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Title: Miscellany of Poetry
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<table summary="title" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td width="50%"><h1><i>Miscellany of Poetry</i></h1>

<br>
<b>1919<br>
<br>
<br>

edited by<br>
<br>

W. Kean Seymour<br>
<br><br>

</b><br>

<br>
<i><b>With decorations by Doris Palmer, <br>
Cecil Palmer and Hayward</b></i>
<br>
<br><br>
<br>
<span style="color: #A82C28"><b><i>To<br>
<br>
Sir Arthur Quiller-couch</i></b></span>
<br><br>
<br>

</td>
<td width="50%"><br>
<img src="images/MI1.gif" width="320" height="489" align="right" border="2" alt="Title-Page">
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>



<p><b><a name="toc">Table of Contents</a></b></p>

<table summary="Beagle" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul>
<li><a href="#introduction">Prefatory Note</a></li></ul></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Laurence Binyon</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#binsong"><i>Song</i></a><br>
<a href="#bincomm"><i>Commercial</i></a><br>
<a href="#binnum"><i>Numbers</i></a><br>
<a href="#binchild"><i>The Children Dancing</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>F. V. Branford</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#branmath"><i>Farewell to Mathematics</i></a><br>
<a href="#branret"><i>Return</i></a><br>
<a href="#brandead"><i>Over the Dead</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Gilbert Keith Chesterton</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#chestelegy"><i>Elegy in a Country Churchyard</i></a><br>
<a href="#chestball"><i>The Ballad of St. Barbara</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Richard Church</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#churpsy"><i>Psyche goes forth to Life</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>William H. Davies</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#davvill"><i>The Villain</i></a><br>
<a href="#davbird"><i>Bird and Brook</i></a><br>
<a href="#davpass"><i>Passion's Hounds</i></a><br>
<a href="#davtruth"><i>The Truth</i></a><br>
<a href="#davforc"><i>The Force of Love</i></a><br>
<a href="#davapr"><i>April's Lambs</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Geoffrey Dearmer</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#dearnous"><i>Nous Autres</i></a><br>
<a href="#dearshhm"><i>She to Him</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>John Drinkwater</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#drinkmale"><i>Malediction</i></a><br>
<a href="#drinkspec"><i>Spectral </i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Wilfred Wilson Gibson</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#gibwt"><i>In War-Time</i></a>
<ol type="1">
<li><a name="cp2"></a><a href="#gibstroop"><i>Troopship </i></a></li>
<li><a href="#gibscons"><i>The Conscript </i></a></li>
<li><a href="#gibsairr"><i>Air-Raid </i></a></li>
<li><a href="#gibsinwt"><i>In War-Time </i></a></li>
<li><a href="#gibsragt"><i>Ragtime </i></a></li>
<li><a href="#gibsleave"><i>Leave </i></a></li>
<li><a href="#gibsbacch"><i>Bacchanal </i></a></li>
</ol>
</td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Louis Golding</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#goldshep"><i>Shepherd Singing Ragtime</i></a><br>
<a href="#goldsing"><i>The Singer of High State</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Gerald Gould</li>
</ul></td><td>
<a href="#goulfree"><i>Freedoms</i> (Eight Sonnets)</a></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Laurence Housman</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#houssumm"><i>Summer Night</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>


<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Richard le Gallienne</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#gallrose"><i>The Palaces of The Rose</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Rose Macaulay</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#macaulpeace"><i>Peace, June 28th, 1919</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>


<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Eugene Mason</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#masantcleo"><i>Antony and Cleopatra</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Theodore Maynard</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#mayndirge"><i>Dirge</i></a><br>
<a href="#mayndesid"><i>Desideravi</i></a><br>
<a href="#maynlaus"><i>Laus Deo!</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>T. Sturge Moore</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#mooreafore"><i>Aforetime</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Thomas Moult</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#moulthaw"><i>Down here the Hawthorn</i></a><br>
<a name="cp3"></a><a href="#moultinvoc"><i>Invocation</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Robert Nichols</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#nichblake"><i>On Seeing a Portrait of Blake</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Eden Philpotts</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#philfall"><i>The Fall</i></a><br>
<a href="#philghost"><i>Ghosties at the Wedding</i></a></td><td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Arthur K. Sabin</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#sabin4lyr"><i>Four Lyrics</i></a></td><td></tr>


<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Margaret Sackville</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#sackreturn"><i>The Return</i></a><br>
<a href="#sackto"><i>To &mdash;&mdash;</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>William Kean Seymour</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#seyfruit"><i>Fruitage</i></a><br>
<a href="#seywood"><i>In the Wood</i></a><br>
<a href="#seysiesta"><i>Siesta</i></a><br>
<a href="#seylarks"><i>To One who Eats Larks</i></a><br>
<a href="#seybeautcam"><i>If Beauty Came to You</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Horace Shipp</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#shipppris"><i>Prison</i></a><br>
<a href="#shipp6"><i>The Sixth Day</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Edith Sitwell</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#sitweve"><i>Eventail</i></a><br>
<a href="#sitwsew"><i>The Lady with the Sewing Machine</i></a><br>
<a href="#sitwport"><i>Portrait of a Barmaid</i></a><br>
<a href="#sitwsol"><i>Solo for Ear-Trumpet</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Muriel Stuart</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#stufath"><i>The Father</i></a><br>
<a href="#stushore"><i>The Shore</i></a><br>
<a href="#stuwood"><i>Thélus Wood</i></a><br>
<a href="#sturthief"><i>The Thief of Beauty</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>W. R. Titterton</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#tittwall"><i>The High Wall</i></a><br>
<a href="#tittsword"><i>The Broken Sword</i></a><br>
<a href="#tittnight"><i>Night-Shapes</i></a><br>
<a name="cp4"></a><a href="#tittsilent"><i>The Silent People</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>E. H. Visiak</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#vislamp"><i>Lamps and Lanterns</i></a><br>
<a href="#visstrand"><i>Stranded</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Alec Waugh</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#waurubb"><i>Rubble</i></a></td><td></tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Charles Williams</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#willchrist"><i>Christmas</i></a><br>
<a href="#willbris"><i>Briseis</i></a></td><td></tr>



<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li><a href="#biblio">Bibliography</a></li>
</ul></td><td></td>
</tr>
</table>

<br>
<br>
<hr>
<br>
<br>
<h2><a name="introduction">Prefatory Note</a></h2>
<br>
This <i>Miscellany of Poetry, 1919</i>, is issued to the public as a
truly catholic anthology of contemporary poetry. The poems here printed
are new, in the sense that they have not previously been issued by their
authors in book form &mdash; a fact which surely gives the <i>Miscellany</i> an unique
place among modern collections. My deep thanks are due to my
fellow-contributors for their generous and hearty co-operation, and to
the editors of the <i>English Review, To-day, Voices, New Witness,
Observer, Saturday Westminster, Art and Letters, Cambridge Magazine</i>
and the <i>Nation</i> for permission to reprint certain poems.<br>
<br>
W. K. S.<br>
<br>
<i>September, 1919</i>
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>


<h2><a name="binsong">Laurence Binyon</a></h2>
<br>
<h3><i>Song</i></h3><br>

<blockquote>For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth,<br>
There is no measure upon earth.<br>
Nay, they wither, root and stem,<br>
If an end be set to them.<br><br>

Overbrim and overflow,<br>
If your own heart you would know;<br>
For the spirit born to bless<br>
Lives but in its own excess.</blockquote><br>
<br>
<img src="images/MI4.gif" width="626" height="176" align="middle" border="2" alt="Dancing figures silhouetted">
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="bincomm"></a><h3>Commercial</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Gross, with protruding ears,<br>
Sleek hair, brisk glance, fleshy and yet alert,<br>
Red, full, and satisfied,<br>
Cased in obtuseness confident not to be hurt,<br><br>

He sits at a little table<br>
In the crowded congenial glare and noise, jingling<br>
Coin in his pocket; sips<br>
His glass, with hard eye impudently singling<br><br>

A woman here and there: &mdash; <br>
Women and men, they are all priced in his thought,<br>
All commodities staked<br>
In the market, sooner or later sold and bought.<br><br>

"Were I he," you are thinking,<br>
You with the dreamer's forehead and pure eyes,<br>
"What should I lose? &mdash; All,<br>
All that is worthy the striving for, all my prize,<br><br>

"All the truth of me, all<br>
Life that is wonder, pity, and fear, requiring<br>
Utter joy, utter pain,<br>
From the heart that the infinite hurts with deep desiring<br><br>

"Why is it I am not he?<br>
Chance? The grace of God? The mystery's plan?<br>
He, too, is human stuff,<br>
A kneading of the old, brotherly slime of man.<br><br>

"Am I a lover of men,<br>
And turn abhorring as from fat slug or snake?   <br>
Lives obstinate in me too<br>
Something the power of angels could not unmake?"<br><br>

O self-questioner! None<br>
Unlocks your answer. Steadily look, nor flinch.<br>
This belongs to your kind,<br>
And knows its aim and fails not itself at a pinch.<br><br>

It is here in the world and works,<br>
Not done with yet. &mdash; Up, then, let the test be tried!<br>
Dare your uttermost, be<br>
Completely, and of your own, like him, be justified.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="binnum"></a><h3>Numbers</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Trefoil and Quatrefoil!<br>
What shaped those destinied small silent leaves<br>
Or numbered them under the soil?<br>
I lift my dazzled sight<br>
From grass to sky,<br>
From humming and hot perfume<br>
To scorching, quivering light,<br>
Empty blue! &mdash; Why,<br>
As I bury my face afresh<br>
In a sunshot vivid gloom &mdash; <br>
Minute infinity's mesh,<br>
Where spearing side by side<br>
Smooth stalk and furred uplift<br>
Their luminous green secrets from the grass,<br>
Tower to a bud and delicately divide &mdash; <br>
Do I think of the things unthought<br>
Before man was?<br><br>

Bodiless Numbers!<br>
When there was none to explore<br>
Your winding labyrinths occult,<br>
None to delve your ore<br>
Of strange virtue, or do<br>
Your magical business, you<br>
Were there, never old nor new,<br>
Veined in the world and alive: &mdash; <br>
Before the Planets, Seven;<br>
Before these fingers, Five!<br><br>

You that are globed and single,<br>
Crystal virgins, and you that part,           <br>
Melt, and again mingle!              <br>
We have hoisted sail in the night           <br>
On the oceans that you chart:<br>
Dark winds carry us onward, on;         <br>
But you are there before us, silent Answers,<br>
Beyond the bounds of the sun.<br>
You body yourselves in the stars, inscrutable dancers,<br>
Native where we are none.<br><br>

O inhuman Numbers!<br>
All things change and glide,<br>
Corrupt and crumble, suffer wreck and decay,<br>
But, obstinate dark Integrities, you abide,<br>
And obey but them who obey.<br>
All things else are dyed<br>
In the colours of man's desire:<br>
But you no bribe nor prayer<br>
Avails to soften or sway.<br>
Nothing of me you share,<br>
Yet I cannot think you away.<br>
And if I seek to escape you, still you are there<br>
Stronger than caging pillars of iron<br>
Not to be passed, in an air<br>
Where human wish and word<br>
Fall like a frozen bird.<br><br>

Music asleep<br>
In pulses of sound, in the waves!<br>
Hidden runes rubbed bright!<br>
Dizzy ladders of thought in the night!<br>
Are you masters or slaves &mdash; <br>
Subtlest of man's slaves, &mdash; <br>
Shadowy Numbers?<br><br>

In a vision I saw<br>
Old vulture Time, feeding<br>
On the flesh of the world; I saw<br>
The home of our use undated &mdash; <br>
Seasons of fruiting and seeding<br>
Withered, and hunger and thirst<br>
Dead, with all they fed on:<br>
Till at last, when Time was sated,<br>
Only you persisted,<br>
Dædal Numbers, sole and same,<br>
Invisible skeleton frame<br>
Of the peopled earth we tread on &mdash; <br>
Last, as first.<br><br>

Because naught can avail<br>
To wound or to tarnish you;<br>
Because you are neither sold nor bought,<br>
Because you have not the power to fail<br>
But live beyond our furthest thought,<br>
Strange Numbers, of infinite clue,<br>
Beyond fear, beyond ruth,<br>
You strengthen also me<br>
To be in my own truth.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="binchild"></a><h3>The Children Dancing</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Away, sad thoughts, and teasing<br>
Perplexities, away!<br>
Let other blood go freezing,<br>
We will be wise and gay;<br>
For here is all heart-easing,<br>
An ecstasy at play!<br><br>

The children dancing, dancing,<br>
Light upon happy feet,<br>
Both eye and heart entrancing,<br>
Mingle, escape, and meet,<br>
Come joyous-eyed advancing<br>
And floatingly retreat.<br><br>

Now slow, now swifter treading<br>
Their paces timed and true,<br>
An instant poised, then threading<br>
A maze of printless clue,<br>
The music smoothly wedding<br>
To motions ever new.<br><br>

They launch in chime, and scatter<br>
In looping ripples; they<br>
Are Music's airy matter,<br>
And their feet move, the way<br>
The raindrops shine and patter<br>
On tossing flowers in May.<br><br>

As if those flowers were singing<br>
For joy of the bright air,<br>
As if you saw them springing<br>
To dance the breeze &mdash; so fair<br>
The lissom bodies swinging,<br>
So light the flung-back hair.<br><br>

And through the mind enchanted<br>
A happy river goes,<br>
By its own young carol haunted<br>
And bringing, where it flows,<br>
What all the world has wanted<br>
But who in this world knows?</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="branmath">F. V. Branford</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>A Farewell to Mathematics</h3><br>


<blockquote>I laboured on the anvil of my brain<br>
And beat a metal out of pageantry.<br>
Figure and form I carry in my train<br>
To load the scaffolds of Eternity.<br>
  Where the masters are<br>
  Building star on star;<br>
  Where, in solemn ritual,<br>
  The great Dead Mathematical<br>
  Wait and wait and wait for me.<br><br>

To the deliberate presence of the Sun<br>
(Bright cynosure of every darkling sign,<br>
Wherein all numbers consummate in One,)<br>
Poised on the bolt of an Un-finite line,<br>
  As one whose spirit's state,<br>
  Is unafraid but desperate,<br>
  Through far unfathomed fears,<br>
  Through Time to timeless years,<br>
  I soar, through Shade to Shine.<br><br>

They say that on a night there came to Euler,<br>
As eager-eyed he stared upon a star,<br>
And fought the far infinitude, a toiler<br>
Like to himself and me, for things that are<br>
  Buried from the eyes alone<br>
  Of men whose sight is made of stone,<br>
  And led him out in ecstasy,<br>
  Over the dim boundary<br>
  By the pale gleam of a scimitar.<br><br>

Then Euler, mindful of thy lesser need,<br>
Be thou my pilot in this treacherous hour,<br>
That I be less unworth thy greater meed,<br>
O my strong brother in the halls of power;<br>
  For here and hence I sail<br>
  Alone beyond the pale.<br>
  Where square and circle coincide,<br>
  And the parallels collide,<br>
  And perfect pyramids flower.</blockquote>
<br><p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<a name="branret"></a><h3>Return</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The hearts of the mountains were void,<br>
The sea spake foreign tongues,<br>
From the speed of the wind I gat me no breath,<br>
And the temples of Time were as sepulchres.<br>
I walked about the world in the midnight,<br>
I stood under water, and over stars,<br>
I cast Life from me,<br>
I handled Death,<br>
I walked naked into lightning,<br>
I had so great a thirst for God.<br><br>

       *       *       *       *       *<br><br>

       <br>
The heart of the Mountain overfloweth,<br>
The sea speaketh clear words,<br>
The Ark is brought to the Tabernacle.<br>
Lightnings, that withered in the sky,<br>
Are become great beacons roaring in a wind<br>
I see Death, lying in the arms of Life,<br>
And, in the womb of Death, I see Joy.<br>
I had said 'The spirit of the Earth is white,<br>
But lo! He is red with joy.<br>
He devoureth the meat of many nations,<br>
He absorbeth a vintage of scarlet.<br>
Though my head be with the stars,<br>
All the flowers of Earth are singing in mine ears.<br>
Though my foot be planted on the sea-bed.<br>
Yet is it shod with the thunder.<br>
Sorrow for Earth Transient is passed away,<br>
Pain of martyr'd splendour is no more.<br>
They have left a fair child in my lap &mdash; <br>
A lusty infant shouting to the dawn.<br><br>

The Ogre of midnight hath perished.<br>
He shivered in the glare of the mountain,<br>
He screamed upon the sea-swords,<br>
His bowels rushed out upon the lances of the Wind.<br>
I shall look through the eye of Mountain,<br>
I shall set in my scabbard the sabre of Sea,<br>
And the spear of Wind shall be my hand's delight.<br>
I shall not descend from the Hill.<br>
Never go down to the Valley;<br>
    For I see, on a snow-crowned peak,<br>
    The glory of the Lord,<br>
    Erect as Orion,<br>
    Belted as to his blade.<br>
But the roots of the mountains mingle with mist.<br>
And raving skeletons run thereon.<br>
    I shall not go hence,<br>
    For here is my Priest,<br>
Who hath broken me in the waters of Disdain.<br>
    Here is my Jester,<br>
Who hath mended me on the wheels of Mirth.<br>
    Here is my Champion,<br>
Who hath confounded mine ancient Enemy<br>
    Ardgay &mdash; the slayer of Giants.</blockquote>
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<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="brandead"></a><h3>Over the Dead</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Who in the splendour of a simple thought,<br>
Whether for England or her enemies,<br>
Went in the night, and in the morning died;<br>
Each bleeding piece of human earth that lies<br>
Stark to the carrion wind, and groaning cries<br>
For burial &mdash; each Jesu crucified &mdash; <br>
Hath surely won the thing he dearly bought,<br>
For wrong is right, when wrong is greatly wrought.<br><br>

Yet is the Nazarene no thigh of Thor,<br>
To play on partial fields the puppet king<br>
Bearing the battle down with bloody hand.<br>
Serene he towers above the gods of war,<br>
A naked man where shells go thundering &mdash; <br>
The great unchallenged Lord of No-Man's Land.</blockquote>
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<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="chestelegy">Gilbert Keith Chesterton</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Elegy in a Country Churchyard</h3>

