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diff --git a/old/61368-8.txt b/old/61368-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cb2790b..0000000 --- a/old/61368-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3547 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Argonaut and Juggernaut, by Osbert Sitwell - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Argonaut and Juggernaut - -Author: Osbert Sitwell - -Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61368] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - Argonaut and - Juggernaut - - BY - - OSBERT SITWELL - - - - LONDON - Chatto & Windus - 1919 - - - - -_All rights reserved_ - - - - - TO - THE MEMORY OF - ROBERT ROSS - - - - -My thanks are due to Messrs. Blackwell for permission to reprint -certain poems which first appeared in the anthology "Wheels," and to -the editors of _The Times_, the _Nation_, _Art and Letters_, the -_Cambridge Magazine_, _Everyman_, _Colour_, _New Paths_, and _Poetry -and Drama_ (New Series), for allowing me to reprint various poems which -first appeared in their columns. Several of the war verses at the end -of this volume first appeared in the _Nation_ under the signature -"Miles." - - - - - "HOW SHALL WE RISE TO GREET THE DAWN?" - - How shall we rise to greet the dawn? - Not timidly, - With a hand above our eyes, - But greet the strong light - Joyfully; - Nor will we mistake the dawn - For the mid-day. - - We must create and fashion a new God-- - A God of power, of beauty, and of strength-- - Created painfully, cruelly, - Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds. - - It is not that the money-changers - Ply their trade - Within the sacred places; - But that the old God - Has made the Stock Exchange his Temple. - We must drive him from it. - Why should we tinker with clay feet? - We will fashion - A perfect unity - Of precious metals. - - Let us tear the paper moon - From its empty dome. - Let us see the world with young eyes. - Let us harness the waves to make power, - And in so doing, - Seek not to spoil their rolling freedom, - But to endow - The soiled and straining cities - With the same splendour of strength. - - We will not be afraid, - Tho' the golden geese cackle in the Capitol, - In fear - That their eggs may be placed - In an incubator. - Continually they cackle thus-- - These venerable birds-- - Crying, "Those whom the Gods love - Die young," - Or something of that sort. - But we will see that they live - And prosper. - - Let us prune the tree of language - Of its dead fruit. - Let us melt up the clichés - Into molten metal; - Fashion weapons that will scald and flay; - Let us curb this eternal humour - And become witty. - - Let us dig up the dragon's teeth - From this fertile soil; - Swiftly, - Before they fructify; - Let us give them as medicine - To the writhing monster itself. - - We must create and fashion a new God-- - A God of power, of beauty, and of strength; - Created painfully, cruelly, - Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds. - Cast down the idols of a thousand years, - Crush them to dust - Beneath the dancing rhythm of our feet. - Oh! let us dance upon the weak and cruel: - We must create and fashion a new God. - - _November_, 1918. - - - - - CONTENTS - - PREFACE POEM - - "How shall We rise to Greet the Dawn?" - - - BOOK I: THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS - - PART I - - Prelude - The Silence of God - Adventure - Dusk - Sailor-Song - The Dance - Why should a Sailor ride the Sea? - - PART II - - Cornucopia - Song - Prospect Road - - - - BOOK II: GREEN-FLY - - War Horses - Church-Parade - At the House of Mrs. Kinfoot - Green-fly - De Luxe - - - - BOOK III: PROMENADES - - Nocturne - Lament of the Mole Catcher - The Beginning - The End - Fountains - Song of the Fauns - "A Sculptor's Cruelty" - Pierrot Old - Night - From Carcassonne - Progress - Return of the Prodigal - London Squares - Tears - Clavichords - Promenades - Clown Pondi - Lausiac Theme - Metamorphosis - The Gipsy Queen - Black Mass - Pierrot at the War - Spring Hours - - - - BOOK IV: WAR POEMS - - "Therefore is the Name of it called Babel" - Twentieth-Century Harlequinade - This Generation - Sheep-Song - The Poet's Lament - Judas and the Profiteer - Rhapsode - The Modern Abraham - The Trap - The Eternal Club - Heaven - The Blind Pedlar - Hymn to Moloch - Armchair - Ragtime - Peace Celebration - The Next War - - - - - BOOK I - - THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS - - - - - _To_ EDITH - - - THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS - - PART I - - PRELUDE - - We have wandered through the dim valleys of sleep - --That lie so still and far-- - Have bathed in the lakes of silence, - Where each star - Shines brighter than its own reflection in the heavens; - Where, diving deep, - My soul has sought to catch and keep - The silver feathers of the moon - That float like down upon the waters, - In whose pale rest - We find - Forgetfulness of death - That comes so soon - --Waters that lull the mind - With some sweet breath - Of wind, of flowers, - With summer showers of rain, - Or quicken it with recreative pain. - - We have fled further from this leaden cage, - Seeking those rainbow forests, - Where the light - Thrills through you, shaking, fainting, with delight; - Where sway tall luminous trees - Wind-swept in one vast flashing harmony, - That like a wave - Splashes its seething sound - And then envelops you. - - We have strayed to other places, - Courts of fear, - That stretch like echoes through the endless dusk - Drenched with dead memories; - Like musk - They cling about you - In a heavy cloud. - Each shadow-sound we hear - Clutches the heart. - With fevered hands we tear - The terror-pulsing walls - --Fight our way out - --Out - Into other Courts - As vague and full of fear. - And we have found the proud and distant palaces of night. - - - - - THE SILENCE OF GOD - - One night upon the southern sea - In helpless calm we lay, - Waiting for day, - Waiting for day. - - As goldripe fruit fall from a tree - A comet fell; no other sight, - But in the ocean tracks of light - Trembled--then passed away, - Away. - - No sound broke on our waiting ears, - Though instinct whispered wayward fears - Of things we cannot tell-- - Of things the sea could tell. - - No wisp of wind, no watery sound - Reached us; as if high on the ground - We stayed. A sense of fever fell - Upon each mind, - Each soul and mind. - - Until our eyes, that ever sought - The cloying empty darkness, find - Another shape--or is it wrought - Of terror?--on the deep - The endless deep. - - All dark it lay. No light shone out; - And though we cried across, no shout - Came back to us. As if in sleep - The black bulk lay so still, - So still. - - No sign came back; no answering cry - Cleft the immense monotony - That swathed us like a funeral pall, - In folds of menace; almost shrill - The silence seemed, - And we so small. - - Swiftly a boat was lowered down; - The rowlocks creaked; our track shone white - Behind us like God's frown, - God's frown. - - We clambered up that great ship's height; - There was no light; there was no sound; - Nor was there any being found - Upon that ship, - That ship. - - We groped our way along. God knows - How long the rats had been alone - With dust and rust! Yet flight was shown - To have been instant, in the grip - Of some force stronger than its foes - --Its human foes. - - * * * * * - - Then sudden from the dark there thrilled - The distant dying of a song - That hung like haze upon the sea, and filled - Each soul with joy and terror strong, - With joy and terror strong. - - Upon the sombre air were spent - These notes, as from a hidden place - Where all time and all love lay pent - In lingering embrace-- - In lingering embrace. - - Deep in our hearts we felt the call; - We knew that if our fate should send - That song again, we must leave all - And follow to the end, - The end. - - - - - ADVENTURE - - Down through the torrid seas we swept, - Sails curved like bows about to shoot. - As an arrow speeds through the air - Our ship parted the clinging waters. - - Then, out of the ocean - Blossomed a distant land. - - * * * * * - - The air quivered, - Dancing above it - In a frenzy of passion. - Waves of heat trembled towards us - Across the cool lassitude of the ocean. - They rolled new odours at us, - Sounding the chords of hidden senses, - Till we were alert - With minds as sensitive and taut - As resined strings. - The sea itself - Crouched down behind us, - Urging us on, - Driving us on, - To unknown - Perilous adventures. - - * * * * * - - Ships and sea were forgotten. - We trampled - And stumbled - On, on, - Through the burning sand - To the hot shroud of the squat threatening forest, - Where, as you walked, - You tore apart - A solid sheet of air. - - Brown satyrs grimaced at us, - Swinging with long hairy arms - From crooked branch to crooked branch. - The sun - Was at its height. - Rays pierced the hot shade; - White lines of light - Shot through the shadows - To where a point of green - Shuddered with dangerous movement, - Throbbed and hummed with the whirr of insects. - Birds more bright than any streamers from the sun - Cleft the air - Like hammers; - Scintillating wings - Tossed patches of colour - Into the dark shimmering air. - Shrill calls - Whistled like knives - Hurled through the empty heat. - - Frantic chattering rose up. - Through the honeycombed darkness - Slim animals - --Their hides splashed with false sunlight-- - Quivered away - Into the hollow distance. - Or clattered past us, - Cloven hooves - Kicking at the hard, bent trunks - Of gnarled trees. - Large hairy fruits of wood - Were cast at us, - Snarlingly, - From the darkness. - Faces - --Faces peered down - From the interwoven boughs. - - Hastily we stumbled on; - Hurriedly we stumbled back, - Bewildered. - Small tracks - Tripped through the blackness - Hither and thither; - Twigs crawled from under our feet, - Hissing away - In venom - --And we were bewildered. - - Then suddenly - We felt, - Rumbling in curling patterns through the ground, - The beating of drums. - As winds bellow into caves, - As waves swirl and curl into hollows, - We heard the blowing of wooden trumpets - And of pipes. - - Soon, - Under the western canopy of the sun, - Where the fevered hills lay huddled together, - We saw great gourd-shaped palaces - Loom up like mountains. - Figures played on trumpets, - Twisted like snakes, - Or on the curved, carved horns of unknown beasts. - In the sound was mirrored - The panic seizures of the night, - --The fear of things that walk in darkness. - The drums were painted - In hot colours - That, even through the dusk, - Glowed torture and writhing torment. - Like a shower of molten lead - The din fell down upon us - From the Palaces. - - Bare yellow women - Hurried - To greet us; - Their heels swayed inward - As they walked. - They offered fruits - --Fruits that were strange to us; - Mellow they were, and with a scent - Of sun, of summer, - And of woodland nights. - We ate - --And dreams