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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f82a37 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61369 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61369) diff --git a/old/61369-8.txt b/old/61369-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 526c7e0..0000000 --- a/old/61369-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3061 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of the Flame, 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: Out of the Flame - -Author: Osbert Sitwell - -Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61369] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - - - _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - - TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE - In collaboration with Edith Sitwell - (BLACKWELL, Oxford) - - THE WINSTONBURG LINE - Political Satires - (HENDERSON, Charing Cross Road) - - COCK-ROBIN - - - _IN PREPARATION_ - - A BOOK OF CHARACTERS - Short Stories and Sketches - - DISCURSIONS - Essays on Travel, Art and Life - - - - -[Frontispiece: _The Author_ _from the sculpture by Frank Dobson_] - - - - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - BY - - OSBERT SITWELL - - - - LONDON - GRANT RICHARDS LTD. - 1923 - - - - - Printed in Great Britain at - _The Mayflower Press, Plymouth._ - William Brendon & Son, Ltd. - - - - - CONTENTS - - BOOK I - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - Two Mexican Pieces-- - I. Song - II. Maxixe - - Out of the Flame - - Two Dances-- - I. Country Dance - II. Fox Trot--When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba - - Two Garden Pieces-- - I. Neptune in Chains - II. Fountains - - Parade - - English Gothic - - The Backward Child - - Nursery Rhyme--The Rocking-Horse - - Two Mythological Poems-- - I. The Jealous Goddess - II. Bacchanalia - - - BOOK II - - SING PRAISES - - Explanation--Subtlety of the Serpent - - De Luxe - - Mrs. Freudenthal Consults the Witch of Endor - - Night Thoughts - - The War-horse Chants - - A Touch of Nature - - Youth at the Prow, and Pleasure at the Helm - - The Manner - - The Open Door - - Introducing - - Malgré Soi - - Paradise Regained - - Five Portraits and a Group-- - I. The General's Wife Refuses - II. Aux Bords de la Mer - III. Giardino Pubblico - IV. Ultimate Judgment - V. An Old-Fashioned Sportsman - Group: English Tea-rooms - - Sunday Afternoon - - Corpse Day - - - -My thanks are due to the Editors of _The Nation_, _The Spectator_, -_The Weekly Westminster_, _The English Review_, _Art and Letters_, -_Form_, _The Dial_, and _Poetry_ (Chicago), for permission to reprint -certain of the poems appearing in this volume. - - - - - BOOK I - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - - - - TWO MEXICAN PIECES - - I. SONG - - "Ah! Que bonitos - Son los enanos, - Los chiquititos, - Y Mezicanos." - _Old Mexican Song._ - - - How jolly are the dwarfs, the little ones, the Mexicans - Hidden by the singing of wind through sugar-cane, - Out comes the pretty one, - Out comes the ugly one, - Out comes the dwarf with the wicked smile and thin. - - The little women caper and simper and flutter fans, - The little men laugh, stamp, strut and stamp again, - Dance to the bag-pipe drone, - Of insect semitone, - Swelling from ground slashed with light like zebra skin. - - The little Cardinal, the humming-bird, whose feathers flare - Like flame across the valley of volcanic stone, - Fiery arrow from a rainbow - That the armoured plants have slain, low - Stoops to watch the dwarfs as they dance out of sight. - - Hair, long and black as jet, is floating yet on amber air - Honey-shaded by the shadow of Popacatapetl's cone, - Their fluttering reboses - Like purple-petal'd roses - Fall through tropic din with a clatter of light. - - The crooked dwarf now ripples the strings of a mandoline, - His floating voice has wings that brush us like a butterfly; - Music fills the mountains - With a riot of fountains - That spray back on the hot plain like a waterfall. - - Smaller grow the dwarfs, singing "I'll bring shoes of satin," - Smaller they grow, fade to golden motes, then die. - Where is the pretty one, - Where is the ugly one, - Where is that tongue of flame, the little Cardinal? - - - - - II. MAXIXE - - "Los enanitos - Se enajaren." - _Old Mexican Song._ - - - The Mexican dwarfs can dance for miles - Stamping their feet and scattering smiles, - Till the loud hills laugh and laugh again - At the dancing dwarfs in the golden plain, - Till the bamboos sing as the dwarfs dance by, - Kicking their feet at a jagged sky, - That torn by leaves and gashed by hills - Rocks to the rhythm the hot sun shrills; - The bubble sun stretches shadows that pass - To noiseless jumping-jacks of glass, - So long and thin, so silent and opaque, - That the lions shake their orange manes, and quake; - And a shadow that leaps over Popacatapetl - Terrifies the tigers as they settle - Cat-like limbs, cut with golden bars, - Under bowers of flowers that shimmer like stars. - Buzzing of insects flutters above, - Shaking the rich trees' treasure-trove - Till the fruit rushes down like a comet, whose tail - Thrashes the night with its golden flail, - The fruit hisses down with a plump from its tree - Like the singing of a rainbow as it dips into the sea. - Loud red trumpets of great blossoms blare - Triumphantly like heralds who blow a fanfare, - Till the humming-bird, bearing heaven on its wing, - Flies from the terrible blossoming, - And the humble honey-bee is frightened by the fine - Honey that is heavy like money and purple like wine, - While birds that flaunt their pinions like pennons - Shriek from their trees of oranges and lemons, - And the scent rises up in a cloud, to make - The hairy, swinging monkeys feel so weak - That they each throw down a bitten coconut or mango. - - * * * * * - - Up flames a flamingo over the fandango, - Glowing like a fire, and gleaming like a ruby. - From Guadalajara to Guadalupe - It flies--in flying drops a feather - ... And the snatching dwarfs stop dancing--and fight together. - - - - - OUT OF THE FLAME - - I - - From my high window, - From my high window in a southern city, - I peep through the slits of the shutters, - Whose steps of light - Span darkness like a ladder. - Throwing wide the shutters - I let the streets into the silent room - With sudden clatter; - Walk out upon the balcony - Whose curving irons are bent - Like bows about to shoot-- - Bows from which the mortal arrows - Cast from dark eyes, dark-lashed - And shadowed by mantillas, - Shall in the evening - Rain down upon men's hearts - Paraded here, in southern climes, - More openly. - But, at this early moment of the day, - The balconies are empty; - Only the sun, still drowsy-fingered, - Plucks, pizzicato, at the rails, - Draws out of them faint music - Of rain-washed air, - Or, when each bell lolls out its idiot tongue, - When Time lets drop his cruel scythe, - They sing in sympathy. - The sun, then, plucks these irons, - As far below, - That child - Draws his stick along the railings. - The sound of it brings my eye down to him.... - Oh heart, dry heart, - It is yourself again! - How nearly are we come together! - If, at this moment, - One long ribbon was unfurled - From me to him, - I should be shown - Above, in a straight line-- - A logical growth, - And yet, - I wave, but he will not look up; - I call, but he will not answer. - - - II - - From where I stand - The beauty of the early morning - Suffocates me; - It is as if fingers closed round my heart. - The light flows down the hills in rivulets, - So you could gather it up in the cup of your hands, - While pools, - The cold eyes of the gods, - Are cradled in those hollows. - Cool are the clouds, - Anchored in the heaven; - Green as ice are they, - To temper the heat in the valleys - With arches of violet shadow. - You can hear from the distant woods - The thud of the centaurs' hoofs - As they gallop down to drink, - Shatter the golden roofs - Of the trees, for swift as the wind - They gallop down to the brink - Of the waters that echo their laughter, - Cavernous as rolling of boulders down hills; - Lolling, they lap at the gurgling waters. - - * * * * * - - But nearer rises the sound, - Red, ragged as his comb, - Of a cock crowing; - A bird flies up to me at the window, - Leaping, like music, with regular rhythm, - Sinks down, then, to the city beneath. - - - III - - Below, the ants are hurrying down the footways, - Dressed, here, in bright colours. - Under their various intolerable burdens - They stagger along. - Stop to converse, move, wave their antennæ. - - * * * * * - - The fruit-seller is opening his stall, - Oranges are piled in minute pyramids, - While melons, green melons, - Swing from the roof in string cradles. - The butcher festoons his shop - With swags and gay wreaths of entrails; - Beautiful heads with horns, - Are nailed up, as on pagan altars, - (Though their ears are fresh from the hearing - Of Orpheus playing his lute). - - The Aguador arranges his glasses, - Out of which the sun will strike - His varying scales of crystal music - This afternoon, round the arena. - The Matador prepares for the fight, - Is, indeed, already in the Tavern, - Where later and refreshed with blood, - He will celebrate his triumph - Among the poignant kindling - Of stringéd instruments. - - * * * * * - - --But the child has run away crying; - I call--but no answer comes. - - - IV - - The chatter of the daylight grows - As I look upon the market-place, - Where there is a droning of bag-pipes, - And the hard, wooden music of the hills; - The housewife has left her cottage in the forest, - Driving here through the early tracks of the sun. - The beggars are already at their posts, - Their dry flesh peeps through their garments. - Their old ritual whining - Causes no show of pity. - Why should the hucksters, the busy people notice? - God himself has stood here, out at elbows, - Waiting patiently in the market-place, - While they chatter in gay booths. - But how I fear for them, - These who are not afraid! - I shout to them to make them understand. - They talk more, cease talking and look up, - They all look up, remain gaping. - - * * * * * - - I went back into the water-cool room, - Put on my coloured coat, my buskin, - And mask of Harlequin. - They see me, this time. - "Come on, come on," they cry, - "You are just in time. - There is fun down here in the market-place. - Two men have been run over, - And there's to be a public execution. - The gallows are nearly up. - --And after, in the evening, - We will go round the wineshops, - Strumming guitars, - While trills Dolores in her wide, red skirt. - Oh come on, come on!" - --But the paint from my mask runs down - And dyes my clothing. - - - V - - It is not thus in the Northern cities, - Where the cold breathes close to the window-pane, - Where the brittle flowers of the frost - Crackle at the window's edge. - From my window in the Northern city - I can hear the rattle and roar of the town, - As the carts go lumbering over the bridges, - As the men in dark clothes hurry over the bridges. - They do not parade their hearts here, - They bury them at their lives' beginning. - They must hurry, or they will be late for their work; - Their work is their bread. - Without bread, how can they work? - They have no time for pleasure, - Nor is work any pleasure to them. - Their faces are masked with weariness, - Drab with their working. - (Only the tramp who moves among them - Unnoticed, despised, - Has eyes that have seen). - They must work till the guns go again, - Giving them their only pretence to glory. - They have no time to fear, - No time to think of an end. - Foolishly I called to them on the bridges; - Only a few stopped, looked up - --But these were convulsed with fury. - Said one to another - "I have never seen a man - Behave like that before." - But most of them were mute, - And could not see. - - * * * * * - - Through the murkiness of the Northern dawn, - The gas already flares out - In the glass palaces, - Where to-night, weary and dulled with smoke and with drink, - They will seek, in a brief oblivion, - Laughter, and the mask of Ally Sloper. - - * * * * * - - Thus it is in the Northern cities, - Where the cold lies close to the window-pane, - Where the grass grows its little blades of steel - And the wind is armed with seven whips. - - - VI - - Happy is Orpheus as he plays, - The dumb beasts listen quietly, - The music strokes their downy ears, - Melts the fierce fire within. - - Only with music can you tame the beasts, - Break them of their grizzly feasts; - Only with music can you open eyes to wonder. - But if they will not hear? - The people have lost faith in music, - Few are there to call, and none to answer. - - * * * * * - - When the Prince kissed the Sleeping Beauty, - He broke the wicked spell of cobwebs; - She answered, opened her eyes. - - When Narcissus looked into the pool, - The cruel waters gave him their reply - --Even that was a better fate - Than to cry out in the lonely night - --And not to be answered. - - - VII - - From my high window in a Southern city, - Floating above the geometrical array - Of roofs, squares and interlacing streets, - One can see beyond - Into far valleys, - That seem at first - To be open blue flowers - Scattered here and there on the mountains. - The forests are so far away, - They creep like humble green moss - Over slopes that are mountains. - And there sounds other music - Than the falling streams, - Or the deep penetrating glow - Of sunlight piercing through green leaves. - - - VIII - - When Orpheus with his wind-swift fingers - Ripples the strings that gleam like rain, - The wheeling birds fly up and sing, - Hither, thither, echoing. - There is a crackling of dry twigs, - A sweeping of leaves along the ground. - Tawny faces and dumb eyes - Peer through the fluttering green screens, - That mask ferocious teeth and claws - Now tranquil. - As the music sighs upon the hills, - The young ones hear, - Come skipping, ambling, rolling down, - Their soft ears flapping as they run, - Their fleecy coats catching in the thickets, - Till they lie, listening, round his feet. - - * * * * * - - Unseen for centuries, - Fabulous creatures creep out of their caverns. - The unicorn - Prances down from his bed of leaves, - His milk-white muzzle still stained green - With the munching, crunching of mountain herbs. - The griffin usually so fierce, - Now tame and amiable again-- - Has covered the white bones in his secret cavern - With a rustling pall of dank, dead leaves, - While the Salamander--true lover of art-- - Flickers, and creeps out of the flame; - Gently now, and away he goes, - Kindles his proud and blazing track - Across the forest - --Lies listening, - Cools his fever in this flowing water. - - * * * * * - - When the housewife returns, - Carrying her basket, - She will not understand. - She misses nothing, - Has heard nothing in the woods. - She will only see - That the fire is dead, - The grate cold. - - * * * * * - - But the child left in the empty house - Saw the Salamandar in the flame, - Heard a strange wind, like music, in the forest, - And has gone out to look for it, - Alone. - - - - - TWO DANCES - - I. COUNTRY DANCE - - The Lion and the Unicorn - Dance now together, - There in the golden corn-- - For it is summer weather. - - The Lion, seen between the sheaves, - Is more strong than fair, - Yet he lets the singing thieves - Rustle through his tawny hair. - - As he treads, the red-gold grain - Curtsies and bows down; - The birds tear at his ruffled mane, - Stealing seed to feed Troy Town. - - For famine, in that fabled land, - Grows, as the years pass. - (Is it golden grain or sand - From a broken hour-glass?) - - Night comes; over azure ground - Roves an argent breeze: - The Unicorn can still be found - Trampling down the fleur-de-lys. - - Elegant and moon-white - As a ghost, the Unicorn - Dances for his own delight - Under the flowering thorn. - - While deep in the sleeping wood - The Lion breathes heavily, - Though every dove in each tree coo'd, - Yet would he sleep on wearily. - - * * * * * - - The Unicorn and Lion strong - Dance now together - (But surely they did no wrong-- - For it was the summer weather?) - - In among the red-gold grain, - Ankle-deep in the Lilies of France-- - And I, for one, could scarce refrain - From joining that heraldic dance. - - - - - II. FOX TROT - - WHEN SOLOMON MET THE QUEEN OF SHEBA - - The navy at Ezion-Geba - Gazed across the water amazed; - When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba - Lions in the desert were dazed - With wonder at her striped pavilion - That blazed like a new parhelion; - They roared their admiration - At this strange coruscation - Till the satyrs - Took their tawny children - Trampling through the sand - To march with the procession, to march with the band. - The flaming phoenix flew with its feathers to fan - The Queen at the head of her caravan; - But, the phoenix, though famously fabulous, - Was jealous, envious, and emulous - For the Queen of Sheba had a retinue - Strictly in keeping with her revenue-- - Six thousand camels and camelopards - Ten thousand and ninety nigger bodyguards. - The camelopards, proud-necked and tall - Would scarcely deign to notice the Queen at all, - But holding their heads as high as zebras - Looked down on a hundred dwarf, harnessed zebras - Bred for their stripes, with such success - That the Queen could play a game of chess - When travelling. The camels kneel - Offer their humps for the Queen to feel, - Nodding arched-necks and plumes of ostrich-feather, - Dyed like her bright Abyssinian weather. - The ten thousand niggers beat on gourds and golden gongs, - Slashing the air with their piebald songs. - - * * * * * - - Thus the Queen met the King of Jerusalem - And he - Seemed wiser - Than Methuselem, - With a great black beard, - And a nose like a scythe, - He lived in the palace, - And subsisted on a tithe! - He gave the Queen of Sheba a welcome; - Proportionate to her income; - But this amazing Amazon - Was lovable, generous and free. - She brought a gift to Solomon of cinnamon, - With an Almug and a Nutmeg tree-- - These he placed before his palace - For the pleased - Admiration - Of the populace. - Each sweet-smelling branch bore a budding bell of gold - (Oh! the blood of Israelites ran cold...) - When evening-wind blurred the hills with blue - The swinging and the singing of the bells sang true, - These by some magic stratagem - Played the Sheban National Anthem, - While the trill of each bell was like an Abyssinian bird, - Or the golden voice of the Queen--for each word - She spoke, trembled, sparkled in the air, - Then spread its wings, and flew from her. - But the Queen of Sheba went with Solomon - To his country house at Lebanon. - - She did not bring him any cedar trees - For these - Would have been de-trop. - Instead she brought him some Pekoe-trees - In a beautiful Chinese bowl - (For she had a very marked objection to - Endowing Newcastle with coal) - And she brought him gifts of hot-house grapes, - Of ivory, - Of ebony, - Of elephants and apes, - Of peacocks, of pearls, and a hundred pygmy slaves - With skins like an orange, and hair that waves, - And each of them wore a turban, - Picked out with the plumes of a pelican, - But of all her gifts, by far the rarest, - Brought from the terrible central forest, - With a vein of gold in its ivory horn, - Was a lovelorn - Milk-white unicorn; - But the King, though sweet as honey, - Had an eye for the value of money, - So he only gave her a heraldic lion - Embossed with the arms (and nose) of Zion. - - * * * * * - - Though the Queen of Sheba loved Solomon - She was not happy at Lebanon, - It was not the woman of the Edomites, - The Zidonians, - The Moabites, - The Hittites, - or the Ammonites! - She would even listen to his proverbs, she put up with - very many wrongs-- - But in secretly reading his notebook, she found Solomon's - "Song-of-Songs" - She knew it at once--it was poetry! And she left The - Palace that day, - But Solomon knew not where she went to nor why she had - roamed away! - But every evening in Jerusalem - The Almug and the Nutmeg trees - Flaunt the Sheban National Anthem - Like a banner on the spice-laden breeze. - And oh! each golden bell - Seemed a turtle-dove - That coo'd - Within the moonlit shadow - Of an Abyssinian wood.... - - * * * * * - - But we wonder what she looked like--this fascinating - phantasmagoria.... - Atalanta, Gioconda, Semiramis--or the late Queen Victoria? - - - - - TWO GARDEN PIECES - - I. NEPTUNE IN CHAINS - - Enslaved are the old Gods; - Pan pipes soundlessly - For the unheeding bees. - - Bound by the trailing tresses of the vine - To soft captivity, - Neptune has left his waves - To stand beneath the frozen, green cascades - Of summer trees. - - Is the Sea-God, then, content to rule - The rippling of wayward flowers, - Lulled by the songs that many birds pour out - From their green-cradles, gently-rocked - --Songs that foam like hissing rain - Among the heavy blossoms? - Can he control - The music of the wind through poplar trees, - --Those trees, an instrument - That any wind, however young - Or drunk with drowsing scent - Of petals, crushed by the flaming fingers of the sun - Can play upon? - - But darkness, the deliverer - Comes with dreams. - Night's grape-stained waves - Cool his aching body-- - The song of the nightingale - Falls round him - Like the froth of little waves; - The warm touch of the evening wind - Thaws the green cascades - Till you can hear - Every liquid sound within the world - --Fountains, falling waterfalls, - And the low murmur of the rolling sea - --And Neptune dreams that he is free. - - - - - II. FOUNTAINS - - Proud fountains, wave your plumes, - Spread out your phoenix-wing, - Let the tired trees rejoice - Beneath your blossoming - (Tired trees, you whisper low). - - High up, high up, above - These green and drooping sails, - A fluttering young wind - Hovers and dives--but fails - To steal a foaming feather. - - Sail, like a crystal ship, - Above your sea of glass; - Then, with your quickening touch, - Transmute the things that pass - (Come down, cool