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Wtk decorations by Dm* 

Cecit Patmer^Ha 

All British and American rights in 
the poems contained in this book are 
reserved to the contributing authors. 





This Miscellany of Poetry, 1919, 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 
a fact which surely gives the Miscellany 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 English Review, To-day, Voices, New Witness, 
Observer, Saturday Westminster, Art and Letters, 
Cambridge Magazine and the Nation for permission to 

reprint certain poems. 

W. K. S. 

September, 1919 



A Song 13 

Commercial 14 

Numbers 16 

The Children Dancing 19 


Farewell to Mathematics 21 

Return 23 

Over the Dead 25 


Elegy in a Country Churchyard 26 

The Ballad of St. Barbara 27 


Psyche goes forth to Life 34 


The Villain 38 

Bird and Brook 39 

Passion's Hounds 40 

The Truth 41 

The Force of Love 42 

April's Lambs 43 


Nous Autres 44 

She to Him 46 


Malediction 47 

Spectral 49 


1. Troopship 51 

2. The Conscript 51 

3. Air-Raid 52 

4. In War-Time 52 

5. Ragtime 53 

6. Leave 53 

7. Bacchanal 54 


Shepherd Singing Ragtime 55 

The Singer of High State 59 


Freedoms (Eight Sonnets) 60 


Summer Night 64 


The Palaces of The Rose 65 


Peace, June 28th, 1919 68 


Antony and Cleopatra 70 


Dirge 72 

Desideravi 74 

Laus Deo ! 75 


Aforetime 77 


Down here the Hawthorn 91 

Invocation 94 


On Seeing a Portrait of Blake 95 


The Fall 97 

Ghostiea at the Wedding 98 


Four Lyrics 99 



The Return 101 

To 1 02 


Fruitage 106 

In the Wood 107 

Siesta 108 

To One who Eats Larks 109 

If Beauty came to you 1 10 


Prison 1 1 1 

The Sixth Day 113 


Eventail 1 14 

The Lady with the Sewing Machine 1 1 5 

Portrait of a Barmaid 116 

Solo for Ear-Trumpet 117 


The Father u8 

The Shore 120 

Thelus Wood 121 

The Thief of Beauty 124 


The High Wall 125 

The Broken Sword 126 

Night-Shapes 128 

The Silent People 129 


Lamps and Lanterns 131 

Stranded 132 


Rubble ^3 


Christmas 134 

Briseis 136 

(This list includes poetical works only}. 

BINYON, LAURENCE. Persephone (1890) ; Lyric Poems (1894) ; 
Poems (1895) ; Porphyrion and other poems (1898) ; 
The Supper (1897) ; Odes (1901) ; Death of Adam and 
other poems (1904) ; Penthesilea (1905) ; Dream come 
true (1905) ; Paris and (Enone (1906) ; AttiJa, a 
tragedy (1907) ; England and other poems (1909) ; 
Auguries (1913) ; The Winnowing-fan (1914) ; Bombastes 
in the Shades, a play (1915) ; The Anvil and other poems 
(1916) ; The Cause : poems of the war (1917) ; For the 
Fallen and other poems (1917) ; The New World (1918) ; 
The Four Years : Collected War Poems (1919). 

CHESTERTON, G. K. Ballad of the White Horse (1911) ; The 
Wild Knight and other poems (1914) ; Poems (1915) ; 
Wine, Water and Song (1915). 

CHURCH, RICHARD. Flood of Life and other poems (1917) ; 
Hurricane (1919). 

DAVIES, W. H. New Poems (1907) ; Nature Poems and others 
(1908) ; Farewell to Poesy and other poems (1910) ; 
Songs of Joy and Others (1911) ; Foliage (1913) ; Bird 
of Paradise and other poems (1914) ; Child Lovers and 
other poems (1916) ; Collected Poems (1916) ; Forty 
Poems (1918). 

DRINKWATER, JOHN. Poems (1903) ; Death of Leander and 
other poems (1906) ; Lyrical and other poems (1908) ; 
Cophetua, a play (1911); Poems of Men and Hours 
(1911) ; Poems of Love and Earth (1912) ; Cromwell and 
other poems (1913) ; Rebellion (1914) ; Swords and 
Ploughshares (1915) ; Olton Pools and other poems 

(1916) ; Pawns (1917) ; Poems (1908-14) (1917) ; Tides 

(1917) ; Abraham Lincoln (1918) ; Loyalties (1919). 

GIBSON, WILFRED WILSON. Golden Helm (1903) ; On the 
Threshold and Other Plays (1907) ; Stonefolds (1907) ; 
Web of Life (1908) ; Akra the Slave (1910) ; Daily Bread 
(1910) ; Womenkind (1912) ; Fires (1912) ; Thorough- 
fares (1914) ; Borderlands (1914) ; Battle (1915) ; 
Friends (1916) ; Livelihood (1917). 

GOLDING, Louis. Sorrow of War (1919). 

GOULD, GERALD. Lyrics (1906); Poems (1911); My Lady's 
Book (1913) ; Monogamy (1918). 

HOUSMAN, LAURENCE. Mendicant Rhymes (1906) ; Selected 
Poems (1908) ; The Winners (1915) ; Heart of Peace 

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. My Ladies' Sonnets (1887) ; R.L.S., 

An Elegy (1895) ; Omar Repentant (1908) ; Orestes 

(1910) ; The Lonely Dancer and other poems (1914) ; 
The Silk Hat Soldier and other poems (1915). 

MACAULAY, ROSE. The Two Blind Countries (1914) ; Three 
Days (1919). 

MASON, EUGENE. Flamma Vestalis and other poems (1890) ; 
The Field Floridus and other poems (1899) ; Vitrail and 
other Poems (1916). 

MAYNARD, THEODORE. Laughs and Whifts of Song (1915) 
Drums of Defeat (1917) ; Folly and other poems (1918). 

MOORE, T. STURGE. The Vinedresser and other poems (1899) ; 
Aphrodite against Artemis (1901) ; Absalom (1903) ; The 
Centaur's Booty (1903) ; Danae (1903) ; Rout of the 
Amazons (1903) ; Pan's Prophecy (1904) ; Theseus, 
Medea and Lyrics (1904) ; To Leda and other odes 
(1904) ; The Gazelles and other poems (1904) ; A Sicilian 
Idyll and Judith (1911); Mariamne (1911); Collected 
Poems (1916). 

NICHOLS, ROBERT. Ardours and Endurances (1917) ; Invoca- 
tion (1919). 

PHILLPOTTS, EDEN. Up- Along and Down- Along (1905) ; Wild 
Fruit (1911) ; Demeter's Daughter (1911) ; The Iscariot 
(1912) ; Delight and other poems (1916) ; Plain Song 

SABIN, ARTHUR K. Typhon and other poems (1902) ; Death 
of Icarus (1906) ; The Wayfarers (1907) ; Dante and 
Beatrice (1908) ; Medea and Circe and other poems (1911); 
New Poems (1914) ; War Harvest (1914) ; Five Poems 
(1914) ; Christmas, 1914. 

SACKVILLE, LADY MARGARET. Poems (1901) ; A Hymn to 
Dionysus and other poems (1905) ; Hildris the Queen, 
a play (1908) ; Lyrics (1912) ; Songs of Aphrodite and 
other poems (1913) ; Pageant of War (1916). 

SEYMOUR, WILLIAM KEAN. Street of Dreams (1914) ; To 
Verhaeren and other poems (1917) ; Twenty-four Poems 
(1918) ; Swords and Flutes (1919). 

SITWELL, EDITH. The Mother and other poems (1915) ; Clowns' 
Houses (1918) ; (With Osbert Sit well) Twentieth Century 
Harlequinade and other poems. 

STUART, MURIEL. Christ at Carnival and other poems (1916) ; 
The Cockpit of Idols (1918). 

TITTERTON, W. R. River Music and other poems (1900) ; 
Guns and Guitars (1918). 

VISIAK, E. H. Buccaneer Ballads (1910) ; Flints and Flashes 
(1911) ; The Phantom Ship (1912) ; Battle Fiends and 
other poems (1916) ; Brief Poems (1919). 

WAUGH, ALEC. Resentment (1918). 

WILLIAMS, CHARLES. The Silver Stair (1912) ; Poems of Con- 
formity (1917) ; Divorce (In preparation). 


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

Overbrim and overflow, 
If your own heart you would know ; 
For the spirit born to bless 
Lives but in its own excess. 




Gross, with protruding ears, 

Sleek hair, brisk glance, fleshy and yet alert, 

Red, full, and satisfied, 

Cased in obtuseness confident not to be hurt, 

He sits at a little table 

In the crowded congenial glare and noise, jingling 

Coin in his pocket ; sips 

His glass, with hard eye impudently singling 

A woman here and there : 

Women and men, they are all priced in his thought, 

All commodities staked 

In the market, sooner or later sold and bought. 

" Were I he," you are thinking, 

You with the dreamer's forehead and pure eyes, 

" What should I lose ? All, 

All that is worthy the striving for, all my prize, 

" All the truth of me, all 

Life that is wonder, pity, and fear, requiring 

Utter joy, utter pain, 

From the heart that the infinite hurts with deep desiring 

" Why is it I am not he ? 

Chance ? The grace of God ? The mystery's plan ? 

He, too, is human stuff, 

A kneading of the old, brotherly slime of man. 

" Am I a lover of men, Laurence 

And turn abhorring as from fat slug or snake ? Binyon 

Lives obstinate in me too 
Something the power of angels could not unmake ? " 

O self-questioner ! None 

Unlocks your answer. Steadily look, nor flinch. 

This belongs to your kind, 

And knows its aim and fails not itself at a pinch. 

It is here in the world and works, 

Not done with yet. Up, then, let the test be tried ! 

Dare your uttermost, be 

Completely, and of your own, like him, be justified. 

Laurence NUMBERS 


Trefoil and Quatrefoil ! 

What shaped those destinied small silent leaves 

Or numbered them under the soil ? 

I lift my dazzled sight 

From grass to sky, 

From humming and hot perfume 

To scorching, quivering light, 

Empty blue ! Why, 

As I bury my face afresh 

In a sunshot vivid gloom 

Minute infinity's mesh, 

Where spearing side by side 

Smooth stalk and furred uplift 

Their luminous green secrets from the grass, 

Tower to a bud and delicately divide 

Do I think of the things unthought 

Before man was ? 

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

You that are globed and single, 
Crystal virgins, and you that part, 
Melt, and again mingle ! 
W T e have hoisted sail in the night 


On the oceans that you chart : Laurence 

Dark winds carry us onward, on ; Binyon 

But you are there before us, silent Answers, 

Beyond the bounds of the sun. 

You body yourselves in the stars, inscrutable dancers, 

Native where we are none. 

O inhuman Numbers ! 

All things change and glide, 

Corrupt and crumble, suffer wreck and decay, 

But, obstinate dark Integrities, you abide, 

And obey but them who obey. 

All things else are dyed 

In the colours of man's desire : 

But you no bribe nor prayer 

Avails to soften or sway. 

Nothing of me you share, 

Yet I cannot think you away. 

And if I seek to escape you, still you are there 

Stronger than caging pillars of iron 

Not to be passed, in an air 

Where human wish and word 

Fall like a frozen bird. 

Music asleep 

In pulses of sound, in the waves ! 

Hidden runes rubbed bright ! 

Dizzy ladders of thought in the night ! 

Are you masters or slaves 

Subtlest of man's slaves, 

Shadowy Numbers ? 

