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diff --git a/old/66000-0.txt b/old/66000-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 133f321..0000000 --- a/old/66000-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1909 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Selected Poems, by Aldous Huxley - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Selected Poems - -Author: Aldous Huxley - -Release Date: August 6, 2021 [eBook #66000] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS *** - - - - - _Selected Poems_ - - - - - _Selected Poems_ - - _Aldous Huxley_ - - - _D APPLETON AND COMPANY - NEW YORK MCMXXV_ - - - - - _Printed and made in Great Britain_ - - - - -CONTENTS. - -[Illustration] - - - Page - -Song of Poplars 7 - -The Reef 9 - -The Flowers 12 - -The Elms 13 - -Out of the Window 14 - -Summer Stillness 15 - -Inspiration 16 - -Anniversaries 17 - -Italy 20 - -The Alien 22 - -A Little Memory 23 - -Waking 24 - -By the Fire 26 - -Valedictory 28 - -Private Property 30 - -Revelation 31 - -Minoan Porcelain 32 - -In Uncertainty to a Lady 33 - -Crapulous Impression 34 - -Complaint of a Poet Manqué 35 - -Social Amenities 36 - -Topiary 36 - -On the Bus 37 - -Points and Lines 38 - -Panic 38 - -Stanzas 39 - -Poem 40 - -Scenes of the Mind 41 - -L’Après-Midi d’un Faune 44 - -Mole 49 - -Two Realities 52 - -Quotidian Vision 53 - -The Mirror 53 - -Variations on a Theme of Laforgue 54 - -Philosophy 55 - -Philoclea in the Forest 55 - -Books and Thoughts 59 - -The Higher Sensualism 60 - -Formal Verses 61 - -Perils of the Small Hours 62 - -Return to an Old Home 63 - - - - -SONG OF POPLARS. - - -Shepherd, to yon tall poplars tune your flute: -Let them pierce, keenly, subtly shrill, -The slow blue rumour of the hill; -Let the grass cry with an anguish of evening gold, -And the great sky be mute. - -Then hearken how the poplar trees unfold -Their buds, yet close and gummed and blind, -In airy leafage of the mind, -Rustling in silvery whispers the twin-hued scales -That fade not nor grow old. - -“Poplars and fountains and you cypress spires -Springing in dark and rusty flame, -Seek you aught that hath a name? -Or say, say: Are you all an upward agony -Of undefined desires? - -“Say, are you happy in the golden march -Of sunlight all across the day? -Or do you watch the uncertain way -That leads the withering moon on cloudy stairs -Over the heaven’s wide arch? - -“Is it towards sorrow or towards joy you lift -The sharpness of your trembling spears? -Or do you seek, through the grey tears -That blur the sky, in the heart of the triumphing blue, -A deeper, calmer rift?” - -So; I have tuned my music to the trees, -And there were voices dim below -Their shrillness, voices swelling slow -In the blue murmur of hills, and a golden cry -And then vast silences. - - - - -THE REEF. - - -My green aquarium of phantom fish, -Goggling in on me through the misty panes; -My rotting leaves and fields spongy with rains; -My few clear quiet autumn days--I wish - -I could leave all, clearness and mistiness; -Sodden or goldenly crystal, all too still. -Yes, and I too rot with the leaves that fill -The hollows in the woods; I am grown less - -Than human, listless, aimless as the green -Idiot fishes of my aquarium, -Who loiter down their dim tunnels and come -And look at me and drift away, nought seen - -Or understood, but only glazedly -Reflected. Upwards, upwards through the shadows, -Through the lush sponginess of deep-sea meadows -Where hare-lipped monsters batten, let me ply - -Winged fins, bursting this matrix dark to find -Jewels and movement, mintage of sunlight -Scattered largely by the profuse wind, -And gulfs of blue brightness, too deep for sight. - -Free, newly born, on roads of music and air -Speeding and singing, I shall seek the place -Where all the shining threads of water race, -Drawn in green ropes and foamy meshes. There, - -On the red fretted ramparts of a tower -Of coral rooted in the depths, shall break -An endless sequence of joy and speed and power: -Green shall shatter to foam; flake with white flake - -Shall create an instant’s shining constellation -Upon the blue; and all the air shall be -Full of a million wings that swift and free -Laugh in the sun, all power and strong elation. - -Yes, I shall seek that reef, which is beyond -All isles however magically sleeping -In tideless seas, uncharted and unconned -Save by blind eyes: beyond the laughter and weeping - -That brood like a cloud over the lands of men. -Movement, passion of colour and pure wings, -Curving to cut like knives--these are the things -I search for:--passion beyond the ken -Of our foiled violences, and, more swift -Than any blow which man aims against time, -The invulnerable, motion that shall rift -All dimness with the lightning of a rhyme, - -Or note, or colour. And the body shall be -Quick as the mind; and will shall find release -From bondage to brute things; and joyously -Soul, will and body, in the strength of triune peace, - -Shall live the perfect grace of power unwasted. -And love consummate, marvellously blending -Passion and reverence in a single spring -Of quickening force, till now never yet tasted, - -But ever ceaselessly thirsted for, shall crown -The new life with its ageless starry fire. -I go to seek that reef, far down, far down -Below the edge of everyday’s desire, - -Beyond the magical islands, where of old -I was content, dreaming, to give the lie -To misery. They were all strong and bold -That thither came; and shall I dare to try? - - - - -THE FLOWERS. - - -Day after day, -At spring’s return, -I watch my flowers, how they burn -Their lives away. - -The candle crocus -And daffodil gold -Drink fire of the sunshine-- -Quickly cold. - -And the proud tulip-- -How red he glows!