diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-27 22:32:38 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-27 22:32:38 -0800 |
| commit | 93cae2261c6948c158c8ff3b5849d1e0d0b7b13d (patch) | |
| tree | 04a2e3d1f30fe5b83e3e572cd49e3c8d3def839a /old/61368-h/61368-h.htm | |
| parent | 76976700ccf881119c9027861f4ae07618c76c29 (diff) | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old/61368-h/61368-h.htm')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/61368-h/61368-h.htm | 4517 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 4517 deletions
diff --git a/old/61368-h/61368-h.htm b/old/61368-h/61368-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 541a5f1..0000000 --- a/old/61368-h/61368-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4517 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> - -<head> - -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> - -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> - -<title> -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Argonaut and Juggernaut, -by Osbert Sitwell -</title> - -<style type="text/css"> -body { color: black; - background: white; - margin-right: 10%; - margin-left: 10%; - font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; - text-align: justify } - -p {text-indent: 4% } - -p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } - -p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 200%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - text-align: center } - -p.t2b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 150%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - text-align: center } - -p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 100%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - text-align: center } - -p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - font-weight: bold; - text-align: center } - -p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 60%; - text-align: center } - -h1 { text-align: center } -h2 { text-align: center } -h3 { text-align: center } -h4 { text-align: center } -h5 { text-align: center } - -p.poem {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 0%; } - -p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; - letter-spacing: 4em ; - text-align: center } - -p.letter {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; - font-size: 80%; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -.smcap { font-variant: small-caps } - -p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; - margin-left: 10% ; - margin-right: 10% } - -p.intro {font-size: 90% ; - text-indent: -5% ; - margin-left: 5% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; - margin-left: 0% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -p.finis { font-size: larger ; - text-align: center ; - text-indent: 0% ; - margin-left: 0% ; - margin-right: 0% } - -</style> - -</head> - -<body> - - -<pre> - -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 - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h1> -<br /><br /> - Argonaut and<br /> - Juggernaut<br /> -</h1> - -<p class="t3"> - BY<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t2"> - OSBERT SITWELL<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - LONDON<br /> - Chatto & Windus<br /> - 1919<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> -<i>All rights reserved</i> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - TO<br /> - THE MEMORY OF<br /> - ROBERT ROSS<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> -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 <i>The Times</i>, the <i>Nation</i>, <i>Art and -Letters</i>, the <i>Cambridge Magazine</i>, <i>Everyman</i>, -<i>Colour</i>, <i>New Paths</i>, and <i>Poetry and Drama</i> -(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 -<i>Nation</i> under the signature "Miles." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="howshallwe"></a> - "HOW SHALL WE RISE TO GREET THE DAWN?"<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - How shall we rise to greet the dawn?<br /> - Not timidly,<br /> - With a hand above our eyes,<br /> - But greet the strong light<br /> - Joyfully;<br /> - Nor will we mistake the dawn<br /> - For the mid-day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We must create and fashion a new God—<br /> - A God of power, of beauty, and of strength—<br /> - Created painfully, cruelly,<br /> - Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It is not that the money-changers<br /> - Ply their trade<br /> - Within the sacred places;<br /> - But that the old God<br /> - Has made the Stock Exchange his Temple.<br /> - We must drive him from it.<br /> - Why should we tinker with clay feet?<br /> - We will fashion<br /> - A perfect unity<br /> - Of precious metals.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Let us tear the paper moon<br /> - From its empty dome.<br /> - Let us see the world with young eyes.<br /> - Let us harness the waves to make power,<br /> - And in so doing,<br /> - Seek not to spoil their rolling freedom,<br /> - But to endow<br /> - The soiled and straining cities<br /> - With the same splendour of strength.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We will not be afraid,<br /> - Tho' the golden geese cackle in the Capitol,<br /> - In fear<br /> - That their eggs may be placed<br /> - In an incubator.<br /> - Continually they cackle thus—<br /> - These venerable birds—<br /> - Crying, "Those whom the Gods love<br /> - Die young,"<br /> - Or something of that sort.<br /> - But we will see that they live<br /> - And prosper.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Let us prune the tree of language<br /> - Of its dead fruit.<br /> - Let us melt up the clichés<br /> - Into molten metal;<br /> - Fashion weapons that will scald and flay;<br /> - Let us curb this eternal humour<br /> - And become witty.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Let us dig up the dragon's teeth<br /> - From this fertile soil;<br /> - Swiftly,<br /> - Before they fructify;<br /> - Let us give them as medicine<br /> - To the writhing monster itself.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We must create and fashion a new God—<br /> - A God of power, of beauty, and of strength;<br /> - Created painfully, cruelly,<br /> - Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds.<br /> - Cast down the idols of a thousand years,<br /> - Crush them to dust<br /> - Beneath the dancing rhythm of our feet.<br /> - Oh! let us dance upon the weak and cruel:<br /> - We must create and fashion a new God.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>November</i>, 1918.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - CONTENTS<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - PREFACE POEM<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#howshallwe">"How shall We rise to Greet the Dawn?"</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - <a href="#book1">BOOK I: THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - <a href="#part1">PART I</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#prelude">Prelude</a><br /> - <a href="#silence">The Silence of God</a><br /> - <a href="#adventure">Adventure</a><br /> - <a href="#dusk">Dusk</a><br /> - <a href="#sailor">Sailor-Song</a><br /> - <a href="#dance">The Dance</a><br /> - <a href="#whyshould">Why should a Sailor ride the Sea?</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - <a href="#part2">PART II</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#cornucopia">Cornucopia</a><br /> - <a href="#song">Song</a><br /> - <a href="#prospect">Prospect Road</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - <a href="#book2">BOOK II: GREEN-FLY</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#warhorses">War Horses</a><br /> - <a href="#churchparade">Church-Parade</a><br /> - <a href="#mrskinfoot">At the House of Mrs. Kinfoot</a><br /> - <a href="#greenfly">Green-fly</a><br /> - <a href="#deluxe">De Luxe</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - <a href="#book3">BOOK III: PROMENADES</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#nocturne">Nocturne</a><br /> - <a href="#catcher">Lament of the Mole Catcher</a><br /> - <a href="#beginning">The Beginning</a><br /> - <a href="#theend">The End</a><br /> - <a href="#fountains">Fountains</a><br /> - <a href="#songfauns">Song of the Fauns</a><br /> - <a href="#cruelty">"A Sculptor's Cruelty"</a><br /> - <a href="#pierrotold">Pierrot Old</a><br /> - <a href="#night">Night</a><br /> - <a href="#carcassonne">From Carcassonne</a><br /> - <a href="#progress">Progress</a><br /> - <a href="#prodigal">Return of the Prodigal</a><br /> - <a href="#london">London Squares</a><br /> - <a href="#tears">Tears</a><br /> - <a href="#clavichords">Clavichords</a><br /> - <a href="#promenades">Promenades</a><br /> - <a href="#clownpondi">Clown Pondi</a><br /> - <a href="#lausiac">Lausiac Theme</a><br /> - <a href="#metamorphosis">Metamorphosis</a><br /> - <a href="#gipsyqueen">The Gipsy Queen</a><br /> - <a href="#blackmass">Black Mass</a><br /> - <a href="#pierrotwar">Pierrot at the War</a><br /> - <a href="#springhours">Spring Hours</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - <a href="#book4">BOOK IV: WAR POEMS</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#babel">"Therefore is the Name of it called Babel"</a><br /> - <a href="#harlequinade">Twentieth-Century Harlequinade</a><br /> - <a href="#generation">This Generation</a><br /> - <a href="#sheepsong">Sheep-Song</a><br /> - <a href="#lament">The Poet's Lament</a><br /> - <a href="#judas">Judas and the Profiteer</a><br /> - <a href="#rhapsode">Rhapsode</a><br /> - <a href="#abraham">The Modern Abraham</a><br /> - <a href="#trap">The Trap</a><br /> - <a href="#eternal">The Eternal Club</a><br /> - <a href="#heaven">Heaven</a><br /> - <a href="#pedlar">The Blind Pedlar</a><br /> - <a href="#moloch">Hymn to Moloch</a><br /> - <a href="#armchair">Armchair</a><br /> - <a href="#ragtime">Ragtime</a><br /> - <a href="#peace">Peace Celebration</a><br /> - <a href="#nextwar">The Next War</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p> -<a id="book1"></a> -<a id="part1"></a> -</p> - -<h2> - BOOK I -<br /> - THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS<br /> -</h2> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>To</i> EDITH<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t2"> - THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3b"> - PART I<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="prelude"></a> - PRELUDE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - We have wandered through the dim valleys of sleep<br /> - —That lie so still and far—<br /> - Have bathed in the lakes of silence,<br /> - Where each star<br /> - Shines brighter than its own reflection in the heavens;<br /> - Where, diving deep,<br /> - My soul has sought to catch and keep<br /> - The silver feathers of the moon<br /> - That float like down upon the waters,<br /> - In whose pale rest<br /> - We find<br /> - Forgetfulness of death<br /> - That comes so soon<br /> - —Waters that lull the mind<br /> - With some sweet breath<br /> - Of wind, of flowers,<br /> - With summer showers of rain,<br /> - Or quicken it with recreative pain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We have fled further from this leaden cage,<br /> - Seeking those rainbow forests,<br /> - Where the light<br /> - Thrills through you, shaking, fainting, with delight;<br /> - Where sway tall luminous trees<br /> - Wind-swept in one vast flashing harmony,<br /> - That like a wave<br /> - Splashes its seething sound<br /> - And then envelops you.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We have strayed to other places,<br /> - Courts of fear,<br /> - That stretch like echoes through the endless dusk<br /> - Drenched with dead memories;<br /> - Like musk<br /> - They cling about you<br /> - In a heavy cloud.<br /> - Each shadow-sound we hear<br /> - Clutches the heart.<br /> - With fevered hands we tear<br /> - The terror-pulsing walls<br /> - —Fight our way out<br /> - —Out<br /> - Into other Courts<br /> - As vague and full of fear.<br /> - And we have found the proud and distant palaces of night.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="silence"></a> - THE SILENCE OF GOD<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - One night upon the southern sea<br /> - In helpless calm we lay,<br /> - Waiting for day,<br /> - Waiting for day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As goldripe fruit fall from a tree<br /> - A comet fell; no other sight,<br /> - But in the ocean tracks of light<br /> - Trembled—then passed away,<br /> - Away.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - No sound broke on our waiting ears,<br /> - Though instinct whispered wayward fears<br /> - Of things we cannot tell—<br /> - Of things the sea could tell.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - No wisp of wind, no watery sound<br /> - Reached us; as if high on the ground<br /> - We stayed. A sense of fever fell<br /> - Upon each mind,<br /> - Each soul and mind.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Until our eyes, that ever sought<br /> - The cloying empty darkness, find<br /> - Another shape—or is it wrought<br /> - Of terror?—on the deep<br /> - The endless deep.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - All dark it lay. No light shone out;<br /> - And though we cried across, no shout<br /> - Came back to us. As if in sleep<br /> - The black bulk lay so still,<br /> - So still.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - No sign came back; no answering cry<br /> - Cleft the immense monotony<br /> - That swathed us like a funeral pall,<br /> - In folds of menace; almost shrill<br /> - The silence seemed,<br /> - And we so small.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Swiftly a boat was lowered down;<br /> - The rowlocks creaked; our track shone white<br /> - Behind us like God's frown,<br /> - God's frown.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We clambered up that great ship's height;<br /> - There was no light; there was no sound;<br /> - Nor was there any being found<br /> - Upon that ship,<br /> - That ship.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We groped our way along. God knows<br /> - How long the rats had been alone<br /> - With dust and rust! Yet flight was shown<br /> - To have been instant, in the grip<br /> - Of some force stronger than its foes<br /> - —Its human foes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then sudden from the dark there thrilled<br /> - The distant dying of a song<br /> - That hung like haze upon the sea, and filled<br /> - Each soul with joy and terror strong,<br /> - With joy and terror strong.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Upon the sombre air were spent<br /> - These notes, as from a hidden place<br /> - Where all time and all love lay pent<br /> - In lingering embrace—<br /> - In lingering embrace.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Deep in our hearts we felt the call;<br /> - We knew that if our fate should send<br /> - That song again, we must leave all<br /> - And follow to the end,<br /> - The end.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="adventure"></a> - ADVENTURE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Down through the torrid seas we swept,<br /> - Sails curved like bows about to shoot.<br /> - As an arrow speeds through the air<br /> - Our ship parted the clinging waters.