In a vision I saw 

Old vulture Time, feeding 

On the flesh of the world ; I saw 


Laurence The home of our use undated 
Binyon Seasons of fruiting and seeding 
Withered, and hunger and thirst 
Dead, with all they fed on : 
Till at last, when Time was sated, 
Only you persisted, 
Daedal Numbers, sole and same, 
Invisible skeleton frame 
Of the peopled earth we tread on 
Last, as first. 

Because naught can avail 

To wound or to tarnish you ; 

Because you are neither sold nor bought, 

Because you have not the power to fail 

But live beyond our furthest thought, 

Strange Numbers, of infinite clue, 

Beyond fear, beyond ruth, 

You strengthen also me 

To be in my own truth. 




Away, sad thoughts, and teasing 
Perplexities, away ! 
Let other blood go freezing, 
We will be wise and gay ; 
For here is all heart-easing, 
An ecstasy at play ! 

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

Now slow, now swifter treading 

Their paces timed and true, 

An instant poised, then threading 

A maze of printless clue, 

The music smoothly wedding 

To motions ever new. 

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

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


Laurence And through the mind enchanted 

Binyon A happy river goes, 

By its own young carol haunted 
And bringing, where it flows, 
What all the world has wanted 
But who in this world knows ? 



Bran ford 

I laboured on the anvil of my brain 
And beat a metal out of pageantry. 
Figure and form I carry in my train 
To load the scaffolds of Eternity. 

Where the masters are 

Building star on star ; 

Where, in solemn ritual, 

The great Dead Mathematical 

Wait and wait and wait for me. 

To the deliberate presence of the Sun 
(Bright cynosure of every darkling sign, 
Wherein all numbers consummate in One,) 
Poised on the bolt of an Un-finite line, 

As one whose spirit's state, 

Is unafraid but desperate, 

Through far unfathomed fears, 

Through Time to timeless years, 

I soar, through Shade to Shine. 

They say that on a night there came to Euler, 
As eager-eyed he stared upon a star, 
And fought the far infinitude, a toiler 
Like to himself and me, for things that are 

Buried from the eyes alone 

Of men whose sight is made of stone, 

And led him out in ecstasy, 

Over the dim boundary 

By the pale gleam of a scimitar. 


F. V. Then Euler, mindful of thy lesser need, 

Branford Be them my pilot in this treacherous hour, 
That I be less unworth thy greater meed, 
my strong brother in the halls of power ; 
For here and hence I sail 
Alone beyond the pale, 
Where square and circle coincide, 
And the parallels collide, 
And perfect pyramids flower. 




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

* * * * * 

The heart of the Mountain overfloweth, 

The sea speaketh clear words, 

The Ark is brought to the Tabernacle. 

Lightnings, that withered in the sky, 

Are become great beacons roaring in a wind 

I see Death, lying in the arms of Life, 

And, in the womb of Death, I see Joy. 

I had said ' The spirit of the Earth is white/ 

But lo ! He is red with joy. 

He devoureth the meat of many nations, 

He absorbeth a vintage of scarlet. 

Though my head be with the stars, 

All the flowers of Earth are singing in mine ears. 

Though my foot be planted on the sea-bed. 

Yet is it shod with the thunder. 

Sorrow for Earth Transient is passed away. 

Pain of martyr'd splendour is no more. 

They have left a fair child in my lap 

A lusty infant shouting to the dawn. 

F. V. The Ogre of midnight hath perished. 

Branford He shivered in the glare of the mountain, 
He screamed upon the sea-swords, 
His bowels rushed out upon the lances of the Wind. 
I shall look through the eye of Mountain, 
I shall set in my scabbard the sabre of Sea, 
And the spear of Wind shall be my hand's delight. 
I shall not descend from the Hill. 
Never go down to the Valley ; 

For I see, on a snow-crowned peak, 

The glory of the Lord, 

Erect as Orion, 

Belted as to his blade. 

But the roots of the mountains mingle with mist, 
And raving skeletons run thereon. 

I shall not go hence, 

For here is my Priest, 
Who hath broken me in the waters of Disdain. 

Here is my Jester, 
Who hath mended me on the wheels of Mirth. 

Here is my Champion, 
Who hath confounded mine ancient Enemy 

Ardgay the slayer of Giants. 




Who in the splendour of a simple thought, 
Whether for England or her enemies, 
Went in the night, and in the morning died ; 
Each bleeding piece of human earth that lies 
Stark to the carrion wind, and groaning cries 
For burial each Jesu crucified 
Hath surely won the thing he dearly bought, 
For wrong is right, when wrong is greatly wrought. 

Yet is the Nazarene no thigh of Thor, 
To play on partial fields the puppet king 
Bearing the battle down with bloody hand. 
Serene he towers above the gods of war, 
A naked man where shells go thundering 
The great unchallenged Lord of No-Man's Land. 


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

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

And they that rule in England 
In stately conclave met, 
Alas, alas, for England, 
They have no graves as yet. 



(St. Barbara is the patroness of artillery, and of those who Chesterton 
are in fear of sudden death.) 

When the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the 

We stood and drank of the last free air we never could 

love again ; 
They had led us back from a lost battle, to halt we knew 

not where, 
And stilled us ; and our gaping guns were dumb with 

our despair. 
The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless 

And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his 

hands : 

" There was an end to Ilium ; and an end came to Rome ; 
And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he 

calls home. 

Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor, 
That lead to a low door at last : and beyond there is no 


The Breton to the Norman spoke, like a little child 

spake he, 
But his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the 

sea : 
" There are more windows in one house than there are 

eyes to see ; 
There are more doors in a man's house, but God has hid 

the key ; 

Ruin is a builder of windows ; her legend witnesseth 
Barbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden 



Gilbert It seemed the wheel of the worlds stood still an instant 

Keith in its turning, 

Chesterton More than the kings of the earth that turned with 

the turning of Valmy mill, 
While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were 


Still as the heart of a whirlwind, the heart of the 
world stood still. 

" Barbara the beautiful had praise of lute and pen, 
Her hair was like a summer night, dark and desired of 

Her feet like birds from far away that linger and light in 

And her face was like a window where a man's first love 

looked out. 

" Her sire was master of many slaves, a hard man of his 

hands ; 

They built a tower about her in the desolate golden lands, 
Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs, planned with 

an ancient plan, 
And set two windows in the tower, like the two eyes of a 


Our guns were set towards the foe ; we had no word 

for firing ; 
Grey in the gateways of St. Gond the Guard of the 

tyrant shone ; 
Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and 


The Breton line went backwards and the Breton 
tale went on. 


" Her father had sailed across the sea from the harbour Gilbert 
of Africa, Keith 

When all the slaves took up their tools for the bidding of Chesterton 
Barbara ; 

She smote the bare wall with her hand, and bade them 
smite again, 

She poured them wealth of wine and meat to stay them 
in their pain, 

And cried through the lifted thunder of thronging ham- 
mer and hod : 

' Throw open the third window in the third name of Godl' 

Then the hearts failed and the tools fell ; and far towards 
the foam 

Men saw a shadow on the sands ; and her father coming 

Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word 

is flying, 
Before the touch, before the time, we may not lose 

a breath. 
Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be no 


Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to 

' There were two windows in your tower, Barbara, 


For all between the sun and moon in the lands of Africa. 
Hath a man three eyes, Barbara, a bird three wings, 
That you have riven roof and wall to look upon vain 

things ? ' 
Her voice was like a wandering thing that falters, yet is 

Whose soul has drunk in a distant land of the rivers of 



Gilbert There are more wings than the wind knows, or eyes 

Keith than see the sun, 

Chesterton In the light of the lost window and the wind of the doors 

undone ; 

For out of the first lattice are the red lands that break 
And out of the second lattice, sea like a green snake, 
But out of the third lattice, under low eaves like wings 
Is a new corner of the sky and the other side of things.' ' 

It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond 

A casement and a chasm and a thunder of doors 

A seraph's strong wing shaken out the shock of its 


That split the shattered sunlight from a light behind 
the sun. 

" Then he drew sword and drave her where the judges 

sat and said : 

' Caesar sits above the Gods, Barbara the maid, 
Caesar hath made a treaty with the moon and with the 


All the gods that men can praise, praise him every one. 
There is peace with the anointed of the scarlet oils of Bel, 
With the Fish God, where the whirlpool is a winding stair 

to hell, 
With the pathless pyramids of slime, where the mitred 

negro lifts 

To his black cherub in the cloud abominable gifts, 
With the leprous silver cities where the dumb priests 

dance and nod, 
But not with the three windows and the last name of 

God.' " 

They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies rend Gilbert 

and shiver us ... Keith 

Barbara, Barbara, we may not loose a breath Chesterton 
Be at the bursting doors of doom, and in the dark 

deliver us, 

Who loosen the last window on the sun of sudden 

" Barbara, the beautiful, stood up as a queen set free. 
Whose mouth is set to a terrible cup and the trumpet of 

liberty ; 
' I have looked forth from a window that no man now 

shall bar, 

Caesar's toppling battle towers shall never stretch so far ; 
The slaves are dancing in their chains, the child laughs 

at the rod, 
Because of the bird of the three wings, and the third face 

of God.' 

The sword upon his shoulder shifted and shone and fell,. 
And Barbara lay very small and crumpled like a shell." 

What wall upon what hinges turned stands open like 

a door ? 
Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human 

What light upon what ancient way shines to a far off 


The line of the lost land of France or the plains of 
Paradise ? 

" Caesar smiled above the gods, his lip of stone was curled. 
His iron armies wound like chains round and round the 

And the strong slayer of his own that cut down flesh for 

Smiled, too, and went to his own tower like a walking 

tower of brass, 


Gilbert And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb : and 
Keith far towards the foam 

Chesterton Men saw a shadow on the sands ; and her father coming 
home .... 

''Blood of his blood upon the sword stood red but never 


He wiped it slowly, till the blade was blue as the blue sky : 
But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack, spat down 

a blinding brand, 
And all of him lay back and flat as his shadow on the 


The touch and the tornado ; all our guns give tongue 

St. Barbara for the gunnery and God defend the 

They are stopped and gapped and battered as we 

blast away the weather, 
Building window upon window to our lady of the 

For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are falling, 

They are reeling, they are running, as the shameful 

years have run, 

She is risen for all the humble, she has heard the con- 
quered calling, 

St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the 

They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of their 

own flatteries, 
Whose lip is curled to order as its barbered hair is 

curled . . . 
Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St. Barbara 

of the batteries ! 

That blow the new white window in the wall of all 
32 the world. 

For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites hard Gilbert 
Through the rending of the doorways, through the death- Keith 

gap of the Guard, Chesterton 

For the shout of the Three Colours is in Conde* and 

And the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of St. 

Gond ; 
Through Mondemont and out of it, through Morin marsh 

and on, 
With earthquake of salutation the impossible thing is 


Gaul, charioted and charging, great Gaul upon a gun, 
Tiptoe on all her thousand years, and trumpeting to the 

As day returns, as death returns, swung backward for a 

Back on the barbarous reign returns the battering-ram 

of Man. 

While that the east held hard and hot like pincers in a forge, 

Came like the west wind roaring up the cannon of St. 

Where the hunt is up and racing over stream and swamp 
and tarn, 

And their batteries, black with battle, hold the bridge- 
heads of the Marne ; 

And across the carnage of the Guard by Paris in the plain 

The Normans to the Bretons cried ; and the Bretons 
cheered again ; 

But he that told the tale went home to his house beside 
the sea 

And burned before St. Barbara, the light of the windows 

Three candles for an unknown thing, never to come again, 

That opened like the eye of God on Paris in the plain. 