closed round. - - * * * * * - - - - - DUSK - - Night like a hawk - Swooped down - On to the phoenix bird, - --Tore out its flaming feathers. - Solitary plumes - Flared down into the darkness, - Floating above the distant sea. - Stillness and heat clung together; - And the hawk - Spread out her wings. - - Gigantic pinions - Flutter the air above, - Fanning our faces - And - We sing..... - - - - - SAILOR-SONG - - On swinging seas our ship has flown - --In sun and shadow lands alit. - We saw the sack of Carthage Town - (And Dido building it). - - Cassandra, direful prophetess, - We heard foretell the fate of Troy, - And through its streets helped wheel and press - That wooden, painted toy. - - We've seen events aboard this hulk - Of grave import and mystery - --The serpent's writhing horrid bulk - Go seething through the sea. - - Then once we left Atlantis Town. - Behind us like a lily flower - It blossomed; but then down, far down, - Sank every vane and tower. - - Now you can hear the clanging beat - Of bells beneath the furious foam. - In coral palaces the great - Sea monsters make their home. - - Their corridors with pearl are pav'd; - Float down them in an endless flight - Fierce finny beasts. The walls are laved - In irridescent light. - - We brought gifts--myrrh and frankincense-- - From Khubla to the Great Moghul; - Espied the Juggernaut immense - Pound over flesh and skull; - - Saw desert-men atone for ills - With frenzied hands, with wounds that gape, - --The hermits hidden in the hills - --The Herod in his Tyrian Cape. - - From out our ship, held fast by gale, - We watched Andromeda's release; - Beheld the galleon in full sail - That flew the Golden Fleece. - - Icarus, proud of his new power, - We saw stretch out his wings to fly. - We heard in that tremendous hour - The cry from Calvary. - - Thus many things we understand - That puzzle landsmen: we can tell - Of perils in each time and land; - But outside Heaven or Hell - - No fruit so strange we tasted save - But one; none cast so strange a spell - Except the fruit the first Eve gave - To the first man who fell. - - - - - THE DANCE - - The song ends. - The rocking earth - Plunges madly - --Lunges like a man - About to fight. - Trees roll beckoning branches at us, - Branches that swing and sway. - From the forest - The animals - Howl - Like laughter. - With their burning scimiters - Flames slice the night. - - Monotony, - A life preserved in ocean salt, - Scales off our limbs. - Within our veins - The liquor of this fruit-of-fire - Mounts in splendour inexhaustible. - The world itself - Dances - To make us dance - In cosmic frenzy. - - - - - WHY SHOULD A SAILOR RIDE THE SEA? - - Why should a sailor ride the sea, - When he can drink and dance and sing, - Or watch the stars out-blossoming - Upon the tree of night? - - Why should he face the tear-salt waves, - When he can sing, or feast on fruit, - Dance to the silver-sobbing lute, - And all men seem his slaves? - - No more to ship or sea we'll go, - To watch the land sink out of sight - Suffused by purple fumes of night, - Each heart weighed down with woe. - - But under rustling fretted lace - Of leaves, we'll dance and stamp our feet - In frenzy, to the furious beat, - --The rhythm of all space. - - Or watch each dappled fawn and elf - Spring from the green lairs where they hide; - Now every soul is multiplied - And communes with itself. - - The softly sailing moon is now - A pendulum, hung in a vast - Blue bubble--so to mark our fast - Lithe movements to and fro. - - Down from the sky the willing stars - Fall round each brow a crown to form; - Till feet and limbs, a rushing storm, - Dance whirling on in ecstasy. - - - The earth dances; - The earth dances; - Trees charge at us - Like horsemen; - Forests swoop - Down the hill, - Charging at us, - But we are brave, - Full of a fiery courage, - And go onward - Onward, - Through the galloping trees. - We shout - Glowing phrases - --Snatches of ineffable wit. - - The frenzy in our feet - Must surely set the world afire. - Yet still the stars - Rain down their golden tremors of delight, - And the moon - Sweeps like a bird - Through the arch of space. - - We, too, - Float downward - Gently - To soft shipwreck. - We, too, - Are of the kindred of the Pleiades; - Reel on our golden path - Down, - Down, - Through the curved emptiness of the heavens. - - - - - PART II - - - - CORNUCOPIA - - Now music fills the night with moving shades; - Its velvet darkness, veined like a grape, - Obscures and falls round many a subtle shape - --Figures that steal through cool tall colonnades, - Vast minotaurian corridors of sleep; - Rhythmic they pass us, splashed by red cascades - Of wine, fierce-flashing fountains whose proud waves - Shimmer awhile; plunge foaming over steep - Age-polished rocks, into the dim cold caves - Of starlit dusk below--then merge with night, - Softly as children sinking into sleep. - - But now more figures sway into our sight; - Strong and bare-shouldered, pressed and laden down, - Stagger across the terraces. They bear - Great Cornucopia of summer fruit - And heavy roses scented with the noon - --Piled up with fruit and blossoms, all full blown, - Crimson, or golden as the harvest moon-- - Piled up and overflowing in a flood - Of riches; brilliant-plumaged birds, that sing - As the faint playing on a far sweet lute, - Warble their tales of conquest and of love; - Perch on each shoulder; sweep each rainbow wing - Like light'ning through the breathless dark above. - Heaped up in vases gems shine hard and bright; - Sudden they flare out--gleaming red like blood-- - For now the darkness turns to swelling light, - Great torches gild each shadow, tear the sky, - As drums tear through the silence of the night; - Breaking its crystal quiet--making us cry - Or catch our sobbing breath in sudden fear. - A shadow stumbles, and the jewels shower - On to the pavers with a sharp sweet sound. - They mingle with the fountain drops that flower - Up in a scarlet bloom above the ground, - A beauteous changing blossom; then they rain - On to the broad mysterious terraces, - Where sea-gods rise to watch in cold disdain - Before those vast vermillion palaces, - --Watch where the slumbering coral gods of noon, - Drunk with the sudden golden light and flare - Of flaming torches, try to pluck and tear - That wan enchanted lotus flower, the moon, - Down from its calm still waters; thus they fall, - Like flowing plumes, the fountains of our festival. - - Slowly the torches die. They echo long, - These last notes of a Bacchanalian song, - Of drifting drowsy beauty, born of sleep, - --Vast as the sea, as changing and as deep. - In thanksgiving for shelt'ring summer skies - Still, far away, a fervent red light glows. - Small winds brush past against our lips and eyes, - Caress them like a laughing summer rose, - And rainbow moths flit by, in circling flight. - A harp sobs out its crystal syruppings; - Faintly it sounds, as the poor petal-wings, - Fragile yet radiant, of a butterfly - Beating against the barriers of night. - - Then from the Ocean came the Syren song, - Heavy with perfume, yet faint as a sigh, - Kissing our minds, and changing right from wrong; - Chaining our limbs; making our bodies seem - Inert and spellbound, dead as in a dream. - - * * * * * - - Bound by the silver fetters of your voice - To this new slavery of dreams, - We, listening, rejoice. - The magic strains - Swell in this darkness star-devoid. - The music streams - Upon the world in patterns passionate yet clear, - And stains - Each soul. The mind, decoyed - By thoughts that grind and tear - Away old values, - Is sent down other thoughts - So subtly swift, - That in their fleeting passage - They can cut adrift our souls - Upon a sea of wonder and of fear. - Within the arid minds of men - This music sounds but once, for then - They hear no other song. - In it, tumultuous rush of wings, - The glamour of old lovely things - In deserts buried long, - The grace of beasts that bound and leap - With movements blithe and strong - --Of those that creep - Away in hissing-reptile rage-- - All these, all these are found. - They hear - The secrets, solved, of each dead age, - Each mystery is clear. - For in this music's flow, the din - Of spheres that tear and speed and spin - Through pulsing space is heard, - And all things men have loved and feared - Are mirror'd in each sound. - - - - - SONG - - Our hidden voices, wreathed with love's soft flowers, - Wind-toss'd thro' valleys, tremble across seas - To turbann'd cities; touch tall lonely towers, - Call to you thro' the sky, the wind, the trees. - - Misted and golden as the hanging moon, - That like a summer fruit floats from the sky, - Thrills out our distant age-enchanted tune, - --Nor will it let you pass our beauty by. - But if it should not reach to stir your mind, - Then hold a summer rose against the ear, - Till through its crimson sweetness you can hear - The falling flow of rhythm--so designed - That from this secret island, like a star - Shining above a shrouded world, our song - Cleaves through the darkest night and echoes long, - Bidding you follow whether near or far. - Come hither where the mermaids churn the foam, - Lashing their tails across the calm, or dive - To groves and gardens of bright flowers; then roam - Beneath the shade of stone-branched trees, or drive - Some slow sea-monster to its musselled home. - Here, as a ladder, they climb up and down - The rainbow's steep refracted steps of light, - Till, when the dusk sends down its rippling frown, - They quiver back to us in silver flight. - The moon sails down once more; our mermaids bring - Rich gifts of ocean fruit. Again we sing. - Enchantment, love, vague fear, and memories - That cling about us like the fumes of wine - With myriad love-enhancing mysteries - We pour out in one song--intense--divine, - Down the deep moonlit chasms of the waves - Our song floats on the opiate breeze. Why seek - To goad your carven galleys, fast-bound slaves - Who search each sweeping line of bay and creek, - Only to stagger on a hidden rock, or find - The limp dead sails swept off by sudden wind? - Thus always you must search the cruel sea, - For if you find us mankind shall be free! - - But when you sleep we grasp you by the hand, - And to the trickling honey of the flute - We lead you to a distant shimmering land - Where lotus-eaters munch their golden fruit, - Then fall upon the fields of summer flowers - In drunken sunlit slumber, while a fawn - Prances and dances round them. - Oh, those hours - When through the crystal valleys of the dawn - Down from the haunted forests of the night - There dash the dew-drenched centaurs on their way, - Mad with the sudden rush of golden light - --Affright the lotus-eaters, as they sway - Towards the woodlands in a stumbling flight. - In these deep groves we follow through the cool - Shadow of high columnar trees, to find - The fallen sky within a forest pool - That's faintly veiled and fretted by a wind, - Lest our white flashing limbs should turn you blind. - - * * * * * - - As the sweet sound of bells that