and men conversant with many
+poetic idioms, Imagism is rarely misconceived. They may not agree
+with us, but they do not misunderstand us.
+
+This must not be misconstrued into the desire to belittle our
+forerunners. On the contrary, the Imagists have the greatest
+admiration for the past, and humility towards it. But they have been
+caught in the throes of a new birth. The exterior world is changing,
+and with it men's feelings, and every age must express its feelings
+in its own individual way. No art is any more “egoistic” than
+another; all art is an attempt to express the feelings of the artist,
+whether it be couched in narrative form or employ a more personal
+expression.
+
+It is not what Imagists write about which makes them hard of
+comprehension; it is the way they write it. All nations have laws of
+prosody, which undergo changes from time to time. The laws of English
+metrical prosody are well known to every one concerned with the
+subject. But that is only one form of prosody. Other nations have had
+different ones: Anglo-Saxon poetry was founded upon alliteration,
+Greek and Roman was built upon quantity, the Oriental was formed out
+of repetition, and the Japanese Hokku got its effects by an exact and
+never-to-be-added-to series of single syllables. So it is evident
+that poetry can be written in many modes. That the Imagists base much
+of their poetry upon cadence and not upon metre makes them neither
+good nor bad. And no one realizes more than they that no theories nor
+rules make poetry. They claim for their work only that it is sincere.
+
+It is this very fact of “cadence” which has misled so many reviewers,
+until some have been betrayed into saying that the Imagists discard
+rhythm, when rhythm is the most important quality in their technique.
+The definition of _vers libre_ is--a verse-form based upon cadence.
+Now cadence in music is one thing, cadence in poetry quite another,
+since we are not dealing with tone but with rhythm. It is the sense
+of perfect balance of flow and rhythm. Not only must the syllables so
+fall as to increase and continue the movement, but the whole poem
+must be as rounded and recurring as the circular swing of a balanced
+pendulum. It can be fast or slow, it may even jerk, but this perfect
+swing it must have, even its jerks must follow the central movement.
+To illustrate: Suppose a person were given the task of walking, or
+running, round a large circle, with two minutes given to do it in.
+Two minutes which he would just consume if he walked round the circle
+quietly. But in order to make the task easier for him, or harder, as
+the case might be, he was required to complete each half of the
+circle in exactly a minute. No other restrictions were placed upon
+him. He might dawdle in the beginning, and run madly to reach the
+half-circle mark on time, and then complete his task by walking
+steadily round the second half to goal. Or he might leap, and run,
+and skip, and linger in all sorts of ways, making up for slow going
+by fast, and for extra haste by pauses, and varying these movements
+on either lap of the circle as the humour seized him, only so that he
+were just one minute in traversing the first half-circle, and just
+one minute in traversing the second. Another illustration which may
+be employed is that of a Japanese wood-carving where a toad in one
+corner is balanced by a spray of blown flowers in the opposite upper
+one. The flowers are not the same shape as the toad, neither are they
+the same size, but the balance is preserved.
+
+The unit in _vers libre_ is not the foot, the number of the
+syllables, the quantity, or the line. The unit is the strophe, which
+may be the whole poem, or may be only a part. Each strophe is a
+complete circle: in fact, the meaning of the Greek word “strophe” is
+simply that part of the poem which was recited while the chorus were
+making a turn round the altar set up in the centre of the theatre.
+The simile of the circle is more than a simile, therefore; it is a
+fact. Of course the circle need not always be the same size, nor need
+the times allowed to negotiate it be always the same. There is room
+here for an infinite number of variations. Also, circles can be added
+to circles, movement upon movement, to the poem, provided each
+movement completes itself, and ramifies naturally into the next. But
+one thing must be borne in mind: a cadenced poem is written to be
+read aloud, in this way only will its rhythm be felt. Poetry is a
+spoken and not a written art.
+
+The _vers libristes_ are often accused of declaring that they have
+discovered a new thing. Where such an idea started, it is impossible
+to say, certainly none of the better _vers libristes_ was ever guilty
+of so ridiculous a statement. The name _vers libre_ is new, the
+thing, most emphatically, is not. Not new in English poetry, at any
+rate. You will find something very much like it in Dryden's
+_Threnodia Augustalis_; a great deal of Milton's _Samson Agonistes_
+is written in it; and Matthew Arnold's _Philomela_ is a shining
+example of it. Practically all of Henley's _London Voluntaries_ are
+written in it, and (so potent are names) until it was christened
+_vers libre_, no one thought of objecting to it. But the oldest
+reference to _vers libre_ is to be found in Chaucer's _House of
+Fame_, where the Eagle addresses the Poet in these words:
+
+  And nevertheless hast set thy wyt
+  Although that in thy heed full lyte is
+  To make bookes, songes, or dytees
+  In rhyme or elles in cadence.
+
+Commentators have wasted reams of paper in an endeavour to determine
+what Chaucer meant by this. But is it not possible that he meant a
+verse based upon rhythm, but which did not follow the strict metrical
+prosody of his usual practice?
+
+One of the charges frequently brought against the Imagists is that
+they write, not poetry, but “shredded prose.” This misconception
+springs from the almost complete ignorance of the public in regard to
+the laws of cadenced verse. But, in fact, what is prose and what is
+poetry? Is it merely a matter of typographical arrangement? Must
+everything which is printed in equal lines, with rhymes at the ends,
+be called poetry, and everything which is printed in a block be
+called prose? Aristotle, who certainly knew more about this subject
+than any one else, declares in his _Rhetoric_ that prose is
+rhythmical without being metrical (that is to say, without insistence
+on any single rhythm), and then goes on to state the feet that are
+employed in prose, making, incidentally, the remark that the iambic
+prevailed in ordinary conversation. The fact is, that there is no
+hard and fast dividing line between prose and poetry. As a French
+poet of distinction, Paul Fort, has said: “Prose and poetry are but
+one instrument, graduated.” It is not a question of typography; it is
+not even a question of rules and forms. Poetry is the vision in a
+man's soul which he translates as best he can with the means at his
+disposal.
+
+We are young, we are experimentalists, but we ask to be judged by our
+own standards, not by those which have governed other men at other
+times.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  RICHARD ALDINGTON
+
+  Eros and Psyche                                                   3
+
+  After Two Years                                                   6
+
+  1915                                                              7
+
+  Whitechapel                                                       8
+
+  Sunsets                                                          10
+
+  People                                                           11
+
+  Reflections: I and II                                            12
+
+
+  H. D.
+
+  Sea Gods                                                         17
+
+  The Shrine                                                       21
+
+  Temple--The Cliff                                                26
+
+  Mid-day                                                          30
+
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+
+  Arizona                                                          35
+
+  The Unquiet Street                                               42
+
+  In the Theatre                                                   43
+
+  Ships in the Harbour                                             44
+
+  The Empty House                                                  45
+
+  The Skaters                                                      48
+
+
+  F. S. FLINT
+
+  Easter                                                           51
+
+  Ogre                                                             54
+
+  Cones                                                            56
+
+  Gloom                                                            57
+
+  Terror                                                           60
+
+  Chalfont Saint Giles                                             61
+
+  War-Time                                                         63
+
+
+  D. H. LAWRENCE
+
+  Erinnyes                                                         67
+
+  Perfidy                                                          70
+
+  At the Window                                                    72
+
+  In Trouble and Shame                                             73
+
+  Brooding Grief                                                   74
+
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+
+  Patterns                                                         77
+
+  Spring Day                                                       82
+
+  Stravinsky's Three Pieces, “Grotesques,” for String Quartet      87
+
+
+  BIBLIOGRAPHY                                                     93
+
+The authors wish to express their gratitude to the editors of _The
+Egoist_ and _Poetry and Drama_, London; _The Poetry Journal_, Boston;
+_The Little Review_ and _Poetry_, Chicago, for permission to reprint
+certain of these poems which originally appeared in their columns. To
+_Poetry_ belongs the credit of having introduced Imagism to the
+world: it seems fitting, therefore, that the authors should record
+their thanks in this place for the constant interest and
+encouragement shown them by its editor, Miss Harriet Monroe.
+
+
+
+
+RICHARD ALDINGTON
+
+
+
+
+EROS AND PSYCHE
+
+
+  In an old dull yard near Camden Town,
+  Which echoes with the rattle of cars and 'busses
+  And freight-trains, puffing steam and smoke and dirt
+  To the steaming, sooty sky--
+  There stands an old and grimy statue,
+  A statue of Psyche and her lover, Eros.
+
+  A little nearer Camden Town,
+  In a square of ugly sordid shops,
+  Is another statue, facing the Tube,
+  Staring with a heavy, purposeless glare
+  At the red and white shining tiles--
+  A tall stone statue of Cobden.
+  And though no one ever pauses to see
+  What hero it is that faces the Tube,
+  I can understand very well indeed
+  That England must honour its national heroes,
+  Must honour the hero of Free Trade--
+  Or was it the Corn Laws?--
+  That I can understand.
+  But what I shall never understand
+  Is the little group in the dingy yard
+  Under the dingier sky,
+  The Eros and Psyche--
+  Surrounded with pots and terra-cotta busts
+  And urns and broken pillars--
+  Eros, naked, with his wings stretched out
+  Just lighting down to kiss her on the lips.
+
+  What are they doing here in Camden Town
+  In the midst of all this clamour and filth?
+  They who should stand in a sun-lit room
+  Hung with deep purple, painted with gods,
+  Paved with white porphyry,
+  Stand for ever embraced
+  By the side of a rustling fountain
+  Over a marble basin
+  Carved with leopards and grapes and young men dancing;
+  Or in a garden leaning above Corinth,
+  Under the ilices and the cypresses,
+  Very white against a very blue sky;
+  Or growing hoary, if they must grow old,
+  With lichens and softly creeping moss.
+  What are they doing here in Camden Town?
+  And who has brought their naked beauty
+  And their young fresh lust to Camden Town,
+  Which settled long ago to toil and sweat and filth,
+  Forgetting--to the greater glory of Free Trade--
+  Young beauty and young love and youthful flesh?
+
+  Slowly the rain settles down on them,
+  Slowly the soot eats into them,
+  Slowly the stone grows greyer and dirtier,
+  Till in spite of his spreading wings
+  Her eyes have a rim of soot
+  Half an inch deep,
+  And his wings, the tall god's wings,
+  That should be red and silver
+  Are ocherous brown.
+
+  And I peer from a 'bus-top
+  As we splash through the grease and puddles,
+  And I glimpse them, huddled against the wall,
+  Half-hidden under a freight-train's smoke,
+  And I see the limbs that a Greek slave cut
+  In some old Italian town,
+  I see them growing older
+  And sadder
+  And greyer.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER TWO YEARS
+
+
+  She is all so slight
+  And tender and white
+      As a May morning.
+  She walks without hood
+  At dusk. It is good
+      To hear her sing.
+
+  It is God's will
+  That I shall love her still
+      As He loves Mary.
+  And night and day
+  I will go forth to pray
+      That she love me.
+
+  She is as gold
+  Lovely, and far more cold.
+      Do thou pray with me,
+  For if I win grace
+  To kiss twice her face
+      God has done well to me.
+
+
+
+
+1915
+
+
+  The limbs of gods,
+  Still, veined marble,
+  Rest heavily in sleep
+  Under a saffron twilight.
+
+  Not for them battle,
+  Severed limbs, death, and a cry of victory;
+  Not for them strife
+  And a torment of storm.
+
+  A vast breast moves slowly,
+  The great thighs shift,
+  The stone eyelids rise;
+  The slow tongue speaks:
+
+  “_Only a rain of bright dust;_
+  _In the outer air;_
+  _A little whisper of wind;_
+  _Sleep; rest; forget._”
+
+  Bright dust of battle!
+  A little whisper of dead souls!
+
+
+
+
+WHITECHAPEL
+
+
+  Noise;
+  Iron hoofs, iron wheels, iron din
+  Of drays and trams and feet passing;
+  Iron
+  Beaten to a vast mad cacophony.
+
+  _In vain the shrill, far cry_
+  _Of swallows sweeping by;_
+  _In vain the silence and green_
+  _Of meadows Apriline;_
+  _In vain the clear white rain--_
+
+  Soot; mud;
+  A nation maddened with labour;
+  Interminable collision of energies--
+  Iron beating upon iron;
+  Smoke whirling upwards,
+  Speechless, impotent.
+
+  _In vain the shrill, far cry_
+  _Of kittiwakes that fly_
+  _Where the sea waves leap green._
+  _The meadows Apriline--_
+
+  Noise, iron, smoke;
+  Iron, iron, iron.
+
+
+
+
+SUNSETS
+
+
+  The white body of the evening
+  Is torn into scarlet,
+  Slashed and gouged and seared
+  Into crimson,
+  And hung ironically
+  With garlands of mist.
+
+  And the wind
+  Blowing over London from Flanders
+  Has a bitter taste.
+
+
+
+
+PEOPLE
+
+
+  Why should you try to crush me?
+  Am I so Christ-like?
+
+  You beat against me,
+  Immense waves, filthy with refuse.
+  I am the last upright of a smashed break-water,
+  But you shall not crush me
+  Though you bury me in foaming slime
+  And hiss your hatred about me.
+
+  You break over me, cover me;
+  I shudder at the contact;
+  Yet I pierce through you
+  And stand up, torn, dripping, shaken,
+  But whole and fierce.
+
+
+
+
+REFLECTIONS
+
+
+I
+
+  Steal out with me
+  Over the moss and the daffodils.
+
+  Come to the temple,
+  Hung with sprays from untrimmed hedges.
+
+  I bring you a token
+  From the golden-haired revellers,
+  From the mad procession.
+
+  Come,
+  Flute girls shall pipe to us--
+  Their beautiful fingers!--
+  They are yellow-throated birds.
+  They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments,
+  Bending above us.
+
+  Come,
+  Bind your hair with white poplar,
+  Let your lips be sweet,
+  Wild roses of Paestum.
+
+
+II
+
+  Ghost moths hover over asphodel;
+  Shades, once Laïs' peers
+  Drift past us;
+  The mist is grey.
+
+  Far over us
+  The white wave-crests flash in the sun;
+  The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks.
+
+  Now the Maid returns to us
+  With fragrance of the world
+  And of the hours of gods.
+  On earth
+  Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit,
+  Streams, passing through the corn lands,
+  Hear laughter.
+
+  We pluck the asphodel,
+  Yet we weave no crowns
+  For we have no vines;
+  No one speaks here;
+  No one kisses.
+
+
+
+
+H. D.
+
+
+
+
+SEA GODS
+
+
+I
+
+  They say there is no hope--
+  Sand--drift--rocks--rubble of the sea--
+  The broken hulk of a ship,
+  Hung with shreds of rope,
+  Pallid under the cracked pitch.
+
+  They say there is no hope
+  To conjure you--
+  No whip of the tongue to anger you--
+  No hate of words
+  You must rise to refute.
+
+  They say you are twisted by the sea,
+  You are cut apart
+  By wave-break upon wave-break,
+  That you are misshapen by the sharp rocks,
+  Broken by the rasp and after-rasp.
+
+  That you are cut, torn, mangled,
+  Torn by the stress and beat,
+  No stronger than the strips of sand
+  Along your ragged beach.
+
+
+II
+
+  But we bring violets,
+  Great masses--single, sweet,
+  Wood-violets, stream-violets,
+  Violets from a wet marsh.
+
+  Violets in clumps from hills,
+  Tufts with earth at the roots,
+  Violets tugged from rocks,
+  Blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.
+
+  Yellow violets' gold,
+  Burnt with a rare tint--
+  Violets like red ash
+  Among tufts of grass.
+
+  We bring deep-purple
+  Bird-foot violets.
+
+  We bring the hyacinth-violet,
+  Sweet, bare, chill to the touch--
+  And violets whiter than the in-rush
+  Of your own white surf.
+
+
+III
+
+  For you will come,
+  You will yet haunt men in ships,
+  You will trail across the fringe of strait
+  And circle the jagged rocks.
+
+  You will trail across the rocks
+  And wash them with your salt,
+  You will curl between sand-hills--
+  You will thunder along the cliff--
+  Break--retreat--get fresh strength--
+  Gather and pour weight upon the beach.
+
+  You will draw back,
+  And the ripple on the sand-shelf
+  Will be witness of your track.
+
+  O privet-white, you will paint
+  The lintel of wet sand with froth.
+
+  You will bring myrrh-bark
+  And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts.
+  When you hurl high--high--
+  We will answer with a shout.
+
+  For you will come,
+  You will come,
+  You will answer our taut hearts,
+  You will break the lie of men's thoughts,
+  And cherish and shelter us.
+
+
+
+
+THE SHRINE
+
+(“_She Watches Over the Sea_”)
+
+
+I
+
+  Are your rocks shelter for ships?
+  Have you sent galleys from your beach--
+  Are you graded--a safe crescent,
+  Where the tide lifts them back to port?
+  Are you full and sweet,
+  Tempting the quiet
+  To depart in their trading ships?
+
+  Nay, you are great, fierce, evil--
+  You are the land-blight--
+  You have tempted men,
+  But they perished on your cliffs.
+
+  Your lights are but dank shoals,
+  Slate and pebbles and wet shells
+  And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.
+
+  It was evil--evil
+  When they found you--
+  When the quiet men looked at you.
+  They sought a headland,
+  Shaded with ledge of cliff
+  From the wind-blast.
+
+  But you--you are unsheltered--
+  Cut with the weight of wind.
+  You shudder when it strikes,
+  Then lift, swelled with the blast.
+  You sink as the tide sinks.
+  You shrill under the hail, and sound
+  Thunder when thunder sounds.
+
+  You are useless.
+  When the tides swirl,
+  Your boulders cut and wreck
+  The staggering ships.
+
+
+II
+
+  You are useless,
+  O grave, O beautiful.
+  The landsmen tell it--I have heard
+  You are useless.
+
+  And the wind sounds with this
+  And the sea,
+  Where rollers shot with blue
+  Cut under deeper blue.
+
+  O but stay tender, enchanted,
+  Where wave-lengths cut you
+  Apart from all the rest.
+  For we have found you.
+  We watch the splendour of you.
+  We thread throat on throat of freesia
+  For your shelf.
+
+  You are not forgot,
+  O plunder of lilies--
+  Honey is not more sweet
+  Than the salt stretch of your beach.
+
+
+III
+
+  Stay--stay--
+  But terror has caught us now.
+  We passed the men in ships.
+  We dared deeper than the fisher-folk,
+  And you strike us with terror,
+  O bright shaft.
+
+  Flame passes under us,
+  And sparks that unknot the flesh,
+  Sorrow, splitting bone from bone--
+  Splendour athwart our eyes,
+  And rifts in the splendour--
+  Sparks and scattered light.
+
+  Many warned of this.
+  Men said:
+  There are wrecks on the fore-beach.
+  Wind will beat your ship.
+  There is no shelter in that headland.
+  It is useless waste, that edge,
+  That front of rock.
+  Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers--
+  None venture to that spot.
+
+
+IV
+
+  But hail--
+  As the tide slackens,
+  As the wind beats out,
+  We hail this shore.
+  We sing to you,
+  Spirit between the headlands
+  And the further rocks.
+
+  Though oak-beams split,
+  Though boats and sea-men flounder,
+  And the strait grind sand with sand
+  And cut boulders to sand and drift--
+
+  Your eyes have pardoned our faults.
+  Your hands have touched us.
+  You have leaned forward a little
+  And the waves can never thrust us back
+  From the splendour of your ragged coast.
+
+
+
+
+TEMPLE--THE CLIFF
+
+
+I
+
+  Great, bright portal,
+  Shelf of rock,
+  Rocks fitted in long ledges,
+  Rocks fitted to dark, to silver-granite,
+  To lighter rock--
+  Clean cut, white against white.
+
+  High--high--and no hill-goat
+  Tramples--no mountain-sheep
+  Has set foot on your fine grass.
+  You lift, you are the world-edge,
+  Pillar for the sky-arch.
+
+  The world heaved--
+  We are next to the sky.
+  Over us, sea-hawks shout,
+  Gulls sweep past.
+  The terrible breakers are silent
+  From this place.
+
+  Below us, on the rock-edge,
+  Where earth is caught in the fissures
+  Of the jagged cliff,
+  A small tree stiffens in the gale,
+  It bends--but its white flowers
+  Are fragrant at this height.
+
+  And under and under,
+  The wind booms.
+  It whistles, it thunders,
+  It growls--it presses the grass
+  Beneath its great feet.
+
+
+II
+
+  I said:
+  Forever and forever must I follow you
+  Through the stones?
+  I catch at you--you lurch.
+  You are quicker than my hand-grasp.
+
+  I wondered at you.
+  I shouted--dear--mysterious--beautiful--
+  White myrtle-flesh.
+
+  I was splintered and torn.
+  The hill-path mounted
+  Swifter than my feet.
+
+  Could a dæmon avenge this hurt,
+  I would cry to him--could a ghost,
+  I would shout--O evil,
+  Follow this god,
+  Taunt him with his evil and his vice.
+
+
+III
+
+  Shall I hurl myself from here,
+  Shall I leap and be nearer you?
+  Shall I drop, beloved, beloved,
+  Ankle against ankle?
+  Would you pity me, O white breast?
+
+  If I woke, would you pity me,
+  Would our eyes meet?
+
+  Have you heard,
+  Do you know how I climbed this rock?
+  My breath caught, I lurched forward--
+  I stumbled in the ground-myrtle.
+
+  Have you heard, O god seated on the cliff,
+  How far toward the ledges of your house,
+  How far I had to walk?
+
+
+IV
+
+  Over me the wind swirls.
+  I have stood on your portal
+  And I know--
+  You are further than this,
+  Still further on another cliff.
+
+
+
+
+MID-DAY
+
+
+  The light beats upon me.
+  I am startled--
+  A split leaf crackles on the paved floor--
+  I am anguished--defeated.
+
+  A slight wind shakes the seed-pods.
+  My thoughts are spent
+  As the black seeds.
+  My thoughts tear me.
+  I dread their fever--
+  I am scattered in its whirl.
+  I am scattered like
+  The hot shrivelled seeds.
+
+  The shrivelled seeds
+  Are spilt on the path.
+  The grass bends with dust.
+  The grape slips
+  Under its crackled leaf:
+  Yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
+  And the blackened stalks of mint,
+  The poplar is bright on the hill,
+  The poplar spreads out,
+  Deep-rooted among trees.
+
+  O poplar, you are great
+  Among the hill-stones,
+  While I perish on the path
+  Among the crevices of the rocks.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+
+
+
+
+ARIZONA
+
+
+THE WINDMILLS
+
+  The windmills, like great sunflowers of steel,
+  Lift themselves proudly over the straggling houses;
+  And at their feet the deep blue-green alfalfa
+  Cuts the desert like the stroke of a sword.
+
+  Yellow melon flowers
+  Crawl beneath the withered peach-trees;
+  A date-palm throws its heavy fronds of steel
+  Against the scoured metallic sky.
+
+  The houses, doubled-roofed for coolness,
+  Cower amid the manzanita scrub.
+  A man with jingling spurs
+  Walks heavily out of a vine-bowered doorway,
+  Mounts his pony, rides away.
+
+  The windmills stare at the sun.
+  The yellow earth cracks and blisters.
+  Everything is still.
+
+  In the afternoon
+  The wind takes dry waves of heat and tosses them,
+  Mingled with dust, up and down the streets,
+  Against the belfry with its green bells:
+
+  And, after sunset, when the sky
+  Becomes a green and orange fan,
+  The windmills, like great sunflowers on dried stalks,
+  Stare hard at the sun they cannot follow.
+
+  Turning, turning, forever turning
+  In the chill night-wind that sweeps over the valley,
+  With the shriek and the clank of the pumps groaning beneath them,
+  And the choking gurgle of tepid water.
+
+
+MEXICAN QUARTER
+
+  By an alley lined with tumble-down shacks
+  And street-lamps askew, half-sputtering,
+  Feebly glimmering on gutters choked with filth and dogs
+  Scratching their mangy backs:
+  Half-naked children are running about,
+  Women puff cigarettes in black doorways,
+  Crickets are crying.
+  Men slouch sullenly
+  Into the shadows:
+  Behind a hedge of cactus,
+  The smell of a dead horse
+  Mingles with the smell of tamales frying.
+
+  And a girl in a black lace shawl
+  Sits in a rickety chair by the square of an unglazed window,
+  And sees the explosion of the stars
+  Softly poised on a velvet sky.
+  And she is humming to herself:--
+  “Stars, if I could reach you,
+  (You are so very clear that it seems as if I could reach you)
+  I would give you all to Madonna's image,
+  On the grey-plastered altar behind the paper flowers,
+  So that Juan would come back to me,
+  And we could live again those lazy burning hours
+  Forgetting the tap of my fan and my sharp words.
+  And I would only keep four of you,
+  Those two blue-white ones overhead,
+  To hang in my ears;
+  And those two orange ones yonder,
+  To fasten on my shoe-buckles.”
+
+  A little further along the street
+  A man sits stringing a brown guitar.
+  The smoke of his cigarette curls round his head,
+  And he, too, is humming, but other words:
+  “Think not that at your window I wait;
+  New love is better, the old is turned to hate.
+  Fate! Fate! All things pass away;
+  Life is forever, youth is for a day.
+  Love again if you may
+  Before the stars are blown out of the sky
+  And the crickets die;
+  Babylon and Samarkand
+  Are mud walls in a waste of sand.”
+
+
+RAIN IN THE DESERT
+
+  The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder
+  Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning
+  Its altar-fires of pinyon and of toyon for the day.
+
+  The old priests sleep, white-shrouded,
+  Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely
+      feathered;
+  On every mummied face there glows a smile.
+
+  The sun is rolling slowly
+  Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents,
+  Coiling, uncoiling, blue-black, sparked with fires.
+
+  The old dead priests
+  Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them,
+  Above the smell of scorching oozing pinyon,
+  The acrid smell of rain.
+
+  And now the showers
+  Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers:
+  Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring,
+  Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.
+
+
+CLOUDS ACROSS THE CANYON
+
+  Shadows of clouds
+  March across the canyon,
+  Shadows of blue hands passing
+  Over a curtain of flame.
+
+  Clutching, staggering, upstriking,
+  Darting in blue-black fury,
+  To where pinnacles, green and orange,
+  Await.
+
+  The winds are battling and striving to break them:
+  Thin lightnings spit and flicker,
+  The peaks seem a dance of scarlet demons
+  Flitting amid the shadows.
+
+  Grey rain-curtains wave afar off,
+  Wisps of vapour curl and vanish.
+  The sun throws soft shafts of golden light
+  Over rose-buttressed palisades.
+
+  Now the clouds are a lazy procession;
+  Blue balloons bobbing solemnly
+  Over black-dappled walls,
+
+  Where rise sharp-fretted, golden-roofed cathedrals
+  Exultantly, and split the sky with light.
+
+
+
+
+THE UNQUIET STREET
+
+
+  By day and night this street is not still:
+  Omnibuses with red tail-lamps,
+  Taxicabs with shiny eyes,
+  Rumble, shunning its ugliness.
+  It is corrugated with wheel-ruts,
+  It is dented and pockmarked with traffic,
+  It has no time for sleep.
+  It heaves its old scarred countenance
+  Skyward between the buildings
+  And never says a word.
+
+  On rainy nights
+  It dully gleams
+  Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake:
+  And over it hang arc-lamps,
+  Blue-white death-lilies on black stems.
+
+
+
+
+IN THE THEATRE
+
+
+  Darkness in the theatre:
+  Darkness and a multitude
+  Assembled in the darkness.
+  These who every day perform
+  The unique tragi-comedy
+  Of birth and death;
+  Now press upon each other,
+  Directing the irresistible weight of their thoughts to the stage.
+
+  A great broad shaft of calcium light
+  Cleaves, like a stroke of a sword, the darkness:
+  And, at the end of it,
+  A tiny spot which is the red nose of a comedian
+  Marks the goal of the spot-light and the eyes which people the
+      darkness.
+
+
+
+
+SHIPS IN THE HARBOUR
+
+
+  Like a flock of great blue cranes
+  Resting upon the water,
+  The ships assemble at morning, when the grey light wakes in the
+      east.
+
+  Weary, no longer flying,
+  Over the hissing spindrift, through the ravelled clutching sea;
+  No longer over the tops of the waves spinning along north-eastward,
+  In a great irregular wedge before the trade-wind far from land.
+
+  But drowsy, mournful, silent,
+  Yet under their bulged projecting bows runs the silver foam of the
+      sunlight,
+  And rebelliously they shake out their plumage of sails, wet and
+      heavy with the rain.
+
+
+
+
+THE EMPTY HOUSE
+
+
+  Out from my window-sill I lean,
+  And see a straight four-storied row
+  Of houses.
+
+  Once, long ago,
+  These had their glory: they were built
+  In the fair palmy days before
+  The Civil War when all the seas
+  Saw the white sails of Yankee ships
+  Scurrying home with spice and gold.
+  And many of these houses hung
+  Proud wisps of crêpe upon their doors
+  On hearing that some son had died
+  At Chancellorsville or Fredericksburg,
+  Their offering to the Union side.
+
+  But man's forever drifting will
+  Again took hold of him--again
+  The fashionable quarter shifted: soon,
+  Before some plastering had dried,
+  Society packed up, went away.
+  Now, could you see these houses,
+  You would not think they ever had a prime:
+  A grim four-storied serried row
+  Of rooms to let--at any time
+  Tenants are moving in or out.
+  Families drifting down or struggling still
+  To keep their heads up and not drown.
+  A tragic busy pettiness
+  Has settled on them all,
+  But one.
+  And in that one, when I came here,
+  A family lived, but with its trunks packed up,
+  And now that family's gone.
+
+  Its shutterless blindless windows let you look inside
+  And see the sunlight chequering the bare floor
+  With patterns from the window-frames
+  All day.