What are these tears of loneliness to-night ? 
Hark ! In my neighbour's house the music swells* 
Joins with the wind and fills the empty skies 
And dies away, like echo of old age 
Sighing and dying in the heart that fails. 

Ah ! the cruel beauty how it creeps 

Into my home, into my waiting heart ! 
Who am I that I wait to-night ? . . . . Alas,. 
Where is the old content of maidenhood, 
The calmness and the laughter and the song, 
The patient hands unshaken as the needle 
Plied to the gentle rhythm that my lips 
Murmured, untroubled girlhood at their brink ? 

Was that but yesterday ? . . . . How long ago,. 

How the swift moments flow along the flood. 

For yesterday was sweet indifference ; 

These little drooping breasts had never known 

This pain that swells them out and makes them ache- 

For Love to touch them, for the nestling lips 

To trouble them as a warm lifting wind 

Murmurs between two swelled and ripening grapes 

Whispering of future wines of mad delight. 

Ah, let me learn of this ! A rapture fills 

My limbs, and in my womb there stirs a craving 

For life . . . life ! Oh, wonderful, the vision that glows 

About me in such radiance, the light, the strife 

Of music, hue and perfume of the rose. 

Oh garden of desire, where one awaits 

My coming with the sudden knowledge glowing 

Deep in my eyes, made sombre as the day 


Is sombre in the summer noon of light. Richard 

Now I perceive I am a sacred temple Church 

Long closed about the hidden flame of life, 
Closed with white ivories and gliding shapes 
Of river waves, and waves upon the sea 
Rising and gliding. Every magic curve 
Of these unheeded arms, this supple waist 
So are my eyes set on the infinite- 
Are ministering music unto life 
Calling love forth to worship in my shrine, 
To fill this temple with the prophecy 
Of further, wider, deeper life to come. 

Hark ! The music of the night is rising up ! 

My neighbour's house is all a flame of song. 

I must abide until the prelude closes, 

Until his heart has ceased its preparation 

And he comes forth into the dying year, 

Leaves his house of inspiration empty, 

And with a loneliness of heart creeps forth 

Eagerly into the night, and gropes his way 

With outstretched nerveless hands unto my home, 

Where I wait, alone ! I hear his lips 

Murmur again, and moan, and murmur again 

Tones of the broken prelude, vainly trying 

To call me forth, who am waiting in my home, 

Waiting in sweet imprisonment, the bonds 

Of love restraining me from running forth 

To greet him and to lead him to my soul. 

Oh the swift pain, the agony of waiting, 
Galled with these terrible sweet bonds of love 
That will not let me rise, though my cold hands 


Richard Are wrung with grief .... for do I not behold 
Church Upon the outer night the rising fire, 

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

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


With overflooding light that spills to earth Richard 

A golden augury of later fruits Church 

And a diviner birth. 

Hark ! Hark ! .... He corner 
He has found the temple of his soul's desire . . . , 
Be still, Oh beating heart, be still .... be still, 
Lest he be troubled now his sacred fire 
Creeps through this temple to your inmost shrine. 
And I at last am his, and he is mine ! 


William H. 
Da vies 


While joy gave clouds the light of stars, 

That beamed where'er they looked ; 
And calves and lambs had tottering knees, 

Excited, while they sucked ; 
While every bird enjoyed his song, 
Without one thought of harm or wrong 
I turned my head and saw the wind, 

Not far from where I stood, 
Dragging the corn by her golden hair, 

Into a dark and lonely wood. 


Da vies 

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

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



Da vies 

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

I ate like three strong men, 
I drank enough for ten, 

Each hour must hare its glass : 
Yes, Drink and Gluttony 
Have starved more brains, say I, 

Than Hunger has. 

And now, when I grow old, 
And my slow blood is cold, 

And feeble is my breath 
I'm followed by those hounds, 
Whose mighty leaps and bounds 

Hunt me to death. 


THE TRUTH William H. 

Da vies 

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

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

Ah, now there comes this thought unkind, 

Born of the knowledge in my mind : 

He sings in triumph that last night 

He killed his father in a fight ; 

And now he'll take his mother's blood 

The last strong rival for his food. 


Da vies 

Have I now found an angel in Unrest, 

That wakeful Love is more desired than sleep : 
Though you seem calm and gentle, you shall show 
The force of this strong love in me so deep. 

Yes, I will make you, though you seem so calm, 
Look from your blue eyes that divinest joy 

As was in Juno's, when she made great Jove 
Forget the war and half his heaven in Troy. 

And I will press your lips until they mix 
With my poor quality their richer wine : 

Be my Parnassus now, and grow more green 
Each upward step towards your top divine. 


Though I was born in April's prime, 

With many another lamb, 
Yet, thinking now of all my years, 

What am I but a tough old ram ? 

" No woman thinks of years," said she, 

" Or any tough old rams, 
When she can hear a voice that bleats 

As tenderly as any lamb's." 

William H. 
Da vies 



We never feel the lust of steel 

Or fury-woken blood, 

We live and die and wonder why 

In mud, and mud, and mud, 

And horror first and horror last 

And Phantom Terror riding past. 

We hear and hear the hounds of Fear 

Nearer and more near. 

W T e feel their breath .... 

Only the nights befriend 

And mitigate the hellj 

Of those who ponder, see and hear, 

Too well. 

The nights, and Death 

The end. 

We feel but never fear 

His breath. 

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

We stifle cries with lightless eyes 

And face eternal night ; 

We stifle cries to sacrifice 

Our eyes for Human Sight. 

And many give that men may live, 

A life, a h'mb, a brain, 

That fellow men may understand 

And be for ever sane. 

What matter if we lose a hand 


Il others wander hand in nand ; Geoffrey 

Or lose a foot if others greet Dearmer 

The dawn of peace with dancing feet j 
What matter if we die unheard 
If others hear the Poet's Word ? 

Because we pay from day to day 
The price of sacrifice ; 
Because we face each dreary place 
Again, again, again. 
Lord, set us free from Sanity 
Who feel no fighting thrill ; 
Must we remain for ever sane 
And never learn to kill ? 
No answer came. In very shame 
Our long-unheeded cry 
Grew bitterly more bitterly, 
" O why, O why, O why. 
May we not feel the lust of steel 
The fury-woken thrill 
For men may learn to live and die 
And never learn to kill ? " 
October, igi8 


Geoffrey SHE TO HIM 


The day you died, my Share of All 

My soul was tossed 

Hither and thither, like a leaf, 

And lost, lost, lost, 

From sounds and sight, 

Beneath the night 

Of gloom and grief. 


(Hush, for the wind may hear) 

Soon, soon you came in solitude : 

And we renewed 

All happiness. 

Now, who shall guess 

How close we are, my dear ? 

(Hush, for the wind may hear.) 

Other women wait 
Their doors ajar ; 
And listen, listen, listen, 
For the gate, 

And murmur, " Soon, the war 
Will seem a far, 
Dim agony of sleep." 

May I be joyful, too, 
That day, 
For love of you 
May I not turn away 
Nor weep. 


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

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

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

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


John In the song I hear it, 

Drink water The thud of a poor feathered death, 
In the swelling throat I see 
The splintering of song 
What demon then has worked in me 
To tease my brain to bitterness 
In me who have loved bird and tree 
So long, so long ? 

Until I come to charity, 

Until I find peace again, 

My curse upon the fiend or god 

That will not let me hear 

A bird in song upon the bough 

But, hovering about the notes, 

There chimes the maniac beating 

Of black-winged fear. 



What will the years tell ? 
Hush ! If it would but speak 
That shadow athwart the stream, 
In the gloom of a dream ; 

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

I sit in the broad June light 

On the open bank of the river, 

In the summer of manhood, young ; 

And over the water bright 

Is a lair that is overhung 

With coned pink blooms that quiver 

And droop, till the water's breast 

Is of petal and leaf caressed. 

And the June sky glares on my prime 

But there in the gloom, with Time, 

Huddled, with Time on its back, 

Is a shadow that is my wrack. 

Yes, it is I in the lair, 

Peering and watching me there. 

Under the chestnut bloom 
My old age hides in the gloom. 
And the years to be have been, 
Could I spell the lore of that brain. 
But the river flows between, 
Over the weeds of pain, 
Over the snares of death, 


John Maybe, should I leap to hold, 

Drinkwater. With myself grown old, 

Council there in the gloom 

Under the chestnut bloom. 

And so, with instruction none, 

I go, and leave it there, 

My ghost with Time in its lair, 

And the things that must yet be done 

Tear at my heart unknown, 

And the years have tongues of stone 

With no syllable to make 

For consolation's sake. 

But peradventure yet 

I shall return 

To dare the weeds of death, 

And plunge through the coned pink bloc m, 

And cry on that spectre set 

In its silent ring of gloom, 

And stay my youth to learn 

The thing that my old age saith. 

IN WAR TIME Wilfrid 

1 Wilson 

TROOPSHIP, (s.s. Baltic : Mid-Atlantic : July, 1917) Gibson 
Dark waters into crystalline brilliance break 
.About the keel, as through the moonless night 
The dark ship moves in its own moving lake 
Of phosphorescent cold moon-coloured light ; 
And to the clear horizon, all around 
Drift pools of fiery beryl flashing bright 
As though, still flashing, quenchless, cold and white, 
A million moons in the dark green waters drowned. 

And staring at the magic with eyes adream, 
That never till now have looked upon the sea, 
Boys from the Middle-West lounge listlessly 
In the unlanterned darkness, boys who go 
Beckoned by some unchallengeable gleam 
To unknown lands to fight an unknown foe. 


Indifferent, flippant, earnest, but all bored, 

The doctors sit in the glare of electric light 

Watching the endless stream of naked white 

Bodies of men for whom their hasty award 

Means life or death, maybe, or the living death 

Of mangled limbs, blind eyes or darkened brain : 

And the chairman, as his monocle falls again, 

Pronounces each doom with easy, indifferent breath. 

Then suddenly they all shudder as they see 

A young man move before them wearily, 

Pallid and gaunt as one already dead ; 

And they are strangely troubled as he stands 

With arms outstretched and drooping, thorn-crowned 

The nail-marks glowing in his feet and hands. 

Wilfrid 3 

Wilson AIR-RAID. 

Gibson Night shatters in mid-heaven : the bark of guns, 
The roar of planes, the crash of bombs, and all 
The unshackled skiey pandemonium stuns 
The senses to indifference, when a fall 
Of masonry near by startles awake, 
Tingling wide-eyed, prick-eared, with bristling hair, 
Each sense within the body crouched aware 
Like some sore-hunted creature in the brake. 

Yet side by side we lie in the little room, 

Just touching hands, with eyes and ears that strain 

Keenly, yet dream-bewildered, through tense gloom, 

Listening hi helpless stupor of insane 

Drugged nightmare panic fantastically wild, 

To the quiet breathing of our sleeping child. 


As gaudy flies across a pewter plate, 

On the grey disk of the unrippling sea, 

Beneath an airless, sullen sky of slate 

Dazzled destroyers zig-zag restlessly, 

While underneath the sleek and livid tide, 

Blind monsters nosing through the soundless deep, 

Lean submarines among blind fishes glide 

And through primeval weedy forests sweep. 

Over the hot grey surface of my mind 
Glib, motley rumours zig-zag without rest, 
While deep within the darkness of my breast 
Monstrous desires, lean, sinister and blind, 
Slink through unsounded night and stir the slime 
And ooze of oceans of forgotten time. 