fall and fade - In watery circles on the verge of night, - So rounded ripples spread beneath the shade - Of flowing branches dripping with green light. - - Thus do we wander; but when day is spent - We grope our way thro' vast tall palaces, - Palaces sinister and somnolent, - Where lurk dim fears and unknown menaces. - - These high pale walls and this pale shining floor - Seem built of bones, by ages planed and ground - To a white smoothness. - On this rock-bound shore - The bodies of dead sailors oft are found. - - These sombre arches pierce the sullen sky. - - These pillars are the pillars of the night. - - Of what avail your strife and agony? - Why seek to search and struggle for the light? - Our music chains you: binds your limbs from flight. - - - - - PROSPECT ROAD - - Gigantic houses, tattered by all time, - Raise their immense and ruined bulk and height - In one unending universal street, - Against a strange and sunken yellow sky - --Like sunset trickling through into the sea, - Down to the depths--yellow and grey and green. - Blind windows face the interminable road; - Innumerable those windows seem to stretch - All smeared and stained and stamped with time and blood, - --Stains that seem faces--horrid twitching masks - Moving their lewd derisive lips and tongues, - Spitting out treacheries with vampire lips-- - Or eyes that gaze from far blank-stretching walls - --The tortured eyes of those who see their death - Approaching ĉon-by-ĉon along this road. - Behind the walls sound voices whispering - Of dire and hidden, carefully hidden, thoughts-- - Cruel, wicked and unfathomable things - That lie behind this infamy of stone. - Then clamour, shrieking voices, or a pause - That falls like lead through the suspended air; - Broken by laughter--rending piercing sounds - That seem to tear the fabric of our minds. - Slinking along these wicked, stricken walls, - I reached a shining distant point of light. - And glory came--vast and unending light, - Rays--flashing, writhing rays of light. - And then the music sounded. Ah, that sound! - - Cadences rose and fell unendingly-- - Quivering, shining waves of sound and sight-- - Sounds of the universe--the cries of space - And planets tumbling wildly round our world - --Showing the meaning of the meaningless. - "God and eternity"--strange flashing sounds - The whirl of time, "Melchisedec"--"Glory of God" - And space--the universe--like framing words-- - "Gog and Magog"--"Infinity"--the rush of waters - And the sky comes down. - Down with the splintering stars. - - 1916-1919. - - - - - BOOK II - - GREEN FLY - - - - - WAR-HORSES - - How they come out - --These Septuagenarian Butterflies-- - After resting - For four years! - - Surely they are more spirited - Than ever? - Their enamelled wings - Are rusty with waiting - --Their eyelids - Sag a little - Like those of a bloodhound; - But they swim gaily into the limelight. - - Oh, these war-horses! - They have seen it through. - Theirs has been a splendid part! - The waiting--the weariness! - For the Queens of Sheba - Are used to courts and feasting; - But for four years - Platitudes have remained - Uncoined, - For there have been few parties - And only - Three stout meals - A day. - - But now - They have come out. - They have preened - And dried themselves - After their blood-bath. - Old men seem a little younger, - And tortoise-shell combs - Are longer than ever; - Earrings weigh down aged ears; - And Golconda has given them of its best. - - They have seen it through! - Theirs is the triumph, - And, beneath - The carved smile of the Mona Lisa - False teeth, - Rattle - Like machine guns, - In anticipation - Of food and platitudes. - Les Veilles Dames Sans Merci! - - - - - CHURCH-PARADE - - The flattened sea is harsh and blue-- - Lies stiff beneath--one tone, one hue, - While concertina waves unfold - The painted shimmering sands of gold. - - Each bird that whirls and wheels on high - Must strangle, stifle in, its cry, - - For nothing that's of Nature born - Should seem so on the Sabbath morn. - - The terrace glitters hard and white, - Bedaubed and flecked with points of light - - That flicker at the passers-by-- - Reproachful as a curate's eye. - - And china flowers, in steel-bound beds, - Flare out in blues and flaming reds; - - Each blossom, rich and opulent, - Stands like a soldier; and its scent - - Is turned to camphor in the air. - No breath of wind would ever dare - - To make the trees' plump branches sway, - Whose thick green leaves hang down to pray. - - The stiff, tall churches vomit out - Their rustling masses of devout, - - Tall churches whose stained Gothic night - Refuses to receive the light! - - Watch how the stately walk along - Toward the terrace, join the throng - - That paces carefully up and down - Above a cut-out cardboard town! - - With prayer-book rigid in each hand, - They look below at sea and sand. - - The round contentment in their eyes - Betrays their favourite fond surmise, - - That all successful at a trade - Shall tread an eternal Church-Parade, - - And every soul that's sleek and fat - Shall gain a heavenly top-hat. - - From out the Church's Gothic night, - Past beds of blossoms china-bright, - Beneath the green trees' porous shade, - We watch the sea-side Church-Parade. - - - - - AT THE HOUSE OF MRS. KINFOOT - - At the house of Mrs. Kinfoot - Are collected - Men and women - Of all ages. - They are supposed - To sing, paint, or to play the piano. - In the drawing-room - The fireplace is set - With green tiles - Of an acanthus pattern. - The black curls of Mrs. Kinfoot - Are symmetrical. - --Descended, it is said, - From the Kings of Ethiopia-- - But the British bourgeoisie has triumphed. - Mr. Kinfoot is bald - And talks - In front of the fireplace - With his head on one side, - And his right hand - In his pocket. - The joy of catching tame elephants, - And finding them to be white ones, - Still gleams from the jungle-eyes - Of Mrs. Kinfoot, - But her mind is no jungle - Of Ethiopia, - But a sound British meadow. - - Listen then to the gospel of Mrs. Kinfoot: - "The world was made for the British bourgeoisie, - They are its Swiss Family Robinson; - The world is not what it was. - We cannot understand all this unrest! - - Adam and Eve were born to evening dress - In the southern confines - Of Belgravia. - Eve was very artistic, and all that, - And felt the fall - Quite dreadfully. - Cain was such a man of the world - And belonged to every club in London; - His father simply adored him, - --But had never really liked Abel, - Who was rather a milk-sop. - Nothing exists which the British bourgeoisie - Does not understand; - Therefore there is no death - --And, of course, no life. - - The British bourgeoisie - Is not born, - And does not die, - But, if it is ill, - It has a frightened look in its eyes. - - The War was splendid, wasn't it? - Oh yes, splendid, splendid." - - Mrs. Kinfoot is a dear, - And so artistic. - - - - - GREEN-FLY - - I. - - Like ninepins houses stand up square - In lines; their windows mouths to bite - At servants, who lean out to stare - At anything that moves in sight. - - Where once was green-limbed tree or ledge - Of greener moss or flowery lane, - Set back behind a private hedge - Each house repeats itself again. - - Each house repeats itself again, - But smaller still and yet more dry; - For--just as those who live within-- - So have these houses progeny. - - Throughout each dusty endless year, - Whose days seem merely wet or fine, - These children constantly appear - In an unending dusty line. - - As, on a rose that is ill-grown - Nature, insulted and defied, - Showers down a blight, so sends she down - On houses, those who live inside. - - - II. - - Within each high, well-papered room, - Compressed, all darkness lay, - Darkness of night, and crypt, and tomb, - Nor ever entered day. - - But through the endless black there crept, - With groping hand and groping thought, - With eyes that blinked, but never wept, - And minds that fell, but never fought, - - The wonderless, the hard, the nice, - Who scurry at a ray of light, - Then, like a flock of frightened mice, - Career back into night. - - From out this damning dreadful dark - (While history, thundering, rolls by) - They wait for an anĉmic lark - To sing from weak blue sky. - - Or if a dog is hurt, why then - They see the evil, and they cry. - But yet they watch ten million men - Go out to end in agony! - - Their own strange God they have set up, - Of clay, of iron, and mothéd hide; - Whose eyes, each convex as a cup, - Reflect the herd endeified. - - Their twisted feet in boots He made - To walk the narrow asphalt way, - And gave each room a curtain's shade - To muffle out the light of day. - - For this God understands their need; - Created lids for each pale eye; - He sculped each mouth to say "Agreed," - And gives them coffins if they die. - - When, if for punishment they go - To other lands, why, it should be - The judgment that, down there below, - They see this world as they might see! - - A world of contrast, shade and light-- - Clashing romance and cruelty, - But stricken with the dreadful blight - Of fear to feel and fear to cry. - - Where for a moment lives are filled - With love or hate--where born of pain - The children grow up--to be killed! - Where freedom--dead--is born again. - - Wherein life's pattern crude and shrill - Is weft by neither foe nor friend, - But by some rough colossal will - Towards some vast invisible end. - - But in those houses dark there creep, - With bodies wrapt in woollen dress, - With eyes that blink but never weep, - The sentimental wonderless! - - - - - DE LUXE - - I. - - HYMN. - - Above from plaster-mountains, - Wine-shadowed by the sea, - Spurt white-wool clouds, as fountains - Whirl from a rockery. - - These clouds were surely given - To keep the hills from harm, - For when a cloud is riven - The fatted rain falls warm. - - Through porous leaves the sun drops - Each dripping stalactite - Of green. The chiselled tree-tops - Seem cut from malachite. - - Stiff leaves with ragged edges - (Each one a wooden sword) - Are carved to prickly hedges, - On which, with one accord, - - Their clock-work songs of calf-love - Stout birds stop to recite, - From cages which the sun wove - Of shade and latticed light. - - Each brittle booth and joy-store - Shines brightly. Below these - The ocean at a toy shore - Yaps like a Pekinese. - - - II. - - NURSERY RHYME. - - The dusky king of Malabar - Is chief of Eastern Potentates; - Yet he wears no clothes except - The jewels that decency dictates. - - A thousand Malabaric wives - Roam beneath green-tufted palms; - Revel in the vileness - That Bishop Heber psalms. - - From honey-combs of light and shade - They stop to watch black bodies dart - Into the sea to search for pearls. - By means of diabolic art - - Magicians keep the sharks away; - Mutter, utter, each dark spell, - So that if a thief should steal, - One more black would go to Hell. - - But Mrs. Freudenthal, in furs, - From brioche dreams to mild surprise - Awakes; the music throbs and purrs. - The cellist, with albino