<blockquote>The men that worked for England<br>
They have their graves at home;<br>
And bees and birds of England<br>
About the cross can roam.<br><br>

But they that fought for England,<br>
Following a falling star,<br>
Alas, alas, for England<br>
They have their graves afar.<br><br>

And they that rule in England<br>
In stately conclave met,<br>
Alas, alas, for England,<br>
They have no graves as yet.</blockquote><br><br>
<img src="images/MI5.gif" width="628" height="183" align="middle" border="2" alt="Pensive figure silhouetted">
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<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br>

<a name="chestball"></a><h3>The Ballad of St. Barbara</h3><br>

<i>(St. Barbara is the patroness of artillery, and of those who are in
fear of sudden death.)</i><br>
<br>
<blockquote>When the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain,<br>
We stood and drank of the last free air we never could love again;<br>
They had led us back from a lost battle, to halt we knew not where,<br>
And stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair.<br>
The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless lands,<br>
And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands:<br><br>

"There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome;<br>
And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home.<br>
Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor,<br>
That lead to a low door at last: and beyond there is no door."<br><br>

The Breton to the Norman spoke, like a little child spake he,<br>
But his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea:<br>
"There are more windows in one house than there are eyes to see;<br>
There are more doors in a man's house, but God has hid the key;<br>
Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnesseth<br>
Barbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death."<br><br>

It seemed the wheel of the worlds stood still an instant in its turning,<br>
  More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of Valmy mill,<br>
While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning,<br>
  Still as the heart of a whirlwind, the heart of the world stood still.<br><br>

"Barbara the beautiful had praise of lute and pen,<br>
Her hair was like a summer night, dark and desired of men,<br>
Her feet like birds from far away that linger and light in doubt,<br>
And her face was like a window where a man's first love looked out.<br><br>

"Her sire was master of many slaves, a hard man of his hands;<br>
They built a tower about her in the desolate golden lands,<br>
Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs, planned with an ancient plan,<br>
And set two windows in the tower, like the two eyes of a man."<br><br>

Our guns were set towards the foe; we had no word for firing;<br>
  Grey in the gateways of St. Gond the Guard of the tyrant shone;<br>
Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and retiring,<br>
  The Breton line went backwards and the Breton tale went on.<br><br>

"Her father had sailed across the sea from the harbour of Africa,                <br>
When all the slaves took up their tools for the bidding of Barbara;<br>
She smote the bare wall with her hand, and bade them smite again,<br>
She poured them wealth of wine and meat to stay them in their pain,<br>
And cried through the lifted thunder of thronging hammer and hod:<br>
'Throw open the third window in the third name of God!'<br>
Then the hearts failed and the tools fell; and far towards the foam<br>
Men saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming home."<br><br>

  Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word is flying,<br>
  Before the touch, before the time, we may not lose a breath.<br>
  Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be no replying<br>
  Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to Death.<br><br>

"'There were two windows in your tower, Barbara, Barbara,<br>
For all between the sun and moon in the lands of Africa.<br>
Hath a man three eyes, Barbara, a bird three wings,<br>
That you have riven roof and wall to look upon vain things?'<br>
Her voice was like a wandering thing that falters, yet is free,<br>
Whose soul has drunk in a distant land of the rivers of liberty.<br><br>

  There are more wings than the wind knows, or eyes than see the sun,<br>
In the light of the lost window and the wind of the doors undone;<br>
For out of the first lattice are the red lands that break<br>
And out of the second lattice, sea like a green snake,<br>
But out of the third lattice, under low eaves like wings<br>
Is a new corner of the sky and the other side of things.'"<br><br>

It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond uttering,<br>
  A casement and a chasm and a thunder of doors undone,<br>
A seraph's strong wing shaken out the shock of its unshuttering<br>
  That split the shattered sunlight from a light behind the sun.<br><br>

  "Then he drew sword and drave her where the judges sat and said:<br>
'Cæsar sits above the Gods, Barbara the maid,<br>
Cæsar hath made a treaty with the moon and with the sun<br>
All the gods that men can praise, praise him every one.<br>
There is peace with the anointed of the scarlet oils of Bel,<br>
With the Fish God, where the whirlpool is a winding stair to hell,<br>
With the pathless pyramids of slime, where the mitred negro lifts<br>
To his black cherub in the cloud abominable gifts,<br>
With the leprous silver cities where the dumb priests dance and nod,<br>
But not with the three windows and the last name of God.'"<br><br>

  They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies rend and shiver us ...           <br>
  Barbara, Barbara, we may not loose a breath &mdash;   <br>
  Be at the bursting doors of doom, and in the dark deliver us,<br>
  Who loosen the last window on the sun of sudden death.<br><br>

"Barbara, the beautiful, stood up as a queen set free.<br>
Whose mouth is set to a terrible cup and the trumpet of liberty;<br>
'I have looked forth from a window that no man now shall bar,<br>
Cæsar's toppling battle towers shall never stretch so far;<br>
The slaves are dancing in their chains, the child laughs at the rod,<br>
Because of the bird of the three wings, and the third face of God.'<br>
The sword upon his shoulder shifted and shone and fell,<br>
And Barbara lay very small and crumpled like a shell."<br><br>

  What wall upon what hinges turned stands open like a door?<br>
  Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human eyes,<br>
  What light upon what ancient way shines to a far off floor,<br>
  The line of the lost land of France or the plains of Paradise?<br><br>

"Cæsar smiled above the gods, his lip of stone was curled,<br>
His iron armies wound like chains round and round the world.<br>
And the strong slayer of his own that cut down flesh for grass,<br>
Smiled, too, and went to his own tower like a walking tower of brass,<br>
And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb: and far towards the foam<br>
Men saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming home....<br><br>

"Blood of his blood upon the sword stood red but never dry,<br>
He wiped it slowly, till the blade was blue as the blue sky:<br>
But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack, spat down a blinding brand,<br>
And all of him lay back and flat as his shadow on the sand."<br><br>

The touch and the tornado; all our guns give tongue together,<br>
St. Barbara for the gunnery and God defend the right &mdash; <br>
They are stopped and gapped and battered as we blast away the weather,<br>
Building window upon window to our lady of the light;<br>
For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are falling, falling,<br>
They are reeling, they are running, as the shameful years have run,<br>
She is risen for all the humble, she has heard the conquered calling,<br>
St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the gun.<br><br>

They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of their own flatteries,<br>
Whose lip is curled to order as its barbered hair is curled ...<br>
 &mdash; Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St. Barbara of the batteries!<br>
That blew the new white window in the wall of all the world.<br><br>

For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites hard<br>
Through the rending of the doorways, through the death-gap of the Guard,             <br>
For the shout of the Three Colours is in Condé and beyond,<br>
And the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of St. Gond;<br>
Through Mondemont and out of it, through Morin marsh and on,<br>
With earthquake of salutation the impossible thing is gone;<br>
Gaul, charioted and charging, great Gaul upon a gun,<br>
Tiptoe on all her thousand years, and trumpeting to the sun,<br>
As day returns, as death returns, swung backward for a span,<br>
Back on the barbarous reign returns the battering-ram of Man.<br><br>

While that the east held hard and hot like pincers in a forge,<br>
Came like the west wind roaring up the cannon of St. George,<br>
Where the hunt is up and racing over stream and swamp and tarn,<br>
And their batteries, black with battle, hold the bridge-heads of the Marne;<br>
And across the carnage of the Guard by Paris in the plain<br>
The Normans to the Bretons cried; and the Bretons cheered again;<br>
But he that told the tale went home to his house beside the sea<br>
And burned before St. Barbara, the light of the windows three.<br>
Three candles for an unknown thing, never to come again,<br>
That opened like the eye of God on Paris in the plain.</blockquote>
<br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>


<h2><a name="churpsy">Richard Church</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Psyche Goes Forth to Life</h3><br>

<blockquote>What are these tears of loneliness to-night?<br>
Hark! In my neighbour's house the music swells,<br>
Joins with the wind and fills the empty skies<br>
And dies away, like echo of old age<br>
Sighing and dying in the heart that fails.<br>
Ah! the cruel beauty ... how it creeps<br>
Into my home, into my waiting heart!<br>
Who am I that I wait to-night?... Alas,<br>
Where is the old content of maidenhood,<br>
The calmness and the laughter and the song,<br>
The patient hands unshaken as the needle<br>
Plied to the gentle rhythm that my lips<br>
Murmured, untroubled girlhood at their brink?<br><br>

Was that but yesterday?... How long ago,<br>
How the swift moments flow along the flood.<br>
For yesterday was sweet indifference;<br>
These little drooping breasts had never known<br>
This pain that swells them out and makes them ache<br>
For Love to touch them, for the nestling lips<br>
To trouble them as a warm lifting wind<br>
Murmurs between two swelled and ripening grapes<br>
Whispering of future wines of mad delight.<br>
Ah, let me learn of this! A rapture fills<br>
My limbs, and in my womb there stirs a craving<br>
For life ... life! Oh, wonderful, the vision that glows<br>
About me in such radiance, the light, the strife<br>
Of music, hue and perfume of the rose.<br>
Oh garden of desire, where one awaits<br>
My coming with the sudden knowledge glowing<br>
Deep in my eyes, made sombre as the day<br>
Is somber in the summer noon of light.<br>
Now I perceive I am a sacred temple <br>
Long closed about the hidden flame of life,<br>
Closed with white ivories and gliding shapes<br>
Of river waves, and waves upon the sea<br>
Rising and gliding. Every magic curve<br>
Of these unheeded arms, this supple waist &mdash; <br>
So are my eyes set on the infinite &mdash; <br>
Are ministering music unto life<br>
Calling love forth to worship in my shrine,<br>
To fill this temple with the prophecy<br>
Of further, wider, deeper life to come.<br><br>

Hark! The music of the night is rising up!<br>
My neighbour's house is all a flame of song.<br>
I must abide until the prelude closes,<br>
Until his heart has ceased its preparation<br>
And he comes forth into the dying year,<br>
Leaves his house of inspiration empty,<br>
And with a loneliness of heart creeps forth<br>
Eagerly into the night, and gropes his way<br>
With outstretched nerveless hands unto my home,<br>
Where I wait, alone! I hear his lips<br>
Murmur again, and moan, and murmur again<br>
Tones of the broken prelude, vainly trying<br>
To call me forth, who am waiting in my home,<br>
Waiting in sweet imprisonment, the bonds<br>
Of love restraining me from running forth<br>
To greet him and to lead him to my soul.<br><br>

Oh the swift pain, the agony of waiting,<br>
Galled with these terrible sweet bonds of love<br>
That will not let me rise, though my cold hands<br>
Are wrung with grief ... for do I not behold<br>
Upon the outer night the rising fire,<br>
The danger and the terror of love's flight;<br>
Do I not know my lover; that his eyes<br>
Are blinded by this madness of the skies.<br>
Do I not hear him moaning in the night<br>
For one to lead him to his waiting love,<br>
To lead him to the temple of delight,<br>
To the white ivory casket where his soul<br>
Is set with lovely secrets? Do I not hear<br>
The little echoes roll, and fade, and fret<br>
About the murmuring foliage of the garden<br>
Wherein the temple lies? Do I not fear<br>
Lest in the outer glories he be lost<br>
And thwarted of his heart's desire, that flies<br>
Like a dove before his coming, and alights<br>
Within the inner courtyard of my soul<br>
Bearing such messages of him who comes<br>
That all the altars of my love are kindled<br>
To flame ere he approaches, which fades away<br>
And counterfeits the sweetest death that ever<br>
Sighed the approach of day, and left the stars<br>
More bright to be entranced of the dawn?<br><br>

Be patient, Oh, my heart! A little while<br>
And he shall pierce the darkness of the night<br>
That flows between my home and his. The song<br>
The youth, the early light that he has lost<br>
Are as a little strength submerged and drowned<br>
In this fierce rage that bids him seek me out<br>
And take me in the darkness of my home,<br>
And change, and fill me, as the virgin night<br>
Is changed to day, and as the moonlight sky<br>
Is emptied of her sterile ray, and filled<br>
With overflooding light that spills to earth<br>
A golden augury of later fruits<br>
And a diviner birth.<br><br>

                         Hark! Hark!... He comes<br>
He has found the temple of his soul's desire ...,<br>
Be still, Oh beating heart, be still ... be still,<br>
Lest he be troubled now his sacred fire<br>
Creeps through this temple to your inmost shrine.<br>
And I at last am his, and he is mine!</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>


<h2><a name="davvill">William H. Davies</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>The Villain</h3>

<blockquote>While joy gave clouds the light of stars,<br>
  That beamed where'er they looked;<br>
And calves and lambs had tottering knees,<br>
  Excited, while they sucked;<br>
While every bird enjoyed his song,<br>
Without one thought of harm or wrong &mdash; <br>
I turned my head and saw the wind,<br>
  Not far from where I stood,<br>
Dragging the corn by her golden hair,<br>
  Into a dark and lonely wood.</blockquote><br><br>

<img src="images/MI6.gif" width="633" height="204" align="middle" border="2" alt="Playing figure silhouetted">
<br>
<br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br>

<a name="davbird"></a><h3>Bird and Brook</h3><br>
<br>

<blockquote>My song, that's bird-like in its kind,<br>
Is in the mind,<br>
Love &mdash; in the mind;<br>
And in my season I am moved<br>
No more or less from being loved;<br>
No woman's love has power to bring<br>
My song back when I cease to sing;<br>
Nor can she, when my season's strong,<br>
Prevent my mind from song.<br><br>

But where I feel your woman's part,<br>
Is in the heart,<br>
Love &mdash; in the heart;<br>
For when that bird of mine broods long,<br>
And I'd be sad without my song,<br>
Your love then makes my heart a brook<br>
That dreams in many a quiet nook,<br>
And makes a steady, murmuring sound<br>
Of joy the whole year round.</blockquote><br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br>

<a name="davpass"></a><h3>Passion's Hounds</h3><br>

<blockquote>With mighty leaps and bounds,<br>
I followed Passion's hounds,<br>
  My hot blood had its day;<br>
Lust, Gluttony, and Drink,<br>
I chased to Hell's black brink,<br>
  Both night and day.<br><br>

I ate like three strong men,<br>
I drank enough for ten,<br>
  Each hour must have its glass<br>
Yes, Drink and Gluttony<br>
Have starved more brains, say I,<br>
  Than Hunger has.<br><br>

And now, when I grow old,<br>
And my slow blood is cold,<br>
  And feeble is my breath &mdash; <br>
I'm followed by those hounds,<br>
Whose mighty leaps and bounds<br>
  Hunt me to death.</blockquote><br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br>

<a name="davtruth"></a><h3>The Truth</h3><br><br>


<blockquote>Since I have seen a bird one day,<br>
His head pecked more than half away;<br>
That hopped about, with but one eye,<br>
Ready to fight again, and die &mdash; <br>
Ofttimes since then their private lives<br>
Have spoilt that joy their music gives.<br><br>

So, when I see this robin now,<br>
Like a red apple on the bough,<br>
And question why he sings so strong,<br>
For love, or for the love of song;<br>
Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill<br>
Whose silver tongue is never still &mdash; <br><br>

Ah, now there comes this thought unkind,<br>
Born of the knowledge in my mind:<br>
He sings in triumph that last night<br>
He killed his father in a fight;<br>
And now he'll take his mother's blood &mdash; <br>
The last strong rival for his food.</blockquote><br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br>
<br>
<a name="davforc"></a><h3>The Force of Love</h3><br>

<blockquote>Have I now found an angel in Unrest,<br>
  That wakeful Love is more desired than sleep:<br>
Though you seem calm and gentle, you shall show<br>
  The force of this strong love in me so deep.<br><br>

Yes, I will make you, though you seem so calm,<br>
  Look from your blue eyes that divinest joy<br>
As was in Juno's, when she made great Jove<br>
  Forget the war and half his heaven in Troy.<br><br>

And I will press your lips until they mix<br>
  With my poor quality their richer wine:<br>
Be my Parnassus now, and grow more green<br>
  Each upward step towards your top divine.</blockquote>

<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="davapr"></a><h3>April's Lambs</h3><br>


<blockquote>Though I was born in April's prime,<br>
  With many another lamb,<br>
Yet, thinking now of all my years,<br>
  What am I but a tough old ram?<br><br>

"No woman thinks of years," said she,<br>
  "Or any tough old rams,<br>
When she can hear a voice that bleats<br>
  As tenderly as any lamb's."</blockquote><br>
<br>


<img src="images/MI2.gif" width="629" height="195" align="middle" border="2" alt="A piper on the hill"><br>

<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="dearnous">Geoffrey Dearmer</a></h2>
<br>

<h3><i>Nous Autres</i></h3>
<br>
<blockquote>We never feel the lust of steel<br>
Or fury-woken blood,<br>
We live and die and wonder why<br>
In mud, and mud, and mud,<br>
And horror first and horror last<br>
And Phantom Terror riding past.<br>
We hear and hear the hounds of Fear<br>
Nearer and more near.<br>
We feel their breath....<br>
Only the nights befriend<br>
And mitigate the hell;<br>
Of those who ponder, see and hear,<br>
Too well.<br>
The nights, and Death &mdash; <br>
The end.<br>
We feel but never fear<br>
His breath.<br><br>

Day after weary day,<br>
In vain, in vain, in vain,<br>
We turn to Thee and pray,<br>
We cry and cry again &mdash; <br>
"O lord of Battle, why<br>
Should we alone be sane?"<br><br>

We stifle cries with lightless eyes<br>
And face eternal night;<br>
We stifle cries to sacrifice<br>
Our eyes for Human Sight.<br>
And many give that men may live,<br>
A life, a limb, a brain,<br>
That fellow men may understand<br>
And be for ever sane.<br>
What matter if we lose a hand<br>
If others wander hand in hand;<br>
Or lose a foot if others greet         <br>
The dawn of peace with dancing feet;<br>
What matter if we die unheard<br>
If others hear the Poet's Word?<br><br>

Because we pay from day to day<br>
The price of sacrifice;<br>
Because we face each dreary place<br>
Again, again, again.<br>
Lord, set us free from Sanity &mdash; <br>
Who feel no fighting thrill;<br>
Must we remain for ever sane<br>
And never learn to kill?<br>
No answer came. In very shame<br>
Our long-unheeded cry<br>
Grew bitterly more bitterly,<br>
"O why, O why, O why.<br>
May we not feel the lust of steel<br>
The fury-woken thrill &mdash; <br>
For men may learn to live and die<br>
And never learn to kill?"</blockquote><br>

