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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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