+  Its backyard neatly swept,
+  Contains no crammed ash-barrels and no lines
+  For clothes to flap about on;
+  It does not look by day as if it had
+  Ever a living soul beneath its roof.
+  It seems to mark a gap in the grim line,
+  No house at all, but an unfinished shell.
+
+  But when the windows up and down those faces
+  With yellow glimmer of gas, blaze forth;
+  I know it is the only house that lives
+  In all that grim four-storied row.
+  The others are mere shelves, overcrowded layers,
+  Of warring, separate personalities;
+  A jangle and a tangle of emotions,
+  Without a single meaning running through them;
+  But it, the empty house, has mastered all its secrets.
+  Behind its silent swarthy face,
+  Eyelessly proud,
+  It watches, it is master;
+  It sees the other houses still incessantly learning
+  The lesson it remembers,
+  And which it can repeat the last dim syllable of.
+
+
+
+
+THE SKATERS
+
+_To A. D. R._
+
+
+  Black swallows swooping or gliding
+  In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;
+  The skaters skim over the frozen river.
+  And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the
+      surface,
+  Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.
+
+
+
+
+F. S. FLINT
+
+
+
+
+EASTER
+
+
+  Friend
+  we will take the path that leads
+  down from the flagstaff by the pond
+  through the gorse thickets;
+  see, the golden spikes have thrust their points through,
+  and last year's bracken lies yellow-brown and trampled.
+  The sapling birch-groves have shown no leaf,
+  and the wistarias on the desolate pergola
+  are shorn and ashen.
+  We lurch on, and, stumbling,
+  touch each other.
+  You do not shrink, friend.
+  There you, and I here,
+  side by side, we go, jesting.
+  We do not seek, we do not avoid, contact.
+
+  Here is the road,
+  with the budding elm-trees lining it,
+  and there the low gate in the wall;
+  on the other side, the people.
+  Are they not aliens?
+  You and I for a moment see them
+  shabby of limb and soul,
+  patched up to make shift.
+  We laugh and strengthen each other;
+  But the evil is done.
+
+  Is not the whole park made for them,
+  and the bushes and plants and trees and grasses,
+  have they not grown to their standard?
+  The paths are worn to the gravel with their feet;
+  the green moss will not carpet them.
+  The flags of the stone steps are hollowed;
+  and you and I must strive to remain two
+  and not to merge in the multitude.
+  It impinges on us; it separates us;
+  we shrink from it; we brave through it;
+  we laugh; we jest; we jeer;
+  and we save the fragments of our souls.
+
+  Between two clipped privet hedges now;
+  we will close our eyes for life's sake
+  to life's patches.
+  Here, maybe, there is quiet;
+  pass first under the bare branches,
+  beyond is a pool flanked with sedge,
+  and a swan among water-lilies.
+  But here too is a group
+  of men and women and children;
+  and the swan has forgotten its pride;
+  it thrusts its white neck among them,
+  and gobbles at nothing;
+  then tires of the cheat and sails off;
+  but its breast urges before it
+  a sheet of sodden newspaper
+  that, drifting away,
+  reveals beneath the immaculate white splendour
+  of its neck and wings
+  a breast black with scum.
+
+  Friend, we are beaten.
+
+
+
+
+OGRE
+
+
+  Through the open window can be seen
+  the poplars at the end of the garden
+  shaking in the wind,
+  a wall of green leaves so high
+  that the sky is shut off.
+
+  On the white table-cloth
+  a rose in a vase
+  --centre of a sphere of odour--
+  contemplates the crumbs and crusts
+  left from a meal:
+  cups, saucers, plates lie
+  here and there.
+
+  And a sparrow flies by the open window,
+  stops for a moment,
+  flutters his wings rapidly,
+  and climbs an aerial ladder
+  with his claws
+  that work close in
+  to his soft, brown-grey belly.
+
+  But behind the table is the face of a man.
+
+  The bird flies off.
+
+
+
+
+CONES
+
+
+  The blue mist of after-rain
+  fills all the trees;
+
+  the sunlight gilds the tops
+  of the poplar spires, far off,
+  behind the houses.
+
+  Here a branch sways
+  and there
+            a sparrow twitters.
+
+  The curtain's hem, rose-embroidered,
+  flutters, and half reveals
+  a burnt-red chimney pot.
+
+  The quiet in the room
+  bears patiently
+  a footfall on the street.
+
+
+
+
+GLOOM
+
+
+  I sat there in the dark
+  of the room and of my mind
+  thinking of men's treasons and bad faith,
+  sinking into the pit of my own weakness
+  before their strength of cunning.
+  Out over the gardens came the sound of some one
+  playing five-finger exercises on the piano.
+
+  Then
+  I gathered up within me all my powers
+  until outside of me was nothing:
+  I was all--
+  all stubborn, fighting sadness and revulsion.
+
+  And one came from the garden quietly,
+  and stood beside me.
+  She laid her hand on my hair;
+  she laid her cheek on my forehead,--
+  and caressed me with it;
+  but all my being rose to my forehead
+  to fight against this outside thing.
+  Something in me became angry;
+  withstood like a wall,
+  and would allow no entrance;
+  I hated her.
+
+  “What is the matter with you, dear?” she said.
+  “Nothing,” I answered,
+  “I am thinking.”
+  She stroked my hair and went away;
+  and I was still gloomy, angry, stubborn.
+
+  Then I thought:
+  she has gone away; she is hurt;
+  she does not know
+  what poison has been working in me.
+
+  Then I thought:
+  upstairs, her child is sleeping;
+  and I felt the presence
+  of the fields we had walked over, the roads we had followed,
+  the flowers we had watched together,
+  before it came.
+
+  She had touched my hair, and only then did I feel it;
+  And I loved her once again.
+
+  And I came away,
+  full of the sweet and bitter juices of life;
+  and I lit the lamp in my room,
+  and made this poem.
+
+
+
+
+TERROR
+
+
+  Eyes are tired;
+  the lamp burns,
+  and in its circle of light
+  papers and books lie
+  where chance and life
+  have placed them.
+
+  Silence sings all around me;
+  my head is bound with a band;
+  outside in the street a few footsteps;
+  a clock strikes the hour.
+
+  I gaze, and my eyes close,
+  slowly:
+
+  I doze; but the moment before sleep,
+  a voice calls my name
+  in my ear,
+  and the shock jolts my heart:
+  but when I open my eyes,
+  and look, first left, and then right ...
+
+  no one is there.
+
+
+
+
+CHALFONT SAINT GILES
+
+
+  The low graves are all grown over
+  with forget-me-not,
+  and a rich-green grass
+  links each with each.
+  Old family vaults,
+  some within railings,
+  stand here and there,
+  crumbling, moss-eaten,
+  with the ivy growing up them
+  and diagonally across
+  the top projecting slab.
+  And over the vaults
+  lean the great lilac bushes
+  with their heart-shaped leaves
+  and their purple and white blossom.
+  A wall of ivy shuts off the darkness
+  of the elm-wood and the larches.
+
+  Walk quietly
+  along the mossy paths;
+  the stones of the humble dead
+  are hidden behind the blue mantle
+  of their forget-me-nots;
+  and before one grave so hidden
+  a widow kneels, with head bowed,
+  and the crape falling
+  over her shoulders.
+
+  The bells for evening church are ringing,
+  and the people come gravely
+  and with red, sun-burnt faces
+  through the gates in the wall.
+
+  Pass on;
+  this is the church-porch,
+  and within the bell-ringers,
+  men of the village in their Sunday clothes,
+  pull their bob-major
+  on the red and white grip
+  of the bell-ropes, that fly up,
+  and then fall snakily.
+  They stand there given wholly
+  to the rhythm and swing
+  of their traditional movements.
+
+  And the people pass between them
+  into the church;
+  but we are too sad and too reverent
+  to enter.
+
+
+
+
+WAR-TIME
+
+
+  If I go out of the door,
+  it will not be
+  to take the road to the left that leads
+  past the bovine quiet of houses
+  brooding over the cud of their daily content,
+  even though
+  the tranquillity of their gardens
+  is a lure that once was stronger;
+  even though
+  from privet hedge and mottled laurel
+  the young green peeps,
+  and the daffodils
+  and the yellow and white and purple crocuses
+  laugh from the smooth mould
+  of the garden beds
+  to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.
+  I shall not see
+  the almond blossom shaming
+  the soot-black boughs.
+
+  But to the right the road will lead me
+  to greater and greater disquiet;
+  into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses,
+  and the dust, the tattered paper--
+  the detritus of a city--
+  that swirls in the air behind them.
+  I will pass the shops where the prices
+  are judged day by day by the people,
+  and come to the place where five roads meet
+  with five tram-routes,
+  and where amid the din
+  of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'busses,
+  the clangorous tram-cars,
+  the news is shouted,
+  and soldiers gather, off-duty.
+
+  Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever;
+  and I can make,
+  as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,
+  no spring and no woman's beauty,
+  while that is burning.
+
+
+
+
+D. H. LAWRENCE
+
+
+
+
+ERINNYES
+
+
+  There has been so much noise,
+  Bleeding and shouting and dying,
+  Clamour of death.
+
+  There are so many dead,
+  Many have died unconsenting,
+  Their ghosts are angry, unappeased.
+
+  So many ghosts among us,
+  Invisible, yet strong,
+  Between me and thee, so many ghosts of the slain.
+
+  They come back, over the white sea, in the mist,
+  Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts
+  Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea.
+
+  They set foot on this land to which they have the right,
+  They return relentlessly, in the silence one knows their tread,
+  Multitudinous, endless, the ghosts coming home again.
+
+  They watch us, they press on us,
+  They press their claim upon us,
+  They are angry with us.
+
+  What do they want?
+  We are driven mad,
+  Madly we rush hither and thither:
+  Shouting, “Revenge, Revenge,”
+  Crying, “Pour out the blood of the foe,”
+  Seeking to appease with blood the insistent ghosts.
+
+  Out of blood rise up new ghosts,
+  Grey, stern, angry, unsatisfied,
+  The more we slay and are slain, the more we raise up new ghosts
+      against us.
+
+  Till we are mad with terror, seeing the slain
+  Victorious, grey, grisly ghosts in our streets,
+  Grey, unappeased ghosts seated in the music-halls.
+  The dead triumphant, and the quick cast down,
+  The dead, unassuaged and angry, silencing us,
+  Making us pale and bloodless, without resistance.
+
+     *     *     *     *     *
+
+  What do they want, the ghosts, what is it
+  They demand as they stand in menace over against us?
+  How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?
+
+  Since from blood poured out rise only ghosts again,
+  What shall we do, what shall we give to them?
+  What do they want, forever there on our threshold?
+
+  Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home,
+  And in the silence, reverently, welcome them,
+  And give them place and honour and service meet?
+
+  For one year's space, attend on our angry dead,
+  Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet,
+  Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence,
+  Then lead them to the gates of the unknown,
+  And bid farewell, oh stately travellers,
+  And wait till they are lost upon our sight.
+
+  Then we shall turn us home again to life
+  Knowing our dead are fitly housed in death,
+  Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily.
+
+  And we shall have new peace in this our life,
+  New joy to give more life, new bliss to live,
+  Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.
+
+
+
+
+PERFIDY
+
+
+  Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door,
+  And I lingered on the threshold with my hand
+  Upraised to knock and knock once more:
+  Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor,
+  Hollow re-echoed my heart.
+
+  The low-hung lamps stretched down the road
+  With shadows drifting underneath,
+  With a music of soft, melodious feet
+  Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet
+  The low-hung light of her eyes.
+
+  The golden lamps down the street went out,
+  The last car trailed the night behind,
+  And I in the darkness wandered about
+  With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt
+  In the dying lamp of my love.
+
+  Two brown ponies trotting slowly
+  Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink.
+  The dark van drummed down the distance slowly,
+  And city stars so high and holy
+  Drew nearer to look in the streets.
+
+  A hasting car swept shameful past.
+  I saw her hid in the shadow,
+  I saw her step to the curb, and fast
+  Run to the silent door, where last
+  I had stood with my hand uplifted.
+  She clung to the door in her haste to enter,
+  Entered, and quickly cast
+  It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.
+
+
+
+
+AT THE WINDOW
+
+
+  The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
+  Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical
+      laughter;
+  While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
+
+  Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede
+  Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after
+  The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.
+
+  The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass
+  To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of
+      darkness
+  That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.
+
+
+
+
+IN TROUBLE AND SHAME
+
+
+        I look at the swaling sunset
+        And wish I could go also
+  Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.
+
+        I wish that I could go
+  Through the red doors where I could put off
+        My shame like shoes in the porch
+        My pain like garments,
+        And leave my flesh discarded lying
+        Like luggage of some departed traveller
+        Gone one knows not where.
+
+        Then I would turn round
+  And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,
+        I would laugh with joy.
+
+
+
+
+BROODING GRIEF
+
+
+  A yellow leaf from the darkness
+  Hops like a frog before me--
+  --Why should I start and stand still?
+
+  I was watching the woman that bore me
+  Stretched in the brindled darkness
+  Of the sick-room, rigid with will
+  To die--
+  And the quick leaf tore me
+  Back to this rainy swill
+  Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.
+
+
+
+
+AMY LOWELL
+
+
+
+
+PATTERNS
+
+
+  I walk down the garden paths,
+  And all the daffodils
+  Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
+  I walk down the patterned garden paths
+  In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+  With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
+  I too am a rare
+  Pattern. As I wander down
+  The garden paths.
+
+  My dress is richly figured,
+  And the train
+  Makes a pink and silver stain
+  On the gravel, and the thrift
+  Of the borders.
+  Just a plate of current fashion,
+  Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
+  Not a softness anywhere about me,
+  Only whale-bone and brocade.
+  And I sink on a seat in the shade
+  Of a lime tree. For my passion
+  Wars against the stiff brocade.
+  The daffodils and squills
+  Flutter in the breeze
+  As they please.
+  And I weep;
+  For the lime tree is in blossom
+  And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
+
+  And the plashing of waterdrops
+  In the marble fountain
+  Comes down the garden paths.
+  The dripping never stops.
+  Underneath my stiffened gown
+  Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
+  A basin in the midst of hedges grown
+  So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
+  But she guesses he is near,
+  And the sliding of the water
+  Seems the stroking of a dear
+  Hand upon her.
+  What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
+  I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
+  All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
+
+  I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
+  And he would stumble after
+  Bewildered by my laughter.
+  I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles
+      on his shoes.
+  I would choose
+  To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
+  A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
+  Till he caught me in the shade,
+  And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
+  Aching, melting, unafraid.
+  With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
+  And the plopping of the waterdrops,
+  All about us in the open afternoon--
+  I am very like to swoon
+  With the weight of this brocade,
+  For the sun sifts through the shade.
+
+  Underneath the fallen blossom
+  In my bosom,
+  Is a letter I have hid.
+  It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
+  “Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
+  Died in action Thursday sen'night.”
+  As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
+  The letters squirmed like snakes.
+  “Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.
+  “No,” I told him.
+  “See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
+  No, no answer.”
+  And I walked into the garden,
+  Up and down the patterned paths,
+  In my stiff, correct brocade.
+  The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
+  Each one.
+  I stood upright too,
+  Held rigid to the pattern
+  By the stiffness of my gown.
+  Up and down I walked,
+  Up and down.
+
+  In a month he would have been my husband.
+  In a month, here, underneath this lime,
+  We would have broke the pattern.
+  He for me, and I for him,
+  He as Colonel, I as Lady,
+  On this shady seat.
+  He had a whim
+  That sunlight carried blessing.
+  And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
+  Now he is dead.
+
+  In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
+  Up and down
+  The patterned garden paths
+  In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+  The squills and daffodils
+  Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
+  I shall go
+  Up and down,
+  In my gown.
+  Gorgeously arrayed,
+  Boned and stayed.
+  And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
+  By each button, hook, and lace.
+  For the man who should loose me is dead,
+  Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
+  In a pattern called a war.
+  Christ! What are patterns for?
+
+
+
+
+SPRING DAY
+
+
+BATH
+
+The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and
+narcissus in the air.
+
+The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the
+water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish white. It
+cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright
+light.
+
+Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance,
+dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a
+stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the
+planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the
+green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day
+is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too
+bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the
+sun spots.
+
+The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a
+whirl of tulips and narcissus in the air.
+
+
+BREAKFAST TABLE
+
+In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and
+white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and
+smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth
+falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the
+silver coffee pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they
+whirl, and twirl--and my eyes begin to smart, the little white,
+dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful the rolls
+of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of
+butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream,
+flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a
+stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into
+the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher,
+fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and
+croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells
+in the air.
+
+
+WALK
+
+Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without
+touching.
+
+On the sidewalk boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber
+and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise.
+The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass
+marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters
+under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air,
+but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the
+street, and a girl with a gay spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust
+and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent
+leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the
+wind rustles among the flowers on her hat.
+
+A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green
+and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly sprinkling clear
+water over the white dust. Clear zig-zagging water which smells of
+tulips and narcissus.
+
+The thickening branches make a pink “grisaille” against the blue sky.
+
+Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in
+time. Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the
+white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and
+trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of
+rose-colour and green.
+
+A motor car cuts a swath through the bright air, sharp-beaked,
+irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and
+sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is
+quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.
+
+
+MIDDAY AND AFTERNOON
+
+Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The
+stock-still brick façade of an old church, against which the waves of
+people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets.
+Eddies of light in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue,
+gold, purple jars, darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and
+tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirling of machine belts,
+blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on
+an electric car, and the jar of a church bell knocking against the
+metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust,
+thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me,
+reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging,
+plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic
+insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the
+press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and
+narcissus.
+
+The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the
+shop-windows putting out their contents in a flood of flame.
+
+
+NIGHT AND SLEEP
+
+The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out
+along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and
+blow into patterns of fire-flowers, as the sky fades. Trades scream
+in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that
+means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver is the
+sidelong sliver of a watch-maker's sign with its length on another
+street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a
+tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should
+she heed ours?
+
+I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees
+and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and
+clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no
+flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and
+narcissus.
+
+My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the
+distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower heads with no
+stems. I cannot see the beer glass, nor the letters of the
+restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together
+make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden
+stirring and blowing for the Spring.
+
+The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in
+the air.
+
+Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams
+into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer
+tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their
+horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour
+of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair ... I smell the stars ...
+they are like tulips and narcissus ... I smell them in the air.
+
+
+
+
+STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES, “GROTESQUES” FOR STRING QUARTET
+
+
+    This Quartet was played from the manuscript by the Flonzaley
+    Quartet during their season of 1915 and 1916. The poem is based
+    upon the programme which M. Stravinsky appended to his piece, and
+    is an attempt to reproduce the sound and movement of the music as
+    far as is possible in another medium.
+
+
+FIRST MOVEMENT
+
+  Thin-voiced, nasal pipes
+  Drawing sound out and out
+  Until it is a screeching thread,
+  Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,
+  It hurts.
+  Whee-e-e!
+  Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!
+  There are drums here,
+  Banging,
+  And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones
+  Of the market-place.
+  Whee-e-e!
+  Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,
+  And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones,
+  Clumsy and hard they are,
+  And uneven,
+  Losing half a beat
+  Because the stones are slippery.
+  Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!
+  The thin Spring leaves
+  Shake to the banging of shoes.
+  Shoes beat, slap,
+  Shuffle, rap,
+  And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,
+  Little pigs' voices
+  Weaving among the dancers,
+  A fine, white thread
+  Linking up the dancers.
+  Bang! Bump! Tong!
+  Petticoats,
+  Stockings,
+  Sabots,
+  Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
+  Red, blue, yellow,
+  Drunkenness steaming in colours;
+  Red, yellow, blue,
+  Colours and flesh weaving together,
+  In and out, with the dance,
+  Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
+  Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
+  White and painful,
+  White and--
+  Bump!
+  Tong!
+
+
+SECOND MOVEMENT
+
+  Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,
+  A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,
+  Cherry petals fall and flutter,
+  And the white Pierrot,
+  Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,
+  Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,
+  Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth
+  With his finger-nails.
+
+
+THIRD MOVEMENT
+
+  An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,
+  It wheezes and coughs.
+  The nave is blue with incense,
+  Writhing, twisting,
+  Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.
+          _Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine;_
+  The priests whine their bastard Latin
+  And the censers swing and click.
+  The priests walk endlessly
+  Round and round,
+  Droning their Latin
+  Off the key.
+  The organ crashes out in a flaring chord
+  And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.
+          _Dies illa, dies iræ,_
+          _Calamitatis et miseriæ,_
+          _Dies magna et amara valde._
+  A wind rattles the leaded windows.
+  The little pear-shaped candle-flames leap and flutter.
+          _Dies illa, dies iræ,_
+  The swaying smoke drifts over the altar.
+          _Calamitatis et miseriæ,_
+  The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water.
+          _Dies magna et amara valde._
+  And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them,
+  Stretched upon a bier.
+  His ears are stone to the organ,
+  His eyes are flint to the candles,
+  His body is ice to the water.
+  Chant, priests,
+  Whine, shuffle, genuflect.
+  He will always be as rigid as he is now
+  Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.
+          _Lacrymosa dies illa,_
+          _Qua resurget ex favilla_
+          _Judicandus homo reus._
+  Above the grey pillars, the roof is in darkness.
+
+
+
+
+  THE END
+
+
+
+
+BIBLIOGRAPHY
+
+
+  RICHARD ALDINGTON
+    _Images._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915; and The Four Seas
+      Company, Boston, 1916.
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+    _Fire and Wine._ Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913.
+    _Fool's Gold._ Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+    _The Dominant City._ Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+    _The Book of Nature._ Constable & Co., London, 1913.
+    _Visions of the Evening._ Erskine McDonald, London, 1913.
+    _Irradiations: Sand and Spray._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston,
+      1915.
+    _Goblins and Pagodas._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1916.
+
+  F. S. FLINT
+    _The Net of Stars._ Elkin Mathews, London, 1909.
+    _Cadences._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915.
+
+  D. H. LAWRENCE
+    _Love Poems and Others._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
+    Prose: _The White Peacock._ William Heinemann, London, 1911.
+           _The Trespasser._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1912.
+           _Sons and Lovers._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
+           _The Prussian Officer._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1914.
+           _The Rainbow._ Methuen & Co., London, 1915.
+    Drama: _The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd._ Mitchell Kennerley, New
+      York, 1914.
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+    _A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass._ Houghton Mifflin Company,
+      Boston, 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1915.
+    _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed._ The Macmillan Company, New York;
+      and Macmillan & Co., London, 1914.
+    Prose: _Six French Poets._ The Macmillan Company, New York; and
+      Macmillan and Co., London, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
+
+
+The following printer's errors have been corrected:
+
+  “from” corrected to “form” (page viii)
+  “sweeling” corrected to “swaling” (page 73)
+
+The following unusual spellings have been retained:
+
+  “anarchaic” (page vii)
+
+Some of the poems in this anthology were also included in the
+following books:
+
+  H. D.
+    _Sea Garden._ Constable & Co., London, 1916.
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+    _Breakers and Granite._ The Macmillan Company, New York, 1921.
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+    _Men, Women and Ghosts._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New
+      York, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by 
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by 
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+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: Some Imagist Poets, 1916
+       An Annual Anthology
+
+Author: Richard Aldington
+        Hilda Doolittle
+        John Gould Fletcher
+        Amy Lowell
+        D. H. Lawrence
+        F. S. Flint
+
+Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37469]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
+produced from scanned images of public domain material
+from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The New Poetry Series
+
+PUBLISHED BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+
+
+IRRADIATIONS. SAND AND SPRAY. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS.
+
+JAPANESE LYRICS. Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN.
+
+AFTERNOONS OF APRIL. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING.
+
+THE CLOISTER: A VERSE DRAMA. EMILE VERHAEREN.
+
+INTERFLOW. GEOFFREY C. FABER.
+
+STILLWATER PASTORALS AND OTHER POEMS. PAUL SHIVELL.
+
+IDOLS. WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG.
+
+TURNS AND MOVIES, AND OTHER TALES IN VERSE. CONRAD AIKEN.
+
+ROADS. GRACE FALLOW NORTON.
+
+GOBLINS AND PAGODAS. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS. _1916._
+
+A SONG OF THE GUNS. GILBERT FRANKAU.
+
+MOTHERS AND MEN. HAROLD T. PULSIFER.
+
+
+
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS, _1916_
+
+
+
+
+  SOME IMAGIST POETS
+  _1916_
+
+  AN ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  BOSTON AND NEW YORK
+  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+  The Riverside Press Cambridge
+  1916
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
+
+  _Published May 1916_
+
+  THIRD IMPRESSION
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+In bringing the second volume of _Some Imagist Poets_ before the
+public, the authors wish to express their gratitude for the interest
+which the 1915 volume aroused. The discussion of it was widespread,
+and even those critics out of sympathy with Imagist tenets accorded
+it much space. In the Preface to that book, we endeavoured to present
+those tenets in a succinct form. But the very brevity we employed has
+lead to a great deal of misunderstanding. We have decided, therefore,
+to explain the laws which govern us a little more fully. A few people
+may understand, and the rest can merely misunderstand again, a result
+to which we are quite accustomed.
+
+In the first place "Imagism" does not mean merely the presentation of
+pictures. "Imagism" refers to the manner of presentation, not to the
+subject. It means a clear presentation of whatever the author wishes
+to convey. Now he may wish to convey a mood of indecision, in which
+case the poem should be indecisive; he may wish to bring before his
+reader the constantly shifting and changing lights over a landscape,
+or the varying attitudes of mind of a person under strong emotion,
+then his poem must shift and change to present this clearly. The
+"exact" word does not mean the word which exactly describes the
+object in itself, it means the "exact" word which brings the effect
+of that object before the reader as it presented itself to the poet's
+mind at the time of writing the poem. Imagists deal but little with
+similes, although much of their poetry is metaphorical. The reason
+for this is that while acknowledging the figure to be an integral
+part of all poetry, they feel that the constant imposing of one
+figure upon another in the same poem blurs the central effect.
+
+The great French critic, Remy de Gourmont, wrote last Summer in _La
+France_ that the Imagists were the descendants of the French
+_Symbolistes_. In the Preface to his _Livre des Masques_, M. de
+Gourmont has thus described _Symbolisme_: "Individualism in
+literature, liberty of art, abandonment of existing forms.... The
+sole excuse which a man can have for writing is to write down
+himself, to unveil for others the sort of world which mirrors itself
+in his individual glass.... He should create his own aesthetics--and
+we should admit as many aesthetics as there are original minds, and
+judge them for what they are and not what they are not." In this
+sense the Imagists are descendants of the _Symbolistes_; they are
+Individualists.
+
+The only reason that Imagism has seemed so anarchaic and strange to
+English and American reviewers is that their minds do not easily and
+quickly suggest the steps by which modern art has arrived at its
+present position. Its immediate prototype cannot be found in English
+or American literature, we must turn to Europe for it. With Debussy
+and Stravinsky in music, and Gauguin and Matisse in painting, it
+should have been evident to every one that art was entering upon an
+era of change. But music and painting are universal languages, so we
+have become accustomed to new idioms in them, while we still find it
+hard to recognize a changed idiom in literature.
+
+The crux of the situation is just here. It is in the idiom employed.
+Imagism asks to be judged by different standards from those employed
+in Nineteenth-Century art. It is small wonder that Imagist poetry
+should be incomprehensible to men whose sole touchstone for art is
+the literature of one country for a period of four centuries. And it
+is an illuminating fact that among poets and men conversant with many
+poetic idioms, Imagism is rarely misconceived. They may not agree
+with us, but they do not misunderstand us.
+
+This must not be misconstrued into the desire to belittle our
+forerunners. On the contrary, the Imagists have the greatest
+admiration for the past, and humility towards it. But they have been
+caught in the throes of a new birth. The exterior world is changing,
+and with it men's feelings, and every age must express its feelings
+in its own individual way. No art is any more "egoistic" than
+another; all art is an attempt to express the feelings of the artist,
+whether it be couched in narrative form or employ a more personal
+expression.
+
+It is not what Imagists write about which makes them hard of
+comprehension; it is the way they write it. All nations have laws of
+prosody, which undergo changes from time to time. The laws of English
+metrical prosody are well known to every one concerned with the
+subject. But that is only one form of prosody. Other nations have had
+different ones: Anglo-Saxon poetry was founded upon alliteration,
+Greek and Roman was built upon quantity, the Oriental was formed out
+of repetition, and the Japanese Hokku got its effects by an exact and
+never-to-be-added-to series of single syllables. So it is evident
+that poetry can be written in many modes. That the Imagists base much
+of their poetry upon cadence and not upon metre makes them neither
+good nor bad. And no one realizes more than they that no theories nor
+rules make poetry. They claim for their work only that it is sincere.
+
+It is this very fact of "cadence" which has misled so many reviewers,
+until some have been betrayed into saying that the Imagists discard
+rhythm, when rhythm is the most important quality in their technique.
+The definition of _vers libre_ is--a verse-form based upon cadence.
+Now cadence in music is one thing, cadence in poetry quite another,
+since we are not dealing with tone but with rhythm. It is the sense
+of perfect balance of flow and rhythm. Not only must the syllables so
+fall as to increase and continue the movement, but the whole poem
+must be as rounded and recurring as the circular swing of a balanced
+pendulum. It can be fast or slow, it may even jerk, but this perfect
+swing it must have, even its jerks must follow the central movement.
+To illustrate: Suppose a person were given the task of walking, or
+running, round a large circle, with two minutes given to do it in.