<i>October, 1918</i><br>

<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="dearshhm"></a><h3>She to Him</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The day you died, my Share of All<br>
My soul was tossed<br>
Hither and thither, like a leaf,<br>
And lost, lost, lost,<br>
From sounds and sight,<br>
Beneath the night<br>
Of gloom and grief.<br><br>

But &mdash; <br>
(Hush, for the wind may hear)<br>
Soon, soon you came in solitude:<br>
And we renewed<br>
All happiness.<br>
Now, who shall guess<br>
How close we are, my dear?<br>
(Hush, for the wind may hear.)<br><br>

Yet &mdash; <br>
Other women wait<br>
Their doors ajar;<br>
And listen, listen, listen,<br>
For the gate,<br>
And murmur, "Soon, the war<br>
Will seem a far,<br>
Dim agony of sleep."<br><br>

May I be joyful, too,<br>
That day,<br>
For love of you<br>
May I not turn away<br>
Nor &mdash; weep.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="drinkmale">John Drinkwater</a></h2>
<br>

<h3>Malediction</h3><br>

<blockquote>Thrush, across the twilight<br>
Here in the abbey close,<br>
Pouring from your lilac-bough<br>
Note on pebbled note,<br>
Why do you sing so,<br>
Making your song so bright.<br>
Swelling to a throbbing curve<br>
That brave little throat?<br><br>

Soon, but a season brief,<br>
The lice among your feathers,<br>
Stiff-winged and aimless-eyed,<br>
With song dead you shall fall;<br>
Refuse of some clotted ditch,<br>
Seeking no more berries;<br>
Why with lyric numbers now<br>
Do you the twilight call?<br><br>

Proud in your tawny plumes<br>
Mottled in devising,<br>
Singing as though never sang<br>
Bird in close till now &mdash; <br>
Sharp are the javelins<br>
Of death that are seeking,<br>
Seeking even simple birds<br>
On a lilac-bough.<br><br>

Crushed, forlorn, a frozen thing,<br>
For no more nesting,<br>
For no more speckled eggs<br>
In pattered cup of clay, &mdash; <br>
Soon your song shall come to this<br>
You who make the twilight yours,<br>
And echoes of the abbey,<br>
At the end of day.<br><br>

In the song I hear it,<br>
The thud of a poor feathered death,<br>
In the swelling throat I see<br>
The splintering of song &mdash; <br>
What demon then has worked in me<br>
To tease my brain to bitterness &mdash; <br>
In me who have loved bird and tree<br>
So long, so long?<br><br>

Until I come to charity,<br>
Until I find peace again,<br>
My curse upon the fiend or god<br>
That will not let me hear<br>
A bird in song upon the bough<br>
But, hovering about the notes,<br>
There chimes the maniac beating<br>
Of black-winged fear.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="drinkspec"></a><h3>Spectral</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>What will the years tell?<br>
Hush! If it would but speak &mdash; <br>
That shadow athwart the stream,<br>
In the gloom of a dream;<br><br>

Could my brain but spell<br>
The thought in the brain of that weak<br>
Old ghost that hides in the gloom,<br>
Over there, of the chestnut bloom.<br><br>

I sit in the broad June light<br>
On the open bank of the river,<br>
In the summer of manhood, young;<br>
And over the water bright<br>
Is a lair that is overhung<br>
With coned pink blooms that quiver<br>
And droop, till the water's breast<br>
Is of petal and leaf caressed.<br><br>

And the June sky glares on my prime &mdash; <br>
But there in the gloom, with Time,<br>
Huddled, with Time on its back,<br>
Is a shadow that is my wrack.<br>
Yes, it is I in the lair,<br>
Peering and watching me there.<br><br>

Under the chestnut bloom<br>
My old age hides in the gloom.<br>
And the years to be have been,<br>
Could I spell the lore of that brain.<br>
But the river flows between,<br>
Over the weeds of pain,<br>
Over the snares of death,<br>
Maybe, should I leap to hold,<br>
With myself grown old,<br>
Council there in the gloom<br>
Under the chestnut bloom.<br><br>

And so, with instruction none,<br>
I go, and leave it there,<br>
My ghost with Time in its lair,<br>
And the things that must yet be done<br>
Tear at my heart unknown,<br>
And the years have tongues of stone<br>
With no syllable to make<br>
For consolation's sake.<br><br>

But peradventure yet<br>
I shall return<br>
To dare the weeds of death,<br>
And plunge through the coned pink bloom,<br>
And cry on that spectre set<br>
In its silent ring of gloom,<br>
And stay my youth to learn<br>
The thing that my old age saith.</blockquote><br>
<br>
<img src="images/MI3.gif" width="628" height="181" align="middle" border="2" alt="Cartwheeling figures silhouetted">
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="gibwt">Wilfred Wilson Gibson</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>In War-Time</h3><br>

<table summary="in war-time" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">1</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><a name="gibstroop"></a><i>Troopship</i><br>
	<br>
	<i>(s.s. Baltic: Mid-Atlantic: July, 1917)</i></span></td>
	<td>Dark waters into crystalline brilliance break<br>
About the keel, as through the moonless night<br>
The dark ship moves in its own moving lake<br>
Of phosphorescent cold moon-coloured light;<br>
And to the clear horizon, all around<br>
Drift pools of fiery beryl flashing bright<br>
As though, still flashing, quenchless, cold and white,<br>
A million moons in the dark green waters drowned.<br><br>

And staring at the magic with eyes adream,<br>
That never till now have looked upon the sea,<br>
Boys from the Middle-West lounge listlessly<br>
In the unlanterned darkness, boys who go<br>
Beckoned by some unchallengeable gleam<br>
To unknown lands to fight an unknown foe.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">2</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><a name="gibscons"></a><i>The Conscript</i></span></td>
	<td>Indifferent, flippant, earnest, but all bored,<br>
The doctors sit in the glare of electric light<br>
Watching the endless stream of naked white<br>
Bodies of men for whom their hasty award<br>
Means life or death, maybe, or the living death<br>
Of mangled limbs, blind eyes or darkened brain:<br>
And the chairman, as his monocle falls again,<br>
Pronounces each doom with easy, indifferent breath.<br><br>

Then suddenly they all shudder as they see<br>
A young man move before them wearily,<br>
Pallid and gaunt as one already dead;<br>
And they are strangely troubled as he stands<br>
With arms outstretched and drooping, thorn-crowned head,<br>
The nail-marks glowing in his feet and hands.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">3</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><a name="gibsairr"></a><i>Air-Raid</i></span></td>
	<td>Night shatters in mid-heaven: the bark of guns,<br>
The roar of planes, the crash of bombs, and all<br>
The unshackled skiey pandemonium stuns<br>
The senses to indifference, when a fall<br>
Of masonry near by startles awake,<br>
Tingling wide-eyed, prick-eared, with bristling hair,<br>
Each sense within the body crouched aware<br>
Like some sore-hunted creature in the brake.<br><br>

Yet side by side we lie in the little room,<br>
Just touching hands, with eyes and ears that strain<br>
Keenly, yet dream-bewildered, through tense gloom,<br>
Listening in helpless stupor of insane<br>
Drugged nightmare panic fantastically wild,<br>
To the quiet breathing of our sleeping child.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">4</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><a name="gibsinwt"></a><i>In War-Time</i></span></td>
	<td>As gaudy flies across a pewter plate,<br>
On the grey disk of the unrippling sea,<br>
Beneath an airless, sullen sky of slate<br>
Dazzled destroyers zig-zag restlessly,<br>
While underneath the sleek and livid tide,<br>
Blind monsters nosing through the soundless deep,<br>
Lean submarines among blind fishes glide<br>
And through primeval weedy forests sweep.<br><br>

Over the hot grey surface of my mind<br>
Glib, motley rumours zig-zag without rest,<br>
While deep within the darkness of my breast<br>
Monstrous desires, lean, sinister and blind,<br>
Slink through unsounded night and stir the slime<br>
And ooze of oceans of forgotten time.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">5</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><a name="gibsragt"></a><i>Ragtime</i></span></td>
	<td>A minx in khaki struts the limelit boards:      <br>
With false moustache, set smirk and ogling eyes<br>
And straddling legs and swinging hips she tries<br>
To swagger it like a soldier, while the chords<br>
Of rampant ragtime jangle, clash, and clatter;<br>
And over the brassy blare and drumming din<br>
She strains to squirt her squeaky notes and thin<br>
Spirtle of sniggering lascivious patter.<br><br>

Then out into the jostling Strand I turn,<br>
And down a dark lane to the quiet river,<br>
One stream of silver under the full moon,<br>
And think of how cold searchlights flare and burn<br>
Over dank trenches where men crouch and shiver.<br>
Humming, to keep their hearts up, that same tune.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">6</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><a name="gibsleave"></a><i>Leave</i></span></td>
	<td>Crouched on the crowded deck, we watch the sun<br>
In naked gold leap out of a cold sea<br>
Of shivering silver; and stretching drowsily<br>
Crampt legs and arms, relieved that night is done<br>
And the slinking, deep-sea peril past, we turn<br>
Westward to see the chilly, sparkling light<br>
Quicken the Wicklow Hills, till jewel-bright<br>
In their Spring freshness of dewy green they burn.<br><br>

And silent on the deck beside me stands<br>
A soldier, lean and brown, with restless hands,<br>
And eyes that stare unkindling on the life<br>
And rapture of green hills and glistening morn:<br>
He comes from Flanders home to his dead wife,<br>
And I, from England, to my son newborn.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">7</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><a name="gibsbacch"></a><i>Bacchanal</i><br>
	<br>
	<i>(November, 1918)</i></span></td>
	<td>Into the twilight of Trafalgar Square<br>
They pour from every quarter, banging drums<br>
And tootling penny trumpets: to a blare<br>
Of tin mouth-organs, while a sailor strums<br>
A solitary banjo, lads and girls,<br>
Locked in embraces, in a wild dishevel<br>
Of flags and streaming hair, with curdling skirls<br>
Surge in a frenzied, reeling, panic revel.<br><br>

Lads who so long have looked death in the face,<br>
Girls who so long have tended death's machines,<br>
Released from the long terror shriek and prance:<br>
And watching them, I see the outrageous dance,<br>
The frantic torches and the tambourines<br>
Tumultuous on the midnight hills of Thrace.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>


<h2><a name="goldshep">Louis Golding</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Shepherd Singing Ragtime</h3>

<blockquote>The shepherd sings: &mdash; <br>
    "<i>Way down in Dixie,<br>
    Way down in Dixie,<br>
Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay</i> ..."<br><br>

With shaded eyes he stands to look<br>
Across the hills where the clouds swoon,<br>
He singing, leans upon his crook,<br>
  He sings, he sings no more.<br>
The wind is muffled in the tangled hairs<br>
Of sheep that drift along the noon.<br>
  One mild sheep stares<br>
With amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June.<br>
  Two skylarks soar<br>
  With singing flame<br>
Into the sun whence first they came.<br>
All else is only grasshoppers<br>
Or a brown wing the shepherd stirs,<br>
Who, like a tall tree moving, goes<br>
Where the pale tide of sheep-drift flows.<br><br>

    See! the sun smites<br>
    With sea-drawn lights<br>
The turned wing of a gull that glows<br>
Aslant the violet, the profound<br>
Dome of the mid-June heights.<br><br>

Alas! again the grasshoppers,<br>
The birds, the slumber-winging bees,<br>
Alas! again for those and these<br>
Demure and sweet things drowned;<br>
Drowned in vain raucous words men made<br>
Where no lark rose with swift and sweet<br>
Ascent and where no dim sheep strayed<br>
About the stone immensities,<br>
Where no sheep strayed and where no bees<br>
Probed any flowers nor swung a blade<br>
    Of grass with pollened feet.<br><br>

He sings: &mdash; <br>
    "<i>In Dixie,<br>
    Way down in Dixie,<br>
Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay<br>
Scrambled eggs in the new-mown hay</i>..."<br><br>

The herring-gulls with peevish cries<br>
Rebuke the man who sings vain words;<br>
His sheep-dog growls a low complaint,<br>
Then turns to chasing butterflies.<br>
But when the indifferent singing-birds<br>
From midmost down to dimmest shore<br>
Innumerably confirm their songs,<br>
And grasshoppers make summer rhyme<br>
And solemn bees in the wild thyme<br>
Clash cymbals and beat gongs,<br>
The shepherd's words once more are faint,<br>
The shepherd's song once more is thinned<br>
Upon the long course of the wind,<br>
  He sings, he sings no more.<br><br>

Ah, now the sweet monotonies<br>
Of bells that jangle on the sheep<br>
To the low limit of the hills!<br>
Till the blue cup of music spills<br>
Into the boughs of lowland trees;<br>
Till thence the lowland singings creep<br>
Into the silenced shepherd's head,<br>
  Creep drowsily through his blood:<br>
The young thrush fluting all he knows,<br>
The ring-dove moaning his false woes,<br>
Almost the rabbit's tiny tread,<br>
  The last unfolding bud.<br><br>

  But now,<br>
Now a cool word spreads out along the sea.<br>
Now the day's violet is cloud-tipped with gold.<br>
  Now dusk most silently<br>
Fills the hushed day with other wings than birds'.<br>
Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock,<br>
To their cliff-haven go the seagulls thence.<br>
So too the shepherd gathers in his flock,<br>
  Because birds journey to their dens,<br>
  Tired sheep to their still fold.<br>
A dark first bat swoops low and dips<br>
About the shepherd who now sings<br>
A song of timeless evenings;<br>
For dusk is round him with wide wings,<br>
Dusk murmurs on his moving lips.<br><br>

<i>There is not mortal man who knows<br>
From whence the, shepherd's song arose:<br>
  It came a thousand years ago.<br><br>

Once the world's shepherds woke to lead<br>
The folded sheep that they might feed<br>
  On green downs where winds blow.<br>
One shepherd sang a golden word.<br>
A thousand miles away one heard.<br>
  One sang it swift, one sang it slow.</i><br>
<br>
<i>Three skylarks heard, three skylarks told<br>
All shepherds this same song of gold<br>
  On all downs where winds blow.<br><br>

This is the song that shepherds must<br>
Sing till the green downlands be dust<br>
  And tide of sheep-drift no more flow:<br><br>

The song three skylarks told again<br>
To all the sheep and shepherd men<br>
  On green downs where winds blow.</i></blockquote><br><br>

<img src="images/MI7.gif" width="619" height="157" align="middle" border="2" alt="silhouetted figures">
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="goldsing"></a><h3>The Singer of High State</h3>

<blockquote>On hills too harsh for firs to climb,<br>
  Where eagle dare not hatch her brood,<br>
  Upon the peak of solitude,<br>
  With anvils of black granite crude<br>
I forge austerities of rhyme.<br><br>

Such godlike stuff my spirit drinks<br>
  I make grand odes of tempests there.<br>
  The steel-winged eagle, if he dare<br>
  To cleave these tracts of frozen air,<br>
Hearing such music, swoops and sinks.<br><br>

Stark clangours of forgotten wars,<br>
  Tumults of primal love and hate,<br>
  Through crags of song reverberate.<br>
  Held by the Singer of High State,<br>
Battalions of the midnight pause.<br><br>

On hills uplift from Space and Time,<br>
  Upon the peak of Solitude,<br>
  With stars to give my furnace food,<br>
  On anvils of black granite crude<br>
I forge austerities of rhyme.</blockquote><br><br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br>


<h2><a name="goulfree">Gerald Gould</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Freedoms</h3><br>
<br>
<h4><i>Eight Sonnets</i></h4><br>

<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">1</span></td>
	<td>Those were our freedoms, and we come to this:<br>
  The climbing road that lures the climbing feet<br>
  Is lost: there lies no mist above the wheat,<br>
Where-thro' to glimpse the silver precipice,<br>
Far off, about whose base the white seas hiss<br>
  In spray; the world grows narrow and complete;<br>
  We have lost our perils in the certain sweet;<br>
We have sold our great horizon for a kiss.<br><br>

To every hill there is a lowly slope,<br>
  But some have heights beyond all height &mdash; so high<br>
  They make new worlds for the adventuring eye.<br>
We for achievement have forgone our hope,<br>
And shall not see another morning ope,<br>
  Nor the new moon come into the new sky.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">2</span></td>
	<td>Where is our freedom sought, and where to seek?<br>
  The voices of the various world agree<br>
  The future's ours: to hope is to be free:<br>
Only to doubt, to fear, is to be weak.<br>
Have you not felt upon your calm clear cheek<br>
  The kiss of the bright wind of liberty?<br>
  What more is there to ask, what more to be?<br>
Peace, peace, my soul, and let the silence speak!<br><br>

To hope is to be free? Nay, hope's a slave<br>
  To every chance; hope is the same as fear;<br>
Hope trembles at the wind, the star, the wave,<br>
  The voice, the mood, the music; hope stands near<br>
The chilly threshold of the waiting grave,<br>
  And when the silence speaks, hope does not hear.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">3</span></td>
	<td>In the old days came freedom with a sword.    <br>
  Ev'n so; but also freedom came with wings<br>
  Fanning the faint and purple bloom that clings<br>
To the great twilight where our dreams are stored.<br>
Freedom was what the waters would afford<br>
  That yet obeyed the white moon's whisperings,<br>
  And freedom leapt and listened in the strings<br>
Of dulcimer and lute and clavichord.<br><br>

In the old days? But those old days are now.<br>
O merciful, O bright, O valiant brow,<br>
Can you seek freedom that way and I this?<br>
Not in the single note is music free,<br>
But where creation's climbing fires agree<br>
In multitudes, in nights, in silences.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">4</span></td>
	<td>Shall we mark off our little patch of power<br>
  From time's compulsive process? Shall we sit<br>
  With memory, warming our weak hands at it,<br>
And say: "So be it; we have had one hour"?<br>
Surely the mountains are a better dower,<br>
  With their dark scope and cloudy infinite,<br>
  Than small perfection, trivial exquisite;<br>
'Mid all that dark the brightness of a flower!<br><br>