eyes, - - Rivets attention; is, in fact, - The very climax; pink eyes flash - Whenever nervous and pain-racked - He hears the drums and cymbols clash. - - Mrs. Freudenthal day-dreams - --Ice-spoon half-way to her nose-- - Till the girl in ochre screams, - Hits out at the girl in rose. - - This is not at all the way - To act in large and smart hotels; - Angrily the couples sway, - Eagerly the riot swells. - - Girls who cannot act with grace - Should learn behaviour; stay at home; - A convent is the proper place. - Why not join the Church of Rome? - - A waiter nearly drops the tray - --Twenty tea-cups in one hand. - Now the band joins in the fray, - Fighting for the Promised Land. - - Mrs. Freudenthal resents - The scene; and slowly rustles out, - But the orchestra relents, - Waking from its fever bout. - - - - - BOOK III - - PROMENADES - - - - - NOCTURNE - - The valleys that were known in sunlit hours - Are vast and vague as seas; - Wan as the blackthorn flowers - That quiver in the first spring-scented breeze: - Far as the frosted hollows of the moon. - The sighing woods are still-- - Wrapp'd in their age-long boon - Of mystery and sleep. A naked hill, - Loud and discordant, looms against the sky, - And little lights like stars - Break the monotony - Of blue and silver, black and grey. Strange bars - Of light resemble silver masks, and leer - Across the forest lane. - Tall nettles, rank from rain, - Scent all the woods with some ancestral fear. - - Trees rustle by the water. A voice sings - Faintly, to ward off fright. - - The water breathes pale rings - Of sad, wan light; - Faintly they grow, - Then merge into the night: - The last poor twisted echo takes to flight. - - - - - _To_ W. H. DAVIES. - - - THE LAMENT OF THE MOLE-CATCHER - - An old, sad man who catches moles - Went lonely down the lane-- - All lily-green were the lanes and knolls, - But sorrow numbed his brain. - He paid no heed to flower or weed - As he went his lonely way. - No note he heard from any bird - That sang, that sad spring day. - - "I trap'd the moles for forty years - Who could not see the sky, - I reckoned not blind blood or tears, - And the Lord has seen them die. - For forty years I've sought to slay - The small, the dumb, the blind, - But now the Lord has made me pay, - And I am like their kind. - I cannot see or lane or hill, - Or flower or bird or moon; - Lest life shall lay me lower still, - O Lord--come take it soon." - - - - - THE BEGINNING - - Great spheres of fire, to which the sun is nought, - Pass thund'ring round our world. A golden mist-- - The margin to the universe--falls round - The verges of our vision. Rocks ablaze - Leap upward to the sun, or fall beneath - The rush of our rapidity, that seems - Catastrophy, and not the joyous birth - Of yet another star. The air is full - Of clashing colour, full of sights and sounds - Too plain and loud for men to heed or hear, - The cosmic cries of pain that follow birth: - A multi-coloured world. - The scorching heat - Surpasses all the equatorial days: - Steam rises from the surface of the sea. - Gigantic rainbow mists resemble forms - That bring to mind strange elemental sprites - Exulting in the chaos of creation. - They glide above the tumult-ridden sea - Which now is shaken as are autumn leaves; - Great hollows open and reveal its depths-- - Devoid of any form of life or death. - Till wave on wave it gathers strength again - And shakes a mountain, splits it to the base - (Still weak from struggle as a new-born babe). - Then night comes on, and shows the flaming path - Of all the rocks that vainly seek the sun. - Broad as the arch of space, a myriad moons - Sail slowly by the sea; the glowing world - Shows up the pallor of their ivory. - The din grows greater from the universe: - There rises up the smell of fire and iron,-- - Not dreary like the smell of burnt-out things, - But like the smell of some gigantic forge-- - Cheerful, of good intent, and full of life. - - Now all the joyous cries of sea and earth, - The universal harmonies of birth, - Rise up to haunt the slumber of their God. - - - - - THE END - - Round the great ruins crawl those things of slime - Green ruins lichenous and scarred by moss-- - An evil lichen that proclaims world doom, - Like blood dried brown upon a dead man's face. - And nothing moves save those monstrosities, - Armoured and grey, and of a monster size. - - But now, a thing passed through the cloying air - With flap and clatter of its scaly wings-- - As if the whole world echoed from some storm. - One scarce could see it in the dim green light - Till suddenly it swooped and made a dart - And brushed away one of those things of slime, - Just as a hawk might sweep upon its prey. - - It seems as if the light grows dimmer yet-- - No radiance from the dreadful green above, - Only a lustrous light or iridescence - As if from off a carrion-fly,--surrounds - That vegetation which is never touched - By any breeze. The air is thick, and brings - The tainted subtle sweetness of decay. - Where, yonder, lies the noisome river-course, - There shows a faintly phosphorescent glow. - - Long writhing bodies fall and twist and rise, - And one can hear them playing in the mud. - Upon the ruined walls there gleam and shine - The track of those grey vast monstrosities-- - As some gigantic snail had crawled along. - - All round the shining bushes waver lines - Suggesting shadows, slight and grey, but full - Of that which makes one nigh to dead with fear. - - Watch how those awful shadows culminate - And dance in one long wish to hurt the world. - - A world that now is past all agony! - - - - - FOUNTAINS - - "The graven fountain-masks suffer and weep. - Carved with a smile, the poor mouths clutch - At a half-remembered song, - Striving to forget the agony of ever laughing." - SACHEVERELL SITWELL. - - - Some fountains sing of love - In full and flute-like notes that charge the night - With all the red-mouthed essence of the rose; - Then turn to voices murmuring above, - Among the trees, - Of hidden sweet delight. - - Another fountain flows - With the faint music of a first spring breeze; - Each falling drop is jewelled by the moon - To some fine luminous ecstasy of light. - It sings of noon, - Of sunlit blossoms on a first spring day - And all things sweet and pleasant to the sight. - - Another fountain sings - Of the cool pleasures of those moonlit hours - When dappled sylvan things - Trample through thickets and through secret bowers - To prance and play, - Or, squatting round in rings, - To wreathe their horned heads with wan sweet flowers - Till dawn comes grey and sweeps them to the wood. - - Another fountain sobs - Its song of passions that have passed away. - Then with a sound like threatening rolling drums, it throbs - And bursts into a flood - Of fierce wild music; and its savage spray - Becomes the blood - Renewed, of crimes long past. - - Another fountain sings its song of fear, - Of rustics flying fast - Before some foe-- - A deadly, unknown foe that comes so near - They feel his panting breath, - And run for many a lengthy, panic mile. - - Those graven fountain-masks are white with woe! - Carved with a happy smile - They strive to weep... - End their eternal laughing--for awhile - To lose themselves in sleep - Or in the silver peacefulness of death. - - - - - SONG OF THE FAUNS - - When the woods are white beneath the moon - And grass is wet with crystal dew, - When in the pool - So clear and cool - The moon reflects itself anew, - We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon, - We shake away - The sleep of day, - Out from our bosky homes we spring; - Horns wreathed with flowers, - Throughout the hours - Of moonlight, worshipping we sing. - Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan light - Looks down upon us worshipping-- - Each dappled faun - Who shuns the dawn, - Is here, and rarest gifts we bring-- - The feathers of the birds of night - Wrought to a crown - Of softest down - We offer you, and crystal bright, - The dew within a lily cup - Reflecting stars - In shining bars; - All things most strange we offer up-- - Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowers - To place within your secret bowers. - We shake down apples from the trees, - And pears, and plums with velvet skin; - Up to the sky - We cast these high - And pray you'll stoop to net them in. - We dance: then fall upon our knees - And pray and sing--all this to show - The love that all loyal fauns must owe - To you, white goddess of the night. - But no more play, - We must away, - The eastern sky is growing bright. - - - - - "A SCULPTOR'S CRUELTY" - - The faun runs through the forest of the noon, - Then leaps into some lovely shrouded glade - Splashed with hot light. He dances in the shade - Of tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoon - Beneath their weight of green. No breath of air - Ruffles the vivid blossom or the moss - On which he pirouettes, all is so fair! - - He leaps about; then, tired and at a loss - For what to do, he roams the wood--espies - A figure like himself--but stiff and grey! - Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighs - That are his pride. "But surely this can play - And scamper, dance and snuffle through the day - As well as me?" So he comes near and eyes - The lichened features of a faun of stone. - - Oh! it is sad to be so young--alone! - - - - - PIERROT OLD - - The harvest moon is at its height, - The evening primrose greets its light - With grace and joy: then opens up - The mimic moon within its cup. - Tall trees, as high as Babel tower, - Throw down their shadows to the flower-- - Shadows that shiver--seem to see - An ending to infinity. - - The Pagan Pan has now unbent - And stoops to sniff the night-stock scent - That brings a memory sad and old, - When he was young, and free, and bold, - To play his pipe in forests black, - Or follow in some goatherd's track - Who, fill'd with panic fear, then flees - Through all the terror-threatening trees. - - Huge silver moths, like ghosts of flowers, - Hover about the warm dark bowers, - And wait to breathe the lime-tree scent - That perfum'd many a compliment - Address'd to beauties young and gay, - Their faces powdered by the ray - Of that same moon that looks upon - Their dreary lichen-cover'd tomb. - The dryads throw their water wide - And strive to stem the surging tide - That dashes up the fountain base, - Hoping to catch the moon's pale face-- - A game now played without a score - For three good centuries or more. - And all the earth smells warm and sweet - --A fitting place for fairy feet. - - But now a figure white and frail - Leaps out into the moonlight pale. - From wakeful thoughts, old age and grief, - He finds in this strange world relief. - Yet all the shadow, scent and sound, - Poor Pierrot's mind do sad confound. - Watch how he dances to the moon - While singing some faint fragrant tune! - - But Pierrot now is tired and sad - --Remembers all the evenings mad - He spent with that fantastic band - So gaily wand'ring o'er the land. - They all are dead--and at an end, - And he is left