-- -Is quenched ere summer -Can kindle the rose. - -Purple as the innermost -Core of a sinking flame, -Deep in the leaves the violets smoulder -To the dust whence they came. - -Day after day -At spring’s return, -I watch my flowers, how they burn -Their lives away, -Day after day.... - - - - -THE ELMS. - - -Fine as the dust of plumy fountains blowing -Across the lanterns of a revelling night, -The tiny leaves of April’s earliest growing -Powder the trees--so vaporously light, -They seem to float, billows of emerald foam -Blown by the South on its bright airy tide, -Seeming less trees than things beatified, -Come from the world of thought which was their home. - -For a while only. Rooted strong and fast, -Soon will they lift towards the summer sky -Their mountain-mass of clotted greenery. -Their immaterial season quickly past, -They grow opaque, and therefore needs must die, -Since every earth to earth returns at last. - - - - -OUT OF THE WINDOW. - - -In the middle of countries, far from hills and sea, -Are the little places one passes by in trains -And never stops at; where the skies extend -Uninterrupted, and the level plains -Stretch green and yellow and green without an end. -And behind the glass of their Grand Express -Folk yawn away a province through, -With nothing to think of, nothing to do, -Nothing even to look at--never a “view” -In this damned wilderness. -But I look out of the window and find -Much to satisfy the mind. -Mark how the furrows, formed and wheeled -In a motion orderly and staid, -Sweep, as we pass, across the field -Like a drilled army on parade. -And here’s a market-garden, barred -With stripe on stripe of varied greens.... -Bright potatoes, flower starred, -And the opacous colour of beans. -Each line deliberately swings -Towards me, till I see a straight -Green avenue to the heart of things, -The glimpse of a sudden opened gate -Piercing the adverse walls of fate.... -A moment only, and then, fast, fast, -The gate swings to, the avenue closes; -Fate laughs, and once more interposes -Its barriers. - The train has passed. - - - - -SUMMER STILLNESS. - - -The stars are golden instants in the deep -Flawless expanse of night: the moon is set: -The river sleeps, entranced, a smooth cool sleep -Seeming so motionless that I forget -The hollow booming bridges, where it slides, -Dark with the sad looks that it bears along, -Towards a sea whose unreturning tides -Ravish the sighted ships and the sailors’ song. - - - - -INSPIRATION. - - -Noonday upon the Alpine meadows -Pours its avalanche of Light -And blazing flowers: the very shadows -Translucent are and bright. -It seems a glory that nought surpasses-- -Passion of angels in form and hue-- -When, lo! from the jewelled heaven of the grasses -Leaps a lightning of sudden blue. -Dimming the sun-drunk petals, -Bright even unto pain, -The grasshopper flashes, settles, -And then is quenched again. - - - - -ANNIVERSARIES. - - -Once more the windless days are here, -Quiet of autumn, when the year -Halts and looks backward and draws breath -Before it plunges into death. -Silver of mist and gossamers, -Through-shine of noonday’s glassy gold, -Pale blue of skies, where nothing stirs -Save one blanched leaf, weary and old, -That over and over slowly falls -From the mute elm-trees, hanging on air -Like tattered flags along the walls -Of chapels deep in sunlit prayer. -Once more.... Within its flawless glass -To-day reflects that other day, -When, under the bracken, on the grass, -We who were lovers happily lay -And hardly spoke, or framed a thought -That was not one with the calm hills -And crystal sky. Ourselves were nought, -Our gusty passions, our burning wills -Dissolved in boundlessness, and we -Were almost bodiless, almost free. -The wind has shattered silver and gold; -Night after night of sparkling cold, -Orion lifts his tangled feet -From where the tossing branches beat -In a fine surf against the sky. -So the trance ended, and we grew -Restless, we knew not how or why; -And there were sudden gusts that blew -Our dreaming banners into storm; -We wore the uncertain crumbling form -Of a brown swirl of windy leaves, -A phantom shape that stirs and heaves -Shuddering from earth, to fall again -With a dry whisper of withered rain. - -Last, from the dead and shrunken days -We conjured spring, lighting the blaze -Of burnished tulips in the dark; -And from black frost we struck a spark -Of blue delight and fragrance new, -A little world of flowers and dew. -Winter for us was over and done: -The drought of fluttering leaves had grown -Emerald shining in the sun, -As light as glass, as firm as stone. -Real once more: for we had passed -Through passion into thought again; -Shaped our desires and made that fast -Which was before a cloudy pain; -Moulded the dimness, fixed, defined -In a fair statue, strong and free, -Twin bodies flaming into mind, -Poised on the brink of ecstasy. - - - - -ITALY. - - -There is a country in my mind, -Lovelier than a poet blind -Could