Lovers are not themselves: they are more, they are all:<br>
  For them are past and future spread together<br>
  Like a green landscape lit by golden weather:<br>
For them the rhythmic change conjectural<br>
  Of time and place is but the question whether<br>
Their God shall stand (as stand he must) or fall.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">5</span></td>
	<td>O cold remembrance, careful-careless kiss,<br>
  That does not wake to hope with waking day,<br>
  And at the hour of bed-time does not say:<br>
"That was for rapture, that for peace, but this<br>
Burns for the night's more terrible auspices,<br>
  And pangs and sweets of doubt and disarray!" &mdash; <br>
  Yet in one kiss two hearts found once the way<br>
From perfect ignorance to perfect bliss.<br><br>

Love has so many voices, low and high.<br>
  Such range of reason, such delight of rhyme!<br>
    Yet when I asked love such a simple thing<br>
    As why the autumn comes where came the spring,<br>
The only soul that answered me was I,<br>
  And love was silent then for the first time.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">6</span></td>
	<td>Our love is hurt, and the bad world goes on<br>
  Moving to its conclusion: in a year<br>
  This corn now reaped will come again to ear,<br>
The moon will shine as last night the moon shone;<br>
The tide, whose thought is the moon's thought, will don<br>
  The silver livery of subjection. Dear,<br>
  Is it not strange that hearts will hope and fear<br>
And break, when our hearts, broken now, are gone?<br><br>

If this were true, life's movement would rebel,<br>
  And curdle to its source, as blood to the heart<br>
  When the cold fires of indignation start<br>
From their obscure lair in the body. &mdash; Well,<br>
  If for us two to part were just to part<br>
All years would have one pointless tale to tell.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">7</span></td>
	<td>The little things, the little restless things,     <br>
  The base and barren things, the things that spite<br>
  The day, and trail processions through the night<br>
Of sad remembrances and questionings;<br>
The poverties, stupidities and stings,<br>
  The silted misery, the hovering blight;<br>
  The things that block the paths of sound and sight;<br>
The things that snare our thought and break its wings &mdash; <br><br>

How shall we bear these? &mdash; we who suffer so<br>
  The shattering sacrifice, the huge despair,<br>
  The terrors loosed like lightnings on the air,<br>
    To leave all nature blackened from that curse!<br>
The big things are the enemies we know,<br>
    The little things the traitors. Which are worse?</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<br>
<table summary="sonnet" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">8</span></td>
	<td>Now must we gather up and comprehend<br>
  The volume of vicissitude, and take<br>
  Account of loving, for each other's sake,<br>
And ask how love began and how will end<br>
(If there be any end of love, O friend<br>
  Of my worst hours and best desires!) &mdash; and stake<br>
  Our all upon the sweetness and the ache<br>
Of what men's stories and God's stars intend.<br><br>

You have my all: you are my all: you give,<br>
  Out of your bounty and content of soul,<br>
The only strength that makes me fit to live &mdash; <br>
  Since earth of spirit takes such heavy toll:<br>
Yet I, the weak, the faint, the fugitive,<br>
  Stand here, an equal part of the great whole.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>


<h2><a name="houssumm">Laurence Housman</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Summer Night</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Light, like a closing flower, covers to earth her herds,<br>
  Out of the world we only watch for the rise of moon;<br>
Darker the twilight glimmers, dulls the warble of birds,<br>
  Over the silent field travels the night-jar's tune.<br><br>

Here, at my side, so close that even your breath I hear,<br>
  Face and form that I love, now with the night made one,<br>
Pray not for any star! Come not, O moon, for fear<br>
  Lest in thy light we lose our way ere the dream be done.<br><br>

Touch, and clasp, and be close! Kiss, oh kiss, and be warm!<br>
  What is here, O beloved, so like a sea without sound?<br>
Under the swathe at our feet, swifter than wings of storm,<br>
  Summer speeds on his way: Spring lies dead in the ground.<br><br>

How like a closing flower, clasped by a sleeping bee,<br>
  Life folds over us now: &mdash; and here in the midst love lies.<br>
O beloved, O flower of night, no morrow's moon shall we see:<br>
  Between a dusk and a day we meet, and at dawn Time dies!</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="gallrose">Richard le Gallienne</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>The Palaces of the Rose</h3><br>

<h4><i>A Valentine</i></h4>

<br>
<blockquote>Which of my palaces? Gold one by one,<br>
Of all the splendid houses of my throne,<br>
This day in grave thought have I over-gone:<br>
Those roofs of stars where I have lived alone<br>
Gladly with God; those blue-encompassed bowers<br>
Hushed round with lakes, and guarded with still flowers,<br>
Where I have watched a face from eve till morn,<br>
Wondering at being born &mdash; <br>
Then on from morn again till the next eve,<br>
Still with strange eyes, unable to believe;<br>
And yet, though week and month and year went by.<br>
Incredulous of my ensorcelled eye.<br>
O had I thus in trance for ever stayed,<br>
Still were she there in the reed-girdled isle,<br>
And I there still &mdash; I who go treading now<br>
Eternity, a-hungered mile by mile:<br>
Because I pressed one kiss upon her brow, &mdash; <br>
After a thousand years that seemed an hour<br>
Of looking on my flower,<br>
After that patient planetary fast,<br>
One kiss at last;<br>
One kiss &mdash; and then strange dust that once was she.<br><br>

Sayest thou, Rose, "What is all this to me?"<br>
This would I answer, if it pleaseth thee,<br>
Thou Rose and Nightingale so strangely one:<br>
That of my palaces, gold one by one,<br>
I fell a-thinking, pondering which to-day,<br>
The day of the Blessed Saint, Saint Valentine,<br>
Which of those many palaces of mine,<br>
I, with bowed head and lowly bended knee,<br>
Might bring to thee.<br>
O which of all my lordly roofs that rise<br>
To kiss the starry skies<br>
May with great beams make safe that golden head,<br>
With all that treasure of hair showered and spread.<br>
Careless as though it were not gold at all &mdash; <br>
Yet in the midnight lighting the black hall;<br>
And all that whiteness lying there as though<br>
It were but driven snow.<br>
Pondering on all these pinnacles and towers,<br>
That, as I come with trumpets, call me lord,<br>
And crown their battlements with girlhood flowers,<br>
I can but think of one.  'Twas not my sword<br>
That won it, nor was it aught I did or dreamed,<br>
But O it is a palace worthy thee!<br>
For all about it flows the eternal sea,<br>
A blue moat guarding an immortal queen;<br>
And over it an everlasting crown<br>
That, as the moon comes and the sun goes down,<br>
Adds jewel after jewel, gem on gem,<br>
To the august appropriate diadem<br>
Of her, in whom all potencies that are<br>
Wield sceptres and with quiet hands control,<br>
Kind as that fairy wand the evening star,<br>
Or the strong angel that we call the soul.<br><br>

Thou splendid girl that seemest the mother of all,<br>
Dear Ceres-Aphrodite, with every lure<br>
That draws the bee to honey, with the call<br>
Of moth-winged night to sinners, yet as pure<br>
As the white nun that counts the stars for beads;<br>
Thou blest Madonna of all broken needs,<br>
Thou Melusine, thou sister of sorrowing man,<br>
Thou wave-like laughter, thou dear sob in the throat,<br>
Thou all-enfolding mercy, and thou song<br>
That gathers up each wild and wandering note,    <br>
And takes and breaks and heals and breaks the heart<br>
With the omnipotent tenderness of art;<br>
And thou Intelligence of rose-leaves made<br>
That makes that little thing the brain afraid.<br><br>

For thee my Castle of the Spring prepares:<br>
On the four winds are sped my couriers,<br>
For thee the towered trees are hung with green;<br>
Once more for thee, O queen,<br>
The banquet hall with ancient tapestry<br>
Of woven vines grows fair and still more fair.<br>
And ah! how in the minstrel gallery<br>
Again there is the sudden string and stir<br>
Of music touching the old instruments,<br>
While on the ancient floor<br>
The rushes as of yore<br>
Nymphs of the house of spring plait for your feet &mdash; <br>
Ancestral ornaments.<br>
And everywhere a hurrying to and fro,<br>
And whispers saying, "She is so sweet &mdash; so sweet";<br>
O violets, be ye not too late to blow,<br>
O daffodils be fleet:<br>
For, when she comes, all must be in its place,<br>
All ready for her entrance at the door,<br>
All gladness and all glory for her face,<br>
All flowers for her flower-feet a floor;<br>
And, for her sleep at night in that great bed<br>
Where her great locks are spread,<br>
O be ye ready, ye young woodland streams<br>
To sing her back her dreams.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>


<h2><a name="macaulpeace">Rose Macaulay</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Peace, </h3><br>

<h4><i>June 28th, 1919</i></h4><br>


<blockquote>From the tennis lawn you can hear the guns going,<br>
    Twenty miles away,<br>
Telling the people of the home counties<br>
    That the peace was signed to-day.<br>
To-night there'll be feasting in the city;<br>
    They will drink deep and eat &mdash; <br>
Keep peace the way you planned you would keep it<br>
    (If we got the Boche beat).<br>
Oh, your plan and your word, they are broken,<br>
    For you neither dine nor dance;<br>
And there's no peace so quiet, so lasting,<br>
    As the peace you keep in France.<br><br>

You'll be needing no Covenant of Nations<br>
    To hold your peace intact.<br>
It does not hang on the close guarding<br>
    Of a frail and wordy pact.<br>
When ours screams, shattered and driven,<br>
    Dust down the storming years,<br>
Yours will stand stark, like a grey fortress,<br>
    Blind to the storm's tears.<br><br>

Our peace ... your peace ... I see neither.<br>
    They are a dream, and a dream.<br>
I only see you laughing on the tennis lawn;<br>
    And brown and alive you seem,<br>
As you stoop over the tall red foxglove,<br>
    (It flowers again this year)<br>
And imprison within a freckled bell<br>
    A bee, wild with fear....<br><br>

       *       *       *       *       *<br><br>

Oh, you cannot hear the noisy guns going:<br>
    You sleep too far away.<br>
It is nothing to you, who have your own peace,<br>
    That our peace was signed to-day.</blockquote><br>
<br>
<img src="images/MI8.gif" width="651" height="188" align="middle" border="2" alt="silhouetted figures 8">

<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="masantcleo">Eugene Mason</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Antony and Cleopatra</h3>

<table summary="Antony and Cleopatra" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">1</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 80%;"><i>The Cyndus</i></span></td>
	<td>Beneath th' triumphal blue, th' riotous day,<br>
  Her silvern galley beats the black flood white,<br>
  Whilst the long sillage hoards some close delight<br>
Of incense, flutes, and stir of silk array.<br>
From forth the pompous poop, her royal sway,<br>
  Near where the mystic hawk stands poised for flight,<br>
  The Queen, erect, stares out, flushed, exquisite,<br>
Like some great golden bird that spies her prey.<br><br>

The tryst is kept: her spoilèd warrior there:<br>
And the brown gipsy in the swooning air<br>
  Spreads amber arms the purple glow stains red;<br>
Nor hath she seen, nor known with shuddering breath.<br>
  Symbols of Doom, those Youths Divine who shed<br>
Rose-leaves on sombre deeps &mdash; Desire and Death.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">2</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><i>Battle at Sunset</i></span></td>
	<td>The shock was stern: the cohorts near to rout.<br>
  Staying the flight, tribune, centurion,<br>
  From heat of carnage 'neath th' enduring sun<br>
Breathe blood, and smell its savour as they shout.<br>
With haggard eyes, that count the dead about,<br>
  Each spearman marks the archers, all undone,<br>
  Whirl like heaped leaves before Euroclydon.<br>
From the brown faces sweat falls gout by gout.<br><br>

That fated hour &mdash; with many a shaft stuck o'er,<br>
  Streaming in burnished brass and purple weed,<br>
Red with the scarlet flux of wounds full sore,<br>
  With trumpets shrilling forth their urgent need,<br>
  Against the sunset, on his frighted steed &mdash; <br>
Surged, glorious, the ensanguined Emperor.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">3</span><br>
	<br>
	<span style="font-size: 120%;"><i>Antony and Cleopatra</i></span></td>
	<td>From the high terrace they might see far down,<br>
  Egypt asleep, by plague of heat opprest;<br>
  Old Father Nile, in beauty manifest,<br>
Roll his rich flood towards many a famous town.<br>
And lo, the Roman felt 'neath mail and gown<br>
  (Captain and slave, soothing a child to rest)<br>
  Relax and fail on his triumphant breast<br>
That body made for love, by love o'erthrown.<br><br>

Lifting her silken head and blanched face<br>
To him whose senses reel at such rare grace<br>
  And piercing sweetness, she prefers her lips;<br>
But stooping close, his ardent eyes behold<br>
In those deep eyes, sewn thick with points of gold,<br>
  A hazardous sea bestrewn with fleeing ships.</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<i>From the French of</i> José Maria de Heredia<br>
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="mayndirge">Theodore Maynard</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Dirge</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>If on a day it should befall<br>
That love must have her funeral;<br>
And men weep tears that love is dead,<br>
That never more her gracious head<br>
Can turn to meet their eyes and hold<br>
Their hearts with chains of silky gold;<br>
That never more her hands can be<br>
As dear as was virginity;<br>
That in her coffin there is laid<br>
Beauty, the body of a maid,<br>
The body of one so piteous-sweet,<br>
With candles burning at her feet<br>
And cowled monks singing requiem....<br><br>

I think I would not go with them,<br>
Her lordly lovers, to the place<br>
Where lies that lovely mournful face,<br>
That curving throat and marvellous hair<br>
Under the sconces' yellow flare &mdash; <br>
How shall a man be comforted<br>
When love is dead, when love is dead?<br><br>

But I would make my moan apart,<br>
Keeping my dreams within my heart &mdash; <br>
For guarded as a sepulchre<br>
Shall be the house I built for her<br>
Of silver spires and pinnacles<br>
With carillons of mellow bells,<br>
A house of song for her delight<br>
Whose joy was as the strong sunlight &mdash; <br>
But now love's ultimate word is said,<br>
For love is dead, for love is dead!<br><br>

But even should all hope be lost<br>
Some memory, like a thin white ghost,<br>
Might stealthily move in midnight hours<br>
Among those silent sacred towers,<br>
And glimmer on the moonlit lawn<br>
Until the cold ironic dawn<br>
Arises from her saffron bed &mdash; <br>
When love is dead, when love is dead.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="mayndesid"></a><h3>Desideravi</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Lest, tortured by the world's strong sin,<br>
  Her little bruised heart should die &mdash; <br>
Give her your heart to shelter in,<br>
  O earth and sky!<br><br>

Kneel, sun, to clothe her round about<br>
  With rays to keep her body warm;<br>
And, kind moon, shut the shadows out<br>
  That work her harm.<br><br>

Yes, even shield her from my will's<br>
  Wild folly &mdash; hold her safe and close! &mdash; <br>
For my rough hand in touching spills<br>
  Life from the rose.<br><br>

But teach me, too, that I may learn<br>
  Your passion classical and cool;<br>
To me, who tremble so and burn,<br>
  Be pitiful!</blockquote>
<br>
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<h3><a name="maynlaus"><i>Laus Deo!</i></a></h3>
<br>

<blockquote>Praise! that when thick night circled over me<br>
  In chaos ere my time or world began,<br>
Thy finger shaped my body cunningly,<br>
  Thy thought conceived me ere I was a man!<br>
Thy Spirit breathed upon me in the dark<br>
  Wherein I strangely grew,<br>
Bestowing glowing powers to the spark<br>
  The mouth of heaven blew!<br><br>

Praise! that a babe I leapt upon the world<br>
  Spread at my feet in its magnificence,<br>
With trees as giants, flowers as flags unfurled.<br>
  And rains as diamonds in their excellence!<br>
Praise! for the solemn splendour of surprise<br>
  That came with breaking day;<br>
For all the ranks of stars that met my eyes<br>
  When sunset burned away!<br><br>

Praise! that there burst on my unfolding heart<br>
  The coloured radiance of leafy June,<br>
With choirs of song-birds perfected in art,<br>
  And nightingales beneath the summer moon &mdash; <br>
Praise! that this beauty, an unravished bride<br>
  Doth hold her lover still;<br>
Doth hide and beckon, laugh at me, and hide<br>
  Upon each grassy hill.<br><br>

Praise! that I know the dear capricious sky<br>
  In every infinitely varied mood &mdash; <br>
Yet under her maternal wings can lie<br>
  The smallest chick among her countless brood!<br>
Praise! that I hear the strong winds wildly race<br>
  Their chariots on the sea,<br>
But feel them lift my hair and stroke my face<br>
  Softly and tenderly!<br><br>

Praise! for the joy and gladness thou didst send,<br>
  When I have sat in gracious fellowship<br>
In firelight for an evening with a friend.<br>
  When wine and magic entered at the lip!<br>
For laughter which the fates can overthrow<br>
  Thy mercy doth accord &mdash; <br>
To Thee, who didst my godlike joy bestow,<br>
  I lift my glass, O Lord!<br><br>

Praise! that a lady leaning from her height,<br>
  A lady pitiful, a tender maid,<br>
A queen majestical unto my sight,<br>
  Spoke words of love to me, and sweetly laid<br>
Her hand within my own unworthy hand!<br>
  (Rise, soul, to greet thy guest,<br>
Mysterious love, whom none shall understand,<br>
  Though love be all confessed!)<br><br>

Praise! that upon my bent and bleeding back<br>
  Was stretched some share of Thy redeeming cross,<br>
Some poverty as largess for my lack,<br>
  Some loss that shall prevent my utter loss!<br>
Praise! that thou gavest me to keep joy sweet<br>
  The sanguine salt of pain!<br>
Praise! for the weariness of questing feet<br>
  That else might quest in vain!</blockquote><br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="mooreafore"></a><h2>T. Sturge Moore</h2>
<br>
<h3>Aforetime</h3><br>

<h4><i>To Gordon Bottomley</i></h4><br>

<blockquote>Dear exile from the hurrying crowd,<br>
At work I muse to you aloud;<br>
Thought on my anvil softens, glows,<br>
And I forget our art has foes;<br>
For life, the mother of beauty, seems<br>
A joyous sleep with waking dreams.<br>
Then the toy armoury of the brain<br>
Opining, judging, looks as vain<br>
As trowels silver gilt for use<br>
Of mayors and kings, who have to lay<br>
Foundation stones in hope they may<br>
Be honoured for walls others build.<br>
I, in amicable muse,<br>
With fathomless wonder only filled,<br>
Whisper over to your ear<br>
Listening two hundred odd miles north,<br>
And give thought chase that, were you here,<br>
Our talk would never run to earth.<br><br>

