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diff --git a/37469-8.txt b/37469-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0f72221 --- /dev/null +++ b/37469-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2632 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by +Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. Lawrence and F. S. Flint + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Some Imagist Poets, 1916 + An Annual Anthology + +Author: Richard Aldington + Hilda Doolittle + John Gould Fletcher + Amy Lowell + D. H. Lawrence + F. S. Flint + +Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37469] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME IMAGIST POETS, 1916 *** + + + + +Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was +produced from scanned images of public domain material +from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + + + +The New Poetry Series + +PUBLISHED BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + + +IRRADIATIONS. SAND AND SPRAY. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER. + +SOME IMAGIST POETS. + +JAPANESE LYRICS. Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN. + +AFTERNOONS OF APRIL. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING. + +THE CLOISTER: A VERSE DRAMA. EMILE VERHAEREN. + +INTERFLOW. GEOFFREY C. FABER. + +STILLWATER PASTORALS AND OTHER POEMS. PAUL SHIVELL. + +IDOLS. WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG. + +TURNS AND MOVIES, AND OTHER TALES IN VERSE. CONRAD AIKEN. + +ROADS. GRACE FALLOW NORTON. + +GOBLINS AND PAGODAS. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER. + +SOME IMAGIST POETS. _1916._ + +A SONG OF THE GUNS. GILBERT FRANKAU. + +MOTHERS AND MEN. HAROLD T. PULSIFER. + + + + +SOME IMAGIST POETS, _1916_ + + + + + SOME IMAGIST POETS + _1916_ + + AN ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY + + + [Illustration] + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + The Riverside Press Cambridge + 1916 + + COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _Published May 1916_ + + THIRD IMPRESSION + + + + +PREFACE + + +In bringing the second volume of _Some Imagist Poets_ before the +public, the authors wish to express their gratitude for the interest +which the 1915 volume aroused. The discussion of it was widespread, +and even those critics out of sympathy with Imagist tenets accorded +it much space. In the Preface to that book, we endeavoured to present +those tenets in a succinct form. But the very brevity we employed has +lead to a great deal of misunderstanding. We have decided, therefore, +to explain the laws which govern us a little more fully. A few people +may understand, and the rest can merely misunderstand again, a result +to which we are quite accustomed. + +In the first place "Imagism" does not mean merely the presentation of +pictures. "Imagism" refers to the manner of presentation, not to the +subject. It means a clear presentation of whatever the author wishes +to convey. Now he may wish to convey a mood of indecision, in which +case the poem should be indecisive; he may wish to bring before his +reader the constantly shifting and changing lights over a landscape, +or the varying attitudes of mind of a person under strong emotion, +then his poem must shift and change to present this clearly. The +"exact" word does not mean the word which exactly describes the +object in itself, it means the "exact" word which brings the effect +of that object before the reader as it presented itself to the poet's +mind at the time of writing the poem. Imagists deal but little with +similes, although much of their poetry is metaphorical. The reason +for this is that while acknowledging the figure to be an integral +part of all poetry, they feel that the constant imposing of one +figure upon another in the same poem blurs the central effect. + +The great French critic, Remy de Gourmont, wrote last Summer in _La +France_ that the Imagists were the descendants of the French +_Symbolistes_. In the Preface to his _Livre des Masques_, M. de +Gourmont has thus described _Symbolisme_: "Individualism in +literature, liberty of art, abandonment of existing forms.... The +sole excuse which a man can have for writing is to write down +himself, to unveil for others the sort of world which mirrors itself +in his individual glass.... He should create his own aesthetics--and +we should admit as many aesthetics as there are original minds, and +judge them for what they are and not what they are not." In this +sense the Imagists are descendants of the _Symbolistes_; they are +Individualists. + +The only reason that Imagism has seemed so anarchaic and strange to +English and American reviewers is that their minds do not easily and +quickly suggest the steps by which modern art has arrived at its +present position. Its immediate prototype cannot be found in English +or American literature, we must turn to Europe for it. With Debussy +and Stravinsky in music, and Gauguin and Matisse in painting, it +should have been evident to every one that art was entering upon an +era of change. But music and painting are universal languages, so we +have become accustomed to new idioms in them, while we still find it +hard to recognize a changed idiom in literature. + +The crux of the situation is just here. It is in the idiom employed. +Imagism asks to be judged by different standards from those employed +in Nineteenth-Century art. It is small wonder that Imagist poetry +should be incomprehensible to men whose sole touchstone for art is +the literature of one country for a period of four centuries. And it +is an illuminating fact that among poets and men conversant with many +poetic idioms, Imagism is rarely misconceived. They may not agree +with us, but they do not misunderstand us. + +This must not be misconstrued into the desire to belittle our +forerunners. On the contrary, the Imagists have the greatest +admiration for the past, and humility towards it. But they have been +caught in the throes of a new birth. The exterior world is changing, +and with it men's feelings, and every age must express its feelings +in its own individual way. No art is any more "egoistic" than +another; all art is an attempt to express the feelings of the artist, +whether it be couched in narrative form or employ a more personal +expression. + +It is not what Imagists write about which makes them hard of +comprehension; it is the way they write it. All nations have laws of +prosody, which undergo changes from time to time. The laws of English +metrical prosody are well known to every one concerned with the +subject. But that is only one form of prosody. Other nations have had +different ones: Anglo-Saxon poetry was founded upon alliteration, +Greek and Roman was built upon quantity, the Oriental was formed out +of repetition, and the Japanese Hokku got its effects by an exact and +never-to-be-added-to series of single syllables. So it is evident +that poetry can be written in many modes. That the Imagists base much +of their poetry upon cadence and not upon metre makes them neither +good nor bad. And no one realizes more than they that no theories nor +rules make poetry. They claim for their work only that it is sincere. + +It is this very fact of "cadence" which has misled so many reviewers, +until some have been betrayed into saying that the Imagists discard +rhythm, when rhythm is the most important quality in their technique. +The definition of _vers libre_ is--a verse-form based upon cadence. +Now cadence in music is one thing, cadence in poetry quite another, +since we are not dealing with tone but with rhythm. It is the sense +of perfect balance of flow and rhythm. Not only must the syllables so +fall as to increase and continue the movement, but the whole poem +must be as rounded and recurring as the circular swing of a balanced +pendulum. It can be fast or slow, it may even jerk, but this perfect +swing it must have, even its jerks must follow the central movement. +To illustrate: Suppose a person were given the task of walking, or +running, round a large circle, with