5 Wilfrid 

RAGTIME. Wilson 

A minx in khaki struts the limelit boards : Gibson 

With false moustache, set smirk and ogling eyes 
And straddling legs and swinging hips she tries 
To swagger it like a soldier, while the chords 
Of rampant ragtime jangle, clash, and clatter ; 
And over the brassy blare and drumming din 
She strains to squirt her squeaky notes and thin 
Spirtle of sniggering lascivious patter. 

Then out into the jostling Strand I turn, 

And down a dark lane to the quiet river, 

One stream of silver under the full moon, 

And think of how cold searchlights flare and burn 

Over dank trenches where men crouch and shiver, 

Humming, to keep their hearts up, that same tune. 


Crouched on the crowded deck, we watch the sun 
In naked gold leap out of a cold sea 
Of shivering silver ; and stretching drowsily 
Crampt legs and arms, relieved that night is done 
And the slinking, deep-sea peril past, we turn 
Westward to see the chilly, sparkling light 
Quicken the Wicklow Hills, till jewel-bright 
In their Spring freshness of dewy green they burn. 

And silent on the deck beside me stands 
A soldier, lean and brown, with restless hands, 
And eyes that stare unkindling on the life 
And rapture of green hills and glistening morn : 
He comes from Flanders home to his dead wife, 
And I, from England, to my son newborn. 


Wilfrid 7 

Wilson BACCHANAL. (November, 1918.) 

Into the twilight of Trafalgar Square 

They pour from every quarter, banging drums 

And tootling penny trumpets : to a blare 

Of tin mouth-organs, while a sailor strums 

A solitary banjo, lads and girls, 

Locked in embraces, in a wild dishevel 

Of flags and streaming hair, with curdling skirls 

Surge in a frenzied, reeling, panic revel. 

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



The shepherd sings : 

" Way down in Dixie, 
Way down in Dixie, 
Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay . . . ' 

With shaded eyes he stands to look 
Across the hills where the clouds swoon, 
He singing, leans upon his crook, 

He sings, he sings no more. 
The wind is muffled in the tangled hairs 
Of sheep that drift along the noon. 

One mild sheep stares 
With amber eyes about the pearl-flecked June. 

Two skylarks soar 

With singing flame 
Into the sun whence first they came. 
All else is only grasshoppers 
Or a brown wing the shepherd stirs, 
Who, like a tall tree moving, goes 
Where the pale tide of sheep-drift flows. 

See ! the sun smites 

With sea-drawn lights 
The turned wing of a gull that glows 
Aslant the violet, the profound 
Dome of the mid- June heights. 

Alas ! again the grasshoppers, 
The birds, the slumber-winging bees, 
Alas ! again for those and these 
Demure and sweet things drowned ; 
Drowned in vain raucous words men made 


Louis Where no lark rose with swift and sweet 

Golding Ascent and where no dim sheep strayed 
About the stone immensities, 
Where no sheep strayed and where no bees 
Probed any flowers nor swung a blade 
Of grass with pollened feet. 

He sings : 

" In Dixie, 

Way down in Dixie, 
Where the hens are dog-gone glad to lay 
Scrambled eggs in the new -mown hay . . . ' 

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

Ah, now the sweet monotonies 
Of bells that jangle on the sheep 
To the low limit of the hills ! 
Till the blue cup of music spills 
Into the boughs of lowland trees ; 
Till thence the lowland singings creep 


Into the silenced shepherd's head, Louis 

Creep drowsily through his blood : Golding 

The young thrush fluting all he knows, 

The ring-dove moaning his false woes, 

Almost the rabbit's tiny tread, 
The last unfolding bud. 

But now, 

Now a cool word spreads out along the sea. 
Now the day's violet is cloud-tipped with gold. 

Now dusk most silently 

Fills the hushed day with other wings than birds' . 
Now where on foam-crest waves the seagulls rock, 
To their cliff -haven go the seagulls thence. 
So too the shepherd gathers in his flock, 

Because birds journey to their dens, 

Tired sheep to their still fold. 
A dark first bat swoops low and dips 
About the shepherd who now sings 
A song of timeless evenings ; 
For dusk is round him with wide wings, 
Dusk murmurs on his moving lips. 

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

Once the world's shepherds woke to lead 
The folded sheep that they might feed 
On green downs where winds blow. 

One shepherd sang a golden word. 
A thousand miles away one heard. 
One sang it swift, one sang it slow. 


Louis Three skylarks heard, three skylarks told 
Golding All shepherds this same song of gold 
On all downs where winds blow. 

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

The song three skylarks told again 
To all the sheep and shepherd men 
On green downs where winds blow. 



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

Such godlike stuff my spirit drinks 

I make grand odes of tempests there. 

The steel-winged eagle, if he dare 

To cleave these tracts of frozen air, 
Hearing such music, swoops and sinks. 

Stark clangours of forgotten wars, 

Tumults of primal love and hate, 

Through crags of song reverberate. 

Held by the Singer of High State, 
Battalions of the midnight pause. 

On hills uplift from Space and Time, 

Upon the peak of Solitude, 

With stars to give my furnace food, 

On anvils of black granite crude 
I forge austerities of rhyme. 



Gould 1 

Those were our freedoms, and we come to this : 
The climbing road that lures the climbing feet 
Is lost : there lies no mist above the wheat, 

Where-thro' to glimpse the silver precipice, 

Far off, about whose base the white seas hiss 

In spray ; the world grows narrow and complete ; 
We have lost our perils in the certain sweet ; 

We have sold our great horizon for a kiss. 

To every hill there is a lowly slope, 

But some have heights beyond all height so high 
They make new worlds for the adventuring eye. 
We for achievement have forgone our hope, 
And shall not see another morning ope, 
Nor the new moon come into the new sky. 

Where is our freedom sought, and where to seek ? 

The voices of the various world agree 

The future's ours : to hope is to be free : 
Only to doubt, to fear, is to be weak. 
Have you not felt upon your calm clear cheek 

The kiss of the bright wind of liberty ? 

What more is there to ask, what more to be ? 
Peace, peace, my soul, and let the silence speak ! 

To hope is to be free ? Nay, hope's a slave 
To every chance ; hope is the same as fear ; 

Hope trembles at the wind, the star, the wave, 
The voice, the mood, the music ; hope stands near 

The chilly threshold of the waiting grave, 

And when the silence speaks, hope does not hear. 


3 Gerald 

In the old days came freedom with a sword. 

Ev'n so ; but also freedom came with wings 

Fanning the faint and purple bloom that clings 
To the great twilight where our dreams are stored. 
Freedom was what the waters would afford 

That yet obeyed the white moon's whisperings, 

And freedom leapt and listened in the strings 
Of dulcimer and lute and clavichord. 

In the old days ? But those old days are now. 
O merciful, O bright, O valiant brow, 

Can you seek freedom that way and I this ? 
Not in the single note is music free, 
But where creation's climbing fires agree 

In multitudes, in flights, in silences. 

Shall we mark off our little patch of power 

From time's compulsive process ? Shall we sit 
With memory, warming our weak hands at it, 

And say : "So be it ; we have had one hour " ? 

Surely the mountains are a better dower, 
With their dark scope and cloudy infinite, 
Than small perfection, trivial exquisite ; 

'Mid all that dark the brightness of a flower ! 

Lovers are not themselves : they are more, they are all : 
For them are past and future spread together 
Like a green landscape lit by golden weather : 

For them the rhythmic change conjectural 
Of time and place is but the question whether 

Their God shall stand (as stand he must) or fall. 


Gerald 5 

Gould Q co i remembrance, careful-careless kiss, 

That does not wake to hope with waking day, 
And at the hour of bed-time does not say : 
" That was for rapture, that for peace, but this 
Burns for the night's more terrible auspices, 
And pangs and sweets of doubt and disarray ! " 
Yet in one kiss two hearts iound once the way 
From perfect ignorance to perfect bliss. 

Love has so many voices, low and high, 

Such range of reason, such delight of rhyme ! 
Yet when I asked love such a simple thing 
As why the autumn comes where came the spring, 
The only soul that answered me was I, 

And love was silent then for the first time. 


Our love is hurt, and the bad world goes on 
Moving to its conclusion : in a year 
This corn now reaped will come again to ear, 

The moon will shine as last night the moon shone ; 

The tide, whose thought is the moon's thought, will don 
The silver livery of subjection. Dear, 
Is it not strange that hearts will hope and fear 

And break, when our hearts, broken now, are gone ? 

If this were true, life's movement would rebel, 
And curdle to its source, as blood to the heart 
When the cold fires of indignation start 

From their obscure lair in the body. Well, 
If for us two to part were just to part 

All years would have one pointless tale to tell. 


7 Gerald 

The little things, the little restless things, Gould 

The base and barren things, the things that spite 

The day, and trail processions through the night 
Of sad remembrances and questionings ; 
The poverties, stupidities and stings, 

The silted misery, the hovering blight ; 

The things that block the paths of sound and sight ; 
The things that snare our thought and break its wings 

How shall we bear these ? we who suffer so 
The shattering sacrifice, the huge despair, 
The terrors loosed like lightnings on the air, 

To leave all nature blackened from that curse ! 
The big things are the enemies we know, 

The little things the traitors. Which are worse ? 


Now must we gather up and comprehend 

The volume of vicissitude, and take 

Account of loving, for each other's sake, 
And ask how love began and how will end 
(If there be any end of love, O friend 

Of my worst hours and best desires !) and stake 

Our all upon the sweetness and the ache 
Of what men's stories and God's stars intend. 

You have my all : you are my all : you give, 

Out of your bounty and content of soul, 
The only strength that makes me fit to live 

Since earth of spirit takes such heavy toll : 
Yet I, the weak, the faint, the fugitive, 

Stand here, an equal part of the great whole. 




Light, like a closing flower, covers to earth her herds, 

Out of the world we only watch for the rise of moon ; 
Darker the twilight glimmers, dulls the warble of birds, 
Over the silent field travels the night -jar's tune. 

Here, at my side, so close that even your breath I hear, 
Face and form that I love, now with the night made 

Pray not for any star ! Come not, O moon, for fear 
Lest in thy light we lose our way ere the dream be done. 

Touch, and clasp, and be close ! Kiss, oh kiss, and be 

warm ! 

What is here, O beloved, so like a sea without sound ? 
Under the swathe at our feet, swifter than wings of 


Summer speeds on his way : Spring lies dead in the 

How like a closing flower, clasped by a sleeping bee, 
Life folds over us now : and here hi the midst love 

beloved, flower of night, no morrow's moon shall we 


Between a dusk and a day we meet, and at dawn Time 




Which of my palaces ? Gold one by one, 

Of all the splendid houses of my throne, 

This day in grave thought have I over-gone : 

Those roofs of stars where I have lived alone 

Gladly with God ; those blue-encompassed bowers 

Hushed round with lakes, and guarded with still flowers, 

Where I have watched a face from eve till morn, 

Wondering at being born 

Then on from morn again till the next eve, 

Still with strange eyes, unable to believe ; 

And yet, though week and month and year went by, 

Incredulous of my ensorcelled eye. 

had I thus in trance for ever stayed, 
Still were she there in the reed-girdled isle, 
And I there still I who go treading now 
Eternity, a-hungered mile by mile : 
Because I pressed one kiss upon her brow, 
After a thousand years that seemed an hour 
Of looking on my flower, 

After that patient planetary fast, 

One kiss at last ; 

One kiss and then strange dust that once was she. 

Sayest thoti, Rose, " What is all this to me ? " 
This would I answer, if it pleaseth thee, 
Thou Rose and Nightingale so strangely one : 
That of my palaces, gold one by one, 

1 fell a-thinking, pondering which to-day, 
The day of the Blessed Saint, Saint Valentine, 
Which of those many palaces of mine, 

I, with bowed head and lowly bended knee, 


Richard Might bring to thee. 