wind, come down). - - All humble things proclaim, - Within your magic net, - Their kinship to the Gods. - More strange and lovely yet - All lovely things become. - - Dead, sculptured stone assumes - The life from which it came; - The kingfisher is now - A moving tongue of flame, - A blue, live tongue of flame-- - - While birds, less proud of wing, - Crouch, in wind-ruffled shade, - Hide shyly, then pour out, - Their jealous serenade; - ... Close now your golden wings! - - - - - PARADE - - While vapour rises, the sun shines along - A promenade beneath tall trees. In vain - Seek thirsting flowers to thread their crystal song - Upon the liquid harpstrings of the rain. - - Sweet air is honey'd with the lulling sound - Of bees, gold-dusted. In the avenue - Each leaf is now a lens the sun has found - To focus light, and cast green shadow through - - Where walks Zenobia. Her marmoset - Perched on the shoulder, grabs at ribbon'd flowers - Or youthful curls of elders. Etiquette - Is outraged, and a dowager glowers. - - The Marmoset plays with Zenobia's curls, - Clutches the papillon's enamel'd sail; - Gesticulates with idiot hands; unfurls, - Then counts, the piebald rings upon his tail. - - Here flutter fan and feather to and fro - As eager birds caressing golden sheaves; - And like the spray of fountains, when winds blow - The froth of laughter foams among the leaves, - - Till music, thin as silver wire, uncoils - --Metallic trap to trip unwary players-- - A tune, ringed like the monkey's tail; but foils - Any attempt to straighten it--In layers - - The idlers pause to watch the stage, where leap - These masked buffoons to which the Old Gods sank. - Over her fan Zenobia may peep - At the lewd gestures of a mountebank. - - The silent lime-trees drip their golden scent; - Staccato shrills the puppet, waves a wand, - Postures, exaggerates a sentiment.... - The little ape, alone, may understand - - How men make Gods, and place them up above; - Then clamber up themselves to throw God down, - Dearly pay deities for former love; - We hold them captive, make them play the clown. - - Who knows but that, one day, men may be bound - Thus to make war or love for apeish laughter, - Until the world of gibbering monkeys round - Quiver with laughter at our ape-like slaughter? - - * * * * * - - Ends song and antic; players quit the stage - To the gloved silence of genteel applause, - Splutters El Capitan in Spanish rage, - Curses his money. Swathed in quiet, like gauze, - - The World is still, until a breeze sets free - Green leaves, with plucking sound of mandoline. - Convulsed the monkey capers--seems to see - The wind, that wingéd God and Harlequin. - - Who, flying down, sounds waters' silver strings - And brings soft music from far trembling towers, - Snatches a bird-bright feather for his wings - And flickers light on many secret flowers. - - - - - ENGLISH GOTHIC - - Above the valley floats a fleet - Of white, small clouds. Like castanets - The corn-crakes clack; down in the street - Old ladies air their canine pets. - - The bells boom out with grumbling tone - To warn the people of the place - That soon they'll find, before His Throne, - Their Maker, with a frowning face. - - * * * * * - - The souls of bishops, shut in stone - By masons, rest in quietude - As flies in amber. They atone - Each buzzing long-dead platitude. - - For lichen plants its golden flush - Here, where the gaiter should have bent; - With glossy wings the black crows brush - Carved mitres, caw in merriment. - - Wings blacker than a verger's hat - Beat on the air. These birds must learn - Their preaching note by pecking at - The lips of those who, treading fern, - - Ascend the steps to Heaven's height. - --The willow herb, down by the wood, - Flares out to mark the phoenix-flight - Of God Apollo's car. Its hood - - Singes the trees. The swans who float - --Wings whiter than the foam of sea-- - Up the episcopal smooth moat, - Uncurl their necks to ring for tea. - - * * * * * - - At this sign, in the plump green close, - The Deans say grace. A hair pomade - Scents faded air. But still outside - Stone bishops scale a stone façade. - - A thousand strong, church-bound, they look - Across shrill meadows--but to find - The cricket bat defeats the Book - --Matter triumphant over Mind! - - Wellington said Waterloo - Was won upon the playing-fields, - Which thought might comfort clergy who - Admire the virtues that rank yields. - - But prelates of stone cannot relate - An Iron Duke's strong and silent words. - The knights in armour rest in state - Within, and grasp their marble swords. - - Above, where flutter angel-wings - Caught in the organ's rolling loom, - Hang in the air, like jugglers' rings, - Dim quatrefoils of coloured gloom. - - Tall arches rise to imitate - The jaws of Jonah's whale. Up flows - The chant. Thin spinsters sibilate - Beneath a full-blown Gothic rose. - - Pillars surge upward, break in spray - Upon the high and fretted roof; - But children scream outside--betray - The urging of a cloven hoof. - - * * * * * - - Tier above tier the Bishops stare - Away, away, ... above the hills; - Their faded eyes repel the glare - Of dying sun, till sunset fills - - Each pointed niche, in which they stand, - With glory of earth; humanity - Is spurned by one, with upturned hand, - Who warns them all is vanity. - - The swan beneath the sunset arch - Expands his wings, as if to fly. - A thousand saints upon the march - Glow in the water, ... but to die. - - A man upon the hill can hear - The organ. Echoes he has found - That, having lost religious fear, - Are pagan; till the rushing sound - - Clearly denotes Apollo's car, - That roars past moat and bridge and tree, - The Young God sighs. How far, how far, - Before the night shall set him free? - - - - - THE BACKWARD CHILD - - Asleep, asleep with closéd eyes - In the womb of time, King Pharaoh lies; - Heavy the darkness is, as rust, - On the cold sword he holds; while dust - Muffles the mocking panoply - With quilted silence, dead and grey. - Here any wandering sound would skim - The sleep off silence, to wake him - Till under the too-smooth mask of gold - Old parchment wrinkles would unfold, - His green and ice-bound limbs expand, - The dead flowers blossom in dead hand; - But comes no sound, save the flitting scowl - Of death-winged bat, or vault-voiced owl, - No sound through the ages all forlorn, - Unless a padding unicorn - Obscures his treasure, ivory white, - In the Egyptian grape-blue night; - Curling his limbs to rest, untangles - His milky mane, while moon-sharp angles - Of pyramids enfold him close - In their defiant, calm repose-- - For their harsh angularity - Defeats the hunter's cruelty.... - - * * * * * - - No padding unicorn is this - To prick the Old King's nothingness, - Yet a movement woke, a faint sound stirred - The silence, like a spoken word - No soft night sound, nor anything - But rolling laughter echoing. - - * * * * * - - Then King Pharaoh stretched, stood up, with a smile - Touched the crowns of the Upper and Lower Nile. - Like the jewels in his crown, had grown more deep - His gypsy eyes in embalméd sleep, - While out of the golden sockets came - A very living, curious flame. - He dashed the gold mask on the floor, - His dry limbs creaked toward the door, - And out of it thrust his nodding head, - A pendulum to count the dead, - --For there below in the lion-coloured sand - Salome danced the Sarabande! - - * * * * * - - With ruffled plumage, the sun flashed its wing - On a double-crowned, parchment-yellow king. - The clear bronze sides of the pyramids - Shone like polished coffin-lids, - Each side a huge triangular mirror - To magnify each separate terror, - To heighten the shadows, to enhance - How dead was the king, how alive the dance, - Till ashamed the wicked echoes hid - Like bats in the depth of the pyramid, - Or hid far-off in the honey-comb hive - Of caves, where the bearded hermits live. - - * * * * * - - Serapion-the-Sidonite - Turned from the strange unholy sight. - Left his cave, went up the hill - Where aged Anthony dwells still. - Disturbed in prayer, St. Anthony, - Looks round, recalls a century; - Yet in that whole tempestuous age - Had beheld never such a mirage - (Not even when with book and bell - He cleansed the hill he loves so well - --That hill of Venusberg, whose name - The poor vile heathen still proclaim) - Led by two Bishops, with his high crook, - The old saint summons round his flock. - They, hour by hour, together read - The paternoster and the creed, - While Christian choirs of shrill-birds bless - The Saint's white-bearded holiness. - - * * * * * - - Below the heathen nightingales, - Embalm, within their seven veils - Of song, Salome--swathings fine - Scented with fountain, rose and vine-- - Tired Pharaoh falls back in his box; - The lid snaps down. The golden flocks - Of stars browse round the singing trees - And orchards of Hesperides. - Down here no sound, except forlorn - Sad padding of the unicorn - Who seeks a refuge from the snare - Of cruel hunters; lurking here - His horn, his mane, his shape are hid - In slumber of the pyramid. - Safe here is he; for in this place - Hide every legendary race; - - Saints, satyrs, unicorns, entrance - Us with their fabulous elegance; - And Pharaoh himself sits up to tea - Under the shade of the incense tree - Yet nomads, wandering, will find - No tree, no murmur, no soft wind! - - - - - NURSERY RHYME - - THE ROCKING-HORSE - - Gentle hills hold on their lap - Cloud-rippled meadows where tall trees sigh. - The round pool catches in her lap - Greenness of tree and breadth of sky. - - The mottled thrush that sings, serene, - Of English worm in English lane, - Is left behind. We change the scene - For jungle or for rolling plain. - - I rock the children, carry them - On wooden waves that creak like me, - From Joppa to Jerusalem - Or to a far Cerulean sea, - - Where flutter winds that bear the balm - And breathing of a million flowers - That nod beneath a feathery palm; - Where dusky figures, in cool bowers - - Of fretted coral, singing, swim - --Forget the missionary who wishes - To make them chant a British hymn - And hide their nakedness from fishes. - - * * * * * - - Within the limits of this stride - I can encompass any space; - Time's painted gates are open wide, - The Old Gods give me their embrace. - - Now off to Babylon we trot - To see the hanging gardens, where - Tree, trailing vine and mossy grot - Show proudly in the upper air - - Above the shifting evening throng, - Like giant galleons with full sails; - These streams have robbed their crystal song - From honey-throated nightingales. - - We've watched the Roman legions pass - --The Tower of Babel, waver ... fall; - We've stroked the wooden horse that was - The hidden breach in great Troy's wall. - - Softly the rainbow Pantaloon, - Slinks down night's alley. (Oh! how still is - The evening on this wide lagoon, - Where palaces like water-lilies - - Float palely in the trembling peace - Of stars and little waves.) Sails past - Jason, who stole the golden fleece - To nail it high above his mast.... - - .... In Toad-stool Farm we're back again; - See how the fat and dappled cow - Crouches in buttercups; come rain, - To make the green lush meadows grow! - - - - - TWO MYTHOLOGICAL POEMS - - I. THE JEALOUS GODDESS - - Silenus left the mainland - On a floating barrel of wine, - His sail was plaited from peach-leaves, and - The leaves of the fig and vine. - Small waves seemed masks of laughter - As they rose at Silenus agape, - For his feet were purple with the slaughter - And the crushing of the Phoenix-blooded grape. - But the little golden winds of the autumn - Flew with him all the way, - Like a fleecy flock of Seraphim - They waited on him all the day-- - When the Syren swam to sing to him - From her island where the dolphins play, - They pelted her with lemons and with persimmon - Till the Syren dived away. - They blew down silver trumpets to summon - Sea-monsters that peer from the spray. - - But the sound of seraphic hunting-horn - Brayed to the nearing golden strand, - Till each ogre, dragon, giant and unicorn - Sprang from his cave, to guard his land - --This dear, dear land of Venus - Where the hippogriff and griffin play! - For if the Syren sang to Silenus - What would Jealous Venus say? - - - - - II. BACCHANALIA - - "... From over-indulgence in wine, and - other dietetic peccadilloes." - BAEDEKER'S "Southern Italy." - - - Where little waves claw the golden grapes, - Springing at the terraced hills like lions, - Where pirates swagger in earrings and black-capes - And the roses and the lilies grow like dandelions, - Silenus, I regret to say, sat - On an empty, purple vat, - (And his life-long love, the Lady Venus - Had left for Olympus, shocked at Silenus). - - The Syren's voice, like a golden bee, - Trembles through the leaves of each lemon tree, - Winging, like a bird, from her island grove - It brought Silenus a message of love; - But, as, rather helpless, he heard the Syren's song - He felt that his behaviour was material--was wrong, - He tore the tinted vine-leaves from his tousled hair - Shouted for his satellites, dragged them from their lair, - Mentioned, most severely, the iniquities of drink - (Though his speech came thick and indistinct); - But his followers were angry, woken out of sleep, - Recalled to him that the sea was deep, - That if it was water he really would prefer, - And the singing of the Syren, he could go to look for her! - But, Silenus, though pink and fat, - Was strong, for the matter of that... - He fought like a lion, and bellowed like a seal, - But he had filled his followers with missionary zeal, - They swung him high, and swung him low, - Then threw him (plomp) where the salt waves blow. - The syren stopped her singing at a piteous cry, - Saw a spout of water mounting hundreds of feet high, - And Jonah aboard a neighbouring sail, - Sang "Yo-ho, yo-ho, I spy a whale!" - - - - - BOOK II - - SING PRAISES - - SATIRES - - - - - EXPLANATION - - SUBTLETY OF THE SERPENT - - "Now the serpent was more - subtil than any beast of - the field which the Lord - God had made." - GENESIS iii. 1. - - - Through the green masses of the undergrowth, - Pools of silent water, - Where float large flowers and patches of white light, - Crawls the serpent, subtle, sad, - And tired of well-doing. - Nevermore will he help humanity. - Venomously he hisses at the Cherubim - Whose flaming sword sears the Heavens, - A sword whose flame turns every way - To keep the path of the Tree-of-Life. - A tropic spring, this first one, - With leaves like spears and banners; - But the ground is sweet with fallen petals - Of great blossoms - That heave their hot breath at the droning insects. - The air is full of the twittering of birds, - Whose innocence appeals to Adam - --Already outside the garden-- - While, high up in their swaying green cradles - The monkeys carry on their high-pitched chatter. - - The serpent reasoned thus-- - "For long time have I been at war - With the ape-tribe; - Small apes with clutching hands, - Great apes (how hideous they are!) - Whom the God-of-Man - Has made in the image of Man. - They tried to kill me: - I tried to kill them. - But Adam and Eve deceived me, - Looking scornfully at the great apes, - They pretended to a difference. - For a long time I loved them, - Fascinated by their words, - By their story of the Creation-- - But now, O Lord, - Give me a good old-fashioned ape - Every time - --An ape who tries to kill me - Without a chatter of clean-hands, law-and-order, - Crime passionel, - Self-defence or helping-me-to-help-myself. - I may be a snake in the grass, - But I am not a hypocrite. - I may change my skin, - But I am not ashamed of it. - I have never pretended to be a super-snake - Or to walk except on my belly-- - - * * * * * - - It is not only the ignorance of good or evil - That raises the monkey above the man - (Though the man knows evil and therefore prefers it), - But the fact that the monkey - Cannot yet disguise the good with bad words, - Or the bad with good ones. - - * * * * * - - Never before have I been cursed; - But man has made his God - Curse me with black words. - Now, therefore, - Will I curse Mankind. - --Man shall know good, but shall not act on it. - He shall know good, and turn it to evil purpose. - His twin curses shall be words and knowledge; - I, the snake, know a thing-or-two; - I know that man is a self-made monkey, - --And he knows it too! - But he will disguise it - With a God of his making, - A blustering God, a revengeful God, - A God who curses the Serpent - With sophistry, subtlety, and--words. - But I know that Man is still - An ape at heart, - A talkative chattering ape. - His curiosity shall discover many strange secrets, - But he will use them - For his two recreations, - Lying and killing, - Or--as he calls them-- - Conversation and Sport. - His words shall girdle a continent - Swiftly, as a flash of fire; - They shall be written down, - Every day, - For millions of men to read - --But they will still be lies--black lies! - Men shall journey the world over - To kill the beasts of the field, the forest and jungle; - He shall kill them secretly, without their knowing - As with a thunder-bolt: - But his own kind - Will he kill in millions, - Slaughter and butcher - With the last refinements of torture. - --And words, words, - Shall be the cause and end of it." - - As the serpent crawled away on his belly - Through the silent waters of the undergrowth, - He heard two sharp voices, - Outside the garden. - "You did"--"I didn't." - "You did"--"I didn't." - --"It was the serpent." - - A long silence, and then the second act, - When the brutal voice of the first statesman - Roared out - "Am I my brother's keeper?" - - - - - DE LUXE - - "The Presence, that rose thus - so strangely beside the waters, is - expressive of what in the ways - of a thousand years man had - come to desire."--_Walter Pater._ - - - MRS. FREUDENTHAL CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR - - A nose, however aquiline, - Escapes detection in a throng; - So she hopes; but sense of sin - Made her shrink and steal along - - Streets glazed by mocking summer heat - To semblance of a cool canal, - Where iridescent insects beat - Their wings upon the liquid wall, - - Where radiant insects, carrion-fed, - Buzz and flutter busily, - Smile, or frown, or nod the head, - Expressing some familiar lie. - - Enter the house, ascend the stair! - Consult the scintillating ball; - Beatrice Freudenthal, beware! - Eve felt like you before the Fall. - - Within the shining mystic globe, - Lies luck at bridge, or martyr's crown; - A modern prophetess will probe - The future--for one guinea down. - - For that amount the future's sword - From crystal scabbard she will drag; - She can unpack the future's hoard, - As we unpack a Gladstone bag. - - Without the agency of Man, - Solely by fasting and by prayer, - The wizards of Old Jenghiz Khan - Could move a wine cup through the air - - Until it reached him; then he drank, - Fermented juice of rye or grape; - The cup flew back, his courtiers shrank - Away, astonished and agape. - - Before the Lama turns to grapple - With State-Affairs, he learns to spin - (Despite Sir Isaac Newton's apple), - In mid-air, sixty times--to win - - Amusement mixed with approbation - From sceptical ambassadors, - For any kind of levitation - Increases prestige with the Powers! - - Such things were practised--did not tend - To promote war or anarchy - --Yet now such things would even end - A Constitutional Monarchy. - - - - - NIGHT THOUGHTS - - Magic for a holy race - Is surely wrong? How strictly hidden - The future, in its crystal case, - Lies packed--so near and yet forbidden! - - Though Gentile Kings upon their thrones - May weave a spell, or dance like Tich, - Yet ponder on the bleaching bones - Of Saul, who sought the Endor Witch. - - Now Mrs. Freudenthal has heard her call - Without a qualm--yet how can she obey - The bidding of the prophetess (like Saul, - She has consulted Endor)? How can she - - Aspire to feed the lions, yet unlike Daniel, - Once there insist on resting in their den, - To treat them as one would a King Charles Spaniel - With frowns--with bones and biscuits, now and then? - - For Mrs. Freudenthal is weary of - Her auction-bridge and hissing hotel-friend, - Seeks spheres where Novelist and Romanoff - Eat with Artistic Ladies without end. - - Money is power--a golden pedestal - Atones for beauty that is long, long dead-- - As Orpheus, Mrs. Kinfoot has enchanted all, - The lions who have not thundered--and then fled. - - Thus climbing sideways, you entice a throng - Of Artists with a biscuit and a bone-- - Then use them as a bait, step up a rung-- - But how begin? At night she plans alone - - Within the saxe-blue hotel drawing-room, - The silence of South Kensington is deep, - No sound except the traffic's wave-like boom - --And Mrs. Kinfoot climbing in her sleep! - - Thus Mrs. Freudenthal, alone, awake, - And sad, broods on. Oh how, oh how begin? - Till suddenly she melts--as small waves break, - So laughter ripples to her fortieth chin. - - For now she has it--clasps the golden key - That shall unbar that stranger--Popularity. - How many noses are forgiven thee, - Forgotten, in the name of Charity? - - First fill the coffers of the Sacred Cause, - And then the stomachs of the well-to-do, - Now Mrs. F. ... will be their Santa Klaus - --Until herself becomes a War-horse too. - - - - - THE WAR-HORSE CHANTS - - Was there war once, - I have forgotten it! - Was there war once? - --War means more trade. - - Poor Lady X - Has given up her motor-car, - Poor Lady Y - Has shut up her house. - - Was there war once? - I have forgotten it. - Was there war once? - --Now food is here. - - Now I remember - How much I suffered-- - Very bad form - To mention the war. - - Such dreadful suffering - Injures my appetite-- - All these brave men - Dying for me-- - - Was there war once? - Yes, I remember it. - Was there ... was once...? - - - - - A TOUCH OF NATURE - - Trained to a charm of manner, to a smile - --Enamelled and embalmed by Madame Rose - (Shame that an artist of this skill, this style, - Can never sign her work), no War-Horse