+Two minutes which he would just consume if he walked round the circle
+quietly. But in order to make the task easier for him, or harder, as
+the case might be, he was required to complete each half of the
+circle in exactly a minute. No other restrictions were placed upon
+him. He might dawdle in the beginning, and run madly to reach the
+half-circle mark on time, and then complete his task by walking
+steadily round the second half to goal. Or he might leap, and run,
+and skip, and linger in all sorts of ways, making up for slow going
+by fast, and for extra haste by pauses, and varying these movements
+on either lap of the circle as the humour seized him, only so that he
+were just one minute in traversing the first half-circle, and just
+one minute in traversing the second. Another illustration which may
+be employed is that of a Japanese wood-carving where a toad in one
+corner is balanced by a spray of blown flowers in the opposite upper
+one. The flowers are not the same shape as the toad, neither are they
+the same size, but the balance is preserved.
+
+The unit in _vers libre_ is not the foot, the number of the
+syllables, the quantity, or the line. The unit is the strophe, which
+may be the whole poem, or may be only a part. Each strophe is a
+complete circle: in fact, the meaning of the Greek word "strophe" is
+simply that part of the poem which was recited while the chorus were
+making a turn round the altar set up in the centre of the theatre.
+The simile of the circle is more than a simile, therefore; it is a
+fact. Of course the circle need not always be the same size, nor need
+the times allowed to negotiate it be always the same. There is room
+here for an infinite number of variations. Also, circles can be added
+to circles, movement upon movement, to the poem, provided each
+movement completes itself, and ramifies naturally into the next. But
+one thing must be borne in mind: a cadenced poem is written to be
+read aloud, in this way only will its rhythm be felt. Poetry is a
+spoken and not a written art.
+
+The _vers libristes_ are often accused of declaring that they have
+discovered a new thing. Where such an idea started, it is impossible
+to say, certainly none of the better _vers libristes_ was ever guilty
+of so ridiculous a statement. The name _vers libre_ is new, the
+thing, most emphatically, is not. Not new in English poetry, at any
+rate. You will find something very much like it in Dryden's
+_Threnodia Augustalis_; a great deal of Milton's _Samson Agonistes_
+is written in it; and Matthew Arnold's _Philomela_ is a shining
+example of it. Practically all of Henley's _London Voluntaries_ are
+written in it, and (so potent are names) until it was christened
+_vers libre_, no one thought of objecting to it. But the oldest
+reference to _vers libre_ is to be found in Chaucer's _House of
+Fame_, where the Eagle addresses the Poet in these words:
+
+  And nevertheless hast set thy wyt
+  Although that in thy heed full lyte is
+  To make bookes, songes, or dytees
+  In rhyme or elles in cadence.
+
+Commentators have wasted reams of paper in an endeavour to determine
+what Chaucer meant by this. But is it not possible that he meant a
+verse based upon rhythm, but which did not follow the strict metrical
+prosody of his usual practice?
+
+One of the charges frequently brought against the Imagists is that
+they write, not poetry, but "shredded prose." This misconception
+springs from the almost complete ignorance of the public in regard to
+the laws of cadenced verse. But, in fact, what is prose and what is
+poetry? Is it merely a matter of typographical arrangement? Must
+everything which is printed in equal lines, with rhymes at the ends,
+be called poetry, and everything which is printed in a block be
+called prose? Aristotle, who certainly knew more about this subject
+than any one else, declares in his _Rhetoric_ that prose is
+rhythmical without being metrical (that is to say, without insistence
+on any single rhythm), and then goes on to state the feet that are
+employed in prose, making, incidentally, the remark that the iambic
+prevailed in ordinary conversation. The fact is, that there is no
+hard and fast dividing line between prose and poetry. As a French
+poet of distinction, Paul Fort, has said: "Prose and poetry are but
+one instrument, graduated." It is not a question of typography; it is
+not even a question of rules and forms. Poetry is the vision in a
+man's soul which he translates as best he can with the means at his
+disposal.
+
+We are young, we are experimentalists, but we ask to be judged by our
+own standards, not by those which have governed other men at other
+times.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  RICHARD ALDINGTON
+
+  Eros and Psyche                                                   3
+
+  After Two Years                                                   6
+
+  1915                                                              7
+
+  Whitechapel                                                       8
+
+  Sunsets                                                          10
+
+  People                                                           11
+
+  Reflections: I and II                                            12
+
+
+  H. D.
+
+  Sea Gods                                                         17
+
+  The Shrine                                                       21
+
+  Temple--The Cliff                                                26
+
+  Mid-day                                                          30
+
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+
+  Arizona                                                          35
+
+  The Unquiet Street                                               42
+
+  In the Theatre                                                   43
+
+  Ships in the Harbour                                             44
+
+  The Empty House                                                  45
+
+  The Skaters                                                      48
+
+
+  F. S. FLINT
+
+  Easter                                                           51
+
+  Ogre                                                             54
+
+  Cones                                                            56
+
+  Gloom                                                            57
+
+  Terror                                                           60
+
+  Chalfont Saint Giles                                             61
+
+  War-Time                                                         63
+
+
+  D. H. LAWRENCE
+
+  Erinnyes                                                         67
+
+  Perfidy                                                          70
+
+  At the Window                                                    72
+
+  In Trouble and Shame                                             73
+
+  Brooding Grief                                                   74
+
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+
+  Patterns                                                         77
+
+  Spring Day                                                       82
+
+  Stravinsky's Three Pieces, "Grotesques," for String Quartet      87
+
+
+  BIBLIOGRAPHY                                                     93
+
+The authors wish to express their gratitude to the editors of _The
+Egoist_ and _Poetry and Drama_, London; _The Poetry Journal_, Boston;
+_The Little Review_ and _Poetry_, Chicago, for permission to reprint
+certain of these poems which originally appeared in their columns. To
+_Poetry_ belongs the credit of having introduced Imagism to the
+world: it seems fitting, therefore, that the authors should record
+their thanks in this place for the constant interest and
+encouragement shown them by its editor, Miss Harriet Monroe.
+
+
+
+
+RICHARD ALDINGTON
+
+
+
+
+EROS AND PSYCHE
+
+
+  In an old dull yard near Camden Town,
+  Which echoes with the rattle of cars and 'busses
+  And freight-trains, puffing steam and smoke and dirt
+  To the steaming, sooty sky--
+  There stands an old and grimy statue,
+  A statue of Psyche and her lover, Eros.
+
+  A little nearer Camden Town,
+  In a square of ugly sordid shops,
+  Is another statue, facing the Tube,
+  Staring with a heavy, purposeless glare
+  At the red and white shining tiles--
+  A tall stone statue of Cobden.
+  And though no one ever pauses to see
+  What hero it is that faces the Tube,
+  I can understand very well indeed
+  That England must honour its national heroes,
+  Must honour the hero of Free Trade--
+  Or was it the Corn Laws?--
+  That I can understand.
+  But what I shall never understand
+  Is the little group in the dingy yard
+  Under the dingier sky,
+  The Eros and Psyche--
+  Surrounded with pots and terra-cotta busts
+  And urns and broken pillars--
+  Eros, naked, with his wings stretched out
+  Just lighting down to kiss her on the lips.
+
+  What are they doing here in Camden Town
+  In the midst of all this clamour and filth?
+  They who should stand in a sun-lit room
+  Hung with deep purple, painted with gods,
+  Paved with white porphyry,
+  Stand for ever embraced
+  By the side of a rustling fountain
+  Over a marble basin
+  Carved with leopards and grapes and young men dancing;
+  Or in a garden leaning above Corinth,
+  Under the ilices and the cypresses,
+  Very white against a very blue sky;
+  Or growing hoary, if they must grow old,
+  With lichens and softly creeping moss.
+  What are they doing here in Camden Town?
+  And who has brought their naked beauty
+  And their young fresh lust to Camden Town,
+  Which settled long ago to toil and sweat and filth,
+  Forgetting--to the greater glory of Free Trade--
+  Young beauty and young love and youthful flesh?
+
+  Slowly the rain settles down on them,
+  Slowly the soot eats into them,
+  Slowly the stone grows greyer and dirtier,
+  Till in spite of his spreading wings
+  Her eyes have a rim of soot
+  Half an inch deep,
+  And his wings, the tall god's wings,
+  That should be red and silver
+  Are ocherous brown.
+
+  And I peer from a 'bus-top
+  As we splash through the grease and puddles,
+  And I glimpse them, huddled against the wall,
+  Half-hidden under a freight-train's smoke,
+  And I see the limbs that a Greek slave cut
+  In some old Italian town,
+  I see them growing older
+  And sadder
+  And greyer.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER TWO YEARS
+
+
+  She is all so slight
+  And tender and white
+      As a May morning.
+  She walks without hood
+  At dusk. It is good
+      To hear her sing.
+
+  It is God's will
+  That I shall love her still
+      As He loves Mary.
+  And night and day
+  I will go forth to pray
+      That she love me.
+
+  She is as gold
+  Lovely, and far more cold.
+      Do thou pray with me,
+  For if I win grace
+  To kiss twice her face
+      God has done well to me.
+
+
+
+
+1915
+
+
+  The limbs of gods,
+  Still, veined marble,
+  Rest heavily in sleep
+  Under a saffron twilight.
+
+  Not for them battle,
+  Severed limbs, death, and a cry of victory;
+  Not for them strife
+  And a torment of storm.
+
+  A vast breast moves slowly,
+  The great thighs shift,
+  The stone eyelids rise;
+  The slow tongue speaks:
+
+  "_Only a rain of bright dust;_
+  _In the outer air;_
+  _A little whisper of wind;_
+  _Sleep; rest; forget._"
+
+  Bright dust of battle!
+  A little whisper of dead souls!
+
+
+
+
+WHITECHAPEL
+
+
+  Noise;
+  Iron hoofs, iron wheels, iron din
+  Of drays and trams and feet passing;
+  Iron
+  Beaten to a vast mad cacophony.
+
+  _In vain the shrill, far cry_
+  _Of swallows sweeping by;_
+  _In vain the silence and green_
+  _Of meadows Apriline;_
+  _In vain the clear white rain--_
+
+  Soot; mud;
+  A nation maddened with labour;
+  Interminable collision of energies--
+  Iron beating upon iron;
+  Smoke whirling upwards,
+  Speechless, impotent.
+
+  _In vain the shrill, far cry_
+  _Of kittiwakes that fly_
+  _Where the sea waves leap green._
+  _The meadows Apriline--_
+
+  Noise, iron, smoke;
+  Iron, iron, iron.
+
+
+
+
+SUNSETS
+
+
+  The white body of the evening
+  Is torn into scarlet,
+  Slashed and gouged and seared
+  Into crimson,
+  And hung ironically
+  With garlands of mist.
+
+  And the wind
+  Blowing over London from Flanders
+  Has a bitter taste.
+
+
+
+
+PEOPLE
+
+
+  Why should you try to crush me?
+  Am I so Christ-like?
+
+  You beat against me,
+  Immense waves, filthy with refuse.
+  I am the last upright of a smashed break-water,
+  But you shall not crush me
+  Though you bury me in foaming slime
+  And hiss your hatred about me.
+
+  You break over me, cover me;
+  I shudder at the contact;
+  Yet I pierce through you
+  And stand up, torn, dripping, shaken,
+  But whole and fierce.
+
+
+
+
+REFLECTIONS
+
+
+I
+
+  Steal out with me
+  Over the moss and the daffodils.
+
+  Come to the temple,
+  Hung with sprays from untrimmed hedges.
+
+  I bring you a token
+  From the golden-haired revellers,
+  From the mad procession.
+
+  Come,
+  Flute girls shall pipe to us--
+  Their beautiful fingers!--
+  They are yellow-throated birds.
+  They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments,
+  Bending above us.
+
+  Come,
+  Bind your hair with white poplar,
+  Let your lips be sweet,
+  Wild roses of Paestum.
+
+
+II
+
+  Ghost moths hover over asphodel;
+  Shades, once La�s' peers
+  Drift past us;
+  The mist is grey.
+
+  Far over us
+  The white wave-crests flash in the sun;
+  The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks.
+
+  Now the Maid returns to us
+  With fragrance of the world
+  And of the hours of gods.
+  On earth
+  Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit,
+  Streams, passing through the corn lands,
+  Hear laughter.
+
+  We pluck the asphodel,
+  Yet we weave no crowns
+  For we have no vines;
+  No one speaks here;
+  No one kisses.
+
+
+
+
+H. D.
+
+
+
+
+SEA GODS
+
+
+I
+
+  They say there is no hope--
+  Sand--drift--rocks--rubble of the sea--
+  The broken hulk of a ship,
+  Hung with shreds of rope,
+  Pallid under the cracked pitch.
+
+  They say there is no hope
+  To conjure you--
+  No whip of the tongue to anger you--
+  No hate of words
+  You must rise to refute.
+
+  They say you are twisted by the sea,
+  You are cut apart
+  By wave-break upon wave-break,
+  That you are misshapen by the sharp rocks,
+  Broken by the rasp and after-rasp.
+
+  That you are cut, torn, mangled,
+  Torn by the stress and beat,
+  No stronger than the strips of sand
+  Along your ragged beach.
+
+
+II
+
+  But we bring violets,
+  Great masses--single, sweet,
+  Wood-violets, stream-violets,
+  Violets from a wet marsh.
+
+  Violets in clumps from hills,
+  Tufts with earth at the roots,
+  Violets tugged from rocks,
+  Blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.
+
+  Yellow violets' gold,
+  Burnt with a rare tint--
+  Violets like red ash
+  Among tufts of grass.
+
+  We bring deep-purple
+  Bird-foot violets.
+
+  We bring the hyacinth-violet,
+  Sweet, bare, chill to the touch--
+  And violets whiter than the in-rush
+  Of your own white surf.
+
+
+III
+
+  For you will come,
+  You will yet haunt men in ships,
+  You will trail across the fringe of strait
+  And circle the jagged rocks.
+
+  You will trail across the rocks
+  And wash them with your salt,
+  You will curl between sand-hills--
+  You will thunder along the cliff--
+  Break--retreat--get fresh strength--
+  Gather and pour weight upon the beach.
+
+  You will draw back,
+  And the ripple on the sand-shelf
+  Will be witness of your track.
+
+  O privet-white, you will paint
+  The lintel of wet sand with froth.
+
+  You will bring myrrh-bark
+  And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts.
+  When you hurl high--high--
+  We will answer with a shout.
+
+  For you will come,
+  You will come,
+  You will answer our taut hearts,
+  You will break the lie of men's thoughts,
+  And cherish and shelter us.
+
+
+
+
+THE SHRINE
+
+("_She Watches Over the Sea_")
+
+
+I
+
+  Are your rocks shelter for ships?
+  Have you sent galleys from your beach--
+  Are you graded--a safe crescent,
+  Where the tide lifts them back to port?
+  Are you full and sweet,
+  Tempting the quiet
+  To depart in their trading ships?
+
+  Nay, you are great, fierce, evil--
+  You are the land-blight--
+  You have tempted men,
+  But they perished on your cliffs.
+
+  Your lights are but dank shoals,
+  Slate and pebbles and wet shells
+  And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.
+
+  It was evil--evil
+  When they found you--
+  When the quiet men looked at you.
+  They sought a headland,
+  Shaded with ledge of cliff
+  From the wind-blast.
+
+  But you--you are unsheltered--
+  Cut with the weight of wind.
+  You shudder when it strikes,
+  Then lift, swelled with the blast.
+  You sink as the tide sinks.
+  You shrill under the hail, and sound
+  Thunder when thunder sounds.
+
+  You are useless.
+  When the tides swirl,
+  Your boulders cut and wreck
+  The staggering ships.
+
+
+II
+
+  You are useless,
+  O grave, O beautiful.
+  The landsmen tell it--I have heard
+  You are useless.
+
+  And the wind sounds with this
+  And the sea,
+  Where rollers shot with blue
+  Cut under deeper blue.
+
+  O but stay tender, enchanted,
+  Where wave-lengths cut you
+  Apart from all the rest.
+  For we have found you.
+  We watch the splendour of you.
+  We thread throat on throat of freesia
+  For your shelf.
+
+  You are not forgot,
+  O plunder of lilies--
+  Honey is not more sweet
+  Than the salt stretch of your beach.
+
+
+III
+
+  Stay--stay--
+  But terror has caught us now.
+  We passed the men in ships.
+  We dared deeper than the fisher-folk,
+  And you strike us with terror,
+  O bright shaft.
+
+  Flame passes under us,
+  And sparks that unknot the flesh,
+  Sorrow, splitting bone from bone--
+  Splendour athwart our eyes,
+  And rifts in the splendour--
+  Sparks and scattered light.
+
+  Many warned of this.
+  Men said:
+  There are wrecks on the fore-beach.
+  Wind will beat your ship.
+  There is no shelter in that headland.
+  It is useless waste, that edge,
+  That front of rock.
+  Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers--
+  None venture to that spot.
+
+
+IV
+
+  But hail--
+  As the tide slackens,
+  As the wind beats out,
+  We hail this shore.
+  We sing to you,
+  Spirit between the headlands
+  And the further rocks.
+
+  Though oak-beams split,
+  Though boats and sea-men flounder,
+  And the strait grind sand with sand
+  And cut boulders to sand and drift--
+
+  Your eyes have pardoned our faults.
+  Your hands have touched us.
+  You have leaned forward a little
+  And the waves can never thrust us back
+  From the splendour of your ragged coast.
+
+
+
+
+TEMPLE--THE CLIFF
+
+
+I
+
+  Great, bright portal,
+  Shelf of rock,
+  Rocks fitted in long ledges,
+  Rocks fitted to dark, to silver-granite,
+  To lighter rock--
+  Clean cut, white against white.
+
+  High--high--and no hill-goat
+  Tramples--no mountain-sheep
+  Has set foot on your fine grass.
+  You lift, you are the world-edge,
+  Pillar for the sky-arch.
+
+  The world heaved--
+  We are next to the sky.
+  Over us, sea-hawks shout,
+  Gulls sweep past.
+  The terrible breakers are silent
+  From this place.
+
+  Below us, on the rock-edge,
+  Where earth is caught in the fissures
+  Of the jagged cliff,
+  A small tree stiffens in the gale,
+  It bends--but its white flowers
+  Are fragrant at this height.
+
+  And under and under,
+  The wind booms.
+  It whistles, it thunders,
+  It growls--it presses the grass
+  Beneath its great feet.
+
+
+II
+
+  I said:
+  Forever and forever must I follow you
+  Through the stones?
+  I catch at you--you lurch.
+  You are quicker than my hand-grasp.
+
+  I wondered at you.
+  I shouted--dear--mysterious--beautiful--
+  White myrtle-flesh.
+
+  I was splintered and torn.
+  The hill-path mounted
+  Swifter than my feet.
+
+  Could a d�mon avenge this hurt,
+  I would cry to him--could a ghost,
+  I would shout--O evil,
+  Follow this god,
+  Taunt him with his evil and his vice.
+
+
+III
+
+  Shall I hurl myself from here,
+  Shall I leap and be nearer you?
+  Shall I drop, beloved, beloved,
+  Ankle against ankle?
+  Would you pity me, O white breast?
+
+  If I woke, would you pity me,
+  Would our eyes meet?
+
+  Have you heard,
+  Do you know how I climbed this rock?
+  My breath caught, I lurched forward--
+  I stumbled in the ground-myrtle.
+
+  Have you heard, O god seated on the cliff,
+  How far toward the ledges of your house,
+  How far I had to walk?
+
+
+IV
+
+  Over me the wind swirls.
+  I have stood on your portal
+  And I know--
+  You are further than this,
+  Still further on another cliff.
+
+
+
+
+MID-DAY
+
+
+  The light beats upon me.
+  I am startled--
+  A split leaf crackles on the paved floor--
+  I am anguished--defeated.
+
+  A slight wind shakes the seed-pods.
+  My thoughts are spent
+  As the black seeds.
+  My thoughts tear me.
+  I dread their fever--
+  I am scattered in its whirl.
+  I am scattered like
+  The hot shrivelled seeds.
+
+  The shrivelled seeds
+  Are spilt on the path.
+  The grass bends with dust.
+  The grape slips
+  Under its crackled leaf:
+  Yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
+  And the blackened stalks of mint,
+  The poplar is bright on the hill,
+  The poplar spreads out,
+  Deep-rooted among trees.
+
+  O poplar, you are great
+  Among the hill-stones,
+  While I perish on the path
+  Among the crevices of the rocks.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+
+
+
+
+ARIZONA
+
+
+THE WINDMILLS
+
+  The windmills, like great sunflowers of steel,
+  Lift themselves proudly over the straggling houses;
+  And at their feet the deep blue-green alfalfa
+  Cuts the desert like the stroke of a sword.
+
+  Yellow melon flowers
+  Crawl beneath the withered peach-trees;
+  A date-palm throws its heavy fronds of steel
+  Against the scoured metallic sky.
+
+  The houses, doubled-roofed for coolness,
+  Cower amid the manzanita scrub.
+  A man with jingling spurs
+  Walks heavily out of a vine-bowered doorway,
+  Mounts his pony, rides away.
+
+  The windmills stare at the sun.
+  The yellow earth cracks and blisters.
+  Everything is still.
+
+  In the afternoon
+  The wind takes dry waves of heat and tosses them,
+  Mingled with dust, up and down the streets,
+  Against the belfry with its green bells:
+
+  And, after sunset, when the sky
+  Becomes a green and orange fan,
+  The windmills, like great sunflowers on dried stalks,
+  Stare hard at the sun they cannot follow.
+
+  Turning, turning, forever turning
+  In the chill night-wind that sweeps over the valley,
+  With the shriek and the clank of the pumps groaning beneath them,
+  And the choking gurgle of tepid water.
+
+
+MEXICAN QUARTER
+
+  By an alley lined with tumble-down shacks
+  And street-lamps askew, half-sputtering,
+  Feebly glimmering on gutters choked with filth and dogs
+  Scratching their mangy backs:
+  Half-naked children are running about,
+  Women puff cigarettes in black doorways,
+  Crickets are crying.
+  Men slouch sullenly
+  Into the shadows:
+  Behind a hedge of cactus,
+  The smell of a dead horse
+  Mingles with the smell of tamales frying.
+
+  And a girl in a black lace shawl
+  Sits in a rickety chair by the square of an unglazed window,
+  And sees the explosion of the stars
+  Softly poised on a velvet sky.
+  And she is humming to herself:--
+  "Stars, if I could reach you,
+  (You are so very clear that it seems as if I could reach you)
+  I would give you all to Madonna's image,
+  On the grey-plastered altar behind the paper flowers,
+  So that Juan would come back to me,
+  And we could live again those lazy burning hours
+  Forgetting the tap of my fan and my sharp words.
+  And I would only keep four of you,
+  Those two blue-white ones overhead,
+  To hang in my ears;
+  And those two orange ones yonder,
+  To fasten on my shoe-buckles."
+
+  A little further along the street
+  A man sits stringing a brown guitar.
+  The smoke of his cigarette curls round his head,
+  And he, too, is humming, but other words:
+  "Think not that at your window I wait;
+  New love is better, the old is turned to hate.
+  Fate! Fate! All things pass away;
+  Life is forever, youth is for a day.
+  Love again if you may
+  Before the stars are blown out of the sky
+  And the crickets die;
+  Babylon and Samarkand
+  Are mud walls in a waste of sand."
+
+
+RAIN IN THE DESERT
+
+  The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder
+  Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning
+  Its altar-fires of pinyon and of toyon for the day.
+
+  The old priests sleep, white-shrouded,
+  Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely
+      feathered;
+  On every mummied face there glows a smile.
+
+  The sun is rolling slowly
+  Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents,
+  Coiling, uncoiling, blue-black, sparked with fires.
+
+  The old dead priests
+  Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them,
+  Above the smell of scorching oozing pinyon,
+  The acrid smell of rain.
+
+  And now the showers
+  Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers:
+  Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring,
+  Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.
+
+
+CLOUDS ACROSS THE CANYON
+
+  Shadows of clouds
+  March across the canyon,
+  Shadows of blue hands passing
+  Over a curtain of flame.
+
+  Clutching, staggering, upstriking,
+  Darting in blue-black fury,
+  To where pinnacles, green and orange,
+  Await.
+
+  The winds are battling and striving to break them:
+  Thin lightnings spit and flicker,
+  The peaks seem a dance of scarlet demons
+  Flitting amid the shadows.
+
+  Grey rain-curtains wave afar off,
+  Wisps of vapour curl and vanish.
+  The sun throws soft shafts of golden light
+  Over rose-buttressed palisades.
+
+  Now the clouds are a lazy procession;
+  Blue balloons bobbing solemnly
+  Over black-dappled walls,
+
+  Where rise sharp-fretted, golden-roofed cathedrals
+  Exultantly, and split the sky with light.
+
+
+
+
+THE UNQUIET STREET
+
+
+  By day and night this street is not still:
+  Omnibuses with red tail-lamps,
+  Taxicabs with shiny eyes,
+  Rumble, shunning its ugliness.
+  It is corrugated with wheel-ruts,
+  It is dented and pockmarked with traffic,
+  It has no time for sleep.
+  It heaves its old scarred countenance
+  Skyward between the buildings
+  And never says a word.
+
+  On rainy nights
+  It dully gleams
+  Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake:
+  And over it hang arc-lamps,
+  Blue-white death-lilies on black stems.
+
+
+
+
+IN THE THEATRE
+
+
+  Darkness in the theatre:
+  Darkness and a multitude
+  Assembled in the darkness.
+  These who every day perform
+  The unique tragi-comedy
+  Of birth and death;
+  Now press upon each other,
+  Directing the irresistible weight of their thoughts to the stage.
+
+  A great broad shaft of calcium light
+  Cleaves, like a stroke of a sword, the darkness:
+  And, at the end of it,
+  A tiny spot which is the red nose of a comedian
+  Marks the goal of the spot-light and the eyes which people the
+      darkness.
+
+
+
+
+SHIPS IN THE HARBOUR
+
+
+  Like a flock of great blue cranes
+  Resting upon the water,
+  The ships assemble at morning, when the grey light wakes in the
+      east.
+
+  Weary, no longer flying,
+  Over the hissing spindrift, through the ravelled clutching sea;
+  No longer over the tops of the waves spinning along north-eastward,
+  In a great irregular wedge before the trade-wind far from land.
+
+  But drowsy, mournful, silent,
+  Yet under their bulged projecting bows runs the silver foam of the
+      sunlight,
+  And rebelliously they shake out their plumage of sails, wet and
+      heavy with the rain.
+
+
+
+
+THE EMPTY HOUSE
+
+
+  Out from my window-sill I lean,
+  And see a straight four-storied row
+  Of houses.
+
+  Once, long ago,
+  These had their glory: they were built
+  In the fair palmy days before
+  The Civil War when all the seas
+  Saw the white sails of Yankee ships
+  Scurrying home with spice and gold.
+  And many of these houses hung
+  Proud wisps of cr�pe upon their doors
+  On hearing that some son had died
+  At Chancellorsville or Fredericksburg,
+  Their offering to the Union side.
+
+  But man's forever drifting will
+  Again took hold of him--again
+  The fashionable quarter shifted: soon,
+  Before some plastering had dried,
+  Society packed up, went away.
+  Now, could you see these houses,
+  You would not think they ever had a prime:
+  A grim four-storied serried row
+  Of rooms to let--at any time
+  Tenants are moving in or out.
+  Families drifting down or struggling still
+  To keep their heads up and not drown.
+  A tragic busy pettiness
+  Has settled on them all,
+  But one.
+  And in that one, when I came here,
+  A family lived, but with its trunks packed up,
+  And now that family's gone.
+
+  Its shutterless blindless windows let you look inside
+  And see the sunlight chequering the bare floor
+  With patterns from the window-frames
+  All day.
+  Its backyard neatly swept,
+  Contains no crammed ash-barrels and no lines
+  For clothes to flap about on;
+  It does not look by day as if it had
+  Ever a living soul beneath its roof.
+  It seems to mark a gap in the grim line,
+  No house at all, but an unfinished shell.
+
+  But when the windows up and down those faces
+  With yellow glimmer of gas, blaze forth;
+  I know it is the only house that lives
+  In all that grim four-storied row.
+  The others are mere shelves, overcrowded layers,
+  Of warring, separate personalities;
+  A jangle and a tangle of emotions,
+  Without a single meaning running through them;
+  But it, the empty house, has mastered all its secrets.
+  Behind its silent swarthy face,
+  Eyelessly proud,
+  It watches, it is master;
+  It sees the other houses still incessantly learning
+  The lesson it remembers,
+  And which it can repeat the last dim syllable of.
+
+
+
+
+THE SKATERS
+
+_To A. D. R._
+
+
+  Black swallows swooping or gliding
+  In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;
+  The skaters skim over the frozen river.
+  And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the
+      surface,
+  Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.
+
+
+
+
+F. S. FLINT
+
+
+
+
+EASTER
+
+
+  Friend
+  we will take the path that leads
+  down from the flagstaff by the pond
+  through the gorse thickets;
+  see, the golden spikes have thrust their points through,
+  and last year's bracken lies yellow-brown and trampled.
+  The sapling birch-groves have shown no leaf,
+  and the wistarias on the desolate pergola
+  are shorn and ashen.
+  We lurch on, and, stumbling,
+  touch each other.
+  You do not shrink, friend.
+  There you, and I here,
+  side by side, we go, jesting.
+  We do not seek, we do not avoid, contact.
+
+  Here is the road,
+  with the budding elm-trees lining it,
+  and there the low gate in the wall;
+  on the other side, the people.
+  Are they not aliens?
+  You and I for a moment see them
+  shabby of limb and soul,
+  patched up to make shift.
+  We laugh and strengthen each other;
+  But the evil is done.
+
+  Is not the whole park made for them,
+  and the bushes and plants and trees and grasses,
+  have they not grown to their standard?
+  The paths are worn to the gravel with their feet;
+  the green moss will not carpet them.
+  The flags of the stone steps are hollowed;
+  and you and I must strive to remain two
+  and not to merge in the multitude.
+  It impinges on us; it separates us;
+  we shrink from it; we brave through it;
+  we laugh; we jest; we jeer;
+  and we save the fragments of our souls.
+
+  Between two clipped privet hedges now;
+  we will close our eyes for life's sake
+  to life's patches.