Le Gallienne O which of all my lordly roofs that rise 
To kiss the starry skies 

May with great beams make safe that golden head, 
With all that treasure of hair showered and spread, 
Careless as though it were not gold at all 
Yet in the midnight lighting the black hall ; 
And all that whiteness lying there as though 
It were but driven snow. 
Pondering on all these pinnacles and towers, 
That, as I come with trumpets, call me lord, 
And crown their battlements with girlhood flowers, 
I can but think of one. Twas not my sword 
That won it, nor was it aught I did or dreamed, 
But O it is a palace worthy thee ! 
For all about it flows the eternal sea, 
A blue moat guarding an immortal queen ; 
And over it an everlasting crown 
That, as the moon comes and the sun goes down, 
Adds jewel after jewel, gem on gem, 
To the august appropriate diadem 
Of her, in whom all potencies that are 
Wield sceptres and with quiet hands control, 
Kind as that fairy wand the evening star, 
Or the strong angel that we call the soul. 

Thou splendid girl that seemest the mother of all, 

Dear Ceres-Aphrodite, with every lure 

That draws the bee to honey, with the call 

Of moth-winged night to sinners, yet as pure 

As the white nun that counts the stars for beads ; 

Thou blest Madonna of all broken needs, 

Thou Melusine, thou sister of sorrowing man, 

Thou wave-like laughter, thou dear sob in the throat, 


Thou all-enfolding mercy, and thou song Richard 

That gathers up each wild and wandering note, Le Gallieni 

And takes and breaks and heals and breaks the heart 
With the omnipotent tenderness of art ; 
And thou Intelligence of rose-leaves made 
That makes that little thing the brain afraid. 

For thee my Castle of the Spring prepares : 

On the four winds are sped my couriers, 

For thee the towered trees are hung with green ; 

Once more for thee, O queen, 

The banquet hall with ancient tapestry 

Of woven vines grows fair and still more fair. 

And ah ! how in the minstrel gallery 

Again there is the sudden string and stir 

Of music touching the old instruments, 

While on the ancient floor 

The rushes as of yore 

Nymphs of the house of spring plait for your feet 

Ancestral ornaments. s^jj 

And everywhere a hurrying to and fro, : *g 

And whispers saying, " She is so sweet so sweet " ; 

O violets, be ye not too late to blow, 

O daffodils be fleet : 

For, when she comes, all must be in its place, 

All ready for her entrance at the door, 

All gladness and all glory for her face, 

All flowers for her flower-feet a floor ; 

And, for her sleep at night in that great bed 

Where her great locks are spread, 

O be ye ready, ye young woodland streams 

To sing her back her dreams. 



June 28th 1919 

From the tennis lawn you can hear the guns going, 

Twenty miles away, 
Telling the people of the home counties 

That the peace was signed to-day. 
To-night there'll be feasting in the city ; 

They will drink deep and eat 
Keep peace the way you planned you would keep it 

(If we got the Boche beat). 
Oh, your plan and your word, they are broken, 

For you neither dine nor dance ; 
And there's no peace so quiet, so lasting, 

As the peace you keep in^rance. 

You'll be needing no Covenant of Nations 

To hold your peace intact. 
It does not hang on the close guarding 

Of a frail and wordy pact. 
When ours screams, shattered and driven, 

Dust down the storming years, 
Yours will stand stark, like a grey fortress, 

Blind to the storm's tears. 

Our peace .... your peace ... I see neither. 

They are a dream, and a dream. 
I only see you laughing on the tennis lawn J 

And brown and alive you seem, 
As you stoop over the tall red foxglove, 

(It flowers again this year) 


And imprison within a freckled bell 

A bee, wild with fear .... 

* * * 

Oh, you cannot hear the noisy guns gcing : 

You sleep too far away. 
It is nothing to you, who have your own peace, 

That our peace was signed to-day. 






Beneath th' triumphal blue, th' riotous day, 
Her silvern galley beats the black flood white, 
Whilst the long sillage hoards some close delight 

Of incense, flutes, and stir of silk array. 

From forth the pompous poop, her royal sway, 

Near where the mystic hawk stands poised for flight, 
The Queen, erect, stares out, flushed, exquisite, 

Like some great golden bird that spies her prey. 

The tryst is kept : her spoiled warrior there : 
And the brown gipsy in the swooning air 

Spreads amber arms the purple glow stains red ; 
Nor hath she seen, nor known with shuddering breath, 

Symbols of Doom, those Youths Divine who shed 
Rose-leaves on sombre deeps Desire and Death. 


The shock was stern : the cohorts near to rout. 
Staying the flight, tribune, centurion, 
From heat of carnage 'neath th' enduring sun 

Breathe blood, and smell its savour as they shout. 

With haggard eyes, that count the dead about, 
Each spearman marks the archers, all undone, 
Whirl h'ke heaped leaves before Euroclydon. 

From the brown faces sweat falls gout by gout. 

That fated hour with many a shaft stuck o'er, 
Streaming in burnished brass and purple weed, 

Red with the scarlet flux of wounds full sore, 
With trumpets shrilling forth their urgent need, 
Against the sunset, on his frighted steed 

Surged, glorious, the ensanguined Emperor. 



o Mason 

From the high terrace they might see far down, 

Egypt asleep, by plague of heat opprest ; 

Old Father Nile, in beauty manifest, 
Roll his rich flood towards many a famous town. 
And lo, the Roman felt 'neath mail and gown 

(Captain and slave, soothing a child to rest) 

Relax and fail on his triumphant breast 
That body made for love, by love o'erthrown. 

Lifting her silken head and blanched face 
To him whose senses reel at such rare grace 

And piercing sweetness, she prefers her lips ; 
But stooping close, his ardent eyes behold 
In those deep eyes, sewn thick with points of gold, 

A hazardous sea bestrewn with fleeing ships. 

From the French of Jose Maria de Heredia 

Theodore DIRGE 


If on a day it should befall 

That love must have her funeral ; 

And men weep tears that love is dead, 

That never more her gracious head 

Can turn to meet their eyes and hold 

Their hearts with chains of silky gold ; 

That never more her hands can be 

As dear as was virginity ; 

That in her coffin there is laid 

Beauty, the body of a maid, 

The body of one so piteous-sweet, 

With candles burning at her feet 

And cowled monks singing requiem . . . . 

I think I would not go with them, 

Her lordly lovers, to the place 

Where lies that lovely mournful face, 

That curving throat and marvellous hair 

Under the sconces' yellow flare 

How shall a man be comforted 

When love is dead, when love is dead ? 

But I would make my moan apart, 

Keeping my dreams within my heart 

For guarded as a sepulchre 

Shall be the house I built for her 

Of silver spires and pinnacles 

With carillons of mellow bells, 

A house of song for her delight 

Whose joy was as the strong sunlight 

But now love's ultimate word is said, ' 

For love is dead, for love is dead ! 


But even should all hope be lost 
Some memory, like a thin white ghost, 
Might stealthily move in midnight hours 
Among those silent sacred towers, 
And glimmer on the moonlit lawn 
Until the cold ironic dawn 
Arises from her saffron bed 
When love is dead, when love is dead 




Lest, tortured by the world's strong sin, 
Her little bruised heart should die 
Give her your heart to shelter in, 
O earth and sky ! 

Kneel, sun, to clothe her round about 
With rays to keep her body warm ; 

And, kind moon, shut the shadows out 
That work her harm. 

Yes, even shield her from my will's 
Wild folly hold her safe and close !- 

For my rough hand in touching spills 
Life from the rose. 

But teach me, too, that I may learn 
Your passion classical and cool ; 

To me, who tremble so and burn, 
Be pitiful ! 


LAUS DEO ! Theodore 

Praise ! that when thick night circled over me Maynard 

In chaos ere my time or world began, 
Thy finger shaped my body cunningly, 

Thy thought conceived me ere I was a man ! 
Thy Spirit breathed upon me in the dark 

Wherein I strangely grew, 
Bestowing glowing powers to the spark 

The mouth of heaven blew ! 

Praise ! that a babe I leapt upon the world 

Spread at my feet in its magnificence, 
With trees as giants, flowers as flags unfurled, 

And rains as diamonds in their excellence ! 
Praise ! for the solemn splendour of surprise 

That came with breaking day ; 
For all the ranks of stars that met my eyes 

When sunset burned away ! 

Praise ! that there burst on my unfolding heart 

The coloured radiance of leafy June, 
With choirs of song-birds perfected in art, 

And nightingales beneath the summer moon 
Praise ! that this beauty, an unravished bride 

Doth hold her lover still ; 
Doth hide and beckon, laugh at me, and hide 

Upon each grassy hill. 

Praise ! that I know the dear capricious sky 

In every infinitely varied mood 
Yet under her maternal wings can lie 

The smallest chick among her countless brood ! 
Praise ! that I hear the strong winds wildly race 

Their chariots on the sea, 
But feel them lift my hair and stroke my face 

Softly and tenderly ! 


Theodore Praise . for the joy and gladness thou didst send, 
Maynard When I have sat in gracious fellowship 

In firelight for an evening with a friend, 

When wine and magic entered at the lip ! 
For laughter which the fates can overthrow 

Thy mercy doth accord- 
To Thee, who didst my godlike joy bestow, 
I lift my glass, O Lord ! 

Praise ! that a lady leaning from her height, 

A lady pitiful, a tender maid, 
A queen majestical unto my sight, 

Spoke words of love to me, and sweetly laid 
Her hand within my own unworthy hand ! 

(Rise, soul, to greet thy guest, 
Mysterious love, whom none shall understand, 

Though love be all confessed !) 

Praise ! that upon my bent and bleeding back 

Was stretched some share of Thy redeeming cross, 
Some poverty as largess for my lack, 

Some loss that shall prevent my utter loss ! 
Praise ! that thou gavest me to keep joy sweet 

The sanguine salt of pain ! 
Praise ! for the weariness of questing feet 

That else might quest in vain ! 




Dear exile from the hurrying crowd, 

At work I muse to you aloud ; 

Thought on my anvil softens, glows, 

And I forget our art has foes ; 

For life, the mother of beauty, seems 

A joyous sleep with waking dreams. 

Then the toy armoury of the brain 

Opining, judging, looks as vain 

As trowels silver gilt for use 

Of mayors and kings, who have to lay 

Foundation stones in hope they may 

Be honoured for walls others build. 

I, in amicable muse, 

With fathomless wonder only rilled, 

Whisper over to your ear 

Listening two hundred odd miles north, 

And give thought chase that, were you here, 

Our talk would never run to earth. 

Man can answer no momentous question : 

Whence comes his spirit ? Has it lived before ? 

Reason fails ; hot springs of feeling spout 

Their snowy columns high in the dim land 

Of his surmise violent divine decisions 

That often rule him : and at times he views 

Portraits of places he has never been to, 

Yet more minute and vivid than remembrance. 

Of boyhood homes, sail between sleep and waking 

Like some mirage, refuting all experience 

With topsy-turvy ships, 

That steals by in dead calms through tropic haze : 

And many a man in his climacteric years, 


T. Sturge Thoughts and remembered words have roused from sleep 
Moore With knowledge that he lacked on lying down : 

And I, lapped in a trance of reverie, doubt 
Some spore of episodes 
Anterior far beyond this body's birth, 
Dispersed like puffs of dust impalpable, 
Wind-carried round this globe for centuries, 
May, breathed with common air, yet swim the blood, 
And striking root in this or that brain, raise 
Imaginations unaccountable ; 
One such seems half -implied in all I am, 
1 And many times re-pondered shapes like this : 

A child myself I watched a woman loll 

Like to a clot of seaweed thrown ashore ; 

Heavy and limp as cloth soaked in black dye, 

She glooms the noontide dazzle where a bay 

Bites into vineyarded flats close-fenced by hills, 

Over whose tops lap forests of cork and fir 

And reach in places half down their rough slopes. 