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then, out of the ocean<br /> - Blossomed a distant land.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The air quivered,<br /> - Dancing above it<br /> - In a frenzy of passion.<br /> - Waves of heat trembled towards us<br /> - Across the cool lassitude of the ocean.<br /> - They rolled new odours at us,<br /> - Sounding the chords of hidden senses,<br /> - Till we were alert<br /> - With minds as sensitive and taut<br /> - As resined strings.<br /> - The sea itself<br /> - Crouched down behind us,<br /> - Urging us on,<br /> - Driving us on,<br /> - To unknown<br /> - Perilous adventures.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ships and sea were forgotten.<br /> - We trampled<br /> - And stumbled<br /> - On, on,<br /> - Through the burning sand<br /> - To the hot shroud of the squat threatening forest,<br /> - Where, as you walked,<br /> - You tore apart<br /> - A solid sheet of air.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Brown satyrs grimaced at us,<br /> - Swinging with long hairy arms<br /> - From crooked branch to crooked branch.<br /> - The sun<br /> - Was at its height.<br /> - Rays pierced the hot shade;<br /> - White lines of light<br /> - Shot through the shadows<br /> - To where a point of green<br /> - Shuddered with dangerous movement,<br /> - Throbbed and hummed with the whirr of insects.<br /> - Birds more bright than any streamers from the sun<br /> - Cleft the air<br /> - Like hammers;<br /> - Scintillating wings<br /> - Tossed patches of colour<br /> - Into the dark shimmering air.<br /> - Shrill calls<br /> - Whistled like knives<br /> - Hurled through the empty heat.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Frantic chattering rose up.<br /> - Through the honeycombed darkness<br /> - Slim animals<br /> - —Their hides splashed with false sunlight—<br /> - Quivered away<br /> - Into the hollow distance.<br /> - Or clattered past us,<br /> - Cloven hooves<br /> - Kicking at the hard, bent trunks<br /> - Of gnarled trees.<br /> - Large hairy fruits of wood<br /> - Were cast at us,<br /> - Snarlingly,<br /> - From the darkness.<br /> - Faces<br /> - —Faces peered down<br /> - From the interwoven boughs.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Hastily we stumbled on;<br /> - Hurriedly we stumbled back,<br /> - Bewildered.<br /> - Small tracks<br /> - Tripped through the blackness<br /> - Hither and thither;<br /> - Twigs crawled from under our feet,<br /> - Hissing away<br /> - In venom<br /> - —And we were bewildered.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then suddenly<br /> - We felt,<br /> - Rumbling in curling patterns through the ground,<br /> - The beating of drums.<br /> - As winds bellow into caves,<br /> - As waves swirl and curl into hollows,<br /> - We heard the blowing of wooden trumpets<br /> - And of pipes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Soon,<br /> - Under the western canopy of the sun,<br /> - Where the fevered hills lay huddled together,<br /> - We saw great gourd-shaped palaces<br /> - Loom up like mountains.<br /> - Figures played on trumpets,<br /> - Twisted like snakes,<br /> - Or on the curved, carved horns of unknown beasts.<br /> - In the sound was mirrored<br /> - The panic seizures of the night,<br /> - —The fear of things that walk in darkness.<br /> - The drums were painted<br /> - In hot colours<br /> - That, even through the dusk,<br /> - Glowed torture and writhing torment.<br /> - Like a shower of molten lead<br /> - The din fell down upon us<br /> - From the Palaces.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Bare yellow women<br /> - Hurried<br /> - To greet us;<br /> - Their heels swayed inward<br /> - As they walked.<br /> - They offered fruits<br /> - —Fruits that were strange to us;<br /> - Mellow they were, and with a scent<br /> - Of sun, of summer,<br /> - And of woodland nights.<br /> - We ate<br /> - —And dreams closed round.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="dusk"></a> - DUSK<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Night like a hawk<br /> - Swooped down<br /> - On to the phoenix bird,<br /> - —Tore out its flaming feathers.<br /> - Solitary plumes<br /> - Flared down into the darkness,<br /> - Floating above the distant sea.<br /> - Stillness and heat clung together;<br /> - And the hawk<br /> - Spread out her wings.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Gigantic pinions<br /> - Flutter the air above,<br /> - Fanning our faces<br /> - And<br /> - We sing.....<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="sailor"></a> - SAILOR-SONG<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - On swinging seas our ship has flown<br /> - —In sun and shadow lands alit.<br /> - We saw the sack of Carthage Town<br /> - (And Dido building it).<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Cassandra, direful prophetess,<br /> - We heard foretell the fate of Troy,<br /> - And through its streets helped wheel and press<br /> - That wooden, painted toy.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We've seen events aboard this hulk<br /> - Of grave import and mystery<br /> - —The serpent's writhing horrid bulk<br /> - Go seething through the sea.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then once we left Atlantis Town.<br /> - Behind us like a lily flower<br /> - It blossomed; but then down, far down,<br /> - Sank every vane and tower.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now you can hear the clanging beat<br /> - Of bells beneath the furious foam.<br /> - In coral palaces the great<br /> - Sea monsters make their home.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Their corridors with pearl are pav'd;<br /> - Float down them in an endless flight<br /> - Fierce finny beasts. The walls are laved<br /> - In irridescent light.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We brought gifts—myrrh and frankincense—<br /> - From Khubla to the Great Moghul;<br /> - Espied the Juggernaut immense<br /> - Pound over flesh and skull;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Saw desert-men atone for ills<br /> - With frenzied hands, with wounds that gape,<br /> - —The hermits hidden in the hills<br /> - —The Herod in his Tyrian Cape.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From out our ship, held fast by gale,<br /> - We watched Andromeda's release;<br /> - Beheld the galleon in full sail<br /> - That flew the Golden Fleece.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Icarus, proud of his new power,<br /> - We saw stretch out his wings to fly.<br /> - We heard in that tremendous hour<br /> - The cry from Calvary.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus many things we understand<br /> - That puzzle landsmen: we can tell<br /> - Of perils in each time and land;<br /> - But outside Heaven or Hell<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - No fruit so strange we tasted save<br /> - But one; none cast so strange a spell<br /> - Except the fruit the first Eve gave<br /> - To the first man who fell.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="dance"></a> - THE DANCE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The song ends.<br /> - The rocking earth<br /> - Plunges madly<br /> - —Lunges like a man<br /> - About to fight.<br /> - Trees roll beckoning branches at us,<br /> - Branches that swing and sway.<br /> - From the forest<br /> - The animals<br /> - Howl<br /> - Like laughter.<br /> - With their burning scimiters<br /> - Flames slice the night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Monotony,<br /> - A life preserved in ocean salt,<br /> - Scales off our limbs.<br /> - Within our veins<br /> - The liquor of this fruit-of-fire<br /> - Mounts in splendour inexhaustible.<br /> - The world itself<br /> - Dances<br /> - To make us dance<br /> - In cosmic frenzy.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="whyshould"></a> - WHY SHOULD A SAILOR RIDE THE SEA?<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Why should a sailor ride the sea,<br /> - When he can drink and dance and sing,<br /> - Or watch the stars out-blossoming<br /> - Upon the tree of night?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Why should he face the tear-salt waves,<br /> - When he can sing, or feast on fruit,<br /> - Dance to the silver-sobbing lute,<br /> - And all men seem his slaves?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - No more to ship or sea we'll go,<br /> - To watch the land sink out of sight<br /> - Suffused by purple fumes of night,<br /> - Each heart weighed down with woe.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But under rustling fretted lace<br /> - Of leaves, we'll dance and stamp our feet<br /> - In frenzy, to the furious beat,<br /> - —The rhythm of all space.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Or watch each dappled fawn and elf<br /> - Spring from the green lairs where they hide;<br /> - Now every soul is multiplied<br /> - And communes with itself.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The softly sailing moon is now<br /> - A pendulum, hung in a vast<br /> - Blue bubble—so to mark our fast<br /> - Lithe movements to and fro.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Down from the sky the willing stars<br /> - Fall round each brow a crown to form;<br /> - Till feet and limbs, a rushing storm,<br /> - Dance whirling on in ecstasy.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - The earth dances;<br /> - The earth dances;<br /> - Trees charge at us<br /> - Like horsemen;<br /> - Forests swoop<br /> - Down the hill,<br /> - Charging at us,<br /> - But we are brave,<br /> - Full of a fiery courage,<br /> - And go onward<br /> - Onward,<br /> - Through the galloping trees.<br /> - We shout<br /> - Glowing phrases<br /> - —Snatches of ineffable wit.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The frenzy in our feet<br /> - Must surely set the world afire.<br /> - Yet still the stars<br /> - Rain down their golden tremors of delight,<br /> - And the moon<br /> - Sweeps like a bird<br /> - Through the arch of space.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We, too,<br /> - Float downward<br /> - Gently<br /> - To soft shipwreck.<br /> - We, too,<br /> - Are of the kindred of the Pleiades;<br /> - Reel on our golden path<br /> - Down,<br /> - Down,<br /> - Through the curved emptiness of the heavens.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="part2"></a></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - PART II -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="cornucopia"></a> - CORNUCOPIA<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Now music fills the night with moving shades;<br /> - Its velvet darkness, veined like a grape,<br /> - Obscures and falls round many a subtle shape<br /> - —Figures that steal through cool tall colonnades,<br /> - Vast minotaurian corridors of sleep;<br /> - Rhythmic they pass us, splashed by red cascades<br /> - Of wine, fierce-flashing fountains whose proud waves<br /> - Shimmer awhile; plunge foaming over steep<br /> - Age-polished rocks, into the dim cold caves<br /> - Of starlit dusk below—then merge with night,<br /> - Softly as children sinking into sleep.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now more figures sway into our sight;<br /> - Strong and bare-shouldered, pressed and laden down,<br /> - Stagger across the terraces. They bear<br /> - Great Cornucopia of summer fruit<br /> - And heavy roses scented with the noon<br /> - —Piled up with fruit and blossoms, all full blown,<br /> - Crimson, or golden as the harvest moon—<br /> - Piled up and overflowing in a flood<br /> - Of riches; brilliant-plumaged birds, that sing<br /> - As the faint playing on a far sweet lute,<br /> - Warble their tales of conquest and of love;<br /> - Perch on each shoulder; sweep each rainbow wing<br /> - Like light'ning through the breathless dark above.<br /> - Heaped up in vases gems shine hard and bright;<br /> - Sudden they flare out—gleaming red like blood—<br /> - For now the darkness turns to swelling light,<br /> - Great torches gild each shadow, tear the sky,<br /> - As drums tear through the silence of the night;<br /> - Breaking its crystal quiet—making us cry<br /> - Or catch our sobbing breath in sudden fear.<br /> - A shadow stumbles, and the jewels shower<br /> - On to the pavers with a sharp sweet sound.<br /> - They mingle with the fountain drops that flower<br /> - Up in a scarlet bloom above the ground,<br /> - A beauteous changing blossom; then they rain<br /> - On to the broad mysterious terraces,<br /> - Where sea-gods rise to watch in cold disdain<br /> - Before those vast vermillion palaces,<br /> - —Watch where the slumbering coral gods of noon,<br /> - Drunk with the sudden golden light and flare<br /> - Of flaming torches, try to pluck and tear<br /> - That wan enchanted lotus flower, the moon,<br /> - Down from its calm still waters; thus they fall,<br /> - Like flowing plumes, the fountains of our festival.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Slowly the torches die. They echo long,<br /> - These last notes of a Bacchanalian song,<br /> - Of drifting drowsy beauty, born of sleep,<br /> - —Vast as the sea, as changing and as deep.<br /> - In thanksgiving for shelt'ring summer skies<br /> - Still, far away, a fervent red light glows.<br /> - Small winds brush past against our lips and eyes,<br /> - Caress them like a laughing summer rose,<br /> - And rainbow moths flit by, in circling flight.<br /> - A harp sobs out its crystal syruppings;<br /> - Faintly it sounds, as the poor petal-wings,<br /> - Fragile yet radiant, of a butterfly<br /> - Beating against the barriers of night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then from the Ocean came the Syren song,<br /> - Heavy with perfume, yet faint as a sigh,<br /> - Kissing our minds, and changing right from wrong;<br /> - Chaining our limbs; making our bodies seem<br /> - Inert and spellbound, dead as in a dream.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Bound by the silver fetters of your voice<br /> - To this new slavery of dreams,<br /> - We, listening, rejoice.<br /> - The magic strains<br /> - Swell in this darkness star-devoid.<br /> - The music streams<br /> - Upon the world in patterns passionate yet clear,<br /> - And stains<br /> - Each soul. The mind, decoyed<br /> - By thoughts that grind and tear<br /> - Away old values,<br /> - Is sent down other thoughts<br /> - So subtly swift,<br /> - That in their fleeting passage<br /> - They can cut adrift our souls<br /> - Upon a sea of wonder and of fear.<br /> - Within the arid minds of men<br /> - This music sounds but once, for then<br /> - They hear no other song.<br /> - In it, tumultuous rush of wings,<br /> - The glamour of old lovely things<br /> - In deserts buried long,<br /> - The grace of beasts that bound and leap<br /> - With movements blithe and strong<br /> - —Of those that creep<br /> - Away in hissing-reptile rage—<br /> - All these, all these are found.<br /> - They hear<br /> - The secrets, solved, of each dead age,<br /> - Each mystery is clear.<br /> - For in this music's flow, the din<br /> - Of spheres that tear and speed and spin<br /> - Through pulsing space is heard,<br /> - And all things men have loved and feared<br /> - Are mirror'd in each sound.