without a friend. - For tho' the hours can pass away, - Poor Pierrot still must grieve and stay. - - Upon the dewy grass he lies: - The perfumes stir strange memories. - Once more he hears a laughing cry - That brings great tear-drops to his eye. - That step--that look--that voice--that smile. - Ah! they've been buried a long while! - And who's the man in pantaloons, - And he who sings such festive tunes? - Why, it's that laughing man of sin, - That roguish rascal Harlequin! - - Forgiving Pierrot hides his head - Deep in the grass and mourns the dead; - Forgetting all the pranks they play'd, - And how he was himself betray'd. - - The butterfly lives but one day, - But Pierrot still seems doom'd to stay. - - He falls asleep there, tragic-white, - And wakes to find the bleak daylight. - - - - - NIGHT - - All the dim terrors dwelling far below, - Interr'd by many thousand years of life, - Arise to revel in this evil dark: - The wail forlorn of dogs that mourn for men-- - A shuffling footfall on a creaking board, - The handle of a door that shakes and turns-- - A door that opens slightly, not enough: - The rustling sigh of silk along a floor, - The knowledge of being watched by one long dead, - By something that is outside Nature's pale. - The unheard sounds that haunt an ancient house: - The feel of one who listens in the dark, - Listens to that which happened long ago, - Or what will happen after we are dust. - The awful waiting for a near event, - Or for a crash to rend the silence deep - Enveloping a house that always waits-- - A house that whispers to itself and weeps. - The murmur of the yew, or woodland cries, - A sombre note of music on the breeze; - A shudder from the ivy that entwines - The horror that is felt within its grip. - The sound of prowling things that walk abroad, - The nauseous flapping of Night's bat-like wings-- - These are the signs the gods have given us - To know the limit of our days and powers. - - - - - _To_ MARGARET GREVILLE - - - FROM CARCASSONNE - - I - - Now night, - The sighing night, - Descends to hide and heal - The crimson wounds - Ripped in the sky, - Where the high helmet-towers - (With clouds as streaming feathers) - Have torn the Heavens - In their incessant sunset battle. - - Below, - Upon the mound, - Small golden flowers - Release their daylight slowly - At the Night's behest, - Till they become pale discs - That quiver - When the evening wind - Draws his thin fingers - Down the dew-drenched grass - --As an old harper, - Who awakes - From drunken sunlit slumber, - Blindly plucks - His silver-sounding strings, - Making the sound - That, further, darker down - The trees make, - When they draw back - Their upturned leaves - In fountain-foaming hurry. - - - II - - The curling, hump-backed dolphins, - Drunk with purple fumes - Of wine-stained sunset, - Plunge through the wider waters of the night-- - Waters that well down every narrow street - In darkening billows, - Till they become quiet, full-- - Canals that, mirror-like, - Reflect each sound - Of snarling song - In all the town. - - And as the dolphins dive - There splashes back - Upon their goat-eared riders, - Dislodged in sudden fury, - The foaming froth of summer-cooling winds - --Issuing from where the northern trees - Bellow their resined breath - Across the seas - To ripple through far fields - Of twilight flowers-- - Sweeping across - To where these old high towers - Of Carcassonne - Still stand to break their flow. - - Neptune, from his high pedestal, - Can watch the waters of the night - Rise, further, further, - And the faun-riders sink below - The conquering, cool tide. - - - - - PROGRESS - - The city's heat is like a leaden pall-- - Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air - Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare - Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall - Black houses crush the creeping beggars down, - Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool, - Of silver bodies bathing in a pool, - Or trees that whisper in some far, small town - Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold - Was merely metal, not a grave of mould - In which men bury all that's fine and fair. - When they could chase the jewelled butterfly - Through the green bracken-scented lanes, or sigh - For all the future held so rich and rare; - When, though they knew it not, their baby cries - Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies. - - - - - THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL - - I lay awake in that dim room of fear - Which seemed to hold the essence of the night, - Clutched in the grip of its tall sentient walls: - Dark walls and high, that stretch for ever up-- - Up to the darkness, vague and menacing, - As if no light could ever penetrate - That mist of shadows, only cast a gloom - More cavernous upon the atmosphere - That seems to thicken into cloudy shapes, - Substantiate--then disappear and die. - And all the room is full of whisperings; - Of moving things that hope I do not heed; - And sudden gusts of wind blow cold upon - My head, lifting the heavy mantle of the air, - Revealing for an instant some vague thought - Snatched from the haunting lumberland of dreams. - Far in the distance, from the open night, - Sounds an insistent hooting from the wood; - The owl is calling to its kindred things. - The bat emits its sinful piercing note-- - So high one cannot hear it, only feel - The rhythm beat within the shrinking ear. - A faint breeze blows in from the countryside, - Rustling the curtains with the forest's breath, - Stirring the grass of many an unknown tomb, - Some new--some immemorably old, - Whose dwellers never heard an owl at night, - Only the reptile sounds and beating wings - Of some forefather of that bird of night-- - Some flapping scaly monster with huge wings. - Then, sudden, through the rustling of the room - Silence shrills out its startling trumpet call - Of terror, and the house is frozen still. - Despair dropp'd down like rain upon my heart, - Catching my breath and clutching at my throat. - Fear magnified my senses, and my brain - Could hear beyond the threshold of this world. - Then through the threatening silence of the house, - The silent waiting for the coming play-- - There came that halting well-remembered tread, - The dreadful limp, and dragging of the feet, - That cruel sin-white face looked through the door! - And in my scream--that rent the trembling air, - Reaching the woods and tainting them with death, - Filling the fountain with strange ripplings - That make the moon's reflection but a mask - Like to that face of shame--my soul passed out-- - Out of my ashen lips, to find its end. - - - - - LONDON SQUARES - - To-night this city seems delirious. The air - Is fever'd, hot and heavy--yet each street, - Each tortuous lane and slumb'ring stone-bound square - Smells of the open woods, so wild and sweet. - Through the dim spaces, where each town-bred tree - Sweeps out, mysterious and tall and still, - The country's passionate spirit--old and free-- - Flings off the fetters of the calm and chill. - - There in the garden, fauns leap out and sing-- - Chant those strange sun-born songs from far away! - With joyous ecstasy in this new spring, - They cast the coats and top-hats of the day. - - There by the railings, where the women pace - With painted faces, passionless and dead, - Out of the dark, Pan shows his leering face, - Mocks their large hats and faces painted red. - Then as they walk away, he mocks their lives, - Racking each wearied soul with lost desires, - And--cruelty more subtle--he contrives - With aching memories of love's first fires - To tune their hearts up to a different key. - - So, when they sleep, the withered years unfold - --Again, as children round a mother's knee - They listen to their future as foretold - --A future rich and innocent and gay. - - Then wake up to the agony of day! - - - - - TEARS - - Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night, - Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh - For their past vivid vernal ecstasy. - The branches and the leaves let in the light - In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky - --Create mysterious Gothic tracery - Between those high dark pillars, that affright - Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by. - - Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain - Making each frail tired sigh a sob of pain; - Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tear - Such as are shed by Pierrots when they fear - Black clouds may crush their silver lord to death. - The world is waxen; and the wind's least breath - Would make a hurricane of sound. The earth - Smells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birth - To the gold-glowing radiance of that leaf - Which falls to bury from our sight its grief. - - - - - _To_ VIOLET GORDON-WOODHOUSE - - - CLAVICHORDS - - Its pure and dulcet tone - So clear and cool - Rings out--tho' muffled by the centuries - Passed by; - Each note - A distant sigh - From some dead lovely throat. - - A sad cascade of sound - Floods the dim room with faded memories - Of beauty that has gone - Like the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool, - Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground)-- - Like moonlit skies - Or some far song harmonious and sublime-- - Breaking the leaden slumber of the night. - A perfume, faint yet fair - As of an old press'd blossom that's reborn - Seeming to flower alone - Within the arid wilderness of Time. - - The music fills the air - Soft as the outspread fluttering wings - Of flower-bright butterflies - That dive and float - Through the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer dawn. - The rippling sound of silver strings - Break o'er our senses as small foaming waves - Break over rocks, - And into hidden caves - Of silent waters--never to be found-- - Waters as clear and glistening as gems. - - And in this ancient pool of melodies, - So soothing, deep, - We search for strange lost images and diadems - And old drowned pleasures, - --Each one shining bright - And rescued from the crystal depths of sleep. - - As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat, - Blown by a salt cool breeze, - --Laden with age-old treasures - And rich merchandise-- - Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas-- - So this last glowing note - Hovers awhile--then dies. - - - - - PROMENADES - - Long promenades against the sea - Kaleidoscopic, chattering! - Pavilions rising from the sea, - On which a fawning, flattering, - Hot crush of orientals move, - And sell their cheap and tawdry wares, - To other Jews, and aldermen, - And rich, retired, provincial mayors. - Oh! many colours in the sun; - Copper and gold predominate! - Parasols, held 'gainst the sun - Throw down their shadows incohate - On leering faces looking sly-- - All shining with the heat of June. - The shifting masses move and talk - And whistle tunes all out of tune. - - Long promenades against the sea, - And oranges and mandolines! - Pavilions rising from the sea - And