Man can answer no momentous question:<br>
Whence comes his spirit? Has it lived before?<br>
Reason fails; hot springs of feeling spout<br>
Their snowy columns high in the dim land<br>
Of his surmise &mdash; violent divine decisions<br>
That often rule him: and at times he views<br>
Portraits of places he has never been to,<br>
Yet more minute and vivid than remembrance,<br>
Of boyhood homes, sail between sleep and waking<br>
Like some mirage, refuting all experience<br>
With topsy-turvy ships,<br>
That steals by in dead calms through tropic haze:<br>
And many a man in his climacteric years,<br>
Thoughts and remembered words have roused from sleep<br>
With knowledge that he lacked on lying down:<br>
And I, lapped in a trance of reverie, doubt<br>
Some spore of episodes<br>
Anterior far beyond this body's birth,<br>
Dispersed like puffs of dust impalpable,<br>
Wind-carried round this globe for centuries,<br>
May, breathed with common air, yet swim the blood,<br>
And striking root in this or that brain, raise<br>
Imaginations unaccountable;<br>
One such seems half-implied in all I am,<br>
And many times re-pondered shapes like this:<br><br>

A child myself I watched a woman loll<br>
Like to a clot of seaweed thrown ashore;<br>
Heavy and limp as cloth soaked in black dye,<br>
She glooms the noontide dazzle where a bay<br>
Bites into vineyarded flats close-fenced by hills,<br>
Over whose tops lap forests of cork and fir<br>
And reach in places half down their rough slopes.<br>
Lower, some few cleared fields square on the thickets<br>
Of junipers and longer thorns than furze<br>
So clumped that they are trackless even for goats<br>
I know two things about that woman: first<br>
She is a slave and I am free, and next<br>
As mothers need their sons' love she needs mine.<br>
Longings to utter fond compassionate sounds<br>
Stir through me, checked by knowing wiser folk<br>
Reprobate such indulgence. Ill at ease,<br>
Mute, yet her captive, I thrust brown toes through<br>
Loose sand no daily large tides overwhelm<br>
To cake and roll it firm and smooth and clean<br>
As the Atlantic remakes shores, you know.<br>
But there, like trailing skirts, long flaws of wind<br>
Obliterate the prints feet during calms<br>
Track over and over its always lonely stretch,<br>
Till some will have, it ghosts must rove at night;<br>
For folk by day are rare, yet a still week<br>
Leaves hardly ten yards anywhere uncrossed;<br>
Tempest spreads all revirginate like snow,<br>
Half burying dead wood snapped off from tossed trees,<br>
Since right along the foreshore, out of reach<br>
Of furious driven waves, three hundred pines<br>
Straggle the marches between sand and soil.<br>
Like maps of stone-walled fields their branching roots<br>
Hold the silt still so that thin grass grows there,<br>
Its blades whitened with travelling powdery drift<br>
The besom of the lightest breeze sets stirring.<br>
That woman's gaze toils worn from remote years,<br>
Yet forward yearns through the bright spacious noon,<br>
Beyond the farthest isle, whose filmy shape<br>
Floats faint on the sea-line.<br>
I, scooping grains up with the frail half-shell<br>
Pale green and white-lined of sea-urchin, knew<br>
What her eyes sought as often children know<br>
Of grief or sin they could not name or think of<br>
Yet sooth or shrink from, so I saw and longed<br>
To heal her tender wound and yet said naught.<br>
The energy of bygone joy and pain<br>
Had left her listless figure charged with magic<br>
That caught and held my idleness near hers.<br>
Resentful of her power, my spirit chafed<br>
Against its own deep pity, as though it were<br>
Raised ghost and she the witch had bid it haunt me.<br>
What's more I knew this slave by rights should glean<br>
And faggot drift-wood, not lounge there and waste<br>
My father's food dreaming his time away.<br>
For then as now the common-minded rich<br>
Grudged ease to those whose toil brought them in means<br>
For every waste of life. At length I spoke,<br>
Insulting both my inarticulate soul<br>
And her with acted anger: "Lazy wretch,<br>
Is it for eyes like yours to watch the sea<br>
As though you waited for a homing ship?<br>
My father might with reason spend his hours<br>
Scanning the far horizon; for his Swan<br>
Whose outward lading was full half a vintage<br>
Is now months overdue." She turned on me<br>
Her languor knit and, through its homespun wrap,<br>
Her muscular frame gave hints of rebel will,<br>
While those great caves of night, her eyes, faced mine,<br>
Dread with the silence of unuttered wrongs:<br>
At last she spoke as one who must be heeded.<br>
Truly I am not clear<br>
Whether her meaning was conveyed in words<br>
(She mingled accents of an eastern tongue<br>
With deformed phrases of our native Latin)<br>
Or whether thought from her gaze poured through mine.<br>
The gravity of recollected life<br>
Was hers, condensed and, like a vision, flashed<br>
Suddenly on the guilty mind, a whole<br>
Compact, no longer a mere tedious string<br>
Of moments negligible, each so small<br>
As they were lived, but stark like a slain man<br>
Who would alive have been ourself with twice<br>
The skill, the knowledge, the vitality<br>
Actually ours. Yea, as a tree may view<br>
With fingerless boughs and lorn pole impotent,<br>
An elephant gorged upon its leaves depart,<br>
Men often have reviewed an unwieldy past,<br>
That like a feasted Mammoth, leisured and slow,<br>
Turned its back on their warped bones. Even thus,<br>
Momentous with reproach, her grave regard<br>
Made me feel mean, cashiered of rank and right,<br>
My limbs that twelve good years had nursed were numbed<br>
And all their fidgety quicksilver grew stiff,<br>
Novel and fevering hallucinations <br>
Invaded my attention. So daylight<br>
When shutters are thrown back spreads through a house;<br>
As then the dreams and terrors of the night<br>
Decamp, so from my mind were driven<br>
All its own thoughts and feelings. Close she leant<br>
Propped on a swarthy arm, while the other helped<br>
With eloquent gesture potent as wizard wand,<br>
Veil the world off as with an airy web,<br>
Or flowing tent a-gleam with pictured folds.<br>
These tauten and distend &mdash; one sea of wheat,<br>
Islanded with black cities, borders now<br>
The voluminous blue pavilion of day.<br>
There-under to the nearest of those towns<br>
This woman younger by ten years made haste<br>
While at her side ran a small boy of six.<br>
They neared the walls, half a huge double gate<br>
Lay prostrate, though the other by stone hinges<br>
Hung to its flanking tower. The path they followed<br>
Threaded an old paved road whose flags were edged<br>
With dry grass and dry weeds, even cactuses<br>
Had pushed the stones up or found root in muck heaps:<br>
The path struck up the slope of the fallen door,<br>
Basalt like midnight, o'er which dusty feet<br>
Had greyed a passage, for it rested on<br>
Some débris fallen from the left-hand tower,<br>
And from its upper edge rude blocks like steps<br>
Led down into the straight main street, that ran<br>
Past eyeless buildings mined as it were from coal,<br>
And earthquake-raised to light. Palaces and<br>
Roofless wide-flighted colonnaded temples,<br>
The uncemented walls piled-plumb with blocks<br>
Squared, polished, fitted with daemonic patience.<br>
Each gaping threshold high again as need be<br>
Waited a nine-foot lord to enter hall,<br>
Where the least draughty corner sheltered now<br>
Half-tented hut or improvised small home<br>
For Arab, brown, light-footed and proud-necked<br>
As was this woman with the compelling voice.<br>
Their present hutched and hived within that past<br>
As bees in the parchment chest of Samson's lion;<br>
And all seem conscious that their life was sweet,<br>
Like mice who clean their faces after meals<br>
And have such grace of movement, when unscared,<br>
As wins the admiration even of those<br>
Whose stores they rob and soil. I saw her eyes<br>
Young with contentment in her son<br>
And smaller babe and in their handsome sire,<br>
And knew that many a supper had been relished<br>
With hearts as joyous as waited while she cooked<br>
And served upon returning to their cot<br>
In hall where once far other hearts caroused.<br>
They and their tribe could never reap a tithe<br>
Of the vast harvest rustling round those ruins,<br>
And over which a half-moon soon set forth<br>
From black hills mounded up both east and south,<br>
While north-west her light played on distant summits;<br>
All the huge interspace floored with standing corn<br>
Which kings afar send soldiery to reap,<br>
Who now, beside a long canal cut straight<br>
In ancient days, have pitched their noisy camp<br>
Which on that vast staid silence makes a bruise<br>
Of blare and riot that its robust health<br>
Will certainly heal in a brief lapse of time.<br><br>

One night, re-thought on after ten whole years,<br>
Is like the condor high above the Andes,<br>
A speck with difficulty found again<br>
Once the attention quits it. And I next<br>
Descried our woman under breathless noon,<br>
Bathing in a clear lane of gliding water<br>
Whose banks seem lonely as the path of light<br>
Crossing mid ocean south of Capricorn.<br>
Her son steals warily after a butterfly<br>
And is as hushed with hope to capture it<br>
As are the birds with heat. An insect hum<br>
Circles the spot as round a cymbal's rim,<br>
Long after it has clanged, tingles a throb<br>
Which in a dream forgets the parent sound,<br>
Oppressed by this protracted and awe-filled pause,<br>
She hardly dares to wade the stream and moves<br>
As though in dread to wake some sleeping god,<br>
Yet still she nears and nears the further bank<br>
Where there is shade under a shumac's eaves.<br>
The brilliant surface cut her right in two,<br>
And the reflection of her bronzed torso<br>
Hid all beneath the polished gliding mirror;<br>
How her face listened to that sleep divine<br>
Whose audible breath was tuned to dreams of bliss!<br><br>

Sudden, as though the woof of heaven were torn,<br>
A strident shout rang from some neighbour shrubs<br>
Three Nubian soldiers ran upon her with<br>
Delighted oily faces. Screaming first<br>
Commands to her small son to make for home,<br>
She laboured to recross the current as when<br>
In nightmares the scared soul expects to die<br>
Tortured by mutiny in limbs like lead,<br>
But as the playful lion of the sea<br>
Climbs the rock ledges hard by Fingal's cave<br>
To throw himself down into deep green baths,<br>
While others barking follow his vigorous lead,<br>
The foremost Abyssinian threw his weight<br>
Before her with a splash that hid them both,<br>
As the explosion of light-filled liquid parcels<br>
Shot forth in all directions. In his arms<br>
She re-appeared, a tragic terrified face<br>
Beside his coarse one laughing with success.<br>
Squeezing her with a pantomime of love,<br>
He turns to follow an arrow with his eyes<br>
That his companion, still upon the bank,<br>
Has aimed towards her son's small head that bobbed<br>
Like a black cork across the basking corn.<br>
But from the level of the sunk stream bed<br>
Neither he nor she could see the target aimed at,<br>
Yet in the pause they heard the poor child scream;<br>
A second arrow, second scream; she fought,<br>
But soon like bundle bound, hung o'er his shoulder,<br>
Helpless as a mouse in cat's mouth carried off<br>
In search of quiet, there to play with it.<br>
Those arrows missed? &mdash; or did they not? The child<br>
Shrieked twice, yet scarcely like a wounded thing<br>
She thought and hoped and still but thinks and hopes.<br>
Where is that boy? Where is her husband now?<br>
While she submitted body to force and soul<br>
To the great shuddering violence of despair<br>
How had their life progressed in that far place?<br>
Compassion fused my consciousness with hers<br>
And second-sighted eloquence arose<br>
To claim my mind for rostrum,<br>
But obstinately tranced<br>
My eyes clung to their vision;<br>
For regions to explore allure the boy<br>
No stretch of thought or sea of feeling tempts.<br>
Entranced, the mind I then had, haunted<br>
Those basalt ruins. High on sable towers<br>
Some silky patriarchal goat appears<br>
And ponders silent streets, or suddenly<br>
Some nanny, her huge bag swollen with milk,<br>
Trots out on galleries that unfenced run<br>
Round vacant courts, there, stopped by plaintive kids,<br>
Lets them complete their meal. While always, always,  <br>
Throughout, those mazed, sullen and sun-soaked walls,<br>
The steady, healthy wind,<br>
Which often blows for weeks without a lull<br>
Across that upland plain,<br>
Flutes staidly. Moaning<br>
Continuously as seas<br>
Or forests before storm,<br>
And, gathering moment,<br>
Articulated by her woe, begins<br>
With second-sighted eloquence<br>
To wail through me,<br>
Nigh as unheeded,<br>
As though it still had been<br>
Meaningless wind.<br><br>

For ah! the heart is cowed<br>
And dares not use her strength,<br>
Hears the kind impulse plead<br>
Against the common avaricious fear,<br>
Grants it but life, though sovereignty was due<br>
Or doles it sway but one day out of seven<br>
Or one a year.<br><br>

So, so, and ever, so<br>
In the close-curtained court<br>
Those causes are deferred<br>
Which most import;<br>
These wait man's leisure.<br>
These daily matters elbow;<br>
Merely because<br>
His panic meanness<br>
Jibs blindly ere it hear<br>
What wisdom has prepared,<br>
Bolts headlong ere it see<br>
Her face unfold its smile.<br>
Man after man, race after race<br>
Drops jaded by the iterancy<br>
Of petty fear.<br>
Even as horses on the green steppes grazing,<br>
Hundreds scattered through lonely peacefulness,<br>
If shadow of cloud or red fox breaking earth<br>
Delude but one with dream of a stealthy foe,<br>
All are stampeded.<br>
Their frantic torrent draws in,<br>
With dire attraction, cumulative force,<br>
Stragglers grazing miles from where it started;<br>
On it thunders quite devoid of meaning.<br>
The tender private soul<br>
Thus takes contagion from the sordid crowd,<br>
And shying at mere dread of loss,<br>
Loses the whole of life.<br>
Thus, in the vortex of a base turmoil,<br>
Those myriad million energies wear down<br>
That might have raised mankind<br>
To live the life of gods.<br>
Had but my soul been his,<br>
As his was mine,<br>
Those wind-resembling accents<br>
Had found fit auditor.<br>
Their second-sighted eloquence,<br>
Welcomed with acclamation,<br>
Had fired action.<br>
But that was ages since: he was not then<br>
What now I am,<br>
Who have no longer<br>
The opportunity then mine, then missed, &mdash; <br>
Who still am dazed and troubled<br>
Surmising others mine, others missed.<br><br>

Passionate, never-wearied voice,<br>
Tombed in thy brittle shell,           <br>
This human heart<br>
Thou croonest age on age,<br>
"Give and ask not,<br>
Help and blame not,"<br>
Heeded less than large and mottled cowry<br>
The which at least some child may hold to ear<br>
All smiles to listen.<br><br>

Thou findest parables;<br>
With fond imagination<br>
Adorning truth<br>
For the successive<br>
Unpersuaded<br>
Generations.<br><br>

This boy, myself that was,<br>
Musing visions by that woman raised,<br>
Watched that land she came from, towned with ruins<br>
Send mile-long files of laden camels out<br>
With grain to hostile cities, &mdash; <br>
Knew too the blue entrancing plain of waters<br>
Teemed with fresh shoals, buoyed up indifferently,<br>
Fisher &mdash; trader &mdash; pirate bark, &mdash; <br>
Even the straight thought whispered at his ear,<br>
"Thy lips might join with hers as with some cousin's,<br>
Here, now, at noon,<br>
Hugging her bereavéd sadness close,<br>
And still, to-night, with equal satisfaction,<br>
Thy mother's blind contentment with her son."<br>
While half-seduced, half-chafed, his mind was shaken<br>
As with conflicting gusts a choppy sea,<br>
His eyes, still greedy of their visions,<br>
Fastened a swarthy town enisled in wheat,<br>
And to the ebon threshold of each house,<br>
Conjured forth the man that each was planned for:<br>
Great creatures smiling with his father's smile,<br>
Muscular, wealthy and self-satisfied,<br>
Wearing loud-coloured raiment, earrings, chains,<br>
Armlet and buckle, all of clanking gold.<br>
His spirit drank from theirs great draughts of pride<br>
And read their minds more clearly than his own;<br>
All, with one counsel like a chorus, dinned<br>
His soul that then was mine,<br>
With truths well-proved in action.<br>
"Love is chaos,<br>
For order's sake<br>
Whatever must be, should be,"<br>
Roared those bulls of Bashan.<br>
Then their proud chant argued,<br>
"How should this woman know<br>
Her little lad again,<br>
Who either now is bones<br>
Under the fertile field,<br>
Or well nigh a grown man?<br>
Say they should cross at market<br>
Both slaves would pass on, not a start the wiser.<br>
What is she then to him<br>
Or he to her<br>
After these years?<br>
To drag a life that might have been but is not<br>
With toil of mind and heart,<br>
Through dreary year on year,<br>
Neglecting for its sake the life that is,<br>
Spells folly and ingratitude to those<br>
Who treat their slaves well.<br>
Thy father's household and thyself should be<br>
More to her now than those who may be dead,<br>
The place she lives in dearer<br>
Than any unattainable far land<br>
Where she is more forgotten than old dreams.    <br>
Why make the day of evil worse<br>
By dwelling on it after it has past?<br>
Near things alone are real,<br>
Now is the whole of time:<br>
Places beyond the horizon are but pictures;<br>
Memory cheats the eye with an illusion!"<br><br>

"Your thoughts are sound, bold builders,<br>
I am my father's son.<br>
Behold this home-shore, these our hills, this bay,<br>
And this our slave! &mdash; <br>
Up, work, look sharp about it!"<br>
Bounding a foot and fast retiring from her,<br>
I stoop for stones strewn thick about the sand,<br>
Aim them, fling them,<br>
And, as my idle arm resumes the knack,<br>
Score a hit and laugh<br>
To see her stumble hurt, behind the pine trunks.<br>
"Unless you work, I throw again,<br>
To it and steady at it.<br>
Mark me, drab, we Camilli<br>
Mean what we say."<br>
Stone after stone still flies,<br>
But aimed to knock chips from the pine-boles now;<br>
For she is busy gathering sticks, increasing<br>
Her distance as she may. The noon is sultry,<br>
Heated and clammy, I,<br>
Towards the live waves turning, slip my tunic,<br>
Then run in naked.<br>
Cooled and soothed by swimming,<br>
Both mind and heart from their late tumult tuned<br>
To placid acquiescent health,<br>
I float, suspended in the limpid water,<br>
Passive, rhythmically governed;<br>
So tranced worlds travel the dark shoreless ether.<br><br>