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="song"></a> - SONG<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Our hidden voices, wreathed with love's soft flowers,<br /> - Wind-toss'd thro' valleys, tremble across seas<br /> - To turbann'd cities; touch tall lonely towers,<br /> - Call to you thro' the sky, the wind, the trees.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Misted and golden as the hanging moon,<br /> - That like a summer fruit floats from the sky,<br /> - Thrills out our distant age-enchanted tune,<br /> - —Nor will it let you pass our beauty by.<br /> - But if it should not reach to stir your mind,<br /> - Then hold a summer rose against the ear,<br /> - Till through its crimson sweetness you can hear<br /> - The falling flow of rhythm—so designed<br /> - That from this secret island, like a star<br /> - Shining above a shrouded world, our song<br /> - Cleaves through the darkest night and echoes long,<br /> - Bidding you follow whether near or far.<br /> - Come hither where the mermaids churn the foam,<br /> - Lashing their tails across the calm, or dive<br /> - To groves and gardens of bright flowers; then roam<br /> - Beneath the shade of stone-branched trees, or drive<br /> - Some slow sea-monster to its musselled home.<br /> - Here, as a ladder, they climb up and down<br /> - The rainbow's steep refracted steps of light,<br /> - Till, when the dusk sends down its rippling frown,<br /> - They quiver back to us in silver flight.<br /> - The moon sails down once more; our mermaids bring<br /> - Rich gifts of ocean fruit. Again we sing.<br /> - Enchantment, love, vague fear, and memories<br /> - That cling about us like the fumes of wine<br /> - With myriad love-enhancing mysteries<br /> - We pour out in one song—intense—divine,<br /> - Down the deep moonlit chasms of the waves<br /> - Our song floats on the opiate breeze. Why seek<br /> - To goad your carven galleys, fast-bound slaves<br /> - Who search each sweeping line of bay and creek,<br /> - Only to stagger on a hidden rock, or find<br /> - The limp dead sails swept off by sudden wind?<br /> - Thus always you must search the cruel sea,<br /> - For if you find us mankind shall be free!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But when you sleep we grasp you by the hand,<br /> - And to the trickling honey of the flute<br /> - We lead you to a distant shimmering land<br /> - Where lotus-eaters munch their golden fruit,<br /> - Then fall upon the fields of summer flowers<br /> - In drunken sunlit slumber, while a fawn<br /> - Prances and dances round them.<br /> - Oh, those hours<br /> - When through the crystal valleys of the dawn<br /> - Down from the haunted forests of the night<br /> - There dash the dew-drenched centaurs on their way,<br /> - Mad with the sudden rush of golden light<br /> - —Affright the lotus-eaters, as they sway<br /> - Towards the woodlands in a stumbling flight.<br /> - In these deep groves we follow through the cool<br /> - Shadow of high columnar trees, to find<br /> - The fallen sky within a forest pool<br /> - That's faintly veiled and fretted by a wind,<br /> - Lest our white flashing limbs should turn you blind.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As the sweet sound of bells that fall and fade<br /> - In watery circles on the verge of night,<br /> - So rounded ripples spread beneath the shade<br /> - Of flowing branches dripping with green light.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus do we wander; but when day is spent<br /> - We grope our way thro' vast tall palaces,<br /> - Palaces sinister and somnolent,<br /> - Where lurk dim fears and unknown menaces.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - These high pale walls and this pale shining floor<br /> - Seem built of bones, by ages planed and ground<br /> - To a white smoothness.<br /> - On this rock-bound shore<br /> - The bodies of dead sailors oft are found.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - These sombre arches pierce the sullen sky.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - These pillars are the pillars of the night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Of what avail your strife and agony?<br /> - Why seek to search and struggle for the light?<br /> - Our music chains you: binds your limbs from flight.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="prospect"></a> - PROSPECT ROAD<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Gigantic houses, tattered by all time,<br /> - Raise their immense and ruined bulk and height<br /> - In one unending universal street,<br /> - Against a strange and sunken yellow sky<br /> - —Like sunset trickling through into the sea,<br /> - Down to the depths—yellow and grey and green.<br /> - Blind windows face the interminable road;<br /> - Innumerable those windows seem to stretch<br /> - All smeared and stained and stamped with time and blood,<br /> - —Stains that seem faces—horrid twitching masks<br /> - Moving their lewd derisive lips and tongues,<br /> - Spitting out treacheries with vampire lips—<br /> - Or eyes that gaze from far blank-stretching walls<br /> - —The tortured eyes of those who see their death<br /> - Approaching æon-by-æon along this road.<br /> - Behind the walls sound voices whispering<br /> - Of dire and hidden, carefully hidden, thoughts—<br /> - Cruel, wicked and unfathomable things<br /> - That lie behind this infamy of stone.<br /> - Then clamour, shrieking voices, or a pause<br /> - That falls like lead through the suspended air;<br /> - Broken by laughter—rending piercing sounds<br /> - That seem to tear the fabric of our minds.<br /> - Slinking along these wicked, stricken walls,<br /> - I reached a shining distant point of light.<br /> - And glory came—vast and unending light,<br /> - Rays—flashing, writhing rays of light.<br /> - And then the music sounded. Ah, that sound!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Cadences rose and fell unendingly—<br /> - Quivering, shining waves of sound and sight—<br /> - Sounds of the universe—the cries of space<br /> - And planets tumbling wildly round our world<br /> - —Showing the meaning of the meaningless.<br /> - "God and eternity"—strange flashing sounds<br /> - The whirl of time, "Melchisedec"—"Glory of God"<br /> - And space—the universe—like framing words—<br /> - "Gog and Magog"—"Infinity"—the rush of waters<br /> - And the sky comes down.<br /> - Down with the splintering stars.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 1916-1919.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="book2"></a></p> - -<h2> - BOOK II -<br /> - GREEN FLY<br /> -</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="warhorses"></a> - WAR-HORSES<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - How they come out<br /> - —These Septuagenarian Butterflies—<br /> - After resting<br /> - For four years!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Surely they are more spirited<br /> - Than ever?<br /> - Their enamelled wings<br /> - Are rusty with waiting<br /> - —Their eyelids<br /> - Sag a little<br /> - Like those of a bloodhound;<br /> - But they swim gaily into the limelight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh, these war-horses!<br /> - They have seen it through.<br /> - Theirs has been a splendid part!<br /> - The waiting—the weariness!<br /> - For the Queens of Sheba<br /> - Are used to courts and feasting;<br /> - But for four years<br /> - Platitudes have remained<br /> - Uncoined,<br /> - For there have been few parties<br /> - And only<br /> - Three stout meals<br /> - A day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now<br /> - They have come out.<br /> - They have preened<br /> - And dried themselves<br /> - After their blood-bath.<br /> - Old men seem a little younger,<br /> - And tortoise-shell combs<br /> - Are longer than ever;<br /> - Earrings weigh down aged ears;<br /> - And Golconda has given them of its best.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They have seen it through!<br /> - Theirs is the triumph,<br /> - And, beneath<br /> - The carved smile of the Mona Lisa<br /> - False teeth,<br /> - Rattle<br /> - Like machine guns,<br /> - In anticipation<br /> - Of food and platitudes.<br /> - Les Veilles Dames Sans Merci!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="churchparade"></a> - CHURCH-PARADE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The flattened sea is harsh and blue—<br /> - Lies stiff beneath—one tone, one hue,<br /> - While concertina waves unfold<br /> - The painted shimmering sands of gold.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Each bird that whirls and wheels on high<br /> - Must strangle, stifle in, its cry,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For nothing that's of Nature born<br /> - Should seem so on the Sabbath morn.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The terrace glitters hard and white,<br /> - Bedaubed and flecked with points of light<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - That flicker at the passers-by—<br /> - Reproachful as a curate's eye.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And china flowers, in steel-bound beds,<br /> - Flare out in blues and flaming reds;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Each blossom, rich and opulent,<br /> - Stands like a soldier; and its scent<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Is turned to camphor in the air.<br /> - No breath of wind would ever dare<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To make the trees' plump branches sway,<br /> - Whose thick green leaves hang down to pray.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The stiff, tall churches vomit out<br /> - Their rustling masses of devout,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Tall churches whose stained Gothic night<br /> - Refuses to receive the light!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Watch how the stately walk along<br /> - Toward the terrace, join the throng<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - That paces carefully up and down<br /> - Above a cut-out cardboard town!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With prayer-book rigid in each hand,<br /> - They look below at sea and sand.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The round contentment in their eyes<br /> - Betrays their favourite fond surmise,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - That all successful at a trade<br /> - Shall tread an eternal Church-Parade,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And every soul that's sleek and fat<br /> - Shall gain a heavenly top-hat.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From out the Church's Gothic night,<br /> - Past beds of blossoms china-bright,<br /> - Beneath the green trees' porous shade,<br /> - We watch the sea-side Church-Parade.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="mrskinfoot"></a> - AT THE HOUSE OF MRS. KINFOOT<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - At the house of Mrs. Kinfoot<br /> - Are collected<br /> - Men and women<br /> - Of all ages.<br /> - They are supposed<br /> - To sing, paint, or to play the piano.<br /> - In the drawing-room<br /> - The fireplace is set<br /> - With green tiles<br /> - Of an acanthus pattern.<br /> - The black curls of Mrs. Kinfoot<br /> - Are symmetrical.<br /> - —Descended, it is said,<br /> - From the Kings of Ethiopia—<br /> - But the British bourgeoisie has triumphed.<br /> - Mr. Kinfoot is bald<br /> - And talks<br /> - In front of the fireplace<br /> - With his head on one side,<br /> - And his right hand<br /> - In his pocket.<br /> - The joy of catching tame elephants,<br /> - And finding them to be white ones,<br /> - Still gleams from the jungle-eyes<br /> - Of Mrs. Kinfoot,<br /> - But her mind is no jungle<br /> - Of Ethiopia,<br /> - But a sound British meadow.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Listen then to the gospel of Mrs. Kinfoot:<br /> - "The world was made for the British bourgeoisie,<br /> - They are its Swiss Family Robinson;<br /> - The world is not what it was.<br /> - We cannot understand all this unrest!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Adam and Eve were born to evening dress<br /> - In the southern confines<br /> - Of Belgravia.<br /> - Eve was very artistic, and all that,<br /> - And felt the fall<br /> - Quite dreadfully.<br /> - Cain was such a man of the world<br /> - And belonged to every club in London;<br /> - His father simply adored him,<br /> - —But had never really liked Abel,<br /> - Who was rather a milk-sop.<br /> - Nothing exists which the British bourgeoisie<br /> - Does not understand;<br /> - Therefore there is no death<br /> - —And, of course, no life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The British bourgeoisie<br /> - Is not born,<br /> - And does not die,<br /> - But, if it is ill,<br /> - It has a frightened look in its eyes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The War was splendid, wasn't it?<br /> - Oh yes, splendid, splendid."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Mrs. Kinfoot is a dear,<br /> - And so artistic.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="greenfly"></a> - GREEN-FLY<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="t3b"> - I.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Like ninepins houses stand up square<br /> - In lines; their windows mouths to bite<br /> - At servants, who lean out to stare<br /> - At anything that moves in sight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where once was green-limbed tree or ledge<br /> - Of greener moss or flowery lane,<br /> - Set back behind a private hedge<br /> - Each house repeats itself again.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Each house repeats itself again,<br /> - But smaller still and yet more dry;<br /> - For—just as those who live within—<br /> - So have these houses progeny.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Throughout each dusty endless year,<br /> - Whose days seem merely wet or fine,<br /> - These children constantly appear<br /> - In an unending dusty line.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As, on a rose that is ill-grown<br /> - Nature, insulted and defied,<br /> - Showers down a blight, so sends she down<br /> - On houses, those who live inside.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - II.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Within each high, well-papered room,<br /> - Compressed, all darkness lay,<br /> - Darkness of night, and crypt, and tomb,<br /> - Nor ever entered day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But through the endless black there crept,<br /> - With groping hand and groping thought,<br /> - With eyes that blinked, but never wept,<br /> - And minds that fell, but never fought,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The wonderless, the hard, the nice,<br /> - Who scurry at a ray of light,<br /> - Then, like a flock of frightened mice,<br /> - Career back into night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From out this damning dreadful dark<br /> - (While history, thundering, rolls by)<br /> - They wait for an anæmic lark<br /> - To sing from weak blue sky.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Or if a dog is hurt, why then<br /> - They see the evil, and they cry.<br /> - But yet they watch ten million men<br /> - Go out to end in agony!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Their own strange God they have set up,<br /> - Of clay, of iron, and mothéd hide;<br /> - Whose eyes, each convex as a cup,<br /> - Reflect the herd endeified.