penny-in-the-slot machines! - - - - - CLOWN PONDI - - When youth and strength had changed my blood to fire - And every day passed long and glorious, - Another link in the eternal chain - Of life, I turned my love of luring and my sense - For all the unfathomable ways of God, - My burning sense for laughter and my joy - In crowds, in tumult, and in blazing lights, - To make my fellows see these qualities. - Thus I became "Clown Pondi," and my fame - Grew high in every theatre in the land. - - I seem'd to draw fresh vigour from the crowds-- - Loving the sea of faces, eyes with tears, - And gaping mouths wide open--loosely hung; - The acrid, opalescent haze of smoke, - Hanging above the auditorium. - And over it the crowded galleries - That float far up, like painted prows of ships-- - All overweighted and alive with men. - I loved the limelight, hard and white and strong, - The throbbing music and the theatre's scent, - That artificial, paper, printed scent - That sweeps across the footlights to the stalls. - - Then was I pleased to strut about the stage, - With face dead white, and strangely purple nose-- - Flamboyant in the garb of foolery-- - To run about too quickly--and fall down; - To make queer noises--inarticulate - Strange sounds and oaths, the signal for my share - Of cackling laughter. - Thus the years pass'd by - And--all unheeding--swept away my youth, - Till, one sad night, I heard a voice near-by: - "Ah! Poor old man! It's shocking they should laugh; - Mock his bent legs, and poor old toothless jaws!" - - And then old-age rush'd down upon my head, - Each sombre year roll'd past in solemn time; - In true perspective--to the jingling tune - That was my exit; and so near came death, - Holding a mirror to my ridicule, - That show'd each line beneath the smearing paint, - Each wrinkle underneath the dab of rouge, - - That in my sudden hopelessness I wept. - But as I left the stage with dragging feet, - With body bent with age, and crouching low, - I heard the applauding people pause and say, - "Who but Clown Pondi could amuse us so?" - - - - - LAUSIAC THEME - - SERAPION-THE-SINDONITE - Wore a cloth about his loins. - This Christian Recondite - Never carried coins. - - Never did he ask for bread; - Revelled in his own distress. - High of spirit, low of head, - With no other dress - - Than a loin-cloth, Serapion - Was free from greed and gluttony - Progressed in the direction - Of impassivity. - - Serapion, though ascetic, - Could not keep within his cell-- - Spiritual athletic, - Who wrestled with Hell-- - - This Sindonitic holy man - Converted, overcome by pity, - Thais, the famous courtesan, - To Christianity. - - Thais was not thin or frail - But full of figure. Flesh and blood - Rose up in riot--made her rail - At a selfless God. - - From Theban windows, far above, - She plays and sings to a guitar - With low voice: the light of love - Beckons like a star. - - Eagerly she welcomed in - The unexpected Sindonite; - But he spoke to her of sin-- - Set her soul alight. - - So they went together out - To the crowded, garish street, - Where he taught her how to flout - Fumes of wine and meat. - - To the Thebaid they go-- - Where she stands each Christian test, - Plaiting palm-leaves to and fro, - Sure of heaven's rest. - - In the desert they both died, - Thais and the holy man. - They were buried side by side, - Ascetic and courtesan. - - - - - METAMORPHOSIS - - The woods that ever love the moon, rest calm and white - Beneath a mist-wrapp'd hill: - An owl, horned wizard of the night, - Flaps through the air so soft and still; - Moaning, it wings its flight - Far from the forest cool, - To find the star-entangled surface of a pool, - Where it may drink its fill - Of stars; a blossom-laden breeze - Scatters its treasures--each a fallen moon - Among the waiting trees-- - Bears back the faded shadow-scents of noon. - - The whispering wood is full of dim, vague fears. - The rustling branches sway - And listen for some sound from far away-- - A silver piping down the Pagan years - Since Time's first joyous birth-- - The listening trees all sigh, - The moment of their hornèd king is nigh. - Then, peal on peal, there sounds the fierce wild mirth - Of Pan their master, lord and king, - And round him in a moonlit ring - His court, so wan and sly! - - But then the trees closed round and hid from sight - Their deeds--the voices seemed to die. - - An owl, horned wizard of the night, - Flaps through the air so soft and still. - Moans, as it wings its flight - Toward the mist-wrapp'd hill. - - - - - THE GIPSY QUEEN - - A ragged Gipsy walked the road, - Her eyes blazed fierce and strong, - But she gazed at me as on she strode, - She fiercely gazed, and long. - - "Give me a penny, sir," she said, - "To buy me drink and buy me bread, - For I've nothing had to eat or drink, - And at night I never sleep a wink. - Cold is the snow and wet the rain, - But my soul died when my love was slain!" - - "Fair Gipsy, in some southern clime, - I've seen your face before - In some far other distant time, - But whom are you weeping for?" - - "'Twas Antony I loved," she said, - "For him, in vain, I shed these tears, - But my loved Antony is dead-- - Is dead these long two thousand years; - - Then I was mighty Egypt's pride, - Fear'd both by friend and foe-- - - Yet they believe Cleopatra died - Two thousand years ago!" - - - - - BLACK MASS - - The atmosphere is charged with hidden things - --Thoughts that are waiting--wanting to revive - Primeval terrors from their present graves - --Those half-thoughts hidden from the mind of man. - - The fear of those bright, countless stars that shine - Celestially serene on summer nights, - --And those, too far for human eye to see-- - That make men feel as small and ill at ease - As do the thoughts of immortality; - The fear of seas that stretch beyond our sight - Unspoilt by any memory of a ship-- - Strange, silent seas that lap the unknown shores - Of some far-distant, undiscovered land; - The curious fear of caves and horrid depths - Where lurk those monsters that we hide away - And bury in our self-complacency. - The dread of all that waits unseen, yet heard; - The fear of moonlight falling on a face; - The sound of sobs at night, the fear of laughter; - The misty terror lurking in a wood - Which night has wrapped in her soft robe of sighs. - - The horror that is felt where man is not, - In lonely lands all dotted with squat trees - That seem to move in the grey twilight breeze - --Or sit and watch you like malicious cripples, - Intent on every movement, every thought-- - Where stones, like evil fungi, raise their bulk - Cover'd with lichen older than the hills-- - A warning for the ages yet to come; - Stones that have seen the sun, and moon, and stars, - Deflect their course for very weariness. - These fears are gathered, press'd into a room - Vibrating with the wish to damage man; - To put a seal upon his mind and soul-- - These fears are fused into a living flame. - - The room is filled with men of evil thoughts, - And some poor timid ones, on evil bent. - They stand in anxious, ghastly expectation. - - The guttering light is low, and follows them - With subtle shadows tall beyond belief: - Vast elemental shapes that make men feel - Like dusty atoms blown by wayward winds - About the world: shadows that sway and swing. - And sigh and talk, as if themselves alive. - Small shadows cringe about the room incredibly, - Grotesque and dwarf-like in their attitudes; - Malignant, mocking things that caper round-- - Triumphant heralds of an evil reign. - - Secret and swift they flit about the wall; - Noiseless, they drag their feet about the floor, - And murmur subtle infamies of love, - Sweet-sounding threats, and bribes, and baleful thoughts. - - Yet all are waiting, evilly alert... - Yet all are waiting--watching for events. - - Silence has ceased to be a negative, - Becomes a thing of substance--fills the room - And clings like ivy to the listening walls. - The flickering light flares up--then gutters out. - The shadows seem to shiver and expand - To active, evil things that breathe and live. - - But now they whirl and dance in ecstasy. - The highest moment of their mass is near. - We only feel the swaying of the shades, - --Rhythm of wicked music that escapes - Our consciousness, tho' we have known it long-- - The music of the evil things of Night - Scarcely remembered from some dim, vast world-- - The things that haunted us when we were young - And nearer to our past realities. - Like scaly snakes, the hymn to evil writhes - Through the sub-conscious basis of our mind. - Eddies of icy breath, or hot as flame, - Twist into all the corners of the room, - Filling our veins with fire like red-hot iron, - And wicked as the Prince of Evil Things. - - Faintly his glowing presence is revealed to us - Amid the chorus of his satellites. - The consummation of our awful hopes. - - - - - PIERROT AT THE WAR - - The leaden years have dragged themselves away; - The blossoms of the world lie all dash'd down - And flattened by the hurricane of death: - The roses fallen, and their fragrant breath - Has passed beyond our senses--and we drown - Our tragic thoughts: confine them to the day. - - Pierrot was happy here two years ago, - Singing through all the summer-scented hours, - Dancing throughout the warm moon-haunted night. - Swan-like his floating sleeves, so long and white, - Sailed the blue waters of the dusk. Wan flowers, - Like moons, perfumed the crystal valley far below. - - But now these moonlit sleeves lie on the ground, - Trampled and torn from many a deadly fight. - With fingers clenched, and face a mask of stone, - He gazes at the sky--left all alone-- - Grimacing under every rising light: - His body waits the peace his soul has found. - - _April_, 1917. - - - - - SPRING HOURS - - The air is silken--soft and dark-- - Calm as the waters of some blue, far sea; - Sweet as a youthful dream, - The trees stand cold and stark, - Yet full of the new life which makes each tree - To tremble with delight; sets free - The summer rapture of the stream. - - But now the clouds disperse and drift away, - Splashing the woods with patches of pale light, - Sail off like silver ships, and then display - The dazzling myriad blossoms of the night. - - Ah! It is worth full many a sun-gilt hour - To see the heavens bursting into flower. - - - - - BOOK IV - - WAR POEMS - - - - - "THEREFORE IS THE NAME OF IT CALLED BABEL" - - And still we stood and stared far down - Into that ember-glowing town, - Which every shaft and shock of fate - Had shorn unto its base. Too late - Came carelessly Serenity. - - Now torn and broken houses gaze - On to the rat-infested maze - That once sent up rose-silver haze - To mingle through eternity. - - The outlines once so strongly wrought, - Of city walls, are now a thought - Or jest unto the dead who fought... - Foundation for futurity. - - The shimmering sands where once there played - Children with painted pail and spade - Are dreary desolate--afraid - To meet night's dark humanity, - - Whose silver cool remakes the dead, - And lays no blame