"Where should this stream of pictures tend?"<br>
No, Bottomley, you will not ask;<br>
To you I am quite free to send<br>
The unexpected, unexplained,<br>
You will not take me thus to task.<br><br>

So they be painted well, they live;<br>
If ill, they yet may cling to fame<br>
Associated with your name.<br>
In which case you, and not I, give<br>
That we are both contented with.</blockquote>


<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="moulthaw"></a><h2>Thomas Moult</h2>
<br>
<h3>Down Here the Hawthorn</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Down here the hawthorn....<br>
And a stir of wings,<br>
Spring-lit wings that wake<br>
Sudden tumult in the brake,<br>
Tumult of blossom tide, tumult of foaming mist<br>
Where the bright bird's tumultuous feathers kissed.<br>
White mists are blinding me,<br>
White mist of hedgerow, white mist of wings.<br>
Down here the hawthorn<br>
And a stir of wings....<br>
Softly swishing, swift with spray<br>
All along the green laneway<br>
Dewdimmed, sunwashed, windsweet and winter-free<br>
They flash upon the light,<br>
They swing across the sight,<br>
I cannot see, I cannot see!...<br><br>

Down here the flowering hawthorn flings<br>
Sleet of petals, petalled shells<br>
Spread the coloured air that sings<br>
Magic and a myriad spells<br>
Spun by my count of Springs.<br>
Down here the hawthorn....<br>
And the flower-foam stirred<br>
By a Spring-lit bird.<br>
White hawthorn mist is blinding me.<br>
I lower my gaze, and on this old<br>
Brown bridle road<br>
Crusted with golden moss and mould<br>
The hedgerow flings<br>
Lush carpetings,<br>
Blossom woven carpetings light lain<br>
Under the farmer's lumbering load;<br>
And, floating past the spent March wrack,<br>
The footstep trail, the traveller's track.<br>
    Down here the hawthorn....<br>
White mists are blinding me,<br>
White mists that rime the fresh green bank<br>
Where fernleaf-fall<br>
And sorrel tall<br>
Upwaving, rank on rank,<br>
Shall flush the bed whereon the windflowers sank.<br><br>

I turn these Spring-bewildered eyes of mine,<br>
I seek above the surf of hedgerow line<br>
Where peeping branches reach, and reaching twine<br>
Faint cherry or plum or eglantine.<br>
But with pretence of whisperings<br>
The year's young mischief-wind shall take<br>
By storm these shy striplings,<br>
And soon or later shake<br>
Their slender limbs, and make<br>
Free with their clinging may &mdash; <br>
Strip from them in a single boisterous day<br>
Their first and last vesture of pale bloom spray.<br>
So, as to meet such lack<br>
In bush or brack,<br>
The kindly hedgerows make<br>
Sure of a Springtime for these frailer things,<br>
Shedding on each the lavish creamthorn flake.<br>
    Down here the hawthorn....<br>
On all the green leaf-clusters round me clings<br>
Thickly a spray of gentle blossomings<br>
Everywhere as with many bells<br>
The young year with white magic swells.<br>
The morning rings.<br>
White mist is blinding me,<br>
I cannot see, I cannot see!<br><br>

Blind grows the coloured air that sings<br>
The marvel of a myriad spells          <br>
Spun by my count of Springs.<br>
Sleet of petals, petalled shells<br>
Falling with sudden poignancy<br>
(As the sleet stings)<br>
Upon the lightheart-hope which only clear sight knows.<br>
And slowly drifts,<br>
Lingering among the snows<br>
Nor, though the snow lifts,<br>
Ever goes<br>
The wistful heartache as the fresh Spring flows<br>
With slipping sureness to the time of the rose, and the withered rose.<br>
    Down here the hawthorn....<br>
And heaping blossom stirred<br>
By a joy-swift bird.<br>
White mists are blinding me,<br>
White mist of hedgerow, white mist of wings.<br>
The bird's flight flings<br>
Deep carpetings<br>
Over the wrack<br>
Of my life's track.<br>
    Down here the hawthorn....<br>
The air of coloured years is blurred<br>
By the Spring, by a bird.<br>
White mists are blinding me,<br>
White mists on the years to be.<br>
I cannot see, I cannot see....</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="moultinvoc"></a><h3>Invocation</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Hurl down, harsh hills, your bitterness<br>
Of wind and storm.<br>
Stem ye the drift of herded men<br>
    With your uncouthness<br>
So, tasting of your power, they press<br>
Back shrinking where upon their warm<br>
    Safe ways of smoothness<br>
They feed their various lusts again.<br><br>

Guard ye, wild hills, with scar and whip<br>
Your outlawry<br>
Lest alien-hearted pigmies tame<br>
    Your trackless boulders,<br>
And with their unclean cunning slip<br>
The leash of civilry<br>
    Fast round your shoulders.<br>
O keep ye from that shame.<br><br>

Or they shall surely come, black hordes<br>
Swarming as lice<br>
With their obscenities and greed<br>
    Across your fastness,<br>
Even your peaks that swing white swords,<br>
Rent, splintered ice<br>
    Into the vastness<br>
Of skies where fanged winds feed.<br><br>

Hurl down, harsh hills, your bitterness,<br>
Guard ye with flail<br>
Of shattering wind and thong of sleet<br>
    Your pride uplifting<br>
To the impaled stars; be pitiless<br>
Before this unquiet trail<br>
    Of man-herds drifting<br>
Against your stone still feet.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>


<a name="nichblake"></a><h2>Robert Nichols</h2>
<br>

<h3>PÆAN</h3>

<h4><i>upon seeing a portrait of Blake</i></h4><br>



<blockquote>Something moves in his dust,<br>
Flame sleeps beneath the crust;<br>
O whence had he those eyes<br>
Lit with celestial surprise?<br>
From what world blew that gust?<br>
Are we near to Paradise?<br><br>

Gather a chaplet of five stars<br>
And the opalescent hue<br>
Of the aureole brightness cast &mdash; <br>
Red, hardly red, and blue, scarce blue, &mdash; <br>
Round th' immaculate frosty moon,<br>
Splintering light in glacial spars,<br>
When November's loudening blast<br>
Sweeps heaven's floor till burnished<br>
More crystal than at August noon,<br>
So we fit radiance may cast<br>
Before his feet, around his head.<br><br>

How visits he an earthly place,<br>
Wanders among a mortal race?<br>
How were his footsteps led<br>
That still about his face<br>
Lingers a ghostly trace<br>
Of a secret influence shed<br>
By a Hand the world denies,<br>
In a land her most son flies,<br>
As a gift upon him thrust<br>
For an end he knoweth not,<br>
Yet will shine because he must,<br>
Shine and sing because he must<br>
Reap a wrong he soweth not<br>
Of contempt anger and distrust<br>
For a world which boweth not<br>
To the Flame which binds our dust.<br><br>

Go net the moon, go snare the sun,<br>
Set them upon his either hand!<br>
Beneath his heels Leviathan<br>
Roll your thick coils! His head be spanned<br>
By rainbows tripled! Set a gem<br>
At the Cross-scabbard of his sword<br>
Whiter than lambwool or lilystem!<br>
Place on his brow the diadem<br>
Given the warrior of the Lord,<br>
The crown-turrets of Jerusalem!</blockquote><br><br>

<img src="images/MI10.gif" width="644" height="199" align="middle" border="2" alt="silhoustted figures 10">
<br>
<br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>





<h2><a name="philfall">Eden Philpotts</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>The Fall</h3><br>

<blockquote>I'll sing a song of kings and queens<br>
And falling leaves and flying rain,<br>
With Time to mow, and Fate who gleans<br>
Their good and evil, boon and bane.<br><br>

I'll sing a song of leaves and rains<br>
And flying queens and falling kings.<br>
Yet doubt not reason still remains<br>
Snug hidden at the core of things.<br><br>

For every year an autumn brings<br>
To round the root and fat the sheaves<br>
And haply garner queens and kings<br>
With falling rain and flying leaves.<br><br>

The rain is salt with tears of queens<br>
The leaves are red with blood of kings;<br>
Unknowing what the mystery means<br>
We puzzle at these splendid things.<br><br>

For why great kings and rains should fall,<br>
And wherefore leaves and queens should fly,<br>
Or such rare wonders be at all,<br>
You cannot tell; no more can I.<br><br>

Yet this we know: new leaves and rain<br>
Anon shall crown the vernal scene,<br>
But dust of dynasts not again<br>
Blows up into a king or queen.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="philghost"></a><h3>Ghosties at the Wedding</h3>
<br>

<blockquote>Turn down a glass afore his place;<br>
Draw up the dog-eared chair;<br>
For though we shall not see his face,<br>
I think he will be here<br>
Our wedding day to share.<br><br>

Turn up the glass where she would be<br>
And put a red rose there.<br>
Her quick, grey eyes we cannot see,<br>
But weren't they everywhere,<br>
And shall not they be here?<br><br>

Though them old blids are in the grave<br>
And their good light's gone out,<br>
We'd sooner their kind ghosties have<br>
Than all the living rout<br>
As will be there no doubt.<br><br>

For some are dead as cannot die.<br>
Some flown as cannot flee.<br>
You still do fancy 'em near by.<br>
'Tis so with him and she,<br>
At any rate to we.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="sabin4lyr">Arthur K. Sabin</a></h2><br>

<h3>Four Lyrics</h3>
<br>
<table summary="4 lyrics" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
	<td>When old Anacreon sang the wine<br>
Which made his utterance divine,<br>
Perchance the eyes he gazed into<br>
Were lucent as the sun-touched dew &mdash; <br>
Brighter, perchance, than yours; and yet<br>
Eyes like yours, smoulderingly lit<br>
With the calm passion of the spirit.<br>
No young Greek maid did e'er inherit....<br>
Ah! twenty years are not enough<br>
To mould to such celestial stuff<br>
A soul, my dear, as yours is moulded,<br>
Wherein all dreams of life lie folded,<br>
And through whose doors a friend may slip<br>
Into serene companionship.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
	<td>She came, as one who in the light<br>
Of many a sunset hour had grown<br>
Half sad, half glad, because the night<br>
So soon about her would be thrown.<br>
With melancholy ages old,<br>
And laughter fragrant as the Spring,<br>
She came, and in her low voice told<br>
Tales of rich joy and sorrowing.<br>
She led me to her garden, fair<br>
With flowers I love and whispering trees,<br>
And to her arbour sheltered there<br>
In peace, all redolent of peace.<br>
With rapt delight of halting speech,<br>
And commune, such as those have felt<br>
Whose minds move silent each by each.<br>
Whose hopes are kindred hopes, we dwelt.<br>
But though with love and dreams of gold<br>
She wove rare charms about that nest,<br>
My heart lay aching still, and cold:<br>
I could not rest, I could not rest.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
	<td>The birds are quiet on the boughs,<br>
And quiet are my slumbering trees....<br>
O come a short while to my house<br>
And share these evening silences.<br><br>

Come! for the sunset's weary smile<br>
Has faded; night is failing deep:<br>
And we will rest a little while<br>
And talk together ere we sleep.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
	<td>It may be that in future years,<br>
When life serenely yields its best<br>
Of steadfast joy and fleeting tears,<br>
And, blessing, you move on, thrice blest, &mdash; <br><br>

Amid glad tasks of love and home,<br>
And fond caresses every day,<br>
A softened thought of me shall come<br>
And fly to reach me when you pray;<br><br>

Then I shall tremble where I sit<br>
Unhelped through those gray years to be,<br>
As, like a benediction, it<br>
Shall flood in sweetness over me.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="sackreturn">Margaret Sackville</a></h2><br>

<h3>The Return</h3>
<br>

<blockquote>Last night, within our little town<br>
    The Dead came marching through;<br>
In a long line, like living men,<br>
    Just as they used to do.<br><br>

Only, so long a line it seemed<br>
    You'd think the Judgment Day<br>
Had dawned, to see them slowly pass,<br>
    With faces turned one way.<br><br>

They walked no longer foe and foe<br>
    But brother bound to brother;<br>
Poor men, common men they walked<br>
    Friendly to one another.<br><br>

Just as in life they might have done<br>
    Who stabbed and slew instead....<br>
So quietly and evenly they walked<br>
    These million gentle dead.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="sackto"></a><h3>To &mdash;&mdash;</h3>
<br>
<table summary="To" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;"><span style="color: #A82C28">I</span></span></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">1</span></td>
	<td>Was it for you the aching past alone<br>
Lived, that on you might fall the shadow of it?<br>
For you, for you kings climbed a ravished throne,<br>
And all these menacing, quenched fires were lit.<br>
Wars that have left no more than a grey trace,<br>
Where are they? Scattered foam, blown dust &mdash; ah, me!<br>
How have they found their way into your face?<br>
The new day is not yours, you only see<br>
A battle raging in a desert place,<br>
And blood-stained warriors seeking Sanctuary.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">2</span></td>
	<td>I cannot love you in the street; I met<br>
You in the street once and turned my head away,<br>
But I will meet you where the red sunset<br>
With forlorn fire flashes the leaping spray.<br>
We are too old, too old for all this noise,<br>
No wine of such new vintage shall control<br>
Us who have known, what passionate joys<br>
Once in some far, dark City of the Soul.<br>
We are kings still and have, as kings, the choice<br>
To spurn the proffered half and claim the whole.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">3</span></td>
	<td>Let us find out a new way; for it is plain<br>
That all these old, worn, trodden roads suffice<br>
Only those who will return again<br>
Seeking shelter in their homes from Paradise.<br>
Oh! let us find some solitary, green<br>
Forgotten garden, where the sunrays fall<br>
All blind and blurred and indistinct between<br>
Cypresses lofty as earth's boundary wall;      <br>
Beneath whose shade shall glimmer forth half seen<br>
Your face through the soft darkness when I call.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;"><span style="color: #A82C28">II</span></span></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">1</span></td>
	<td>If one, with visionary pen, should write<br>
The love which might be ours, how would he call<br>
These strange, perplexing fires veiled servants light<br>
Down the dark vistas of our empty hall?<br>
That love which might be ours, how would he name<br>
That love? No bitter leaving of the brine,<br>
No white or fading blossom twined like flame<br>
Round any brow, Christian or Erycine,<br>
Not all those loves blown to a windy fame<br>
Shall find their counterpart in yours and mine.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">2</span></td>
	<td>Not Tristram, not Isolde, wild shades which dip<br>
Their pinions like blown gulls in a waste sea,<br>
Nor those mute lovers, who still, lip on lip,<br>
Float on for ever, though they have ceased to be,<br>
Not any of those who loved once; &mdash; far apart<br>
We wander; the years have made us weak, we fail<br>
To rush together with a single heart,<br>
And we shall meet at last, only as pale<br>
Autumnal mists no sun's shaft cleaves apart<br>
When all the winds are still and no ships sail.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;"><span style="color: #A82C28">III</span></span></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">1</span></td>
	<td>Yet we shall meet &mdash; it may be we shall meet<br>
And count our days up-gathered, one by one,<br>
Like poppies plucked among the burnished wheat,<br>
Beneath the red gaze of the August sun;<br>
And all our scattered dreams shall flutter home<br>
At last. Oh! silent, age-long wandering<br>
What since your setting forth have ye become?<br>
What gift from those far waters do ye bring? &mdash; <br>
<i>A splash of rain, salt taste of frozen foam,<br>
Green sea-weed trailing from a broken wing</i>.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">2</span></td>
	<td>Or we shall find each other &mdash; on the brink<br>
Of sleep some day, when the cool evening airs<br>
Blow bubbles round the pool where wood-birds drink;<br>
Or in the common Inn of wayfarers:<br>
Both weary, both beside the wide fireplace<br>
Drowsing, till at some sudden spark up-blown<br>
Shall each awake to find there face to face<br>
You and I very tired and alone;<br>
And lo! your welcome from my eyes shall gaze<br>
And in your eyes there shall I find my own.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">3</span></td>
	<td>I will pursue thee down these solitudes<br>
Therefore, and thou shalt yet escape me not.<br>
I will set traps for thee of subtle moods<br>
And wound thee with the arrows of my thought.<br>
In thickest forest ways though thou lie hid,<br>
Or in some autumn vale of Brocelinde,<br>
Or in whatever place of magic forbid,        <br>
I will pierce through the woven branches like a wind,<br>
And drag thee from thy hiding-place amid<br>
The secret laughter of the fairy-kind.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><span style="font-size: 120%;">4</span></td>
	<td>Oh, triumph still delaying! I must pass<br>
Lonely a long time yet, for I know well<br>
No fugitive fair dream that ever was<br>
Left anywhere traces where her footprints fell.<br>
I, lonely hunter in the woods of sleep.<br>
The hunt is up &mdash; away! I ride, I ride<br>
On a white steed, where black-boughed fir-trees keep<br>
Watch and the kindly world is shut outside.<br>
I am afraid, the haunted woods are deep!<br>
I am afraid &mdash; afraid! Where dost thou hide?</td>
</tr>
</table><br>
<br>
<br>
<img src="images/MI11.gif" width="626" height="185" align="middle" border="2" alt="silhouetted figures 11">
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="seyfruit">W. Kean Seymour</a></h2><br>