dream of, who had never known -This world of drought and dust and stone -In all its ugliness: a place -Full of an all but human grace; -Whose dells retain the printed form -Of heavenly sleep, and seem yet warm -From some pure body newly risen; -Where matter is no more a prison, -But freedom for the soul to know -Its native beauty. For things glow -There with an inward truth and are -All fire and colour like a star. -And in that land are domes and towers -That hang as light and bright as flowers -Upon the sky, and seem a birth -Rather of air than solid earth. - -Sometimes I dream that walking there -In the green shade, all unaware -At a new turn of the golden glade, -I shall see her, and as though afraid -Shall halt a moment and almost fall -For passing faintness, like a man -Who feels the sudden spirit of Pan -Brimming his narrow soul with all -The illimitable world. And she, -Turning her head, will let me see -The first sharp dawn of her surprise -Turning to welcome in her eyes. -And I shall come and take my lover -And looking on her re-discover -All her beauty:--her dark hair -And the little ears beneath it, where -Roses of lucid shadow sleep; -Her brooding mouth, and in the deep -Wells of her eyes reflected stars. - -Oh, the imperishable things -That hands and lips as well as words -Shall speak! Oh movement of white wings, -Oh wheeling galaxies of birds! - - - - -THE ALIEN. - - -A petal drifted loose -From a great magnolia bloom, -Your face hung in the gloom, -Floating, white and close. - -We seemed alone: but another -Bent o’er you with lips of flame, -Unknown, without a name, -Hated, and yet my brother. - -Your one short moan of pain -Was an exorcising spell: -The devil flew back to hell; -We were alone again. - - - - -A LITTLE MEMORY. - - -White in the moonlight, -Wet with dew, -We have known the languor -Of being two. - -We have been weary -As children are, -When over them, radiant, -A stooping star, - -Bends their Good-Night, -Kissed and smiled:-- -Each was mother, -Each was child. - -Child, from your forehead -I kissed the hair, -Gently, ah, gently: -And you were - -Mistress and mother -When on your breast -I lay so safely -And could rest. - - - - -WAKING. - - -Darkness had stretched its colour, -Deep blue across the pane: -No cloud to make night duller, -No moon with its tarnish stain; -But only here and there a star, -One sharp point of frosty fire, -Hanging infinitely far -In mockery of our life and death -And all our small desire. - -Now in this hour of waking -From under brows of stone, -A new pale day is breaking -And the deep night is gone. -Sordid now, and mean and small -The daylight world is seen again, -With only the veils of mist that fall -Deaf and muffling over all -To hide its ugliness and pain. - -But to-day this dawn of meanness -Shines in my eyes, as when -The new world’s brightness and cleanness -Broke on the first of men. -For the light that shows the huddled things -Of this close-pressing earth, -Shines also on your face and brings -All its dear beauty back to me -In a new miracle of birth. - -I see you asleep and unpassioned, -White-faced in the dusk of your hair-- -Your beauty so fleetingly fashioned -That it filled me once with despair -To look on its exquisite transience -And think that our love and thought and laughter -Puff out with the death of our flickering sense, -While we pass ever on and away -Towards some blank hereafter. - -But now I am happy, knowing -That swift time is our friend, -And that our love’s passionate glowing, -Though it turn ash in the end, -Is a rose of fire that must blossom its way -Through temporal stuff, nor else could be -More than a nothing. Into day -The boundless spaces of night contract -And in your opening eyes I see -Night born in day, in time eternity. - - - - -BY THE FIRE. - - -We who are lovers sit by the fire, -Cradled warm ’twixt thought and will, -Sit and drowse like sleeping dogs -In the equipoise of all desire, -Sit and listen to the still -Small hiss and whisper of green logs -That burn away, that burn away -With the sound of a far-off falling stream -Of threaded water blown to steam, -Grey ghost in the mountain world of grey. -Vapours blue as distance rise -Between the hissing logs that show -A glimpse of rosy heat below; -And candles watch with tireless eyes -While we sit drowsing here. I know, -Dimly, that there exists a world, -That there is time perhaps, and space -Other and wider than this place, -Where at the fireside drowsily curled -We hear the whisper and watch the flame -Burn blinkless and inscrutable. -And then I know those other names -That through my brain from cell to cell -Echo--reverberated shout -Of waiters mournful along corridors: -But nobody carries the orders out, -And the names (dear friends, your name and yours) -Evoke no sign. But here I sit -On the wide hearth, and there are you: -That is enough and only true. -The world and the friends that lived in it -Are shadows: you alone remain -Real in this drowsing room, -Full of the whispers of distant rain -And candles staring into the gloom. - - - - -VALEDICTORY. - - -I had remarked--how sharply one observes -When life is disappearing round the curves -Of yet another corner, out of sight!-- -I had remarked when it was “good luck” and “good night” -And “a good journey to you,” on her face -Certain enigmas penned in the hieroglyphs -Of that half frown and queer fixed smile and trace -Of clouded thought in those brown eyes, -Always so happily clear of hows and ifs-- -My poor bleared mind!