Lower, some few cleared fields square on the thickets 

Of junipers and longer thorns than furze 

So clumped that they are trackless even for goats 

I know two things about that woman : first 

She is a slave and I am free, and next 

As mothers need their sons' love she needs mine. 

Longings to utter fond compassionate sounds 

Stir through me, checked by knowing wiser folk 

Reprobate such indulgence" 111 at ease, 

Mute, yet her captive, I thrust brown toes through 

Loose sand no daily large tides overwhelm 

To cake and roll it firm and smooth and clean 

As the Atlantic remakes shores, you know. 

But there, like trailing skirts, long flaws of wind 

Obliterate the prints feet during calms 


Track over and over its always lonely stretch, T. Sturge 

Till some will have it ghosts must rove at night J Moore 

For folk by day are rare, yet a still week 

Leaves hardly ten yards anywhere uncrossed ; 

Tempest spreads all revirginate like snow, 

Half burying dead wood snapped off from tossed trees, 

Since right along the foreshore, out of reach 

Of furious driven waves, three hundred pines 

Straggle the marches between sand and soil. 

Like maps of stone-walled fields their branching roots 

Hold the silt still so that thin grass grows there, 

Its blades whitened with travelling powdery drift 

The besom of the lightest breeze sets stirring. 

That woman's gaze toils worn from remote years, 

Yet forward yearns through the bright spacious noon, 

Beyond the farthest isle, whose filmy shape 

Floats faint on the sea-line. 

I, scooping grains up with the frail half -shell 

Pale green and white-lined of sea-urchin, knew 

What her eyes sought as often children know 

Of grief or sin they could not name or think of 

Yet sooth or shrink from, so I saw and longed 

To heal her tender wound and yet said naught. 

The energy of bygone joy and pain 

Had left her listless figure charged with magic 

That caught and held my idleness near hers. 

Resentful of her power, my spirit chafed 

Against its own deep pity, as though it were 

Raised ghost and she the witch had bid it haunt me. 

What's more I knew this slave by rights should glean 

And faggot drift-wood, not lounge there and waste 

My father's food dreaming his time away. 

For then as now the common-minded rich 

Grudged ease to those whose toil brought them in meams 

For every waste of life. At length I spoke, 


Insulting both my inarticulate soul 

And her with acted anger : " Lazy wretch, 

Is it for eyes like yours to watch the sea 

As though you waited for a homing ship ? 

My father might with reason spend his hours 

Scanning the far horizon ; for his Swan 

Whose outward lading was full half a vintage 

Is now months overdue." She turned on me 

Her languor knit and, through its homespun wrap, 

Her muscular frame gave hints of rebel will, 

While those great caves of night, her eyes, faced mine, 

Dread with the silence of unuttered wrongs : 

At last she spoke as one who must be heeded. 

Truly I am not clear 

Whether her meaning was conveyed in words 

(She mingled accents of an eastern tongue 

With deformed phrases of our native Latin) 

Or whether thought from her gaze poured through mine. 

The gravity of recollected life 

Was hers, condensed and, like a vision, flashed 

Suddenly on the guilty mind, a whole 

Compact, no longer a mere tedious string 

Of moments negligible, each so small 

As they were lived, but stark like a slain man 

Who would ah' ve have been ourself with twice 

The skill, the knowledge, the vitality 

Actually ours. Yea, as a tree may view 

With fingerless boughs and lorn pole impotent, 

An elephant gorged upon its leaves depart, 

Men often have reviewed an unwieldy past, 

That like a feasted Mammoth, leisured and slow, 

Turned its back on their warped bones. Even thus, 

Momentous with reproach, her grave regard 

Made me feel mean, cashiered of rank and right, 

My limbs that twelve good years had nursed were 

g numbed 

And all their fidgety quicksilver grew stiff, T. Sturge 

Novel and fevering hallucinations Moore 

Invaded my attention. So daylight 

When shutters are thrown back spreads through a house ; 

As then the dreams and terrors of the night 

Decamp, so from my mind were driven 

All its own thoughts and feelings. Close she leant 

Propped on a swarthy arm, while the other helped 

With eloquent gesture potent as wizard wand, 

Veil the world off as with an airy web, 

Or flowing tent a-gleam with pictured folds. 

These tauten and distend one sea of wheat, 

Islanded with black cities, borders now 

The voluminous blue pavilion of day. 

There-under to the nearest of those towns 

This woman younger by ten years made haste 

While at her side ran a small boy of six. 

They neared the walls, half a huge double gate 

Lay prostrate, though the other by stone hinges 

Hung to its flanking tower. The path they followed 

Threaded an old paved road whose flags were edged 

With dry grass and dry weeds, even cactuses 

Had pushed the stones up or found root in muck heaps ; 

The path struck up the slope of the fallen door, 

Basalt like midnight, o'er which dusty feet 

Had greyed a passage, for it rested on 

Some debris fallen from the left-hand tower, 

And from its upper edge rude blocks like steps 

Led down into the straight main street, that ran 

Past eyeless buildings mined as it were from coal, 

And earthquake-raised to light. Palaces and 

Roofless wide-flighted colonnaded temples, 

The uncemented walls piled-plumb with blocks 

Squared, polished, fitted with daemonic patience. 

Each gaping threshold high again as need be 


T. Sturge Waited a nine-foot lord to enter hall, 
Moore Where the least draughty corner sheltered now 

Half-tented hut or improvised small home 
For Arab, brown, light-footed and proud-necked 
As was this woman with the compelling voice. 
Their present hutched and hived within that past 
As bees in the parchment chest of Samson's lion ; 
And all seem conscious that their life was sweet, 
Like mice who clean their faces after meals 
And have such grace of movement, when unscared, 
As wins the admiration even of those 
Whose stores they rob and soil. I saw her eyes 
Young with contentment in her son 
And smaller babe and in their handsome sire, 
And knew that many a supper had been relished 
With hearts as joyous as waited while she cooked 
And served upon returning to their cot 
In hall where once far other hearts caroused. 
They and their tribe could never reap a tithe 
Of the vast harvest rustling round those ruins, 
And over which a half-moon soon set forth 
From black hills mounded up both east and south, 
While north-west her light played on distant summits 
All the huge interspace floored with standing corn 
Which kings afar send soldiery to reap, 
Who now, beside a long canal cut straight 
In ancient days, have pitched their noisy camp 
Which on that vast staid silence makes a bruise 
Of blare and riot that its robust health 
Will certainly heal in a brief lapse of time. 

One night, re-thought on after ten whole years, 
Is like the condor high above the Andes, 
A speck with difficulty found again 
Once the attention quits it. And I next 
Descried our woman under breathless noon, 

Bathing in a clear lane of gliding water T. Sturge 

Whose banks seem lonely as the path of light Moore 

Crossing mid ocean south of Capricorn. 

Her son steals warily after a butterfly 

And is as hushed with hope to capture it 

As are the birds with heat. An insect hum 

Circles the spot as round a cymbal's rim, 

Long after it has clanged, tingles a throb 

Which in a dream forgets the parent sound, 

Oppressed by this protracted and awe-filled pause, 

She hardly dares to wade the stream and moves 

As though in dread to wake some sleeping god, 

Yet still she nears and nears the further bank 

Where there is shade under a shumac's eaves. 

The brilliant surface cut her right in two, 

And the reflection of her bronzed torso 

Hid all beneath the polished gliding mirror ; 

How her face listened to that sleep divine 

Whose audible breath was tuned to dreams of bliss ! 

Sudden, as though the woof of heaven were torn, 
A strident shout rang from some neighbour shrubs 
Three Nubian soldiers ran upon her with 
Delighted oily faces. Screaming first 
Commands to her small son to make for home, 
She laboured to recross the current as when 
In nightmares the scared soul expects to die 
Tortured by mutiny in limbs like lead, 
But as the playful lion of the sea 
Climbs the rock ledges hard by Fingal's cave 
To throw himself down into deep green baths, 
While others barking follow his vigorous lead, 
The foremost Abyssinian threw his weight 
Before her with a splash that hid them both, 
As the explosion of light-filled liquid parcels 


T. Sturge Shot forth in all directions. In his arms 
Moore She re-appeared, a tragic terrified face 

Beside his coarse one laughing with success. 

Squeezing her with a pantomime of love, 

He turns to follow an arrow with his eyes 

That his companion, still upon the bank, 

Has aimed towards her son's small head that bobbed 

Like a black cork across the basking corn. 

But from the level of the sunk stream bed 

Neither he nor she could see the target aimed at, 

Yet in the pause they heard the poor child scream ; 

A second arrow, second scream ; she fought, 

But soon like bundle bound, hung o'er his shoulder, 

Helpless as a mouse in cat's mouth carried off 

In search of quiet, there to play with it. 

Those arrows missed ? or did they not ? The child 

Shrieked twice, yet scarcely like a wounded thing 

She thought and hoped and still but thinks and hopes. 

Where is that boy ? Where is her husband now ? 

While she submitted body to force and soul 

To the great shuddering violence of despair 

How had their life progressed in that far place ? 

Compassion fused my consciousness with hers 

And second-sighted eloquence arose 

To claim my mind for rostrum, 

But obstinately tranced 

My eyes clung to their vision ; 

For regions to explore allure the boy 

No stretch of thought or sea of feeling tempts. 

Entranced, the mind I then had, haunted 

Those basalt ruins. High on sable towers 

Some silky patriarchal goat appears 

And ponders silent streets, or suddenly 

Some nanny, her huge bag swollen with milk, 

Trots out on galleries that unfenced run 


Round vacant courts, there, stopped by plaintive kid?, T. Stuq 

Lets them complete their meal. While always, always, Moore 

Throughout, those mazed, sullen and sun-soaked wafts, 

The steady, healthy wind, 

Whicli often blows for weeks without a lull 

Across that upland plain, 

Flutes staidly. Moaning 

Continuously as seas 

Or forests before storm, 

And, gathering moment, 

Articulated by her woe, begins 

With second-sighted eloquence 

To wail through me, 

Nigh as unheeded, 

As though it still had been 

Meaningless wind. 

For ah ! the heart is cowed 

And dares not use her strength, 

Hears the kind impulse plead 

Against the common avaricious fear, 

Grants it but life, though sovereignty was due 

Or doles it sway but one day out of seven 

Or one a year. 

So, so, and ever, so 
In the close-curtained court 
Those causes are deferred 
Which most import ; 
These wait man's leisure. 
These daily matters elbow ; 
Merely because 
His panic meanness 
Jibs blindly ere it hear 
What wisdom has prepared, 


T. Sturge Bolts headlong ere it see 
Moore Her face unfold its smile. 

Man after man, race after race 

Drops jaded by the iterancy 

Of petty fear/ 

Even as horses on the green steppes grazing, 

Hundreds scattered through lonely peacefulness, 

If shadow of cloud or red fox breaking earth 

Delude but one with dream of a stealthy foe, 

All are stampeded. 

Their frantic torrent draws in, 

With dire attraction, cumulative force, 

Stragglers grazing miles from where it started ; 

On it thunders quite devoid of meaning. 

The tender private soul 

Thus takes contagion from the sordid crowd, 

And shying at mere dread of loss, 

Loses the whole of life. 