+  Here, maybe, there is quiet;
+  pass first under the bare branches,
+  beyond is a pool flanked with sedge,
+  and a swan among water-lilies.
+  But here too is a group
+  of men and women and children;
+  and the swan has forgotten its pride;
+  it thrusts its white neck among them,
+  and gobbles at nothing;
+  then tires of the cheat and sails off;
+  but its breast urges before it
+  a sheet of sodden newspaper
+  that, drifting away,
+  reveals beneath the immaculate white splendour
+  of its neck and wings
+  a breast black with scum.
+
+  Friend, we are beaten.
+
+
+
+
+OGRE
+
+
+  Through the open window can be seen
+  the poplars at the end of the garden
+  shaking in the wind,
+  a wall of green leaves so high
+  that the sky is shut off.
+
+  On the white table-cloth
+  a rose in a vase
+  --centre of a sphere of odour--
+  contemplates the crumbs and crusts
+  left from a meal:
+  cups, saucers, plates lie
+  here and there.
+
+  And a sparrow flies by the open window,
+  stops for a moment,
+  flutters his wings rapidly,
+  and climbs an aerial ladder
+  with his claws
+  that work close in
+  to his soft, brown-grey belly.
+
+  But behind the table is the face of a man.
+
+  The bird flies off.
+
+
+
+
+CONES
+
+
+  The blue mist of after-rain
+  fills all the trees;
+
+  the sunlight gilds the tops
+  of the poplar spires, far off,
+  behind the houses.
+
+  Here a branch sways
+  and there
+            a sparrow twitters.
+
+  The curtain's hem, rose-embroidered,
+  flutters, and half reveals
+  a burnt-red chimney pot.
+
+  The quiet in the room
+  bears patiently
+  a footfall on the street.
+
+
+
+
+GLOOM
+
+
+  I sat there in the dark
+  of the room and of my mind
+  thinking of men's treasons and bad faith,
+  sinking into the pit of my own weakness
+  before their strength of cunning.
+  Out over the gardens came the sound of some one
+  playing five-finger exercises on the piano.
+
+  Then
+  I gathered up within me all my powers
+  until outside of me was nothing:
+  I was all--
+  all stubborn, fighting sadness and revulsion.
+
+  And one came from the garden quietly,
+  and stood beside me.
+  She laid her hand on my hair;
+  she laid her cheek on my forehead,--
+  and caressed me with it;
+  but all my being rose to my forehead
+  to fight against this outside thing.
+  Something in me became angry;
+  withstood like a wall,
+  and would allow no entrance;
+  I hated her.
+
+  "What is the matter with you, dear?" she said.
+  "Nothing," I answered,
+  "I am thinking."
+  She stroked my hair and went away;
+  and I was still gloomy, angry, stubborn.
+
+  Then I thought:
+  she has gone away; she is hurt;
+  she does not know
+  what poison has been working in me.
+
+  Then I thought:
+  upstairs, her child is sleeping;
+  and I felt the presence
+  of the fields we had walked over, the roads we had followed,
+  the flowers we had watched together,
+  before it came.
+
+  She had touched my hair, and only then did I feel it;
+  And I loved her once again.
+
+  And I came away,
+  full of the sweet and bitter juices of life;
+  and I lit the lamp in my room,
+  and made this poem.
+
+
+
+
+TERROR
+
+
+  Eyes are tired;
+  the lamp burns,
+  and in its circle of light
+  papers and books lie
+  where chance and life
+  have placed them.
+
+  Silence sings all around me;
+  my head is bound with a band;
+  outside in the street a few footsteps;
+  a clock strikes the hour.
+
+  I gaze, and my eyes close,
+  slowly:
+
+  I doze; but the moment before sleep,
+  a voice calls my name
+  in my ear,
+  and the shock jolts my heart:
+  but when I open my eyes,
+  and look, first left, and then right ...
+
+  no one is there.
+
+
+
+
+CHALFONT SAINT GILES
+
+
+  The low graves are all grown over
+  with forget-me-not,
+  and a rich-green grass
+  links each with each.
+  Old family vaults,
+  some within railings,
+  stand here and there,
+  crumbling, moss-eaten,
+  with the ivy growing up them
+  and diagonally across
+  the top projecting slab.
+  And over the vaults
+  lean the great lilac bushes
+  with their heart-shaped leaves
+  and their purple and white blossom.
+  A wall of ivy shuts off the darkness
+  of the elm-wood and the larches.
+
+  Walk quietly
+  along the mossy paths;
+  the stones of the humble dead
+  are hidden behind the blue mantle
+  of their forget-me-nots;
+  and before one grave so hidden
+  a widow kneels, with head bowed,
+  and the crape falling
+  over her shoulders.
+
+  The bells for evening church are ringing,
+  and the people come gravely
+  and with red, sun-burnt faces
+  through the gates in the wall.
+
+  Pass on;
+  this is the church-porch,
+  and within the bell-ringers,
+  men of the village in their Sunday clothes,
+  pull their bob-major
+  on the red and white grip
+  of the bell-ropes, that fly up,
+  and then fall snakily.
+  They stand there given wholly
+  to the rhythm and swing
+  of their traditional movements.
+
+  And the people pass between them
+  into the church;
+  but we are too sad and too reverent
+  to enter.
+
+
+
+
+WAR-TIME
+
+
+  If I go out of the door,
+  it will not be
+  to take the road to the left that leads
+  past the bovine quiet of houses
+  brooding over the cud of their daily content,
+  even though
+  the tranquillity of their gardens
+  is a lure that once was stronger;
+  even though
+  from privet hedge and mottled laurel
+  the young green peeps,
+  and the daffodils
+  and the yellow and white and purple crocuses
+  laugh from the smooth mould
+  of the garden beds
+  to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.
+  I shall not see
+  the almond blossom shaming
+  the soot-black boughs.
+
+  But to the right the road will lead me
+  to greater and greater disquiet;
+  into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses,
+  and the dust, the tattered paper--
+  the detritus of a city--
+  that swirls in the air behind them.
+  I will pass the shops where the prices
+  are judged day by day by the people,
+  and come to the place where five roads meet
+  with five tram-routes,
+  and where amid the din
+  of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'busses,
+  the clangorous tram-cars,
+  the news is shouted,
+  and soldiers gather, off-duty.
+
+  Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever;
+  and I can make,
+  as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,
+  no spring and no woman's beauty,
+  while that is burning.
+
+
+
+
+D. H. LAWRENCE
+
+
+
+
+ERINNYES
+
+
+  There has been so much noise,
+  Bleeding and shouting and dying,
+  Clamour of death.
+
+  There are so many dead,
+  Many have died unconsenting,
+  Their ghosts are angry, unappeased.
+
+  So many ghosts among us,
+  Invisible, yet strong,
+  Between me and thee, so many ghosts of the slain.
+
+  They come back, over the white sea, in the mist,
+  Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts
+  Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea.
+
+  They set foot on this land to which they have the right,
+  They return relentlessly, in the silence one knows their tread,
+  Multitudinous, endless, the ghosts coming home again.
+
+  They watch us, they press on us,
+  They press their claim upon us,
+  They are angry with us.
+
+  What do they want?
+  We are driven mad,
+  Madly we rush hither and thither:
+  Shouting, "Revenge, Revenge,"
+  Crying, "Pour out the blood of the foe,"
+  Seeking to appease with blood the insistent ghosts.
+
+  Out of blood rise up new ghosts,
+  Grey, stern, angry, unsatisfied,
+  The more we slay and are slain, the more we raise up new ghosts
+      against us.
+
+  Till we are mad with terror, seeing the slain
+  Victorious, grey, grisly ghosts in our streets,
+  Grey, unappeased ghosts seated in the music-halls.
+  The dead triumphant, and the quick cast down,
+  The dead, unassuaged and angry, silencing us,
+  Making us pale and bloodless, without resistance.
+
+     *     *     *     *     *
+
+  What do they want, the ghosts, what is it
+  They demand as they stand in menace over against us?
+  How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?
+
+  Since from blood poured out rise only ghosts again,
+  What shall we do, what shall we give to them?
+  What do they want, forever there on our threshold?
+
+  Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home,
+  And in the silence, reverently, welcome them,
+  And give them place and honour and service meet?
+
+  For one year's space, attend on our angry dead,
+  Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet,
+  Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence,
+  Then lead them to the gates of the unknown,
+  And bid farewell, oh stately travellers,
+  And wait till they are lost upon our sight.
+
+  Then we shall turn us home again to life
+  Knowing our dead are fitly housed in death,
+  Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily.
+
+  And we shall have new peace in this our life,
+  New joy to give more life, new bliss to live,
+  Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.
+
+
+
+
+PERFIDY
+
+
+  Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door,
+  And I lingered on the threshold with my hand
+  Upraised to knock and knock once more:
+  Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor,
+  Hollow re-echoed my heart.
+
+  The low-hung lamps stretched down the road
+  With shadows drifting underneath,
+  With a music of soft, melodious feet
+  Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet
+  The low-hung light of her eyes.
+
+  The golden lamps down the street went out,
+  The last car trailed the night behind,
+  And I in the darkness wandered about
+  With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt
+  In the dying lamp of my love.
+
+  Two brown ponies trotting slowly
+  Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink.
+  The dark van drummed down the distance slowly,
+  And city stars so high and holy
+  Drew nearer to look in the streets.
+
+  A hasting car swept shameful past.
+  I saw her hid in the shadow,
+  I saw her step to the curb, and fast
+  Run to the silent door, where last
+  I had stood with my hand uplifted.
+  She clung to the door in her haste to enter,
+  Entered, and quickly cast
+  It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.
+
+
+
+
+AT THE WINDOW
+
+
+  The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
+  Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical
+      laughter;
+  While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
+
+  Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede
+  Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after
+  The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.
+
+  The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass
+  To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of
+      darkness
+  That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.
+
+
+
+
+IN TROUBLE AND SHAME
+
+
+        I look at the swaling sunset
+        And wish I could go also
+  Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.
+
+        I wish that I could go
+  Through the red doors where I could put off
+        My shame like shoes in the porch
+        My pain like garments,
+        And leave my flesh discarded lying
+        Like luggage of some departed traveller
+        Gone one knows not where.
+
+        Then I would turn round
+  And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,
+        I would laugh with joy.
+
+
+
+
+BROODING GRIEF
+
+
+  A yellow leaf from the darkness
+  Hops like a frog before me--
+  --Why should I start and stand still?
+
+  I was watching the woman that bore me
+  Stretched in the brindled darkness
+  Of the sick-room, rigid with will
+  To die--
+  And the quick leaf tore me
+  Back to this rainy swill
+  Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.
+
+
+
+
+AMY LOWELL
+
+
+
+
+PATTERNS
+
+
+  I walk down the garden paths,
+  And all the daffodils
+  Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
+  I walk down the patterned garden paths
+  In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+  With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
+  I too am a rare
+  Pattern. As I wander down
+  The garden paths.
+
+  My dress is richly figured,
+  And the train
+  Makes a pink and silver stain
+  On the gravel, and the thrift
+  Of the borders.
+  Just a plate of current fashion,
+  Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
+  Not a softness anywhere about me,
+  Only whale-bone and brocade.
+  And I sink on a seat in the shade
+  Of a lime tree. For my passion
+  Wars against the stiff brocade.
+  The daffodils and squills
+  Flutter in the breeze
+  As they please.
+  And I weep;
+  For the lime tree is in blossom
+  And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
+
+  And the plashing of waterdrops
+  In the marble fountain
+  Comes down the garden paths.
+  The dripping never stops.
+  Underneath my stiffened gown
+  Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
+  A basin in the midst of hedges grown
+  So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
+  But she guesses he is near,
+  And the sliding of the water
+  Seems the stroking of a dear
+  Hand upon her.
+  What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
+  I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
+  All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
+
+  I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
+  And he would stumble after
+  Bewildered by my laughter.
+  I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles
+      on his shoes.
+  I would choose
+  To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
+  A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
+  Till he caught me in the shade,
+  And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
+  Aching, melting, unafraid.
+  With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
+  And the plopping of the waterdrops,
+  All about us in the open afternoon--
+  I am very like to swoon
+  With the weight of this brocade,
+  For the sun sifts through the shade.
+
+  Underneath the fallen blossom
+  In my bosom,
+  Is a letter I have hid.
+  It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
+  "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
+  Died in action Thursday sen'night."
+  As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
+  The letters squirmed like snakes.
+  "Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
+  "No," I told him.
+  "See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
+  No, no answer."
+  And I walked into the garden,
+  Up and down the patterned paths,
+  In my stiff, correct brocade.
+  The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
+  Each one.
+  I stood upright too,
+  Held rigid to the pattern
+  By the stiffness of my gown.
+  Up and down I walked,
+  Up and down.
+
+  In a month he would have been my husband.
+  In a month, here, underneath this lime,
+  We would have broke the pattern.
+  He for me, and I for him,
+  He as Colonel, I as Lady,
+  On this shady seat.
+  He had a whim
+  That sunlight carried blessing.
+  And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
+  Now he is dead.
+
+  In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
+  Up and down
+  The patterned garden paths
+  In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+  The squills and daffodils
+  Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
+  I shall go
+  Up and down,
+  In my gown.
+  Gorgeously arrayed,
+  Boned and stayed.
+  And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
+  By each button, hook, and lace.
+  For the man who should loose me is dead,
+  Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
+  In a pattern called a war.
+  Christ! What are patterns for?
+
+
+
+
+SPRING DAY
+
+
+BATH
+
+The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and
+narcissus in the air.
+
+The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the
+water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish white. It
+cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright
+light.
+
+Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance,
+dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a
+stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the
+planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the
+green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day
+is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too
+bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the
+sun spots.
+
+The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a
+whirl of tulips and narcissus in the air.
+
+
+BREAKFAST TABLE
+
+In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and
+white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and
+smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth
+falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the
+silver coffee pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they
+whirl, and twirl--and my eyes begin to smart, the little white,
+dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful the rolls
+of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of
+butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream,
+flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee steam rises in a
+stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into
+the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher,
+fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and
+croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells
+in the air.
+
+
+WALK
+
+Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without
+touching.
+
+On the sidewalk boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber
+and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise.
+The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass
+marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters
+under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air,
+but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the
+street, and a girl with a gay spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust
+and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent
+leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the
+wind rustles among the flowers on her hat.
+
+A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green
+and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly sprinkling clear
+water over the white dust. Clear zig-zagging water which smells of
+tulips and narcissus.
+
+The thickening branches make a pink "grisaille" against the blue sky.
+
+Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in
+time. Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the
+white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and
+trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of
+rose-colour and green.
+
+A motor car cuts a swath through the bright air, sharp-beaked,
+irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and
+sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is
+quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.
+
+
+MIDDAY AND AFTERNOON
+
+Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The
+stock-still brick fa�ade of an old church, against which the waves of
+people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets.
+Eddies of light in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue,
+gold, purple jars, darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and
+tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirling of machine belts,
+blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on
+an electric car, and the jar of a church bell knocking against the
+metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust,
+thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me,
+reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging,
+plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic
+insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the
+press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and
+narcissus.
+
+The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the
+shop-windows putting out their contents in a flood of flame.
+
+
+NIGHT AND SLEEP
+
+The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out
+along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and
+blow into patterns of fire-flowers, as the sky fades. Trades scream
+in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that
+means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver is the
+sidelong sliver of a watch-maker's sign with its length on another
+street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a
+tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should
+she heed ours?
+
+I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees
+and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and
+clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no
+flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and
+narcissus.
+
+My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the
+distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower heads with no
+stems. I cannot see the beer glass, nor the letters of the
+restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together
+make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden
+stirring and blowing for the Spring.
+
+The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in
+the air.
+
+Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams
+into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer
+tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their
+horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour
+of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair ... I smell the stars ...
+they are like tulips and narcissus ... I smell them in the air.
+
+
+
+
+STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES, "GROTESQUES" FOR STRING QUARTET
+
+
+    This Quartet was played from the manuscript by the Flonzaley
+    Quartet during their season of 1915 and 1916. The poem is based
+    upon the programme which M. Stravinsky appended to his piece, and
+    is an attempt to reproduce the sound and movement of the music as
+    far as is possible in another medium.
+
+
+FIRST MOVEMENT
+
+  Thin-voiced, nasal pipes
+  Drawing sound out and out
+  Until it is a screeching thread,
+  Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,
+  It hurts.
+  Whee-e-e!
+  Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!
+  There are drums here,
+  Banging,
+  And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones
+  Of the market-place.
+  Whee-e-e!
+  Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,
+  And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones,
+  Clumsy and hard they are,
+  And uneven,
+  Losing half a beat
+  Because the stones are slippery.
+  Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!
+  The thin Spring leaves
+  Shake to the banging of shoes.
+  Shoes beat, slap,
+  Shuffle, rap,
+  And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,
+  Little pigs' voices
+  Weaving among the dancers,
+  A fine, white thread
+  Linking up the dancers.
+  Bang! Bump! Tong!
+  Petticoats,
+  Stockings,
+  Sabots,
+  Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
+  Red, blue, yellow,
+  Drunkenness steaming in colours;
+  Red, yellow, blue,
+  Colours and flesh weaving together,
+  In and out, with the dance,
+  Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
+  Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
+  White and painful,
+  White and--
+  Bump!
+  Tong!
+
+
+SECOND MOVEMENT
+
+  Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,
+  A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,
+  Cherry petals fall and flutter,
+  And the white Pierrot,
+  Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,
+  Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,
+  Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth
+  With his finger-nails.
+
+
+THIRD MOVEMENT
+
+  An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,
+  It wheezes and coughs.
+  The nave is blue with incense,
+  Writhing, twisting,
+  Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.
+          _Requiem �ternam dona ei, Domine;_
+  The priests whine their bastard Latin
+  And the censers swing and click.
+  The priests walk endlessly
+  Round and round,
+  Droning their Latin
+  Off the key.
+  The organ crashes out in a flaring chord
+  And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.
+          _Dies illa, dies ir�,_
+          _Calamitatis et miseri�,_
+          _Dies magna et amara valde._
+  A wind rattles the leaded windows.
+  The little pear-shaped candle-flames leap and flutter.
+          _Dies illa, dies ir�,_
+  The swaying smoke drifts over the altar.
+          _Calamitatis et miseri�,_
+  The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water.
+          _Dies magna et amara valde._
+  And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them,
+  Stretched upon a bier.
+  His ears are stone to the organ,
+  His eyes are flint to the candles,
+  His body is ice to the water.
+  Chant, priests,
+  Whine, shuffle, genuflect.
+  He will always be as rigid as he is now
+  Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.
+          _Lacrymosa dies illa,_
+          _Qua resurget ex favilla_
+          _Judicandus homo reus._
+  Above the grey pillars, the roof is in darkness.
+
+
+
+
+  THE END
+
+
+
+
+BIBLIOGRAPHY
+
+
+  RICHARD ALDINGTON
+    _Images._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915; and The Four Seas
+      Company, Boston, 1916.
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+    _Fire and Wine._ Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913.
+    _Fool's Gold._ Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+    _The Dominant City._ Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+    _The Book of Nature._ Constable & Co., London, 1913.
+    _Visions of the Evening._ Erskine McDonald, London, 1913.
+    _Irradiations: Sand and Spray._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston,
+      1915.
+    _Goblins and Pagodas._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1916.
+
+  F. S. FLINT
+    _The Net of Stars._ Elkin Mathews, London, 1909.
+    _Cadences._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915.
+
+  D. H. LAWRENCE
+    _Love Poems and Others._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
+    Prose: _The White Peacock._ William Heinemann, London, 1911.
+           _The Trespasser._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1912.
+           _Sons and Lovers._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
+           _The Prussian Officer._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1914.
+           _The Rainbow._ Methuen & Co., London, 1915.
+    Drama: _The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd._ Mitchell Kennerley, New
+      York, 1914.
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+    _A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass._ Houghton Mifflin Company,
+      Boston, 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1915.
+    _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed._ The Macmillan Company, New York;
+      and Macmillan & Co., London, 1914.
+    Prose: _Six French Poets._ The Macmillan Company, New York; and
+      Macmillan and Co., London, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
+
+
+The following printer's errors have been corrected:
+
+  "from" corrected to "form" (page viii)
+  "sweeling" corrected to "swaling" (page 73)
+
+The following unusual spellings have been retained:
+
+  "anarchaic" (page vii)
+
+Some of the poems in this anthology were also included in the
+following books:
+
+  H. D.
+    _Sea Garden._ Constable & Co., London, 1916.
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+    _Breakers and Granite._ The Macmillan Company, New York, 1921.
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+    _Men, Women and Ghosts._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New
+      York, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by 
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by 
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+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: Some Imagist Poets, 1916
+       An Annual Anthology
+
+Author: Richard Aldington
+        Hilda Doolittle
+        John Gould Fletcher
+        Amy Lowell
+        D. H. Lawrence
+        F. S. Flint
+
+Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37469]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
+produced from scanned images of public domain material
+from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<h2>
+<a name="chapter1"></a>
+The New Poetry Series
+</h2>
+<p class="h2a">
+PUBLISHED BY
+HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+</p>
+<p>
+IRRADIATIONS. SAND AND SPRAY. <span class="smcap">John Gould
+Fletcher.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+SOME IMAGIST POETS.
+</p>
+<p>
+JAPANESE LYRICS. Translated by <span class="smcap">Lafcadio
+Hearn.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+AFTERNOONS OF APRIL. <span class="smcap">Grace Hazard Conkling.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+THE CLOISTER: A VERSE DRAMA. <span class="smcap">Emile Verhaeren.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+INTERFLOW. <span class="smcap">Geoffrey C. Faber.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+STILLWATER PASTORALS AND OTHER POEMS.
+<span class="smcap">Paul Shivell.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+IDOLS. <span class="smcap">Walter Conrad Arensberg.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+TURNS AND MOVIES, AND OTHER TALES IN
+VERSE. <span class="smcap">Conrad Aiken.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+ROADS. <span class="smcap">Grace Fallow Norton.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+GOBLINS AND PAGODAS. <span class="smcap">John Gould Fletcher.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+SOME IMAGIST POETS. <span class="underline">1916.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+A SONG OF THE GUNS. <span class="smcap">Gilbert Frankau.</span>
+</p>
+<p>
+MOTHERS AND MEN. <span class="smcap">Harold T. Pulsifer.</span>
+</p>
+<h1>
+<a name="chapter2"></a>
+<a name="preface1"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;i]</span>
+SOME IMAGIST POETS, <span class="underline">1916</span>
+</h1>
+<h1>
+<a name="preface2"></a>
+<a name="preface3"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;iii]</span>
+<a name="chapter3"></a>
+SOME IMAGIST POETS<br />
+<span class="underline">1916</span><br />
+</h1>
+<p class="h1a">
+AN ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY<br />
+</p>
+<p class="figure">
+<img src="images/logo.jpg" width="260" height="310" alt="Man playing pipes"/>
+<br />
+</p>
+<p class="titlecenter">
+BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br />
+HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br />
+The Riverside Press Cambridge<br />
+1916<br />
+</p>
+<p class="titlecenter">
+<a name="preface4"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;iv]</span>
+COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br />
+ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
+</p>
+<p class="titlecenter">
+<i>Published May 1916</i><br />
+</p>
+<p class="titlecenter">
+THIRD IMPRESSION<br />
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="preface5"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;v]</span>
+<a name="chapter4"></a>
+PREFACE
+</h2>
+<p>
+In bringing the second volume of <i>Some Imagist Poets</i>
+before the public, the authors wish to express their gratitude
+for the interest which the 1915 volume aroused. The discussion
+of it was widespread, and even those critics out of sympathy
+with Imagist tenets accorded it much space. In the
+Preface to that book, we endeavoured to present those tenets
+in a succinct form. But the very brevity we employed
+has lead to a great deal of misunderstanding. We have decided,
+therefore, to explain the laws which govern us a little
+more fully. A few people may understand, and the rest can
+merely misunderstand again, a result to which we are quite
+accustomed.
+</p>
+<p>
+In the first place &ldquo;Imagism&rdquo; does not mean merely the
+presentation of pictures. &ldquo;Imagism&rdquo; refers to the manner
+of presentation, not to the subject. It means a clear presentation
+of whatever the author wishes to convey. Now he may
+wish to convey a mood of indecision, in which case the poem
+should be indecisive; he may wish to bring before his
+reader the constantly shifting and changing lights over a
+landscape, or the varying attitudes of mind of a person under
+<a name="preface6"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;vi]</span>
+strong emotion, then his poem must shift and change to present
+this clearly. The &ldquo;exact&rdquo; word does not mean the word
+which exactly describes the object in itself, it means the
+&ldquo;exact&rdquo; word which brings the effect of that object before
+the reader as it presented itself to the poet's mind at the time
+of writing the poem. Imagists deal but little with similes,
+although much of their poetry is metaphorical. The reason
+for this is that while acknowledging the figure to be an integral
+part of all poetry, they feel that the constant imposing
+of one figure upon another in the same poem blurs the central
+effect.
+</p>
+<p>
+The great French critic, Remy de Gourmont, wrote last
+Summer in <i>La France</i> that the Imagists were the descendants
+of the French <i>Symbolistes</i>. In the Preface to his <i>Livre
+des Masques</i>, M. de Gourmont has thus described <i>Symbolisme</i>:
+&ldquo;Individualism in literature, liberty of art, abandonment
+of existing forms.... The sole excuse which a man
+can have for writing is to write down himself, to unveil for
+others the sort of world which mirrors itself in his individual
+glass.... He should create his own aesthetics&mdash;and we
+should admit as many aesthetics as there are original minds,
+and judge them for what they are and not what they are not.&rdquo;
+In this sense the Imagists are descendants of the <i>Symbolistes</i>;
+they are Individualists.
+</p>
+<p>
+<a name="preface7"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;vii]</span>
+The only reason that Imagism has seemed so anarchaic
+and strange to English and American reviewers is that their
+minds do not easily and quickly suggest the steps by which
+modern art has arrived at its present position. Its immediate
+prototype cannot be found in English or American literature,
+we must turn to Europe for it. With Debussy and Stravinsky
+in music, and Gauguin and Matisse in painting, it should
+have been evident to every one that art was entering upon
+an era of change. But music and painting are universal languages,
+so we have become accustomed to new idioms in
+them, while we still find it hard to recognize a changed
+idiom in literature.
+</p>
+<p>
+The crux of the situation is just here. It is in the idiom
+employed. Imagism asks to be judged by different standards
+from those employed in Nineteenth-Century art. It is small
+wonder that Imagist poetry should be incomprehensible to
+men whose sole touchstone for art is the literature of one
+country for a period of four centuries. And it is an illuminating
+fact that among poets and men conversant with many
+poetic idioms, Imagism is rarely misconceived. They may
+not agree with us, but they do not misunderstand us.
+</p>
+<p>
+This must not be misconstrued into the desire to belittle
+our forerunners. On the contrary, the Imagists have the greatest
+admiration for the past, and humility towards it. But they
+<a name="preface8"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;viii]</span>
+have been caught in the throes of a new birth. The exterior
+world is changing, and with it men's feelings, and every age
+must express its feelings in its own individual way. No art
+is any more &ldquo;egoistic&rdquo; than another; all art is an attempt
+to express the feelings of the artist, whether it be couched in
+narrative form or employ a more personal expression.
+</p>
+<p>
+It is not what Imagists write about which makes them
+hard of comprehension; it is the way they write it. All nations
+have laws of prosody, which undergo changes from time
+to time. The laws of English metrical prosody are well known
+to every one concerned with the subject. But that is only one
+form of prosody. Other nations have had different ones:
+Anglo-Saxon poetry was founded upon alliteration, Greek and
+Roman was built upon quantity, the Oriental was formed
+out of repetition, and the Japanese Hokku got its effects by
+an exact and never-to-be-added-to series of single syllables.
+So it is evident that poetry can be written in many modes.
+That the Imagists base much of their poetry upon cadence
+and not upon metre makes them neither good nor bad. And
+no one realizes more than they that no theories nor rules
+make poetry. They claim for their work only that it is
+sincere.
+</p>
+<p>
+It is this very fact of &ldquo;cadence&rdquo; which has misled so many
+reviewers, until some have been betrayed into saying that
+<a name="preface9"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;ix]</span>
+the Imagists discard rhythm, when rhythm is the most important
+quality in their technique. The definition of <i>vers
+libre</i> is&mdash;a verse-form based upon cadence. Now cadence in
+music is one thing, cadence in poetry quite another, since
+we are not dealing with tone but with rhythm. It is the sense
+of perfect balance of flow and rhythm. Not only must the
+syllables so fall as to increase and continue the movement,
+but the whole poem must be as rounded and recurring as the
+circular swing of a balanced pendulum. It can be fast or slow,
+it may even jerk, but this perfect swing it must have, even
+its jerks must follow the central movement. To illustrate:
+Suppose a person were given the task of walking, or running,
+round a large circle, with two minutes given to do it
+in. Two minutes which he would just consume if he walked
+round the circle quietly. But in order to make the task easier
+for him, or harder, as the case might be, he was required to
+complete each half of the circle in exactly a minute. No
+other restrictions were placed upon him. He might dawdle
+in the beginning, and run madly to reach the half-circle
+mark on time, and then complete his task by walking steadily
+round the second half to goal. Or he might leap, and run,
+and skip, and linger in all sorts of ways, making up for slow
+going by fast, and for extra haste by pauses, and varying these
+movements on either lap of the circle as the humour seized
+<a name="preface10"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;x]</span>
+him, only so that he were just one minute in traversing the
+first half-circle, and just one minute in traversing the second.
+Another illustration which may be employed is that
+of a Japanese wood-carving where a toad in one corner is
+balanced by a spray of blown flowers in the opposite upper
+one. The flowers are not the same shape as the toad, neither
+are they the same size, but the balance is preserved.