two minutes given to do it in. +Two minutes which he would just consume if he walked round the circle +quietly. But in order to make the task easier for him, or harder, as +the case might be, he was required to complete each half of the +circle in exactly a minute. No other restrictions were placed upon +him. He might dawdle in the beginning, and run madly to reach the +half-circle mark on time, and then complete his task by walking +steadily round the second half to goal. Or he might leap, and run, +and skip, and linger in all sorts of ways, making up for slow going +by fast, and for extra haste by pauses, and varying these movements +on either lap of the circle as the humour seized him, only so that he +were just one minute in traversing the first half-circle, and just +one minute in traversing the second. Another illustration which may +be employed is that of a Japanese wood-carving where a toad in one +corner is balanced by a spray of blown flowers in the opposite upper +one. The flowers are not the same shape as the toad, neither are they +the same size, but the balance is preserved. + +The unit in _vers libre_ is not the foot, the number of the +syllables, the quantity, or the line. The unit is the strophe, which +may be the whole poem, or may be only a part. Each strophe is a +complete circle: in fact, the meaning of the Greek word "strophe" is +simply that part of the poem which was recited while the chorus were +making a turn round the altar set up in the centre of the theatre. +The simile of the circle is more than a simile, therefore; it is a +fact. Of course the circle need not always be the same size, nor need +the times allowed to negotiate it be always the same. There is room +here for an infinite number of variations. Also, circles can be added +to circles, movement upon movement, to the poem, provided each +movement completes itself, and ramifies naturally into the next. But +one thing must be borne in mind: a cadenced poem is written to be +read aloud, in this way only will its rhythm be felt. Poetry is a +spoken and not a written art. + +The _vers libristes_ are often accused of declaring that they have +discovered a new thing. Where such an idea started, it is impossible +to say, certainly none of the better _vers libristes_ was ever guilty +of so ridiculous a statement. The name _vers libre_ is new, the +thing, most emphatically, is not. Not new in English poetry, at any +rate. You will find something very much like it in Dryden's +_Threnodia Augustalis_; a great deal of Milton's _Samson Agonistes_ +is written in it; and Matthew Arnold's _Philomela_ is a shining +example of it. Practically all of Henley's _London Voluntaries_ are +written in it, and (so potent are names) until it was christened +_vers libre_, no one thought of objecting to it. But the oldest +reference to _vers libre_ is to be found in Chaucer's _House of +Fame_, where the Eagle addresses the Poet in these words: + + And nevertheless hast set thy wyt + Although that in thy heed full lyte is + To make bookes, songes, or dytees + In rhyme or elles in cadence. + +Commentators have wasted reams of paper in an endeavour to determine +what Chaucer meant by this. But is it not possible that he meant a +verse based upon rhythm, but which did not follow the strict metrical +prosody of his usual practice? + +One of the charges frequently brought against the Imagists is that +they write, not poetry, but "shredded prose." This misconception +springs from the almost complete ignorance of the public in regard to +the laws of cadenced verse. But, in fact, what is prose and what is +poetry? Is it merely a matter of typographical arrangement? Must +everything which is printed in equal lines, with rhymes at the ends, +be called poetry, and everything which is printed in a block be +called prose? Aristotle, who certainly knew more about this subject +than any one else, declares in his _Rhetoric_ that prose is +rhythmical without being metrical (that is to say, without insistence +on any single rhythm), and then goes on to state the feet that are +employed in prose, making, incidentally, the remark that the iambic +prevailed in ordinary conversation. The fact is, that there is no +hard and fast dividing line between prose and poetry. As a French +poet of distinction, Paul Fort, has said: "Prose and poetry are but +one instrument, graduated." It is not a question of typography; it is +not even a question of rules and forms. Poetry is the vision in a +man's soul which he translates as best he can with the means at his +disposal. + +We are young, we are experimentalists, but we ask to be judged by our +own standards, not by those which have governed other men at other +times. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + RICHARD ALDINGTON + + Eros and Psyche 3 + + After Two Years 6 + + 1915 7 + + Whitechapel 8 + + Sunsets 10 + + People 11 + + Reflections: I and II 12 + + + H. D. + + Sea Gods 17 + + The Shrine 21 + + Temple--The Cliff 26 + + Mid-day 30 + + + JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + + Arizona 35 + + The Unquiet Street 42 + + In the Theatre 43 + + Ships in the Harbour 44 + + The Empty House 45 + + The Skaters 48 + + + F. S. FLINT + + Easter 51 + + Ogre 54 + + Cones 56 + + Gloom 57 + + Terror 60 + + Chalfont Saint Giles 61 + + War-Time 63 + + + D. H. LAWRENCE + + Erinnyes 67 + + Perfidy 70 + + At the Window 72 + + In Trouble and Shame 73 + + Brooding Grief 74 + + + AMY LOWELL + + Patterns 77 + + Spring Day 82 + + Stravinsky's Three Pieces, "Grotesques," for String Quartet 87 + + + BIBLIOGRAPHY 93 + +The authors wish to express their gratitude to the editors of _The +Egoist_ and _Poetry and Drama_, London; _The Poetry Journal_, Boston; +_The Little Review_ and _Poetry_, Chicago, for permission to reprint +certain of these poems which originally appeared in their columns. To +_Poetry_ belongs the credit of having introduced Imagism to the +world: it seems fitting, therefore, that the authors should record +their thanks in this place for the constant interest and +encouragement shown them by its editor, Miss Harriet Monroe. + + + + +RICHARD ALDINGTON + + + + +EROS AND PSYCHE + + + In an old dull yard near Camden Town, + Which echoes with the rattle of cars and 'busses + And freight-trains, puffing steam and smoke and dirt + To the steaming, sooty sky-- + There stands an old and grimy statue, + A statue of Psyche and her lover, Eros. + + A little nearer Camden Town, + In a square of ugly sordid shops, + Is another statue, facing the Tube, + Staring with a heavy, purposeless glare + At the red and white shining tiles-- + A tall stone statue of Cobden. + And though no one ever pauses to see + What hero it is that faces the Tube, + I can understand very well indeed + That England must honour its national heroes, + Must honour the hero of Free Trade-- + Or was it the Corn Laws?-- + That I can understand. + But what I shall never understand + Is the little group in the dingy yard + Under the dingier sky, + The Eros and Psyche-- + Surrounded with pots and terra-cotta busts + And urns and broken pillars-- + Eros, naked, with his wings stretched out + Just lighting down to kiss her on the lips. + + What are they doing here in Camden Town + In the midst of all this clamour and filth? + They who should stand in a sun-lit room + Hung with deep purple, painted with gods, + Paved with white porphyry, + Stand for ever embraced + By the side of a rustling fountain + Over a marble basin + Carved with leopards and grapes and young men dancing; + Or in a garden leaning above Corinth, + Under the ilices and the cypresses, + Very white against a very blue sky; + Or growing hoary, if they must grow old, + With lichens and softly creeping moss. + What are they doing here in Camden Town? + And who has brought their naked beauty + And their young fresh lust to Camden Town, + Which settled long ago to toil and sweat and filth, + Forgetting--to the greater glory of Free Trade-- + Young beauty and young love and youthful flesh? + + Slowly the rain settles down on them, + Slowly the soot eats into them, + Slowly the stone