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Their twisted feet in boots He made<br /> - To walk the narrow asphalt way,<br /> - And gave each room a curtain's shade<br /> - To muffle out the light of day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For this God understands their need;<br /> - Created lids for each pale eye;<br /> - He sculped each mouth to say "Agreed,"<br /> - And gives them coffins if they die.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When, if for punishment they go<br /> - To other lands, why, it should be<br /> - The judgment that, down there below,<br /> - They see this world as they might see!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A world of contrast, shade and light—<br /> - Clashing romance and cruelty,<br /> - But stricken with the dreadful blight<br /> - Of fear to feel and fear to cry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where for a moment lives are filled<br /> - With love or hate—where born of pain<br /> - The children grow up—to be killed!<br /> - Where freedom—dead—is born again.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Wherein life's pattern crude and shrill<br /> - Is weft by neither foe nor friend,<br /> - But by some rough colossal will<br /> - Towards some vast invisible end.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But in those houses dark there creep,<br /> - With bodies wrapt in woollen dress,<br /> - With eyes that blink but never weep,<br /> - The sentimental wonderless!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="deluxe"></a> - DE LUXE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="t3b"> - I.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - HYMN.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Above from plaster-mountains,<br /> - Wine-shadowed by the sea,<br /> - Spurt white-wool clouds, as fountains<br /> - Whirl from a rockery.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - These clouds were surely given<br /> - To keep the hills from harm,<br /> - For when a cloud is riven<br /> - The fatted rain falls warm.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Through porous leaves the sun drops<br /> - Each dripping stalactite<br /> - Of green. The chiselled tree-tops<br /> - Seem cut from malachite.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Stiff leaves with ragged edges<br /> - (Each one a wooden sword)<br /> - Are carved to prickly hedges,<br /> - On which, with one accord,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Their clock-work songs of calf-love<br /> - Stout birds stop to recite,<br /> - From cages which the sun wove<br /> - Of shade and latticed light.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Each brittle booth and joy-store<br /> - Shines brightly. Below these<br /> - The ocean at a toy shore<br /> - Yaps like a Pekinese.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - II.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - NURSERY RHYME.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The dusky king of Malabar<br /> - Is chief of Eastern Potentates;<br /> - Yet he wears no clothes except<br /> - The jewels that decency dictates.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A thousand Malabaric wives<br /> - Roam beneath green-tufted palms;<br /> - Revel in the vileness<br /> - That Bishop Heber psalms.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From honey-combs of light and shade<br /> - They stop to watch black bodies dart<br /> - Into the sea to search for pearls.<br /> - By means of diabolic art<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Magicians keep the sharks away;<br /> - Mutter, utter, each dark spell,<br /> - So that if a thief should steal,<br /> - One more black would go to Hell.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But Mrs. Freudenthal, in furs,<br /> - From brioche dreams to mild surprise<br /> - Awakes; the music throbs and purrs.<br /> - The cellist, with albino eyes,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Rivets attention; is, in fact,<br /> - The very climax; pink eyes flash<br /> - Whenever nervous and pain-racked<br /> - He hears the drums and cymbols clash.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Mrs. Freudenthal day-dreams<br /> - —Ice-spoon half-way to her nose—<br /> - Till the girl in ochre screams,<br /> - Hits out at the girl in rose.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - This is not at all the way<br /> - To act in large and smart hotels;<br /> - Angrily the couples sway,<br /> - Eagerly the riot swells.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Girls who cannot act with grace<br /> - Should learn behaviour; stay at home;<br /> - A convent is the proper place.<br /> - Why not join the Church of Rome?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A waiter nearly drops the tray<br /> - —Twenty tea-cups in one hand.<br /> - Now the band joins in the fray,<br /> - Fighting for the Promised Land.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Mrs. Freudenthal resents<br /> - The scene; and slowly rustles out,<br /> - But the orchestra relents,<br /> - Waking from its fever bout.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="book3"></a></p> - -<h2> - BOOK III -<br /> - PROMENADES<br /> -</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="nocturne"></a> - NOCTURNE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The valleys that were known in sunlit hours<br /> - Are vast and vague as seas;<br /> - Wan as the blackthorn flowers<br /> - That quiver in the first spring-scented breeze:<br /> - Far as the frosted hollows of the moon.<br /> - The sighing woods are still—<br /> - Wrapp'd in their age-long boon<br /> - Of mystery and sleep. A naked hill,<br /> - Loud and discordant, looms against the sky,<br /> - And little lights like stars<br /> - Break the monotony<br /> - Of blue and silver, black and grey. Strange bars<br /> - Of light resemble silver masks, and leer<br /> - Across the forest lane.<br /> - Tall nettles, rank from rain,<br /> - Scent all the woods with some ancestral fear.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Trees rustle by the water. A voice sings<br /> - Faintly, to ward off fright.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The water breathes pale rings<br /> - Of sad, wan light;<br /> - Faintly they grow,<br /> - Then merge into the night:<br /> - The last poor twisted echo takes to flight.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>To</i> W. H. DAVIES.<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="catcher"></a> - THE LAMENT OF THE MOLE-CATCHER<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - An old, sad man who catches moles<br /> - Went lonely down the lane—<br /> - All lily-green were the lanes and knolls,<br /> - But sorrow numbed his brain.<br /> - He paid no heed to flower or weed<br /> - As he went his lonely way.<br /> - No note he heard from any bird<br /> - That sang, that sad spring day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "I trap'd the moles for forty years<br /> - Who could not see the sky,<br /> - I reckoned not blind blood or tears,<br /> - And the Lord has seen them die.<br /> - For forty years I've sought to slay<br /> - The small, the dumb, the blind,<br /> - But now the Lord has made me pay,<br /> - And I am like their kind.<br /> - I cannot see or lane or hill,<br /> - Or flower or bird or moon;<br /> - Lest life shall lay me lower still,<br /> - O Lord—come take it soon."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="beginning"></a> - THE BEGINNING<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Great spheres of fire, to which the sun is nought,<br /> - Pass thund'ring round our world. A golden mist—<br /> - The margin to the universe—falls round<br /> - The verges of our vision. Rocks ablaze<br /> - Leap upward to the sun, or fall beneath<br /> - The rush of our rapidity, that seems<br /> - Catastrophy, and not the joyous birth<br /> - Of yet another star. The air is full<br /> - Of clashing colour, full of sights and sounds<br /> - Too plain and loud for men to heed or hear,<br /> - The cosmic cries of pain that follow birth:<br /> - A multi-coloured world.<br /> - The scorching heat<br /> - Surpasses all the equatorial days:<br /> - Steam rises from the surface of the sea.<br /> - Gigantic rainbow mists resemble forms<br /> - That bring to mind strange elemental sprites<br /> - Exulting in the chaos of creation.<br /> - They glide above the tumult-ridden sea<br /> - Which now is shaken as are autumn leaves;<br /> - Great hollows open and reveal its depths—<br /> - Devoid of any form of life or death.<br /> - Till wave on wave it gathers strength again<br /> - And shakes a mountain, splits it to the base<br /> - (Still weak from struggle as a new-born babe).<br /> - Then night comes on, and shows the flaming path<br /> - Of all the rocks that vainly seek the sun.<br /> - Broad as the arch of space, a myriad moons<br /> - Sail slowly by the sea; the glowing world<br /> - Shows up the pallor of their ivory.<br /> - The din grows greater from the universe:<br /> - There rises up the smell of fire and iron,—<br /> - Not dreary like the smell of burnt-out things,<br /> - But like the smell of some gigantic forge—<br /> - Cheerful, of good intent, and full of life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now all the joyous cries of sea and earth,<br /> - The universal harmonies of birth,<br /> - Rise up to haunt the slumber of their God.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="theend"></a> - THE END<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Round the great ruins crawl those things of slime<br /> - Green ruins lichenous and scarred by moss—<br /> - An evil lichen that proclaims world doom,<br /> - Like blood dried brown upon a dead man's face.<br /> - And nothing moves save those monstrosities,<br /> - Armoured and grey, and of a monster size.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now, a thing passed through the cloying air<br /> - With flap and clatter of its scaly wings—<br /> - As if the whole world echoed from some storm.<br /> - One scarce could see it in the dim green light<br /> - Till suddenly it swooped and made a dart<br /> - And brushed away one of those things of slime,<br /> - Just as a hawk might sweep upon its prey.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It seems as if the light grows dimmer yet—<br /> - No radiance from the dreadful green above,<br /> - Only a lustrous light or iridescence<br /> - As if from off a carrion-fly,—surrounds<br /> - That vegetation which is never touched<br /> - By any breeze. The air is thick, and brings<br /> - The tainted subtle sweetness of decay.<br /> - Where, yonder, lies the noisome river-course,<br /> - There shows a faintly phosphorescent glow.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Long writhing bodies fall and twist and rise,<br /> - And one can hear them playing in the mud.<br /> - Upon the ruined walls there gleam and shine<br /> - The track of those grey vast monstrosities—<br /> - As some gigantic snail had crawled along.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - All round the shining bushes waver lines<br /> - Suggesting shadows, slight and grey, but full<br /> - Of that which makes one nigh to dead with fear.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Watch how those awful shadows culminate<br /> - And dance in one long wish to hurt the world.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A world that now is past all agony!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="fountains"></a> - FOUNTAINS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - "The graven fountain-masks suffer and weep.<br /> - Carved with a smile, the poor mouths clutch<br /> - At a half-remembered song,<br /> - Striving to forget the agony of ever laughing."<br /> - SACHEVERELL SITWELL.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - Some fountains sing of love<br /> - In full and flute-like notes that charge the night<br /> - With all the red-mouthed essence of the rose;<br /> - Then turn to voices murmuring above,<br /> - Among the trees,<br /> - Of hidden sweet delight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Another fountain flows<br /> - With the faint music of a first spring breeze;<br /> - Each falling drop is jewelled by the moon<br /> - To some fine luminous ecstasy of light.<br /> - It sings of noon,<br /> - Of sunlit blossoms on a first spring day<br /> - And all things sweet and pleasant to the sight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Another fountain sings<br /> - Of the cool pleasures of those moonlit hours<br /> - When dappled sylvan things<br /> - Trample through thickets and through secret bowers<br /> - To prance and play,<br /> - Or, squatting round in rings,<br /> - To wreathe their horned heads with wan sweet flowers<br /> - Till dawn comes grey and sweeps them to the wood.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Another fountain sobs<br /> - Its song of passions that have passed away.<br /> - Then with a sound like threatening rolling drums, it throbs<br /> - And bursts into a flood<br /> - Of fierce wild music; and its savage spray<br /> - Becomes the blood<br /> - Renewed, of crimes long past.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Another fountain sings its song of fear,<br /> - Of rustics flying fast<br /> - Before some foe—<br /> - A deadly, unknown foe that comes so near<br /> - They feel his panting breath,<br /> - And run for many a lengthy, panic mile.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Those graven fountain-masks are white with woe!<br /> - Carved with a happy smile<br /> - They strive to weep...<br /> - End their eternal laughing—for awhile<br /> - To lose themselves in sleep<br /> - Or in the silver peacefulness of death.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="songfauns"></a> - SONG OF THE FAUNS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - When the woods are white beneath the moon<br /> - And grass is wet with crystal dew,<br /> - When in the pool<br /> - So clear and cool<br /> - The moon reflects itself anew,<br /> - We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon,<br /> - We shake away<br /> - The sleep of day,<br /> - Out from our bosky homes we spring;<br /> - Horns wreathed with flowers,<br /> - Throughout the hours<br /> - Of moonlight, worshipping we sing.<br /> - Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan light<br /> - Looks down upon us worshipping—<br /> - Each dappled faun<br /> - Who shuns the dawn,<br /> - Is here, and rarest gifts we bring—<br /> - The feathers of the birds of night<br /> - Wrought to a crown<br /> - Of softest down<br /> - We offer you, and crystal bright,<br /> - The dew within a lily cup<br /> - Reflecting stars<br /> - In shining bars;<br /> - All things most strange we offer up—<br /> - Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowers<br /> - To place within your secret bowers.<br /> - We shake down apples from the trees,<br /> - And pears, and plums with velvet skin;<br /> - Up to the sky<br /> - We cast these high<br /> - And pray you'll stoop to net them in.<br /> - We dance: then fall upon our knees<br /> - And pray and sing—all this to show<br /> - The love that all loyal fauns must owe<br /> - To you, white goddess of the night.