--and haunting whys. - -There I stood, holding her farewell hand, -(Pressing my life and soul and all -The world to one good-bye, till, small -And smaller pressed, why there I’d stand -Dead when they vanished with the sight of her). -And I saw that she had grown aware, -Queer puzzled face! of other things -Beyond the present and her own young speed, -Of yesterday and what new days might breed -Monstrously when the future brings -A charger with your late-lamented head: -Aware of other people’s lives and will, -Aware, perhaps, aware even of me.... -The joyous hope of it! But still -I pitied her; for it was sad to see -A goddess shorn of her divinity. -In the midst of her speed she had made pause, -And doubts with all their threat of claws, -Outstripped till now by her unconsciousness, -Had seized on her; she was proved mortal now. -“Live, only live? For you were meant -Never to know a thought’s distress, -But a long glad astonishment -At the world’s beauty and your own. -The pity of you, goddess, grown -Perplexed and mortal!” - Yet ... yet ... can it be -That she is aware, perhaps, even of me? - -And life recedes, recedes; the curve is bare, -My handkerchief flutters blankly in the air; -And the question rumbles in the void: -Was she aware, was she after all aware? - - - - -PRIVATE PROPERTY. - - -All fly--yet who is misanthrope?-- -The actual men and things that pass -Jostling, to wither as the grass -So soon: and (be it heaven’s hope, -Or poetry’s kaleidoscope, -Or love or wine, at feast, at mass) -Each owns a paradise of glass -Where never a yearning heliotrope -Pursues the sun’s ascent or slope; -For the sun dreams there, and no time is or was. - -Like fauns embossed in our domain, -We look abroad, and our calm eyes -Mark how the goatish gods of pain -Revel; and if by grim surprise -They break into our paradise, -Patient we build its beauty up again. - - - - -REVELATION. - - -At your mouth, white and milk-warm sphinx, -I taste a strange apocalypse: -Your subtle taper finger-tips -Weave me new heavens, yet, methinks, -I know the wiles and each iynx -That brought me passionate to your lips: -I know you bare as laughter strips -Your charnel beauty; yet my spirit drinks - -Pure knowledge from this tainted well, -And now hears voices yet unheard -Within it, and without it sees -That world of which the poets tell -Their vision in the stammered word -Of those that wake from piercing ecstasies. - - - - -MINOAN PORCELAIN. - - -Her eyes of bright unwinking glaze -All imperturbable do not -Even make pretences to regard -The jutting absence of her stays, -Where many a Tyrian gallipot -Excites desire with spilth of nard. -The bistred rims above the fard -Of cheeks as red as bergamot -Attest that no shamefaced delays -Will clog fulfilment, nor retard -Full payment of the Cyprian’s praise -Down to the last remorseful jot. -Hail priestess of we know not what -Strange cult of Mycenean days! - - - - -IN UNCERTAINTY TO A LADY. - - -I am not one of those who sip, -Like a quotidian bock, -Cheap idylls from a languid lip -Prepared to yawn or mock. - -I wait the indubitable word, -The great Unconscious Cue. -Has it been spoken and unheard? -Spoken, perhaps, by you? - - - - -CRAPULOUS IMPRESSION. - - -Still life, still life ... the high-lights shine -Hard and sharp on the bottles: the wine -Stands firmly solid in the glasses, -Smooth yellow ice, through which there passes -The lamp’s bright pencil of down-struck light. -The fruits metallically gleam, -Globey in their heaped-up bowl, -And there are faces against the night -Of the outer room--faces that seem -Part of this still, still life ... they’ve lost their soul. - -And amongst these frozen faces you smiled, -Surprised, surprisingly, like a child: -And out of the frozen welter of sound -Your voice came quietly, quietly. -“What about God?” you said. “I have found -Much to be said for Totality. -All, I take it, is God: God’s all-- -This bottle, for instance....” I recall, -Dimly, that you took God by the neck-- -God-in-the-bottle--and pushed Him across: -But I, without a moment’s loss -Moved God-in-the-salt in front and shouted: “Check!” - - - - -COMPLAINT OF A POET MANQUÉ. - - -We judge by appearance merely: -If I can’t think strangely, I can at least look queerly. -So I grew the hair so long on my head -That my mother wouldn’t know me, -Till a woman in a night-club said, -As I was passing by, -“Hullo, here comes Salome.” - -I looked in the dirty gilt-edged glass, -And, oh Salome! there I was-- -Positively jewelled, half a vampire, -With the soul in my eyes hanging dizzily -Like the gatherer of proverbial samphire -Over the brink of the crag of sense, -Looking down from perilous eminence -Into a gulf of windy night. -And there’s straw in my tempestuous hair, -And I’m not a poet: but never despair! -I’ll madly live the poems I shall never write. - - - - -SOCIAL AMENITIES. - - -I am getting on well with this anecdote, -When suddenly I recall -The many times I have told it of old, -And all the worked-up phrases, and the dying fall -Of voice, well timed in the crisis, the note -Of mock-heroic ingeniously struck-- -The whole thing sticks in my throat, -And my face all tingles and pricks with shame -For myself and my hearers. -These