grows greyer and dirtier, + Till in spite of his spreading wings + Her eyes have a rim of soot + Half an inch deep, + And his wings, the tall god's wings, + That should be red and silver + Are ocherous brown. + + And I peer from a 'bus-top + As we splash through the grease and puddles, + And I glimpse them, huddled against the wall, + Half-hidden under a freight-train's smoke, + And I see the limbs that a Greek slave cut + In some old Italian town, + I see them growing older + And sadder + And greyer. + + + + +AFTER TWO YEARS + + + She is all so slight + And tender and white + As a May morning. + She walks without hood + At dusk. It is good + To hear her sing. + + It is God's will + That I shall love her still + As He loves Mary. + And night and day + I will go forth to pray + That she love me. + + She is as gold + Lovely, and far more cold. + Do thou pray with me, + For if I win grace + To kiss twice her face + God has done well to me. + + + + +1915 + + + The limbs of gods, + Still, veined marble, + Rest heavily in sleep + Under a saffron twilight. + + Not for them battle, + Severed limbs, death, and a cry of victory; + Not for them strife + And a torment of storm. + + A vast breast moves slowly, + The great thighs shift, + The stone eyelids rise; + The slow tongue speaks: + + "_Only a rain of bright dust;_ + _In the outer air;_ + _A little whisper of wind;_ + _Sleep; rest; forget._" + + Bright dust of battle! + A little whisper of dead souls! + + + + +WHITECHAPEL + + + Noise; + Iron hoofs, iron wheels, iron din + Of drays and trams and feet passing; + Iron + Beaten to a vast mad cacophony. + + _In vain the shrill, far cry_ + _Of swallows sweeping by;_ + _In vain the silence and green_ + _Of meadows Apriline;_ + _In vain the clear white rain--_ + + Soot; mud; + A nation maddened with labour; + Interminable collision of energies-- + Iron beating upon iron; + Smoke whirling upwards, + Speechless, impotent. + + _In vain the shrill, far cry_ + _Of kittiwakes that fly_ + _Where the sea waves leap green._ + _The meadows Apriline--_ + + Noise, iron, smoke; + Iron, iron, iron. + + + + +SUNSETS + + + The white body of the evening + Is torn into scarlet, + Slashed and gouged and seared + Into crimson, + And hung ironically + With garlands of mist. + + And the wind + Blowing over London from Flanders + Has a bitter taste. + + + + +PEOPLE + + + Why should you try to crush me? + Am I so Christ-like? + + You beat against me, + Immense waves, filthy with refuse. + I am the last upright of a smashed break-water, + But you shall not crush me + Though you bury me in foaming slime + And hiss your hatred about me. + + You break over me, cover me; + I shudder at the contact; + Yet I pierce through you + And stand up, torn, dripping, shaken, + But whole and fierce. + + + + +REFLECTIONS + + +I + + Steal out with me + Over the moss and the daffodils. + + Come to the temple, + Hung with sprays from untrimmed hedges. + + I bring you a token + From the golden-haired revellers, + From the mad procession. + + Come, + Flute girls shall pipe to us-- + Their beautiful fingers!-- + They are yellow-throated birds. + They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments, + Bending above us. + + Come, + Bind your hair with white poplar, + Let your lips be sweet, + Wild roses of Paestum. + + +II + + Ghost moths hover over asphodel; + Shades, once Laïs' peers + Drift past us; + The mist is grey. + + Far over us + The white wave-crests flash in the sun; + The sea-girls lie upon hot, weedy rocks. + + Now the Maid returns to us + With fragrance of the world + And of the hours of gods. + On earth + Apple-trees, weighted with red fruit, + Streams, passing through the corn lands, + Hear laughter. + + We pluck the asphodel, + Yet we weave no crowns + For we have no vines; + No one speaks here; + No one kisses. + + + + +H. D. + + + + +SEA GODS + + +I + + They say there is no hope-- + Sand--drift--rocks--rubble of the sea-- + The broken hulk of a ship, + Hung with shreds of rope, + Pallid under the cracked pitch. + + They say there is no hope + To conjure you-- + No whip of the tongue to anger you-- + No hate of words + You must rise to refute. + + They say you are twisted by the sea, + You are cut apart + By wave-break upon wave-break, + That you are misshapen by the sharp rocks, + Broken by the rasp and after-rasp. + + That you are cut, torn, mangled, + Torn by the stress and beat, + No stronger than the strips of sand + Along your ragged beach. + + +II + + But we bring violets, + Great masses--single, sweet, + Wood-violets, stream-violets, + Violets from a wet marsh. + + Violets in clumps from hills, + Tufts with earth at the roots, + Violets tugged from rocks, + Blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets. + + Yellow violets' gold, + Burnt with a rare tint-- + Violets like red ash + Among tufts of grass. + + We bring deep-purple + Bird-foot violets. + + We bring the hyacinth-violet, + Sweet, bare, chill to the touch-- + And violets whiter than the in-rush + Of your own white surf. + + +III + + For you will come, + You will yet haunt men in ships, + You will trail across the fringe of strait + And circle the jagged rocks. + + You will trail across the rocks + And wash them with your salt, + You will curl between sand-hills-- + You will thunder along the cliff-- + Break--retreat--get fresh strength-- + Gather and pour weight upon the beach. + + You will draw back, + And the ripple on the sand-shelf + Will be witness of your track. + + O privet-white, you will paint + The lintel of wet sand with froth. + + You will bring myrrh-bark + And drift laurel-wood from hot coasts. + When you hurl high--high-- + We will answer with a shout. + + For you will come, + You will come, + You will answer our taut hearts, + You will break the lie of men's thoughts, + And cherish and shelter us. + + + + +THE SHRINE + +("_She Watches Over the Sea_") + + +I + + Are your rocks shelter for ships? + Have you sent galleys from your beach-- + Are you graded--a safe crescent, + Where the tide lifts them back to port? + Are you full and sweet, + Tempting the quiet + To depart in their trading ships? + + Nay, you are great, fierce, evil-- + You are the land-blight-- + You have tempted men, + But they perished on your cliffs. + + Your lights are but dank shoals, + Slate and pebbles and wet shells + And sea-weed fastened to the rocks. + + It was evil--evil + When they found you-- + When the quiet men looked at you. + They sought a headland, + Shaded with ledge of cliff + From the wind-blast. + + But you--you are unsheltered-- + Cut with the weight of wind. + You shudder when it strikes, + Then lift, swelled with the blast. + You sink as the tide sinks. + You shrill under the hail, and sound + Thunder when thunder sounds. + + You are useless. + When the tides swirl, + Your boulders cut and wreck + The staggering ships. + + +II + + You are useless, + O grave, O beautiful. + The landsmen tell it--I have heard + You are useless. + + And the wind sounds with this + And the sea, + Where rollers shot with blue + Cut under deeper blue. + + O but stay tender, enchanted, + Where wave-lengths cut you + Apart from all the rest. + For we have found you. + We watch the splendour of you. + We thread throat on throat of freesia + For your shelf. + + You are not forgot, + O plunder of lilies-- + Honey is not more sweet + Than the salt stretch of your beach. + + +III + + Stay--stay-- + But terror has caught us now. + We passed the men in ships. + We dared deeper than the fisher-folk, + And you strike us with terror, + O bright shaft. + + Flame passes under us, + And sparks that unknot the flesh, + Sorrow, splitting bone from bone-- + Splendour athwart our eyes, + And rifts in the splendour-- + Sparks and scattered light. + + Many warned of this. + Men said: + There are wrecks on the fore-beach. + Wind will beat your ship. + There is no shelter in that headland. + It is useless waste, that edge, + That front of rock. + Sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers-- + None venture to that spot. + + +IV + + But hail-- + As the tide slackens, + As the wind