<br /> - But no more play,<br /> - We must away,<br /> - The eastern sky is growing bright.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="cruelty"></a> - "A SCULPTOR'S CRUELTY"<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The faun runs through the forest of the noon,<br /> - Then leaps into some lovely shrouded glade<br /> - Splashed with hot light. He dances in the shade<br /> - Of tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoon<br /> - Beneath their weight of green. No breath of air<br /> - Ruffles the vivid blossom or the moss<br /> - On which he pirouettes, all is so fair!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - He leaps about; then, tired and at a loss<br /> - For what to do, he roams the wood—espies<br /> - A figure like himself—but stiff and grey!<br /> - Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighs<br /> - That are his pride. "But surely this can play<br /> - And scamper, dance and snuffle through the day<br /> - As well as me?" So he comes near and eyes<br /> - The lichened features of a faun of stone.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Oh! it is sad to be so young—alone!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="pierrotold"></a> - PIERROT OLD -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The harvest moon is at its height,<br /> - The evening primrose greets its light<br /> - With grace and joy: then opens up<br /> - The mimic moon within its cup.<br /> - Tall trees, as high as Babel tower,<br /> - Throw down their shadows to the flower—<br /> - Shadows that shiver—seem to see<br /> - An ending to infinity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Pagan Pan has now unbent<br /> - And stoops to sniff the night-stock scent<br /> - That brings a memory sad and old,<br /> - When he was young, and free, and bold,<br /> - To play his pipe in forests black,<br /> - Or follow in some goatherd's track<br /> - Who, fill'd with panic fear, then flees<br /> - Through all the terror-threatening trees.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Huge silver moths, like ghosts of flowers,<br /> - Hover about the warm dark bowers,<br /> - And wait to breathe the lime-tree scent<br /> - That perfum'd many a compliment<br /> - Address'd to beauties young and gay,<br /> - Their faces powdered by the ray<br /> - Of that same moon that looks upon<br /> - Their dreary lichen-cover'd tomb.<br /> - The dryads throw their water wide<br /> - And strive to stem the surging tide<br /> - That dashes up the fountain base,<br /> - Hoping to catch the moon's pale face—<br /> - A game now played without a score<br /> - For three good centuries or more.<br /> - And all the earth smells warm and sweet<br /> - —A fitting place for fairy feet.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now a figure white and frail<br /> - Leaps out into the moonlight pale.<br /> - From wakeful thoughts, old age and grief,<br /> - He finds in this strange world relief.<br /> - Yet all the shadow, scent and sound,<br /> - Poor Pierrot's mind do sad confound.<br /> - Watch how he dances to the moon<br /> - While singing some faint fragrant tune!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But Pierrot now is tired and sad<br /> - —Remembers all the evenings mad<br /> - He spent with that fantastic band<br /> - So gaily wand'ring o'er the land.<br /> - They all are dead—and at an end,<br /> - And he is left without a friend.<br /> - For tho' the hours can pass away,<br /> - Poor Pierrot still must grieve and stay.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Upon the dewy grass he lies:<br /> - The perfumes stir strange memories.<br /> - Once more he hears a laughing cry<br /> - That brings great tear-drops to his eye.<br /> - That step—that look—that voice—that smile.<br /> - Ah! they've been buried a long while!<br /> - And who's the man in pantaloons,<br /> - And he who sings such festive tunes?<br /> - Why, it's that laughing man of sin,<br /> - That roguish rascal Harlequin!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Forgiving Pierrot hides his head<br /> - Deep in the grass and mourns the dead;<br /> - Forgetting all the pranks they play'd,<br /> - And how he was himself betray'd.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The butterfly lives but one day,<br /> - But Pierrot still seems doom'd to stay.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - He falls asleep there, tragic-white,<br /> - And wakes to find the bleak daylight.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="night"></a> - NIGHT<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - All the dim terrors dwelling far below,<br /> - Interr'd by many thousand years of life,<br /> - Arise to revel in this evil dark:<br /> - The wail forlorn of dogs that mourn for men—<br /> - A shuffling footfall on a creaking board,<br /> - The handle of a door that shakes and turns—<br /> - A door that opens slightly, not enough:<br /> - The rustling sigh of silk along a floor,<br /> - The knowledge of being watched by one long dead,<br /> - By something that is outside Nature's pale.<br /> - The unheard sounds that haunt an ancient house:<br /> - The feel of one who listens in the dark,<br /> - Listens to that which happened long ago,<br /> - Or what will happen after we are dust.<br /> - The awful waiting for a near event,<br /> - Or for a crash to rend the silence deep<br /> - Enveloping a house that always waits—<br /> - A house that whispers to itself and weeps.<br /> - The murmur of the yew, or woodland cries,<br /> - A sombre note of music on the breeze;<br /> - A shudder from the ivy that entwines<br /> - The horror that is felt within its grip.<br /> - The sound of prowling things that walk abroad,<br /> - The nauseous flapping of Night's bat-like wings—<br /> - These are the signs the gods have given us<br /> - To know the limit of our days and powers.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>To</i> MARGARET GREVILLE<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="carcassonne"></a> - FROM CARCASSONNE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="t3b"> - I<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now night,<br /> - The sighing night,<br /> - Descends to hide and heal<br /> - The crimson wounds<br /> - Ripped in the sky,<br /> - Where the high helmet-towers<br /> - (With clouds as streaming feathers)<br /> - Have torn the Heavens<br /> - In their incessant sunset battle.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Below,<br /> - Upon the mound,<br /> - Small golden flowers<br /> - Release their daylight slowly<br /> - At the Night's behest,<br /> - Till they become pale discs<br /> - That quiver<br /> - When the evening wind<br /> - Draws his thin fingers<br /> - Down the dew-drenched grass<br /> - —As an old harper,<br /> - Who awakes<br /> - From drunken sunlit slumber,<br /> - Blindly plucks<br /> - His silver-sounding strings,<br /> - Making the sound<br /> - That, further, darker down<br /> - The trees make,<br /> - When they draw back<br /> - Their upturned leaves<br /> - In fountain-foaming hurry.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - II<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The curling, hump-backed dolphins,<br /> - Drunk with purple fumes<br /> - Of wine-stained sunset,<br /> - Plunge through the wider waters of the night—<br /> - Waters that well down every narrow street<br /> - In darkening billows,<br /> - Till they become quiet, full—<br /> - Canals that, mirror-like,<br /> - Reflect each sound<br /> - Of snarling song<br /> - In all the town.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And as the dolphins dive<br /> - There splashes back<br /> - Upon their goat-eared riders,<br /> - Dislodged in sudden fury,<br /> - The foaming froth of summer-cooling winds<br /> - —Issuing from where the northern trees<br /> - Bellow their resined breath<br /> - Across the seas<br /> - To ripple through far fields<br /> - Of twilight flowers—<br /> - Sweeping across<br /> - To where these old high towers<br /> - Of Carcassonne<br /> - Still stand to break their flow.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Neptune, from his high pedestal,<br /> - Can watch the waters of the night<br /> - Rise, further, further,<br /> - And the faun-riders sink below<br /> - The conquering, cool tide.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="progress"></a> - PROGRESS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The city's heat is like a leaden pall—<br /> - Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air<br /> - Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare<br /> - Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall<br /> - Black houses crush the creeping beggars down,<br /> - Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool,<br /> - Of silver bodies bathing in a pool,<br /> - Or trees that whisper in some far, small town<br /> - Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold<br /> - Was merely metal, not a grave of mould<br /> - In which men bury all that's fine and fair.<br /> - When they could chase the jewelled butterfly<br /> - Through the green bracken-scented lanes, or sigh<br /> - For all the future held so rich and rare;<br /> - When, though they knew it not, their baby cries<br /> - Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="prodigal"></a> - THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - I lay awake in that dim room of fear<br /> - Which seemed to hold the essence of the night,<br /> - Clutched in the grip of its tall sentient walls:<br /> - Dark walls and high, that stretch for ever up—<br /> - Up to the darkness, vague and menacing,<br /> - As if no light could ever penetrate<br /> - That mist of shadows, only cast a gloom<br /> - More cavernous upon the atmosphere<br /> - That seems to thicken into cloudy shapes,<br /> - Substantiate—then disappear and die.<br /> - And all the room is full of whisperings;<br /> - Of moving things that hope I do not heed;<br /> - And sudden gusts of wind blow cold upon<br /> - My head, lifting the heavy mantle of the air,<br /> - Revealing for an instant some vague thought<br /> - Snatched from the haunting lumberland of dreams.<br /> - Far in the distance, from the open night,<br /> - Sounds an insistent hooting from the wood;<br /> - The owl is calling to its kindred things.<br /> - The bat emits its sinful piercing note—<br /> - So high one cannot hear it, only feel<br /> - The rhythm beat within the shrinking ear.<br /> - A faint breeze blows in from the countryside,<br /> - Rustling the curtains with the forest's breath,<br /> - Stirring the grass of many an unknown tomb,<br /> - Some new—some immemorably old,<br /> - Whose dwellers never heard an owl at night,<br /> - Only the reptile sounds and beating wings<br /> - Of some forefather of that bird of night—<br /> - Some flapping scaly monster with huge wings.<br /> - Then, sudden, through the rustling of the room<br /> - Silence shrills out its startling trumpet call<br /> - Of terror, and the house is frozen still.<br /> - Despair dropp'd down like rain upon my heart,<br /> - Catching my breath and clutching at my throat.<br /> - Fear magnified my senses, and my brain<br /> - Could hear beyond the threshold of this world.<br /> - Then through the threatening silence of the house,<br /> - The silent waiting for the coming play—<br /> - There came that halting well-remembered tread,<br /> - The dreadful limp, and dragging of the feet,<br /> - That cruel sin-white face looked through the door!<br /> - And in my scream—that rent the trembling air,<br /> - Reaching the woods and tainting them with death,<br /> - Filling the fountain with strange ripplings<br /> - That make the moon's reflection but a mask<br /> - Like to that face of shame—my soul passed out—<br /> - Out of my ashen lips, to find its end.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="london"></a> - LONDON SQUARES<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - To-night this city seems delirious. The air<br /> - Is fever'd, hot and heavy—yet each street,<br /> - Each tortuous lane and slumb'ring stone-bound square<br /> - Smells of the open woods, so wild and sweet.<br /> - Through the dim spaces, where each town-bred tree<br /> - Sweeps out, mysterious and tall and still,<br /> - The country's passionate spirit—old and free—<br /> - Flings off the fetters of the calm and chill.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - There in the garden, fauns leap out and sing—<br /> - Chant those strange sun-born songs from far away!<br /> - With joyous ecstasy in this new spring,<br /> - They cast the coats and top-hats of the day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - There by the railings, where the women pace<br /> - With painted faces, passionless and dead,<br /> - Out of the dark, Pan shows his leering face,<br /> - Mocks their large hats and faces painted red.<br /> - Then as they walk away, he mocks their lives,<br /> - Racking each wearied soul with lost desires,<br /> - And—cruelty more subtle—he contrives<br /> - With aching memories of love's first fires<br /> - To tune their hearts up to a different key.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So, when they sleep, the withered years unfold<br /> - —Again, as children round a mother's knee<br /> - They listen to their future as foretold<br /> - —A future rich and innocent and gay.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then wake up to the agony of day!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="tears"></a> - TEARS -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night,<br /> - Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh<br /> - For their past vivid vernal ecstasy.<br /> - The branches and the leaves let in the light<br /> - In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky<br /> - —Create mysterious Gothic tracery<br /> - Between those high dark pillars, that affright<br /> - Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain<br /> - Making each frail tired sigh a sob of pain;<br /> - Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tear<br /> - Such as are shed by Pierrots when they fear<br /> - Black clouds may crush their silver lord to death.<br /> - The world is waxen; and the wind's least breath<br /> - Would make a hurricane of sound. The earth<br /> - Smells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birth<br /> - To the gold-glowing radiance of that leaf<br /> - Which falls to bury from our sight its grief.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>To</i> VIOLET GORDON-WOODHOUSE<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="clavichords"></a> - CLAVICHORDS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Its pure and dulcet tone<br /> - So clear and cool<br /> - Rings out—tho' muffled by the centuries<br /> - Passed by;<br /> - Each note<br /> - A distant sigh<br /> - From some dead lovely throat.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A sad cascade of sound<br /> - Floods the dim room with faded memories<br /> - Of beauty that has gone<br /> - Like the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool,<br /> - Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground)—<br /> - Like moonlit skies<br /> - Or some far song harmonious and sublime—<br /> - Breaking the leaden slumber of the night.<br /> - A perfume, faint yet fair<br /> - As of an old press'd blossom that's reborn<br /> - Seeming to flower alone<br /> - Within the arid wilderness of Time.