are the social pleasures, my God! -But I finish the story triumphantly all the same. - - - - -TOPIARY. - - -Failing sometimes to understand -Why there are folk whose flesh should seem -Like carrion puffed with noisome steam, -Fly-blown to the eye that looks on it, -Fly-blown to the touch of a hand; -Why there are men without any legs, -Whizzing along on little trollies -With long long arms like apes’: -Failing to see why God the Topiarist -Should train and carve and twist -Men’s bodies into such fantastic shapes: -Yes, failing to see the point of it all, I sometimes wish -That I were a fabulous thing in a fool’s mind, -Or, at the ocean bottom, in a world that is deaf and blind, -Very remote and happy, a great goggling fish. - - - - -ON THE ’BUS. - - -Sitting on the top of the ’bus, -I bite my pipe and look at the sky. -Over my shoulder the smoke streams out -And my life with it. -“Conservation of energy,” you say. -But I burn, I tell you, I burn; -And the smoke of me streams out -In a vanishing skein of grey. -Crash and bump ... my poor bruised body! -I am a harp of twittering strings, -An elegant instrument, but infinitely second-hand, -And if I have not got phthisis it is only an accident. -Droll phenomena! - - - - -POINTS AND LINES. - - -Instants in the quiet, small sharp stars, -Pierce my spirit with a thrust whose speed -Baffles even the grasp of time. -Oh that I might reflect them -As swiftly, as keenly as they shine. -But I am a pool of waters, summer-still, -And the stars are mirrored across me; -Those stabbing points of the sky -Turned to a thread of shaken silver, -A long fine thread. - - - - -PANIC. - - -The eyes of the portraits on the wall -Look at me, follow me, -Stare incessantly: -I take it their glance means nothing at all? ---Clearly, oh clearly! Nothing at all.... - -Out in the gardens by the lake -The sleeping peacocks suddenly wake; -Out in the gardens, moonlit and forlorn, -Each of them sounds his mournful horn: -Shrill peals that waver and crack and break. -What can have made the peacocks wake? - - - - -STANZAS. - - -Thought is an unseen net wherein our mind -Is taken and vainly struggles to be free: -Words, that should loose our spirit, do but bind -New fetters on our hoped-for liberty: -And action bears us onward like a stream -Past fabulous shores, scarce seen in our swift course; -Glorious--and yet its headlong currents seem -But backwaters of some diviner force. - -There are slow curves, more subtle far than thought, -That stoop to carry the grace of a girl’s breast; -And hanging flowers, so exquisitely wrought -In airy metal, that they seem possessed -Of souls; and there are distant hills that lift -The shoulder of a god towards the light; -And arrowy trees, sudden and sharp and swift, -Piercing the spirit deeply with delight. - -Would I might make these miracles my own! -Like a pure angel, thinking colour and form; -Hardening to rage in a flame of chiselled stone; -Spilling my love like sunlight, golden and warm -On noonday flowers; speaking the song of birds -Among the branches; whispering the fall of rain; -Beyond all thought, past action and past words, -I would live in beauty, free from self and pain. - - - - -POEM. - - -Books and a coloured skein of thoughts were mine; -And magic words lay ripening in my soul -Till their much-whispered music turned a wine -Whose subtlest power was all in my control. - -These things were mine, and they were real for me -As lips and darling eyes and a warm breast: -For I could love a phrase, a melody, -Like a fair woman, worshipped and possessed. - -I scorned all fire that outward of the eyes -Could kindle passion; scorned, yet was afraid; -Feared, and yet envied those more deeply wise -Who saw the bright earth beckon and obeyed. - -But a time came when, turning full of hate -And weariness from my remembered themes, -I wished my poet’s pipe could modulate -Beauty more palpable than words and dreams. - -All loveliness with which an act informs -The dim uncertain chaos of desire -Is mine to day; it touches me, it warms -Body and spirit with its outward fire. - -I am mine no more: I have become a part -Of that great earth that draws a breath and stirs -To meet the spring. But I could wish my heart -Were still a winter of frosty gossamers. - - - - -SCENES OF THE MIND. - - -I have run where festival was loud -With drum and brass among the crowd -Of panic revellers, whose cries -Affront the quiet of the skies; -Whose dancing lights contract the deep -Infinity of night and sleep -To a narrow turmoil of troubled fire. -And I have found my heart’s desire -In beechen caverns that autumn fills -With the blue shadowiness of distant hills; -Whose luminous grey pillars bear -The stooping sky: calm is the air, -Nor any sound is heard to mar -That crystal silence--as from far, -Far off a man may see -The busy world all utterly -Hushed as an old memorial scene. -Long evenings I have sat and been -Strangely content, while in my hands -I held a wealth of coloured strands, -Shimmering plaits of silk and skeins -Of soft bright wool. Each colour drains -New life at the lamp’s round pool of gold; -Each sinks again when I withhold -The quickening radiance, to a wan -And shadowy oblivion -Of what it was. And in my mind -Beauty or sudden love has shined -And wakened colour in what was dead -And turned to gold the sullen lead -Of mean desires and everyday’s -Poor thoughts and customary ways. -Sometimes in lands where mountains throw -Their silent spell on all below, -Drawing a magic circle wide -About their feet on every side, -Robbed of all speech and thought and act, -I have seen God in the cataract. -In falling water and in flame, -Never at rest, yet still the same, -God shows himself. And I have known -The swift fire frozen into stone, -And water frozen changelessly -Into the death of gems. And I -Long sitting by the thunderous mill -Have seen the headlong wheel made still, -And in the silence that ensued -Have known the endless solitude -Of being dead and utterly nought. -Inhabitant of mine own thought, -I look abroad, and all I see -Is my creation, made for me: -Along my thread of life are pearled -The moments that make up the world. - - - - -L’APRÈS-MIDI D’UN FAUNE. - -(From the French of Stéphane Mallarmé.) - - -I would immortalize these nymphs; so bright -Their sunlit colouring, so airy light, -It floats like drowsy down. Loved I a dream? -My doubts, born of oblivious darkness, seem -A subtle tracery of branches grown -The tree’s true self--proving that I have known, -Thinking it love, the blushing of a rose. -But think. These nymphs, their loveliness ... suppose -They bodied forth your senses’ fabulous thirst? -Illusion! which the blue eyes of the first, -As cold and chaste as is the weeping spring, -Beget: the other, sighing, passioning, -Is she the wind, warm in your fleece at noon? -No; through this quiet, when a weary swoon -Crushes and chokes the latest faint essay -Of morning, cool against the encroaching day, -There is no murmuring water, save the gush -Of my clear fluted notes; and in the hush -Blows never a wind, save that which through my reed -Puffs out before the rain of notes can speed -Upon the air, with that calm breath of art -That mounts the unwrinkled zenith visibly, -Where inspiration seeks its native sky. -You fringes of a calm Sicilian lake, -The sun’s own mirror which I love to take, -Silent beneath your starry flowers, tell -_How here I cut the hollow rushes, well_ -_Tamed by my skill, when on the glaucous gold_ -_Of distant lawns about their fountain cold_ -_A living whiteness stirs like a lazy wave;_ -_And at the first slow notes my panpipes gave_ -_These flocking swans, these naiads, rather, fly_ -_Or dive_. Noon burns inert and tawny dry, -Nor marks how clean that Hymen slipped away -From me who seek in song the real A. -Wake, then, to the first ardour and the sight, -O lonely faun, of the old fierce white light, -With, lilies, one of you for innocence. -Other than their lips’ delicate pretence, -The light caress that quiets treacherous lovers, -My breast, I know not how to tell, discovers -The bitten print of some immortal’s kiss. -But hush! a mystery so great as this -I dare not tell, save to my double reed, -Which, sharer of my every joy and need, -Dreams down its cadenced monologues that we -Falsely confuse the beauties that we see -With the bright palpable shapes our song creates: -My flute, as loud as passion modulates, -Purges the common dream of flank and breast, -Seen through closed eyes and inwardly caressed, -Of every empty and monotonous line. - -Bloom then, O Syrinx, in thy flight malign, -A reed once more beside our trysting-lake. -Proud of my music, let me often make -A song of goddesses and see their rape -Profanely done on many a painted shape. -So when the grape’s transparent juice I drain, -I quell regret for pleasures past and feign -A new real grape. For holding towards the sky -The empty skin, I blow it tight and lie -Dream-drunk till evening, eyeing it. - Tell o’er -Remembered joys and plump the grape once more. -_Between the reeds I saw their bodies gleam_ -_Who cool no mortal fever in the stream_ -_Crying to the woods the rage of their desire:_ -_And their bright hair went down in jewelled fire_ -_Where crystal broke and dazzled shudderingly._ -_I check my swift pursuit: for see where lie,_ -_Bruised, being twins in love, by languor sweet,_ -_Two sleeping girls, clasped at my very feet._ -_I seize and run with them, nor part the pair,_ -_Breaking this covert of frail petals, where_ -_Roses drink scent of the sun and our light play_ -_’Mid tumbled flowers shall match the death of day._ -I love that virginal fury--ah, the wild -Thrill when a maiden body shrinks, defiled, -Shuddering like arctic light, from lips that sear -Its nakedness ... the flesh in secret fear! -Contagiously through my linked pair it flies -Where innocence in either, struggling, dies, -Wet with fond tears or some less piteous dew. -_Gay in the conquest of these fears, I grew_ -_So rash that I must needs the sheaf divide_ -_Of ruffled kisses heaven itself had tied._ -_For as I leaned to stifle in the hair_ -_Of one my passionate laughter (taking care_ -_With a stretched finger, that her innocence_ -_Might stain with her companion’s kindling sense_ -_To touch the younger little one, who lay_ -_Child-like unblushing) my ungrateful prey_ -_Slips from me, freed by passion’s sudden death_ -_Nor heeds the frenzy of my sobbing breath._ - -Let it pass! others of their hair shall twist -A rope to drag me to those joys I missed. -See how the ripe pomegranates bursting red -To quench the thirst of the mumbling bees have bled; -So too our blood, kindled by some chance fire, -Flows for the swarming legions of desire. -At