beats out, + We hail this shore. + We sing to you, + Spirit between the headlands + And the further rocks. + + Though oak-beams split, + Though boats and sea-men flounder, + And the strait grind sand with sand + And cut boulders to sand and drift-- + + Your eyes have pardoned our faults. + Your hands have touched us. + You have leaned forward a little + And the waves can never thrust us back + From the splendour of your ragged coast. + + + + +TEMPLE--THE CLIFF + + +I + + Great, bright portal, + Shelf of rock, + Rocks fitted in long ledges, + Rocks fitted to dark, to silver-granite, + To lighter rock-- + Clean cut, white against white. + + High--high--and no hill-goat + Tramples--no mountain-sheep + Has set foot on your fine grass. + You lift, you are the world-edge, + Pillar for the sky-arch. + + The world heaved-- + We are next to the sky. + Over us, sea-hawks shout, + Gulls sweep past. + The terrible breakers are silent + From this place. + + Below us, on the rock-edge, + Where earth is caught in the fissures + Of the jagged cliff, + A small tree stiffens in the gale, + It bends--but its white flowers + Are fragrant at this height. + + And under and under, + The wind booms. + It whistles, it thunders, + It growls--it presses the grass + Beneath its great feet. + + +II + + I said: + Forever and forever must I follow you + Through the stones? + I catch at you--you lurch. + You are quicker than my hand-grasp. + + I wondered at you. + I shouted--dear--mysterious--beautiful-- + White myrtle-flesh. + + I was splintered and torn. + The hill-path mounted + Swifter than my feet. + + Could a dæmon avenge this hurt, + I would cry to him--could a ghost, + I would shout--O evil, + Follow this god, + Taunt him with his evil and his vice. + + +III + + Shall I hurl myself from here, + Shall I leap and be nearer you? + Shall I drop, beloved, beloved, + Ankle against ankle? + Would you pity me, O white breast? + + If I woke, would you pity me, + Would our eyes meet? + + Have you heard, + Do you know how I climbed this rock? + My breath caught, I lurched forward-- + I stumbled in the ground-myrtle. + + Have you heard, O god seated on the cliff, + How far toward the ledges of your house, + How far I had to walk? + + +IV + + Over me the wind swirls. + I have stood on your portal + And I know-- + You are further than this, + Still further on another cliff. + + + + +MID-DAY + + + The light beats upon me. + I am startled-- + A split leaf crackles on the paved floor-- + I am anguished--defeated. + + A slight wind shakes the seed-pods. + My thoughts are spent + As the black seeds. + My thoughts tear me. + I dread their fever-- + I am scattered in its whirl. + I am scattered like + The hot shrivelled seeds. + + The shrivelled seeds + Are spilt on the path. + The grass bends with dust. + The grape slips + Under its crackled leaf: + Yet far beyond the spent seed-pods, + And the blackened stalks of mint, + The poplar is bright on the hill, + The poplar spreads out, + Deep-rooted among trees. + + O poplar, you are great + Among the hill-stones, + While I perish on the path + Among the crevices of the rocks. + + + + +JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + + + + +ARIZONA + + +THE WINDMILLS + + The windmills, like great sunflowers of steel, + Lift themselves proudly over the straggling houses; + And at their feet the deep blue-green alfalfa + Cuts the desert like the stroke of a sword. + + Yellow melon flowers + Crawl beneath the withered peach-trees; + A date-palm throws its heavy fronds of steel + Against the scoured metallic sky. + + The houses, doubled-roofed for coolness, + Cower amid the manzanita scrub. + A man with jingling spurs + Walks heavily out of a vine-bowered doorway, + Mounts his pony, rides away. + + The windmills stare at the sun. + The yellow earth cracks and blisters. + Everything is still. + + In the afternoon + The wind takes dry waves of heat and tosses them, + Mingled with dust, up and down the streets, + Against the belfry with its green bells: + + And, after sunset, when the sky + Becomes a green and orange fan, + The windmills, like great sunflowers on dried stalks, + Stare hard at the sun they cannot follow. + + Turning, turning, forever turning + In the chill night-wind that sweeps over the valley, + With the shriek and the clank of the pumps groaning beneath them, + And the choking gurgle of tepid water. + + +MEXICAN QUARTER + + By an alley lined with tumble-down shacks + And street-lamps askew, half-sputtering, + Feebly glimmering on gutters choked with filth and dogs + Scratching their mangy backs: + Half-naked children are running about, + Women puff cigarettes in black doorways, + Crickets are crying. + Men slouch sullenly + Into the shadows: + Behind a hedge of cactus, + The smell of a dead horse + Mingles with the smell of tamales frying. + + And a girl in a black lace shawl + Sits in a rickety chair by the square of an unglazed window, + And sees the explosion of the stars + Softly poised on a velvet sky. + And she is humming to herself:-- + "Stars, if I could reach you, + (You are so very clear that it seems as if I could reach you) + I would give you all to Madonna's image, + On the grey-plastered altar behind the paper flowers, + So that Juan would come back to me, + And we could live again those lazy burning hours + Forgetting the tap of my fan and my sharp words. + And I would only keep four of you, + Those two blue-white ones overhead, + To hang in my ears; + And those two orange ones yonder, + To fasten on my shoe-buckles." + + A little further along the street + A man sits stringing a brown guitar. + The smoke of his cigarette curls round his head, + And he, too, is humming, but other words: + "Think not that at your window I wait; + New love is better, the old is turned to hate. + Fate! Fate! All things pass away; + Life is forever, youth is for a day. + Love again if you may + Before the stars are blown out of the sky + And the crickets die; + Babylon and Samarkand + Are mud walls in a waste of sand." + + +RAIN IN THE DESERT + + The huge red-buttressed mesa over yonder + Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning + Its altar-fires of pinyon and of toyon for the day. + + The old priests sleep, white-shrouded, + Their pottery whistles lie beside them, the prayer-sticks closely + feathered; + On every mummied face there glows a smile. + + The sun is rolling slowly + Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents, + Coiling, uncoiling, blue-black, sparked with fires. + + The old dead priests + Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them, + Above the smell of scorching oozing pinyon, + The acrid smell of rain. + + And now the showers + Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers: + Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring, + Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light. + + +CLOUDS ACROSS THE CANYON + + Shadows of clouds + March across the canyon, + Shadows of blue hands passing + Over a curtain of flame. + + Clutching, staggering, upstriking, + Darting in blue-black fury, + To where pinnacles, green and orange, + Await. + + The winds are battling and striving to break them: + Thin lightnings spit and flicker, + The peaks seem a dance of scarlet demons + Flitting amid the shadows. + + Grey rain-curtains wave afar off, + Wisps of vapour curl and vanish. + The sun throws soft shafts of golden light + Over rose-buttressed palisades. + + Now the clouds are a lazy procession; + Blue balloons bobbing solemnly + Over black-dappled walls, + + Where rise sharp-fretted, golden-roofed cathedrals + Exultantly, and split the sky with light. + + + + +THE UNQUIET STREET + + + By day and night this street is not still: + Omnibuses with red tail-lamps, + Taxicabs with shiny eyes, + Rumble, shunning its ugliness. + It is corrugated with wheel-ruts, + It is dented and pockmarked with traffic, + It has no time for sleep. + It heaves its old scarred countenance + Skyward between the buildings + And never says a word. + + On rainy nights + It dully gleams + Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake: + And over it hang arc-lamps, + Blue-white death-lilies on black stems. + + + + +IN THE THEATRE + + + Darkness in the theatre: + Darkness and a multitude + Assembled in the darkness. + These who every day perform + The unique tragi-comedy + Of birth and death; + Now press upon each other, + Directing the irresistible weight of their thoughts to the stage. + + A great broad shaft of calcium light + Cleaves, like a stroke of a sword, the darkness: + And, at the end of it, + A tiny spot which is the red nose of a comedian + Marks the goal of the spot-light and the eyes which people the + darkness. + + + + +SHIPS IN THE HARBOUR + + + Like a flock of great blue cranes + Resting upon the water, + The ships assemble at morning, when the grey light wakes in the + east. + + Weary, no longer flying, + Over the hissing spindrift, through the ravelled clutching sea; + No longer over the tops of the waves spinning along north-eastward, + In a great irregular wedge before the trade-wind far from land. + + But drowsy, mournful, silent, + Yet under their bulged projecting bows runs the silver foam of the + sunlight, + And rebelliously they shake out their plumage of sails, wet and + heavy with the rain. + + + + +THE EMPTY HOUSE + + + Out from my window-sill I lean, + And see a straight four-storied row + Of houses. + + Once, long ago, + These had their glory: they were built + In the fair palmy days before + The Civil War when all the seas + Saw the white sails of Yankee ships + Scurrying home with spice and gold. + And many of these houses hung + Proud wisps of crêpe upon their doors + On hearing that some son had died + At Chancellorsville or Fredericksburg, + Their offering to the Union side. + + But man's forever drifting will + Again took hold of him--again + The fashionable quarter shifted: soon, + Before some plastering had dried, + Society packed up, went away. + Now, could you see these houses, + You would not think they ever had a prime: + A grim four-storied serried row + Of rooms to let--at any time + Tenants are moving in or out. + Families drifting down or struggling still + To keep their heads up and not drown. + A tragic busy pettiness + Has settled on them all, + But one. + And in that one, when I came here, + A family lived, but with its trunks packed up, + And now that family's gone. + + Its shutterless blindless windows let you look inside + And see the sunlight chequering the bare floor + With patterns from the window-frames + All day. + Its backyard neatly swept, + Contains no crammed ash-barrels and no lines + For clothes to flap about on; + It does not look by day as if it had + Ever a living soul beneath its roof. + It seems to mark a gap in the grim line, + No house at all, but an unfinished shell. + + But when the windows up and down those faces + With yellow glimmer of gas, blaze forth; + I know it is the only house that lives + In all that grim four-storied row. + The others are mere shelves, overcrowded layers, + Of warring, separate personalities; + A jangle and a tangle of emotions, + Without a single meaning running through them; + But it, the empty house, has mastered all its secrets. + Behind its silent swarthy face, + Eyelessly proud, + It watches, it is master; + It sees the other houses still incessantly learning + The lesson it remembers, + And which it can repeat the last dim syllable of. + + + + +THE SKATERS + +_To A. D. R._ + + + Black swallows swooping or gliding + In a flurry of entangled loops and curves; + The skaters skim over the frozen river. + And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the + surface, + Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver. + + + + +F. S. FLINT + + + + +EASTER + + + Friend + we will take the path that leads + down from the flagstaff by the pond + through the gorse thickets; + see, the golden spikes have thrust their points through, + and last year's bracken lies yellow-brown and trampled. + The sapling birch-groves have shown no leaf, + and the wistarias on the desolate pergola + are shorn and ashen. + We lurch on, and, stumbling, + touch each other. + You do not shrink, friend. + There you, and I here, + side by side, we go, jesting. + We do not seek, we do not avoid, contact. + + Here is the road, + with the budding elm-trees lining it, + and there the low gate in the wall; + on the other side, the people. + Are they not aliens? + You and I for a moment see them + shabby of limb and soul, + patched up to make shift. + We laugh and strengthen each other; + But the evil is done. + + Is not the whole park made for them, + and the bushes and plants and trees and grasses, + have they not grown to their standard? + The paths are worn to the gravel with their feet; + the green moss will not carpet them. + The flags of the stone steps are hollowed; + and you and I must strive to remain two + and not to merge in the multitude. + It impinges on us; it separates us; + we shrink from it; we brave through it; + we laugh; we jest; we jeer; + and we save the fragments of our souls. + + Between two clipped privet hedges now; + we will close our eyes for life's sake + to life's patches. + Here, maybe, there is quiet; + pass first under the bare branches, + beyond is a pool flanked with sedge, + and a swan among water-lilies. + But here too is a group + of men and women and children; + and the swan has forgotten its pride; + it thrusts its white neck among them, + and gobbles at nothing; + then tires of the cheat and sails off; + but its breast urges before it + a sheet of sodden newspaper + that, drifting away, + reveals beneath the immaculate white splendour + of its neck and wings + a breast black with scum. + + Friend, we are beaten. + + + + +OGRE + + + Through the open window can be seen + the poplars at the end of the garden + shaking in the wind, + a wall of green leaves so high + that the sky is shut off. + + On the white table-cloth + a rose in a vase + --centre of a sphere of odour-- + contemplates the crumbs and crusts + left from a meal: + cups, saucers, plates lie + here and there. + + And a sparrow flies by the open window, + stops for a moment, + flutters his wings rapidly, + and climbs an aerial ladder + with his claws + that work close in + to his soft, brown-grey belly. + + But behind the table is the face of a man. + + The bird flies off. + + + + +CONES + + + The blue mist of after-rain + fills all the trees; + + the sunlight gilds the tops + of the poplar spires, far off, + behind the houses. + + Here a branch sways + and there + a sparrow twitters. + + The curtain's hem, rose-embroidered, + flutters, and half reveals + a burnt-red chimney pot. + + The quiet in the room + bears patiently + a footfall on the street. + + + + +GLOOM + + + I sat there in the dark + of the room and of my mind + thinking of men's treasons and bad faith, + sinking into the pit of my own weakness + before their strength of cunning. + Out over the gardens came the sound of some one + playing five-finger exercises on the piano. + + Then + I gathered up within me all my powers + until outside of me was nothing: + I was all-- + all stubborn, fighting sadness and revulsion. + + And one came from the garden quietly, + and stood beside me. + She laid her hand on my hair; + she laid her cheek on my forehead,-- + and caressed me with it; + but all my being rose to my forehead + to fight against this outside thing. + Something in me became angry; + withstood like a wall, + and would allow no entrance; + I hated her. + + "What is the matter with you, dear?" she said. + "Nothing," I answered, + "I am thinking." + She stroked my hair and went away; + and I was still gloomy, angry, stubborn. + + Then I thought: + she has gone away; she is hurt; + she does not know + what poison has been working in me. + + Then I thought: + upstairs, her child is sleeping; + and I felt the presence + of the fields we had walked over, the roads we had followed, + the flowers we had watched together, + before it came. + + She had touched my hair, and only then did I feel it; + And I loved her once again. + + And I came away, + full of the sweet and bitter juices of