+</p>
+<p>
+The unit in <i>vers libre</i> is not the foot, the number of the
+syllables, the quantity, or the line. The unit is the strophe,
+which may be the whole poem, or may be only a part. Each
+strophe is a complete circle: in fact, the meaning of the
+Greek word &ldquo;strophe&rdquo; is simply that part of the poem
+which was recited while the chorus were making a turn
+round the altar set up in the centre of the theatre. The simile
+of the circle is more than a simile, therefore; it is a fact.
+Of course the circle need not always be the same size, nor
+need the times allowed to negotiate it be always the same.
+There is room here for an infinite number of variations.
+Also, circles can be added to circles, movement upon movement,
+to the poem, provided each movement completes itself,
+and ramifies naturally into the next. But one thing must
+be borne in mind: a cadenced poem is written to be read
+aloud, in this way only will its rhythm be felt. Poetry is a
+spoken and not a written art.
+</p>
+<p>
+<a name="preface11"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;xi]</span>
+The <i>vers libristes</i> are often accused of declaring that they
+have discovered a new thing. Where such an idea started,
+it is impossible to say, certainly none of the better <i>vers libristes</i>
+was ever guilty of so ridiculous a statement. The name
+<i>vers libre</i> is new, the thing, most emphatically, is not. Not
+new in English poetry, at any rate. You will find something
+very much like it in Dryden's <i>Threnodia Augustalis</i>; a
+great deal of Milton's <i>Samson Agonistes</i> is written in it;
+and Matthew Arnold's <i>Philomela</i> is a shining example of it.
+Practically all of Henley's <i>London Voluntaries</i> are written
+in it, and (so potent are names) until it was christened <i>vers
+libre</i>, no one thought of objecting to it. But the oldest reference
+to <i>vers libre</i> is to be found in Chaucer's <i>House of
+Fame</i>, where the Eagle addresses the Poet in these words:
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And nevertheless hast set thy wyt<br />
+Although that in thy heed full lyte is<br />
+To make bookes, songes, or dytees<br />
+In rhyme or elles in cadence.<br />
+</p>
+<p>
+Commentators have wasted reams of paper in an endeavour
+to determine what Chaucer meant by this. But is it not
+possible that he meant a verse based upon rhythm, but
+which did not follow the strict metrical prosody of his
+usual practice?
+</p>
+<p>
+One of the charges frequently brought against the Imagists
+<a name="preface12"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;xii]</span>
+is that they write, not poetry, but &ldquo;shredded prose.&rdquo;
+This misconception springs from the almost complete ignorance
+of the public in regard to the laws of cadenced verse.
+But, in fact, what is prose and what is poetry? Is it merely
+a matter of typographical arrangement? Must everything
+which is printed in equal lines, with rhymes at the ends, be
+called poetry, and everything which is printed in a block be
+called prose? Aristotle, who certainly knew more about
+this subject than any one else, declares in his <i>Rhetoric</i>
+that prose is rhythmical without being metrical (that is to say,
+without insistence on any single rhythm), and then goes on
+to state the feet that are employed in prose, making, incidentally,
+the remark that the iambic prevailed in ordinary
+conversation. The fact is, that there is no hard and fast dividing
+line between prose and poetry. As a French poet of distinction,
+Paul Fort, has said: &ldquo;Prose and poetry are but one
+instrument, graduated.&rdquo; It is not a question of typography; it
+is not even a question of rules and forms. Poetry is the vision
+in a man's soul which he translates as best he can with
+the means at his disposal.
+</p>
+<p>
+We are young, we are experimentalists, but we ask to be
+judged by our own standards, not by those which have
+governed other men at other times.
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="preface13"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;xiii]</span>
+<a name="chapter5"></a>
+CONTENTS
+</h2>
+<table summary="Table of contents">
+<tr><td><span class="smcap">Richard Aldington</span></td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter7">Eros and Psyche</a></td><td class="figureright">3</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter8">After Two Years</a></td><td class="figureright">6</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter9">1915</a></td><td class="figureright">7</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter10">Whitechapel</a></td><td class="figureright">8</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter11">Sunsets</a></td><td class="figureright">10</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter12">People</a></td><td class="figureright">11</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter13">Reflections: I and II</a></td><td class="figureright">12</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td>H. D.</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter15">Sea Gods</a></td><td class="figureright">17</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter16">The Shrine</a></td><td class="figureright">21</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter17">Temple&mdash;The Cliff</a></td><td class="figureright">26</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter18">Mid-day</a></td><td class="figureright">30</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap">John Gould Fletcher</span></td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter20">Arizona</a></td><td class="figureright">35</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter21">The Unquiet Street</a></td><td class="figureright">42</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter22">In the Theatre</a></td><td class="figureright">43</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter23">Ships in the Harbour</a></td><td class="figureright">44</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter24">The Empty House</a></td><td class="figureright">45</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter25">The Skaters</a></td><td class="figureright">48</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap">F. S. Flint</span></td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter27">Easter</a></td><td class="figureright">51</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter28">Ogre</a></td><td class="figureright">54</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter29">Cones</a></td><td class="figureright">56</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter30">Gloom </a></td><td class="figureright">57</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter31">Terror</a></td><td>60</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter32">Chalfont Saint Giles</a></td><td class="figureright">61</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter33">War-Time</a></td><td class="figureright">63</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap">D. H. Lawrence</span></td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter35">Erinnyes</a></td><td class="figureright">67</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter36">Perfidy</a></td><td>70</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter37">At the Window</a></td><td class="figureright">72</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter38">In Trouble and Shame</a></td><td class="figureright">73</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter39">Brooding Grief</a></td><td class="figureright">74</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td><span class="smcap">Amy Lowell</span></td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter41">Patterns</a></td><td class="figureright">77</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter42">Spring Day</a></td><td class="figureright">82</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="#chapter43">Stravinsky's Three Pieces, &ldquo;Grotesques,&rdquo; for String Quartet</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td class="figureright">87</td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td><a href="#chapter44"><span class="smcap">Bibliography</span></a></td><td class="figureright">93</td></tr>
+</table>
+<p class="acknowledgments">
+<a name="preface14"></a>
+<a name="preface15"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;xv]</span>
+The authors wish to express their gratitude to the editors
+of <i>The Egoist</i> and <i>Poetry and Drama</i>, London; <i>The
+Poetry Journal</i>, Boston; <i>The Little Review</i> and <i>Poetry</i>,
+Chicago, for permission to reprint certain of these poems
+which originally appeared in their columns. To <i>Poetry</i>
+belongs the credit of having introduced Imagism to the
+world: it seems fitting, therefore, that the authors should
+record their thanks in this place for the constant interest
+and encouragement shown them by its editor, Miss Harriet
+Monroe.
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="preface16"></a>
+<a name="page1"></a>
+<a name="page2"></a>
+<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;3]</span>
+<a name="chapter6"></a>
+RICHARD ALDINGTON
+</h2>
+<h3>
+<a name="chapter7"></a>
+EROS AND PSYCHE
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+In an old dull yard near Camden Town,<br />
+Which echoes with the rattle of cars and 'busses<br />
+And freight-trains, puffing steam and smoke and dirt<br />
+To the steaming, sooty sky&mdash;<br />
+There stands an old and grimy statue,<br />
+A statue of Psyche and her lover, Eros.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+A little nearer Camden Town,<br />
+In a square of ugly sordid shops,<br />
+Is another statue, facing the Tube,<br />
+Staring with a heavy, purposeless glare<br />
+At the red and white shining tiles&mdash;<br />
+A tall stone statue of Cobden.<br />
+And though no one ever pauses to see<br />
+What hero it is that faces the Tube,<br />
+I can understand very well indeed<br />
+That England must honour its national heroes,<br />
+Must honour the hero of Free Trade&mdash;<br />
+Or was it the Corn Laws?&mdash;<br />
+That I can understand.<br />
+<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;4]</span>
+But what I shall never understand<br />
+Is the little group in the dingy yard<br />
+Under the dingier sky,<br />
+The Eros and Psyche&mdash;<br />
+Surrounded with pots and terra-cotta busts<br />
+And urns and broken pillars&mdash;<br />
+Eros, naked, with his wings stretched out<br />
+Just lighting down to kiss her on the lips.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+What are they doing here in Camden Town<br />
+In the midst of all this clamour and filth?<br />
+They who should stand in a sun-lit room<br />
+Hung with deep purple, painted with gods,<br />
+Paved with white porphyry,<br />
+Stand for ever embraced<br />
+By the side of a rustling fountain<br />
+Over a marble basin<br />
+Carved with leopards and grapes and young men dancing;<br />
+Or in a garden leaning above Corinth,<br />
+Under the ilices and the cypresses,<br />
+Very white against a very blue sky;<br />
+Or growing hoary, if they must grow old,<br />
+With lichens and softly creeping moss.<br />
+What are they doing here in Camden Town?<br />
+And who has brought their naked beauty<br />
+<a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;5]</span>
+And their young fresh lust to Camden Town,<br />
+Which settled long ago to toil and sweat and filth,<br />
+Forgetting&mdash;to the greater glory of Free Trade&mdash;<br />
+Young beauty and young love and youthful flesh?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Slowly the rain settles down on them,<br />
+Slowly the soot eats into them,<br />
+Slowly the stone grows greyer and dirtier,<br />
+Till in spite of his spreading wings<br />
+Her eyes have a rim of soot<br />
+Half an inch deep,<br />
+And his wings, the tall god's wings,<br />
+That should be red and silver<br />
+Are ocherous brown.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And I peer from a 'bus-top<br />
+As we splash through the grease and puddles,<br />
+And I glimpse them, huddled against the wall,<br />
+Half-hidden under a freight-train's smoke,<br />
+And I see the limbs that a Greek slave cut<br />
+In some old Italian town,<br />
+I see them growing older<br />
+And sadder<br />
+And greyer.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;6]</span>
+<a name="chapter8"></a>
+AFTER TWO YEARS
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+She is all so slight<br />
+And tender and white<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As a May morning.<br />
+She walks without hood<br />
+At dusk. It is good<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To hear her sing.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+It is God's will<br />
+That I shall love her still<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As He loves Mary.<br />
+And night and day<br />
+I will go forth to pray<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That she love me.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+She is as gold<br />
+Lovely, and far more cold.<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do thou pray with me,<br />
+For if I win grace<br />
+To kiss twice her face<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;God has done well to me.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;7]</span>
+<a name="chapter9"></a>
+1915
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The limbs of gods,<br />
+Still, veined marble,<br />
+Rest heavily in sleep<br />
+Under a saffron twilight.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Not for them battle,<br />
+Severed limbs, death, and a cry of victory;<br />
+Not for them strife<br />
+And a torment of storm.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+A vast breast moves slowly,<br />
+The great thighs shift,<br />
+The stone eyelids rise;<br />
+The slow tongue speaks:<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+&ldquo;<i>Only a rain of bright dust;<br />
+In the outer air;<br />
+A little whisper of wind;<br />
+Sleep; rest; forget.</i>&rdquo;<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Bright dust of battle!<br />
+A little whisper of dead souls!<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;8]</span>
+<a name="chapter10"></a>
+WHITECHAPEL
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Noise;<br />
+Iron hoofs, iron wheels, iron din<br />
+Of drays and trams and feet passing;<br />
+Iron<br />
+Beaten to a vast mad cacophony.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<i>In vain the shrill, far cry<br />
+Of swallows sweeping by;<br />
+In vain the silence and green<br />
+Of meadows Apriline;<br />
+In vain the clear white rain&mdash;</i><br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Soot; mud;<br />
+A nation maddened with labour;<br />
+Interminable collision of energies&mdash;<br />
+Iron beating upon iron;<br />
+Smoke whirling upwards,<br />
+Speechless, impotent.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;9]</span>
+<i>In vain the shrill, far cry<br />
+Of kittiwakes that fly<br />
+Where the sea waves leap green.<br />
+The meadows Apriline&mdash;</i><br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Noise, iron, smoke;<br />
+Iron, iron, iron.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;10]</span>
+<a name="chapter11"></a>
+SUNSETS
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The white body of the evening<br />
+Is torn into scarlet,<br />
+Slashed and gouged and seared<br />
+Into crimson,<br />
+And hung ironically<br />
+With garlands of mist.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And the wind<br />
+Blowing over London from Flanders<br />
+Has a bitter taste.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;11]</span>
+<a name="chapter12"></a>
+PEOPLE
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Why should you try to crush me?<br />
+Am I so Christ-like?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+You beat against me,<br />
+Immense waves, filthy with refuse.<br />
+I am the last upright of a smashed break-water,<br />
+But you shall not crush me<br />
+Though you bury me in foaming slime<br />
+And hiss your hatred about me.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+You break over me, cover me;<br />
+I shudder at the contact;<br />
+Yet I pierce through you<br />
+And stand up, torn, dripping, shaken,<br />
+But whole and fierce.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;12]</span>
+<a name="chapter13"></a>
+REFLECTIONS
+</h3>
+<h4>
+I
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Steal out with me<br />
+Over the moss and the daffodils.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Come to the temple,<br />
+Hung with sprays from untrimmed hedges.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I bring you a token<br />
+From the golden-haired revellers,<br />
+From the mad procession.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Come,<br />
+Flute girls shall pipe to us&mdash;<br />
+Their beautiful fingers!&mdash;<br />
+They are yellow-throated birds.<br />
+They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments,<br />
+Bending above us.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Come,<br />
+Bind your hair with white poplar,<br />
+Let your lips be sweet,<br />
+Wild roses of Paestum.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;13]</span>
+<a name="section13_2"></a>
+II
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Ghost moths hover over asphodel;<br />
+Shades, once Laïs' peers<br />
+Drift past us;<br />
+The mist is grey.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Far over us<br />
+The white wave-crests flash in the sun;<br />
+The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Now the Maid returns to us<br />
+With fragrance of the world<br />
+And of the hours of gods.<br />
+On earth<br />
+Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit,<br />
+Streams, passing through the corn lands,<br />
+Hear laughter.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+We pluck the asphodel,<br />
+Yet we weave no crowns<br />
+For we have no vines;<br />
+No one speaks here;<br />
+No one kisses.<br />
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="page14"></a>
+<a name="page15"></a>
+<a name="page16"></a>
+<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;17]</span>
+<a name="chapter14"></a>
+H. D.
+</h2>
+<h3>
+<a name="chapter15"></a>
+SEA GODS
+</h3>
+<h4>
+I
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+They say there is no hope&mdash;<br />
+Sand&mdash;drift&mdash;rocks&mdash;rubble of the sea&mdash;<br />
+The broken hulk of a ship,<br />
+Hung with shreds of rope,<br />
+Pallid under the cracked pitch.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+They say there is no hope<br />
+To conjure you&mdash;<br />
+No whip of the tongue to anger you&mdash;<br />
+No hate of words<br />
+You must rise to refute.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+They say you are twisted by the sea,<br />
+You are cut apart<br />
+By wave-break upon wave-break,<br />
+That you are misshapen by the sharp rocks,<br />
+Broken by the rasp and after-rasp.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;18]</span>
+That you are cut, torn, mangled,<br />
+Torn by the stress and beat,<br />
+No stronger than the strips of sand<br />
+Along your ragged beach.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section15_2"></a>
+II
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But we bring violets,<br />
+Great masses&mdash;single, sweet,<br />
+Wood-violets, stream-violets,<br />
+Violets from a wet marsh.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Violets in clumps from hills,<br />
+Tufts with earth at the roots,<br />
+Violets tugged from rocks,<br />
+Blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Yellow violets' gold,<br />
+Burnt with a rare tint&mdash;<br />
+Violets like red ash<br />
+Among tufts of grass.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+We bring deep-purple<br />
+Bird-foot violets.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;19]</span>
+We bring the hyacinth-violet,<br />
+Sweet, bare, chill to the touch&mdash;<br />
+And violets whiter than the in-rush<br />
+Of your own white surf.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section15_3"></a>
+III
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+For you will come,<br />
+You will yet haunt men in ships,<br />
+You will trail across the fringe of strait<br />
+And circle the jagged rocks.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+You will trail across the rocks<br />
+And wash them with your salt,<br />
+You will curl between sand-hills&mdash;<br />
+You will thunder along the cliff&mdash;<br />
+Break&mdash;retreat&mdash;get fresh strength&mdash;<br />
+Gather and pour weight upon the beach.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+You will draw back,<br />
+And the ripple on the sand-shelf<br />
+Will be witness of your track.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+O privet-white, you will paint<br />
+The lintel of wet sand with froth.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;20]</span>
+You will bring myrrh-bark<br />
+And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts.<br />
+When you hurl high&mdash;high&mdash;<br />
+We will answer with a shout.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+For you will come,<br />
+You will come,<br />
+You will answer our taut hearts,<br />
+You will break the lie of men's thoughts,<br />
+And cherish and shelter us.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;21]</span>
+<a name="chapter16"></a>
+THE SHRINE
+</h3>
+<p class="h3a">
+(&ldquo;<i>She Watches Over the Sea</i>&rdquo;)
+</p>
+<h4>
+I
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Are your rocks shelter for ships?<br />
+Have you sent galleys from your beach&mdash;<br />
+Are you graded&mdash;a safe crescent,<br />
+Where the tide lifts them back to port?<br />
+Are you full and sweet,<br />
+Tempting the quiet<br />
+To depart in their trading ships?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Nay, you are great, fierce, evil&mdash;<br />
+You are the land-blight&mdash;<br />
+You have tempted men,<br />
+But they perished on your cliffs.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Your lights are but dank shoals,<br />
+Slate and pebbles and wet shells<br />
+And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+It was evil&mdash;evil<br />
+When they found you&mdash;<br />
+When the quiet men looked at you.<br />
+<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;22]</span>
+They sought a headland,<br />
+Shaded with ledge of cliff<br />
+From the wind-blast.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But you&mdash;you are unsheltered&mdash;<br />
+Cut with the weight of wind.<br />
+You shudder when it strikes,<br />
+Then lift, swelled with the blast.<br />
+You sink as the tide sinks.<br />
+You shrill under the hail, and sound<br />
+Thunder when thunder sounds.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+You are useless.<br />
+When the tides swirl,<br />
+Your boulders cut and wreck<br />
+The staggering ships.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section16_2"></a>
+II
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+You are useless,<br />
+O grave, O beautiful.<br />
+The landsmen tell it&mdash;I have heard<br />
+You are useless.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And the wind sounds with this<br />
+And the sea,<br />
+<a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;23]</span>
+Where rollers shot with blue<br />
+Cut under deeper blue.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+O but stay tender, enchanted,<br />
+Where wave-lengths cut you<br />
+Apart from all the rest.<br />
+For we have found you.<br />
+We watch the splendour of you.<br />
+We thread throat on throat of freesia<br />
+For your shelf.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+You are not forgot,<br />
+O plunder of lilies&mdash;<br />
+Honey is not more sweet<br />
+Than the salt stretch of your beach.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section16_3"></a>
+III
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Stay&mdash;stay&mdash;<br />
+But terror has caught us now.<br />
+We passed the men in ships.<br />
+We dared deeper than the fisher-folk,<br />
+And you strike us with terror,<br />
+O bright shaft.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Flame passes under us,<br />
+And sparks that unknot the flesh,<br />
+<a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;24]</span>
+Sorrow, splitting bone from bone&mdash;<br />
+Splendour athwart our eyes,<br />
+And rifts in the splendour&mdash;<br />
+Sparks and scattered light.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Many warned of this.<br />
+Men said:<br />
+There are wrecks on the fore-beach.<br />
+Wind will beat your ship.<br />
+There is no shelter in that headland.<br />
+It is useless waste, that edge,<br />
+That front of rock.<br />
+Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers&mdash;<br />
+None venture to that spot.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section16_4"></a>
+IV
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But hail&mdash;<br />
+As the tide slackens,<br />
+As the wind beats out,<br />
+We hail this shore.<br />
+We sing to you,<br />
+Spirit between the headlands<br />
+And the further rocks.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Though oak-beams split,<br />
+Though boats and sea-men flounder,<br />
+<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;25]</span>
+And the strait grind sand with sand<br />
+And cut boulders to sand and drift&mdash;<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Your eyes have pardoned our faults.<br />
+Your hands have touched us.<br />
+You have leaned forward a little<br />
+And the waves can never thrust us back<br />
+From the splendour of your ragged coast.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;26]</span>
+<a name="chapter17"></a>
+TEMPLE&mdash;THE CLIFF
+</h3>
+<h4>
+I
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Great, bright portal,<br />
+Shelf of rock,<br />
+Rocks fitted in long ledges,<br />
+Rocks fitted to dark, to silver-granite,<br />
+To lighter rock&mdash;<br />
+Clean cut, white against white.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+High&mdash;high&mdash;and no hill-goat<br />
+Tramples&mdash;no mountain-sheep<br />
+Has set foot on your fine grass.<br />
+You lift, you are the world-edge,<br />
+Pillar for the sky-arch.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The world heaved&mdash;<br />
+We are next to the sky.<br />
+Over us, sea-hawks shout,<br />
+Gulls sweep past.<br />
+The terrible breakers are silent<br />
+From this place.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Below us, on the rock-edge,<br />
+Where earth is caught in the fissures<br />
+<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;27]</span>
+Of the jagged cliff,<br />
+A small tree stiffens in the gale,<br />
+It bends&mdash;but its white flowers<br />
+Are fragrant at this height.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And under and under,<br />
+The wind booms.<br />
+It whistles, it thunders,<br />
+It growls&mdash;it presses the grass<br />
+Beneath its great feet.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section17_2"></a>
+II
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I said:<br />
+Forever and forever must I follow you<br />
+Through the stones?<br />
+I catch at you&mdash;you lurch.<br />
+You are quicker than my hand-grasp.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I wondered at you.<br />
+I shouted&mdash;dear&mdash;mysterious&mdash;beautiful&mdash;<br />
+White myrtle-flesh.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I was splintered and torn.<br />
+The hill-path mounted<br />
+Swifter than my feet.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;28]</span>
+Could a dæmon avenge this hurt,<br />
+I would cry to him&mdash;could a ghost,<br />
+I would shout&mdash;O evil,<br />
+Follow this god,<br />
+Taunt him with his evil and his vice.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section17_3"></a>
+III
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Shall I hurl myself from here,<br />
+Shall I leap and be nearer you?<br />
+Shall I drop, beloved, beloved,<br />
+Ankle against ankle?<br />
+Would you pity me, O white breast?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+If I woke, would you pity me,<br />
+Would our eyes meet?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Have you heard,<br />
+Do you know how I climbed this rock?<br />
+My breath caught, I lurched forward&mdash;<br />
+I stumbled in the ground-myrtle.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Have you heard, O god seated on the cliff,<br />
+How far toward the ledges of your house,<br />
+How far I had to walk?<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;29]</span>
+<a name="section17_4"></a>
+IV
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Over me the wind swirls.<br />
+I have stood on your portal<br />
+And I know&mdash;<br />
+You are further than this,<br />
+Still further on another cliff.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;30]</span>
+<a name="chapter18"></a>
+MID-DAY
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The light beats upon me.<br />
+I am startled&mdash;<br />
+A split leaf crackles on the paved floor&mdash;<br />
+I am anguished&mdash;defeated.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+A slight wind shakes the seed-pods.<br />
+My thoughts are spent<br />
+As the black seeds.<br />
+My thoughts tear me.<br />
+I dread their fever&mdash;<br />
+I am scattered in its whirl.<br />
+I am scattered like<br />
+The hot shrivelled seeds.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The shrivelled seeds<br />
+Are spilt on the path.<br />
+The grass bends with dust.<br />
+The grape slips<br />
+Under its crackled leaf:<br />
+Yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,<br />
+And the blackened stalks of mint,<br />
+The poplar is bright on the hill,<br />
+<a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;31]</span>
+The poplar spreads out,<br />
+Deep-rooted among trees.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+O poplar, you are great<br />
+Among the hill-stones,<br />
+While I perish on the path<br />
+Among the crevices of the rocks.<br />
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="page32"></a>
+<a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;33]</span>
+<a name="chapter19"></a>
+JOHN GOULD FLETCHER<br />
+</h2>
+<h3>
+<a name="page34"></a>
+<a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;35]</span>
+<a name="chapter20"></a>
+ARIZONA
+</h3>
+<h4>
+THE WINDMILLS
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The windmills, like great sunflowers of steel,<br />
+Lift themselves proudly over the straggling houses;<br />
+And at their feet the deep blue-green alfalfa<br />
+Cuts the desert like the stroke of a sword.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Yellow melon flowers<br />
+Crawl beneath the withered peach-trees;<br />
+A date-palm throws its heavy fronds of steel<br />
+Against the scoured metallic sky.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The houses, doubled-roofed for coolness,<br />
+Cower amid the manzanita scrub.<br />
+A man with jingling spurs<br />
+Walks heavily out of a vine-bowered doorway,<br />
+Mounts his pony, rides away.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The windmills stare at the sun.<br />
+The yellow earth cracks and blisters.<br />
+Everything is still.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;36]</span>
+In the afternoon<br />
+The wind takes dry waves of heat and tosses them,<br />
+Mingled with dust, up and down the streets,<br />
+Against the belfry with its green bells:<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And, after sunset, when the sky<br />
+Becomes a green and orange fan,<br />
+The windmills, like great sunflowers on dried stalks,<br />
+Stare hard at the sun they cannot follow.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Turning, turning, forever turning<br />
+In the chill night-wind that sweeps over the valley,<br />
+With the shriek and the clank of the pumps groaning beneath them,<br />
+And the choking gurgle of tepid water.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;37]</span>
+<a name="section20_2"></a>
+MEXICAN QUARTER
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+By an alley lined with tumble-down shacks<br />
+And street-lamps askew, half-sputtering,<br />
+Feebly glimmering on gutters choked with filth and dogs<br />
+Scratching their mangy backs:<br />
+Half-naked children are running about,<br />
+Women puff cigarettes in black doorways,<br />
+Crickets are crying.<br />
+Men slouch sullenly<br />
+Into the shadows:<br />
+Behind a hedge of cactus,<br />
+The smell of a dead horse<br />
+Mingles with the smell of tamales frying.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And a girl in a black lace shawl<br />
+Sits in a rickety chair by the square of an unglazed window,<br />
+And sees the explosion of the stars<br />
+Softly poised on a velvet sky.<br />
+And she is humming to herself:&mdash;<br />
+&ldquo;Stars, if I could reach you,<br />
+(You are so very clear that it seems as if I could reach you)<br />
+<a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;38]</span>
+I would give you all to Madonna's image,<br />
+On the grey-plastered altar behind the paper flowers,<br />
+So that Juan would come back to me,<br />
+And we could live again those lazy burning hours<br />
+Forgetting the tap of my fan and my sharp words.<br />
+And I would only keep four of you,<br />
+Those two blue-white ones overhead,<br />
+To hang in my ears;<br />
+And those two orange ones yonder,<br />
+To fasten on my shoe-buckles.&rdquo;<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+A little further along the street<br />
+A man sits stringing a brown guitar.<br />
+The smoke of his cigarette curls round his head,<br />
+And he, too, is humming, but other words:<br />
+&ldquo;Think not that at your window I wait;<br />
+New love is better, the old is turned to hate.<br />
+Fate! Fate! All things pass away;<br />
+Life is forever, youth is for a day.<br />
+Love again if you may<br />
+Before the stars are blown out of the sky<br />
+And the crickets die;<br />
+Babylon and Samarkand<br />
+Are mud walls in a waste of sand.&rdquo;<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;39]</span>
+<a name="section20_3"></a>
+RAIN IN THE DESERT
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder<br />
+Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning<br />
+Its altar-fires of pinyon and of toyon for the day.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The old priests sleep, white-shrouded,<br />
+Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely feathered;<br />
+On every mummied face there glows a smile.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The sun is rolling slowly<br />
+Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents,<br />
+Coiling, uncoiling, blue-black, sparked with fires.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The old dead priests<br />
+Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them,<br />
+Above the smell of scorching oozing pinyon,<br />
+The acrid smell of rain.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And now the showers<br />
+Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers:<br />
+Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring,<br />
+Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;40]</span>
+<a name="section20_4"></a>
+CLOUDS ACROSS THE CANYON
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Shadows of clouds<br />
+March across the canyon,<br />
+Shadows of blue hands passing<br />
+Over a curtain of flame.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Clutching, staggering, upstriking,<br />
+Darting in blue-black fury,<br />
+To where pinnacles, green and orange,<br />
+Await.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The winds are battling and striving to break them:<br />
+Thin lightnings spit and flicker,<br />
+The peaks seem a dance of scarlet demons<br />
+Flitting amid the shadows.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Grey rain-curtains wave afar off,<br />
+Wisps of vapour curl and vanish.<br />
+The sun throws soft shafts of golden light<br />
+Over rose-buttressed palisades.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;41]</span>
+Now the clouds are a lazy procession;<br />
+Blue balloons bobbing solemnly<br />
+Over black-dappled walls,<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Where rise sharp-fretted, golden-roofed cathedrals<br />
+Exultantly, and split the sky with light.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;42]</span>
+<a name="chapter21"></a>
+THE UNQUIET STREET
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+By day and night this street is not still:<br />
+Omnibuses with red tail-lamps,<br />
+Taxicabs with shiny eyes,<br />
+Rumble, shunning its ugliness.<br />
+It is corrugated with wheel-ruts,<br />
+It is dented and pockmarked with traffic,<br />
+It has no time for sleep.<br />
+It heaves its old scarred countenance<br />
+Skyward between the buildings<br />
+And never says a word.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+On rainy nights<br />
+It dully gleams<br />
+Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake:<br />
+And over it hang arc-lamps,<br />
+Blue-white death-lilies on black stems.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;43]</span>
+<a name="chapter22"></a>
+IN THE THEATRE
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Darkness in the theatre:<br />
+Darkness and a multitude<br />
+Assembled in the darkness.<br />
+These who every day perform<br />
+The unique tragi-comedy<br />
+Of birth and death;<br />
+Now press upon each other,<br />
+Directing the irresistible weight of their thoughts to the stage.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+A great broad shaft of calcium light<br />
+Cleaves, like a stroke of a sword, the darkness:<br />
+And, at the end of it,<br />
+A tiny spot which is the red nose of a comedian<br />
+Marks the goal of the spot-light and the eyes which people the darkness.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;44]</span>
+<a name="chapter23"></a>
+SHIPS IN THE HARBOUR
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Like a flock of great blue cranes<br />
+Resting upon the water,<br />
+The ships assemble at morning, when the grey light wakes in the east.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Weary, no longer flying,<br />
+Over the hissing spindrift, through the ravelled clutching sea;<br />
+No longer over the tops of the waves spinning along north-eastward,<br />
+In a great irregular wedge before the trade-wind far from land.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But drowsy, mournful, silent,<br />
+Yet under their bulged projecting bows runs the silver foam of the sunlight,<br />
+And rebelliously they shake out their plumage of sails, wet and heavy with the rain.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;45]</span>
+<a name="chapter24"></a>
+THE EMPTY HOUSE
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Out from my window-sill I lean,<br />
+And see a straight four-storied row<br />
+Of houses.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Once, long ago,<br />
+These had their glory: they were built<br />
+In the fair palmy days before<br />
+The Civil War when all the seas<br />
+Saw the white sails of Yankee ships<br />
+Scurrying home with spice and gold.<br />
+And many of these houses hung<br />
+Proud wisps of crêpe upon their doors<br />
+On hearing that some son had died<br />
+At Chancellorsville or Fredericksburg,<br />
+Their offering to the Union side.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But man's forever drifting will<br />
+Again took hold of him&mdash;again<br />
+The fashionable quarter shifted: soon,<br />
+Before some plastering had dried,<br />
+Society packed up, went away.<br />
+Now, could you see these houses,<br />
+You would not think they ever had a prime:<br />
+<a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;46]</span>
+A grim four-storied serried row<br />
+Of rooms to let&mdash;at any time<br />
+Tenants are moving in or out.<br />
+Families drifting down or struggling still<br />
+To keep their heads up and not drown.<br />
+A tragic busy pettiness<br />
+Has settled on them all,<br />
+But one.<br />
+And in that one, when I came here,<br />
+A family lived, but with its trunks packed up,<br />
+And now that family's gone.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Its shutterless blindless windows let you look inside<br />
+And see the sunlight chequering the bare floor<br />
+With patterns from the window-frames<br />
+All day.<br />
+Its backyard neatly swept,<br />
+Contains no crammed ash-barrels and no lines<br />
+For clothes to flap about on;<br />
+It does not look by day as if it had<br />
+Ever a living soul beneath its roof.<br />
+It seems to mark a gap in the grim line,<br />
+No house at all, but an unfinished shell.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But when the windows up and down those faces<br />
+With yellow glimmer of gas, blaze forth;<br />
+<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;47]</span>
+I know it is the only house that lives<br />
+In all that grim four-storied row.<br />
+The others are mere shelves, overcrowded layers,<br />
+Of warring, separate personalities;<br />
+A jangle and a tangle of emotions,<br />
+Without a single meaning running through them;<br />
+But it, the empty house, has mastered all its secrets.<br />
+Behind its silent swarthy face,<br />
+Eyelessly proud,<br />
+It watches, it is master;<br />
+It sees the other houses still incessantly learning<br />
+The lesson it remembers,<br />
+And which it can repeat the last dim syllable of.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;48]</span>
+<a name="chapter25"></a>
+THE SKATERS
+</h3>
+<p class="h3a">
+<i>To A. D. R.</i>
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Black swallows swooping or gliding<br />
+In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;<br />
+The skaters skim over the frozen river.<br />
+And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the surface,<br />
+Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.<br />
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;49]</span>
+<a name="chapter26"></a>
+F. S. FLINT
+</h2>
+<h3>
+<a name="page50"></a>
+<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;51]</span>
+<a name="chapter27"></a>
+EASTER
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Friend<br />
+we will take the path that leads<br />
+down from the flagstaff by the pond<br />
+through the gorse thickets;<br />
+see, the golden spikes have thrust their points through,<br />
+and last year's bracken lies yellow-brown and trampled.<br />
+The sapling birch-groves have shown no leaf,<br />
+and the wistarias on the desolate pergola<br />
+are shorn and ashen.<br />
+We lurch on, and, stumbling,<br />
+touch each other.<br />
+You do not shrink, friend.<br />
+There you, and I here,<br />
+side by side, we go, jesting.<br />
+We do not seek, we do not avoid, contact.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Here is the road,<br />
+with the budding elm-trees lining it,<br />
+and there the low gate in the wall;<br />
+on the other side, the people.<br />
+<a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;52]</span>
+Are they not aliens?