on any head - For all the havoc, fire, and lead, - That fell upon us suddenly, - - When all we came to know as good - Gave way to Evil's fiery flood, - And monstrous myths of iron and blood - Seem to obscure God's clarity. - - Deep sunk in sin, this tragic star - Sinks deeper still, and wages war - Against itself; strewn all the seas - With victims of a world disease - --And we are left to drink the lees - Of Babel's direful prophecy. - - _January_, 1916. - - - - - TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE - - Fate, malign dotard, weary from his days, - Too old for memory, yet craving pleasure, - Now finds the night too long and bitter cold - --Reminding him of death--the sun too hot. - The beauty of the universe he hates, - Yet stands regarding earthly carnivals: - The clatter and the clang of car and train, - The hurrying throng of homeward-going men, - The cries of children, colour of the streets, - Their whistling and their shouting and their joy, - The lights, the trees, the fanes and towers of churches, - Thanksgiving for the sun, the moon, the earth, - The labour, love, and laughter of our lives. - - He thinks they mock his age with ribaldry. - - From far within his ĉon-battered brain - Well up those wanton wistful images - That first beguiled the folk of Bergamo. - Now like himself, degraded and distress'd, - They sink to ignominy; but the clown - Remains, reminder of their former state, - And still earns hurricanes of hoarse applause. - - This dotard now decides to end the earth - (Wrecked by its own and his futility). - Recalls the formula of world-broad mirth - --A senseless hitting of those unaware, - Unnecessary breaking of their chattels. - - The pantomime of life is near its close: - The stage is strewn with ends and bits of things, - With mortals maim'd or crucified, and left - To gape at endless horror through eternity. - - The face of Fate is wet with other paint - Than that incarnadines the human clown: - Yet still he waves a bladder, red as gold, - And still he gaily hits about with it, - And still the dread revealing limelight plays - Till the whole sicken'd scene becomes afire. - Antic himself falls on the funeral pyre - Of twisted, tortured, mortifying men. - - _March_, 1916. - - - - - _To_ HELEN - - - THIS GENERATION - - Their youth was fevered--passionate, quick to drain - The last few pleasures from the cup of life - Before they turn'd to suck the dregs of pain - And end their young-old lives in mortal strife. - They paid the debts of many a hundred year - Of foolishness and riches in alloy. - They went to death; nor did they shed a tear - For all they sacrificed of love and joy. - Their tears ran dry when they were in the womb, - For, entering life--they found it was their tomb. - - 1917. - - - - - _To_ FRANCIS MEYNELL - - - SHEEP-SONG - - From within our pens, - Stout built, - We watch the sorrows of the world. - Imperturbably - We see the blood - Drip and ooze on to the walls. - Without a sigh - We watch our lambs - Stuffed and fattened for the slaughter.... - - In our liquid eyes lie hidden - The mystery of empty spaces - All the secrets of the vacuum. - - Yet we can be moved; - When the head-sheep bleats, - We bleat with him; - When he stampedes - --Heavy with foot-rot-- - We gallop after him - Until - In our frenzy - We trip him up - --And a new sheep leads us. - - We are the greatest sheep in the world; - There are no sheep like us. - We come of an imperial bleat; - Our voices, - Trembling with music, - Call to our lambs oversea. - With us they crash across continents. - - We will not heed the herdsmen, - For they warned us, - "Do not stampede"; - Yet we were forced to do so. - Never will we trust a herdsman again. - - Then the black lamb asked, - Saying, "Why did we start this glorious Gadarene descent?" - And the herd bleated angrily, - "We went in with clean feet, - And we will come out with empty heads. - We gain nothing by it, - Therefore - It is a noble thing to do. - We are stampeding to end stampedes. - We are fighting for lambs - Who are never likely to be born. - - When once a sheep gets its blood up - The goats will remember...." - - But the herdsman swooped down - Shouting, - "Get back to your pens there." - - _September_, 1918. - - - - - THE POET'S LAMENT. - - Before the dawning of the death-day - My mind was a confusion of beauty. - Thoughts fell from it in riot - Of colour, - In wreaths and garlands of flowers and fruit... - - Then the red dawn came - --And no thought came to me - Except anger - And bitter reproach. - God filled my mouth - With the burning pebbles of hatred, - And choked my soul - With a whirl-wind of fury. - He made my tongue - A flaming sword - To cut and wither - The white soft edges - Of their anĉmic souls. - I ridiculed them, - I despised them, - I loathed them - ... But they had stolen my soul away. - - Yes, they had stolen my soul from me. - My heart jumps up into my mouth - In fury; - They have stolen my soul away. - - But we will wait, - And later words will come - --Words that in their burning flight - Shall scorch and flay, - Or flare like fireworks - Above their heads. - In those days my soul shall be restored to me - And they shall remember, - They shall remember! - - - - - JUDAS AND THE PROFITEER - - Judas descended to this lower Hell - To meet his only friend--the profiteer-- - Who, looking fat and rubicund and well, - Regarded him, and then said with a sneer, - "Iscariot, they did you! Fool! to sell - For silver pence the body of God's Son, - Whereas for maiming men with sword and shell - I gain at least a golden million." - - But Judas answered: "You deserve your gold; - It's not His body but His soul you've sold!" - - - - - _To_ H. W. MASSINGHAM - - - RHAPSODE - - Why should we sing to you of little things-- - You who lack all imagination? - Why should we sing to you of your poor joys, - That you may see beauty through a poet's mind-- - Beauty where there was none before? - Why should we heed your miserable opinions, - And your paltry fears? - Why listen to your tales and narratives-- - Long lanes of boredom along which you - Amble amiably all the dull days - Of your unnecessary lives? - We know you now--and what you wish to be told: - That the larks are singing in the trenches, - That the fruit trees will again blossom in the spring, - That Youth is always happy; - But you know the misery that lies - Under the surface-- - And we will dig it up for you! - We shall sing to you - Of the men who have been trampled - To death in the circus of Flanders; - Of the skeletons that gather the fruit - From the ruined orchards of France; - And of those left to rot under an Eastern sun-- - Whose dust mingles with the sand - Of distant, strange deserts, - And whose bones are crushed against - The rocks of unknown seas; - All dead--dead, - Defending you and what you stand for. - - You hope that we shall tell you that they found their - happiness in fighting, - Or that they died with a song on their lips, - Or that we shall use the old familiar phrases - With which your paid servants please you in the Press: - But we are poets, - And shall tell the truth. - - You, my dear sir, - You are so upset - At being talked to in this way - That when night - Has coffin'd this great city - Beneath the folds of the sun's funeral pall, - You will have to drink a little more champagne, - And visit a theatre or perhaps a music-hall. - What you need (as you rightly say, my dear sir) is CHEERING-UP. - There you will see vastly funny sketches - Of your fighting countrymen; - And they will be represented - As those of whom you may be proud. - For they cannot talk English properly, - Or express themselves but by swearing; - Or perhaps they may be shown as drunk. - But they will all appear cheerful, - And you will be pleased; - And as you lurch amiably home, you will laugh, - And at each laugh - Another countryman will be dead! - - When Christ was slowly dying on that tree-- - Hanging in agony upon that hideous Cross-- - Tortured, betrayed, and spat upon, - Loud through the thunder and the earthquake's roar - Rang out - Those blessed humble human words of doubt: - "My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?" - But near by was a cheerfully chattering group - Of sects, - Of Pharisees and Sadducees, - And all were shocked-- - Pained beyond measure. - And they said: - "At least he might have died like a hero - With an oath on his lips, - Or the refrain from a comic song-- - Or a cheerful comment of some kind. - It was very unpleasant for all of us-- - But we had to see it through. - I hope people will not think we have gone too far-- - Or behaved badly in any way." - - There in the street below a drunken man reels home, - And as he goes - He sings with sentiment: - "Keep the home fires burning!" - And the constable helps him on his way. - But we-- - We should be thrown into prison, - Or cast into an asylum, - For we want-- - PEACE! - - _September_, 1917. - - - - - _To_ SIEGFRIED SASSOON - - - - THE MODERN ABRAHAM - - His purple fingers clutch a large cigar-- - Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two. - He rests back in his fat armchair. The war - Has made this change in him. As he looks through - His cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs: - "Disabled Soldiers' Fund" he reads afresh, - And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes-- - The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh. - - They should not ask me to subscribe again! - Consider me and all that I have done-- - I've fought for Britain with my might and main; - I make explosives--and I gave a son. - My factory, converted for the fight - (I do not like to boast of what I've spent), - Now manufactures gas and dynamite, - Which only pays me seventy per cent. - And if I had ten other sons to send - I'd make them serve my country to the end, - So all the neighbours should flock round and say: - "Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done. - He loves his country in the elder way; - Poor gentleman, he's lost another son!" - - 1917. - - - - - THE TRAP - - The world is young and green. - Its woods are golden beneath the May-time sun; - But within its trap of steel the rabbit plunges - Madly to and fro. - It will bleed to death - Slowly, - Slowly, - Unless there is some escape. - Why will not someone release it? - - And presently a kindly passer-by - Stoops down. - The rabbit's eye glints at him-- - Gleaming from the impenetrable obscurity of its prison. - He stoops and lifts the catch - (He cannot hold it long, for the spring is heavy). - The rabbit could now be free, - But it does not move; - For from the darkness of its death-hutch - The world looks like another brightly baited trap. - So, remaining within its steel prison, - It argues thus: - "Perhaps I may bleed to death, - But it will probably take a long time, - And, at any rate, - I am secure - From the clever people outside. - Besides, if I did come out now - All the people who thought I was a lion - Would see, by the trap-mark on my leg, - That I am only an unfortunate rabbit, - And this might promote