life; + and I lit the lamp in my room, + and made this poem. + + + + +TERROR + + + Eyes are tired; + the lamp burns, + and in its circle of light + papers and books lie + where chance and life + have placed them. + + Silence sings all around me; + my head is bound with a band; + outside in the street a few footsteps; + a clock strikes the hour. + + I gaze, and my eyes close, + slowly: + + I doze; but the moment before sleep, + a voice calls my name + in my ear, + and the shock jolts my heart: + but when I open my eyes, + and look, first left, and then right ... + + no one is there. + + + + +CHALFONT SAINT GILES + + + The low graves are all grown over + with forget-me-not, + and a rich-green grass + links each with each. + Old family vaults, + some within railings, + stand here and there, + crumbling, moss-eaten, + with the ivy growing up them + and diagonally across + the top projecting slab. + And over the vaults + lean the great lilac bushes + with their heart-shaped leaves + and their purple and white blossom. + A wall of ivy shuts off the darkness + of the elm-wood and the larches. + + Walk quietly + along the mossy paths; + the stones of the humble dead + are hidden behind the blue mantle + of their forget-me-nots; + and before one grave so hidden + a widow kneels, with head bowed, + and the crape falling + over her shoulders. + + The bells for evening church are ringing, + and the people come gravely + and with red, sun-burnt faces + through the gates in the wall. + + Pass on; + this is the church-porch, + and within the bell-ringers, + men of the village in their Sunday clothes, + pull their bob-major + on the red and white grip + of the bell-ropes, that fly up, + and then fall snakily. + They stand there given wholly + to the rhythm and swing + of their traditional movements. + + And the people pass between them + into the church; + but we are too sad and too reverent + to enter. + + + + +WAR-TIME + + + If I go out of the door, + it will not be + to take the road to the left that leads + past the bovine quiet of houses + brooding over the cud of their daily content, + even though + the tranquillity of their gardens + is a lure that once was stronger; + even though + from privet hedge and mottled laurel + the young green peeps, + and the daffodils + and the yellow and white and purple crocuses + laugh from the smooth mould + of the garden beds + to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees. + I shall not see + the almond blossom shaming + the soot-black boughs. + + But to the right the road will lead me + to greater and greater disquiet; + into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses, + and the dust, the tattered paper-- + the detritus of a city-- + that swirls in the air behind them. + I will pass the shops where the prices + are judged day by day by the people, + and come to the place where five roads meet + with five tram-routes, + and where amid the din + of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'busses, + the clangorous tram-cars, + the news is shouted, + and soldiers gather, off-duty. + + Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever; + and I can make, + as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves, + no spring and no woman's beauty, + while that is burning. + + + + +D. H. LAWRENCE + + + + +ERINNYES + + + There has been so much noise, + Bleeding and shouting and dying, + Clamour of death. + + There are so many dead, + Many have died unconsenting, + Their ghosts are angry, unappeased. + + So many ghosts among us, + Invisible, yet strong, + Between me and thee, so many ghosts of the slain. + + They come back, over the white sea, in the mist, + Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts + Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea. + + They set foot on this land to which they have the right, + They return relentlessly, in the silence one knows their tread, + Multitudinous, endless, the ghosts coming home again. + + They watch us, they press on us, + They press their claim upon us, + They are angry with us. + + What do they want? + We are driven mad, + Madly we rush hither and thither: + Shouting, "Revenge, Revenge," + Crying, "Pour out the blood of the foe," + Seeking to appease with blood the insistent ghosts. + + Out of blood rise up new ghosts, + Grey, stern, angry, unsatisfied, + The more we slay and are slain, the more we raise up new ghosts + against us. + + Till we are mad with terror, seeing the slain + Victorious, grey, grisly ghosts in our streets, + Grey, unappeased ghosts seated in the music-halls. + The dead triumphant, and the quick cast down, + The dead, unassuaged and angry, silencing us, + Making us pale and bloodless, without resistance. + + * * * * * + + What do they want, the ghosts, what is it + They demand as they stand in menace over against us? + How shall we now appease whom we have raised up? + + Since from blood poured out rise only ghosts again, + What shall we do, what shall we give to them? + What do they want, forever there on our threshold? + + Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home, + And in the silence, reverently, welcome them, + And give them place and honour and service meet? + + For one year's space, attend on our angry dead, + Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet, + Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence, + Then lead them to the gates of the unknown, + And bid farewell, oh stately travellers, + And wait till they are lost upon our sight. + + Then we shall turn us home again to life + Knowing our dead are fitly housed in death, + Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily. + + And we shall have new peace in this our life, + New joy to give more life, new bliss to live, + Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death. + + + + +PERFIDY + + + Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door, + And I lingered on the threshold with my hand + Upraised to knock and knock once more: + Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor, + Hollow re-echoed my heart. + + The low-hung lamps stretched down the road + With shadows drifting underneath, + With a music of soft, melodious feet + Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet + The low-hung light of her eyes. + + The golden lamps down the street went out, + The last car trailed the night behind, + And I in the darkness wandered about + With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt + In the dying lamp of my love. + + Two brown ponies trotting slowly + Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink. + The dark van drummed down the distance slowly, + And city stars so high and holy + Drew nearer to look in the streets. + + A hasting car swept shameful past. + I saw her hid in the shadow, + I saw her step to the curb, and fast + Run to the silent door, where last + I had stood with my hand uplifted. + She clung to the door in her haste to enter, + Entered, and quickly cast + It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast. + + + + +AT THE WINDOW + + + The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters + Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical + laughter; + While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters. + + Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede + Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after + The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed. + + The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass + To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of + darkness + That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass. + + + + +IN TROUBLE AND SHAME + + + I look at the swaling sunset + And wish I could go also + Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar. + + I wish that I could go + Through the red doors where I could put off + My shame like shoes in the porch + My pain like garments, + And leave my flesh discarded lying + Like luggage of some departed traveller + Gone one knows not where. + + Then I would turn round + And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber, + I