<h3>Fruitage</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>For her the proud stars bend, she sees,         <br>
As never yet, dim sorceries             <br>
Breaking in silver magic wide            <br>
On the blue midnight's swirling tide,          <br>
With arrowy mist and spearing flame<br>
That out of central beauty came.          <br>
The innumerate splendours of the skies        <br>
Are thronging in her shining eyes;          <br>
Her body is a fount of light             <br>
In the plumed garden of the night;          <br>
Her lily breasts have known the bliss<br>
Of the cool air's unfaltering kiss.           <br>
She is made one with loveliness,<br>
Enfranchised from the world's distress,<br>
Given utterly to joy, a bride<br>
With a bride's hunger satisfied.<br>
Now, though she heavily walk, and know        <br>
The sharp premonitory throe            <br>
And the life leaping in the gloom           <br>
Of her most blessed and chosen womb,        <br>
It is as though foot never was            <br>
So light upon the glimmering grass.          <br>
She is shot through with the stars' light,        <br>
Helped by their calm, unwavering might.<br>
In tall, lone-swaying gravity<br>
Stoops to her there the eternal tree          <br>
Whose myriad fruitage ripens on          <br>
Beneath the light of moon and sun.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="seywood"></a><h3>In the Wood</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Lone shadows move,<br>
The night air stirs;<br>
This hour of dying<br>
Dreams was hers.<br><br>

In this dusk place<br>
Her throat gleamed white<br>
In glimmering beauty<br>
Of starlight.<br><br>

Nightingales sang<br>
Exultant bliss;<br>
The snared stars saw us<br>
Sway, and kiss.<br><br>

Now the bats whirr,<br>
The barn owls hoot,<br>
Her loveliness<br>
Is dust, is mute.<br><br>

Peace comes not here,<br>
No dream-bird trills:<br>
They haunt her lodging<br>
In the hills.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="seysiesta"></a><h3>Siesta</h3>
<br>

<blockquote>Bring me some oranges on blue china,<br>
    With a jade-and-silver spoon,<br>
And drowse on your silken mats beside me<br>
    In the burning noon.<br><br>

Bring me red wine in cups of crystal,<br>
    With melons on chrysoprase,<br>
And place them softly with jewelled fingers<br>
    Before my gaze.<br><br>

Hasten, my dove of scented whisperings,<br>
    My lily, my Xacán!<br>
Bring bubbling pipes for the cool shadows,<br>
    And my peacock fan.<br><br>

And bid Isárrib, my chief musician,<br>
    Weave quiet songs within,<br>
That my soul in the circles of a great glamour<br>
    May float and spin.<br><br>

And O, you gaudy and whistling parrots<br>
    In your high, flowered maze,<br>
Still your harsh, petulant quarrelling<br>
    With the mocking jays.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="seylarks"></a><h3>To One Who Eats Larks</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Ah, my brave Vitellius!<br>
Ah, your tastes are marvellous!<br>
When you eat your singing birds<br>
Do you leave the bones &mdash; and words,<br>
The proud music in the throat?...<br>
Not a note, not a note?<br>
Doubtless they were not so pleasant<br>
As the brains of a young pheasant,<br>
Or flamingoes' tongues, whose duty<br>
Never was to utter beauty.<br>
But they sang, but they fluted<br>
And your rasping lies confuted,<br>
And your ugliness laid bare<br>
With a lyric in the air.<br>
So you bought them on a string,<br>
Dangling balls that used to sing,<br>
And you gave them to the cook<br>
With a fat and happy look.<br><br>

But you ask me why this fuss!<br>
Ah, my brave Vitellius,<br>
I am never sure your stringers<br>
May not string you other singers,<br>
May not tire of lark and wren<br>
And attempt to sell you men.<br>
Please forgive me, but I've made<br>
Certain songs ... and I'm afraid!</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="seybeautcam"></a><h3>If Beauty Came to You</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>If Beauty came to you,<br>
  Ah, would you know her grace,<br>
And could you in your shadowed prison view<br>
  Unscathed her face?<br><br>

Stepping as noiselessly<br>
  As moving moth-wings, so<br>
Might she come suddenly to you or me<br>
  And we not know.<br><br>

Amid these clangs and cries,<br>
  Alas, how should we hear<br>
The shy, dim-woven music of her sighs<br>
  As she draws near.<br><br>

Threading through monstrous, black,<br>
  Uncharitable hours,<br>
Where the soul shapes its own abhorrèd rack<br>
  Of wasted powers?</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="shipppris">Horace Shipp</a></h2><br>

<h3>Prison</h3>
<br>
<table summary="prison" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
	<td>The dreadful days go up and up, to fall<br>
Through twilight to the sleepless dusk again,<br>
Like tortured flies upon a window pane.<br>
Wingless or broken-winged,<br>
They crawl and crawl ...<br>
Meaningless, striving &mdash; nowhere after all,<br>
Till one is tired of heeding.<br>
Tired.<br>
A stain of drab unloveliness the days remain<br>
Unmoving now, save that across the wall,<br>
A patch of sun behind a shadow of bars,<br>
Creeps in a stupor.<br>
Greys,<br>
Grins bloodily,<br>
Falters and dies.<br><br>

Outside a day may slip<br>
From noon-glow to a miracle of stars<br>
With hours that flush and flood eternity;<br>
Whilst here<br>
The stagnant waters drip ... and drip.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
	<td>They tell me I have sinned; that long ago<br>
(Weeks &mdash; or a cycle of eternity)<br>
This thing of dead desire lived lustily,<br>
Was stirred with passion, and sinned.<br>
It may be so;<br>
As seas or hills may be.<br>
I only know God's world has shrunken,<br>
And that misery,<br>
Shrinking my heart, has closed her walls on me,<br>
Till in the dead, still soul the senses grow<br>
Carious as the ulcer of thought eats deep.<br>
Heavy, the slow lusts pace the barren mind<br>
From end to end.<br>
Barred door and window,<br>
Wall inexorable.<br>
And the horrors creep on padded feet like warders.<br>
Then the blind, pitiful night<br>
When hot tears scald and fall.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
	<td>Grey day-break and the silence of the cell:<br>
The dull, numb pain of waking,<br>
Stillness ...<br>
Fear clutching oblivion;<br>
And then to hear<br>
The brazen, blasphemous tolling of the bell,<br>
A crash of doors,<br>
Loud-clanging tins,<br>
The swell of brutal voices nearer and more near,<br>
Bursts at the last about you.<br>
Clangour.<br>
Queer delight of movement.<br>
Then ... the door shuts.<br>
Hell darkens about you with the turning key,<br>
The silence burns and sears you like a flame;<br>
It battens as the worm that never dies;<br>
Crawls back from distant noises; palpably<br>
Lurks through the rhythm of the feet of shame,<br>
Watching and watching out of hooded eyes.</td>
</tr>
</table>

<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="shipp6"></a><h3>The Sixth Day</h3>
<br>
<i>"And God said 'Let us make man in our image and let him have
dominion'</i>...."<br>
<br>

<blockquote>God made you in His image, yet I saw<br>
You stoop and seize a blind mole from the snare.<br>
Blind.<br>
Blind with terror ... Blind<br>
Your teeth gleamed bare behind the taut, white lips.<br>
The trapper's law knows neither hate nor love.<br>
You watched it paw,<br>
Frantic with lust of life, the yielding air<br>
And were amused.<br>
God's Image!<br>
Did you care, pitying one moment, see the swift hands claw<br>
For life and darkness, know and hate your trap?<br>
I saw your knuckles gleam, your hand swing free;<br>
A cry;<br>
The blind face crashed against the wall.<br>
Then death and stillness and &mdash;  &mdash; <br>
You grinned.<br>
Mayhap,<br>
Snaring the blind mole of humanity,<br>
God made you in His image after all.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="sitweve">Edith Sitwell</a></h2><br>

<h3>Eventail</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Lovely Semiramis<br>
Closes her slanting eyes:<br>
Dead is she long ago,<br>
From her fan sliding slow<br>
Parrot-bright fire's feathers<br>
Gilded as June weathers,<br>
Plumes like the greenest grass<br>
Twinkle down; as they pass<br>
Through the green glooms in Hell,<br>
Fruits with a tuneful smell &mdash; <br>
Grapes like an emerald rain<br>
Where the full moon has lain,<br>
Greengages bright as grass,<br>
Melons as cold as glass<br>
Piled on each gilded booth<br>
Feel their cheeks growing smooth;<br>
Apes in plumed head-dresses<br>
Whence the bright heat hisses,<br>
Nubian faces sly,<br>
Pursing mouth, slanting eye,<br>
Feel the Arabian<br>
Winds floating from that fan:<br>
See how each gilded face<br>
Paler grows, nods apace:<br>
"Oh, the fan's blowing<br>
Cold winds.... It is snowing!"</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="sitwsew"></a><h3>The Lady with the Sewing-Machine</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Across the fields as green as spinach,<br>
Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich,<br><br>

Stands a high house; if at all,<br>
Spring comes like a Paisley shawl &mdash; <br><br>

Patternings meticulous<br>
And youthfully ridiculous.<br><br>

In each room the yellow sun<br>
Shakes like a canary, run<br><br>

On run, roulade, and watery trill &mdash; <br>
Yellow, meaningless, and shrill.<br><br>

Face as white as any clock's,<br>
Cased in parsley-dark curled locks &mdash; <br><br>

All day long you sit and sew,<br>
Stitch life down for fear it grow,<br><br>

Stitch life down for fear we guess<br>
At the hidden ugliness.<br><br>

Dusty voice that throbs with heat,<br>
Hoping with your steel-thin beat<br><br>

To put stitches in my mind,<br>
Make it tidy, make it kind,<br><br>

You shall not: I'll keep it free<br>
Though you turn earth, sky and sea<br><br>

To a patchwork quilt to keep<br>
Your mind snug and warm in sleep!</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="sitwport"></a><h3>Portrait of a Barmaid</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Metallic waves of people jar<br>
Through crackling green toward the bar<br><br>

Where on the tables chattering-white<br>
The sharp drinks quarrel with the light.<br><br>

Those coloured muslin blinds the smiles,<br>
Shroud wooden faces in their wiles &mdash; <br><br>

Sometimes they splash like water (you<br>
Yourself reflected in their hue).<br><br>

The conversation loud and bright<br>
Seems spinal bars of shunting light<br><br>

In firework-spurting greenery.<br>
O complicate machinery<br><br>

For building Babel, iron crane<br>
Beneath your hair, that blue-ribbed mane<br><br>

In noise and murder like the sea<br>
Without its mutability!<br><br>

Outside the bar where jangling heat<br>
Seems out of tune and off the beat &mdash; <br><br>

A concertina's glycerine<br>
Exudes, and mirrors in the green<br><br>

Your soul: pure glucose edged with hints<br>
Of tentative and half-soiled tints.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="sitwsol"></a><h3>Solo for Ear-Trumpet</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The carriage brushes through the bright<br>
Leaves (violent jets from life to light);<br>
Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves<br>
Between the showers of bright hot leaves<br>
The window-glasses glaze our faces<br>
And jar them to the very basis &mdash; <br>
But they could never put a polish<br>
Upon my manners or abolish<br>
My most distinct disinclination<br>
For calling on a rich relation!<br>
In her house &mdash; (bulwark built between<br>
The life man lives and visions seen) &mdash; <br>
The sunlight hiccups white as chalk,<br>
Grown drunk with emptiness of talk,<br>
And silence hisses like a snake &mdash; <br>
Invertebrate and rattling ache....<br>
Then suddenly Eternity<br>
Drowns all the houses like a sea<br>
And down the street the Trump of Doom<br>
Blares madly &mdash; shakes the drawing-room<br>
Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn<br>
As dank dark nettles. Down the horn<br>
Of her ear-trumpet I convey<br>
The news that "It is Judgment Day!"<br>
"Speak louder: I don't catch, my dear."<br>
I roared: "<i>It is the Trump we hear!</i>"<br>
"The <i>What?</i>" "<i>THE TRUMP!</i>" "I shall complain!<br>
.... the boy-scouts practising again."</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>



<h2><a name="stufath">Muriel Stuart</a></h2><br>

<h3>The Father</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The evening found us whom the day had fled,<br>
Once more in bitter anger, you and I,<br>
Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing<br>
Our anger would not decently let die,<br>
But dragged between us, shamed and shivering<br>
Until each other's taunts we scarcely heard,<br>
Until we lost the sense of all we said,<br>
And knew not who first spoke the fatal word.<br>
It seemed that even every kiss we wrung<br>
We killed at birth with shuddering and hate,<br>
As if we feared a thing too passionate.<br>
However close we clung<br>
One hour the next hour found us separate,<br>
Estranged, and Love most bitter on our tongue.<br><br>

To-night we quarrelled over one small head,<br>
Our fruit of last year's maying, the white bud<br>
Blown from our stormy kisses and the dead<br>
First rapture of our wild, estranging blood.<br>
You clutched him: there was panther in your eyes,<br>
We breathed like beasts in thickets, on the wall<br>
Our shadows in huge challenge seemed to rise,<br>
The room grew dark with anger. Yet through all<br>
The shame and hurt and pity of it you were<br>
Still strangely and imperishably dear,<br>
As one who loves the wild day none the less<br>
That breaks in bitter hands the buds of Spring,<br>
Whose cold hand stops the breath of loveliness,<br>
And drives the wailing ghost of beauty past,<br>
Making the rose, &mdash; even the rose, a thing<br>
For pain to be remembered by at last.<br><br>

I said: "My son shall wear his father's sword."<br>
You said: "Shall hands once blossoms at my breast   <br>
Be stained with blood?" I answered with a word<br>
More bitter, and your own, the bitterest<br>
Stung me to sullen anger, and I said:<br>
"My son shall be no coward of his line<br>
Because his mother choose"; you turned your head<br>
And your eyes grew implacable in mine.<br>
And like a trodden snake you turned to meet<br>
The foe with sudden hissing ... then you smiled,<br>
And broke our life in pieces at my feet,<br>
"Your child?" you said: "<i>Your</i> child?"</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="stushore"></a><h3>The Shore</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The low bay melts into a ring of silver,<br>
And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger<br>
Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble,<br>
Forsaking her because the moon persuades him.<br>
But the black wood that leans and sighs above her<br>
No tide can turn, no moon can slave nor summon.<br>
Then comes the dark: on sleepy, shell-strewn beaches,<br>
O'er long pale leagues of sand and cold, clear water<br>
She hears the tide go out towards the moonlight.<br>
The wood still leans ... weeping she turns to seek him,<br>
And his black hair all night is on her bosom.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="stuwood"></a><h3>Thèlus Wood</h3>
<br>

<blockquote>I came by night to Thèlus wood,<br>
And though in dark and desperate places<br>
Stubborned with wire and brown with blood<br>
Undaunted April crept and sewed<br>
Her violets in dead men's faces,<br>
And in a soft and snowy shroud<br>
Drew the scarred fields with gentle stitch;<br>
Though in the valley where the ditch<br>
Was hoarse with nettles, blind with mud,<br>
She stroked the golden-headed bud,<br>
And loosed the fern, she dared not here<br>
To touch nor tend this murdered thing;<br>
The wind went wide of it, the year<br>
Upon this breast stopped short of Spring:<br>
Beauty turned back from Thèlus Wood.<br><br>

From broken brows the dim eyes stared,<br>
Blistered and maimed the wide stumps grinned<br>
From the black mouth of Thèlus bared<br>
In laughter at some monstrous jest.<br>
No creature moved there, weed nor wind.<br>
Huge arms, half-torn from savage breast,<br>
Hung wide, and tangled limbs and faces<br>
Lay, as if giants blind and stark<br>
With violent, with perverse embraces<br>
Groped for each other in the dark.<br>
A moaning rose &mdash; not of the wind,<br>
 &mdash; There was no wind, but hollowly<br>
From its dim bed of mud each tree<br>
Gave forth a sound, till trees and mud<br>
Seemed but a single, sighing mouth,<br>
A wound that spoke with lips uncouth,<br>
And cried to me from Thèlus Wood.<br><br>

I heard one tree say: "This was I<br>
Who drew great clouds across the sky<br>
To weep against me." This one said:<br>
"I made a gloom where love might lie<br>
All day and dream it night, a bed<br>
Secret and soft, the birds' song had<br>
A twilight sound the whole day there."<br>
One said: "Last night I shook my hair<br>
Before the mirror of the moon."<br>
"I saw a corpse to-day," said one<br>
"That was but buried yester-year."<br>
And one, the smallest, sweetest thing &mdash; <br>
A fair child-tree made never stir,<br>
Dead before God had tended her<br>
In the green nurseries of Spring.<br>
She lay, the loveliest, loneliest,<br>
Among the old and ruined trees,<br>
And at each small and broken wrist<br>
The white flowers grew like bandages.<br><br>

Then from the ruined churchyard where<br>
Old vaults and graves lay turned and tossed<br>
And earth from earth was shaken bare,<br>
Came murmurings of a tongueless host<br>
That to each ghastly brother said:<br>
"Who raised us from our sleep? Is this<br>
The resurrection of the dead?<br>
Upon our bodies no flesh grows,<br>
No bright blood through our temples springs,<br>
No glory spreads, no trumpet blows,<br>
The air is not white and blind with wings.<br>
And yet dragged up before us lie<br>
The woods of Thèlus at our feet,<br>
And strange hills sentinel the sky,<br>
And where the road went yawns a pit.<br>
The world is finished: let us sleep.         <br>
God has forgotten: we shall keep<br>
Here a sweet, safe Eternity.<br>
There is no other end than this,<br>
And this is death, and that is peace."<br>
But even as they ceased the stones<br>
Were loosed, the earth shook where I stood,<br>
And from far off the crouching guns<br>
Swung slowly round on Thèlus Wood.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="sturthief"></a><h3>The Thief of Beauty</h3>
<br>

<table summary="thief of beauty" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
	<td>The mind is Beauty's thief, the poet takes<br>
The golden spendthrift's trail among the blooms<br>
Where she stands tossing silver in the lakes,<br>
And twisting bright swift threads on airy looms.<br>
Her ring the poppy snatches, and the rose<br>
With laughter plunders all her gusty plumes.<br>
The poet gleans and gathers as she goes<br>
Heedless of summer's end certain and soon,<br>
Of winter rattling at the door of June.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
	<td>When Beauty lies hand-folded, pale and still,<br>
Forsaken of her lovers and her lords,<br>
And winter keeps cold watch upon the hill,<br>
Then he lets fall his bale of coloured words.<br>
At frosty midnight June shall rise in flame,<br>
Move at his magic with her bells and birds,<br>
The rose will redden as he speaks her name.<br>
He shall release earth's frozen bosom there,<br>
And with great words shall cuff the whining air.</td>
</tr>
</table><br><br>

<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="tittwall">W. R. Titterton</a></h2><br>