+You and I for a moment see them<br />
+shabby of limb and soul,<br />
+patched up to make shift.<br />
+We laugh and strengthen each other;<br />
+But the evil is done.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Is not the whole park made for them,<br />
+and the bushes and plants and trees and grasses,<br />
+have they not grown to their standard?<br />
+The paths are worn to the gravel with their feet;<br />
+the green moss will not carpet them.<br />
+The flags of the stone steps are hollowed;<br />
+and you and I must strive to remain two<br />
+and not to merge in the multitude.<br />
+It impinges on us; it separates us;<br />
+we shrink from it; we brave through it;<br />
+we laugh; we jest; we jeer;<br />
+and we save the fragments of our souls.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Between two clipped privet hedges now;<br />
+we will close our eyes for life's sake<br />
+to life's patches.<br />
+Here, maybe, there is quiet;<br />
+pass first under the bare branches,<br />
+beyond is a pool flanked with sedge,<br />
+<a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;53]</span>
+and a swan among water-lilies.<br />
+But here too is a group<br />
+of men and women and children;<br />
+and the swan has forgotten its pride;<br />
+it thrusts its white neck among them,<br />
+and gobbles at nothing;<br />
+then tires of the cheat and sails off;<br />
+but its breast urges before it<br />
+a sheet of sodden newspaper<br />
+that, drifting away,<br />
+reveals beneath the immaculate white splendour<br />
+of its neck and wings<br />
+a breast black with scum.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Friend, we are beaten.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;54]</span>
+<a name="chapter28"></a>
+OGRE
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Through the open window can be seen<br />
+the poplars at the end of the garden<br />
+shaking in the wind,<br />
+a wall of green leaves so high<br />
+that the sky is shut off.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+On the white table-cloth<br />
+a rose in a vase<br />
+&mdash;centre of a sphere of odour&mdash;<br />
+contemplates the crumbs and crusts<br />
+left from a meal:<br />
+cups, saucers, plates lie<br />
+here and there.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And a sparrow flies by the open window,<br />
+stops for a moment,<br />
+flutters his wings rapidly,<br />
+and climbs an aerial ladder<br />
+<a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;55]</span>
+with his claws<br />
+that work close in<br />
+to his soft, brown-grey belly.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But behind the table is the face of a man.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The bird flies off.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;56]</span>
+<a name="chapter29"></a>
+CONES
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The blue mist of after-rain<br />
+fills all the trees;<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+the sunlight gilds the tops<br />
+of the poplar spires, far off,<br />
+behind the houses.<br />
+</p>
+<table class="nowrap" summary="hemistich">
+<tr><td colspan="2">Here a branch sways</td></tr>
+<tr><td>and there</td><td></td></tr>
+<tr><td></td><td>&nbsp;a sparrow twitters.</td></tr>
+</table>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The curtain's hem, rose-embroidered,<br />
+flutters, and half reveals<br />
+a burnt-red chimney pot.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The quiet in the room<br />
+bears patiently<br />
+a footfall on the street.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;57]</span>
+<a name="chapter30"></a>
+GLOOM
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I sat there in the dark<br />
+of the room and of my mind<br />
+thinking of men's treasons and bad faith,<br />
+sinking into the pit of my own weakness<br />
+before their strength of cunning.<br />
+Out over the gardens came the sound of some one<br />
+playing five-finger exercises on the piano.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Then<br />
+I gathered up within me all my powers<br />
+until outside of me was nothing:<br />
+I was all&mdash;<br />
+all stubborn, fighting sadness and revulsion.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And one came from the garden quietly,<br />
+and stood beside me.<br />
+She laid her hand on my hair;<br />
+she laid her cheek on my forehead,&mdash;<br />
+and caressed me with it;<br />
+but all my being rose to my forehead<br />
+to fight against this outside thing.<br />
+Something in me became angry;<br />
+<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;58]</span>
+withstood like a wall,<br />
+and would allow no entrance;<br />
+I hated her.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+&ldquo;What is the matter with you, dear?&rdquo; she said.<br />
+&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; I answered,<br />
+&ldquo;I am thinking.&rdquo;<br />
+She stroked my hair and went away;<br />
+and I was still gloomy, angry, stubborn.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Then I thought:<br />
+she has gone away; she is hurt;<br />
+she does not know<br />
+what poison has been working in me.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Then I thought:<br />
+upstairs, her child is sleeping;<br />
+and I felt the presence<br />
+of the fields we had walked over, the roads we had followed,<br />
+the flowers we had watched together,<br />
+before it came.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+She had touched my hair, and only then did I feel it;<br />
+And I loved her once again.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;59]</span>
+And I came away,<br />
+full of the sweet and bitter juices of life;<br />
+and I lit the lamp in my room,<br />
+and made this poem.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;60]</span>
+<a name="chapter31"></a>
+TERROR
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Eyes are tired;<br />
+the lamp burns,<br />
+and in its circle of light<br />
+papers and books lie<br />
+where chance and life<br />
+have placed them.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Silence sings all around me;<br />
+my head is bound with a band;<br />
+outside in the street a few footsteps;<br />
+a clock strikes the hour.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I gaze, and my eyes close,<br />
+slowly:<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I doze; but the moment before sleep,<br />
+a voice calls my name<br />
+in my ear,<br />
+and the shock jolts my heart:<br />
+but when I open my eyes,<br />
+and look, first left, and then right ...<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+no one is there.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;61]</span>
+<a name="chapter32"></a>
+CHALFONT SAINT GILES
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The low graves are all grown over<br />
+with forget-me-not,<br />
+and a rich-green grass<br />
+links each with each.<br />
+Old family vaults,<br />
+some within railings,<br />
+stand here and there,<br />
+crumbling, moss-eaten,<br />
+with the ivy growing up them<br />
+and diagonally across<br />
+the top projecting slab.<br />
+And over the vaults<br />
+lean the great lilac bushes<br />
+with their heart-shaped leaves<br />
+and their purple and white blossom.<br />
+A wall of ivy shuts off the darkness<br />
+of the elm-wood and the larches.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Walk quietly<br />
+along the mossy paths;<br />
+the stones of the humble dead<br />
+are hidden behind the blue mantle<br />
+of their forget-me-nots;<br />
+<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;62]</span>
+and before one grave so hidden<br />
+a widow kneels, with head bowed,<br />
+and the crape falling<br />
+over her shoulders.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The bells for evening church are ringing,<br />
+and the people come gravely<br />
+and with red, sun-burnt faces<br />
+through the gates in the wall.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Pass on;<br />
+this is the church-porch,<br />
+and within the bell-ringers,<br />
+men of the village in their Sunday clothes,<br />
+pull their bob-major<br />
+on the red and white grip<br />
+of the bell-ropes, that fly up,<br />
+and then fall snakily.<br />
+They stand there given wholly<br />
+to the rhythm and swing<br />
+of their traditional movements.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And the people pass between them<br />
+into the church;<br />
+but we are too sad and too reverent<br />
+to enter.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;63]</span>
+<a name="chapter33"></a>
+WAR-TIME
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+If I go out of the door,<br />
+it will not be<br />
+to take the road to the left that leads<br />
+past the bovine quiet of houses<br />
+brooding over the cud of their daily content,<br />
+even though<br />
+the tranquillity of their gardens<br />
+is a lure that once was stronger;<br />
+even though<br />
+from privet hedge and mottled laurel<br />
+the young green peeps,<br />
+and the daffodils<br />
+and the yellow and white and purple crocuses<br />
+laugh from the smooth mould<br />
+of the garden beds<br />
+to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.<br />
+I shall not see<br />
+the almond blossom shaming<br />
+the soot-black boughs.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+But to the right the road will lead me<br />
+to greater and greater disquiet;<br />
+into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses,<br />
+<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;64]</span>
+and the dust, the tattered paper&mdash;<br />
+the detritus of a city&mdash;<br />
+that swirls in the air behind them.<br />
+I will pass the shops where the prices<br />
+are judged day by day by the people,<br />
+and come to the place where five roads meet<br />
+with five tram-routes,<br />
+and where amid the din<br />
+of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'busses,<br />
+the clangorous tram-cars,<br />
+the news is shouted,<br />
+and soldiers gather, off-duty.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever;<br />
+and I can make,<br />
+as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,<br />
+no spring and no woman's beauty,<br />
+while that is burning.<br />
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;65]</span>
+<a name="chapter34"></a>
+D. H. LAWRENCE<br />
+</h2>
+<h3>
+<a name="page66"></a>
+<a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;67]</span>
+<a name="chapter35"></a>
+ERINNYES
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+There has been so much noise,<br />
+Bleeding and shouting and dying,<br />
+Clamour of death.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+There are so many dead,<br />
+Many have died unconsenting,<br />
+Their ghosts are angry, unappeased.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+So many ghosts among us,<br />
+Invisible, yet strong,<br />
+Between me and thee, so many ghosts of the slain.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+They come back, over the white sea, in the mist,<br />
+Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts<br />
+Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+They set foot on this land to which they have the right,<br />
+They return relentlessly, in the silence one knows their tread,<br />
+Multitudinous, endless, the ghosts coming home again.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;68]</span>
+They watch us, they press on us,<br />
+They press their claim upon us,<br />
+They are angry with us.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+What do they want?<br />
+We are driven mad,<br />
+Madly we rush hither and thither:<br />
+Shouting, &ldquo;Revenge, Revenge,&rdquo;<br />
+Crying, &ldquo;Pour out the blood of the foe,&rdquo;<br />
+Seeking to appease with blood the insistent ghosts.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Out of blood rise up new ghosts,<br />
+Grey, stern, angry, unsatisfied,<br />
+The more we slay and are slain, the more we raise up new ghosts against us.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Till we are mad with terror, seeing the slain<br />
+Victorious, grey, grisly ghosts in our streets,<br />
+Grey, unappeased ghosts seated in the music-halls.<br />
+The dead triumphant, and the quick cast down,<br />
+The dead, unassuaged and angry, silencing us,<br />
+Making us pale and bloodless, without resistance.<br />
+</p>
+<hr />
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;69]</span>
+What do they want, the ghosts, what is it<br />
+They demand as they stand in menace over against us?<br />
+How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Since from blood poured out rise only ghosts again,<br />
+What shall we do, what shall we give to them?<br />
+What do they want, forever there on our threshold?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home,<br />
+And in the silence, reverently, welcome them,<br />
+And give them place and honour and service meet?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+For one year's space, attend on our angry dead,<br />
+Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet,<br />
+Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence,<br />
+Then lead them to the gates of the unknown,<br />
+And bid farewell, oh stately travellers,<br />
+And wait till they are lost upon our sight.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Then we shall turn us home again to life<br />
+Knowing our dead are fitly housed in death,<br />
+Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And we shall have new peace in this our life,<br />
+New joy to give more life, new bliss to live,<br />
+Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;70]</span>
+<a name="chapter36"></a>
+PERFIDY
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door,<br />
+And I lingered on the threshold with my hand<br />
+Upraised to knock and knock once more:<br />
+Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor,<br />
+Hollow re-echoed my heart.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The low-hung lamps stretched down the road<br />
+With shadows drifting underneath,<br />
+With a music of soft, melodious feet<br />
+Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet<br />
+The low-hung light of her eyes.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The golden lamps down the street went out,<br />
+The last car trailed the night behind,<br />
+And I in the darkness wandered about<br />
+With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt<br />
+In the dying lamp of my love.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Two brown ponies trotting slowly<br />
+Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink.<br />
+The dark van drummed down the distance slowly,<br />
+And city stars so high and holy<br />
+Drew nearer to look in the streets.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;71]</span>
+A hasting car swept shameful past.<br />
+I saw her hid in the shadow,<br />
+I saw her step to the curb, and fast<br />
+Run to the silent door, where last<br />
+I had stood with my hand uplifted.<br />
+She clung to the door in her haste to enter,<br />
+Entered, and quickly cast<br />
+It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;72]</span>
+<a name="chapter37"></a>
+AT THE WINDOW
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters<br />
+Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;<br />
+While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede<br />
+Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after<br />
+The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass<br />
+To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of darkness<br />
+That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;73]</span>
+<a name="chapter38"></a>
+IN TROUBLE AND SHAME
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I look at the swaling sunset<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And wish I could go also<br />
+Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I wish that I could go<br />
+Through the red doors where I could put off<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My shame like shoes in the porch<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My pain like garments,<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And leave my flesh discarded lying<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Like luggage of some departed traveller<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Gone one knows not where.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then I would turn round<br />
+And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I would laugh with joy.<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;74]</span>
+<a name="chapter39"></a>
+BROODING GRIEF
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+A yellow leaf from the darkness<br />
+Hops like a frog before me&mdash;<br />
+&mdash;Why should I start and stand still?<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I was watching the woman that bore me<br />
+Stretched in the brindled darkness<br />
+Of the sick-room, rigid with will<br />
+To die&mdash;<br />
+And the quick leaf tore me<br />
+Back to this rainy swill<br />
+Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.<br />
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;75]</span>
+<a name="chapter40"></a>
+AMY LOWELL<br />
+</h2>
+<h3>
+<a name="page76"></a>
+<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;77]</span>
+<a name="chapter41"></a>
+PATTERNS
+</h3>
+<p class="nowrap">
+I walk down the garden paths,<br />
+And all the daffodils<br />
+Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.<br />
+I walk down the patterned garden paths<br />
+In my stiff, brocaded gown.<br />
+With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,<br />
+I too am a rare<br />
+Pattern. As I wander down<br />
+The garden paths.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+My dress is richly figured,<br />
+And the train<br />
+Makes a pink and silver stain<br />
+On the gravel, and the thrift<br />
+Of the borders.<br />
+Just a plate of current fashion,<br />
+Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.<br />
+Not a softness anywhere about me,<br />
+Only whale-bone and brocade.<br />
+<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;78]</span>
+And I sink on a seat in the shade<br />
+Of a lime tree. For my passion<br />
+Wars against the stiff brocade.<br />
+The daffodils and squills<br />
+Flutter in the breeze<br />
+As they please.<br />
+And I weep;<br />
+For the lime tree is in blossom<br />
+And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+And the plashing of waterdrops<br />
+In the marble fountain<br />
+Comes down the garden paths.<br />
+The dripping never stops.<br />
+Underneath my stiffened gown<br />
+Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,<br />
+A basin in the midst of hedges grown<br />
+So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,<br />
+But she guesses he is near,<br />
+And the sliding of the water<br />
+Seems the stroking of a dear<br />
+Hand upon her.<br />
+What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!<br />
+I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.<br />
+All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;79]</span>
+I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,<br />
+And he would stumble after<br />
+Bewildered by my laughter.<br />
+I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.<br />
+I would choose<br />
+To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,<br />
+A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,<br />
+Till he caught me in the shade,<br />
+And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,<br />
+Aching, melting, unafraid.<br />
+With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,<br />
+And the plopping of the waterdrops,<br />
+All about us in the open afternoon&mdash;<br />
+I am very like to swoon<br />
+With the weight of this brocade,<br />
+For the sun sifts through the shade.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Underneath the fallen blossom<br />
+In my bosom,<br />
+Is a letter I have hid.<br />
+It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.<br />
+&ldquo;Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell<br />
+<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;80]</span>
+Died in action Thursday sen'night.&rdquo;<br />
+As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,<br />
+The letters squirmed like snakes.<br />
+&ldquo;Any answer, Madam,&rdquo; said my footman.<br />
+&ldquo;No,&rdquo; I told him.<br />
+&ldquo;See that the messenger takes some refreshment.<br />
+No, no answer.&rdquo;<br />
+And I walked into the garden,<br />
+Up and down the patterned paths,<br />
+In my stiff, correct brocade.<br />
+The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,<br />
+Each one.<br />
+I stood upright too,<br />
+Held rigid to the pattern<br />
+By the stiffness of my gown.<br />
+Up and down I walked,<br />
+Up and down.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+In a month he would have been my husband.<br />
+In a month, here, underneath this lime,<br />
+We would have broke the pattern.<br />
+He for me, and I for him,<br />
+He as Colonel, I as Lady,<br />
+On this shady seat.<br />
+He had a whim<br />
+That sunlight carried blessing.<br />
+<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;81]</span>
+And I answered, &ldquo;It shall be as you have said.&rdquo;<br />
+Now he is dead.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+In Summer and in Winter I shall walk<br />
+Up and down<br />
+The patterned garden paths<br />
+In my stiff, brocaded gown.<br />
+The squills and daffodils<br />
+Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.<br />
+I shall go<br />
+Up and down,<br />
+In my gown.<br />
+Gorgeously arrayed,<br />
+Boned and stayed.<br />
+And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace<br />
+By each button, hook, and lace.<br />
+For the man who should loose me is dead,<br />
+Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,<br />
+In a pattern called a war.<br />
+Christ! What are patterns for?<br />
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;82]</span>
+<a name="chapter42"></a>
+SPRING DAY
+</h3>
+<h4>
+BATH
+</h4>
+<p>
+The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of
+tulips and narcissus in the air.
+</p>
+<p>
+The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and
+bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes
+of greenish white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a
+jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
+</p>
+<p>
+Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water
+and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously
+over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring,
+reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water
+jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the
+sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too
+bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright
+day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the
+sun spots.
+</p>
+<p>
+The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window,
+and there is a whirl of tulips and narcissus in the air.
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section42_2"></a>
+BREAKFAST TABLE
+</h4>
+<p>
+In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked
+and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes,
+and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white
+<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;83]</span>
+cloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white
+glitter in the silver coffee pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels,
+they whirl, and twirl&mdash;and my eyes begin to
+smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like
+darts. Placid and peaceful the rolls of bread spread themselves
+in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal,
+shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: &ldquo;Yellow!
+Yellow! Yellow!&rdquo; Coffee steam rises in a stream,
+clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into
+the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher,
+fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies
+by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair
+with good smells in the air.
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section42_3"></a>
+WALK
+</h4>
+<p>
+Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away
+without touching.
+</p>
+<p>
+On the sidewalk boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles,
+with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a
+sweet clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and
+red striped agates. The glass marbles spit crimson when
+they are hit, and slip into the gutters under rushing brown
+water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there are
+no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the
+street, and a girl with a gay spring hat and blowing skirts.
+The dust and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled
+<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;84]</span>
+patent leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat
+the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers on
+her hat.
+</p>
+<p>
+A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way.
+It is green and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly
+sprinkling clear water over the white dust. Clear zig-zagging
+water which smells of tulips and narcissus.
+</p>
+<p>
+The thickening branches make a pink &ldquo;grisaille&rdquo; against
+the blue sky.
+</p>
+<p>
+Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer
+away just in time. Whoop! And a man's hat careers down
+the street in front of the white dust, leaps into the branches
+of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind, jarring
+the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.
+</p>
+<p>
+A motor car cuts a swath through the bright air, sharp-beaked,
+irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A
+glare of dust and sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles
+down. The sky is quiet and high, and the morning is
+fair with fresh-washed air.
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section42_4"></a>
+MIDDAY AND AFTERNOON
+</h4>
+<p>
+Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The
+stock-still brick façade of an old church, against which the
+waves of people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down
+side-streets. Eddies of light in the windows of chemists'
+shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, darting colours far
+<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;85]</span>
+into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings out
+of high windows, whirling of machine belts, blurring of horses
+and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric
+car, and the jar of a church bell knocking against the
+metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown
+dust, thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement
+under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping,
+lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and
+advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I
+smell them clean and new from the press. They are fresh
+like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.
+</p>
+<p>
+The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold
+blind the shop-windows putting out their contents in a flood
+of flame.
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section42_5"></a>
+NIGHT AND SLEEP
+</h4>
+<p>
+The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs
+gleam out along the shop fronts, following each other. They
+grow, and grow, and blow into patterns of fire-flowers, as the
+sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light at the unruffled
+night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and over
+the way: plop, drop, quiver is the sidelong sliver of a watch-maker's
+sign with its length on another street. A gigantic
+mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building,
+but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should
+she heed ours?
+</p>
+<p>
+<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;86]</span>
+I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me
+back to my trees and my quietness. The breeze which
+blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it has come but
+recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom
+yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.
+</p>
+<p>
+My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I
+can see the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little
+flower heads with no stems. I cannot see the beer glass, nor
+the letters of the restaurants and shops I passed, now the
+signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a night
+of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the
+Spring.
+</p>
+<p>
+The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff
+of flowers in the air.
+</p>
+<p>
+Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and
+purple dreams into my ears. The breeze whispers at the
+shutters and mutters queer tales of old days, and cobbled
+streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble stairways.
+Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when
+it is fresh-washed and fair ... I smell the stars ... they
+are like tulips and narcissus ... I smell them in the air.
+</p>
+<h3>
+<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;87]</span>
+<a name="chapter43"></a>
+STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES, &ldquo;GROTESQUES&rdquo;
+FOR STRING QUARTET
+</h3>
+<p>
+This Quartet was played from the manuscript by the Flonzaley
+Quartet during their season of 1915 and 1916. The poem is based
+upon the programme which M. Stravinsky appended to his piece,
+and is an attempt to reproduce the sound and movement of the music
+as far as is possible in another medium.
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section43_2"></a>
+FIRST MOVEMENT
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Thin-voiced, nasal pipes<br />
+Drawing sound out and out<br />
+Until it is a screeching thread,<br />
+Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,<br />
+It hurts.<br />
+Whee-e-e!<br />
+Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!<br />
+There are drums here,<br />
+Banging,<br />
+And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones<br />
+Of the market-place.<br />
+Whee-e-e!<br />
+Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,<br />
+And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones,<br />
+Clumsy and hard they are,<br />
+<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;88]</span>
+And uneven,<br />
+Losing half a beat<br />
+Because the stones are slippery.<br />
+Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!<br />
+The thin Spring leaves<br />
+Shake to the banging of shoes.<br />
+Shoes beat, slap,<br />
+Shuffle, rap,<br />
+And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,<br />
+Little pigs' voices<br />
+Weaving among the dancers,<br />
+A fine, white thread<br />
+Linking up the dancers.<br />
+Bang! Bump! Tong!<br />
+Petticoats,<br />
+Stockings,<br />
+Sabots,<br />
+Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;<br />
+Red, blue, yellow,<br />
+Drunkenness steaming in colours;<br />
+Red, yellow, blue,<br />
+Colours and flesh weaving together,<br />
+In and out, with the dance,<br />
+Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.<br />
+Pigs' cries white and tenuous,<br />
+<a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;89]</span>
+White and painful,<br />
+White and&mdash;<br />
+Bump!<br />
+Tong!<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section43_3"></a>
+SECOND MOVEMENT
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,<br />
+A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,<br />
+Cherry petals fall and flutter,<br />
+And the white Pierrot,<br />
+Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,<br />
+Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,<br />
+Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth<br />
+With his finger-nails.<br />
+</p>
+<h4>
+<a name="section43_4"></a>
+THIRD MOVEMENT
+</h4>
+<p class="nowrap">
+An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,<br />
+It wheezes and coughs.<br />
+The nave is blue with incense,<br />
+Writhing, twisting,<br />
+Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine;</i><br />
+The priests whine their bastard Latin<br />
+<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;90]</span>
+And the censers swing and click.<br />
+The priests walk endlessly<br />
+Round and round,<br />
+Droning their Latin<br />
+Off the key.<br />
+The organ crashes out in a flaring chord<br />
+And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Dies illa, dies iræ,</i><br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Calamitatis et miseriæ,</i><br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Dies magna et amara valde.</i><br />
+A wind rattles the leaded windows.<br />
+The little pear-shaped candle-flames leap and flutter.<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Dies illa, dies iræ,</i><br />
+The swaying smoke drifts over the altar.<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Calamitatis et miseriæ,</i><br />
+The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water.<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Dies magna et amara valde.</i><br />
+And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them,<br />
+Stretched upon a bier.<br />
+His ears are stone to the organ,<br />
+His eyes are flint to the candles,<br />
+His body is ice to the water.<br />
+Chant, priests,<br />
+Whine, shuffle, genuflect.<br />
+<a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;91]</span>
+He will always be as rigid as he is now<br />
+Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.<br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Lacrymosa dies illa,</i><br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Qua resurget ex favilla</i><br />
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Judicandus homo reus.</i><br />
+Above the grey pillars, the roof is in darkness.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="theend">
+THE END<br />
+</p>
+<h2>
+<a name="page92"></a>
+<a name="page93"></a>
+<a name="page94"></a>
+<a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;95]</span>
+<a name="chapter44"></a>
+BIBLIOGRAPHY
+</h2>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<span class="smcap">Richard Aldington</span>
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Images.</i> Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915; and The Four Seas Company, Boston, 1916.
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<span class="smcap">John Gould Fletcher</span>
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Fire and Wine.</i> Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Fool's Gold.</i> Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>The Dominant City.</i> Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>The Book of Nature.</i> Constable &amp; Co., London, 1913.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Visions of the Evening.</i> Erskine McDonald, London, 1913.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Irradiations: Sand and Spray.</i> Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1915.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Goblins and Pagodas.</i> Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1916.