Thus, in the vortex of a base turmoil, 

Those myriad million energies wear down 

That might have raised mankind 

To live the life of gods. 

Had but my soul been his, 

As his was mine, 

Those wind-resembling accents 

Had found fit auditor. 

Their second-sighted eloquence, 

Welcomed with acclamation, 

Had fired action. 

But that was ages since : he was not then 

What now I am, 

Who have no longer 

The opportunity then mine, then missed, 

Who still am dazed and troubled 

Surmising others mine, others missed. 


Passionate, never-wearied voice T. Sturge 

Tombed in thy brittle shell, Moore 

This human heart 

Thou croonest age on age, 

"Give and ask not, 

Help and blame not," 

Heeded less than large and mottled cowry 

The which at least some child may hold to ear 

All smiles to listen. 

Thou findest parables ; 
With fond imagination 
Adorning truth 
For the successive 

This boy, myself that was, 

Musing visions by that woman raised, 

Watched that land she came from, towned with ruins 

Send mile-long files of laden camels out 

With grain to hostile cities, 

Knew too the blue entrancing plain of waters 

Teemed with fresh shoals, buoyed up indifferently, 

Fisher trader pirate bark, 

Even the straight thought whispered at his ear, 

" Thy lips might join with hers as with some cousin's, 

Here, now, at noon, 

Hugging her bereaved sadness close, 

And still, to-night, with equal satisfaction, 

Thy mother's blind contentment with her son." 

While half-seduced, half-chafed, his mind was shaken 

As with conflicting gusts a choppy sea, 

His eyes, still greedy of their visions, 

Fastened a swarthy town enisled in wheat, 


T. Sturge And to the ebon threshold of each house, 

Moore Conjured forth the man that each was planned for : 

Great creatures smiling with his father's smile, 

Muscular, wealthy and self-satisfied, 

Wearing loud-coloured raiment, earrings, chains, 

Armlet and buckle, all of clanking gold. 

His spirit drank from theirs great draughts of pride 

And read their minds more clearly than his own ; 

All, with one counsel like a chorus, dinned 

His soul that then was mine, 

With truths well-proved in action. 

" Love is chaos, 

For order's sake 

Whatever must be, should be," 

Roared those bulls of Bashan. 

Then their proud chant argued, 

" How should this woman know 

Her little lad again, 

Who either now is bones 

Under the fertile field, 

Or well nigh a grown man ? 

Say they should cross at market 

Both slaves would pass on, not a start the wiser. 

What is she then to him 

Or he to her 

After these years ? 

To drag a life that might have been but is not 

With toil of mind and heart, 

Through dreary year on year, 

Neglecting for its sake the life that is, 

Spells folly and ingratitude to those 

Who treat their slaves well. 

Thy father's household and thyself should be 

More to her now than those who may be dead, 

The place she lives in dearer 


Than any unattainable far land T. Sturge 

Where she is more forgotten than old dreams. Moore 

Why make the day of evil worse 

By dwelling on it after it has past ? 

Near things alone are real, 

Now is the whole of time : 

Places beyond the horizon are but pictures ; 

Memory cheats the eye with an illusion ! " 

" Your thoughts are sound, bold builders, 

I am my father's son. 

Behold this home-shore, these our hills, this bay, 

And this our slave ! 

Up, work, look sharp about it ! " 

Bounding a foot and fast retiring from her, 

I stoop for stones strewn thick about the sand, 

Aim them, fling them, 

And, as my idle arm resumes the knack, 

Score a hit and laugh 

To see her stumble hurt, behind the pine trunks. 

" Unless you work, I throw again, 

To it and steady at it. 

Mark me, drab, we Camilli 

Mean what we say." 

Stone after stone still flies, 

But aimed to knock chips from the pine-boles now ; 

For she is busy gathering sticks, increasing 

Her distance as she may. The noon is sultry, 

Heated and clammy, I, 

Towards the live waves turning, slip my tunic, 

Then run in naked. 

Cooled and soothed by swimming, 

Both mind and heart from their late tumult tuned 

To placid acquiescent health, 


T. Sturge I float, suspended in the limpid water, 
Moore Passive, rhythmically governed ; 

So tranced worlds travel the dark shoreless ether. 

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

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



Down here the hawthorn .... 
And a stir of wings, 
Spring-lit wings that wake 
Sudden tumult in the brake, 
Tumult of blossom tide, tumult of foaming mist 
Where the bright bird's tumultuous feathers kissed. 
White mists are blinding me, 
White mist of hedgerow, white mist of wings. 

Down here the hawthorn 
And a stir of wings .... 
Softly swishing, swift with spray 
All along the green laneway 

Dewdimmed, sunwashed, windsweet and winter-free 
They flash upon the light, 
They swing across the sight, 
I cannot see, I cannot see ! ... 

Down here the flowering hawthorn flings 
Sleet of petals, petalled shells 
Spread the coloured air that sings 
Magic and a myriad spells 
Spun by my count of Springs. 

Down here the hawthorn .... 
And the flower-foam stirred 
By a Spring-lit bird. 
White hawthorn mist is blinding me. 
I lower my gaze, and on this old 
Brown bridle road 

Crusted with golden moss and mould 
The hedgerow flings 
Lush carpetings, 

Blossom woven carpetings light lain 
Under the farmer's lumbering load ; 

Thomas And, floating past the spent March wrack, 
Moult The footstep trail, the traveller's track. 
Down here the hawthorn .... 

White mists are blinding me, 

White mists that rime the fresh green bank 

Where fernleaf-fall 

And sorrel tall 

Upwaving, rank on rank. 

Shall flush the bed whereon the windflowers sank. 

I turn these Spring-bewildered eyes of mine, 

I seek above the surf of hedgerow line 

Where peeping branches reach, and reaching twine 

Faint cherry or plum or eglantine. 

But with pretence of whisperings 

The year's young mischief-wind shall take 

By storm these phy striplings, 

And soon or later shake 

Their slender limbs, and make 

Free with their clinging may 

Strip from them in a single boisterous day 

Their first and last vesture of pale bloom spray. 

So, as to meet such lack 

In bush or brack, 

The kindly hedgerows make 

Sure of a Springtime for these frailer things, 

Shedding on each the lavish creamthorn flake. 

Down here the hawthorn .... 
On all the green leaf -clusters round me clings 
Thickly a spray of gentle blossomings 
Everywhere as with many bells 
The young year with white magic swells. 
The morning rings. 
White mist is blinding me, 
I cannot see, I cannot see ! 


Blind grows the coloured air that sings Thomas 

The marvel of a myriad spells Moult 

Spun by my count of Springs. 
Sleet of petals, petalled shells 
Falling with sudden poignancy 
(As the sleet stings) 

Upon the lightheart-hope which only clear sight knows. 
And slowly drifts, 
Lingering among the snows 
Nor, though the snow lifts, 
Ever goes 

The wistful heartache as the fresh Spring flows 
With slipping sureness to the time of the rose, and the 
withered rose. 

Down here the hawthorn .... 
And heaping blossom stirred 
By a joy-swift bird. 
White mists are blinding me, 
White mist of hedgerow, white mist of wings. 
The bird's flight flings 
Deep carpetings 
Over the wrack 
Of my life's track. 

Down here the hawthorn .... 
The air of coloured years is blurred 
By the Spring, by a bird. 
White mists are blinding me, 
White mists on the years to be. 
I cannot see, I cannot see .... 



Moult H ur i d own> harsh hills, your bitterness 
Of wind and storm. 
Stem ye the drift of herded men 

With your uncouthness 
So, tasting of your power, they press 
Back shrinking where upon their warm 

Safe ways of smoothness 
They feed their various lusts again. 

Guard ye, wild hills, with scar and whip 

Your outlawry 

Lest alien-hearted pigmies tame 

Your trackless boulders, 
And with their unclean cunning slip 
The leash of civilry 

Fast round your shoulders. 
O keep ye from that shame. 

Or they shall surely come, black hordes 

Swarming as lice 

With their obscenities and greed 

Across your fastness, 
Even your peaks that swing white swords, 
Rent, splintered ice 

Into the vastness 
Of skies where fanged winds feed. 

Hurl down, harsh hills, your bitterness, 

Guard ye with flail 

Of shattering wind and thong of sleet 

Your pride uplifting 
To the impaled stars ; be pitiless 
Before this unquiet trail 

Of man-herds drifting 
Against your stone still feet. 


PAEAN Robert 


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

Gather a chaplet of five stars 

And the opalescent hue 

Of the aureole brightness cast 

Red, hardly red, and blue, scarce blue, 

Round th' immaculate frosty moon, 

Splintering light in glacial spars, 

When November's loudening blast 

Sweeps heaven's floor till burnished 

More crystal than at August noon, 

So we fit radiance may cast 

Before his feet, around his head. 

How visits he an earthly place, 
Wanders among a mortal race ? 
How were his footsteps led 
That still about his face 
Lingers a ghostly trace 
Of a secret influence shed 
By a Hand the world denies, 
In a land her most son flies, 
As a gift upon him thrust 
For an end he knoweth not, 
Yet will shine because he must, 


Robert Shine and sing because he must 

Nichols Reap a wrong he soweth not 

Of contempt anger and distrust 
For a world which boweth not 
To the Flame which binds our dust. 

Go net the moon, go snare the sun, 

Set them upon his either hand ! 

Beneath his heels Leviathan 

Roll your thick coils ! His head be spanned 

By rainbows tripled ! Set a gem 

At the Cross-scabbard of his sword 

Whiter than lambwool or lilystem ! 

Place on his brow the diadem 

Given the warrior of the Lord, 

The crown-turrets of Jerusalem ! 



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

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

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

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

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

Yet this we know : new leaves and rain 
Anon shall crown the vernal scene, 
But dust of dynasts not again 
Blows up into a king or queen. 




Turn down a glass afore his place ; 

Draw up the dog-eared chair ; 

For though we shall not see his face, 

I think he will be here 

Our wedding day to share. 

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

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

For some are dead as cannot die, 
Some flown as cannot flee. 
You still do fancy 'em near by. 
Tis so with him and she, 
At any rate to we. 



j Sabin 

When old Anacreon sang the wine 

Which made his utterance divine, 

Perchance the eyes he gazed into 

Were lucent as the sun-touched dew 

Brighter, perchance, than yours ; and yet 

Eyes like yours, smoulderingly lit 

With the calm passion of the spirit, 

No young Greek maid did e'er inherit .... 

Ah ! twenty years are not enough 

To mould to such celestial stuff 

A soul, my dear, as yours is moulded, 

Wherein all dreams of life lie folded, 

And through whose doors a friend may slip 

Into serene companionship. 


She came, as one who in the light 

Of many a sunset hour had grown 

Half sad, half glad, because the night 

So soon about her would be thrown. 

With melancholy ages old, 

And laughter fragrant as the Spring, 

She came, and in her low voice told 

Tales of rich joy and sorrowing. 

She led me to her garden, fair 

With flowers I love and whispering trees, 

And to her arbour sheltered there 

In peace, all redolent of peace. 

With rapt delight of halting speech, 

And commune, such as those have felt 

Whose minds move silent each by each, 

Whose hopes are kindred hopes, we dwelt. 


K. But though with love and dreams of gold 
She wove rare charms about that nest, 
My heart lay aching still, and cold : 
I could not rest, 1 could not rest. 


The birds are quiet on the boughs, 
And quiet are my slumbering trees .... 
O come a short while to my house 
And share these evening silences. 

Come ! for the sunset's weary smile 
Has faded ; night is falling deep : 
And we will rest a little while 
And talk together ere we sleep. 