<h3>The High Wall</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>I will build up a wall for Freedom to dwell therein,   <br>
A high wall with towers<br>
And steel fangs for a gate.<br>
For Freedom that lacks a home falleth by pit and gin,<br>
A prey to the alien powers<br>
That lie in wait.<br><br>

I will build up a house for her where the ways divide,<br>
A house set on a hill,<br>
With a lamp in the topmost tower,<br>
And a trumpet calling to arms, and a flag like a flame blown wide,<br>
And a sword to save and to kill<br>
As her bridal dower.<br><br>

I will take her to wife, she that is life and death;<br>
Life &mdash; for a trumpet calls;<br>
Death &mdash; for it calls me still,<br>
And I shall know love &mdash; a star, and a fluttering breath<br>
Till the shadow of silence falls<br>
In the house on the hill.<br><br>

I will build up a house for her where the ways divide,<br>
Four-square on the rock,<br>
A high house and a great;<br>
So, when I fly, spent, back from a broken ride,<br>
Her key shall cry in the lock,<br>
She shall stand in the gate.<br><br>

She shall stand in the gate &mdash; the prize of the world to win,<br>
Stand steel-shod,<br>
Crowned with a cloud of flowers.<br>
I will build up a wall, a wall, for Freedom to dwell therein<br>
In the name of the most high God,<br>
A wall with towers.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="tittsword"></a><h3>The Broken Sword</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Soldier, soldier, burnishing your sword,<br>
Is there no place for a wayfaring man in the courts of your lord?<br>
A couch, and a crust, and a song, and a flagon of wine?<br>
Haggard, begrimed though I be, and out at heel,<br>
A lean, grey hop-and-go-one with a crutch of steel,<br>
Brother-at-arms with death? Behold the sign:<br><br>

I have tasted great weather on high, white, green-turreted cliffs by the sea.<br>
I have tramped the tough heather, the purple, the brown,<br>
By pools of peat water; from the night to the day,<br>
Till the moon has dropped down: the ghost of a minim, low down,<br>
In a high-piping treble of grey.<br><br>

In shy, dim recesses, mid tresses, green tresses.<br>
Slow dipping, caressing, I've heard<br>
A whisper, a chuckle of laughter, a scamper; and high,<br>
High up in the air the cry, the call of a bird.<br>
And when the night came with a flicker of wings<br>
I have heard the earth breathing quiet and slow<br>
Like a pulse in the tiny, wild tumult of things.<br><br>

I have sung to the sun, and the moon and the stars,<br>
In valleys uncharted of tumbled sea meadows<br>
I have shouted aloud 'neath a sky whipped to smoke in the fret of my spars<br>
And I fought as I fared; and my couch was a camp; and my songs were my scars.<br><br>

Soldier! Soldier! Cosetting your sword!<br>
Have you no place for a harper-at-arms in the courts of your lord &mdash; <br>
Prim fountains, clipped trees, and trim gardens, and music, and rest?             <br>
Nay, keep your sugared delights and your margents embroidered! My life is the best.<br>
In my ears is the sound of a bugle blown, and my pulses like kettle-drums beat<br>
For the hungry blind onset, the rally, the stubborn defeat.<br>
I, too, could have polished, and polished, and jeered at the wayfaring man who passed by.<br>
But I follow the fighting Apollo.<br>
And I stand unashamed; and I raise up my shard of a sword; and I cry the old cry.<br>
Please God they shall find but a hilt in my hand when I die!</blockquote><br>
<br>
<img src="images/MI12.gif" width="628" height="167" align="middle" border="2" alt="silhouetted figures 12">
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="tittnight"></a><h3>Night Shapes</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Dark hurrying shapes beset my path that night &mdash; <br>
Pushing and buffeting; and in my brain<br>
Dark hurrying shapes beset my soul. In vain<br>
I struggled; as a fevered dreamer might;<br>
Or some spent, breathless swimmer, in despite<br>
Of desperate stroke, thrust headlong to the main.<br>
The waking nightmare, monstrous and inane,<br>
Whirled, rushed, and huddled in its random flight.<br><br>

Like a spent swimmer, battling with a swoon,<br>
Silent I fought, yet seemed to cry aloud.<br>
When, at the challenge of a marching tune,<br>
Heard in a sudden stillness of the crowd,<br>
I looked aloft, and saw the great round moon<br>
Steadfast behind her ragged rout of cloud.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="tittsilent"></a><h3>The Silent People</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The Silent People of No Man's Land        <br>
Calm they lie,<br>
With a stare and vacant smile<br>
At the vacant sky.<br>
Over them swept the battle,<br>
And stirred them not.<br>
Armies passed over, beyond them.<br>
They are forgot.<br><br>

Calmly the earth deals with them,<br>
Melts them away.<br>
Nothing is left of them now but bones,<br>
Bones and clay.<br>
Bones of the Valley of Judgment,<br>
Bones stripped clean.<br>
We fought, day in, day out, and the others,<br>
With this between.<br><br>

Dawn comes white and finds them<br>
Stark and cold.<br>
Twilight creeps over and covers them,<br>
Fold on fold.<br>
Night cannot hide them from us.<br>
In the dark, again,<br>
We see the Silent People<br>
Who once were men.<br><br>

The Silent People of No Man's Land,<br>
They rise, they rise,<br>
With the glory of utter loss<br>
In their stary eyes.<br>
Beckoning, beckoning, calling,<br>
Pointing the way.<br>
But the dawn comes white, and finds them<br>
Bones and clay.<br><br>

Winds of the world blow o'er them<br>
Your serenade!<br>
Touch like a lute the broken earth<br>
Where our dead are laid!<br>
Broken bones of the martyrs,<br>
Reliques of pain,<br>
Anoint them, anoint them with sunlight,<br>
Robe them in rain.<br><br>

The Silent People of No Man's Land<br>
Calm they lie,<br>
Bones, broken and bleached,<br>
Under the sky.<br>
Over them sweeps the tempest,<br>
And stirs them not.<br>
We pass over, beyond them,<br>
They are forgot.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="vislamp">E. H. Visiak</a></h2><br>

<h3>Lamps and Lanterns</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When I had sight, great glamour was<br>
In myriad lamps of coloured glass:<br>
Old lamps for new I never sold;<br>
For old were new, and new were old.<br><br>

And Chinese lanterns, paper globes,<br>
Were Dragon Gods in tissue robes<br>
That stood on air with squat, round shoon,<br>
Beneath the thin, receded Moon.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="visstrand"></a><h3>Stranded</h3>
<br>
<blockquote><i>Dusk gathers. On the seaward hedge<br>
The wild hops, hanging bright,<br>
Gleam as a foam-spray flung on sedge<br>
From a sea of golden light</i>.<br><br>

A ship lies heavy on the sands<br>
Above the warped, wan tide,<br>
Whose waves thrust ineffectual hands<br>
Beneath its murmuring side.<br><br>

They cannot lift the monstrous hulk,<br>
Nor break the ghostly spell;<br>
The ship lies dreaming, all her bulk<br>
Racked on a shoal of hell.<br><br>

I hear the sullen timbers creak,<br>
With echoings deep and numb;<br>
No other sound: nor groan nor shriek;<br>
For agony is dumb!<br><br>

But at the seams, in every crack,<br>
A beaded sweat appears:<br>
The soul that's stretched on such a rack<br>
Can shed no other tears!</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="waurubb">Alec Waugh</a></h2><br>

<h3>Rubble</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>We may fill the daytime with friendship<br>
    And laughter and song;<br>
But however the laughter may trip<br>
    And the words break in song<br>
On a loved one's lip;<br>
And however gaily the road may bend<br>
    Into the sky,<br>
It must come to this in the end,<br>
    That we stand<br>
And watch the last friend<br>
    Turn with a half-felt sigh<br>
    And a wave of the hand;<br>
And silence is over the day,<br>
    Shadows fall,<br>
And our happiness crumbles away<br>
    Like a wall<br>
That nobody cares for,<br>
    That falls stone by stone<br>
Till its grandeur is rubble once more,<br>
    And we are alone.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="willchrist">Charles Williams</a></h2><br>

<h3>Christmas</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Word through the world went<br>
  On Christmas morn, &mdash; <br>
'Tidings! behold, a<br>
  Townsman is born!'<br><br>

Then in their council<br>
  Smiled the high lords:<br>
'Sword for world-conquest<br>
  'Mid a world's swords.<br>
Need shall our armies<br>
  Have of each birth,<br>
In that last battle<br>
  Wins us the earth.'<br><br>

Still were the priesthood,<br>
  Singing the Mass:<br>
'Lo, is our creed come<br>
  Truly to pass?<br>
Blesséd and broken<br>
  Crumbs that we give,<br>
Say! say, O chalice,<br>
  Can a creed live?<br><br>

Then to lord Shakespeare,<br>
  Brooding alone,<br>
While in a vision<br>
  Lear was shown,<br>
While his just loathing<br>
  Hung over men,<br>
Lo, from the darkness<br>
  Came Imogen.<br><br>

Then said a free maid,<br>
    Heart against mine, &mdash; <br>
Take me, lord governor,<br>
    Who am all thine!<br>
Thou that hast blessed me<br>
    With a new light,<br>
Ah, is thy handmaid<br>
    Fair in thy sight?'<br><br>

Then said our Lady, &mdash; <br>
    'Clean is the hut,<br>
Filled are the platters,<br>
    And the door shut.<br>
Sit, O son Jesus!<br>
    Sit thou, sweet friend!<br>
Poor folk have supper<br>
    And their woes end.'<br><br>

'Now,' said our Father,<br>
    'All things are won:<br>
Welcome, O Saviour!<br>
    Welcome, O Son!<br>
More than creation<br>
    Lives now again,<br>
God hath borne Godhead<br>
    Nowise in vain.'<br><br>

Word went through Sarras<br>
    On Easter morn, &mdash; <br>
'Tidings! behold a<br>
    Townsman is born!'</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<a name="willbris"></a><h3>Briseis</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The footfalls of the parting Myrmidons         <br>
    And counter-cries of leaguer and of town<br>
    Are hushed behind her as the silks drop down;<br>
Alone she stands, and wonderingly cons<br>
Heads circleted with gold or helmed with bronze;<br>
    Higher her eyes from crown to loftier crown<br>
    Creep, till they fall, nigh-blasted, at the frown<br>
Of Argos, throned in his pavilions<br><br>

And mid his captains wrathfully aware<br>
    How the plague smites the host, how by the sea<br>
Beyond the ships, with vengeful prayer and oath,<br>
Rages the young Achilles, of whose wrath<br>
    Innocent, ignorant, a captive, she<br>
Sees but the dropped staff on the voided chair.</blockquote><br>
<br>
<img src="images/MI13.gif" width="637" height="195" align="middle" border="2" alt="silhouetted figures 13">
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>

<h2><a name="biblio">Bibliography</a></h2><br>

(<i>This list includes poetical works only</i>).<br><br>
<hr>
<br>
<table summary="bibliography" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Laurence Binyon</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Persephone</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1890</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Lyric Poems</i></td>
	<td>1894</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Poems</i></td>
	<td>1895</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Porphyrion and other poems</i></td>
	<td>1898</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Supper</i></td>
	<td>1897</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Odes</i></td>
	<td>1901</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Death of Adam and other poems</i></td>
	<td>1904</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Penthesilea</i></td>
	<td>1905</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Dream come true</i></td>
	<td>1905</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Paris and &OElig;none</i></td>
	<td>1906</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Attila</i>, a tragedy </td>
	<td>1907</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>England and other poems</i></td>
	<td>1909</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Auguries</i></td>
	<td>1913</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Winnowing-fan</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Bombastes in the Shades</i>, a play</td>
	<td>1915</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Anvil and other poems</i></td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Cause: poems of the war</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>For the Fallen and other poems</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The New World</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Four Years: Collected War Poems</i></td>
	<td>1919</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>G. K. Chesterton</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Ballad of the White Horse </i></td>
	<td width="20%">1911</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Wild Knight and other poems</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Poems</i></td>
	<td>1915</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Wine, Water and Song</i></td>
	<td>1915</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Richard Church</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>TFlood of Life and other poems</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1917</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Hurricane</i></td>
	<td>1919</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>William H. Davies</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>The Soul's Destroyer</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1906</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>New Poems</i></td>
	<td>1907</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Nature Poems</i>  and others</td>
	<td>1908</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Farewell to Poesy</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1910</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Songs of Joy</i> and others</td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Foliage</i></td>
	<td>1913</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Bird of Paradise</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Child Lovers</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Collected Poems</i></td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Raptures</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Forty New Poems</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>John Drinkwater</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Poems</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1903</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Death of Leander</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1906</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Lyrical</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1908</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Cophetua</i> (play)</td>
	<td>1911</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Poems of Men and Hours</i></td>
	<td>1911</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Poems of Love and Earth</i></td>
	<td>1912</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Cromwell, and Other Poems</i></td>
	<td>1913</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Rebellion</i> (play)</td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Swords and Ploughshares</i></td>
	<td>1915</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Olton Pools</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Pawns</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Poems, 1908-1914</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Tides</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Abraham Lincoln</i> <br>
	(Prose Play with Chorus)</td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Loyalties</i></td>
	<td>1919</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>


<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Wilfred Wilson Gibson</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Golden Helm</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1903</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>On the Threshold</i> and other plays</td>
	<td>1907</td>
</tr><tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Stonefolds</i></td>
	<td>1907</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Web of Life</i></td>
	<td>1908</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Akra the Slave</i></td>
	<td>1910</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Daily Bread</i></td>
	<td>1910</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Womankind</i></td>
	<td>1912</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Fires</i></td>
	<td>1912</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Borderlands</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Thoroughfares</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Battle</i></td>
	<td>1915</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Friends</i></td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Livelihood</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Collected Poems</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Whin</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Louis Golding</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Sorrow of War</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1919</td>
	</tr>
	</table><br>

<hr><br>

	<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Gerald Gould</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Lyrics</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1906</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Poems</i></td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>My Lady's Book</i></td>
	<td>1913</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Monogamy</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Laurence Housman</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Mendicant Rhymes</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1906</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Selected Poems</i></td>
	<td>1908</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Winners </i></td>
	<td>1915</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Heart of Peace</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Richard le Gallienne</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>My Ladies' Sonnets</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1887</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>R. L. S., An Elegy</i></td>
	<td>1895</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Omar Repentant</i></td>
	<td>1908</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Orestes</i></td>
	<td>1910</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Lonely Dancer</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Silk Hat Soldier</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1915</td>
</tr>

</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Rose Macaulay</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>The Two Blind Countries</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1914</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Three Days  </i></td>
	<td>1919</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Eugene Mason</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Flamma Vestalis</i> and other poems</td>
	<td width="20%">1890</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Field Floridus</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1899</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Vitrail</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>
<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Theodore Maynard</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Laughs and Whifts of Song</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1915</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Drums of Defeat</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Folly</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>
<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>T. Sturge Moore</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>The Vinedresser</i> and other poems</td>
	<td width="20%">1899</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Aphrodite against Artemis</i></td>
	<td>1901</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Absalom</i></td>
	<td>1903</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Centaur's Booty</i></td>
	<td>1903</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Danäe</i></td>
	<td>1903</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Rout of the Amazons</i></td>
	<td>1903</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Pan's Prophecy</i></td>
	<td>1904</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Theseus, Medea and Lyrics</i></td>
	<td>1904</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>To Leda</i> and other odes</td>
	<td>1904</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Gazelles</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1904</td>
</tr><tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>A Sicilian Idyll and Judith</i></td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr><tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Mariamne</i></td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr><tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Collected Poems</i></td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>

</table><br>

<hr><br>
<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Robert Nichols</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Ardours and Endurances</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1917</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Invocation</i></td>
	<td>1919</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Eden Philpotts</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Up-Along and Down-Along</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1905</td>
	</tr>
	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Wild Fruit</i></td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Demeter's Daughter</i></td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Iscariot</i></td>
	<td>1912</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Delight</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>

<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Plain Song</i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Arthur K. Sabin</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Typhon</i> and other poems</td>
	<td width="20%">1902</td>
	</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Death of Icarus</i></td>
	<td>1906</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Wayfarers</i></td>
	<td>1907</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Dante and Beatrice</i></td>
	<td>1908</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Medea and Circe</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>New Poems</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>War Harvest</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Five Poems</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Christmas</i></td>
	<td>1914</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Margaret Sackville</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Poems</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1901</td>
	</tr>

	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>A Hymn to Dionysus</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1905</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Hildris the Queen</i> (a play)</td>
	<td>1908</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Lyrics</i></td>
	<td>1912</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Songs of Aphrodite</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1913</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Pageant of War</i></td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>William Kean Seymour</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Street of Dreams</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1914</td>
	</tr>

	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>To Verhaeren</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>To Verhaeren</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Swords and Flutes</i></td>
	<td>1919</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Edith Sitwell</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>The Mother</i> and other poems</td>
	<td width="20%">1915</td>
	</tr>

	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Clowns' Houses</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td>(With Osbert Sitwell)</td>
	<td><i>Twentieth Century Harlequinade</i> and other poems</td>
	<td></td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Muriel Stuart</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Christ at Carnival</i> and other poems</td>
	<td width="20%">1916</td>
	</tr>

	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Cockpit of Idols</i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>W. R. Titterton</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>River Music</i> and other poems</td>
	<td width="20%">1900</td>
	</tr>

	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Guns and Guitars </i></td>
	<td>1918</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>E. H. Visiak</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Buccaneer Ballads</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1910</td>
	</tr>

	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Flints and Flashes</i></td>
	<td>1911</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>The Phantom Ship</i></td>
	<td>1912</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Battle Fiends</i> and other poems</td>
	<td>1916</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Brief Poems</i></td>
	<td>1919</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Alec Waugh</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>Resentment</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1918</td>
	</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<table summary="bibliography2" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td width="30%"><b>Charles Williams</b></td>
	<td width="50%"><i>The Silver Stair</i></td>
	<td width="20%">1912</td>
	</tr>

	<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Poems of Conformity </i></td>
	<td>1917</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
	<td></td>
	<td><i>Divorce </i></td>
	<td>(<i>In preparation</i>)</td>
</tr>
</table><br>

<hr><br><br>

<br>
<br>
<b><i>end of text</i></b>
<br>
<br>
<hr><br><br>



<pre>



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