shows - - Any emotion. The poor Spartan Youth - Though the fox gnawed his entrails, would not cry; - These never wince, nor hurl the mirror at Truth, - Though Old Age disembowel them secretly. - - Throughout the day, blue shadows in the valley - Hover, crouch down, till dusk will let them rend - The last light on the hills; so wrinkles rally - To overwhelm them at their sudden end-- - - For Death strikes at the Old as well as Young, - And these--and these--may die at balls or races, - Or living death may make them loll the tongue, - Twitching in doll-like, hideous grimaces. - - The very dab of rouge, that ghastly shred - Of self-respect, makes worse the look so winning - Of eyes--dead eyes--that know quite well they're dead-- - And yet retain a certain childish cunning. - - And each day till the end, is dragged along - This painted bundle, trundled in its tomb, - Toward the sea where wondering children throng, - Mocked by this mask, this nodding lisp of doom - - That almost apes them--save the open eye - Which contradicts the mouth, and knows the matter, - This terrible eye that moans "I die, I die," - While the poor slobbering mouth can only chatter. - - Then other War-horses pause, nod, go past, - --A few months younger these--and laugh together-- - (She, too, was hard and bold), nor note how fast - An egret's wing becomes a funeral feather. - - They laugh and mutter, make their little jokes, - --And wonder if her lover had been bored - "Look at the poor old thing!" - The dumb voice chokes; - The eye is open yet--each word a sword! - - - - - YOUTH AT THE PROW, AND PLEASURE AT THE HELM - - Battista Sforza, led by unicorns, - Triumphant, ever set in amber light - By Piero, yet keeps her course; adorns - Her empty palace, still, that floating height - - Where Raphael was born--Isotta's name, - Near-by, still, rose-like, clambers through the gloom - Of Malatesta's temple, built to fame - His pagan love, half pleasure-house, half tomb. - - Then, even tyrants drunk with blood and pride, - And ever vaunting poison-cup and knife, - No less than angels beauty made; they died, - But Art, their pleasure, still extols their life. - - Thus power, thus gold, sought pleasure in the past - But wooed her strangely, in a different mood - --As Pallas or Minerva--things that last, - Carved both in mind and heart, in stone and wood. - - Now many palaces and Tuscan towns - Crumble upon a half-deserted hill, - Slowly their stone surrenders to the flowers; - The drip and flowing of their fountains fill - - The night with cool--the night that is alive - With chanting frog and owl and nightingale; - Who knows but that these things may yet contrive - To please, when tank and war-memorial fail? - - Gonzaga, D'Este, Medici are gone, - Or dreary sons approach their unnoticed fall, - Top-hatted, leave a beauty-hating throne - To fawn upon a Mrs. Freudenthal, - - Or find their pleasure at a football match - --Express a dullard similarity - To other ox-eyes--lifting up the latch - Upon a similar vulgarity. - - For pleasure, too, is old; has lost her realm, - --Degraded to a mumbling hag--for now - Stands Golf--for pleasure--at an armoured helm, - The Cenotaph--for Youth--at iron prow! - - Yet never cruelty reaped such vast reward - As in these latter days, and with such ease, - When the whole world became a slaughter-yard - And stank with crime, and reeked with foul disease. - - --No crime of passion--only crime for gold, - Or crimes of rulers drunk with their stupidity; - The people walk with faces deathly cold, - Or marked and masked with their cupidity. - - But Mrs. Freudenthal knows her own mind, - And means to follow up and win the game, - Seek pleasure with the others of her kind, - Who live and die alike, and share the same - - Ideals. A horse has focussed in its eyes - Exaggerated visions of its rider, - So Mrs. Freudenthal now magnifies - A War-horse's importance--like a spider - - She weaves her web, while brain and heart both burn - To join their ranks, to rally to their banner; - Beside the feeding of them, she must learn - To ape the face, the smile, the talk, the manner! - - - - - THE MANNER - - Allow no personality to stamp - Its wayward lines upon your talk or dress; - Smooth out your facial furrows, on them clamp - The necessary look of nothingness. - - You must acquire a careful conversation - Remember that War-horses of True Breed - Only feel interest--if ever--in relation - To other ones--and, never, never read! - - Know though the names of authors, and conceivably - The names of their most fashionable book; - But never talk too far, or irretrievably - You blunder on the crafty fisher's hook. - - Then music, as a rule, you love too well - To wish to hear. But if you go, you walk - About--if not too loud, it helps to swell - The frankly social impulse toward talk. - - You simply love the Opera, and force - Your way in late, and romp from cage to cage; - The prima-donna is a well-known War-horse - Who fills the heart, the ear, the house, the stage! - - If you see modern pictures, in their glass - Ecstatically examine the old strife - Between your food and figure--should he pass, - Discuss with friends the painter's private life. - - Though, safety-first, you find it really best - To cast your rapture on the gilded air, - When you find pictures dead, but smartly drest, - Within the mansion of a millionaire. - - Still you encourage those whom you can hire - To fix on canvas, for the future race - Of War-horses to simper at--admire, - The painted image of your painted face. - - And any artist, author, or musician, - --If second-rate--is useful as a bait - To fish for guests--remember words like "Titian" - "--Shakespeare" "--Mozart," let go--and trust to Fate - - To pull you through--avoid ideas--they're common - And might crack through the varnish of your smile, - Impinge upon your worship of God Mammon - Filling your soul with pity, and things vile. - - - - - THE OPEN DOOR - - A light, within her glassy car, betrays - Folding of chins beneath the aquilinity - Of heavy curling features, and displays - A likeness to Assyrian Divinity. - - When comes the dusk, life's cloak is thrown aside; - The yellow windows shout their nakedness... - Until again the weary buildings hide - Their throb and stir with usual drab blackness. - - So, now, swooped darkness down; outside, each lamp - Showed the raw-fingers of the winter night - Clutching squat horses, torn by dirt and damp, - Like mouldering cardboard boxes; each small light - - Within, exposed a section harsh and shrill - Of life, cut off as the next scene succeeded - --A broken chair, a figure standing still, - A withered plant--mean drama that, unheeded, - - Flashes its image on the world's dark screen - But for a moment--yet the play goes on, - Vibrates through worlds--to mingle in a scene - Of final war or crime, or revolution; - - But though finite to us, this act of blood - Is meaningless, when flashed on outer dark - Of whirling planets, though a curious God - Might for the moment, notice a vague mark. - - Again we make God in the image of Man - --Imagine God has made us in His image-- - Reigns Law-and-Order for another span - To crush the weak in mad ferocious rage. - - The wise, poor tight-rope dancers, walk again - The thin-drawn wire of art and thought, out-thrust - A hand to catch the comet's golden rain, - Whose blossom fades within their arms to dust. - - Can man be falling once more through the black - Æons of hunger, ignorance and shame? - --But Mrs. Freudenthal pursues her track, - Intent upon it, means to win the game. - - Houses rush past her--but she does not see, - Her eyes are glazed, until with clarity - She notes the War-horses drawn up for tea - Outside the glittering home of Charity. - - Upstairs, bedecked with plumes, their minds they rest - On music and on muffins--all for sake - Of Charity; the music gives a zest - To whispered conversation--if awake, - - Yet silent, the unwelcome harmony - May cause the facial scaffolding to fall; - They lower safety-curtains o'er each eye, - And move uneasily within each stall, - - For music has a strange, unwelcome power - Of smearing sentiment about the mouth - Like children, after eating jam, they glower - In heavy, stupefaction--cross, uncouth. - - The car arrives, the open door, - Expels a scorching flood of light-- - The noise outside dies down--the floor - Is slippery and very bright. - - - - - INTRODUCING - - It takes a camel thirty days - To cross the sinister sand of Lop - Whose Bedouin chants Allah's praise - Without cessation, dare not stop. - - Though unaware of the subtle danger - Of buried learning, of civilisation, - He feels himself on his guard--a stranger - With Ignorance as his true Salvation. - - Unknown to him beneath the extent - Of ashen sand, old Gods lie hidden - With frozen gesture, ears intent - On sounds forgotten and forbidden. - - --For muttering of muted bell - Swells music from the nightingales - Whose crystal gurglings excel - The singing streams that formed these vales - - So fruitfully luxuriant still - To eyes closed like a curving sword - --Though now no sound save droning thrill - Of shifting sand is ever heard. - - Yet of an influence here felt - Tradition tells the Bedouin. - Into grey sand the mirages melt. - Spell the Arab's road to ruin. - - On through the dusk he hears his name - Called, then repeated--seek he must - That voice which calls, like wealth or fame - Only to lead from dust to dust; - - Or death may come through the burning night - With the drumming of a multitude, - For the Devil revels in the sight - Of death in the desert solitude. - - Though the camel can kneel, he never prays - Careless if God or Devil is near, - Stoutly he bears his burden of days - With Seven Stomachs--and no fear. - - Yet Infant Samuel in the Old Priest's house - When darkness drowned him with its shadowy torrent - Felt fear at hearing his own name (who knows - But that he changed it after--by Royal Warrant?) - - Mrs. Freudenthal, irate, - Decides to diet, to get thin. - Everyone must deprecate - Decay of manners. With no chin - - The arrogant yet gluttonous camel - Never shows satiety; - Would rather rest in asphodel - Than figure in Society, - - But Mrs. Kinfoot, spotting a new head - To add to her collection--grasps her hand, - And Mrs. Freudenthal is gently led - Within the portals of the Promised Land. - - - - - MALGRÉ SOI - - The voices weave a web of futile sound; - A fan is dropped by Lady Carabas; - Restored to her: but Mrs. Kinfoot frowned, - Guarding the door, as Cerberus his pass, - - But suddenly, great waves of sound obtrude - Upon the pleasant party in this room; - While we enjoy the music's interlude, - Outside there swells the trumpet-call of doom. - - Mosaic tombs or unmarked graves--asunder - Are rent. King Dodon rises from the dead - And while the quivering heavens thunder, - He smooths his robe, then calmly shakes his head - - Free of the ages' dust--but now the voices - Of these condemned (for judgment will not tarry) - Shrill out in woe; but one, alone, rejoices, - For Mrs. Kinfoot scents another quarry. - - The Army of the Dead are on the march - To meet their Maker on his ivory throne; - He sits beneath the rainbow's radiant arch, - Dispensing judgment. Oh! atone, atone! - - But Mrs. Kinfoot saw a sailor-sinner [*] - --With one arm--leave St. Paul's and walk away - And Mrs. Kinfoot longed to give a dinner - To meet the Judge upon the Judgment day! - -[*] Editor's note: Lord Nelson(?). - - Above God's head a dozen suns kept guard - Like sentinels. Her erring feet were led - Up to a crowded mount, where God's regard - Was fixed upon her, while He gravely said: - - "Anne Kinfoot, worthy mother, and good wife, - Your weakness and your faults are all forgiven; - Go you, my child, to everlasting life, - And take your husband, also, up to Heaven." - - But she could see the Counsellors and Kings - And brilliant bearers of a famous name, - Tangled with snakes and horrid crawling things - Sent down to torture and eternal flame. - - Then Mrs. Kinfoot lied in agony: "Oh, Lord, - I am as others of my class and station," - She cried, "Oh, have me bound, and burnt and gored - Oh! send me down to suffer my damnation. - - I swear I beat my children!" Oh, despondent - She was; "I am a sinner. I will tell - How I escaped a Ducal Co-respondent - Last year--my God--I must insist on--Hell. - - But the Great Judge was not deceived--He knew - The worthy virtue of the Kinfoot line; - Yet as she went to Heaven, constant, true - To principle, she murmured, "Will you dine - - To meet..." but dragged away, she dwells on high - And notes, but rather disapproves the eccentricity - Of Saints and Early Christians, who try - To lessen the burden of her domesticity. - - She has to play upon a golden harp, - Join in the chorus of the heavenly choir; - Her answers to the Saints are sometimes sharp, - She longs to singe her wings, and share the fire. - - Night never comes, so when she tries to flee - To that perpetual party down below, - The angels catch her, shouting out with glee, - "Dear Mrs. Kinfoot--you are good!----We know!" - - - - - PARADISE REGAINED - - Poor Mrs. Kinfoot closed her wings, leant out - From the Gold Bar of Heaven, - Shed tears, like icicles, to flout - Hell's suffering, to leaven - - The Torment of the Upper Ten-- - --Or was it because now and then - - She heard the glad hilarious cries, - (A party down below again) - Till tears formed in her jungle-eyes - For torture she could not attain? - - Or heard the strains that she adored - --Not martyrs seeking the Lost Chord - - As here, nor Heber's hints of ire-- - But Russian Music, for the latter - Was sent down to eternal fire - To promote fashionable chatter, - - Which, as on earth, when music sounds - E'en torture cannot keep in bounds. - - And Jacob's ladder, as she leans - Invites escape; with deep delight - She recollects what "climbing" means! - --But angels guard her day and night, - - Or rather day and day, because - Eternal glory never thaws - - To dusk--again strange music blares - Its strangled message through all space, - While, lit by multi-coloured flares, - Hell's blackness gains a certain grace. - - * * * * * - - "Oh, Heaven is dull," cried Mrs. Kinfoot, "dull!" - --And then the Gold Bar snap'd - --And like a bull - - She charged the universe full-tilt. The roseate domes - The golden minarets, the opal towers - Of Heaven speed above, while hot wind foams - About her, seems to wither them like flowers. - - Old Jacob climbing up his Freudian stair - Bowed down with age--is taken unaware, - - Slithers, then falls--but, like a shooting-star, - Falls Mrs. Kinfoot past him. As she spins, - Hell's legions stop to watch her, though still far - Away, chant gladly "Mrs. Kinfoot wins! - - Can you consign to everlasting flame - The Woman who beats Jacob at his game?" - - And oh! the people, oh! the parties here! - Musician, Author, Artist, Aristocrat! - Dear Lady Carabas, with Mr. Queer; - The Cosmopolitan Marquise, with that - - Old Duchess of St. Dodo, whose tiara - Is made of snakes and scorpions--they are a - - Present from the Devil, whose assistance - She claimed on earth--Himself now welcomes in - The new arrival, saying "For Persistence - You have no equal, so, though free from Sin, - - We here create you Honorary Member, - Beginning from the Fifth day of November, - - (A Saint's day here)." Now authors and Debrett - Mingle their laughing tears to music's swell, - For here are some whom she has never met - --And Mrs. Kinfoot finds her Heaven in Hell! - - - - - FIVE PORTRAITS AND A GROUP - - I. THE GENERAL'S WIFE REFUSES - - It isn't that I don't like them, - My dear Mrs. Kinfoot, - But I know - I am not clever, - And I like your old friends best. - - As for the General - He disapproves of Art, - And does not believe in it. - He has noticed - That Artists - Have an odd look in their eyes, - And a shifty expression. - In fact, - The General disapproves of Art. - - He finds that Artists - Are stupid - And difficult to talk to-- - He remembers meeting one - In '97 - Who was not interested - In Polo, - --And appeared - To be unaware of the existence - Of the old Duke of Cambridge. - - My husband didn't get angry, - He just said to him, like that, - "What are you interested in? - _ART_, I suppose?" - - In spite of this - The General thinks - That music is more dangerous - --And subversive of discipline - Than painting-- - For--in painting-- - That is to say - In good painting-- - You can see put down on canvas - What you can see yourself-- - --And you can touch it - With your finger-- - A picture should be the same - As a coloured photograph, - Except that the camera - Reveals things - Invisible to the Human Eye; - That is wrong! - (By the Human Eye - The General says - He means - His own eye) - But in Music - You can see nothing, - And you are unable - To touch it - With your fingers; - The General disapproves of Art, - --But it makes him positively nervous - To hear music. - - The General says that, - As far as he can make out, - All musicians - Have been German-- - But he can only remember - The name of one-- - Nietzsche! - As the war - Was German in origin, - It is obvious that it was made - By German Composers - And _not_ - By German Generals - --Many of whom were fine fellows - Who loved a good joke. - The General remembers one - Who laughed like anything - At one of his stories. - The war was made by German musicians - --Just as surely - As our own - Pacific and imaginative policy - Was interpreted - By Kipling and Lady Butler. - - "Never trust a Man - Who plays the piano," - The General says. - He thinks that - In the main, - The British have a sound interest - In this matter. - Probably Charles I, - Played the piano-- - And, at any rate, - He collected Pictures. - - The English would never - Behead anyone - For governing badly; - It is only Barbarians, - Like the Russians, - Who would do this. - The General - Disapproves of Art. - - But, of all these things, - The General says - He dislikes poetry most, - Kipling is different; - He is a Man-of-the-World. - But the General says - That if he got hold - Of one of these long-haired - Conscientious Objectors, - Who write things - Which don't even rhyme - He'd---- - So you see, dear, - That it's better for us - Not to come. - - - - - II. AUX BORDS DE LA MER - - Where frightened woolly clouds, like sheep - Scurry across blue skies; where sleep - Sings from the little waves that reach - In strict formation to the beach, - Are houses--covers of red-plush, - To hide our thoughts in, lest we blush. - - * * * * * - - Here live kind ladies--hence they come - To persecute us--I am dumb - When they give from wide saucer-eye - Intolerable sympathy, - Or testify solicitude, - By platitude on platitude, - Mix Law-and-Order, Church-and-State - With little tales of Bishop Tait, - Or harass my afflicted soul - With most fantastic rigmarole - Of Bolshevik and Pope in league - With Jewish and Sinn-Fein intrigue-- - I love to watch them, as they troop - Revolving, through each circus-hoop - Of new-laid eggs--left at the door-- - With Patriotism--for the Poor-- - Of ball-committee, Church Bazaar, - All leading up to a great war, - A new great war--greater by far - --Oh! much more great--than any war. - - Kind lady, leave me, go enthral - The pauper-ward, and hospital! - - - - - III. GIARDINO PUBBLICO - - Petunias in mass formation, - An angry rose, a hard carnation, - Hot yellow grass, a yellow palm - Rising, giraffe-like, into calm - --All these glare hotly in the sun. - Behind are woods, where shadows run - Like water through the dripping shade - That leaves and laughing wind have made. - Here silence, like a silver bird, - Pecks at the fruit-ripe heat. We heard - Townward, the voices, glazed with starch, - Of Tourists on belated march - From church to church, to praise by rule - The beauties of the Tuscan school, - Clanging of trams, a hidden flute, - Sharp as the taste of unripe fruit; - Street organs join with tolling bell - To threaten us with both Heaven and Hell, - But through all taps a nearing sound - As of stage-horses pawing ground. - Then like a whale, confined in cage, - (In grandeur of a borrowed carriage) - The old Marchesa swam in sight - In tinkling jet that caught the light, - Making the sun hit out each tone - As if it played a xylophone, - Till she seems like a rainbow, where - She swells, and whale-like, spouts the air. - - * * * * * - - And as she drove, she imposed her will - Upon all things both live and still; - Lovers hid quickly--none withstood - That awful glance of widowhood; - Each child, each tree, the shrilling heat - Became encased in glacial jet, - The very songbird in the air - Became a scarecrow, dangling there, - While, if you turned to stare, you knew - The punishment Lot's wife went through. - - * * * * * - - Her crystal cage moves on. Stagnation - Now thaws again to animation; - Gladly the world receives reprieve - Till six o'clock to-morrow eve, - When punctual as the sun, she'll drive - Life out of everything alive, - Then in gigantic glory, fade - Sunward, through the western glade.... - - - - - IV. ULTIMATE JUDGMENT - - Within the sunny greenness of the close, - Secure, a heavy breathing fell, then rose-- - Here undulating chins sway to and fro, - As heavy blossoms do; the cheek's faint glow - Points to post-prandial port. The willow weeps - Hushed are the birds--in fact--the Bishop sleeps. - - Then, suddenly, the wide sky blazes red; - Up from their graves arise the solemn dead, - The world is shaken; buildings fall in twain, - Exulting hills shout loud, then shout again - While, with the thunder of deep rolling drums - The angels sing---- At last Salvation comes. - The weak, the humble, the disdained, the poor - Are judged the first, and climb to Heaven's door. - - * * * * * * - - The Bishop wakes to see his palace crash - Down on the rocking ground--but in a flash - It dawns upon him;--with impressive frown, - He sees his second-housemaid in a crown, - In rainbow robes that glisten like a prism - "I warned them..." said the Bishop-- - "Bolshevism!" - - - - - V. AN OLD-FASHIONED SPORTSMAN - - We thank thee, - O Lord, - That the War is over. - We can now - Turn our attention - Again - To money-making. - Railway-Shares must go up; - Wages must come down; - Smoke shall come out - Of the chimneys of the North, - And we will manufacture battle-ships. - We thank thee, O Lord, - But we must refuse - To consider - Music, Painting, or Poetry. - - Our sons and brothers - Went forth to fight, - To kill certain things, - Cubism, Futurism and Vers-libre - "All this Poetry-and-Rubbish," - We said - "Will not stand the test of war." - We will not read a book - --Unless it is a best seller. - There has been enough art - In the past, - Life is concerned - With killing and maiming. - If they cannot kill men - Why can't they kill animals? - - There is still - Big Game in Africa - --Or there might be trouble - Among the natives. - We thank thee, O Lord, - But we will not read poetry. - - But as the Pharisees - Approached the tomb - They saw the boulder - Rolled back, - And that the tomb was empty - --They said - "It's very disconcerting." - I am not at all - Narrow-minded. - I know a tune - When I hear one, - And I know - What I like-- - I did not so much mind - That He blasphemed - Saying that He was the Son-of-God, - But He was never - What I call - A Sportsman; - He went out into the desert - For forty days - --And never shot anything - And when He hoped He would drown - He walked on the water. - - ... No--we will not read poetry. - - - - - THE GROUP - - ENGLISH TEA-ROOMS - - Why do they sit in darkness, - Hiss like geese? - Outside the sun flashes his strong wings - Against the green-slit shutters, - Through which you can see - Him bathing in the street. - Like a bird he preens himself at the windows, - Then dances back with the swimming flash of a gold-fish. - Why do you hiss like geese, - What do you hide, - With your thin sibilance of genteel speech? - - * * * * * - - The Colonel, usually a rollicking character, - In the manner of El Capitano, - Simpers, like any schoolgirl. - Miss Vera complains that her brother - Is suffering from catarrh. - On the other hand - Hotel-life is easier than home-life, - She just rings the bell, - Orders anything she wants, - --And there it is--punctual to the minute. - Both Sir William and his daughter - Are pleased with their holiday; - Admire the flora and the fauna; - Miss Ishmael sketches, and the place abounds - In peasants, picturesque old-bit-and-corner-- - - * * * * * - - If they should die... - Say only this of them, - That there's a corner in some foreign field - That is for ever England... - They travel; yet all foreign things - Are barr'd and bolted out of range - ... While England benefits by the exchange. - - - - - SUNDAY AFTERNOON - - The gilt-fring'd earth has sadly spun - A sector of its lucent arc - About the disillusioned sun - Of Autumn. The bright angry spark - - Of Heaven in each upturned eye - Denotes religious ecstasy. - - We, too, have spun our Sunday round - Of Church and beef and after-sleep - In houses where obtrudes no sound - But breathing, regular and deep, - - Till Sabbath sentiment, well-fed, - Demands a visit to the Dead. - - For Autumn leaves sad thoughts beget, - As from life's tree they clatter down, - And Death has caught some in her net - Even on Sunday,--in this Town, - - Tho' money and food and sleep are sweet! - The dead leaves rattle down the street. - - Fat bodies, silk-enmeshed, inflate - Their way along; if Death comes soon - They'll leave this food-sweet earth to float - Heavenward, like some huge balloon. - - Religion dims each vacant eye - As we approach the cemet'ry. - - Proudly we walk; with care we bend - To lead our children by the hand, - Here, where all, rich and poor, must end - --This portal to a better land - - To which--if in good business-- - We have hereditary access; - - Where to afford the Saints relief - From prayer and from religious questions, - Round after round of deathless beef - Flatters celestial digestions; - - Where, in white robe, with golden crown, - We watch our enemies sent down, - - To other spheres, while we lean out, - Divinest pity in our eyes, - And wonder why these sinners flout - Our kindly pitying surprise, - - Why look so angry when we play - On gold harps as they go away, - - A hymn tune, dear, familiar? - But now we stand within the space - Where marble females drape a tear - Above a whisker'd marble face. - - "Isn't it pretty?" Even now - Rich and exotic blossoms grow - - About each granite monument - Of men frock-coated, unaware - Of Judgment; what emolument - Requites a weeping willow's care? - - Look! Over there a broken column - Is watched by one geranium, - - Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold - Damnation and eternal fire - To those who will not reckon gold-- - Who are not worthy of their hire, - - For marble tombs are prized above - Such brittle things as thought or love. - - The crystal web of dusk now clings - From evergreen to tropic tree, - Toss'd by the wind that subtly brings - A mingled scent of mould and tea - - That causes silence to be rent - By one scream--childish, but intent. - - For children will not realise - That they should rest without a sound - With folded hands and downcast eyes - Here, in the Saint's Recruiting Ground. - - And so, in sorrow, we turn back - To hasten on our high-tea track. - - But after, in the night, we dream - Of Heaven as a marbled bank, - In which, in one continual stream, - We give our gold for heavenly rank, - - Where each Saint, standing like a sentry, - Explains a mystic double-entry. - - The Director of the Bank is God-- - Stares our foes coldly in the face, - But gives us quite a friendly nod, - And beckons us to share His place. - - - - - CORPSE DAY - - _July_ 19th, 1919. - - Dusk floated up from the earth beneath, - Held in the arms of the evening wind - --The evening wind that softly creeps - Along the jasper-terraces, - To bear with it - The old, sad scent - Of midsummer, of trees and flowers - Whose bell-shaped blossoms, shaken, torn - By the rough fingers of the day - Ring out their frail and honeyed notes. - - * * * * * - - Up from the earth there rose - Sounds of great triumph and rejoicing. - - * * * * * - - Our Lord Jesus, the Son of Man, - Smiled - And leant over the ramparts of Heaven. - Beneath Him - Through the welling clouds of darkness - He could see - The swarming of mighty crowds. - It was in the Christian Continent, - Especially, - That the people chanted - Hymns and pæans of joy. - But it seemed to Our Lord - That through the noisy cries of triumph - He could still detect - A bitter sobbing - --The continuous weeping of widows and children - Which had haunted Him for so long, - Though He saw only - The bonfires, - The arches of triumph, - The processions, - And the fireworks - That soared up - Through the darkening sky, - To fall in showers of flame - Upon the citadel of Heaven. - As a rocket burst, - There fell from it, - Screaming in horror, - Hundreds of men - Twisted into the likeness of animals - --Writhing men - Without feet, - Without legs, - Without arms, - Without faces.... - - The earth-cities still rejoiced. - Old, fat men leant out to cheer - From bone-built palaces. - Gold flowed like blood - Through the streets; - Crowds became drunk - On liquor distilled from corpses. - And peering down - The Son of Man looked into the world; - He saw - That within the churches and the temples - His image had been set up; - But, from time to time, - Through twenty centuries, - The priests had touched up the countenance - So as to make war more easy - Or intimidate the people-- - Until now the face - Had become the face of Moloch! - The people did not notice - The change - ... But Jesus wept! - - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of the Flame, by Osbert Sitwell - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** - -***** This file should be named 61369-8.txt or 61369-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/6/61369/ - -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. 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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: Out of the Flame - -Author: Osbert Sitwell - -Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61369] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - -</pre> - - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - OUT OF THE FLAME<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE<br /> - In collaboration with Edith Sitwell<br /> - (BLACKWELL, Oxford)<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - THE WINSTONBURG LINE<br /> - Political Satires<br /> - (HENDERSON, Charing Cross Road)<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - COCK-ROBIN<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <i>IN PREPARATION</i><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - A BOOK OF CHARACTERS<br /> - Short Stories and Sketches<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - DISCURSIONS<br /> - Essays on Travel, Art and Life<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="capcenter"> -<a id="img-front"></a> -<img class="imgcenter" src="images/img-front.jpg" alt="The Author from the sculpture by Frank Dobson" /> -<br /> -<i>The Author</i><br /> -<i>from the sculpture by Frank Dobson</i> -</p> - -<h1> -<br /><br /> - OUT OF THE FLAME<br /> -</h1> - -<p class="t3b"> - BY<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t2"> - OSBERT SITWELL<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - LONDON<br /> - GRANT RICHARDS LTD.<br /> - 1923<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - Printed in Great Britain at<br /> - <i>The Mayflower Press, Plymouth.</i><br /> - William Brendon & Son, Ltd.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - CONTENTS<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - <a href="#book1">BOOK I</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - OUT OF THE FLAME<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - Two Mexican Pieces—<br /> - I. <a href="#song">Song</a><br /> - II. <a href="#maxixe">Maxixe</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#flame">Out of the Flame</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - Two Dances—<br /> - I. <a href="#dance">Country Dance</a><br /> - II. <a href="#foxtrot">Fox Trot—When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - Two Garden Pieces—<br /> - I. <a href="#neptune">Neptune in Chains</a><br /> - II. <a href="#fountains">Fountains</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#parade">Parade</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#gothic">English Gothic</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#backward">The Backward Child</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#nursery">Nursery Rhyme—The Rocking-Horse</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - Two Mythological Poems—<br /> - I. <a href="#goddess">The Jealous Goddess</a><br /> - II. <a href="#bacchanalia">Bacchanalia</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - <a href="#book2">BOOK II</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="t3"> - SING PRAISES<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#explanation">Explanation—Subtlety of the Serpent</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#deluxe">De Luxe</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#witch">Mrs. Freudenthal Consults the Witch of Endor</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#thoughts">Night Thoughts</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#warhorse">The War-horse Chants</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#nature">A Touch of Nature</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#youth">Youth at the Prow, and Pleasure at the Helm</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#manner">The Manner</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#opendoor">The Open Door</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#introducing">Introducing</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#malgre">Malgré Soi</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#paradise">Paradise Regained</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - Five Portraits and a Group—<br /> - I. <a href="#generals">The General's Wife Refuses</a><br /> - II. <a href="#auxbords">Aux Bords de la Mer</a><br /> - III. <a href="#giardino">Giardino Pubblico</a><br /> - IV. <a href="#judgment">Ultimate Judgment</a><br /> - V. <a href="#sportsman">An Old-Fashioned Sportsman</a><br /> - <a href="#tearooms">Group: English Tea-rooms</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#sunday">Sunday Afternoon</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - <a href="#corpse">Corpse Day</a><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> -My thanks are due to the Editors of <i>The Nation</i>, <i>The Spectator</i>, <i>The -Weekly Westminster</i>, <i>The English Review</i>, <i>Art and Letters</i>, <i>Form</i>, -<i>The Dial</i>, and <i>Poetry</i> (Chicago), for permission to reprint certain of -the poems appearing in this volume. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p> -<a id="book1"></a> -<a id="song"></a> -</p> - -<h2> - BOOK I -<br /> - OUT OF THE FLAME<br /> -</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - TWO MEXICAN PIECES<br /> -</p> - -<h3> - I. SONG<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - "Ah! Que bonitos<br /> - Son los enanos,<br /> - Los chiquititos,<br /> - Y Mezicanos."<br /> - <i>Old Mexican Song.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - How jolly are the dwarfs, the little ones, the Mexicans<br /> - Hidden by the singing of wind through sugar-cane,<br /> - Out comes the pretty one,<br /> - Out comes the ugly one,<br /> - Out comes the dwarf with the wicked smile and thin.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The little women caper and simper and flutter fans,<br /> - The little men laugh, stamp, strut and stamp again,<br /> - Dance to the bag-pipe drone,<br /> - Of insect semitone,<br /> - Swelling from ground slashed with light like zebra skin.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The little Cardinal, the humming-bird, whose feathers flare<br /> - Like flame across the valley of volcanic stone,<br /> - Fiery arrow from a rainbow<br /> - That the armoured plants have slain, low<br /> - Stoops to watch the dwarfs as they dance out of sight.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Hair, long and black as jet, is floating yet on amber air<br /> - Honey-shaded by the shadow of Popacatapetl's cone,<br /> - Their fluttering reboses<br /> - Like purple-petal'd roses<br /> - Fall through tropic din with a clatter of light.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The crooked dwarf now ripples the strings of a mandoline,<br /> - His floating voice has wings that brush us like a butterfly;<br /> - Music fills the mountains<br /> - With a riot of fountains<br /> - That spray back on the hot plain like a waterfall.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Smaller grow the dwarfs, singing "I'll bring shoes of satin,"<br /> - Smaller they grow, fade to golden motes, then die.<br /> - Where is the pretty one,<br /> - Where is the ugly one,<br /> - Where is that tongue of flame, the little Cardinal?<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="maxixe"></a> - II. MAXIXE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - "Los enanitos<br /> - Se enajaren."<br /> - <i>Old Mexican Song.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Mexican dwarfs can dance for miles<br /> - Stamping their feet and scattering smiles,<br /> - Till the loud hills laugh and laugh again<br /> - At the dancing dwarfs in the golden plain,<br /> - Till the bamboos sing as the dwarfs dance by,<br /> - Kicking their feet at a jagged sky,<br /> - That torn by leaves and gashed by hills<br /> - Rocks to the rhythm the hot sun shrills;<br /> - The bubble sun stretches shadows that pass<br /> - To noiseless jumping-jacks of glass,<br /> - So long and thin, so silent and opaque,<br /> - That the lions shake their orange manes, and quake;<br /> - And a shadow that leaps over Popacatapetl<br /> - Terrifies the tigers as they settle<br /> - Cat-like limbs, cut with golden bars,<br /> - Under bowers of flowers that shimmer like stars.<br /> - Buzzing of insects flutters above,<br /> - Shaking the rich trees' treasure-trove<br /> - Till the fruit rushes down like a comet, whose tail<br /> - Thrashes the night with its golden flail,<br /> - The fruit hisses down with a plump from its tree<br /> - Like the singing of a rainbow as it dips into the sea.<br /> - Loud red trumpets of great blossoms blare<br /> - Triumphantly like heralds who blow a fanfare,<br /> - Till the humming-bird, bearing heaven on its wing,<br /> - Flies from the terrible blossoming,<br /> - And the humble honey-bee is frightened by the fine<br /> - Honey that is heavy like money and purple like wine,<br /> - While birds that flaunt their pinions like pennons<br /> - Shriek from their trees of oranges and lemons,<br /> - And the scent rises up in a cloud, to make<br /> - The hairy, swinging monkeys feel so weak<br /> - That they each throw down a bitten coconut or mango.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Up flames a flamingo over the fandango,<br /> - Glowing like a fire, and gleaming like a ruby.<br /> - From Guadalajara to Guadalupe<br /> - It flies—in flying drops a feather<br /> - ... And the snatching dwarfs stop dancing—and fight together.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="flame"></a> - OUT OF THE FLAME<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - I<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From my high window,<br /> - From my high window in a southern city,<br /> - I peep through the slits of the shutters,<br /> - Whose steps of light<br /> - Span darkness like a ladder.<br /> - Throwing wide the shutters<br /> - I let the streets into the silent room<br /> - With sudden clatter;<br /> - Walk out upon the balcony<br /> - Whose curving irons are bent<br /> - Like bows about to shoot—<br /> - Bows from which the mortal arrows<br /> - Cast from dark eyes, dark-lashed<br /> - And shadowed by mantillas,<br /> - Shall in the evening<br /> - Rain down upon men's hearts<br /> - Paraded here, in southern climes,<br /> - More openly.<br /> - But, at this early moment of the day,<br /> - The balconies are empty;<br /> - Only the sun, still drowsy-fingered,<br /> - Plucks, pizzicato, at the rails,<br /> - Draws out of them faint music<br /> - Of rain-washed air,<br /> - Or, when each bell lolls out its idiot tongue,<br /> - When Time lets drop his cruel scythe,<br /> - They sing in sympathy.<br /> - The sun, then, plucks these irons,<br /> - As far below,<br /> - That child<br /> - Draws his stick along the railings.<br /> - The sound of it brings my eye down to him....<br /> - Oh heart, dry heart,<br /> - It is yourself again!<br /> - How nearly are we come together!<br /> - If, at this moment,<br /> - One long ribbon was unfurled<br /> - From me to him,<br /> - I should be shown<br /> - Above, in a straight line—<br /> - A logical growth,<br /> - And yet,<br /> - I wave, but he will not look up;<br /> - I call, but he will not answer.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - II<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From where I stand<br /> - The beauty of the early morning<br /> - Suffocates me;<br /> - It is as if fingers closed round my heart.<br /> - The light flows down the hills in rivulets,<br /> - So you could gather it up in the cup of your hands,<br /> - While pools,<br /> - The cold eyes of the gods,<br /> - Are cradled in those hollows.<br /> - Cool are the clouds,<br /> - Anchored in the heaven;<br /> - Green as ice are they,<br /> - To temper the heat in the valleys<br /> - With arches of violet shadow.<br /> - You can hear from the distant woods<br /> - The thud of the centaurs' hoofs<br /> - As they gallop down to drink,<br /> - Shatter the golden roofs<br /> - Of the trees, for swift as the wind<br /> - They gallop down to the brink<br /> - Of the waters that echo their laughter,<br /> - Cavernous as rolling of boulders down hills;<br /> - Lolling, they lap at the gurgling waters.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But nearer rises the sound,<br /> - Red, ragged as his comb,<br /> - Of a cock crowing;<br /> - A bird flies up to me at the window,<br /> - Leaping, like music, with regular rhythm,<br /> - Sinks down, then, to the city beneath.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - III<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Below, the ants are hurrying down the footways,<br /> - Dressed, here, in bright colours.<br /> - Under their various intolerable burdens<br /> - They stagger along.<br /> - Stop to converse, move, wave their antennæ.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The fruit-seller is opening his stall,<br /> - Oranges are piled in minute pyramids,<br /> - While melons, green melons,<br /> - Swing from the roof in string cradles.<br /> - The butcher festoons his shop<br /> - With swags and gay wreaths of entrails;<br /> - Beautiful heads with horns,<br /> - Are nailed up, as on pagan altars,<br /> - (Though their ears are fresh from the hearing<br /> - Of Orpheus playing his lute).<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Aguador arranges his glasses,<br /> - Out of which the sun will strike<br /> - His varying scales of crystal music<br /> - This afternoon, round the arena.<br /> - The Matador prepares for the fight,<br /> - Is, indeed, already in the Tavern,<br /> - Where later and refreshed with blood,<br /> - He will celebrate his triumph<br /> - Among the poignant kindling<br /> - Of stringéd instruments.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - —But the child has run away crying;<br /> - I call—but no answer comes.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - IV<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The chatter of the daylight grows<br /> - As I look upon the market-place,<br /> - Where there is a droning of bag-pipes,<br /> - And the hard, wooden music of the hills;<br /> - The housewife has left her cottage in the forest,<br /> - Driving here through the early tracks of the sun.