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diff --git a/37469-h/37469-h.htm b/37469-h/37469-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6de7a41 --- /dev/null +++ b/37469-h/37469-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3074 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Some Imagist Poets 1916</title> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /><style type="text/css"> + p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + h1,h2,h3,h4 { + clear: both; + } + + body { + margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%; + } + + h1 {text-align: center; margin-top: 5em; page-break-before: always;} + + h2 {text-align: center; margin-top: 3em; page-break-before: always;} + + h3 {text-align: center; margin-top: 3em; page-break-before: always;} + + h4 {text-align: center;} + + hr {width: 20%;} + + .h1a {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: large;} + + .h2a { + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; + margin-bottom: 1.5em; + } + + .h3a {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;} + + .pagenum { left: 92%; position: absolute; text-align: right; font-weight: normal; font-size: small; color: #808080;} + + .nowrap {margin-left: 2em;} + + .figure {margin-top: 2em; text-align: center;} + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .underline {text-decoration: underline;} + + .titlecenter {text-align: center;} + + .theend {text-align: center; font-size: large; margin-top: 2em;} + + .bibentry {margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 2.5em; text-indent: -2.5em;} + + .bibentry2 {margin-left: 5em; padding-left: 2.5em; text-indent: -2.5em;} + + .figureright {text-align: right;} + + .acknowledgments {margin-top: 3em;} + + .trnote {margin: 3em auto 3em auto; + border: 1px solid; + padding: 1em 2em 1em 2em; + background-color: #ccffff; + max-width: 25em;} +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<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 i]</span> +SOME IMAGIST POETS, <span class="underline">1916</span> +</h1> +<h1> +<a name="preface2"></a> +<a name="preface3"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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 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 “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 +<a name="preface6"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg vi]</span> +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. +</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>: +“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 <i>Symbolistes</i>; +they are Individualists. +</p> +<p> +<a name="preface7"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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 “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. +</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 “cadence” which has misled so many +reviewers, until some have been betrayed into saying that +<a name="preface9"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg ix]</span> +the Imagists discard rhythm, when rhythm is the most important +quality in their technique. The definition of <i>vers +libre</i> 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 +<a name="preface10"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 “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. +</p> +<p> +<a name="preface11"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 xii]</span> +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 <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: “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. +</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 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> <a href="#chapter7">Eros and Psyche</a></td><td class="figureright">3</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter8">After Two Years</a></td><td class="figureright">6</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter9">1915</a></td><td class="figureright">7</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter10">Whitechapel</a></td><td class="figureright">8</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter11">Sunsets</a></td><td class="figureright">10</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter12">People</a></td><td class="figureright">11</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter13">Reflections: I and II</a></td><td class="figureright">12</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td>H. D.</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter15">Sea Gods</a></td><td class="figureright">17</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter16">The Shrine</a></td><td class="figureright">21</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter17">Temple—The Cliff</a></td><td class="figureright">26</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter18">Mid-day</a></td><td class="figureright">30</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">John Gould Fletcher</span></td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter20">Arizona</a></td><td class="figureright">35</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter21">The Unquiet Street</a></td><td class="figureright">42</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter22">In the Theatre</a></td><td class="figureright">43</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter23">Ships in the Harbour</a></td><td class="figureright">44</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter24">The Empty House</a></td><td class="figureright">45</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter25">The Skaters</a></td><td class="figureright">48</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">F. S. Flint</span></td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter27">Easter</a></td><td class="figureright">51</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter28">Ogre</a></td><td class="figureright">54</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter29">Cones</a></td><td class="figureright">56</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter30">Gloom </a></td><td class="figureright">57</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter31">Terror</a></td><td>60</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter32">Chalfont Saint Giles</a></td><td class="figureright">61</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter33">War-Time</a></td><td class="figureright">63</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">D. H. Lawrence</span></td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter35">Erinnyes</a></td><td class="figureright">67</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter36">Perfidy</a></td><td>70</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter37">At the Window</a></td><td class="figureright">72</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter38">In Trouble and Shame</a></td><td class="figureright">73</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter39">Brooding Grief</a></td><td class="figureright">74</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Amy Lowell</span></td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter41">Patterns</a></td><td class="figureright">77</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter42">Spring Day</a></td><td class="figureright">82</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#chapter43">Stravinsky's Three Pieces, “Grotesques,” for String Quartet</a> </td><td class="figureright">87</td></tr> +<tr><td> </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 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 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—<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—<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—<br /> +Or was it the Corn Laws?