disloyalty among the children. - When the clamp closed on my leg - It was a ruse - To kill me. - Probably the lifting of it betrays the same purpose! - If I come out now - They will think they can trap rabbits - Whenever they like. - How do I know they will not snare me - Again next year? - Besides, it looks to me from here..." - - But the catch drops down, - For the stranger is weary. - From within the hutch - A thin stream of blood - Trickles on to the grass - Outside, - And leaves a brown stain on its brightness. - But the dying rabbit is happy, - Saying: - "I knew it was only a trap!" - - _April_, 1918. - - - - - _To_ RODERICK MEIKLEJOHN - - - THE ETERNAL CLUB - - Warming their withered hands, the dotards say: - "In our youth men were happy till they died. - What is it ails the young men of to-day-- - To make them bitter and dissatisfied?" - - Two thousand years ago it was the same: - "Poor Joseph! How he'll feel about his son! - I knew him as a child--his head aflame - With gold. He seemed so full of life and fun. - And even as a young man he was fine, - Converting tasteless water into wine. - Then something altered him. He tried to chase - The money-changers from the Temple door. - White ringlets swung and tears shone in their poor - Aged eyes. He grew so bitter and found men - For friends as discontented--lost all count - Of caste--denied his father, faith, and then - He preached that dreadful Sermon on the Mount! - But even then he would not let things be; - For when they nailed him high up on the tree, - And gave him vinegar and pierced his side, - He asked God to forgive them--still dissatisfied!" - - - - - HEAVEN - - A theatre rises dark and mute and drear - Among those houses that stand clustering round. - Passing this pleasure-house, I seem'd to hear - The distant rhythm of some lauding sound, - The hot applause that greeted every night - The favourite song, or girl, or joke, or fight. - The laughter of the young and strong and gay - Who greeted life--then laid their lives away. - - Do they, then, watch the same old blatant show, - Forgetting all death's wrench and all its pain - And all their courage shown against the foe? - Is this the heaven that they died to gain? - - - - - THE BLIND PEDLAR - - I stand alone through each long day - Upon these pavers; cannot see - The wares spread out upon this tray - --For God has taken sight from me! - - Many a time I've cursed the night - When I was born. My peering eyes - Have sought for but one ray of light - To pierce the darkness. When the skies - - Rain down their first sweet April showers - On budding branches; when the morn - Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers, - I've cursed the night when I was born. - - But now I thank God, and am glad - For what I cannot see this day - --The young men crippled, old, and sad, - With faces burnt and torn away; - - Or those who, rich and old, - Have battened on the slaughter, - Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold, - Are creased in purple laughter! - - _January_, 1919. - - - - - WORLD-HYMN TO MOLOCH - - Holy Moloch, blessed lord, - Hatred to our souls impart. - Put the heathen to the sword, - Wound and pierce each contrite heart. - Never more shall darkness fall - But it seems a funeral pall; - Never shall the red sun rise - But to red and swollen eyes. - In the centuries that roll, - Slowly grinding out our tears, - Often thou hast taken toll; - Never till these latter years - Have all nations lost the fray; - Lead not thou our feet astray. - Never till the present time - Have we offered all we hold, - With one gesture, mad, sublime, - Sons and lovers, lands and gold. - Must we then still pray to thee, - Moloch, for a victory? - - Eternal Moloch, strong to slay, - Do not seek to heal or save. - Lord, it is the better way - Swift to send them to the grave. - Those of us too old to go - Send our sons to face the foe, - But, O lord! we must remain - Here, to pray and sort the slain. - In every land the widows weep, - In every land the children cry. - Other gods are lulled to sleep, - All the starving peoples die. - What is left to offer you? - Thou, O Sacred King of Death! - God of Blood and Lord of Guile, - Do not let us waste our breath, - Cast on us thy crimson smile. - Moloch, lord, we pray to thee, - Send at least one victory. - - All the men in every land - Pray to thee through battle's din, - Swiftly now to show thy hand, - Pray that soon one side may win. - Under sea and in the sky, - Everywhere our children die; - Laughter, happiness and light - Perished in a single night. - In every land the heaving tides - Wash the sands a dreadful red, - In every land the tired sun hides - Under heaps and hills of dead. - In spite of all we've offered up - Must we drink and drain the cup? - Everywhere the dark floods rise, - Everywhere our hearts are torn. - Every day a new Christ dies, - Every day a devil's born. - Moloch, lord, we pray to thee, - Send at least one victory. - - 1917. - - - - - ARMCHAIR - - If I were still of handsome middle-age - I should not govern yet, but still should hope - To help the prosecution of this war. - I'd talk and eat (though not eat wheaten bread), - I'd send my sons, if old enough, to France, - Or help to do my share in other ways. - All through the long spring evenings, when the sun - Pursues its primrose path towards the hills, - If fine, I'd plant potatoes on the lawn; - If wet, write anxious letters to the Press. - I'd give up wine and spirits, and with pride - Refuse to eat meat more than once a day, - And seek to rob the workers of their beer. - The only way to win a hard-fought war - Is to annoy the people in small ways, - Bully or patronise them, as you will! - I'd teach poor mothers, who have seven sons - --All fighting men of clean and sober life-- - How to look after babies and to cook; - Teach them to save their money and invest; - Not to bring children up in luxury - --But do without a nursemaid in the house! - - If I were old, or only seventy, - Then should I be a great man in his prime. - I should rule army corps; at my command - Men would rise up, salute me, and attack - --And die. Or I might also govern men - By making speeches with my toothless jaws, - Chattering constantly; and men should say, - "One grand old man is still worth half his pay!" - That day I'd send my grandsons out to France - --And wish I'd got ten other ones to send - (One cannot sacrifice too much, I'd say). - Then would I make a noble toothless speech, - And all the listening Parliament would cheer. - "Gentlemen, we will never end this war - Till all the younger men with martial mien - Have entered capitals; never make peace - Till they are cripples, on one leg, or dead!" - Then would the Bishops all go mad with joy, - Cantuar, Ebor, and the other ones, - Be overwhelmed with pious ecstasy. - In thanking Him we'd got a Christian-- - An Englishman--still worth his salt--to talk, - In every pulpit they would preach and prance; - And our great Church would work, as heretofore, - To bring this poor old nation to its knees. - Then we'd forbid all liberty, and make - Free speech a relic of our impious past; - And when this war is finished, when the world - Is torn and bleeding, cut and bruised to death, - Then I'd pronounce my peace terms--to the poor! - But as it is, I am not ninety yet, - And so must pay my reverence to these men-- - These grand old men, who still can see and talk, - Who sacrifice each other's sons each day. - O Lord! let me be ninety yet, I pray. - Methuselah was quite a youngster when - He died. Now, vainly weeping, we should say: - "Another great man perished in his prime!" - O let me govern, Lord, at ninety-nine!" - - _August_, 1917. - - - - - RAGTIME - - The lamps glow here and there, then echo down - The vast deserted vistas of the town-- - Each light the echo'd note of some refrain - Repeated in the city's fevered brain. - Yet all is still, save when there wanders past - --Finding the silence of the night too long-- - Some tattered wretch, who, from the night outcast, - Sings, with an aching heart, a comic song. - The vapid parrot-words flaunt through the night-- - Silly and gay, yet terrible. We know - Men sang these words in many a deadly fight, - And threw them--laughing--to a solemn foe; - Sang them where tattered houses stand up tall and stark, - And bullets whistle through the ruined street, - Where live men tread on dead men in the dark, - And skulls are sown in fields once sown with wheat. - Across the sea, where night is dark with blood - And rockets flash, and guns roar hoarse and deep, - They struggle through entanglements and mud, - They suffer wounds--and die-- - But here they sleep. - From far away the outcast's vacuous song - Re-echoes like the singing of a throng; - His dragging footfalls echo down the street, - And turn into a myriad marching feet. - - _December_, 1916. - - - - - PEACE CELEBRATION - - Now we can say of those who died unsung, - Unwept for, torn, "Thank God they were not blind - Or mad! They've perished strong and young, - Missing the misery we elders find - In missing them." With such a platitude - We try to cheer ourselves. And for each life - Laid down for us, with duty well-imbued, - With song-on-lip, in splendid soldier strife-- - For sailors, too, who willingly were sunk-- - We'll shout "Hooray!"-- - And get a little drunk. - - - - - _To_ SACHEVERELL - - - THE NEXT WAR - - The long war had ended. - Its miseries had grown faded. - Deaf men became difficult to talk to. - Heroes became bores. - - Those alchemists - Who had converted blood into gold, - Had grown elderly. - But they held a meeting, - Saying, - "We think perhaps we ought - To put up tombs - Or erect altars - To those brave lads - Who were so willingly burnt, - Or blinded, - Or maimed, - Who lost all likeness to a living thing, - Or were blown to bleeding patches of flesh - For our sakes. - It would look well. - Or we might even educate the children." - - But the richest of these wizards - Coughed gently; - And he said, - "I have always been to the front - --In private enterprise-- - I yield in public spirit - To no man. - I think yours is a very good idea - --A capital idea-- - And not too costly. - But it seems to me - That the cause for which we fought - Is again endangered. - What more fitting memorial for the fallen - Than that their children - Should fall for the same cause?" - Rushing eagerly into the street, - The kindly old gentlemen cried - To the young: - "Will you sacrifice - Through your lethargy - What your fathers died to gain? - Our cause is in peril. - The world must be made safe for the young!" - And the children - Went.... - - - - - PRINTED BY - BILLING AND SONS, LTD. - GUILDFORD, ENGLAND - - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Argonaut and Juggernaut, by Osbert Sitwell - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT *** - -***** This file should be named 61368-8.txt or 61368-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/6/61368/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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