evening, when the woodland green turns gold -And ashen grey, ’mid the quenched leaves, behold! -Red Etna glows, by Venus visited, -Walking the lava with her snowy tread -Whene’er the flames in thunderous slumber die. -I hold the goddess! - Ah, sure penalty! - -But the unthinking soul and body swoon -At last beneath the heavy hush of noon. -Forgetful let me lie where summer’s drouth -Sifts fine the sand and then with gaping mouth -Dream planet-struck by the grape’s round wine-red star. - -Nymphs, I shall see the shade that now you are. - - - - -MOLE. - - -Tunnelled in solid blackness creeps -The old mole-soul, and wakes or sleeps, -He knows not which, but tunnels on -Through ages of oblivion; -Until at last the long constraint -Of each hand-wall is lost, and faint -Comes daylight creeping from afar, -And mole-work grows crepuscular. -Tunnel meets air and bursts; mole sees -Men as strange as walking trees? -And far horizons smoking blue, -And chasing clouds for ever new; -Green hills, like lighted lamps aglow -Or quenched beneath the cloud-shadow; -Quenching and blazing turn by turn, -Spring’s great green signals fitfully burn. -Mole travels on, but finds the steering -A harder task of pioneering -Than when he thridded through the strait -Blind catacombs that ancient fate -Had carved for him. Stupid and dumb -And blind and touchless he had come -A way without a turn; but here, -Under the sky, the passenger -Chooses his own best way; and mole -Distracted wanders, yet his hole -Regrets not much wherein he crept, -But runs, a joyous nympholept, -This way and that, by all made mad-- -River nymph and oread, -Ocean’s daughters and Lorelei, -Combing the silken mystery, -The glaucous gold of her rivery tresses-- -Each haunts the traveller, each possesses -The drunken wavering soul awhile; -Then with a phantom’s cock-crow smile -Mocks craving with sheer vanishment. - Mole-eyes grow hawk’s: knowledge is lent -In grudging driblets that pay high -Unconscionable usury. -To unrelenting life. Mole learns -To travel more secure; the turns -Of his long way less puzzling seem, -And all those magic forms that gleam -In airy invitation cheat -Less often than they did of old. - The earth slopes upward, fold by fold -Of quiet hills that meet the gold -Serenity of western skies. -Over the world’s edge with clear eyes -Our mole transcendent sees his way -Tunnelled in light: he must obey -Necessity again and thrid -Close catacombs as erst he did, -Fate’s tunnellings, himself must bore -Through the sunset’s inmost core. -The guiding walls to each-hand shine -Luminous and crystalline; -And mole shall tunnel on and on, -Till night let fall oblivion. - - - - -TWO REALITIES. - - -A waggon passed with scarlet wheels - And a yellow body, shining new. -“Splendid!” said I. “How fine it feels -To be alive, when beauty peels - The grimy husk from life.” And you - -Said, “Splendid!” and I thought you’d seen - That waggon blazing down the street; -But I looked and saw that your gaze had been -On a child that was kicking an obscene - Brown ordure with his feet. - -Our souls are elephants, thought I, - Remote behind a prisoning grill, -With trunks thrust out to peer and pry -And pounce upon reality; - And each at his own sweet will - -Seizes the bun that he likes best -And passes over all the rest. - - - - -QUOTIDIAN VISION. - - -There is a sadness in the street, -And sullenly the folk I meet -Droop their heads as they walk along, -Without a smile, without a song. -A mist of cold and muffling grey -Falls, fold by fold, on another day -That dies unwept. But suddenly, -Under a tunnelled arch I see -On flank and haunch the chestnut gleam -Of horses in a lamplit steam; -And the dead world moves for me once more -With beauty for its living core. - - - - -THE MIRROR. - - -Slow-moving moonlight once did pass -Across the dreaming looking-glass, -Where, sunk inviolably deep, -Old secrets unforgotten sleep -Of beauties unforgettable. -But dusty cobwebs are woven now -Across that mirror, which of old -Saw fingers drawing back the gold -From an untroubled brow; -And the depths are blinded to the moon, -And their secrets forgotten, for ever untold. - - - - -VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF -LAFORGUE. - - -Youth as it opens out discloses -The sinister metempsychosis -Of lilies dead and turned to roses -Red as an angry dawn. -But lilies, remember, are grave-side flowers, - While slow bright rose-leaves sail -Adrift on the music of happiest hours; - And those lilies, cold and pale, -Hide fiery roses beneath the lawn - Of the young bride’s parting veil. - - - - -PHILOSOPHY. - - -“God needs no christening,” - Pantheist mutters, - “Love opens shutters -On heaven’s glistening, -Flesh, key-hole listening, - Hear what God utters”.... - Yes, but God stutters. - - - - -PHILOCLEA IN THE FOREST. - - -I. - -’Twas I that leaned to Amoret -With: “What if the briars have tangled Time, -Till, lost in the wood-ways, he quite forget -How plaintive in cities at midnight sounds the chime -Of bells slow-dying from discord to the hush whence they rose and met? - -“And in the forest we shall live free, -Free from the bondage that Time has made -To hedge our soul from its liberty; -We shall not fear what is mighty, and unafraid -Shall look wide-eyed at beauty, nor shrink from its majesty.” - -But Amoret answered me again: -“We are lost in the forest, you and