—<br /> +That I can understand.<br /> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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—<br /> +Surrounded with pots and terra-cotta busts<br /> +And urns and broken pillars—<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 5]</span> +And their young fresh lust to Camden Town,<br /> +Which settled long ago to toil and sweat and filth,<br /> +Forgetting—to the greater glory of Free Trade—<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 6]</span> +<a name="chapter8"></a> +AFTER TWO YEARS +</h3> +<p class="nowrap"> +She is all so slight<br /> +And tender and white<br /> + As a May morning.<br /> +She walks without hood<br /> +At dusk. It is good<br /> + To hear her sing.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +It is God's will<br /> +That I shall love her still<br /> + As He loves Mary.<br /> +And night and day<br /> +I will go forth to pray<br /> + That she love me.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +She is as gold<br /> +Lovely, and far more cold.<br /> + Do thou pray with me,<br /> +For if I win grace<br /> +To kiss twice her face<br /> + God has done well to me.<br /> +</p> +<h3> +<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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"> +“<i>Only a rain of bright dust;<br /> +In the outer air;<br /> +A little whisper of wind;<br /> +Sleep; rest; forget.</i>”<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 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—</i><br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +Soot; mud;<br /> +A nation maddened with labour;<br /> +Interminable collision of energies—<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 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—</i><br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +Noise, iron, smoke;<br /> +Iron, iron, iron.<br /> +</p> +<h3> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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 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—<br /> +Their beautiful fingers!—<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 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 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—<br /> +Sand—drift—rocks—rubble of the sea—<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—<br /> +No whip of the tongue to anger you—<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 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—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—<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 19]</span> +We bring the hyacinth-violet,<br /> +Sweet, bare, chill to the touch—<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—<br /> +You will thunder along the cliff—<br /> +Break—retreat—get fresh strength—<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 20]</span> +You will bring myrrh-bark<br /> +And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts.<br /> +When you hurl high—high—<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 21]</span> +<a name="chapter16"></a> +THE SHRINE +</h3> +<p class="h3a"> +(“<i>She Watches Over the Sea</i>”) +</p> +<h4> +I +</h4> +<p class="nowrap"> +Are your rocks shelter for ships?<br /> +Have you sent galleys from your beach—<br /> +Are you graded—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—<br /> +You are the land-blight—<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—evil<br /> +When they found you—<br /> +When the quiet men looked at you.<br /> +<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 22]</span> +They sought a headland,<br /> +Shaded with ledge of cliff<br /> +From the wind-blast.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +But you—you are unsheltered—<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—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 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—<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—stay—<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 24]</span> +Sorrow, splitting bone from bone—<br /> +Splendour athwart our eyes,<br /> +And rifts in the splendour—<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—<br /> +None venture to that spot.<br /> +</p> +<h4> +<a name="section16_4"></a> +IV +</h4> +<p class="nowrap"> +But hail—<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 25]</span> +And the strait grind sand with sand<br /> +And cut boulders to sand and drift—<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 26]</span> +<a name="chapter17"></a> +TEMPLE—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—<br /> +Clean cut, white against white.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +High—high—and no hill-goat<br /> +Tramples—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—<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 27]</span> +Of the jagged cliff,<br /> +A small tree stiffens in the gale,<br /> +It bends—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—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—you lurch.<br /> +You are quicker than my hand-grasp.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +I wondered at you.<br /> +I shouted—dear—mysterious—beautiful—<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 28]</span> +Could a dæmon avenge this hurt,<br /> +I would cry to him—could a ghost,<br /> +I would shout—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—<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 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—<br /> +You are further than this,<br /> +Still further on another cliff.<br /> +</p> +<h3> +<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 30]</span> +<a name="chapter18"></a> +MID-DAY +</h3> +<p class="nowrap"> +The light beats upon me.<br /> +I am startled—<br /> +A split leaf crackles on the paved floor—<br /> +I am anguished—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—<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 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 33]</span> +<a name="chapter19"></a> +JOHN GOULD FLETCHER<br /> +</h2> +<h3> +<a name="page34"></a> +<a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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 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:—<br /> +“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 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.”