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The music fills the air<br /> - Soft as the outspread fluttering wings<br /> - Of flower-bright butterflies<br /> - That dive and float<br /> - Through the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer dawn.<br /> - The rippling sound of silver strings<br /> - Break o'er our senses as small foaming waves<br /> - Break over rocks,<br /> - And into hidden caves<br /> - Of silent waters—never to be found—<br /> - Waters as clear and glistening as gems.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And in this ancient pool of melodies,<br /> - So soothing, deep,<br /> - We search for strange lost images and diadems<br /> - And old drowned pleasures,<br /> - —Each one shining bright<br /> - And rescued from the crystal depths of sleep.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat,<br /> - Blown by a salt cool breeze,<br /> - —Laden with age-old treasures<br /> - And rich merchandise—<br /> - Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas—<br /> - So this last glowing note<br /> - Hovers awhile—then dies.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="promenades"></a> - PROMENADES<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Long promenades against the sea<br /> - Kaleidoscopic, chattering!<br /> - Pavilions rising from the sea,<br /> - On which a fawning, flattering,<br /> - Hot crush of orientals move,<br /> - And sell their cheap and tawdry wares,<br /> - To other Jews, and aldermen,<br /> - And rich, retired, provincial mayors.<br /> - Oh! many colours in the sun;<br /> - Copper and gold predominate!<br /> - Parasols, held 'gainst the sun<br /> - Throw down their shadows incohate<br /> - On leering faces looking sly—<br /> - All shining with the heat of June.<br /> - The shifting masses move and talk<br /> - And whistle tunes all out of tune.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Long promenades against the sea,<br /> - And oranges and mandolines!<br /> - Pavilions rising from the sea<br /> - And penny-in-the-slot machines!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="clownpondi"></a> - CLOWN PONDI<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - When youth and strength had changed my blood to fire<br /> - And every day passed long and glorious,<br /> - Another link in the eternal chain<br /> - Of life, I turned my love of luring and my sense<br /> - For all the unfathomable ways of God,<br /> - My burning sense for laughter and my joy<br /> - In crowds, in tumult, and in blazing lights,<br /> - To make my fellows see these qualities.<br /> - Thus I became "Clown Pondi," and my fame<br /> - Grew high in every theatre in the land.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I seem'd to draw fresh vigour from the crowds—<br /> - Loving the sea of faces, eyes with tears,<br /> - And gaping mouths wide open—loosely hung;<br /> - The acrid, opalescent haze of smoke,<br /> - Hanging above the auditorium.<br /> - And over it the crowded galleries<br /> - That float far up, like painted prows of ships—<br /> - All overweighted and alive with men.<br /> - I loved the limelight, hard and white and strong,<br /> - The throbbing music and the theatre's scent,<br /> - That artificial, paper, printed scent<br /> - That sweeps across the footlights to the stalls.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then was I pleased to strut about the stage,<br /> - With face dead white, and strangely purple nose—<br /> - Flamboyant in the garb of foolery—<br /> - To run about too quickly—and fall down;<br /> - To make queer noises—inarticulate<br /> - Strange sounds and oaths, the signal for my share<br /> - Of cackling laughter.<br /> - Thus the years pass'd by<br /> - And—all unheeding—swept away my youth,<br /> - Till, one sad night, I heard a voice near-by:<br /> - "Ah! Poor old man! It's shocking they should laugh;<br /> - Mock his bent legs, and poor old toothless jaws!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And then old-age rush'd down upon my head,<br /> - Each sombre year roll'd past in solemn time;<br /> - In true perspective—to the jingling tune<br /> - That was my exit; and so near came death,<br /> - Holding a mirror to my ridicule,<br /> - That show'd each line beneath the smearing paint,<br /> - Each wrinkle underneath the dab of rouge,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - That in my sudden hopelessness I wept.<br /> - But as I left the stage with dragging feet,<br /> - With body bent with age, and crouching low,<br /> - I heard the applauding people pause and say,<br /> - "Who but Clown Pondi could amuse us so?"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="lausiac"></a> - LAUSIAC THEME<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - SERAPION-THE-SINDONITE<br /> - Wore a cloth about his loins.<br /> - This Christian Recondite<br /> - Never carried coins.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Never did he ask for bread;<br /> - Revelled in his own distress.<br /> - High of spirit, low of head,<br /> - With no other dress<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Than a loin-cloth, Serapion<br /> - Was free from greed and gluttony<br /> - Progressed in the direction<br /> - Of impassivity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Serapion, though ascetic,<br /> - Could not keep within his cell—<br /> - Spiritual athletic,<br /> - Who wrestled with Hell—<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - This Sindonitic holy man<br /> - Converted, overcome by pity,<br /> - Thais, the famous courtesan,<br /> - To Christianity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thais was not thin or frail<br /> - But full of figure. Flesh and blood<br /> - Rose up in riot—made her rail<br /> - At a selfless God.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From Theban windows, far above,<br /> - She plays and sings to a guitar<br /> - With low voice: the light of love<br /> - Beckons like a star.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Eagerly she welcomed in<br /> - The unexpected Sindonite;<br /> - But he spoke to her of sin—<br /> - Set her soul alight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So they went together out<br /> - To the crowded, garish street,<br /> - Where he taught her how to flout<br /> - Fumes of wine and meat.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To the Thebaid they go—<br /> - Where she stands each Christian test,<br /> - Plaiting palm-leaves to and fro,<br /> - Sure of heaven's rest.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In the desert they both died,<br /> - Thais and the holy man.<br /> - They were buried side by side,<br /> - Ascetic and courtesan.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="metamorphosis"></a> - METAMORPHOSIS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The woods that ever love the moon, rest calm and white<br /> - Beneath a mist-wrapp'd hill:<br /> - An owl, horned wizard of the night,<br /> - Flaps through the air so soft and still;<br /> - Moaning, it wings its flight<br /> - Far from the forest cool,<br /> - To find the star-entangled surface of a pool,<br /> - Where it may drink its fill<br /> - Of stars; a blossom-laden breeze<br /> - Scatters its treasures—each a fallen moon<br /> - Among the waiting trees—<br /> - Bears back the faded shadow-scents of noon.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The whispering wood is full of dim, vague fears.<br /> - The rustling branches sway<br /> - And listen for some sound from far away—<br /> - A silver piping down the Pagan years<br /> - Since Time's first joyous birth—<br /> - The listening trees all sigh,<br /> - The moment of their hornèd king is nigh.<br /> - Then, peal on peal, there sounds the fierce wild mirth<br /> - Of Pan their master, lord and king,<br /> - And round him in a moonlit ring<br /> - His court, so wan and sly!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But then the trees closed round and hid from sight<br /> - Their deeds—the voices seemed to die.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - An owl, horned wizard of the night,<br /> - Flaps through the air so soft and still.<br /> - Moans, as it wings its flight<br /> - Toward the mist-wrapp'd hill.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="gipsyqueen"></a> - THE GIPSY QUEEN<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - A ragged Gipsy walked the road,<br /> - Her eyes blazed fierce and strong,<br /> - But she gazed at me as on she strode,<br /> - She fiercely gazed, and long.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Give me a penny, sir," she said,<br /> - "To buy me drink and buy me bread,<br /> - For I've nothing had to eat or drink,<br /> - And at night I never sleep a wink.<br /> - Cold is the snow and wet the rain,<br /> - But my soul died when my love was slain!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Fair Gipsy, in some southern clime,<br /> - I've seen your face before<br /> - In some far other distant time,<br /> - But whom are you weeping for?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "'Twas Antony I loved," she said,<br /> - "For him, in vain, I shed these tears,<br /> - But my loved Antony is dead—<br /> - Is dead these long two thousand years;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then I was mighty Egypt's pride,<br /> - Fear'd both by friend and foe—<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet they believe Cleopatra died<br /> - Two thousand years ago!"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="blackmass"></a> - BLACK MASS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The atmosphere is charged with hidden things<br /> - —Thoughts that are waiting—wanting to revive<br /> - Primeval terrors from their present graves<br /> - —Those half-thoughts hidden from the mind of man.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The fear of those bright, countless stars that shine<br /> - Celestially serene on summer nights,<br /> - —And those, too far for human eye to see—<br /> - That make men feel as small and ill at ease<br /> - As do the thoughts of immortality;<br /> - The fear of seas that stretch beyond our sight<br /> - Unspoilt by any memory of a ship—<br /> - Strange, silent seas that lap the unknown shores<br /> - Of some far-distant, undiscovered land;<br /> - The curious fear of caves and horrid depths<br /> - Where lurk those monsters that we hide away<br /> - And bury in our self-complacency.<br /> - The dread of all that waits unseen, yet heard;<br /> - The fear of moonlight falling on a face;<br /> - The sound of sobs at night, the fear of laughter;<br /> - The misty terror lurking in a wood<br /> - Which night has wrapped in her soft robe of sighs.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The horror that is felt where man is not,<br /> - In lonely lands all dotted with squat trees<br /> - That seem to move in the grey twilight breeze<br /> - —Or sit and watch you like malicious cripples,<br /> - Intent on every movement, every thought—<br /> - Where stones, like evil fungi, raise their bulk<br /> - Cover'd with lichen older than the hills—<br /> - A warning for the ages yet to come;<br /> - Stones that have seen the sun, and moon, and stars,<br /> - Deflect their course for very weariness.<br /> - These fears are gathered, press'd into a room<br /> - Vibrating with the wish to damage man;<br /> - To put a seal upon his mind and soul—<br /> - These fears are fused into a living flame.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The room is filled with men of evil thoughts,<br /> - And some poor timid ones, on evil bent.<br /> - They stand in anxious, ghastly expectation.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The guttering light is low, and follows them<br /> - With subtle shadows tall beyond belief:<br /> - Vast elemental shapes that make men feel<br /> - Like dusty atoms blown by wayward winds<br /> - About the world: shadows that sway and swing.<br /> - And sigh and talk, as if themselves alive.<br /> - Small shadows cringe about the room incredibly,<br /> - Grotesque and dwarf-like in their attitudes;<br /> - Malignant, mocking things that caper round—<br /> - Triumphant heralds of an evil reign.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Secret and swift they flit about the wall;<br /> - Noiseless, they drag their feet about the floor,<br /> - And murmur subtle infamies of love,<br /> - Sweet-sounding threats, and bribes, and baleful thoughts.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet all are waiting, evilly alert...<br /> - Yet all are waiting—watching for events.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Silence has ceased to be a negative,<br /> - Becomes a thing of substance—fills the room<br /> - And clings like ivy to the listening walls.<br /> - The flickering light flares up—then gutters out.<br /> - The shadows seem to shiver and expand<br /> - To active, evil things that breathe and live.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now they whirl and dance in ecstasy.<br /> - The highest moment of their mass is near.<br /> - We only feel the swaying of the shades,<br /> - —Rhythm of wicked music that escapes<br /> - Our consciousness, tho' we have known it long—<br /> - The music of the evil things of Night<br /> - Scarcely remembered from some dim, vast world—<br /> - The things that haunted us when we were young<br /> - And nearer to our past realities.<br /> - Like scaly snakes, the hymn to evil writhes<br /> - Through the sub-conscious basis of our mind.<br /> - Eddies of icy breath, or hot as flame,<br /> - Twist into all the corners of the room,<br /> - Filling our veins with fire like red-hot iron,<br /> - And wicked as the Prince of Evil Things.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Faintly his glowing presence is revealed to us<br /> - Amid the chorus of his satellites.<br /> - The consummation of our awful hopes.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="pierrotwar"></a> - PIERROT AT THE WAR<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The leaden years have dragged themselves away;<br /> - The blossoms of the world lie all dash'd down<br /> - And flattened by the hurricane of death:<br /> - The roses fallen, and their fragrant breath<br /> - Has passed beyond our senses—and we drown<br /> - Our tragic thoughts: confine them to the day.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Pierrot was happy here two years ago,<br /> - Singing through all the summer-scented hours,<br /> - Dancing throughout the warm moon-haunted night.<br /> - Swan-like his floating sleeves, so long and white,<br /> - Sailed the blue waters of the dusk. Wan flowers,<br /> - Like moons, perfumed the crystal valley far below.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now these moonlit sleeves lie on the ground,<br /> - Trampled and torn from many a deadly fight.<br /> - With fingers clenched, and face a mask of stone,<br /> - He gazes at the sky—left all alone—<br /> - Grimacing under every rising light:<br /> - His body waits the peace his soul has found.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>April</i>, 1917.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="springhours"></a> - SPRING HOURS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The air is silken—soft and dark—<br /> - Calm as the waters of some blue, far sea;<br /> - Sweet as a youthful dream,<br /> - The trees stand cold and stark,<br /> - Yet full of the new life which makes each tree<br /> - To tremble with delight; sets free<br /> - The summer rapture of the stream.