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<span class="smcap">F. S. Flint</span>
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>The Net of Stars.</i> Elkin Mathews, London, 1909.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Cadences.</i> Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<span class="smcap">D. H. Lawrence</span><br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Love Poems and Others.</i> Duckworth &amp; Co., London, 1913.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+Prose:
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry2">
+<i>The White Peacock.</i> William Heinemann, London, 1911.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry2">
+<i>The Trespasser.</i> Duckworth &amp; Co., London, 1912.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry2">
+<i>Sons and Lovers.</i> Duckworth &amp; Co., London, 1913.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry2">
+<i>The Prussian Officer.</i> Duckworth &amp; Co., London, 1914.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry2">
+<i>The Rainbow.</i> Methuen &amp; Co., London, 1915.
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+Drama:
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry2">
+<i>The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd.</i> Mitchell Kennerley, New York, 1914.
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;96]</span>
+<span class="smcap">Amy Lowell</span><br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass.</i> Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1915.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Sword Blades and Poppy Seed.</i> The Macmillan Company, New York; and Macmillan &amp; Co., London, 1914.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+Prose: <i>Six French Poets.</i> The Macmillan Company, New York; and Macmillan and Co., London, 1915.<br />
+</p>
+<div class="trnote">
+<h2>
+<a name="chapter45"></a>
+TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
+</h2>
+<p>
+The following printer's errors have been corrected:
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+&ldquo;from&rdquo; corrected to &ldquo;form&rdquo; (<a href="#preface8">page viii</a>)<br />
+&ldquo;sweeling&rdquo; corrected to &ldquo;swaling&rdquo; (<a href="#page73">page 73</a>)<br />
+</p>
+<p>
+The following unusual spellings have been retained:
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+&ldquo;anarchaic&rdquo; (<a href="#preface7">page vii</a>)
+</p>
+<p>
+Some of the poems in this anthology were also included in the following
+books:
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+H. D.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Sea Garden.</i> Constable &amp; Co., London, 1916.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<span class="smcap">John Gould Fletcher</span><br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Breakers and Granite.</i> The Macmillan Company, New York, 1921.<br />
+</p>
+<p class="nowrap">
+<span class="smcap">Amy Lowell</span><br />
+</p>
+<p class="bibentry">
+<i>Men, Women and Ghosts.</i> Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New York, 1916.<br />
+</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by 
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+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: Some Imagist Poets, 1916
+       An Annual Anthology
+
+Author: Richard Aldington
+        Hilda Doolittle
+        John Gould Fletcher
+        Amy Lowell
+        D. H. Lawrence
+        F. S. Flint
+
+Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37469]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
+produced from scanned images of public domain material
+from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The New Poetry Series
+
+PUBLISHED BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+
+
+IRRADIATIONS. SAND AND SPRAY. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS.
+
+JAPANESE LYRICS. Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN.
+
+AFTERNOONS OF APRIL. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING.
+
+THE CLOISTER: A VERSE DRAMA. EMILE VERHAEREN.
+
+INTERFLOW. GEOFFREY C. FABER.
+
+STILLWATER PASTORALS AND OTHER POEMS. PAUL SHIVELL.
+
+IDOLS. WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG.
+
+TURNS AND MOVIES, AND OTHER TALES IN VERSE. CONRAD AIKEN.
+
+ROADS. GRACE FALLOW NORTON.
+
+GOBLINS AND PAGODAS. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS. _1916._
+
+A SONG OF THE GUNS. GILBERT FRANKAU.
+
+MOTHERS AND MEN. HAROLD T. PULSIFER.
+
+
+
+
+SOME IMAGIST POETS, _1916_
+
+
+
+
+  SOME IMAGIST POETS
+  _1916_
+
+  AN ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY
+
+
+  [Illustration]
+
+  BOSTON AND NEW YORK
+  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+  The Riverside Press Cambridge
+  1916
+
+  COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
+  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
+
+  _Published May 1916_
+
+  THIRD IMPRESSION
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+In bringing the second volume of _Some Imagist Poets_ before the
+public, the authors wish to express their gratitude for the interest
+which the 1915 volume aroused. The discussion of it was widespread,
+and even those critics out of sympathy with Imagist tenets accorded
+it much space. In the Preface to that book, we endeavoured to present
+those tenets in a succinct form. But the very brevity we employed has
+lead to a great deal of misunderstanding. We have decided, therefore,
+to explain the laws which govern us a little more fully. A few people
+may understand, and the rest can merely misunderstand again, a result
+to which we are quite accustomed.
+
+In the first place "Imagism" does not mean merely the presentation of
+pictures. "Imagism" refers to the manner of presentation, not to the
+subject. It means a clear presentation of whatever the author wishes
+to convey. Now he may wish to convey a mood of indecision, in which
+case the poem should be indecisive; he may wish to bring before his
+reader the constantly shifting and changing lights over a landscape,
+or the varying attitudes of mind of a person under strong emotion,
+then his poem must shift and change to present this clearly. The
+"exact" word does not mean the word which exactly describes the
+object in itself, it means the "exact" word which brings the effect
+of that object before the reader as it presented itself to the poet's
+mind at the time of writing the poem. Imagists deal but little with
+similes, although much of their poetry is metaphorical. The reason
+for this is that while acknowledging the figure to be an integral
+part of all poetry, they feel that the constant imposing of one
+figure upon another in the same poem blurs the central effect.
+
+The great French critic, Remy de Gourmont, wrote last Summer in _La
+France_ that the Imagists were the descendants of the French
+_Symbolistes_. In the Preface to his _Livre des Masques_, M. de
+Gourmont has thus described _Symbolisme_: "Individualism in
+literature, liberty of art, abandonment of existing forms.... The
+sole excuse which a man can have for writing is to write down
+himself, to unveil for others the sort of world which mirrors itself
+in his individual glass.... He should create his own aesthetics--and
+we should admit as many aesthetics as there are original minds, and
+judge them for what they are and not what they are not." In this
+sense the Imagists are descendants of the _Symbolistes_; they are
+Individualists.
+
+The only reason that Imagism has seemed so anarchaic and strange to
+English and American reviewers is that their minds do not easily and
+quickly suggest the steps by which modern art has arrived at its
+present position. Its immediate prototype cannot be found in English
+or American literature, we must turn to Europe for it. With Debussy
+and Stravinsky in music, and Gauguin and Matisse in painting, it
+should have been evident to every one that art was entering upon an
+era of change. But music and painting are universal languages, so we
+have become accustomed to new idioms in them, while we still find it
+hard to recognize a changed idiom in literature.
+
+The crux of the situation is just here. It is in the idiom employed.
+Imagism asks to be judged by different standards from those employed
+in Nineteenth-Century art. It is small wonder that Imagist poetry
+should be incomprehensible to men whose sole touchstone for art is
+the literature of one country for a period of four centuries. And it
+is an illuminating fact that among poets and men conversant with many
+poetic idioms, Imagism is rarely misconceived. They may not agree
+with us, but they do not misunderstand us.
+
+This must not be misconstrued into the desire to belittle our
+forerunners. On the contrary, the Imagists have the greatest
+admiration for the past, and humility towards it. But they have been
+caught in the throes of a new birth. The exterior world is changing,
+and with it men's feelings, and every age must express its feelings
+in its own individual way. No art is any more "egoistic" than
+another; all art is an attempt to express the feelings of the artist,
+whether it be couched in narrative form or employ a more personal
+expression.
+
+It is not what Imagists write about which makes them hard of
+comprehension; it is the way they write it. All nations have laws of
+prosody, which undergo changes from time to time. The laws of English
+metrical prosody are well known to every one concerned with the
+subject. But that is only one form of prosody. Other nations have had
+different ones: Anglo-Saxon poetry was founded upon alliteration,
+Greek and Roman was built upon quantity, the Oriental was formed out
+of repetition, and the Japanese Hokku got its effects by an exact and
+never-to-be-added-to series of single syllables. So it is evident
+that poetry can be written in many modes. That the Imagists base much
+of their poetry upon cadence and not upon metre makes them neither
+good nor bad. And no one realizes more than they that no theories nor
+rules make poetry. They claim for their work only that it is sincere.
+
+It is this very fact of "cadence" which has misled so many reviewers,
+until some have been betrayed into saying that the Imagists discard
+rhythm, when rhythm is the most important quality in their technique.
+The definition of _vers libre_ is--a verse-form based upon cadence.
+Now cadence in music is one thing, cadence in poetry quite another,
+since we are not dealing with tone but with rhythm. It is the sense
+of perfect balance of flow and rhythm. Not only must the syllables so
+fall as to increase and continue the movement, but the whole poem
+must be as rounded and recurring as the circular swing of a balanced
+pendulum. It can be fast or slow, it may even jerk, but this perfect
+swing it must have, even its jerks must follow the central movement.
+To illustrate: Suppose a person were given the task of walking, or
+running, round a large circle, with two minutes given to do it in.
+Two minutes which he would just consume if he walked round the circle
+quietly. But in order to make the task easier for him, or harder, as
+the case might be, he was required to complete each half of the
+circle in exactly a minute. No other restrictions were placed upon
+him. He might dawdle in the beginning, and run madly to reach the
+half-circle mark on time, and then complete his task by walking
+steadily round the second half to goal. Or he might leap, and run,
+and skip, and linger in all sorts of ways, making up for slow going
+by fast, and for extra haste by pauses, and varying these movements
+on either lap of the circle as the humour seized him, only so that he
+were just one minute in traversing the first half-circle, and just
+one minute in traversing the second. Another illustration which may
+be employed is that of a Japanese wood-carving where a toad in one
+corner is balanced by a spray of blown flowers in the opposite upper
+one. The flowers are not the same shape as the toad, neither are they
+the same size, but the balance is preserved.
+
+The unit in _vers libre_ is not the foot, the number of the
+syllables, the quantity, or the line. The unit is the strophe, which
+may be the whole poem, or may be only a part. Each strophe is a
+complete circle: in fact, the meaning of the Greek word "strophe" is
+simply that part of the poem which was recited while the chorus were
+making a turn round the altar set up in the centre of the theatre.
+The simile of the circle is more than a simile, therefore; it is a
+fact. Of course the circle need not always be the same size, nor need
+the times allowed to negotiate it be always the same. There is room
+here for an infinite number of variations. Also, circles can be added
+to circles, movement upon movement, to the poem, provided each
+movement completes itself, and ramifies naturally into the next. But
+one thing must be borne in mind: a cadenced poem is written to be
+read aloud, in this way only will its rhythm be felt. Poetry is a
+spoken and not a written art.
+
+The _vers libristes_ are often accused of declaring that they have
+discovered a new thing. Where such an idea started, it is impossible
+to say, certainly none of the better _vers libristes_ was ever guilty
+of so ridiculous a statement. The name _vers libre_ is new, the
+thing, most emphatically, is not. Not new in English poetry, at any
+rate. You will find something very much like it in Dryden's
+_Threnodia Augustalis_; a great deal of Milton's _Samson Agonistes_
+is written in it; and Matthew Arnold's _Philomela_ is a shining
+example of it. Practically all of Henley's _London Voluntaries_ are
+written in it, and (so potent are names) until it was christened
+_vers libre_, no one thought of objecting to it. But the oldest
+reference to _vers libre_ is to be found in Chaucer's _House of
+Fame_, where the Eagle addresses the Poet in these words:
+
+  And nevertheless hast set thy wyt
+  Although that in thy heed full lyte is
+  To make bookes, songes, or dytees
+  In rhyme or elles in cadence.
+
+Commentators have wasted reams of paper in an endeavour to determine
+what Chaucer meant by this. But is it not possible that he meant a
+verse based upon rhythm, but which did not follow the strict metrical
+prosody of his usual practice?
+
+One of the charges frequently brought against the Imagists is that
+they write, not poetry, but "shredded prose." This misconception
+springs from the almost complete ignorance of the public in regard to
+the laws of cadenced verse. But, in fact, what is prose and what is
+poetry? Is it merely a matter of typographical arrangement? Must
+everything which is printed in equal lines, with rhymes at the ends,
+be called poetry, and everything which is printed in a block be
+called prose? Aristotle, who certainly knew more about this subject
+than any one else, declares in his _Rhetoric_ that prose is
+rhythmical without being metrical (that is to say, without insistence
+on any single rhythm), and then goes on to state the feet that are
+employed in prose, making, incidentally, the remark that the iambic
+prevailed in ordinary conversation. The fact is, that there is no
+hard and fast dividing line between prose and poetry. As a French
+poet of distinction, Paul Fort, has said: "Prose and poetry are but
+one instrument, graduated." It is not a question of typography; it is
+not even a question of rules and forms. Poetry is the vision in a
+man's soul which he translates as best he can with the means at his
+disposal.
+
+We are young, we are experimentalists, but we ask to be judged by our
+own standards, not by those which have governed other men at other
+times.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  RICHARD ALDINGTON
+
+  Eros and Psyche                                                   3
+
+  After Two Years                                                   6
+
+  1915                                                              7
+
+  Whitechapel                                                       8
+
+  Sunsets                                                          10
+
+  People                                                           11
+
+  Reflections: I and II                                            12
+
+
+  H. D.
+
+  Sea Gods                                                         17
+
+  The Shrine                                                       21
+
+  Temple--The Cliff                                                26
+
+  Mid-day                                                          30
+
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+
+  Arizona                                                          35
+
+  The Unquiet Street                                               42
+
+  In the Theatre                                                   43
+
+  Ships in the Harbour                                             44
+
+  The Empty House                                                  45
+
+  The Skaters                                                      48
+
+
+  F. S. FLINT
+
+  Easter                                                           51
+
+  Ogre                                                             54
+
+  Cones                                                            56
+
+  Gloom                                                            57
+
+  Terror                                                           60
+
+  Chalfont Saint Giles                                             61
+
+  War-Time                                                         63
+
+
+  D. H. LAWRENCE
+
+  Erinnyes                                                         67
+
+  Perfidy                                                          70
+
+  At the Window                                                    72
+
+  In Trouble and Shame                                             73
+
+  Brooding Grief                                                   74
+
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+
+  Patterns                                                         77
+
+  Spring Day                                                       82
+
+  Stravinsky's Three Pieces, "Grotesques," for String Quartet      87
+
+
+  BIBLIOGRAPHY                                                     93
+
+The authors wish to express their gratitude to the editors of _The
+Egoist_ and _Poetry and Drama_, London; _The Poetry Journal_, Boston;
+_The Little Review_ and _Poetry_, Chicago, for permission to reprint
+certain of these poems which originally appeared in their columns. To
+_Poetry_ belongs the credit of having introduced Imagism to the
+world: it seems fitting, therefore, that the authors should record
+their thanks in this place for the constant interest and
+encouragement shown them by its editor, Miss Harriet Monroe.
+
+
+
+
+RICHARD ALDINGTON
+
+
+
+
+EROS AND PSYCHE
+
+
+  In an old dull yard near Camden Town,
+  Which echoes with the rattle of cars and 'busses
+  And freight-trains, puffing steam and smoke and dirt
+  To the steaming, sooty sky--
+  There stands an old and grimy statue,
+  A statue of Psyche and her lover, Eros.
+
+  A little nearer Camden Town,
+  In a square of ugly sordid shops,
+  Is another statue, facing the Tube,
+  Staring with a heavy, purposeless glare
+  At the red and white shining tiles--
+  A tall stone statue of Cobden.
+  And though no one ever pauses to see
+  What hero it is that faces the Tube,
+  I can understand very well indeed
+  That England must honour its national heroes,
+  Must honour the hero of Free Trade--
+  Or was it the Corn Laws?--
+  That I can understand.
+  But what I shall never understand
+  Is the little group in the dingy yard
+  Under the dingier sky,
+  The Eros and Psyche--
+  Surrounded with pots and terra-cotta busts
+  And urns and broken pillars--
+  Eros, naked, with his wings stretched out
+  Just lighting down to kiss her on the lips.
+
+  What are they doing here in Camden Town
+  In the midst of all this clamour and filth?
+  They who should stand in a sun-lit room
+  Hung with deep purple, painted with gods,
+  Paved with white porphyry,
+  Stand for ever embraced
+  By the side of a rustling fountain
+  Over a marble basin
+  Carved with leopards and grapes and young men dancing;
+  Or in a garden leaning above Corinth,
+  Under the ilices and the cypresses,
+  Very white against a very blue sky;
+  Or growing hoary, if they must grow old,
+  With lichens and softly creeping moss.
+  What are they doing here in Camden Town?
+  And who has brought their naked beauty
+  And their young fresh lust to Camden Town,
+  Which settled long ago to toil and sweat and filth,
+  Forgetting--to the greater glory of Free Trade--
+  Young beauty and young love and youthful flesh?
+
+  Slowly the rain settles down on them,
+  Slowly the soot eats into them,
+  Slowly the stone grows greyer and dirtier,
+  Till in spite of his spreading wings
+  Her eyes have a rim of soot
+  Half an inch deep,
+  And his wings, the tall god's wings,
+  That should be red and silver
+  Are ocherous brown.
+
+  And I peer from a 'bus-top
+  As we splash through the grease and puddles,
+  And I glimpse them, huddled against the wall,
+  Half-hidden under a freight-train's smoke,
+  And I see the limbs that a Greek slave cut
+  In some old Italian town,
+  I see them growing older
+  And sadder
+  And greyer.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER TWO YEARS
+
+
+  She is all so slight
+  And tender and white
+      As a May morning.
+  She walks without hood
+  At dusk. It is good
+      To hear her sing.
+
+  It is God's will
+  That I shall love her still
+      As He loves Mary.
+  And night and day
+  I will go forth to pray
+      That she love me.
+
+  She is as gold
+  Lovely, and far more cold.
+      Do thou pray with me,
+  For if I win grace
+  To kiss twice her face
+      God has done well to me.
+
+
+
+
+1915
+
+
+  The limbs of gods,
+  Still, veined marble,
+  Rest heavily in sleep
+  Under a saffron twilight.
+
+  Not for them battle,
+  Severed limbs, death, and a cry of victory;
+  Not for them strife
+  And a torment of storm.
+
+  A vast breast moves slowly,
+  The great thighs shift,
+  The stone eyelids rise;
+  The slow tongue speaks:
+
+  "_Only a rain of bright dust;_
+  _In the outer air;_
+  _A little whisper of wind;_
+  _Sleep; rest; forget._"
+
+  Bright dust of battle!
+  A little whisper of dead souls!
+
+
+
+
+WHITECHAPEL
+
+
+  Noise;
+  Iron hoofs, iron wheels, iron din
+  Of drays and trams and feet passing;
+  Iron
+  Beaten to a vast mad cacophony.
+
+  _In vain the shrill, far cry_
+  _Of swallows sweeping by;_
+  _In vain the silence and green_
+  _Of meadows Apriline;_
+  _In vain the clear white rain--_
+
+  Soot; mud;
+  A nation maddened with labour;
+  Interminable collision of energies--
+  Iron beating upon iron;
+  Smoke whirling upwards,
+  Speechless, impotent.
+
+  _In vain the shrill, far cry_
+  _Of kittiwakes that fly_
+  _Where the sea waves leap green._
+  _The meadows Apriline--_
+
+  Noise, iron, smoke;
+  Iron, iron, iron.
+
+
+
+
+SUNSETS
+
+
+  The white body of the evening
+  Is torn into scarlet,
+  Slashed and gouged and seared
+  Into crimson,
+  And hung ironically
+  With garlands of mist.
+
+  And the wind
+  Blowing over London from Flanders
+  Has a bitter taste.
+
+
+
+
+PEOPLE
+
+
+  Why should you try to crush me?
+  Am I so Christ-like?
+
+  You beat against me,
+  Immense waves, filthy with refuse.
+  I am the last upright of a smashed break-water,
+  But you shall not crush me
+  Though you bury me in foaming slime
+  And hiss your hatred about me.
+
+  You break over me, cover me;
+  I shudder at the contact;
+  Yet I pierce through you
+  And stand up, torn, dripping, shaken,
+  But whole and fierce.
+
+
+
+
+REFLECTIONS
+
+
+I
+
+  Steal out with me
+  Over the moss and the daffodils.
+
+  Come to the temple,
+  Hung with sprays from untrimmed hedges.
+
+  I bring you a token
+  From the golden-haired revellers,
+  From the mad procession.
+
+  Come,
+  Flute girls shall pipe to us--
+  Their beautiful fingers!--
+  They are yellow-throated birds.
+  They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments,
+  Bending above us.
+
+  Come,
+  Bind your hair with white poplar,
+  Let your lips be sweet,
+  Wild roses of Paestum.
+
+
+II
+
+  Ghost moths hover over asphodel;
+  Shades, once Lais' peers
+  Drift past us;
+  The mist is grey.
+
+  Far over us
+  The white wave-crests flash in the sun;
+  The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks.
+
+  Now the Maid returns to us
+  With fragrance of the world
+  And of the hours of gods.
+  On earth
+  Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit,
+  Streams, passing through the corn lands,
+  Hear laughter.
+
+  We pluck the asphodel,
+  Yet we weave no crowns
+  For we have no vines;
+  No one speaks here;
+  No one kisses.
+
+
+
+
+H. D.
+
+
+
+
+SEA GODS
+
+
+I
+
+  They say there is no hope--
+  Sand--drift--rocks--rubble of the sea--
+  The broken hulk of a ship,
+  Hung with shreds of rope,
+  Pallid under the cracked pitch.
+
+  They say there is no hope
+  To conjure you--
+  No whip of the tongue to anger you--
+  No hate of words
+  You must rise to refute.
+
+  They say you are twisted by the sea,
+  You are cut apart
+  By wave-break upon wave-break,
+  That you are misshapen by the sharp rocks,
+  Broken by the rasp and after-rasp.
+
+  That you are cut, torn, mangled,
+  Torn by the stress and beat,
+  No stronger than the strips of sand
+  Along your ragged beach.
+
+
+II
+
+  But we bring violets,
+  Great masses--single, sweet,
+  Wood-violets, stream-violets,
+  Violets from a wet marsh.
+
+  Violets in clumps from hills,
+  Tufts with earth at the roots,
+  Violets tugged from rocks,
+  Blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.
+
+  Yellow violets' gold,
+  Burnt with a rare tint--
+  Violets like red ash
+  Among tufts of grass.
+
+  We bring deep-purple
+  Bird-foot violets.
+
+  We bring the hyacinth-violet,
+  Sweet, bare, chill to the touch--
+  And violets whiter than the in-rush
+  Of your own white surf.
+
+
+III
+
+  For you will come,
+  You will yet haunt men in ships,
+  You will trail across the fringe of strait
+  And circle the jagged rocks.
+
+  You will trail across the rocks
+  And wash them with your salt,
+  You will curl between sand-hills--
+  You will thunder along the cliff--
+  Break--retreat--get fresh strength--
+  Gather and pour weight upon the beach.
+
+  You will draw back,
+  And the ripple on the sand-shelf
+  Will be witness of your track.
+
+  O privet-white, you will paint
+  The lintel of wet sand with froth.
+
+  You will bring myrrh-bark
+  And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts.
+  When you hurl high--high--
+  We will answer with a shout.
+
+  For you will come,
+  You will come,
+  You will answer our taut hearts,
+  You will break the lie of men's thoughts,
+  And cherish and shelter us.
+
+
+
+
+THE SHRINE
+
+("_She Watches Over the Sea_")
+
+
+I
+
+  Are your rocks shelter for ships?
+  Have you sent galleys from your beach--
+  Are you graded--a safe crescent,
+  Where the tide lifts them back to port?
+  Are you full and sweet,
+  Tempting the quiet
+  To depart in their trading ships?
+
+  Nay, you are great, fierce, evil--
+  You are the land-blight--
+  You have tempted men,
+  But they perished on your cliffs.
+
+  Your lights are but dank shoals,
+  Slate and pebbles and wet shells
+  And sea-weed fastened to the rocks.
+
+  It was evil--evil
+  When they found you--
+  When the quiet men looked at you.
+  They sought a headland,
+  Shaded with ledge of cliff
+  From the wind-blast.
+
+  But you--you are unsheltered--
+  Cut with the weight of wind.
+  You shudder when it strikes,
+  Then lift, swelled with the blast.
+  You sink as the tide sinks.
+  You shrill under the hail, and sound
+  Thunder when thunder sounds.
+
+  You are useless.
+  When the tides swirl,
+  Your boulders cut and wreck
+  The staggering ships.
+
+
+II
+
+  You are useless,
+  O grave, O beautiful.
+  The landsmen tell it--I have heard
+  You are useless.
+
+  And the wind sounds with this
+  And the sea,
+  Where rollers shot with blue
+  Cut under deeper blue.
+
+  O but stay tender, enchanted,
+  Where wave-lengths cut you
+  Apart from all the rest.
+  For we have found you.
+  We watch the splendour of you.
+  We thread throat on throat of freesia
+  For your shelf.
+
+  You are not forgot,
+  O plunder of lilies--
+  Honey is not more sweet
+  Than the salt stretch of your beach.
+
+
+III
+
+  Stay--stay--
+  But terror has caught us now.
+  We passed the men in ships.
+  We dared deeper than the fisher-folk,
+  And you strike us with terror,
+  O bright shaft.
+
+  Flame passes under us,
+  And sparks that unknot the flesh,
+  Sorrow, splitting bone from bone--
+  Splendour athwart our eyes,
+  And rifts in the splendour--
+  Sparks and scattered light.
+
+  Many warned of this.
+  Men said:
+  There are wrecks on the fore-beach.
+  Wind will beat your ship.
+  There is no shelter in that headland.
+  It is useless waste, that edge,
+  That front of rock.
+  Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers--
+  None venture to that spot.
+
+
+IV
+
+  But hail--
+  As the tide slackens,
+  As the wind beats out,
+  We hail this shore.
+  We sing to you,
+  Spirit between the headlands
+  And the further rocks.
+
+  Though oak-beams split,
+  Though boats and sea-men flounder,
+  And the strait grind sand with sand
+  And cut boulders to sand and drift--
+
+  Your eyes have pardoned our faults.
+  Your hands have touched us.
+  You have leaned forward a little
+  And the waves can never thrust us back
+  From the splendour of your ragged coast.
+
+
+
+
+TEMPLE--THE CLIFF
+
+
+I
+
+  Great, bright portal,
+  Shelf of rock,
+  Rocks fitted in long ledges,
+  Rocks fitted to dark, to silver-granite,
+  To lighter rock--
+  Clean cut, white against white.
+
+  High--high--and no hill-goat
+  Tramples--no mountain-sheep
+  Has set foot on your fine grass.
+  You lift, you are the world-edge,
+  Pillar for the sky-arch.
+
+  The world heaved--
+  We are next to the sky.
+  Over us, sea-hawks shout,
+  Gulls sweep past.
+  The terrible breakers are silent
+  From this place.
+
+  Below us, on the rock-edge,
+  Where earth is caught in the fissures
+  Of the jagged cliff,
+  A small tree stiffens in the gale,
+  It bends--but its white flowers
+  Are fragrant at this height.
+
+  And under and under,
+  The wind booms.
+  It whistles, it thunders,
+  It growls--it presses the grass
+  Beneath its great feet.
+
+
+II
+
+  I said:
+  Forever and forever must I follow you
+  Through the stones?
+  I catch at you--you lurch.
+  You are quicker than my hand-grasp.
+
+  I wondered at you.
+  I shouted--dear--mysterious--beautiful--
+  White myrtle-flesh.
+
+  I was splintered and torn.
+  The hill-path mounted
+  Swifter than my feet.
+
+  Could a daemon avenge this hurt,
+  I would cry to him--could a ghost,
+  I would shout--O evil,
+  Follow this god,
+  Taunt him with his evil and his vice.
+
+
+III
+
+  Shall I hurl myself from here,
+  Shall I leap and be nearer you?
+  Shall I drop, beloved, beloved,
+  Ankle against ankle?
+  Would you pity me, O white breast?
+
+  If I woke, would you pity me,
+  Would our eyes meet?
+
+  Have you heard,
+  Do you know how I climbed this rock?
+  My breath caught, I lurched forward--
+  I stumbled in the ground-myrtle.
+
+  Have you heard, O god seated on the cliff,
+  How far toward the ledges of your house,
+  How far I had to walk?
+
+
+IV
+
+  Over me the wind swirls.
+  I have stood on your portal
+  And I know--
+  You are further than this,
+  Still further on another cliff.
+
+
+
+
+MID-DAY
+
+
+  The light beats upon me.
+  I am startled--
+  A split leaf crackles on the paved floor--
+  I am anguished--defeated.
+
+  A slight wind shakes the seed-pods.
+  My thoughts are spent
+  As the black seeds.
+  My thoughts tear me.
+  I dread their fever--
+  I am scattered in its whirl.
+  I am scattered like
+  The hot shrivelled seeds.
+
+  The shrivelled seeds
+  Are spilt on the path.
+  The grass bends with dust.
+  The grape slips
+  Under its crackled leaf:
+  Yet far beyond the spent seed-pods,
+  And the blackened stalks of mint,
+  The poplar is bright on the hill,
+  The poplar spreads out,
+  Deep-rooted among trees.
+
+  O poplar, you are great
+  Among the hill-stones,
+  While I perish on the path
+  Among the crevices of the rocks.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+
+
+
+
+ARIZONA
+
+
+THE WINDMILLS
+
+  The windmills, like great sunflowers of steel,
+  Lift themselves proudly over the straggling houses;
+  And at their feet the deep blue-green alfalfa
+  Cuts the desert like the stroke of a sword.
+
+  Yellow melon flowers
+  Crawl beneath the withered peach-trees;
+  A date-palm throws its heavy fronds of steel
+  Against the scoured metallic sky.
+
+  The houses, doubled-roofed for coolness,
+  Cower amid the manzanita scrub.
+  A man with jingling spurs
+  Walks heavily out of a vine-bowered doorway,
+  Mounts his pony, rides away.
+
+  The windmills stare at the sun.
+  The yellow earth cracks and blisters.