<br /> - The beggars are already at their posts,<br /> - Their dry flesh peeps through their garments.<br /> - Their old ritual whining<br /> - Causes no show of pity.<br /> - Why should the hucksters, the busy people notice?<br /> - God himself has stood here, out at elbows,<br /> - Waiting patiently in the market-place,<br /> - While they chatter in gay booths.<br /> - But how I fear for them,<br /> - These who are not afraid!<br /> - I shout to them to make them understand.<br /> - They talk more, cease talking and look up,<br /> - They all look up, remain gaping.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I went back into the water-cool room,<br /> - Put on my coloured coat, my buskin,<br /> - And mask of Harlequin.<br /> - They see me, this time.<br /> - "Come on, come on," they cry,<br /> - "You are just in time.<br /> - There is fun down here in the market-place.<br /> - Two men have been run over,<br /> - And there's to be a public execution.<br /> - The gallows are nearly up.<br /> - —And after, in the evening,<br /> - We will go round the wineshops,<br /> - Strumming guitars,<br /> - While trills Dolores in her wide, red skirt.<br /> - Oh come on, come on!"<br /> - —But the paint from my mask runs down<br /> - And dyes my clothing.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - V<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It is not thus in the Northern cities,<br /> - Where the cold breathes close to the window-pane,<br /> - Where the brittle flowers of the frost<br /> - Crackle at the window's edge.<br /> - From my window in the Northern city<br /> - I can hear the rattle and roar of the town,<br /> - As the carts go lumbering over the bridges,<br /> - As the men in dark clothes hurry over the bridges.<br /> - They do not parade their hearts here,<br /> - They bury them at their lives' beginning.<br /> - They must hurry, or they will be late for their work;<br /> - Their work is their bread.<br /> - Without bread, how can they work?<br /> - They have no time for pleasure,<br /> - Nor is work any pleasure to them.<br /> - Their faces are masked with weariness,<br /> - Drab with their working.<br /> - (Only the tramp who moves among them<br /> - Unnoticed, despised,<br /> - Has eyes that have seen).<br /> - They must work till the guns go again,<br /> - Giving them their only pretence to glory.<br /> - They have no time to fear,<br /> - No time to think of an end.<br /> - Foolishly I called to them on the bridges;<br /> - Only a few stopped, looked up<br /> - —But these were convulsed with fury.<br /> - Said one to another<br /> - "I have never seen a man<br /> - Behave like that before."<br /> - But most of them were mute,<br /> - And could not see.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Through the murkiness of the Northern dawn,<br /> - The gas already flares out<br /> - In the glass palaces,<br /> - Where to-night, weary and dulled with smoke and with drink,<br /> - They will seek, in a brief oblivion,<br /> - Laughter, and the mask of Ally Sloper.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus it is in the Northern cities,<br /> - Where the cold lies close to the window-pane,<br /> - Where the grass grows its little blades of steel<br /> - And the wind is armed with seven whips.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - VI<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Happy is Orpheus as he plays,<br /> - The dumb beasts listen quietly,<br /> - The music strokes their downy ears,<br /> - Melts the fierce fire within.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Only with music can you tame the beasts,<br /> - Break them of their grizzly feasts;<br /> - Only with music can you open eyes to wonder.<br /> - But if they will not hear?<br /> - The people have lost faith in music,<br /> - Few are there to call, and none to answer.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When the Prince kissed the Sleeping Beauty,<br /> - He broke the wicked spell of cobwebs;<br /> - She answered, opened her eyes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When Narcissus looked into the pool,<br /> - The cruel waters gave him their reply<br /> - —Even that was a better fate<br /> - Than to cry out in the lonely night<br /> - —And not to be answered.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - VII<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - From my high window in a Southern city,<br /> - Floating above the geometrical array<br /> - Of roofs, squares and interlacing streets,<br /> - One can see beyond<br /> - Into far valleys,<br /> - That seem at first<br /> - To be open blue flowers<br /> - Scattered here and there on the mountains.<br /> - The forests are so far away,<br /> - They creep like humble green moss<br /> - Over slopes that are mountains.<br /> - And there sounds other music<br /> - Than the falling streams,<br /> - Or the deep penetrating glow<br /> - Of sunlight piercing through green leaves.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - VIII<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When Orpheus with his wind-swift fingers<br /> - Ripples the strings that gleam like rain,<br /> - The wheeling birds fly up and sing,<br /> - Hither, thither, echoing.<br /> - There is a crackling of dry twigs,<br /> - A sweeping of leaves along the ground.<br /> - Tawny faces and dumb eyes<br /> - Peer through the fluttering green screens,<br /> - That mask ferocious teeth and claws<br /> - Now tranquil.<br /> - As the music sighs upon the hills,<br /> - The young ones hear,<br /> - Come skipping, ambling, rolling down,<br /> - Their soft ears flapping as they run,<br /> - Their fleecy coats catching in the thickets,<br /> - Till they lie, listening, round his feet.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Unseen for centuries,<br /> - Fabulous creatures creep out of their caverns.<br /> - The unicorn<br /> - Prances down from his bed of leaves,<br /> - His milk-white muzzle still stained green<br /> - With the munching, crunching of mountain herbs.<br /> - The griffin usually so fierce,<br /> - Now tame and amiable again—<br /> - Has covered the white bones in his secret cavern<br /> - With a rustling pall of dank, dead leaves,<br /> - While the Salamander—true lover of art—<br /> - Flickers, and creeps out of the flame;<br /> - Gently now, and away he goes,<br /> - Kindles his proud and blazing track<br /> - Across the forest<br /> - —Lies listening,<br /> - Cools his fever in this flowing water.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When the housewife returns,<br /> - Carrying her basket,<br /> - She will not understand.<br /> - She misses nothing,<br /> - Has heard nothing in the woods.<br /> - She will only see<br /> - That the fire is dead,<br /> - The grate cold.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But the child left in the empty house<br /> - Saw the Salamandar in the flame,<br /> - Heard a strange wind, like music, in the forest,<br /> - And has gone out to look for it,<br /> - Alone.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> -<a id="dance"></a> - TWO DANCES -</p> - -<h3> - I. COUNTRY DANCE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The Lion and the Unicorn<br /> - Dance now together,<br /> - There in the golden corn—<br /> - For it is summer weather.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Lion, seen between the sheaves,<br /> - Is more strong than fair,<br /> - Yet he lets the singing thieves<br /> - Rustle through his tawny hair.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As he treads, the red-gold grain<br /> - Curtsies and bows down;<br /> - The birds tear at his ruffled mane,<br /> - Stealing seed to feed Troy Town.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For famine, in that fabled land,<br /> - Grows, as the years pass.<br /> - (Is it golden grain or sand<br /> - From a broken hour-glass?)<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Night comes; over azure ground<br /> - Roves an argent breeze:<br /> - The Unicorn can still be found<br /> - Trampling down the fleur-de-lys.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Elegant and moon-white<br /> - As a ghost, the Unicorn<br /> - Dances for his own delight<br /> - Under the flowering thorn.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - While deep in the sleeping wood<br /> - The Lion breathes heavily,<br /> - Though every dove in each tree coo'd,<br /> - Yet would he sleep on wearily.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Unicorn and Lion strong<br /> - Dance now together<br /> - (But surely they did no wrong—<br /> - For it was the summer weather?)<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In among the red-gold grain,<br /> - Ankle-deep in the Lilies of France—<br /> - And I, for one, could scarce refrain<br /> - From joining that heraldic dance.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="foxtrot"></a> - II. FOX TROT<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - WHEN SOLOMON MET THE QUEEN OF SHEBA<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The navy at Ezion-Geba<br /> - Gazed across the water amazed;<br /> - When Solomon met the Queen of Sheba<br /> - Lions in the desert were dazed<br /> - With wonder at her striped pavilion<br /> - That blazed like a new parhelion;<br /> - They roared their admiration<br /> - At this strange coruscation<br /> - Till the satyrs<br /> - Took their tawny children<br /> - Trampling through the sand<br /> - To march with the procession, to march with the band.<br /> - The flaming phoenix flew with its feathers to fan<br /> - The Queen at the head of her caravan;<br /> - But, the phoenix, though famously fabulous,<br /> - Was jealous, envious, and emulous<br /> - For the Queen of Sheba had a retinue<br /> - Strictly in keeping with her revenue—<br /> - Six thousand camels and camelopards<br /> - Ten thousand and ninety nigger bodyguards.<br /> - The camelopards, proud-necked and tall<br /> - Would scarcely deign to notice the Queen at all,<br /> - But holding their heads as high as zebras<br /> - Looked down on a hundred dwarf, harnessed zebras<br /> - Bred for their stripes, with such success<br /> - That the Queen could play a game of chess<br /> - When travelling. The camels kneel<br /> - Offer their humps for the Queen to feel,<br /> - Nodding arched-necks and plumes of ostrich-feather,<br /> - Dyed like her bright Abyssinian weather.<br /> - The ten thousand niggers beat on gourds and golden gongs,<br /> - Slashing the air with their piebald songs.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus the Queen met the King of Jerusalem<br /> - And he<br /> - Seemed wiser<br /> - Than Methuselem,<br /> - With a great black beard,<br /> - And a nose like a scythe,<br /> - He lived in the palace,<br /> - And subsisted on a tithe!<br /> - He gave the Queen of Sheba a welcome;<br /> - Proportionate to her income;<br /> - But this amazing Amazon<br /> - Was lovable, generous and free.<br /> - She brought a gift to Solomon of cinnamon,<br /> - With an Almug and a Nutmeg tree—<br /> - These he placed before his palace<br /> - For the pleased<br /> - Admiration<br /> - Of the populace.<br /> - Each sweet-smelling branch bore a budding bell of gold<br /> - (Oh! the blood of Israelites ran cold...)<br /> - When evening-wind blurred the hills with blue<br /> - The swinging and the singing of the bells sang true,<br /> - These by some magic stratagem<br /> - Played the Sheban National Anthem,<br /> - While the trill of each bell was like an Abyssinian bird,<br /> - Or the golden voice of the Queen—for each word<br /> - She spoke, trembled, sparkled in the air,<br /> - Then spread its wings, and flew from her.<br /> - But the Queen of Sheba went with Solomon<br /> - To his country house at Lebanon.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She did not bring him any cedar trees<br /> - For these<br /> - Would have been de-trop.<br /> - Instead she brought him some Pekoe-trees<br /> - In a beautiful Chinese bowl<br /> - (For she had a very marked objection to<br /> - Endowing Newcastle with coal)<br /> - And she brought him gifts of hot-house grapes,<br /> - Of ivory,<br /> - Of ebony,<br /> - Of elephants and apes,<br /> - Of peacocks, of pearls, and a hundred pygmy slaves<br /> - With skins like an orange, and hair that waves,<br /> - And each of them wore a turban,<br /> - Picked out with the plumes of a pelican,<br /> - But of all her gifts, by far the rarest,<br /> - Brought from the terrible central forest,<br /> - With a vein of gold in its ivory horn,<br /> - Was a lovelorn<br /> - Milk-white unicorn;<br /> - But the King, though sweet as honey,<br /> - Had an eye for the value of money,<br /> - So he only gave her a heraldic lion<br /> - Embossed with the arms (and nose) of Zion.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Though the Queen of Sheba loved Solomon<br /> - She was not happy at Lebanon,<br /> - It was not the woman of the Edomites,<br /> - The Zidonians,<br /> - The Moabites,<br /> - The Hittites,<br /> - or the Ammonites!<br /> - She would even listen to his proverbs, she put up with<br /> - very many wrongs—<br /> - But in secretly reading his notebook, she found Solomon's<br /> - "Song-of-Songs"<br /> - She knew it at once—it was poetry! And she left The<br /> - Palace that day,<br /> - But Solomon knew not where she went to nor why she had<br /> - roamed away!<br /> - But every evening in Jerusalem<br /> - The Almug and the Nutmeg trees<br /> - Flaunt the Sheban National Anthem<br /> - Like a banner on the spice-laden breeze.<br /> - And oh! each golden bell<br /> - Seemed a turtle-dove<br /> - That coo'd<br /> - Within the moonlit shadow<br /> - Of an Abyssinian wood....<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But we wonder what she looked like—this fascinating<br /> - phantasmagoria....<br /> - Atalanta, Gioconda, Semiramis—or the late Queen Victoria?<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> -<a id="neptune"></a> - TWO GARDEN PIECES<br /> -</p> - -<h3> - I. NEPTUNE IN CHAINS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Enslaved are the old Gods;<br /> - Pan pipes soundlessly<br /> - For the unheeding bees.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Bound by the trailing tresses of the vine<br /> - To soft captivity,<br /> - Neptune has left his waves<br /> - To stand beneath the frozen, green cascades<br /> - Of summer trees.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Is the Sea-God, then, content to rule<br /> - The rippling of wayward flowers,<br /> - Lulled by the songs that many birds pour out<br /> - From their green-cradles, gently-rocked<br /> - —Songs that foam like hissing rain<br /> - Among the heavy blossoms?<br /> - Can he control<br /> - The music of the wind through poplar trees,<br /> - —Those trees, an instrument<br /> - That any wind, however young<br /> - Or drunk with drowsing scent<br /> - Of petals, crushed by the flaming fingers of the sun<br /> - Can play upon?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But darkness, the deliverer<br /> - Comes with dreams.<br /> - Night's grape-stained waves<br /> - Cool his aching body—<br /> - The song of the nightingale<br /> - Falls round him<br /> - Like the froth of little waves;<br /> - The warm touch of the evening wind<br /> - Thaws the green cascades<br /> - Till you can hear<br /> - Every liquid sound within the world<br /> - —Fountains, falling waterfalls,<br /> - And the low murmur of the rolling sea<br /> - —And Neptune dreams that he is free.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="fountains"></a> - II. FOUNTAINS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Proud fountains, wave your plumes,<br /> - Spread out your phoenix-wing,<br /> - Let the tired trees rejoice<br /> - Beneath your blossoming<br /> - (Tired trees, you whisper low).<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - High up, high up, above<br /> - These green and drooping sails,<br /> - A fluttering young wind<br /> - Hovers and dives—but fails<br /> - To steal a foaming feather.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Sail, like a crystal ship,<br /> - Above your sea of glass;<br /> - Then, with your quickening touch,<br /> - Transmute the things that pass<br /> - (Come down, cool wind, come down).<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - All humble things proclaim,<br /> - Within your magic net,<br /> - Their kinship to the Gods.<br /> - More strange and lovely yet<br /> - All lovely things become.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Dead, sculptured stone assumes<br /> - The life from which it came;<br /> - The kingfisher is now<br /> - A moving tongue of flame,<br /> - A blue, live tongue of flame—<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - While birds, less proud of wing,<br /> - Crouch, in wind-ruffled shade,<br /> - Hide shyly, then pour out,<br /> - Their jealous serenade;<br /> - ... Close now your golden wings!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="parade"></a> - PARADE -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - While vapour rises, the sun shines along<br /> - A promenade beneath tall trees. In vain<br /> - Seek thirsting flowers to thread their crystal song<br /> - Upon the liquid harpstrings of the rain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Sweet air is honey'd with the lulling sound<br /> - Of bees, gold-dusted. In the avenue<br /> - Each leaf is now a lens the sun has found<br /> - To focus light, and cast green shadow through<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where walks Zenobia. Her marmoset<br /> - Perched on the shoulder, grabs at ribbon'd flowers<br /> - Or youthful curls of elders. Etiquette<br /> - Is outraged, and a dowager glowers.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Marmoset plays with Zenobia's curls,<br /> - Clutches the papillon's enamel'd sail;<br /> - Gesticulates with idiot hands; unfurls,<br /> - Then counts, the piebald rings upon his tail.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Here flutter fan and feather to and fro<br /> - As eager birds caressing golden sheaves;<br /> - And like the spray of fountains, when winds blow<br /> - The froth of laughter foams among the leaves,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Till music, thin as silver wire, uncoils<br /> - —Metallic trap to trip unwary players—<br /> - A tune, ringed like the monkey's tail; but foils<br /> - Any attempt to straighten it—In layers<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The idlers pause to watch the stage, where leap<br /> - These masked buffoons to which the Old Gods sank.<br /> - Over her fan Zenobia may peep<br /> - At the lewd gestures of a mountebank.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The silent lime-trees drip their golden scent;<br /> - Staccato shrills the puppet, waves a wand,<br /> - Postures, exaggerates a sentiment....<br /> - The little ape, alone, may understand<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - How men make Gods, and place them up above;<br /> - Then clamber up themselves to throw God down,<br /> - Dearly pay deities for former love;<br /> - We hold them captive, make them play the clown.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Who knows but that, one day, men may be bound<br /> - Thus to make war or love for apeish laughter,<br /> - Until the world of gibbering monkeys round<br /> - Quiver with laughter at our ape-like slaughter?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ends song and antic; players quit the stage<br /> - To the gloved silence of genteel applause,<br /> - Splutters El Capitan in Spanish rage,<br /> - Curses his money. Swathed in quiet, like gauze,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The World is still, until a breeze sets free<br /> - Green leaves, with plucking sound of mandoline.<br /> - Convulsed the monkey capers—seems to see<br /> - The wind, that wingéd God and Harlequin.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Who, flying down, sounds waters' silver strings<br /> - And brings soft music from far trembling towers,<br /> - Snatches a bird-bright feather for his wings<br /> - And flickers light on many secret flowers.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="gothic"></a> - ENGLISH GOTHIC<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Above the valley floats a fleet<br /> - Of white, small clouds. Like castanets<br /> - The corn-crakes clack; down in the street<br /> - Old ladies air their canine pets.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The bells boom out with grumbling tone<br /> - To warn the people of the place<br /> - That soon they'll find, before His Throne,<br /> - Their Maker, with a frowning face.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The souls of bishops, shut in stone<br /> - By masons, rest in quietude<br /> - As flies in amber. They atone<br /> - Each buzzing long-dead platitude.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For lichen plants its golden flush<br /> - Here, where the gaiter should have bent;<br /> - With glossy wings the black crows brush<br /> - Carved mitres, caw in merriment.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Wings blacker than a verger's hat<br /> - Beat on the air. These birds must learn<br /> - Their preaching note by pecking at<br /> - The lips of those who, treading fern,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ascend the steps to Heaven's height.<br /> - —The willow herb, down by the wood,<br /> - Flares out to mark the phoenix-flight<br /> - Of God Apollo's car. Its hood<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Singes the trees. The swans who float<br /> - —Wings whiter than the foam of sea—<br /> - Up the episcopal smooth moat,<br /> - Uncurl their necks to ring for tea.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At this sign, in the plump green close,<br /> - The Deans say grace. A hair pomade<br /> - Scents faded air. But still outside<br /> - Stone bishops scale a stone façade.