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now the clouds disperse and drift away,<br /> - Splashing the woods with patches of pale light,<br /> - Sail off like silver ships, and then display<br /> - The dazzling myriad blossoms of the night.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ah! It is worth full many a sun-gilt hour<br /> - To see the heavens bursting into flower.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p> -<a id="book4"></a> -<a id="babel"></a> -</p> - -<h2> - BOOK IV -<br /> - WAR POEMS<br /> -</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> - "THEREFORE IS THE NAME OF IT CALLED BABEL"<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - And still we stood and stared far down<br /> - Into that ember-glowing town,<br /> - Which every shaft and shock of fate<br /> - Had shorn unto its base. Too late<br /> - Came carelessly Serenity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now torn and broken houses gaze<br /> - On to the rat-infested maze<br /> - That once sent up rose-silver haze<br /> - To mingle through eternity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The outlines once so strongly wrought,<br /> - Of city walls, are now a thought<br /> - Or jest unto the dead who fought...<br /> - Foundation for futurity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The shimmering sands where once there played<br /> - Children with painted pail and spade<br /> - Are dreary desolate—afraid<br /> - To meet night's dark humanity,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Whose silver cool remakes the dead,<br /> - And lays no blame on any head<br /> - For all the havoc, fire, and lead,<br /> - That fell upon us suddenly,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When all we came to know as good<br /> - Gave way to Evil's fiery flood,<br /> - And monstrous myths of iron and blood<br /> - Seem to obscure God's clarity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Deep sunk in sin, this tragic star<br /> - Sinks deeper still, and wages war<br /> - Against itself; strewn all the seas<br /> - With victims of a world disease<br /> - —And we are left to drink the lees<br /> - Of Babel's direful prophecy.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>January</i>, 1916.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="harlequinade"></a> - TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Fate, malign dotard, weary from his days,<br /> - Too old for memory, yet craving pleasure,<br /> - Now finds the night too long and bitter cold<br /> - —Reminding him of death—the sun too hot.<br /> - The beauty of the universe he hates,<br /> - Yet stands regarding earthly carnivals:<br /> - The clatter and the clang of car and train,<br /> - The hurrying throng of homeward-going men,<br /> - The cries of children, colour of the streets,<br /> - Their whistling and their shouting and their joy,<br /> - The lights, the trees, the fanes and towers of churches,<br /> - Thanksgiving for the sun, the moon, the earth,<br /> - The labour, love, and laughter of our lives.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - He thinks they mock his age with ribaldry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From far within his æon-battered brain<br /> - Well up those wanton wistful images<br /> - That first beguiled the folk of Bergamo.<br /> - Now like himself, degraded and distress'd,<br /> - They sink to ignominy; but the clown<br /> - Remains, reminder of their former state,<br /> - And still earns hurricanes of hoarse applause.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - This dotard now decides to end the earth<br /> - (Wrecked by its own and his futility).<br /> - Recalls the formula of world-broad mirth<br /> - —A senseless hitting of those unaware,<br /> - Unnecessary breaking of their chattels.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The pantomime of life is near its close:<br /> - The stage is strewn with ends and bits of things,<br /> - With mortals maim'd or crucified, and left<br /> - To gape at endless horror through eternity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The face of Fate is wet with other paint<br /> - Than that incarnadines the human clown:<br /> - Yet still he waves a bladder, red as gold,<br /> - And still he gaily hits about with it,<br /> - And still the dread revealing limelight plays<br /> - Till the whole sicken'd scene becomes afire.<br /> - Antic himself falls on the funeral pyre<br /> - Of twisted, tortured, mortifying men.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>March</i>, 1916.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>To</i> HELEN<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="generation"></a> - THIS GENERATION<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Their youth was fevered—passionate, quick to drain<br /> - The last few pleasures from the cup of life<br /> - Before they turn'd to suck the dregs of pain<br /> - And end their young-old lives in mortal strife.<br /> - They paid the debts of many a hundred year<br /> - Of foolishness and riches in alloy.<br /> - They went to death; nor did they shed a tear<br /> - For all they sacrificed of love and joy.<br /> - Their tears ran dry when they were in the womb,<br /> - For, entering life—they found it was their tomb.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 1917.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>To</i> FRANCIS MEYNELL<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="sheepsong"></a> - SHEEP-SONG<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - From within our pens,<br /> - Stout built,<br /> - We watch the sorrows of the world.<br /> - Imperturbably<br /> - We see the blood<br /> - Drip and ooze on to the walls.<br /> - Without a sigh<br /> - We watch our lambs<br /> - Stuffed and fattened for the slaughter....<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In our liquid eyes lie hidden<br /> - The mystery of empty spaces<br /> - All the secrets of the vacuum.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet we can be moved;<br /> - When the head-sheep bleats,<br /> - We bleat with him;<br /> - When he stampedes<br /> - —Heavy with foot-rot—<br /> - We gallop after him<br /> - Until<br /> - In our frenzy<br /> - We trip him up<br /> - —And a new sheep leads us.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We are the greatest sheep in the world;<br /> - There are no sheep like us.<br /> - We come of an imperial bleat;<br /> - Our voices,<br /> - Trembling with music,<br /> - Call to our lambs oversea.<br /> - With us they crash across continents.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We will not heed the herdsmen,<br /> - For they warned us,<br /> - "Do not stampede";<br /> - Yet we were forced to do so.<br /> - Never will we trust a herdsman again.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then the black lamb asked,<br /> - Saying, "Why did we start this glorious Gadarene descent?"<br /> - And the herd bleated angrily,<br /> - "We went in with clean feet,<br /> - And we will come out with empty heads.<br /> - We gain nothing by it,<br /> - Therefore<br /> - It is a noble thing to do.<br /> - We are stampeding to end stampedes.<br /> - We are fighting for lambs<br /> - Who are never likely to be born.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When once a sheep gets its blood up<br /> - The goats will remember...."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But the herdsman swooped down<br /> - Shouting,<br /> - "Get back to your pens there."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>September</i>, 1918.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="lament"></a> - THE POET'S LAMENT.<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Before the dawning of the death-day<br /> - My mind was a confusion of beauty.<br /> - Thoughts fell from it in riot<br /> - Of colour,<br /> - In wreaths and garlands of flowers and fruit...<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then the red dawn came<br /> - —And no thought came to me<br /> - Except anger<br /> - And bitter reproach.<br /> - God filled my mouth<br /> - With the burning pebbles of hatred,<br /> - And choked my soul<br /> - With a whirl-wind of fury.<br /> - He made my tongue<br /> - A flaming sword<br /> - To cut and wither<br /> - The white soft edges<br /> - Of their anæmic souls.<br /> - I ridiculed them,<br /> - I despised them,<br /> - I loathed them<br /> - ... But they had stolen my soul away.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yes, they had stolen my soul from me.<br /> - My heart jumps up into my mouth<br /> - In fury;<br /> - They have stolen my soul away.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But we will wait,<br /> - And later words will come<br /> - —Words that in their burning flight<br /> - Shall scorch and flay,<br /> - Or flare like fireworks<br /> - Above their heads.<br /> - In those days my soul shall be restored to me<br /> - And they shall remember,<br /> - They shall remember!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="judas"></a> - JUDAS AND THE PROFITEER<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Judas descended to this lower Hell<br /> - To meet his only friend—the profiteer—<br /> - Who, looking fat and rubicund and well,<br /> - Regarded him, and then said with a sneer,<br /> - "Iscariot, they did you! Fool! to sell<br /> - For silver pence the body of God's Son,<br /> - Whereas for maiming men with sword and shell<br /> - I gain at least a golden million."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But Judas answered: "You deserve your gold;<br /> - It's not His body but His soul you've sold!"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="rhapsode"></a></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>To</i> H. W. MASSINGHAM -</p> - -<h3> - RHAPSODE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Why should we sing to you of little things—<br /> - You who lack all imagination?<br /> - Why should we sing to you of your poor joys,<br /> - That you may see beauty through a poet's mind—<br /> - Beauty where there was none before?<br /> - Why should we heed your miserable opinions,<br /> - And your paltry fears?<br /> - Why listen to your tales and narratives—<br /> - Long lanes of boredom along which you<br /> - Amble amiably all the dull days<br /> - Of your unnecessary lives?<br /> - We know you now—and what you wish to be told:<br /> - That the larks are singing in the trenches,<br /> - That the fruit trees will again blossom in the spring,<br /> - That Youth is always happy;<br /> - But you know the misery that lies<br /> - Under the surface—<br /> - And we will dig it up for you!<br /> - We shall sing to you<br /> - Of the men who have been trampled<br /> - To death in the circus of Flanders;<br /> - Of the skeletons that gather the fruit<br /> - From the ruined orchards of France;<br /> - And of those left to rot under an Eastern sun—<br /> - Whose dust mingles with the sand<br /> - Of distant, strange deserts,<br /> - And whose bones are crushed against<br /> - The rocks of unknown seas;<br /> - All dead—dead,<br /> - Defending you and what you stand for.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - You hope that we shall tell you that they found their<br /> - happiness in fighting,<br /> - Or that they died with a song on their lips,<br /> - Or that we shall use the old familiar phrases<br /> - With which your paid servants please you in the Press:<br /> - But we are poets,<br /> - And shall tell the truth.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - You, my dear sir,<br /> - You are so upset<br /> - At being talked to in this way<br /> - That when night<br /> - Has coffin'd this great city<br /> - Beneath the folds of the sun's funeral pall,<br /> - You will have to drink a little more champagne,<br /> - And visit a theatre or perhaps a music-hall.<br /> - What you need (as you rightly say, my dear sir) is CHEERING-UP.<br /> - There you will see vastly funny sketches<br /> - Of your fighting countrymen;<br /> - And they will be represented<br /> - As those of whom you may be proud.<br /> - For they cannot talk English properly,<br /> - Or express themselves but by swearing;<br /> - Or perhaps they may be shown as drunk.<br /> - But they will all appear cheerful,<br /> - And you will be pleased;<br /> - And as you lurch amiably home, you will laugh,<br /> - And at each laugh<br /> - Another countryman will be dead!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When Christ was slowly dying on that tree—<br /> - Hanging in agony upon that hideous Cross—<br /> - Tortured, betrayed, and spat upon,<br /> - Loud through the thunder and the earthquake's roar<br /> - Rang out<br /> - Those blessed humble human words of doubt:<br /> - "My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?"<br /> - But near by was a cheerfully chattering group<br /> - Of sects,<br /> - Of Pharisees and Sadducees,<br /> - And all were shocked—<br /> - Pained beyond measure.<br /> - And they said:<br /> - "At least he might have died like a hero<br /> - With an oath on his lips,<br /> - Or the refrain from a comic song—<br /> - Or a cheerful comment of some kind.<br /> - It was very unpleasant for all of us—<br /> - But we had to see it through.<br /> - I hope people will not think we have gone too far—<br /> - Or behaved badly in any way."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - There in the street below a drunken man reels home,<br /> - And as he goes<br /> - He sings with sentiment:<br /> - "Keep the home fires burning!"<br /> - And the constable helps him on his way.<br /> - But we—<br /> - We should be thrown into prison,<br /> - Or cast into an asylum,<br /> - For we want—<br /> - PEACE!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>September</i>, 1917.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>To</i> SIEGFRIED SASSOON<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="abraham"></a> - THE MODERN ABRAHAM<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - His purple fingers clutch a large cigar—<br /> - Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two.<br /> - He rests back in his fat armchair. The war<br /> - Has made this change in him. As he looks through<br /> - His cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs:<br /> - "Disabled Soldiers' Fund" he reads afresh,<br /> - And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes—<br /> - The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They should not ask me to subscribe again!<br /> - Consider me and all that I have done—<br /> - I've fought for Britain with my might and main;<br /> - I make explosives—and I gave a son.<br /> - My factory, converted for the fight<br /> - (I do not like to boast of what I've spent),<br /> - Now manufactures gas and dynamite,<br /> - Which only pays me seventy per cent.<br /> - And if I had ten other sons to send<br /> - I'd make them serve my country to the end,<br /> - So all the neighbours should flock round and say:<br /> - "Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done.<br /> - He loves his country in the elder way;<br /> - Poor gentleman, he's lost another son!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 1917.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="trap"></a> - THE TRAP<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The world is young and green.