<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 /> +“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.”<br /> +</p> +<h4> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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 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 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 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 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 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—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 46]</span> +A grim four-storied serried row<br /> +Of rooms to let—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 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 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 49]</span> +<a name="chapter26"></a> +F. S. FLINT +</h2> +<h3> +<a name="page50"></a> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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 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 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 /> +—centre of a sphere of odour—<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 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 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> 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 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—<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,—<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 58]</span> +withstood like a wall,<br /> +and would allow no entrance;<br /> +I hated her.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +“What is the matter with you, dear?” she said.<br /> +“Nothing,” I answered,<br /> +“I am thinking.”<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 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 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 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 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 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 64]</span> +and the dust, the tattered paper—<br /> +the detritus of a city—<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 65]</span> +<a name="chapter34"></a> +D. H. LAWRENCE<br /> +</h2> +<h3> +<a name="page66"></a> +<a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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, “Revenge, Revenge,”<br /> +Crying, “Pour out the blood of the foe,”<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 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 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 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 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 73]</span> +<a name="chapter38"></a> +IN TROUBLE AND SHAME +</h3> +<p class="nowrap"> + I look at the swaling sunset<br /> + And wish I could go also<br /> +Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> + I wish that I could go<br /> +Through the red doors where I could put off<br /> + My shame like shoes in the porch<br /> + My pain like garments,<br /> + And leave my flesh discarded lying<br /> + Like luggage of some departed traveller<br /> + Gone one knows not where.<br /> +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> + Then I would turn round<br /> +And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,<br /> + I would laugh with joy.<br /> +</p> +<h3> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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—<br /> +—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—<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 75]</span> +<a name="chapter40"></a> +AMY LOWELL<br /> +</h2> +<h3> +<a name="page76"></a> +<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 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 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—<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 /> +“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 80]</span> +Died in action Thursday sen'night.”<br /> +As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,<br /> +The letters squirmed like snakes.<br /> +“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.<br /> +“No,” I told him.<br /> +“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.<br /> +No, no answer.”<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 81]</span> +And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”<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 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 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—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. +</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 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 “grisaille” 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 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 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 87]</span> +<a name="chapter43"></a> +STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES, “GROTESQUES” +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 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 89]</span> +White and painful,<br /> +White and—<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 /> + <i>Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine;</i><br /> +The priests whine their bastard Latin<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">[Pg 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 /> + <i>Dies illa, dies iræ,</i><br /> + <i>Calamitatis et miseriæ,</i><br /> + <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 /> + <i>Dies illa, dies iræ,</i><br /> +The swaying smoke drifts over the altar.<br /> + <i>Calamitatis et miseriæ,</i><br /> +The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water.<br /> + <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 91]</span> +He will always be as rigid as he is now<br /> +Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.<br /> + <i>Lacrymosa dies illa,</i><br /> + <i>Qua resurget ex favilla</i><br /> + <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 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 & 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 & 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 & Co., London, 1912. +</p> +<p class="bibentry2"> +<i>Sons and Lovers.</i> Duckworth & Co., London, 1913. +</p> +<p class="bibentry2"> +<i>The Prussian Officer.</i> Duckworth & Co., London, 1914. +</p> +<p class="bibentry2"> +<i>The Rainbow.</i> Methuen & 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 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 & 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"> +“from” corrected to “form” (<a href="#preface8">page viii</a>)<br /> +“sweeling” corrected to “swaling” (<a href="#page73">page 73</a>)<br /> +</p> +<p> +The following unusual spellings have been retained: +</p> +<p class="nowrap"> +“anarchaic” (<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 & 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. 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