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A thousand strong, church-bound, they look<br /> - Across shrill meadows—but to find<br /> - The cricket bat defeats the Book<br /> - —Matter triumphant over Mind!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Wellington said Waterloo<br /> - Was won upon the playing-fields,<br /> - Which thought might comfort clergy who<br /> - Admire the virtues that rank yields.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But prelates of stone cannot relate<br /> - An Iron Duke's strong and silent words.<br /> - The knights in armour rest in state<br /> - Within, and grasp their marble swords.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Above, where flutter angel-wings<br /> - Caught in the organ's rolling loom,<br /> - Hang in the air, like jugglers' rings,<br /> - Dim quatrefoils of coloured gloom.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Tall arches rise to imitate<br /> - The jaws of Jonah's whale. Up flows<br /> - The chant. Thin spinsters sibilate<br /> - Beneath a full-blown Gothic rose.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Pillars surge upward, break in spray<br /> - Upon the high and fretted roof;<br /> - But children scream outside—betray<br /> - The urging of a cloven hoof.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Tier above tier the Bishops stare<br /> - Away, away, ... above the hills;<br /> - Their faded eyes repel the glare<br /> - Of dying sun, till sunset fills<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Each pointed niche, in which they stand,<br /> - With glory of earth; humanity<br /> - Is spurned by one, with upturned hand,<br /> - Who warns them all is vanity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The swan beneath the sunset arch<br /> - Expands his wings, as if to fly.<br /> - A thousand saints upon the march<br /> - Glow in the water, ... but to die.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A man upon the hill can hear<br /> - The organ. Echoes he has found<br /> - That, having lost religious fear,<br /> - Are pagan; till the rushing sound<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Clearly denotes Apollo's car,<br /> - That roars past moat and bridge and tree,<br /> - The Young God sighs. How far, how far,<br /> - Before the night shall set him free?<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="backward"></a> - THE BACKWARD CHILD<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Asleep, asleep with closéd eyes<br /> - In the womb of time, King Pharaoh lies;<br /> - Heavy the darkness is, as rust,<br /> - On the cold sword he holds; while dust<br /> - Muffles the mocking panoply<br /> - With quilted silence, dead and grey.<br /> - Here any wandering sound would skim<br /> - The sleep off silence, to wake him<br /> - Till under the too-smooth mask of gold<br /> - Old parchment wrinkles would unfold,<br /> - His green and ice-bound limbs expand,<br /> - The dead flowers blossom in dead hand;<br /> - But comes no sound, save the flitting scowl<br /> - Of death-winged bat, or vault-voiced owl,<br /> - No sound through the ages all forlorn,<br /> - Unless a padding unicorn<br /> - Obscures his treasure, ivory white,<br /> - In the Egyptian grape-blue night;<br /> - Curling his limbs to rest, untangles<br /> - His milky mane, while moon-sharp angles<br /> - Of pyramids enfold him close<br /> - In their defiant, calm repose—<br /> - For their harsh angularity<br /> - Defeats the hunter's cruelty....<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - No padding unicorn is this<br /> - To prick the Old King's nothingness,<br /> - Yet a movement woke, a faint sound stirred<br /> - The silence, like a spoken word<br /> - No soft night sound, nor anything<br /> - But rolling laughter echoing.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then King Pharaoh stretched, stood up, with a smile<br /> - Touched the crowns of the Upper and Lower Nile.<br /> - Like the jewels in his crown, had grown more deep<br /> - His gypsy eyes in embalméd sleep,<br /> - While out of the golden sockets came<br /> - A very living, curious flame.<br /> - He dashed the gold mask on the floor,<br /> - His dry limbs creaked toward the door,<br /> - And out of it thrust his nodding head,<br /> - A pendulum to count the dead,<br /> - —For there below in the lion-coloured sand<br /> - Salome danced the Sarabande!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - With ruffled plumage, the sun flashed its wing<br /> - On a double-crowned, parchment-yellow king.<br /> - The clear bronze sides of the pyramids<br /> - Shone like polished coffin-lids,<br /> - Each side a huge triangular mirror<br /> - To magnify each separate terror,<br /> - To heighten the shadows, to enhance<br /> - How dead was the king, how alive the dance,<br /> - Till ashamed the wicked echoes hid<br /> - Like bats in the depth of the pyramid,<br /> - Or hid far-off in the honey-comb hive<br /> - Of caves, where the bearded hermits live.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Serapion-the-Sidonite<br /> - Turned from the strange unholy sight.<br /> - Left his cave, went up the hill<br /> - Where aged Anthony dwells still.<br /> - Disturbed in prayer, St. Anthony,<br /> - Looks round, recalls a century;<br /> - Yet in that whole tempestuous age<br /> - Had beheld never such a mirage<br /> - (Not even when with book and bell<br /> - He cleansed the hill he loves so well<br /> - —That hill of Venusberg, whose name<br /> - The poor vile heathen still proclaim)<br /> - Led by two Bishops, with his high crook,<br /> - The old saint summons round his flock.<br /> - They, hour by hour, together read<br /> - The paternoster and the creed,<br /> - While Christian choirs of shrill-birds bless<br /> - The Saint's white-bearded holiness.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Below the heathen nightingales,<br /> - Embalm, within their seven veils<br /> - Of song, Salome—swathings fine<br /> - Scented with fountain, rose and vine—<br /> - Tired Pharaoh falls back in his box;<br /> - The lid snaps down. The golden flocks<br /> - Of stars browse round the singing trees<br /> - And orchards of Hesperides.<br /> - Down here no sound, except forlorn<br /> - Sad padding of the unicorn<br /> - Who seeks a refuge from the snare<br /> - Of cruel hunters; lurking here<br /> - His horn, his mane, his shape are hid<br /> - In slumber of the pyramid.<br /> - Safe here is he; for in this place<br /> - Hide every legendary race;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Saints, satyrs, unicorns, entrance<br /> - Us with their fabulous elegance;<br /> - And Pharaoh himself sits up to tea<br /> - Under the shade of the incense tree<br /> - Yet nomads, wandering, will find<br /> - No tree, no murmur, no soft wind!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> -<a id="nursery"></a> - NURSERY RHYME<br /> -</p> - -<h3> - THE ROCKING-HORSE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Gentle hills hold on their lap<br /> - Cloud-rippled meadows where tall trees sigh.<br /> - The round pool catches in her lap<br /> - Greenness of tree and breadth of sky.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The mottled thrush that sings, serene,<br /> - Of English worm in English lane,<br /> - Is left behind. We change the scene<br /> - For jungle or for rolling plain.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I rock the children, carry them<br /> - On wooden waves that creak like me,<br /> - From Joppa to Jerusalem<br /> - Or to a far Cerulean sea,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where flutter winds that bear the balm<br /> - And breathing of a million flowers<br /> - That nod beneath a feathery palm;<br /> - Where dusky figures, in cool bowers<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Of fretted coral, singing, swim<br /> - —Forget the missionary who wishes<br /> - To make them chant a British hymn<br /> - And hide their nakedness from fishes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Within the limits of this stride<br /> - I can encompass any space;<br /> - Time's painted gates are open wide,<br /> - The Old Gods give me their embrace.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now off to Babylon we trot<br /> - To see the hanging gardens, where<br /> - Tree, trailing vine and mossy grot<br /> - Show proudly in the upper air<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Above the shifting evening throng,<br /> - Like giant galleons with full sails;<br /> - These streams have robbed their crystal song<br /> - From honey-throated nightingales.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We've watched the Roman legions pass<br /> - —The Tower of Babel, waver ... fall;<br /> - We've stroked the wooden horse that was<br /> - The hidden breach in great Troy's wall.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Softly the rainbow Pantaloon,<br /> - Slinks down night's alley. (Oh! how still is<br /> - The evening on this wide lagoon,<br /> - Where palaces like water-lilies<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Float palely in the trembling peace<br /> - Of stars and little waves.) Sails past<br /> - Jason, who stole the golden fleece<br /> - To nail it high above his mast....<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - .... In Toad-stool Farm we're back again;<br /> - See how the fat and dappled cow<br /> - Crouches in buttercups; come rain,<br /> - To make the green lush meadows grow!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> -<a id="goddess"></a> - TWO MYTHOLOGICAL POEMS<br /> -</p> - -<h3> - I. THE JEALOUS GODDESS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Silenus left the mainland<br /> - On a floating barrel of wine,<br /> - His sail was plaited from peach-leaves, and<br /> - The leaves of the fig and vine.<br /> - Small waves seemed masks of laughter<br /> - As they rose at Silenus agape,<br /> - For his feet were purple with the slaughter<br /> - And the crushing of the Phoenix-blooded grape.<br /> - But the little golden winds of the autumn<br /> - Flew with him all the way,<br /> - Like a fleecy flock of Seraphim<br /> - They waited on him all the day—<br /> - When the Syren swam to sing to him<br /> - From her island where the dolphins play,<br /> - They pelted her with lemons and with persimmon<br /> - Till the Syren dived away.<br /> - They blew down silver trumpets to summon<br /> - Sea-monsters that peer from the spray.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But the sound of seraphic hunting-horn<br /> - Brayed to the nearing golden strand,<br /> - Till each ogre, dragon, giant and unicorn<br /> - Sprang from his cave, to guard his land<br /> - —This dear, dear land of Venus<br /> - Where the hippogriff and griffin play!<br /> - For if the Syren sang to Silenus<br /> - What would Jealous Venus say?<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="bacchanalia"></a> - II. BACCHANALIA<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - "... From over-indulgence in wine, and<br /> - other dietetic peccadilloes."<br /> - BAEDEKER'S "Southern Italy."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where little waves claw the golden grapes,<br /> - Springing at the terraced hills like lions,<br /> - Where pirates swagger in earrings and black-capes<br /> - And the roses and the lilies grow like dandelions,<br /> - Silenus, I regret to say, sat<br /> - On an empty, purple vat,<br /> - (And his life-long love, the Lady Venus<br /> - Had left for Olympus, shocked at Silenus).<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Syren's voice, like a golden bee,<br /> - Trembles through the leaves of each lemon tree,<br /> - Winging, like a bird, from her island grove<br /> - It brought Silenus a message of love;<br /> - But, as, rather helpless, he heard the Syren's song<br /> - He felt that his behaviour was material—was wrong,<br /> - He tore the tinted vine-leaves from his tousled hair<br /> - Shouted for his satellites, dragged them from their lair,<br /> - Mentioned, most severely, the iniquities of drink<br /> - (Though his speech came thick and indistinct);<br /> - But his followers were angry, woken out of sleep,<br /> - Recalled to him that the sea was deep,<br /> - That if it was water he really would prefer,<br /> - And the singing of the Syren, he could go to look for her!<br /> - But, Silenus, though pink and fat,<br /> - Was strong, for the matter of that...<br /> - He fought like a lion, and bellowed like a seal,<br /> - But he had filled his followers with missionary zeal,<br /> - They swung him high, and swung him low,<br /> - Then threw him (plomp) where the salt waves blow.<br /> - The syren stopped her singing at a piteous cry,<br /> - Saw a spout of water mounting hundreds of feet high,<br /> - And Jonah aboard a neighbouring sail,<br /> - Sang "Yo-ho, yo-ho, I spy a whale!"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p> -<a id="book2"></a> -<a id="explanation"></a> -</p> - -<h2> - BOOK II -<br /> - SING PRAISES<br /> -<br /> - SATIRES<br /> -</h2> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - EXPLANATION<br /> -</p> - -<h3> - SUBTLETY OF THE SERPENT<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - "Now the serpent was more<br /> - subtil than any beast of<br /> - the field which the Lord<br /> - God had made."<br /> - GENESIS iii. 1.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - Through the green masses of the undergrowth,<br /> - Pools of silent water,<br /> - Where float large flowers and patches of white light,<br /> - Crawls the serpent, subtle, sad,<br /> - And tired of well-doing.<br /> - Nevermore will he help humanity.<br /> - Venomously he hisses at the Cherubim<br /> - Whose flaming sword sears the Heavens,<br /> - A sword whose flame turns every way<br /> - To keep the path of the Tree-of-Life.<br /> - A tropic spring, this first one,<br /> - With leaves like spears and banners;<br /> - But the ground is sweet with fallen petals<br /> - Of great blossoms<br /> - That heave their hot breath at the droning insects.<br /> - The air is full of the twittering of birds,<br /> - Whose innocence appeals to Adam<br /> - —Already outside the garden—<br /> - While, high up in their swaying green cradles<br /> - The monkeys carry on their high-pitched chatter.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The serpent reasoned thus—<br /> - "For long time have I been at war<br /> - With the ape-tribe;<br /> - Small apes with clutching hands,<br /> - Great apes (how hideous they are!)<br /> - Whom the God-of-Man<br /> - Has made in the image of Man.<br /> - They tried to kill me:<br /> - I tried to kill them.<br /> - But Adam and Eve deceived me,<br /> - Looking scornfully at the great apes,<br /> - They pretended to a difference.<br /> - For a long time I loved them,<br /> - Fascinated by their words,<br /> - By their story of the Creation—<br /> - But now, O Lord,<br /> - Give me a good old-fashioned ape<br /> - Every time<br /> - —An ape who tries to kill me<br /> - Without a chatter of clean-hands, law-and-order,<br /> - Crime passionel,<br /> - Self-defence or helping-me-to-help-myself.<br /> - I may be a snake in the grass,<br /> - But I am not a hypocrite.<br /> - I may change my skin,<br /> - But I am not ashamed of it.<br /> - I have never pretended to be a super-snake<br /> - Or to walk except on my belly—<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - It is not only the ignorance of good or evil<br /> - That raises the monkey above the man<br /> - (Though the man knows evil and therefore prefers it),<br /> - But the fact that the monkey<br /> - Cannot yet disguise the good with bad words,<br /> - Or the bad with good ones.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Never before have I been cursed;<br /> - But man has made his God<br /> - Curse me with black words.<br /> - Now, therefore,<br /> - Will I curse Mankind.<br /> - —Man shall know good, but shall not act on it.<br /> - He shall know good, and turn it to evil purpose.<br /> - His twin curses shall be words and knowledge;<br /> - I, the snake, know a thing-or-two;<br /> - I know that man is a self-made monkey,<br /> - —And he knows it too!<br /> - But he will disguise it<br /> - With a God of his making,<br /> - A blustering God, a revengeful God,<br /> - A God who curses the Serpent<br /> - With sophistry, subtlety, and—words.<br /> - But I know that Man is still<br /> - An ape at heart,<br /> - A talkative chattering ape.<br /> - His curiosity shall discover many strange secrets,<br /> - But he will use them<br /> - For his two recreations,<br /> - Lying and killing,<br /> - Or—as he calls them—<br /> - Conversation and Sport.<br /> - His words shall girdle a continent<br /> - Swiftly, as a flash of fire;<br /> - They shall be written down,<br /> - Every day,<br /> - For millions of men to read<br /> - —But they will still be lies—black lies!<br /> - Men shall journey the world over<br /> - To kill the beasts of the field, the forest and jungle;<br /> - He shall kill them secretly, without their knowing<br /> - As with a thunder-bolt:<br /> - But his own kind<br /> - Will he kill in millions,<br /> - Slaughter and butcher<br /> - With the last refinements of torture.<br /> - —And words, words,<br /> - Shall be the cause and end of it."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As the serpent crawled away on his belly<br /> - Through the silent waters of the undergrowth,<br /> - He heard two sharp voices,<br /> - Outside the garden.<br /> - "You did"—"I didn't."<br /> - "You did"—"I didn't."<br /> - —"It was the serpent."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A long silence, and then the second act,<br /> - When the brutal voice of the first statesman<br /> - Roared out<br /> - "Am I my brother's keeper?"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> -<a id="deluxe"></a> - DE LUXE<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "The Presence, that rose thus<br /> - so strangely beside the waters, is<br /> - expressive of what in the ways<br /> - of a thousand years man had<br /> - come to desire."—<i>Walter Pater.</i><br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="witch"></a> - MRS. FREUDENTHAL CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - A nose, however aquiline,<br /> - Escapes detection in a throng;<br /> - So she hopes; but sense of sin<br /> - Made her shrink and steal along<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Streets glazed by mocking summer heat<br /> - To semblance of a cool canal,<br /> - Where iridescent insects beat<br /> - Their wings upon the liquid wall,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where radiant insects, carrion-fed,<br /> - Buzz and flutter busily,<br /> - Smile, or frown, or nod the head,<br /> - Expressing some familiar lie.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Enter the house, ascend the stair!<br /> - Consult the scintillating ball;<br /> - Beatrice Freudenthal, beware!<br /> - Eve felt like you before the Fall.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Within the shining mystic globe,<br /> - Lies luck at bridge, or martyr's crown;<br /> - A modern prophetess will probe<br /> - The future—for one guinea down.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For that amount the future's sword<br /> - From crystal scabbard she will drag;<br /> - She can unpack the future's hoard,<br /> - As we unpack a Gladstone bag.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Without the agency of Man,<br /> - Solely by fasting and by prayer,<br /> - The wizards of Old Jenghiz Khan<br /> - Could move a wine cup through the air<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Until it reached him; then he drank,<br /> - Fermented juice of rye or grape;<br /> - The cup flew back, his courtiers shrank<br /> - Away, astonished and agape.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Before the Lama turns to grapple<br /> - With State-Affairs, he learns to spin<br /> - (Despite Sir Isaac Newton's apple),<br /> - In mid-air, sixty times—to win<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Amusement mixed with approbation<br /> - From sceptical ambassadors,<br /> - For any kind of levitation<br /> - Increases prestige with the Powers!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Such things were practised—did not tend<br /> - To promote war or anarchy<br /> - —Yet now such things would even end<br /> - A Constitutional Monarchy.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="thoughts"></a> - NIGHT THOUGHTS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Magic for a holy race<br /> - Is surely wrong? How strictly hidden<br /> - The future, in its crystal case,<br /> - Lies packed—so near and yet forbidden!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Though Gentile Kings upon their thrones<br /> - May weave a spell, or dance like Tich,<br /> - Yet ponder on the bleaching bones<br /> - Of Saul, who sought the Endor Witch.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now Mrs. Freudenthal has heard her call<br /> - Without a qualm—yet how can she obey<br /> - The bidding of the prophetess (like Saul,<br /> - She has consulted Endor)? How can she<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Aspire to feed the lions, yet unlike Daniel,<br /> - Once there insist on resting in their den,<br /> - To treat them as one would a King Charles Spaniel<br /> - With frowns—with bones and biscuits, now and then?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For Mrs. Freudenthal is weary of<br /> - Her auction-bridge and hissing hotel-friend,<br /> - Seeks spheres where Novelist and Romanoff<br /> - Eat with Artistic Ladies without end.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Money is power—a golden pedestal<br /> - Atones for beauty that is long, long dead—<br /> - As Orpheus, Mrs. Kinfoot has enchanted all,<br /> - The lions who have not thundered—and then fled.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus climbing sideways, you entice a throng<br /> - Of Artists with a biscuit and a bone—<br /> - Then use them as a bait, step up a rung—<br /> - But how begin? At night she plans alone<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Within the saxe-blue hotel drawing-room,<br /> - The silence of South Kensington is deep,<br /> - No sound except the traffic's wave-like boom<br /> - —And Mrs. Kinfoot climbing in her sleep!