<br /> - Its woods are golden beneath the May-time sun;<br /> - But within its trap of steel the rabbit plunges<br /> - Madly to and fro.<br /> - It will bleed to death<br /> - Slowly,<br /> - Slowly,<br /> - Unless there is some escape.<br /> - Why will not someone release it?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And presently a kindly passer-by<br /> - Stoops down.<br /> - The rabbit's eye glints at him—<br /> - Gleaming from the impenetrable obscurity of its prison.<br /> - He stoops and lifts the catch<br /> - (He cannot hold it long, for the spring is heavy).<br /> - The rabbit could now be free,<br /> - But it does not move;<br /> - For from the darkness of its death-hutch<br /> - The world looks like another brightly baited trap.<br /> - So, remaining within its steel prison,<br /> - It argues thus:<br /> - "Perhaps I may bleed to death,<br /> - But it will probably take a long time,<br /> - And, at any rate,<br /> - I am secure<br /> - From the clever people outside.<br /> - Besides, if I did come out now<br /> - All the people who thought I was a lion<br /> - Would see, by the trap-mark on my leg,<br /> - That I am only an unfortunate rabbit,<br /> - And this might promote disloyalty among the children.<br /> - When the clamp closed on my leg<br /> - It was a ruse<br /> - To kill me.<br /> - Probably the lifting of it betrays the same purpose!<br /> - If I come out now<br /> - They will think they can trap rabbits<br /> - Whenever they like.<br /> - How do I know they will not snare me<br /> - Again next year?<br /> - Besides, it looks to me from here..."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But the catch drops down,<br /> - For the stranger is weary.<br /> - From within the hutch<br /> - A thin stream of blood<br /> - Trickles on to the grass<br /> - Outside,<br /> - And leaves a brown stain on its brightness.<br /> - But the dying rabbit is happy,<br /> - Saying:<br /> - "I knew it was only a trap!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>April</i>, 1918.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>To</i> RODERICK MEIKLEJOHN<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="eternal"></a> - THE ETERNAL CLUB<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Warming their withered hands, the dotards say:<br /> - "In our youth men were happy till they died.<br /> - What is it ails the young men of to-day—<br /> - To make them bitter and dissatisfied?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Two thousand years ago it was the same:<br /> - "Poor Joseph! How he'll feel about his son!<br /> - I knew him as a child—his head aflame<br /> - With gold. He seemed so full of life and fun.<br /> - And even as a young man he was fine,<br /> - Converting tasteless water into wine.<br /> - Then something altered him. He tried to chase<br /> - The money-changers from the Temple door.<br /> - White ringlets swung and tears shone in their poor<br /> - Aged eyes. He grew so bitter and found men<br /> - For friends as discontented—lost all count<br /> - Of caste—denied his father, faith, and then<br /> - He preached that dreadful Sermon on the Mount!<br /> - But even then he would not let things be;<br /> - For when they nailed him high up on the tree,<br /> - And gave him vinegar and pierced his side,<br /> - He asked God to forgive them—still dissatisfied!"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="heaven"></a> - HEAVEN<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - A theatre rises dark and mute and drear<br /> - Among those houses that stand clustering round.<br /> - Passing this pleasure-house, I seem'd to hear<br /> - The distant rhythm of some lauding sound,<br /> - The hot applause that greeted every night<br /> - The favourite song, or girl, or joke, or fight.<br /> - The laughter of the young and strong and gay<br /> - Who greeted life—then laid their lives away.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Do they, then, watch the same old blatant show,<br /> - Forgetting all death's wrench and all its pain<br /> - And all their courage shown against the foe?<br /> - Is this the heaven that they died to gain?<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="pedlar"></a> - THE BLIND PEDLAR<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - I stand alone through each long day<br /> - Upon these pavers; cannot see<br /> - The wares spread out upon this tray<br /> - —For God has taken sight from me!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Many a time I've cursed the night<br /> - When I was born. My peering eyes<br /> - Have sought for but one ray of light<br /> - To pierce the darkness. When the skies<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Rain down their first sweet April showers<br /> - On budding branches; when the morn<br /> - Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,<br /> - I've cursed the night when I was born.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But now I thank God, and am glad<br /> - For what I cannot see this day<br /> - —The young men crippled, old, and sad,<br /> - With faces burnt and torn away;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Or those who, rich and old,<br /> - Have battened on the slaughter,<br /> - Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,<br /> - Are creased in purple laughter!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>January</i>, 1919.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="moloch"></a> - WORLD-HYMN TO MOLOCH<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Holy Moloch, blessed lord,<br /> - Hatred to our souls impart.<br /> - Put the heathen to the sword,<br /> - Wound and pierce each contrite heart.<br /> - Never more shall darkness fall<br /> - But it seems a funeral pall;<br /> - Never shall the red sun rise<br /> - But to red and swollen eyes.<br /> - In the centuries that roll,<br /> - Slowly grinding out our tears,<br /> - Often thou hast taken toll;<br /> - Never till these latter years<br /> - Have all nations lost the fray;<br /> - Lead not thou our feet astray.<br /> - Never till the present time<br /> - Have we offered all we hold,<br /> - With one gesture, mad, sublime,<br /> - Sons and lovers, lands and gold.<br /> - Must we then still pray to thee,<br /> - Moloch, for a victory?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Eternal Moloch, strong to slay,<br /> - Do not seek to heal or save.<br /> - Lord, it is the better way<br /> - Swift to send them to the grave.<br /> - Those of us too old to go<br /> - Send our sons to face the foe,<br /> - But, O lord! we must remain<br /> - Here, to pray and sort the slain.<br /> - In every land the widows weep,<br /> - In every land the children cry.<br /> - Other gods are lulled to sleep,<br /> - All the starving peoples die.<br /> - What is left to offer you?<br /> - Thou, O Sacred King of Death!<br /> - God of Blood and Lord of Guile,<br /> - Do not let us waste our breath,<br /> - Cast on us thy crimson smile.<br /> - Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,<br /> - Send at least one victory.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - All the men in every land<br /> - Pray to thee through battle's din,<br /> - Swiftly now to show thy hand,<br /> - Pray that soon one side may win.<br /> - Under sea and in the sky,<br /> - Everywhere our children die;<br /> - Laughter, happiness and light<br /> - Perished in a single night.<br /> - In every land the heaving tides<br /> - Wash the sands a dreadful red,<br /> - In every land the tired sun hides<br /> - Under heaps and hills of dead.<br /> - In spite of all we've offered up<br /> - Must we drink and drain the cup?<br /> - Everywhere the dark floods rise,<br /> - Everywhere our hearts are torn.<br /> - Every day a new Christ dies,<br /> - Every day a devil's born.<br /> - Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,<br /> - Send at least one victory.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - 1917.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="armchair"></a> - ARMCHAIR<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - If I were still of handsome middle-age<br /> - I should not govern yet, but still should hope<br /> - To help the prosecution of this war.<br /> - I'd talk and eat (though not eat wheaten bread),<br /> - I'd send my sons, if old enough, to France,<br /> - Or help to do my share in other ways.<br /> - All through the long spring evenings, when the sun<br /> - Pursues its primrose path towards the hills,<br /> - If fine, I'd plant potatoes on the lawn;<br /> - If wet, write anxious letters to the Press.<br /> - I'd give up wine and spirits, and with pride<br /> - Refuse to eat meat more than once a day,<br /> - And seek to rob the workers of their beer.<br /> - The only way to win a hard-fought war<br /> - Is to annoy the people in small ways,<br /> - Bully or patronise them, as you will!<br /> - I'd teach poor mothers, who have seven sons<br /> - —All fighting men of clean and sober life—<br /> - How to look after babies and to cook;<br /> - Teach them to save their money and invest;<br /> - Not to bring children up in luxury<br /> - —But do without a nursemaid in the house!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - If I were old, or only seventy,<br /> - Then should I be a great man in his prime.<br /> - I should rule army corps; at my command<br /> - Men would rise up, salute me, and attack<br /> - —And die. Or I might also govern men<br /> - By making speeches with my toothless jaws,<br /> - Chattering constantly; and men should say,<br /> - "One grand old man is still worth half his pay!"<br /> - That day I'd send my grandsons out to France<br /> - —And wish I'd got ten other ones to send<br /> - (One cannot sacrifice too much, I'd say).<br /> - Then would I make a noble toothless speech,<br /> - And all the listening Parliament would cheer.<br /> - "Gentlemen, we will never end this war<br /> - Till all the younger men with martial mien<br /> - Have entered capitals; never make peace<br /> - Till they are cripples, on one leg, or dead!"<br /> - Then would the Bishops all go mad with joy,<br /> - Cantuar, Ebor, and the other ones,<br /> - Be overwhelmed with pious ecstasy.<br /> - In thanking Him we'd got a Christian—<br /> - An Englishman—still worth his salt—to talk,<br /> - In every pulpit they would preach and prance;<br /> - And our great Church would work, as heretofore,<br /> - To bring this poor old nation to its knees.<br /> - Then we'd forbid all liberty, and make<br /> - Free speech a relic of our impious past;<br /> - And when this war is finished, when the world<br /> - Is torn and bleeding, cut and bruised to death,<br /> - Then I'd pronounce my peace terms—to the poor!<br /> - But as it is, I am not ninety yet,<br /> - And so must pay my reverence to these men—<br /> - These grand old men, who still can see and talk,<br /> - Who sacrifice each other's sons each day.<br /> - O Lord! let me be ninety yet, I pray.<br /> - Methuselah was quite a youngster when<br /> - He died. Now, vainly weeping, we should say:<br /> - "Another great man perished in his prime!"<br /> - O let me govern, Lord, at ninety-nine!"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>August</i>, 1917.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="ragtime"></a> - RAGTIME<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The lamps glow here and there, then echo down<br /> - The vast deserted vistas of the town—<br /> - Each light the echo'd note of some refrain<br /> - Repeated in the city's fevered brain.<br /> - Yet all is still, save when there wanders past<br /> - —Finding the silence of the night too long—<br /> - Some tattered wretch, who, from the night outcast,<br /> - Sings, with an aching heart, a comic song.<br /> - The vapid parrot-words flaunt through the night—<br /> - Silly and gay, yet terrible. We know<br /> - Men sang these words in many a deadly fight,<br /> - And threw them—laughing—to a solemn foe;<br /> - Sang them where tattered houses stand up tall and stark,<br /> - And bullets whistle through the ruined street,<br /> - Where live men tread on dead men in the dark,<br /> - And skulls are sown in fields once sown with wheat.<br /> - Across the sea, where night is dark with blood<br /> - And rockets flash, and guns roar hoarse and deep,<br /> - They struggle through entanglements and mud,<br /> - They suffer wounds—and die—<br /> - But here they sleep.<br /> - From far away the outcast's vacuous song<br /> - Re-echoes like the singing of a throng;<br /> - His dragging footfalls echo down the street,<br /> - And turn into a myriad marching feet.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>December</i>, 1916.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="peace"></a> - PEACE CELEBRATION<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Now we can say of those who died unsung,<br /> - Unwept for, torn, "Thank God they were not blind<br /> - Or mad! They've perished strong and young,<br /> - Missing the misery we elders find<br /> - In missing them." With such a platitude<br /> - We try to cheer ourselves. And for each life<br /> - Laid down for us, with duty well-imbued,<br /> - With song-on-lip, in splendid soldier strife—<br /> - For sailors, too, who willingly were sunk—<br /> - We'll shout "Hooray!"—<br /> - And get a little drunk.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>To</i> SACHEVERELL<br /> -</p> - -<h3> -<a id="nextwar"></a> - THE NEXT WAR<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The long war had ended.<br /> - Its miseries had grown faded.<br /> - Deaf men became difficult to talk to.<br /> - Heroes became bores.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Those alchemists<br /> - Who had converted blood into gold,<br /> - Had grown elderly.<br /> - But they held a meeting,<br /> - Saying,<br /> - "We think perhaps we ought<br /> - To put up tombs<br /> - Or erect altars<br /> - To those brave lads<br /> - Who were so willingly burnt,<br /> - Or blinded,<br /> - Or maimed,<br /> - Who lost all likeness to a living thing,<br /> - Or were blown to bleeding patches of flesh<br /> - For our sakes.<br /> - It would look well.<br /> - Or we might even educate the children."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But the richest of these wizards<br /> - Coughed gently;<br /> - And he said,<br /> - "I have always been to the front<br /> - —In private enterprise—<br /> - I yield in public spirit<br /> - To no man.<br /> - I think yours is a very good idea<br /> - —A capital idea—<br /> - And not too costly.<br /> - But it seems to me<br /> - That the cause for which we fought<br /> - Is again endangered.<br /> - What more fitting memorial for the fallen<br /> - Than that their children<br /> - Should fall for the same cause?"<br /> - Rushing eagerly into the street,<br /> - The kindly old gentlemen cried<br /> - To the young:<br /> - "Will you sacrifice<br /> - Through your lethargy<br /> - What your fathers died to gain?<br /> - Our cause is in peril.<br /> - The world must be made safe for the young!"<br /> - And the children<br /> - Went....<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - PRINTED BY<br /> - BILLING AND SONS, LTD.<br /> - GUILDFORD, ENGLAND<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -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-h.htm or 61368-h.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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - - -</pre> - -</body> - -</html> - |