+  Everything is still.
+
+  In the afternoon
+  The wind takes dry waves of heat and tosses them,
+  Mingled with dust, up and down the streets,
+  Against the belfry with its green bells:
+
+  And, after sunset, when the sky
+  Becomes a green and orange fan,
+  The windmills, like great sunflowers on dried stalks,
+  Stare hard at the sun they cannot follow.
+
+  Turning, turning, forever turning
+  In the chill night-wind that sweeps over the valley,
+  With the shriek and the clank of the pumps groaning beneath them,
+  And the choking gurgle of tepid water.
+
+
+MEXICAN QUARTER
+
+  By an alley lined with tumble-down shacks
+  And street-lamps askew, half-sputtering,
+  Feebly glimmering on gutters choked with filth and dogs
+  Scratching their mangy backs:
+  Half-naked children are running about,
+  Women puff cigarettes in black doorways,
+  Crickets are crying.
+  Men slouch sullenly
+  Into the shadows:
+  Behind a hedge of cactus,
+  The smell of a dead horse
+  Mingles with the smell of tamales frying.
+
+  And a girl in a black lace shawl
+  Sits in a rickety chair by the square of an unglazed window,
+  And sees the explosion of the stars
+  Softly poised on a velvet sky.
+  And she is humming to herself:--
+  "Stars, if I could reach you,
+  (You are so very clear that it seems as if I could reach you)
+  I would give you all to Madonna's image,
+  On the grey-plastered altar behind the paper flowers,
+  So that Juan would come back to me,
+  And we could live again those lazy burning hours
+  Forgetting the tap of my fan and my sharp words.
+  And I would only keep four of you,
+  Those two blue-white ones overhead,
+  To hang in my ears;
+  And those two orange ones yonder,
+  To fasten on my shoe-buckles."
+
+  A little further along the street
+  A man sits stringing a brown guitar.
+  The smoke of his cigarette curls round his head,
+  And he, too, is humming, but other words:
+  "Think not that at your window I wait;
+  New love is better, the old is turned to hate.
+  Fate! Fate! All things pass away;
+  Life is forever, youth is for a day.
+  Love again if you may
+  Before the stars are blown out of the sky
+  And the crickets die;
+  Babylon and Samarkand
+  Are mud walls in a waste of sand."
+
+
+RAIN IN THE DESERT
+
+  The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder
+  Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning
+  Its altar-fires of pinyon and of toyon for the day.
+
+  The old priests sleep, white-shrouded,
+  Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely
+      feathered;
+  On every mummied face there glows a smile.
+
+  The sun is rolling slowly
+  Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents,
+  Coiling, uncoiling, blue-black, sparked with fires.
+
+  The old dead priests
+  Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them,
+  Above the smell of scorching oozing pinyon,
+  The acrid smell of rain.
+
+  And now the showers
+  Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers:
+  Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring,
+  Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.
+
+
+CLOUDS ACROSS THE CANYON
+
+  Shadows of clouds
+  March across the canyon,
+  Shadows of blue hands passing
+  Over a curtain of flame.
+
+  Clutching, staggering, upstriking,
+  Darting in blue-black fury,
+  To where pinnacles, green and orange,
+  Await.
+
+  The winds are battling and striving to break them:
+  Thin lightnings spit and flicker,
+  The peaks seem a dance of scarlet demons
+  Flitting amid the shadows.
+
+  Grey rain-curtains wave afar off,
+  Wisps of vapour curl and vanish.
+  The sun throws soft shafts of golden light
+  Over rose-buttressed palisades.
+
+  Now the clouds are a lazy procession;
+  Blue balloons bobbing solemnly
+  Over black-dappled walls,
+
+  Where rise sharp-fretted, golden-roofed cathedrals
+  Exultantly, and split the sky with light.
+
+
+
+
+THE UNQUIET STREET
+
+
+  By day and night this street is not still:
+  Omnibuses with red tail-lamps,
+  Taxicabs with shiny eyes,
+  Rumble, shunning its ugliness.
+  It is corrugated with wheel-ruts,
+  It is dented and pockmarked with traffic,
+  It has no time for sleep.
+  It heaves its old scarred countenance
+  Skyward between the buildings
+  And never says a word.
+
+  On rainy nights
+  It dully gleams
+  Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake:
+  And over it hang arc-lamps,
+  Blue-white death-lilies on black stems.
+
+
+
+
+IN THE THEATRE
+
+
+  Darkness in the theatre:
+  Darkness and a multitude
+  Assembled in the darkness.
+  These who every day perform
+  The unique tragi-comedy
+  Of birth and death;
+  Now press upon each other,
+  Directing the irresistible weight of their thoughts to the stage.
+
+  A great broad shaft of calcium light
+  Cleaves, like a stroke of a sword, the darkness:
+  And, at the end of it,
+  A tiny spot which is the red nose of a comedian
+  Marks the goal of the spot-light and the eyes which people the
+      darkness.
+
+
+
+
+SHIPS IN THE HARBOUR
+
+
+  Like a flock of great blue cranes
+  Resting upon the water,
+  The ships assemble at morning, when the grey light wakes in the
+      east.
+
+  Weary, no longer flying,
+  Over the hissing spindrift, through the ravelled clutching sea;
+  No longer over the tops of the waves spinning along north-eastward,
+  In a great irregular wedge before the trade-wind far from land.
+
+  But drowsy, mournful, silent,
+  Yet under their bulged projecting bows runs the silver foam of the
+      sunlight,
+  And rebelliously they shake out their plumage of sails, wet and
+      heavy with the rain.
+
+
+
+
+THE EMPTY HOUSE
+
+
+  Out from my window-sill I lean,
+  And see a straight four-storied row
+  Of houses.
+
+  Once, long ago,
+  These had their glory: they were built
+  In the fair palmy days before
+  The Civil War when all the seas
+  Saw the white sails of Yankee ships
+  Scurrying home with spice and gold.
+  And many of these houses hung
+  Proud wisps of crepe upon their doors
+  On hearing that some son had died
+  At Chancellorsville or Fredericksburg,
+  Their offering to the Union side.
+
+  But man's forever drifting will
+  Again took hold of him--again
+  The fashionable quarter shifted: soon,
+  Before some plastering had dried,
+  Society packed up, went away.
+  Now, could you see these houses,
+  You would not think they ever had a prime:
+  A grim four-storied serried row
+  Of rooms to let--at any time
+  Tenants are moving in or out.
+  Families drifting down or struggling still
+  To keep their heads up and not drown.
+  A tragic busy pettiness
+  Has settled on them all,
+  But one.
+  And in that one, when I came here,
+  A family lived, but with its trunks packed up,
+  And now that family's gone.
+
+  Its shutterless blindless windows let you look inside
+  And see the sunlight chequering the bare floor
+  With patterns from the window-frames
+  All day.
+  Its backyard neatly swept,
+  Contains no crammed ash-barrels and no lines
+  For clothes to flap about on;
+  It does not look by day as if it had
+  Ever a living soul beneath its roof.
+  It seems to mark a gap in the grim line,
+  No house at all, but an unfinished shell.
+
+  But when the windows up and down those faces
+  With yellow glimmer of gas, blaze forth;
+  I know it is the only house that lives
+  In all that grim four-storied row.
+  The others are mere shelves, overcrowded layers,
+  Of warring, separate personalities;
+  A jangle and a tangle of emotions,
+  Without a single meaning running through them;
+  But it, the empty house, has mastered all its secrets.
+  Behind its silent swarthy face,
+  Eyelessly proud,
+  It watches, it is master;
+  It sees the other houses still incessantly learning
+  The lesson it remembers,
+  And which it can repeat the last dim syllable of.
+
+
+
+
+THE SKATERS
+
+_To A. D. R._
+
+
+  Black swallows swooping or gliding
+  In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;
+  The skaters skim over the frozen river.
+  And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the
+      surface,
+  Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.
+
+
+
+
+F. S. FLINT
+
+
+
+
+EASTER
+
+
+  Friend
+  we will take the path that leads
+  down from the flagstaff by the pond
+  through the gorse thickets;
+  see, the golden spikes have thrust their points through,
+  and last year's bracken lies yellow-brown and trampled.
+  The sapling birch-groves have shown no leaf,
+  and the wistarias on the desolate pergola
+  are shorn and ashen.
+  We lurch on, and, stumbling,
+  touch each other.
+  You do not shrink, friend.
+  There you, and I here,
+  side by side, we go, jesting.
+  We do not seek, we do not avoid, contact.
+
+  Here is the road,
+  with the budding elm-trees lining it,
+  and there the low gate in the wall;
+  on the other side, the people.
+  Are they not aliens?
+  You and I for a moment see them
+  shabby of limb and soul,
+  patched up to make shift.
+  We laugh and strengthen each other;
+  But the evil is done.
+
+  Is not the whole park made for them,
+  and the bushes and plants and trees and grasses,
+  have they not grown to their standard?
+  The paths are worn to the gravel with their feet;
+  the green moss will not carpet them.
+  The flags of the stone steps are hollowed;
+  and you and I must strive to remain two
+  and not to merge in the multitude.
+  It impinges on us; it separates us;
+  we shrink from it; we brave through it;
+  we laugh; we jest; we jeer;
+  and we save the fragments of our souls.
+
+  Between two clipped privet hedges now;
+  we will close our eyes for life's sake
+  to life's patches.
+  Here, maybe, there is quiet;
+  pass first under the bare branches,
+  beyond is a pool flanked with sedge,
+  and a swan among water-lilies.
+  But here too is a group
+  of men and women and children;
+  and the swan has forgotten its pride;
+  it thrusts its white neck among them,
+  and gobbles at nothing;
+  then tires of the cheat and sails off;
+  but its breast urges before it
+  a sheet of sodden newspaper
+  that, drifting away,
+  reveals beneath the immaculate white splendour
+  of its neck and wings
+  a breast black with scum.
+
+  Friend, we are beaten.
+
+
+
+
+OGRE
+
+
+  Through the open window can be seen
+  the poplars at the end of the garden
+  shaking in the wind,
+  a wall of green leaves so high
+  that the sky is shut off.
+
+  On the white table-cloth
+  a rose in a vase
+  --centre of a sphere of odour--
+  contemplates the crumbs and crusts
+  left from a meal:
+  cups, saucers, plates lie
+  here and there.
+
+  And a sparrow flies by the open window,
+  stops for a moment,
+  flutters his wings rapidly,
+  and climbs an aerial ladder
+  with his claws
+  that work close in
+  to his soft, brown-grey belly.
+
+  But behind the table is the face of a man.
+
+  The bird flies off.
+
+
+
+
+CONES
+
+
+  The blue mist of after-rain
+  fills all the trees;
+
+  the sunlight gilds the tops
+  of the poplar spires, far off,
+  behind the houses.
+
+  Here a branch sways
+  and there
+            a sparrow twitters.
+
+  The curtain's hem, rose-embroidered,
+  flutters, and half reveals
+  a burnt-red chimney pot.
+
+  The quiet in the room
+  bears patiently
+  a footfall on the street.
+
+
+
+
+GLOOM
+
+
+  I sat there in the dark
+  of the room and of my mind
+  thinking of men's treasons and bad faith,
+  sinking into the pit of my own weakness
+  before their strength of cunning.
+  Out over the gardens came the sound of some one
+  playing five-finger exercises on the piano.
+
+  Then
+  I gathered up within me all my powers
+  until outside of me was nothing:
+  I was all--
+  all stubborn, fighting sadness and revulsion.
+
+  And one came from the garden quietly,
+  and stood beside me.
+  She laid her hand on my hair;
+  she laid her cheek on my forehead,--
+  and caressed me with it;
+  but all my being rose to my forehead
+  to fight against this outside thing.
+  Something in me became angry;
+  withstood like a wall,
+  and would allow no entrance;
+  I hated her.
+
+  "What is the matter with you, dear?" she said.
+  "Nothing," I answered,
+  "I am thinking."
+  She stroked my hair and went away;
+  and I was still gloomy, angry, stubborn.
+
+  Then I thought:
+  she has gone away; she is hurt;
+  she does not know
+  what poison has been working in me.
+
+  Then I thought:
+  upstairs, her child is sleeping;
+  and I felt the presence
+  of the fields we had walked over, the roads we had followed,
+  the flowers we had watched together,
+  before it came.
+
+  She had touched my hair, and only then did I feel it;
+  And I loved her once again.
+
+  And I came away,
+  full of the sweet and bitter juices of life;
+  and I lit the lamp in my room,
+  and made this poem.
+
+
+
+
+TERROR
+
+
+  Eyes are tired;
+  the lamp burns,
+  and in its circle of light
+  papers and books lie
+  where chance and life
+  have placed them.
+
+  Silence sings all around me;
+  my head is bound with a band;
+  outside in the street a few footsteps;
+  a clock strikes the hour.
+
+  I gaze, and my eyes close,
+  slowly:
+
+  I doze; but the moment before sleep,
+  a voice calls my name
+  in my ear,
+  and the shock jolts my heart:
+  but when I open my eyes,
+  and look, first left, and then right ...
+
+  no one is there.
+
+
+
+
+CHALFONT SAINT GILES
+
+
+  The low graves are all grown over
+  with forget-me-not,
+  and a rich-green grass
+  links each with each.
+  Old family vaults,
+  some within railings,
+  stand here and there,
+  crumbling, moss-eaten,
+  with the ivy growing up them
+  and diagonally across
+  the top projecting slab.
+  And over the vaults
+  lean the great lilac bushes
+  with their heart-shaped leaves
+  and their purple and white blossom.
+  A wall of ivy shuts off the darkness
+  of the elm-wood and the larches.
+
+  Walk quietly
+  along the mossy paths;
+  the stones of the humble dead
+  are hidden behind the blue mantle
+  of their forget-me-nots;
+  and before one grave so hidden
+  a widow kneels, with head bowed,
+  and the crape falling
+  over her shoulders.
+
+  The bells for evening church are ringing,
+  and the people come gravely
+  and with red, sun-burnt faces
+  through the gates in the wall.
+
+  Pass on;
+  this is the church-porch,
+  and within the bell-ringers,
+  men of the village in their Sunday clothes,
+  pull their bob-major
+  on the red and white grip
+  of the bell-ropes, that fly up,
+  and then fall snakily.
+  They stand there given wholly
+  to the rhythm and swing
+  of their traditional movements.
+
+  And the people pass between them
+  into the church;
+  but we are too sad and too reverent
+  to enter.
+
+
+
+
+WAR-TIME
+
+
+  If I go out of the door,
+  it will not be
+  to take the road to the left that leads
+  past the bovine quiet of houses
+  brooding over the cud of their daily content,
+  even though
+  the tranquillity of their gardens
+  is a lure that once was stronger;
+  even though
+  from privet hedge and mottled laurel
+  the young green peeps,
+  and the daffodils
+  and the yellow and white and purple crocuses
+  laugh from the smooth mould
+  of the garden beds
+  to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.
+  I shall not see
+  the almond blossom shaming
+  the soot-black boughs.
+
+  But to the right the road will lead me
+  to greater and greater disquiet;
+  into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses,
+  and the dust, the tattered paper--
+  the detritus of a city--
+  that swirls in the air behind them.
+  I will pass the shops where the prices
+  are judged day by day by the people,
+  and come to the place where five roads meet
+  with five tram-routes,
+  and where amid the din
+  of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'busses,
+  the clangorous tram-cars,
+  the news is shouted,
+  and soldiers gather, off-duty.
+
+  Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever;
+  and I can make,
+  as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves,
+  no spring and no woman's beauty,
+  while that is burning.
+
+
+
+
+D. H. LAWRENCE
+
+
+
+
+ERINNYES
+
+
+  There has been so much noise,
+  Bleeding and shouting and dying,
+  Clamour of death.
+
+  There are so many dead,
+  Many have died unconsenting,
+  Their ghosts are angry, unappeased.
+
+  So many ghosts among us,
+  Invisible, yet strong,
+  Between me and thee, so many ghosts of the slain.
+
+  They come back, over the white sea, in the mist,
+  Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts
+  Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea.
+
+  They set foot on this land to which they have the right,
+  They return relentlessly, in the silence one knows their tread,
+  Multitudinous, endless, the ghosts coming home again.
+
+  They watch us, they press on us,
+  They press their claim upon us,
+  They are angry with us.
+
+  What do they want?
+  We are driven mad,
+  Madly we rush hither and thither:
+  Shouting, "Revenge, Revenge,"
+  Crying, "Pour out the blood of the foe,"
+  Seeking to appease with blood the insistent ghosts.
+
+  Out of blood rise up new ghosts,
+  Grey, stern, angry, unsatisfied,
+  The more we slay and are slain, the more we raise up new ghosts
+      against us.
+
+  Till we are mad with terror, seeing the slain
+  Victorious, grey, grisly ghosts in our streets,
+  Grey, unappeased ghosts seated in the music-halls.
+  The dead triumphant, and the quick cast down,
+  The dead, unassuaged and angry, silencing us,
+  Making us pale and bloodless, without resistance.
+
+     *     *     *     *     *
+
+  What do they want, the ghosts, what is it
+  They demand as they stand in menace over against us?
+  How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?
+
+  Since from blood poured out rise only ghosts again,
+  What shall we do, what shall we give to them?
+  What do they want, forever there on our threshold?
+
+  Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home,
+  And in the silence, reverently, welcome them,
+  And give them place and honour and service meet?
+
+  For one year's space, attend on our angry dead,
+  Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet,
+  Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence,
+  Then lead them to the gates of the unknown,
+  And bid farewell, oh stately travellers,
+  And wait till they are lost upon our sight.
+
+  Then we shall turn us home again to life
+  Knowing our dead are fitly housed in death,
+  Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily.
+
+  And we shall have new peace in this our life,
+  New joy to give more life, new bliss to live,
+  Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.
+
+
+
+
+PERFIDY
+
+
+  Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door,
+  And I lingered on the threshold with my hand
+  Upraised to knock and knock once more:
+  Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor,
+  Hollow re-echoed my heart.
+
+  The low-hung lamps stretched down the road
+  With shadows drifting underneath,
+  With a music of soft, melodious feet
+  Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet
+  The low-hung light of her eyes.
+
+  The golden lamps down the street went out,
+  The last car trailed the night behind,
+  And I in the darkness wandered about
+  With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt
+  In the dying lamp of my love.
+
+  Two brown ponies trotting slowly
+  Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink.
+  The dark van drummed down the distance slowly,
+  And city stars so high and holy
+  Drew nearer to look in the streets.
+
+  A hasting car swept shameful past.
+  I saw her hid in the shadow,
+  I saw her step to the curb, and fast
+  Run to the silent door, where last
+  I had stood with my hand uplifted.
+  She clung to the door in her haste to enter,
+  Entered, and quickly cast
+  It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.
+
+
+
+
+AT THE WINDOW
+
+
+  The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
+  Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical
+      laughter;
+  While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
+
+  Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede
+  Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after
+  The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.
+
+  The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass
+  To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of
+      darkness
+  That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.
+
+
+
+
+IN TROUBLE AND SHAME
+
+
+        I look at the swaling sunset
+        And wish I could go also
+  Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.
+
+        I wish that I could go
+  Through the red doors where I could put off
+        My shame like shoes in the porch
+        My pain like garments,
+        And leave my flesh discarded lying
+        Like luggage of some departed traveller
+        Gone one knows not where.
+
+        Then I would turn round
+  And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,
+        I would laugh with joy.
+
+
+
+
+BROODING GRIEF
+
+
+  A yellow leaf from the darkness
+  Hops like a frog before me--
+  --Why should I start and stand still?
+
+  I was watching the woman that bore me
+  Stretched in the brindled darkness
+  Of the sick-room, rigid with will
+  To die--
+  And the quick leaf tore me
+  Back to this rainy swill
+  Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.
+
+
+
+
+AMY LOWELL
+
+
+
+
+PATTERNS
+
+
+  I walk down the garden paths,
+  And all the daffodils
+  Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
+  I walk down the patterned garden paths
+  In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+  With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
+  I too am a rare
+  Pattern. As I wander down
+  The garden paths.
+
+  My dress is richly figured,
+  And the train
+  Makes a pink and silver stain
+  On the gravel, and the thrift
+  Of the borders.
+  Just a plate of current fashion,
+  Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
+  Not a softness anywhere about me,
+  Only whale-bone and brocade.
+  And I sink on a seat in the shade
+  Of a lime tree. For my passion
+  Wars against the stiff brocade.
+  The daffodils and squills
+  Flutter in the breeze
+  As they please.
+  And I weep;
+  For the lime tree is in blossom
+  And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
+
+  And the plashing of waterdrops
+  In the marble fountain
+  Comes down the garden paths.
+  The dripping never stops.
+  Underneath my stiffened gown
+  Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
+  A basin in the midst of hedges grown
+  So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
+  But she guesses he is near,
+  And the sliding of the water
+  Seems the stroking of a dear
+  Hand upon her.
+  What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
+  I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
+  All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
+
+  I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
+  And he would stumble after
+  Bewildered by my laughter.
+  I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles
+      on his shoes.
+  I would choose
+  To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
+  A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
+  Till he caught me in the shade,
+  And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
+  Aching, melting, unafraid.
+  With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
+  And the plopping of the waterdrops,
+  All about us in the open afternoon--
+  I am very like to swoon
+  With the weight of this brocade,
+  For the sun sifts through the shade.
+
+  Underneath the fallen blossom
+  In my bosom,
+  Is a letter I have hid.
+  It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
+  "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
+  Died in action Thursday sen'night."
+  As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
+  The letters squirmed like snakes.
+  "Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
+  "No," I told him.
+  "See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
+  No, no answer."
+  And I walked into the garden,
+  Up and down the patterned paths,
+  In my stiff, correct brocade.
+  The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
+  Each one.
+  I stood upright too,
+  Held rigid to the pattern
+  By the stiffness of my gown.
+  Up and down I walked,
+  Up and down.
+
+  In a month he would have been my husband.
+  In a month, here, underneath this lime,
+  We would have broke the pattern.
+  He for me, and I for him,
+  He as Colonel, I as Lady,
+  On this shady seat.
+  He had a whim
+  That sunlight carried blessing.
+  And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
+  Now he is dead.
+
+  In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
+  Up and down
+  The patterned garden paths
+  In my stiff, brocaded gown.
+  The squills and daffodils
+  Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
+  I shall go
+  Up and down,
+  In my gown.
+  Gorgeously arrayed,
+  Boned and stayed.
+  And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
+  By each button, hook, and lace.
+  For the man who should loose me is dead,
+  Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
+  In a pattern called a war.
+  Christ! What are patterns for?
+
+
+
+
+SPRING DAY
+
+
+BATH
+
+The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and
+narcissus in the air.
+
+The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the
+water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish white. It
+cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright
+light.
+
+Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance,
+dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a
+stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the
+planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the
+green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day
+is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too
+bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the
+sun spots.
+
+The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a
+whirl of tulips and narcissus in the air.
+
+
+BREAKFAST TABLE
+
+In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and
+white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and
+smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth
+falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the
+silver coffee pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they
+whirl, and twirl--and my eyes begin to smart, the little white,
+dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful the rolls
+of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of
+butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream,
+flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee steam rises in a
+stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into
+the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher,
+fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and
+croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells
+in the air.
+
+
+WALK
+
+Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without
+touching.
+
+On the sidewalk boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber
+and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise.
+The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass
+marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters
+under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air,
+but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the
+street, and a girl with a gay spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust
+and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent
+leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the
+wind rustles among the flowers on her hat.
+
+A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green
+and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly sprinkling clear
+water over the white dust. Clear zig-zagging water which smells of
+tulips and narcissus.
+
+The thickening branches make a pink "grisaille" against the blue sky.
+
+Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in
+time. Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the
+white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and
+trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of
+rose-colour and green.
+
+A motor car cuts a swath through the bright air, sharp-beaked,
+irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and
+sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is
+quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.
+
+
+MIDDAY AND AFTERNOON
+
+Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The
+stock-still brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of
+people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets.
+Eddies of light in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue,
+gold, purple jars, darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and
+tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirling of machine belts,
+blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on
+an electric car, and the jar of a church bell knocking against the
+metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust,
+thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me,
+reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging,
+plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic
+insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the
+press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and
+narcissus.
+
+The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the
+shop-windows putting out their contents in a flood of flame.
+
+
+NIGHT AND SLEEP
+
+The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out
+along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and
+blow into patterns of fire-flowers, as the sky fades. Trades scream
+in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that
+means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver is the
+sidelong sliver of a watch-maker's sign with its length on another
+street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a
+tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should
+she heed ours?
+
+I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees
+and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and
+clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no
+flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and
+narcissus.
+
+My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the
+distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower heads with no
+stems. I cannot see the beer glass, nor the letters of the
+restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together
+make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden
+stirring and blowing for the Spring.
+
+The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in
+the air.
+
+Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams
+into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer
+tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their
+horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour
+of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair ... I smell the stars ...
+they are like tulips and narcissus ... I smell them in the air.
+
+
+
+
+STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES, "GROTESQUES" FOR STRING QUARTET
+
+
+    This Quartet was played from the manuscript by the Flonzaley
+    Quartet during their season of 1915 and 1916. The poem is based
+    upon the programme which M. Stravinsky appended to his piece, and
+    is an attempt to reproduce the sound and movement of the music as
+    far as is possible in another medium.
+
+
+FIRST MOVEMENT
+
+  Thin-voiced, nasal pipes
+  Drawing sound out and out
+  Until it is a screeching thread,
+  Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,
+  It hurts.
+  Whee-e-e!
+  Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!
+  There are drums here,
+  Banging,
+  And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones
+  Of the market-place.
+  Whee-e-e!
+  Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,
+  And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones,
+  Clumsy and hard they are,
+  And uneven,
+  Losing half a beat
+  Because the stones are slippery.
+  Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!
+  The thin Spring leaves
+  Shake to the banging of shoes.
+  Shoes beat, slap,
+  Shuffle, rap,
+  And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,
+  Little pigs' voices
+  Weaving among the dancers,
+  A fine, white thread
+  Linking up the dancers.
+  Bang! Bump! Tong!
+  Petticoats,
+  Stockings,
+  Sabots,
+  Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
+  Red, blue, yellow,
+  Drunkenness steaming in colours;
+  Red, yellow, blue,
+  Colours and flesh weaving together,
+  In and out, with the dance,
+  Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
+  Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
+  White and painful,
+  White and--
+  Bump!
+  Tong!
+
+
+SECOND MOVEMENT
+
+  Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,
+  A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,
+  Cherry petals fall and flutter,
+  And the white Pierrot,
+  Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,
+  Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,
+  Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth
+  With his finger-nails.
+
+
+THIRD MOVEMENT
+
+  An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,
+  It wheezes and coughs.
+  The nave is blue with incense,
+  Writhing, twisting,
+  Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.
+          _Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine;_
+  The priests whine their bastard Latin
+  And the censers swing and click.
+  The priests walk endlessly
+  Round and round,
+  Droning their Latin
+  Off the key.
+  The organ crashes out in a flaring chord
+  And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.
+          _Dies illa, dies irae,_
+          _Calamitatis et miseriae,_
+          _Dies magna et amara valde._
+  A wind rattles the leaded windows.
+  The little pear-shaped candle-flames leap and flutter.
+          _Dies illa, dies irae,_
+  The swaying smoke drifts over the altar.
+          _Calamitatis et miseriae,_
+  The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water.
+          _Dies magna et amara valde._
+  And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them,
+  Stretched upon a bier.
+  His ears are stone to the organ,
+  His eyes are flint to the candles,
+  His body is ice to the water.
+  Chant, priests,
+  Whine, shuffle, genuflect.
+  He will always be as rigid as he is now
+  Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.
+          _Lacrymosa dies illa,_
+          _Qua resurget ex favilla_
+          _Judicandus homo reus._
+  Above the grey pillars, the roof is in darkness.
+
+
+
+
+  THE END
+
+
+
+
+BIBLIOGRAPHY
+
+
+  RICHARD ALDINGTON
+    _Images._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915; and The Four Seas
+      Company, Boston, 1916.
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+    _Fire and Wine._ Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913.
+    _Fool's Gold._ Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+    _The Dominant City._ Max Goschen, London, 1913.
+    _The Book of Nature._ Constable & Co., London, 1913.
+    _Visions of the Evening._ Erskine McDonald, London, 1913.
+    _Irradiations: Sand and Spray._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston,
+      1915.
+    _Goblins and Pagodas._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1916.
+
+  F. S. FLINT
+    _The Net of Stars._ Elkin Mathews, London, 1909.
+    _Cadences._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915.
+
+  D. H. LAWRENCE
+    _Love Poems and Others._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
+    Prose: _The White Peacock._ William Heinemann, London, 1911.
+           _The Trespasser._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1912.
+           _Sons and Lovers._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.
+           _The Prussian Officer._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1914.
+           _The Rainbow._ Methuen & Co., London, 1915.
+    Drama: _The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd._ Mitchell Kennerley, New
+      York, 1914.
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+    _A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass._ Houghton Mifflin Company,
+      Boston, 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1915.
+    _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed._ The Macmillan Company, New York;
+      and Macmillan & Co., London, 1914.
+    Prose: _Six French Poets._ The Macmillan Company, New York; and
+      Macmillan and Co., London, 1915.
+
+
+
+
+TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
+
+
+The following printer's errors have been corrected:
+
+  "from" corrected to "form" (page viii)
+  "sweeling" corrected to "swaling" (page 73)
+
+The following unusual spellings have been retained:
+
+  "anarchaic" (page vii)
+
+Some of the poems in this anthology were also included in the
+following books:
+
+  H. D.
+    _Sea Garden._ Constable & Co., London, 1916.
+
+  JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
+    _Breakers and Granite._ The Macmillan Company, New York, 1921.
+
+  AMY LOWELL
+    _Men, Women and Ghosts._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New
+      York, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by
+Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 ***
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