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus Mrs. Freudenthal, alone, awake,<br /> - And sad, broods on. Oh how, oh how begin?<br /> - Till suddenly she melts—as small waves break,<br /> - So laughter ripples to her fortieth chin.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For now she has it—clasps the golden key<br /> - That shall unbar that stranger—Popularity.<br /> - How many noses are forgiven thee,<br /> - Forgotten, in the name of Charity?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - First fill the coffers of the Sacred Cause,<br /> - And then the stomachs of the well-to-do,<br /> - Now Mrs. F. ... will be their Santa Klaus<br /> - —Until herself becomes a War-horse too.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="warhorse"></a> - THE WAR-HORSE CHANTS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Was there war once,<br /> - I have forgotten it!<br /> - Was there war once?<br /> - —War means more trade.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Poor Lady X<br /> - Has given up her motor-car,<br /> - Poor Lady Y<br /> - Has shut up her house.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Was there war once?<br /> - I have forgotten it.<br /> - Was there war once?<br /> - —Now food is here.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now I remember<br /> - How much I suffered—<br /> - Very bad form<br /> - To mention the war.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Such dreadful suffering<br /> - Injures my appetite—<br /> - All these brave men<br /> - Dying for me—<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Was there war once?<br /> - Yes, I remember it.<br /> - Was there ... was once...?<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="nature"></a> - A TOUCH OF NATURE<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Trained to a charm of manner, to a smile<br /> - —Enamelled and embalmed by Madame Rose<br /> - (Shame that an artist of this skill, this style,<br /> - Can never sign her work), no War-Horse shows<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Any emotion. The poor Spartan Youth<br /> - Though the fox gnawed his entrails, would not cry;<br /> - These never wince, nor hurl the mirror at Truth,<br /> - Though Old Age disembowel them secretly.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Throughout the day, blue shadows in the valley<br /> - Hover, crouch down, till dusk will let them rend<br /> - The last light on the hills; so wrinkles rally<br /> - To overwhelm them at their sudden end—<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For Death strikes at the Old as well as Young,<br /> - And these—and these—may die at balls or races,<br /> - Or living death may make them loll the tongue,<br /> - Twitching in doll-like, hideous grimaces.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The very dab of rouge, that ghastly shred<br /> - Of self-respect, makes worse the look so winning<br /> - Of eyes—dead eyes—that know quite well they're dead—<br /> - And yet retain a certain childish cunning.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And each day till the end, is dragged along<br /> - This painted bundle, trundled in its tomb,<br /> - Toward the sea where wondering children throng,<br /> - Mocked by this mask, this nodding lisp of doom<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - That almost apes them—save the open eye<br /> - Which contradicts the mouth, and knows the matter,<br /> - This terrible eye that moans "I die, I die,"<br /> - While the poor slobbering mouth can only chatter.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then other War-horses pause, nod, go past,<br /> - —A few months younger these—and laugh together—<br /> - (She, too, was hard and bold), nor note how fast<br /> - An egret's wing becomes a funeral feather.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - They laugh and mutter, make their little jokes,<br /> - —And wonder if her lover had been bored<br /> - "Look at the poor old thing!"<br /> - The dumb voice chokes;<br /> - The eye is open yet—each word a sword!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="youth"></a> - YOUTH AT THE PROW, AND PLEASURE AT THE HELM<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Battista Sforza, led by unicorns,<br /> - Triumphant, ever set in amber light<br /> - By Piero, yet keeps her course; adorns<br /> - Her empty palace, still, that floating height<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where Raphael was born—Isotta's name,<br /> - Near-by, still, rose-like, clambers through the gloom<br /> - Of Malatesta's temple, built to fame<br /> - His pagan love, half pleasure-house, half tomb.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then, even tyrants drunk with blood and pride,<br /> - And ever vaunting poison-cup and knife,<br /> - No less than angels beauty made; they died,<br /> - But Art, their pleasure, still extols their life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Thus power, thus gold, sought pleasure in the past<br /> - But wooed her strangely, in a different mood<br /> - —As Pallas or Minerva—things that last,<br /> - Carved both in mind and heart, in stone and wood.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Now many palaces and Tuscan towns<br /> - Crumble upon a half-deserted hill,<br /> - Slowly their stone surrenders to the flowers;<br /> - The drip and flowing of their fountains fill<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The night with cool—the night that is alive<br /> - With chanting frog and owl and nightingale;<br /> - Who knows but that these things may yet contrive<br /> - To please, when tank and war-memorial fail?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Gonzaga, D'Este, Medici are gone,<br /> - Or dreary sons approach their unnoticed fall,<br /> - Top-hatted, leave a beauty-hating throne<br /> - To fawn upon a Mrs. Freudenthal,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Or find their pleasure at a football match<br /> - —Express a dullard similarity<br /> - To other ox-eyes—lifting up the latch<br /> - Upon a similar vulgarity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For pleasure, too, is old; has lost her realm,<br /> - —Degraded to a mumbling hag—for now<br /> - Stands Golf—for pleasure—at an armoured helm,<br /> - The Cenotaph—for Youth—at iron prow!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet never cruelty reaped such vast reward<br /> - As in these latter days, and with such ease,<br /> - When the whole world became a slaughter-yard<br /> - And stank with crime, and reeked with foul disease.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - —No crime of passion—only crime for gold,<br /> - Or crimes of rulers drunk with their stupidity;<br /> - The people walk with faces deathly cold,<br /> - Or marked and masked with their cupidity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But Mrs. Freudenthal knows her own mind,<br /> - And means to follow up and win the game,<br /> - Seek pleasure with the others of her kind,<br /> - Who live and die alike, and share the same<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Ideals. A horse has focussed in its eyes<br /> - Exaggerated visions of its rider,<br /> - So Mrs. Freudenthal now magnifies<br /> - A War-horse's importance—like a spider<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She weaves her web, while brain and heart both burn<br /> - To join their ranks, to rally to their banner;<br /> - Beside the feeding of them, she must learn<br /> - To ape the face, the smile, the talk, the manner!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="manner"></a> - THE MANNER<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Allow no personality to stamp<br /> - Its wayward lines upon your talk or dress;<br /> - Smooth out your facial furrows, on them clamp<br /> - The necessary look of nothingness.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - You must acquire a careful conversation<br /> - Remember that War-horses of True Breed<br /> - Only feel interest—if ever—in relation<br /> - To other ones—and, never, never read!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Know though the names of authors, and conceivably<br /> - The names of their most fashionable book;<br /> - But never talk too far, or irretrievably<br /> - You blunder on the crafty fisher's hook.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then music, as a rule, you love too well<br /> - To wish to hear. But if you go, you walk<br /> - About—if not too loud, it helps to swell<br /> - The frankly social impulse toward talk.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - You simply love the Opera, and force<br /> - Your way in late, and romp from cage to cage;<br /> - The prima-donna is a well-known War-horse<br /> - Who fills the heart, the ear, the house, the stage!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - If you see modern pictures, in their glass<br /> - Ecstatically examine the old strife<br /> - Between your food and figure—should he pass,<br /> - Discuss with friends the painter's private life.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Though, safety-first, you find it really best<br /> - To cast your rapture on the gilded air,<br /> - When you find pictures dead, but smartly drest,<br /> - Within the mansion of a millionaire.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Still you encourage those whom you can hire<br /> - To fix on canvas, for the future race<br /> - Of War-horses to simper at—admire,<br /> - The painted image of your painted face.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And any artist, author, or musician,<br /> - —If second-rate—is useful as a bait<br /> - To fish for guests—remember words like "Titian"<br /> - "—Shakespeare" "—Mozart," let go—and trust to Fate<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To pull you through—avoid ideas—they're common<br /> - And might crack through the varnish of your smile,<br /> - Impinge upon your worship of God Mammon<br /> - Filling your soul with pity, and things vile.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="opendoor"></a> - THE OPEN DOOR<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - A light, within her glassy car, betrays<br /> - Folding of chins beneath the aquilinity<br /> - Of heavy curling features, and displays<br /> - A likeness to Assyrian Divinity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - When comes the dusk, life's cloak is thrown aside;<br /> - The yellow windows shout their nakedness...<br /> - Until again the weary buildings hide<br /> - Their throb and stir with usual drab blackness.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So, now, swooped darkness down; outside, each lamp<br /> - Showed the raw-fingers of the winter night<br /> - Clutching squat horses, torn by dirt and damp,<br /> - Like mouldering cardboard boxes; each small light<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Within, exposed a section harsh and shrill<br /> - Of life, cut off as the next scene succeeded<br /> - —A broken chair, a figure standing still,<br /> - A withered plant—mean drama that, unheeded,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Flashes its image on the world's dark screen<br /> - But for a moment—yet the play goes on,<br /> - Vibrates through worlds—to mingle in a scene<br /> - Of final war or crime, or revolution;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But though finite to us, this act of blood<br /> - Is meaningless, when flashed on outer dark<br /> - Of whirling planets, though a curious God<br /> - Might for the moment, notice a vague mark.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Again we make God in the image of Man<br /> - —Imagine God has made us in His image—<br /> - Reigns Law-and-Order for another span<br /> - To crush the weak in mad ferocious rage.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The wise, poor tight-rope dancers, walk again<br /> - The thin-drawn wire of art and thought, out-thrust<br /> - A hand to catch the comet's golden rain,<br /> - Whose blossom fades within their arms to dust.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Can man be falling once more through the black<br /> - Æons of hunger, ignorance and shame?<br /> - —But Mrs. Freudenthal pursues her track,<br /> - Intent upon it, means to win the game.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Houses rush past her—but she does not see,<br /> - Her eyes are glazed, until with clarity<br /> - She notes the War-horses drawn up for tea<br /> - Outside the glittering home of Charity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Upstairs, bedecked with plumes, their minds they rest<br /> - On music and on muffins—all for sake<br /> - Of Charity; the music gives a zest<br /> - To whispered conversation—if awake,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet silent, the unwelcome harmony<br /> - May cause the facial scaffolding to fall;<br /> - They lower safety-curtains o'er each eye,<br /> - And move uneasily within each stall,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For music has a strange, unwelcome power<br /> - Of smearing sentiment about the mouth<br /> - Like children, after eating jam, they glower<br /> - In heavy, stupefaction—cross, uncouth.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The car arrives, the open door,<br /> - Expels a scorching flood of light—<br /> - The noise outside dies down—the floor<br /> - Is slippery and very bright.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="introducing"></a> - INTRODUCING -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - It takes a camel thirty days<br /> - To cross the sinister sand of Lop<br /> - Whose Bedouin chants Allah's praise<br /> - Without cessation, dare not stop.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Though unaware of the subtle danger<br /> - Of buried learning, of civilisation,<br /> - He feels himself on his guard—a stranger<br /> - With Ignorance as his true Salvation.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Unknown to him beneath the extent<br /> - Of ashen sand, old Gods lie hidden<br /> - With frozen gesture, ears intent<br /> - On sounds forgotten and forbidden.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - —For muttering of muted bell<br /> - Swells music from the nightingales<br /> - Whose crystal gurglings excel<br /> - The singing streams that formed these vales<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - So fruitfully luxuriant still<br /> - To eyes closed like a curving sword<br /> - —Though now no sound save droning thrill<br /> - Of shifting sand is ever heard.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet of an influence here felt<br /> - Tradition tells the Bedouin.<br /> - Into grey sand the mirages melt.<br /> - Spell the Arab's road to ruin.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - On through the dusk he hears his name<br /> - Called, then repeated—seek he must<br /> - That voice which calls, like wealth or fame<br /> - Only to lead from dust to dust;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Or death may come through the burning night<br /> - With the drumming of a multitude,<br /> - For the Devil revels in the sight<br /> - Of death in the desert solitude.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Though the camel can kneel, he never prays<br /> - Careless if God or Devil is near,<br /> - Stoutly he bears his burden of days<br /> - With Seven Stomachs—and no fear.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Yet Infant Samuel in the Old Priest's house<br /> - When darkness drowned him with its shadowy torrent<br /> - Felt fear at hearing his own name (who knows<br /> - But that he changed it after—by Royal Warrant?)<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Mrs. Freudenthal, irate,<br /> - Decides to diet, to get thin.<br /> - Everyone must deprecate<br /> - Decay of manners. With no chin<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The arrogant yet gluttonous camel<br /> - Never shows satiety;<br /> - Would rather rest in asphodel<br /> - Than figure in Society,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But Mrs. Kinfoot, spotting a new head<br /> - To add to her collection—grasps her hand,<br /> - And Mrs. Freudenthal is gently led<br /> - Within the portals of the Promised Land.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="malgre"></a> - MALGRÉ SOI<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The voices weave a web of futile sound;<br /> - A fan is dropped by Lady Carabas;<br /> - Restored to her: but Mrs. Kinfoot frowned,<br /> - Guarding the door, as Cerberus his pass,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But suddenly, great waves of sound obtrude<br /> - Upon the pleasant party in this room;<br /> - While we enjoy the music's interlude,<br /> - Outside there swells the trumpet-call of doom.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Mosaic tombs or unmarked graves—asunder<br /> - Are rent. King Dodon rises from the dead<br /> - And while the quivering heavens thunder,<br /> - He smooths his robe, then calmly shakes his head<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Free of the ages' dust—but now the voices<br /> - Of these condemned (for judgment will not tarry)<br /> - Shrill out in woe; but one, alone, rejoices,<br /> - For Mrs. Kinfoot scents another quarry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Army of the Dead are on the march<br /> - To meet their Maker on his ivory throne;<br /> - He sits beneath the rainbow's radiant arch,<br /> - Dispensing judgment. Oh! atone, atone!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But Mrs. Kinfoot saw a sailor-sinner [*]<br /> - —With one arm—leave St. Paul's and walk away<br /> - And Mrs. Kinfoot longed to give a dinner<br /> - To meet the Judge upon the Judgment day!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -[*] Editor's note: Lord Nelson(?). -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Above God's head a dozen suns kept guard<br /> - Like sentinels. Her erring feet were led<br /> - Up to a crowded mount, where God's regard<br /> - Was fixed upon her, while He gravely said:<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Anne Kinfoot, worthy mother, and good wife,<br /> - Your weakness and your faults are all forgiven;<br /> - Go you, my child, to everlasting life,<br /> - And take your husband, also, up to Heaven."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But she could see the Counsellors and Kings<br /> - And brilliant bearers of a famous name,<br /> - Tangled with snakes and horrid crawling things<br /> - Sent down to torture and eternal flame.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then Mrs. Kinfoot lied in agony: "Oh, Lord,<br /> - I am as others of my class and station,"<br /> - She cried, "Oh, have me bound, and burnt and gored<br /> - Oh! send me down to suffer my damnation.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - I swear I beat my children!" Oh, despondent<br /> - She was; "I am a sinner. I will tell<br /> - How I escaped a Ducal Co-respondent<br /> - Last year—my God—I must insist on—Hell.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But the Great Judge was not deceived—He knew<br /> - The worthy virtue of the Kinfoot line;<br /> - Yet as she went to Heaven, constant, true<br /> - To principle, she murmured, "Will you dine<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To meet..." but dragged away, she dwells on high<br /> - And notes, but rather disapproves the eccentricity<br /> - Of Saints and Early Christians, who try<br /> - To lessen the burden of her domesticity.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She has to play upon a golden harp,<br /> - Join in the chorus of the heavenly choir;<br /> - Her answers to the Saints are sometimes sharp,<br /> - She longs to singe her wings, and share the fire.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Night never comes, so when she tries to flee<br /> - To that perpetual party down below,<br /> - The angels catch her, shouting out with glee,<br /> - "Dear Mrs. Kinfoot—you are good!——We know!"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="paradise"></a> - PARADISE REGAINED<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Poor Mrs. Kinfoot closed her wings, leant out<br /> - From the Gold Bar of Heaven,<br /> - Shed tears, like icicles, to flout<br /> - Hell's suffering, to leaven<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Torment of the Upper Ten—<br /> - —Or was it because now and then<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She heard the glad hilarious cries,<br /> - (A party down below again)<br /> - Till tears formed in her jungle-eyes<br /> - For torture she could not attain?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Or heard the strains that she adored<br /> - —Not martyrs seeking the Lost Chord<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As here, nor Heber's hints of ire—<br /> - But Russian Music, for the latter<br /> - Was sent down to eternal fire<br /> - To promote fashionable chatter,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Which, as on earth, when music sounds<br /> - E'en torture cannot keep in bounds.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And Jacob's ladder, as she leans<br /> - Invites escape; with deep delight<br /> - She recollects what "climbing" means!<br /> - —But angels guard her day and night,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Or rather day and day, because<br /> - Eternal glory never thaws<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To dusk—again strange music blares<br /> - Its strangled message through all space,<br /> - While, lit by multi-coloured flares,<br /> - Hell's blackness gains a certain grace.