would laugh with joy. + + + + +BROODING GRIEF + + + A yellow leaf from the darkness + Hops like a frog before me-- + --Why should I start and stand still? + + I was watching the woman that bore me + Stretched in the brindled darkness + Of the sick-room, rigid with will + To die-- + And the quick leaf tore me + Back to this rainy swill + Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me. + + + + +AMY LOWELL + + + + +PATTERNS + + + I walk down the garden paths, + And all the daffodils + Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. + I walk down the patterned garden paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, + I too am a rare + Pattern. As I wander down + The garden paths. + + My dress is richly figured, + And the train + Makes a pink and silver stain + On the gravel, and the thrift + Of the borders. + Just a plate of current fashion, + Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. + Not a softness anywhere about me, + Only whale-bone and brocade. + And I sink on a seat in the shade + Of a lime tree. For my passion + Wars against the stiff brocade. + The daffodils and squills + Flutter in the breeze + As they please. + And I weep; + For the lime tree is in blossom + And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. + + And the plashing of waterdrops + In the marble fountain + Comes down the garden paths. + The dripping never stops. + Underneath my stiffened gown + Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, + A basin in the midst of hedges grown + So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, + But she guesses he is near, + And the sliding of the water + Seems the stroking of a dear + Hand upon her. + What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! + I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. + All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. + + I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, + And he would stumble after + Bewildered by my laughter. + I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles + on his shoes. + I would choose + To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, + A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, + Till he caught me in the shade, + And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, + Aching, melting, unafraid. + With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, + And the plopping of the waterdrops, + All about us in the open afternoon-- + I am very like to swoon + With the weight of this brocade, + For the sun sifts through the shade. + + Underneath the fallen blossom + In my bosom, + Is a letter I have hid. + It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. + "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell + Died in action Thursday sen'night." + As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, + The letters squirmed like snakes. + "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. + "No," I told him. + "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. + No, no answer." + And I walked into the garden, + Up and down the patterned paths, + In my stiff, correct brocade. + The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, + Each one. + I stood upright too, + Held rigid to the pattern + By the stiffness of my gown. + Up and down I walked, + Up and down. + + In a month he would have been my husband. + In a month, here, underneath this lime, + We would have broke the pattern. + He for me, and I for him, + He as Colonel, I as Lady, + On this shady seat. + He had a whim + That sunlight carried blessing. + And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." + Now he is dead. + + In Summer and in Winter I shall walk + Up and down + The patterned garden paths + In my stiff, brocaded gown. + The squills and daffodils + Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. + I shall go + Up and down, + In my gown. + Gorgeously arrayed, + Boned and stayed. + And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace + By each button, hook, and lace. + For the man who should loose me is dead, + Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, + In a pattern called a war. + Christ! What are patterns for? + + + + +SPRING DAY + + +BATH + +The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and +narcissus in the air. + +The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the +water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish white. It +cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright +light. + +Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, +dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a +stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the +planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the +green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day +is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too +bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the +sun spots. + +The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a +whirl of tulips and narcissus in the air. + + +BREAKFAST TABLE + +In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and +white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and +smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth +falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the +silver coffee pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they +whirl, and twirl--and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, +dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful the rolls +of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of +butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, +flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee steam rises in a +stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into +the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, +fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and +croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells +in the air. + + +WALK + +Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without +touching. + +On the sidewalk boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber +and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. +The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass +marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters +under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, +but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the +street, and a girl with a gay spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust +and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent +leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the +wind rustles among the flowers on her hat. + +A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green +and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly sprinkling clear +water over the white dust. Clear zig-zagging water which smells of +tulips and narcissus. + +The thickening branches make a pink "grisaille" against the blue sky. + +Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in +time. Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the +white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and +trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of +rose-colour and green. + +A motor car cuts a swath through the bright air, sharp-beaked, +irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and +sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is +quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air. + + +MIDDAY AND AFTERNOON + +Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The +stock-still brick façade of an old church, against which the waves of +people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. +Eddies of light in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, +gold, purple jars, darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and +tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirling of machine belts, +blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on +an electric car, and the jar of a church bell knocking against the +metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, +thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me, +reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging, +plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic +insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the +press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and +narcissus. + +The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the +shop-windows putting out their contents in a flood of flame. + + +NIGHT AND SLEEP + +The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out +along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and +blow into patterns of fire-flowers, as the sky fades. Trades scream +in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that +means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver is the +sidelong sliver of a watch-maker's sign with its length on another +street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a +tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should +she heed ours? + +I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees +and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and +clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no +flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and +narcissus. + +My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the +distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower heads with no +stems. I cannot see the beer glass, nor the letters of the +restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together +make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden +stirring and blowing for the Spring. + +The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in +the air. + +Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams +into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer +tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their +horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour +of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair ... I smell the stars ... +they are like tulips and narcissus ... I smell them in the air. + + + + +STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES, "GROTESQUES" FOR STRING QUARTET + + + This Quartet was played from the manuscript by the Flonzaley + Quartet during their season of 1915 and 1916. The poem is based + upon the programme which M. Stravinsky appended to his piece, and + is an attempt to reproduce the sound and movement of the music as + far as is possible in another medium. + + +FIRST MOVEMENT + + Thin-voiced, nasal pipes + Drawing sound out and out + Until it is a screeching thread, + Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting, + It hurts. + Whee-e-e! + Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump! + There are drums here, + Banging, + And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones + Of the market-place. + Whee-e-e! + Sabots slapping the worn, old stones, + And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones, + Clumsy and hard they are, + And uneven, + Losing half a beat + Because the stones are slippery. + Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong! + The thin Spring leaves + Shake to the banging of shoes. + Shoes beat, slap, + Shuffle, rap, + And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices, + Little pigs' voices + Weaving among the dancers, + A fine, white thread + Linking up the dancers. + Bang! Bump! Tong! + Petticoats, + Stockings, + Sabots, + Delirium flapping its thigh-bones; + Red, blue, yellow, + Drunkenness steaming in colours; + Red, yellow, blue, + Colours and flesh weaving together, + In and out, with the dance, + Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together. + Pigs' cries white and tenuous, + White and painful, + White and-- + Bump! + Tong! + + +SECOND MOVEMENT + + Pale violin music whiffs across the moon, + A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon, + Cherry petals fall and flutter, + And the white Pierrot, + Wreathed in the smoke of the violins, + Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling, + Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth + With his finger-nails. + + +THIRD MOVEMENT + + An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church, + It wheezes and coughs. + The nave is blue with incense, + Writhing, twisting, + Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests. + _Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine;_ + The priests whine their bastard Latin + And the censers swing and click. + The priests walk endlessly + Round and round, + Droning their Latin + Off the key. + The organ crashes out in a flaring chord + And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone. + _Dies illa, dies iræ,_ + _Calamitatis et miseriæ,_ + _Dies magna et amara valde._ + A wind rattles the leaded windows. + The little pear-shaped candle-flames leap and flutter. + _Dies illa, dies iræ,_ + The swaying smoke drifts over the altar. + _Calamitatis et miseriæ,_ + The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water. + _Dies magna et amara valde._ + And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them, + Stretched upon a bier. + His ears are stone to the organ, + His eyes are flint to the candles, + His body is ice to the water. + Chant, priests, + Whine, shuffle, genuflect. + He will always be as rigid as he is now + Until he crumbles away in a dust heap. + _Lacrymosa dies illa,_ + _Qua resurget ex favilla_ + _Judicandus homo reus._ + Above the grey pillars, the roof is in darkness. + + + + + THE END + + + + +BIBLIOGRAPHY + + + RICHARD ALDINGTON + _Images._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915; and The Four Seas + Company, Boston, 1916. + + JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + _Fire and Wine._ Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913. + _Fool's Gold._ Max Goschen, London, 1913. + _The Dominant City._ Max Goschen, London, 1913. + _The Book of Nature._ Constable & Co., London, 1913. + _Visions of the Evening._ Erskine McDonald, London, 1913. + _Irradiations: Sand and Spray._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, + 1915. + _Goblins and Pagodas._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1916. + + F. S. FLINT + _The Net of Stars._ Elkin Mathews, London, 1909. + _Cadences._ Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915. + + D. H. LAWRENCE + _Love Poems and Others._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913. + Prose: _The White Peacock._ William Heinemann, London, 1911. + _The Trespasser._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1912. + _Sons and Lovers._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1913. + _The Prussian Officer._ Duckworth & Co., London, 1914. + _The Rainbow._ Methuen & Co., London, 1915. + Drama: _The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd._ Mitchell Kennerley, New + York, 1914. + + AMY LOWELL + _A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass._ Houghton Mifflin Company, + Boston, 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1915. + _Sword Blades and Poppy Seed._ The Macmillan Company, New York; + and Macmillan & Co., London, 1914. + Prose: _Six French Poets._ The Macmillan Company, New York; and + Macmillan and Co., London, 1915. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE + + +The following printer's errors have been corrected: + + "from" corrected to "form" (page viii) + "sweeling" corrected to "swaling" (page 73) + +The following unusual spellings have been retained: + + "anarchaic" (page vii) + +Some of the poems in this anthology were also included in the +following books: + + H. D. + _Sea Garden._ Constable & Co., London, 1916. + + JOHN GOULD FLETCHER + _Breakers and Granite._ The Macmillan Company, New York, 1921. + + AMY LOWELL + _Men, Women and Ghosts._ Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New + York, 1916. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Some Imagist Poets, 1916, by +Richard Aldington and Hilda Doolittle and John Gould Fletcher and Amy Lowell and D. H. 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