I; -Lost, lost, not free, though no bonds restrain; -For no spire rises for comfort, no landmark in the sky, -And the long glades as they curve from sight are dark with a nameless pain. - -And Time creates what he devours,-- -Music that sweetly dreams itself away, -Frail-swung leaves of autumn and the scent of flowers, -And the beauty of that poised moment, when the day -Hangs ’twixt the quiet of darkness and the mirth of the sunlit hours.” - - -II. - -Mottled and grey and brown they pass, -The wood-moths, wheeling, fluttering; -And we chase and they vanish; and in the grass -Are starry flowers, and the birds sing -Faint broken songs of the dying spring. - And on the beech-hole, smooth and grey, - Some lover of an older day -Has carved in time-blurred lettering - One world only:--“Alas.” - - -III. - -Lutes, I forbid you! You must never play, - When shimmeringly, glimpse by glimpse -Seen through the leaves, the silken figures sway -In measured dance. Never at shut of day, - When Time perversely loitering limps - Through endless twilights, should your strings - Whisper of light remembered things -That happened long ago and far away: -Lutes, I forbid you! You must never play.... - -And you, pale marble statues, far descried - Where vistas open suddenly, -I bid you shew yourselves no more, but hide -Your loveliness, lest too much glorified - By western radiance slantingly - Shot down the glade, you turn from stone - To living gods, immortal grown, -And, ageless, mock my beauty’s fleeting pride, -You pale, relentless statues, far descried.... - - - - -BOOKS AND THOUGHTS. - - -Old ghosts that death forgot to ferry -Across the Lethe of the years-- -These are my friends, and at their tears -I weep and with their mirth am merry. -On a high tower, whose battlements -Give me all heaven at a glance, -I lie long summer nights in trance, -Drowsed by the murmurs and the scents -That rise from earth, while the sky above me -Merges its peace with my soul’s peace, -Deep meeting deep. No stir can move me, -Nought break the quiet of my release: - In vain the windy sunlight raves - At the hush and gloom of polar caves. - - - - -THE HIGHER SENSUALISM. - - -There’s a church by a lake in Italy -Stands white on a hill against the sky; -And a path of immemorial cobbles -Leads up and up, where the pilgrim hobbles -Past a score or so of neat reposories, -Where you stop and breathe and tell your rosaries -To the shrined terra-cotta mannikins, -That expound with the liveliest quirks and grins -Known texts of Scripture. But no long stay -Should the pilgrim make upon his way; -But as means to the end these shrines stand here -To guide to something holier, -The church on the hill top. - - Your heaven’s so -With a path leading up to it past a row -Of votary Priapulids; -At each you pause and tell your beads -Along the quintuple strings of sense: -Then on, to face Heaven’s eminence, -New stimulated, new inspired. - - - - -FORMAL VERSES. - - -I. - -Mother of all my future memories, - Mistress of my new life, which but to-day -Began, when I beheld, deep in your eyes, -My own love mirrored and the warm surprise - Of the first kiss swept both our souls away, - -Your love has freed me; for I was oppressed - By my own devil, whose unwholesome breath -Tarnished my youth, leaving to me at best -Age lacking comfort of a soul at rest - And weariness beyond the hope of death. - - -II. - -Ah, those were days of silent happiness! - I never spoke, and had no need to speak, - While on the windy down-land, cheek by cheek, -The slow-driven sun beheld us. Each caress -Had oratory for its own defence; -And when I kissed or felt her fingers press, - I envied not Demosthenes his Greek, -Nor Tully for his Latin eloquence. - - - - -PERILS OF THE SMALL HOURS. - - -When life burns low as the fire in the grate -And all the evening’s books are read, -I sit alone, save for the dead -And the lovers I have grown to hate. - -But all at once the narrow gloom -Of hatred and despair expands -In tenderness: thought stretches hands -To welcome to the midnight room - -Another presence:--a memory -Of how last year in the sunlit field, -Laughing, you suddenly revealed -Beauty in immortality. - -For so it is; a gesture strips -Life bare of all its make-believe. -All unprepared we may receive -Our casual apocalypse. - -Sheer beauty, then you seemed to stir -Unbodied soul; soul sleeps to night, -And love comes, dimming spirit’s sight, -When body plays interpreter. - - - - -RETURN TO AN OLD HOME. - - -In this wood--how the hazels have grown!-- -I left a treasure all my own -Of childish kisses and laughter and pain; -Left, till I might come back again -To take from the familiar earth -My hoarded secret and count its worth. -And all the spider-work of the years, -All the time-spun gossamers, -Dewed with each succeeding spring; -And the piled up leaves the Autumns fling -To the sweet corruption of death on death.... -At the sudden stir of my spirit’s breath -All scattered. New and fair and bright -As ever it was, before my sight -The treasure lay, and nothing missed. -So having handled all and kissed, -I put them back, adding one new -And precious memory of you. - - -_Printed at The Vincent Works, Oxford._ - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS *** - -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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