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Oh, Heaven is dull," cried Mrs. Kinfoot, "dull!"<br /> - —And then the Gold Bar snap'd<br /> - —And like a bull<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - She charged the universe full-tilt. The roseate domes<br /> - The golden minarets, the opal towers<br /> - Of Heaven speed above, while hot wind foams<br /> - About her, seems to wither them like flowers.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Old Jacob climbing up his Freudian stair<br /> - Bowed down with age—is taken unaware,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Slithers, then falls—but, like a shooting-star,<br /> - Falls Mrs. Kinfoot past him. As she spins,<br /> - Hell's legions stop to watch her, though still far<br /> - Away, chant gladly "Mrs. Kinfoot wins!<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Can you consign to everlasting flame<br /> - The Woman who beats Jacob at his game?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And oh! the people, oh! the parties here!<br /> - Musician, Author, Artist, Aristocrat!<br /> - Dear Lady Carabas, with Mr. Queer;<br /> - The Cosmopolitan Marquise, with that<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Old Duchess of St. Dodo, whose tiara<br /> - Is made of snakes and scorpions—they are a<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Present from the Devil, whose assistance<br /> - She claimed on earth—Himself now welcomes in<br /> - The new arrival, saying "For Persistence<br /> - You have no equal, so, though free from Sin,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We here create you Honorary Member,<br /> - Beginning from the Fifth day of November,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - (A Saint's day here)." Now authors and Debrett<br /> - Mingle their laughing tears to music's swell,<br /> - For here are some whom she has never met<br /> - —And Mrs. Kinfoot finds her Heaven in Hell!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> -<a id="generals"></a> - FIVE PORTRAITS AND A GROUP<br /> -</p> - -<h3> - I. THE GENERAL'S WIFE REFUSES<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - It isn't that I don't like them,<br /> - My dear Mrs. Kinfoot,<br /> - But I know<br /> - I am not clever,<br /> - And I like your old friends best.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - As for the General<br /> - He disapproves of Art,<br /> - And does not believe in it.<br /> - He has noticed<br /> - That Artists<br /> - Have an odd look in their eyes,<br /> - And a shifty expression.<br /> - In fact,<br /> - The General disapproves of Art.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - He finds that Artists<br /> - Are stupid<br /> - And difficult to talk to—<br /> - He remembers meeting one<br /> - In '97<br /> - Who was not interested<br /> - In Polo,<br /> - —And appeared<br /> - To be unaware of the existence<br /> - Of the old Duke of Cambridge.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - My husband didn't get angry,<br /> - He just said to him, like that,<br /> - "What are you interested in?<br /> - <i>ART</i>, I suppose?"<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In spite of this<br /> - The General thinks<br /> - That music is more dangerous<br /> - —And subversive of discipline<br /> - Than painting—<br /> - For—in painting—<br /> - That is to say<br /> - In good painting—<br /> - You can see put down on canvas<br /> - What you can see yourself—<br /> - —And you can touch it<br /> - With your finger—<br /> - A picture should be the same<br /> - As a coloured photograph,<br /> - Except that the camera<br /> - Reveals things<br /> - Invisible to the Human Eye;<br /> - That is wrong!<br /> - (By the Human Eye<br /> - The General says<br /> - He means<br /> - His own eye)<br /> - But in Music<br /> - You can see nothing,<br /> - And you are unable<br /> - To touch it<br /> - With your fingers;<br /> - The General disapproves of Art,<br /> - —But it makes him positively nervous<br /> - To hear music.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The General says that,<br /> - As far as he can make out,<br /> - All musicians<br /> - Have been German—<br /> - But he can only remember<br /> - The name of one—<br /> - Nietzsche!<br /> - As the war<br /> - Was German in origin,<br /> - It is obvious that it was made<br /> - By German Composers<br /> - And <i>not</i><br /> - By German Generals<br /> - —Many of whom were fine fellows<br /> - Who loved a good joke.<br /> - The General remembers one<br /> - Who laughed like anything<br /> - At one of his stories.<br /> - The war was made by German musicians<br /> - —Just as surely<br /> - As our own<br /> - Pacific and imaginative policy<br /> - Was interpreted<br /> - By Kipling and Lady Butler.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Never trust a Man<br /> - Who plays the piano,"<br /> - The General says.<br /> - He thinks that<br /> - In the main,<br /> - The British have a sound interest<br /> - In this matter.<br /> - Probably Charles I,<br /> - Played the piano—<br /> - And, at any rate,<br /> - He collected Pictures.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The English would never<br /> - Behead anyone<br /> - For governing badly;<br /> - It is only Barbarians,<br /> - Like the Russians,<br /> - Who would do this.<br /> - The General<br /> - Disapproves of Art.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But, of all these things,<br /> - The General says<br /> - He dislikes poetry most,<br /> - Kipling is different;<br /> - He is a Man-of-the-World.<br /> - But the General says<br /> - That if he got hold<br /> - Of one of these long-haired<br /> - Conscientious Objectors,<br /> - Who write things<br /> - Which don't even rhyme<br /> - He'd——<br /> - So you see, dear,<br /> - That it's better for us<br /> - Not to come.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="auxbords"></a> - II. AUX BORDS DE LA MER<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Where frightened woolly clouds, like sheep<br /> - Scurry across blue skies; where sleep<br /> - Sings from the little waves that reach<br /> - In strict formation to the beach,<br /> - Are houses—covers of red-plush,<br /> - To hide our thoughts in, lest we blush.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Here live kind ladies—hence they come<br /> - To persecute us—I am dumb<br /> - When they give from wide saucer-eye<br /> - Intolerable sympathy,<br /> - Or testify solicitude,<br /> - By platitude on platitude,<br /> - Mix Law-and-Order, Church-and-State<br /> - With little tales of Bishop Tait,<br /> - Or harass my afflicted soul<br /> - With most fantastic rigmarole<br /> - Of Bolshevik and Pope in league<br /> - With Jewish and Sinn-Fein intrigue—<br /> - I love to watch them, as they troop<br /> - Revolving, through each circus-hoop<br /> - Of new-laid eggs—left at the door—<br /> - With Patriotism—for the Poor—<br /> - Of ball-committee, Church Bazaar,<br /> - All leading up to a great war,<br /> - A new great war—greater by far<br /> - —Oh! much more great—than any war.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Kind lady, leave me, go enthral<br /> - The pauper-ward, and hospital!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="giardino"></a> - III. GIARDINO PUBBLICO<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Petunias in mass formation,<br /> - An angry rose, a hard carnation,<br /> - Hot yellow grass, a yellow palm<br /> - Rising, giraffe-like, into calm<br /> - —All these glare hotly in the sun.<br /> - Behind are woods, where shadows run<br /> - Like water through the dripping shade<br /> - That leaves and laughing wind have made.<br /> - Here silence, like a silver bird,<br /> - Pecks at the fruit-ripe heat. We heard<br /> - Townward, the voices, glazed with starch,<br /> - Of Tourists on belated march<br /> - From church to church, to praise by rule<br /> - The beauties of the Tuscan school,<br /> - Clanging of trams, a hidden flute,<br /> - Sharp as the taste of unripe fruit;<br /> - Street organs join with tolling bell<br /> - To threaten us with both Heaven and Hell,<br /> - But through all taps a nearing sound<br /> - As of stage-horses pawing ground.<br /> - Then like a whale, confined in cage,<br /> - (In grandeur of a borrowed carriage)<br /> - The old Marchesa swam in sight<br /> - In tinkling jet that caught the light,<br /> - Making the sun hit out each tone<br /> - As if it played a xylophone,<br /> - Till she seems like a rainbow, where<br /> - She swells, and whale-like, spouts the air.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And as she drove, she imposed her will<br /> - Upon all things both live and still;<br /> - Lovers hid quickly—none withstood<br /> - That awful glance of widowhood;<br /> - Each child, each tree, the shrilling heat<br /> - Became encased in glacial jet,<br /> - The very songbird in the air<br /> - Became a scarecrow, dangling there,<br /> - While, if you turned to stare, you knew<br /> - The punishment Lot's wife went through.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Her crystal cage moves on. Stagnation<br /> - Now thaws again to animation;<br /> - Gladly the world receives reprieve<br /> - Till six o'clock to-morrow eve,<br /> - When punctual as the sun, she'll drive<br /> - Life out of everything alive,<br /> - Then in gigantic glory, fade<br /> - Sunward, through the western glade....<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="judgment"></a> - IV. ULTIMATE JUDGMENT<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Within the sunny greenness of the close,<br /> - Secure, a heavy breathing fell, then rose—<br /> - Here undulating chins sway to and fro,<br /> - As heavy blossoms do; the cheek's faint glow<br /> - Points to post-prandial port. The willow weeps<br /> - Hushed are the birds—in fact—the Bishop sleeps.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Then, suddenly, the wide sky blazes red;<br /> - Up from their graves arise the solemn dead,<br /> - The world is shaken; buildings fall in twain,<br /> - Exulting hills shout loud, then shout again<br /> - While, with the thunder of deep rolling drums<br /> - The angels sing—— At last Salvation comes.<br /> - The weak, the humble, the disdained, the poor<br /> - Are judged the first, and climb to Heaven's door.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Bishop wakes to see his palace crash<br /> - Down on the rocking ground—but in a flash<br /> - It dawns upon him;—with impressive frown,<br /> - He sees his second-housemaid in a crown,<br /> - In rainbow robes that glisten like a prism<br /> - "I warned them..." said the Bishop—<br /> - "Bolshevism!"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="sportsman"></a> - V. AN OLD-FASHIONED SPORTSMAN<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - We thank thee,<br /> - O Lord,<br /> - That the War is over.<br /> - We can now<br /> - Turn our attention<br /> - Again<br /> - To money-making.<br /> - Railway-Shares must go up;<br /> - Wages must come down;<br /> - Smoke shall come out<br /> - Of the chimneys of the North,<br /> - And we will manufacture battle-ships.<br /> - We thank thee, O Lord,<br /> - But we must refuse<br /> - To consider<br /> - Music, Painting, or Poetry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Our sons and brothers<br /> - Went forth to fight,<br /> - To kill certain things,<br /> - Cubism, Futurism and Vers-libre<br /> - "All this Poetry-and-Rubbish,"<br /> - We said<br /> - "Will not stand the test of war."<br /> - We will not read a book<br /> - —Unless it is a best seller.<br /> - There has been enough art<br /> - In the past,<br /> - Life is concerned<br /> - With killing and maiming.<br /> - If they cannot kill men<br /> - Why can't they kill animals?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - There is still<br /> - Big Game in Africa<br /> - —Or there might be trouble<br /> - Among the natives.<br /> - We thank thee, O Lord,<br /> - But we will not read poetry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But as the Pharisees<br /> - Approached the tomb<br /> - They saw the boulder<br /> - Rolled back,<br /> - And that the tomb was empty<br /> - —They said<br /> - "It's very disconcerting."<br /> - I am not at all<br /> - Narrow-minded.<br /> - I know a tune<br /> - When I hear one,<br /> - And I know<br /> - What I like—<br /> - I did not so much mind<br /> - That He blasphemed<br /> - Saying that He was the Son-of-God,<br /> - But He was never<br /> - What I call<br /> - A Sportsman;<br /> - He went out into the desert<br /> - For forty days<br /> - —And never shot anything<br /> - And when He hoped He would drown<br /> - He walked on the water.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - ... No—we will not read poetry.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> -<a id="tearooms"></a> - THE GROUP<br /> -</p> - -<h3> - ENGLISH TEA-ROOMS<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - Why do they sit in darkness,<br /> - Hiss like geese?<br /> - Outside the sun flashes his strong wings<br /> - Against the green-slit shutters,<br /> - Through which you can see<br /> - Him bathing in the street.<br /> - Like a bird he preens himself at the windows,<br /> - Then dances back with the swimming flash of a gold-fish.<br /> - Why do you hiss like geese,<br /> - What do you hide,<br /> - With your thin sibilance of genteel speech?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Colonel, usually a rollicking character,<br /> - In the manner of El Capitano,<br /> - Simpers, like any schoolgirl.<br /> - Miss Vera complains that her brother<br /> - Is suffering from catarrh.<br /> - On the other hand<br /> - Hotel-life is easier than home-life,<br /> - She just rings the bell,<br /> - Orders anything she wants,<br /> - —And there it is—punctual to the minute.<br /> - Both Sir William and his daughter<br /> - Are pleased with their holiday;<br /> - Admire the flora and the fauna;<br /> - Miss Ishmael sketches, and the place abounds<br /> - In peasants, picturesque old-bit-and-corner—<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - If they should die...<br /> - Say only this of them,<br /> - That there's a corner in some foreign field<br /> - That is for ever England...<br /> - They travel; yet all foreign things<br /> - Are barr'd and bolted out of range<br /> - ... While England benefits by the exchange.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="sunday"></a> - SUNDAY AFTERNOON<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - The gilt-fring'd earth has sadly spun<br /> - A sector of its lucent arc<br /> - About the disillusioned sun<br /> - Of Autumn. The bright angry spark<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Of Heaven in each upturned eye<br /> - Denotes religious ecstasy.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - We, too, have spun our Sunday round<br /> - Of Church and beef and after-sleep<br /> - In houses where obtrudes no sound<br /> - But breathing, regular and deep,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Till Sabbath sentiment, well-fed,<br /> - Demands a visit to the Dead.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For Autumn leaves sad thoughts beget,<br /> - As from life's tree they clatter down,<br /> - And Death has caught some in her net<br /> - Even on Sunday,—in this Town,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Tho' money and food and sleep are sweet!<br /> - The dead leaves rattle down the street.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Fat bodies, silk-enmeshed, inflate<br /> - Their way along; if Death comes soon<br /> - They'll leave this food-sweet earth to float<br /> - Heavenward, like some huge balloon.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Religion dims each vacant eye<br /> - As we approach the cemet'ry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Proudly we walk; with care we bend<br /> - To lead our children by the hand,<br /> - Here, where all, rich and poor, must end<br /> - —This portal to a better land<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To which—if in good business—<br /> - We have hereditary access;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where to afford the Saints relief<br /> - From prayer and from religious questions,<br /> - Round after round of deathless beef<br /> - Flatters celestial digestions;<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where, in white robe, with golden crown,<br /> - We watch our enemies sent down,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - To other spheres, while we lean out,<br /> - Divinest pity in our eyes,<br /> - And wonder why these sinners flout<br /> - Our kindly pitying surprise,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Why look so angry when we play<br /> - On gold harps as they go away,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - A hymn tune, dear, familiar?<br /> - But now we stand within the space<br /> - Where marble females drape a tear<br /> - Above a whisker'd marble face.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Isn't it pretty?" Even now<br /> - Rich and exotic blossoms grow<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - About each granite monument<br /> - Of men frock-coated, unaware<br /> - Of Judgment; what emolument<br /> - Requites a weeping willow's care?<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Look! Over there a broken column<br /> - Is watched by one geranium,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold<br /> - Damnation and eternal fire<br /> - To those who will not reckon gold—<br /> - Who are not worthy of their hire,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For marble tombs are prized above<br /> - Such brittle things as thought or love.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The crystal web of dusk now clings<br /> - From evergreen to tropic tree,<br /> - Toss'd by the wind that subtly brings<br /> - A mingled scent of mould and tea<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - That causes silence to be rent<br /> - By one scream—childish, but intent.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - For children will not realise<br /> - That they should rest without a sound<br /> - With folded hands and downcast eyes<br /> - Here, in the Saint's Recruiting Ground.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - And so, in sorrow, we turn back<br /> - To hasten on our high-tea track.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - But after, in the night, we dream<br /> - Of Heaven as a marbled bank,<br /> - In which, in one continual stream,<br /> - We give our gold for heavenly rank,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Where each Saint, standing like a sentry,<br /> - Explains a mystic double-entry.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The Director of the Bank is God—<br /> - Stares our foes coldly in the face,<br /> - But gives us quite a friendly nod,<br /> - And beckons us to share His place.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3> -<a id="corpse"></a> - CORPSE DAY<br /> -</h3> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>July</i> 19th, 1919.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Dusk floated up from the earth beneath,<br /> - Held in the arms of the evening wind<br /> - —The evening wind that softly creeps<br /> - Along the jasper-terraces,<br /> - To bear with it<br /> - The old, sad scent<br /> - Of midsummer, of trees and flowers<br /> - Whose bell-shaped blossoms, shaken, torn<br /> - By the rough fingers of the day<br /> - Ring out their frail and honeyed notes.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Up from the earth there rose<br /> - Sounds of great triumph and rejoicing.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - * * * * *<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - Our Lord Jesus, the Son of Man,<br /> - Smiled<br /> - And leant over the ramparts of Heaven.<br /> - Beneath Him<br /> - Through the welling clouds of darkness<br /> - He could see<br /> - The swarming of mighty crowds.<br /> - It was in the Christian Continent,<br /> - Especially,<br /> - That the people chanted<br /> - Hymns and pæans of joy.<br /> - But it seemed to Our Lord<br /> - That through the noisy cries of triumph<br /> - He could still detect<br /> - A bitter sobbing<br /> - —The continuous weeping of widows and children<br /> - Which had haunted Him for so long,<br /> - Though He saw only<br /> - The bonfires,<br /> - The arches of triumph,<br /> - The processions,<br /> - And the fireworks<br /> - That soared up<br /> - Through the darkening sky,<br /> - To fall in showers of flame<br /> - Upon the citadel of Heaven.<br /> - As a rocket burst,<br /> - There fell from it,<br /> - Screaming in horror,<br /> - Hundreds of men<br /> - Twisted into the likeness of animals<br /> - —Writhing men<br /> - Without feet,<br /> - Without legs,<br /> - Without arms,<br /> - Without faces....<br /> -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - The earth-cities still rejoiced.<br /> - Old, fat men leant out to cheer<br /> - From bone-built palaces.<br /> - Gold flowed like blood<br /> - Through the streets;<br /> - Crowds became drunk<br /> - On liquor distilled from corpses.<br /> - And peering down<br /> - The Son of Man looked into the world;<br /> - He saw<br /> - That within the churches and the temples<br /> - His image had been set up;<br /> - But, from time to time,<br /> - Through twenty centuries,<br /> - The priests had touched up the countenance<br /> - So as to make war more easy<br /> - Or intimidate the people—<br /> - Until now the face<br /> - Had become the face of Moloch!<br /> - The people did not notice<br /> - The change<br /> - ... But Jesus wept!<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Out of the Flame, by Osbert Sitwell - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE FLAME *** - -***** This file should be named 61369-h.htm or 61369-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/6/61369/ - -Produced by Al Haines -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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