It may be that in future years, 

When life serenely yields its best 

Of steadfast joy and fleeting tears, 

And, blessing, you move on, thrice blest, 

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

Then I shall tremble where I sit 
Unhelped through those gray years to be, 
As, like a benediction, it 
Shall flood in sweetness over me. 


THE RETURN Margaret 

Last night, within our little town 

The Dead came marching through ; 
In a long line, like living men, 
Just as they used to do. 

Only, so long a line it seemed 

You'd think the Judgment Day 
Had dawned, to see them slowly pass, 

With faces turned one way. 

They walked no longer foe and foe 

But brother bound to brother ; 
Poor men, common men they walked 

Friendly to one another. 

Just as in life they might have done 

Who stabbed and slew instead . . 
So quietly and evenly they walked 

These million gentle dead. 


Margaret TO 

Sackville I. 


Was it for you the aching past alone 

Lived, that on you might fall the shadow of it ? 

For you, for you kings climbed a ravished throne, 

And all these menacing, quenched fires were lit. 

Wars that have left no more than a grey trace, 

Where are they ? Scattered foam, blown dust ah, me ! 

How have they found their way into your face ? 

The new day is not yours, you only see 

A battle raging in a desert place, 

And blood-stained warriors seeking Sanctuary. 


I cannot love you in the street ; I met 

You in the street once and turned my head away, 

But I will meet you where the red sunset 

With forlorn fire flashes the leaping spray. 

We are too old, too old for all this noise, 

No wine of such new vintage shall control 

Us who have known, what passionate joys 

Once in some far, dark City of the Soul. 

We are kings still and have, as kings, the choice 

To spurn the proffered half and claim the whole. 


Let us find out a new way ; for it is plain 
That all these old, worn, trodden roads suffice 
Only those who will return again 
Seeking shelter in their homes from Paradise. 
Oh ! let us find some solitary, green 
Forgotten garden, where the sunrays fall 

1 02 

All blind and blurred and indistinct between Margaret 

Cypresses lofty as earth's boundary wall ; Sackville 

Beneath whose shade shall glimmer forth half seen 
Your face through the soft darkness when I call. 


If one, with visionary pen, should write 

The love which might be ours, how would he call 

These strange, perplexing fires veiled servants light 

Down the dark vistas of our empty hall ? 

That love which might be ours, how would he name 

That love ? No bitter leaving of the brine, 

No white or fading blossom twined like flame 

Round any brow, Christian or Erycine, 

Not all those loves blown to a windy fame 

Shall find their counterpart in yours and mine. 

Not Tristram, not Isolde, wild shades which dip 
Their pinions like blown gulls in a waste sea, 
Nor those mute lovers, who still, lip on lip, 
Float on for ever, though they have ceased to be, 
Not any of those who loved once ; far apart 
We wander ; the years have made us weak, we fail 
To rush together with a single heart, 
And we shall meet at last, only as pale 
Autumnal mists no sun's shaft cleaves apart 
When all the winds are still and no ships sail. 


Margaret III. 



Yet we shall meet it may be we shall meet 

And count our days up-gathered, one by one, 

Like poppies plucked among the burnished wheat, 

Beneath the red gaze of the August sun ; 

And all our scattered dreams shall flutter home 

At last. Oh ! silent, age-long wandering 

What since your setting forth have ye become ? 

What gift from those far waters do ye bring ? 

A splash of rain, salt taste of frozen foam, 

Green sea-weed trailing from a broken wing. 

Or we shall find each other on the brink 

Of sleep some day, when the cool evening airs 

Blow bubbles round the pool where wood-birds drink 

Or in the common Inn of wayfarers : 

Both weary, both beside the wide fireplace 

Drowsing, till at some sudden spark up-blown 

Shall each awake to find there face to face 

You and I very tired and alone ; 

And lo ! your welcome from my eyes shall gaze 

And in your eyes there shall I find my own. 

I will pursue thee down these solitudes 
Therefore, and thou shalt yet escape me not. 
I will set traps for thee of subtle moods 
And wound thee with the arrows of my thought. 
In thickest forest ways though thou lie hid, 


Or in some autumn vale of Brocelinde, Margaret 

Or in whatever place of magic forbid, Sackville 

I will pierce through the woven branches like a wind, 
And drag thee from thy hiding-place amid 
The secret laughter of the fairy-kind. 

Oh, triumph still delaying ! I must pass 

Lonely a long time yet, for I know well 

No fugitive fair dream that ever was 

Left anywhere traces where her footprints fell. 

I, lonely hunter in the woods of sleep, 

The hunt is up away ! I ride, I ride 

On a white steed, where black-boughed fir-trees keep 

Watch and the kindly world is shut outside. 

I am afraid, the haunted woods are deep ! 

I am afraid afraid ! Where dost thou hide ? 



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


IN THE WOOD William 


Lone shadows move, Seymour 

The night air stirs ; 
This hour of dying 
Dreams was hers. 

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

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

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

Peace comes not here, 
No dream-bird trills : 
They haunt her lodging 
In the hills. 


William SIESTA 


Seymour Bring me some oranges on blue china, 

With a jade-and-silver spoon, 
And drowse on your silken mats beside me 

In the burning noon. 

Bring me red wine in cups of crystal, 
With melons on chrysoprase, 

And place them softly with jewelled fingers 
Before my gaze. 

Hasten, my dove of scented whisperings, 

My lily, my Xacan ! 
Bring bubbling pipes for the cool shadows, 

And my peacock fan. 

And bid Isarrib, my chief musician, 

Weave quiet songs within, 
That my soul in the circles of a great glamour 

May float and spin. 

And O, you gaudy and whistling parrots 
In your high, flowered maze, 

Still your harsh, petulant quarrelling 
With the mocking jays. 

1 08 



Ah, my brave Vitellius ! Seymour 

Ah, your tastes are marvellous ! 
When you eat your singing birds 
Do you leave the bones and words, 
The proud music in the throat ? . . . . 
Not a note, not a note ? 
Doubtless they were not so pleasant 
As the brains of a young pheasant, 
Or flamingoes' tongues, whose duty 
Never was to utter beauty. 
But they sang, but they fluted 
And your rasping lies confuted, 
And your ugliness laid bare 
With a lyric in the air. 
So you bought them on a string, 
Dangling balls that used to sing, 
And you gave them to the cook 
With a fat and happy look. 

But you ask me why this fuss ! 
Ah, my brave Vitellius, 
I am never sure your stringers 
May not string you other singers, 
May not tire of lark and wren 
And attempt to sell you men. 
Please forgive me, but I've made 
Certain songs .... and I'm afraid ! 




Seymour If Beauty came to you, 

Ah, would you know her grace, 
And could you in your shadowed prison view 

Unscathed her face ? 

Stepping as noiselessly 

As moving moth-wings, so 
Might she come suddenly to you or me 

And we not know. 

Amid these clangs and cries, 

Alas, how should we hear 
The shy, dim-woven music of her sighs 

As she draws near, 

Threading through monstrous, black, 

Uncharitable hours, 
Where the soul shapes its own abhorred rack 

Of wasted powers ? 


PRISON Horace 

I. Shi PP 

The dreadful days go up and up, to fall 

Through twilight to the sleepless dusk again, 

Like tortured flies upon a window pane. 

Wingless or broken-winged, 

They crawl and crawl .... 

Meaningless, striving nowhere after all, 

Till one is tired of heeding. 


A stain of drab unloveliness the days remain 

Unmoving now, save that across the wall, 

A patch of sun behind a shadow of bars, 

Creeps in a stupor, 


Grins bloodily, 

Falters and dies. 

Outside a day may slip 

From noon-glow to a miracle of stars 

With hours that flush and flood eternity ; 

Whilst here 

The stagnant waters drip .... and drip. 


They tell me I have sinned ; that long ago 

(Weeks or a cycle of eternity) 

This thing of dead desire lived lustily, 

Was stirred with passion, and sinned. 

It may be so ; 

As seas or hills may be. 

I only know God's world has shrunken, 


Horace And that misery, 

Shipp Shrinking my heart, has closed her walls on me, 

Till in the dead, still soul the senses grow 

Carious as the ulcer of thought eats deep. 

Heavy, the slow lusts pace the barren mind 

From end to end. 

Barred door and window, 

Wall inexorable. 

And the horrors creep on padded feet like warders. 

Then the blind, pitiful night 

When hot tears scald and fall. 


Grey day-break and the silence of the cell : 

The dull, numb pain of waking, 

Stillness . . . 

Fear clutching oblivion ; 

And then to hear 

The brazen, blasphemous tolling of the bell, 

A crash of doors, 

Loud-clanging tins, 

The swell of brutal voices nearer and more near, 

Bursts at the last about you. 


Queer delight of movement. 

Then ... the door shuts. 

Hell darkens about you with the turning key, 

The silence burns and sears you like a flame ; 

It battens as the worm that never dies ; 

Crawls back from distant noises ; palpably 

Lurks through the rhythm of the feet of shame, 

Watching and watching out of hooded eyes. 



"And God said ' Let us make man in our image 
and let him have dominion '....' 

God made you in His image, yet I saw 

You stoop and seize a blind mole from the snare. 


Blind with terror . . . Blind 

Your teeth gleamed bare behind the taut, white lips. 

The trapper's law knows neither hate nor love. 

You watched it paw, 

Frantic with lust of life, the yielding air 

And were amused. 

God's Image ! 

Did you care, pitying one moment, see the swift hands 


For life and darkness, know and hate your trap ? 
I saw your knuckles gleam, your hand swing free ; 
The blind face crashed against the wall. 

Then death and stillness and 

You grinned. 


Snaring the blind mole of humanity, 

God made you in His image after all. 


Sitwell Lovely Semiramis 

Closes her slanting eyes : 

Dead is she long ago, 

From her fan sliding slow 

Parrot -bright fire's feathers 

Gilded as June weathers, 

Plumes like the greenest grass 

Twinkle down ; as they pass 

Through the green glooms in Hell, 

Fruits with a tuneful smell 

Grapes like an emerald rain 

Where the full moon has lain, 

Greengages bright as grass, 

Melons as cold as glass 

Piled on each gilded booth 

Feel their cheeks growing smooth ; 

Apes in plumed head-dresses 

Whence the bright heat hisses, 

Nubian faces sly, 

Pursing mouth, slanting eye, 

Feel the Arabian 

Winds floating from that fan : 

See how each gilded face 

Paler grows, nods apace : 

" Oh, the fan's blowing 

Cold winds .... It is snowing ! " 




Across the fields as green as spinach, 
Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich, 

Stands a high house ; if at all, 
Spring comes like a Paisley shawl 

Patternings meticulous 
And youthfully ridiculous. 

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

On run, roulade, and watery trill 
Yellow, meaningless, and shrill. 

Face as white as any clock's, 
Cased in parsley-dark curled locks 

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

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

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

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

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

To a patchwork quilt to keep 
Your mind snug and warm in sleep ! 



Metallic waves of people jar 

Through crackling green toward the bar 

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

Those coloured muslin blinds the smiles, 
Shroud wooden faces in their wiles 

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

The conversation loud and bright 
Seems spinal bars of shunting light 

In firework-spurting greenery. 
O complicate machinery 

For building Babel, iron crane 

Beneath your hair, that blue-ribbed mane 

In noise and murder like the sea 
Without its mutability ! 

Outside the bar where jangling heat 
Seems out of tune and off the beat 

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

Your soul : pure glucose edged with hints 
Of tentative and half-soiled tints. 



The carriage brushes through the bright 

Leaves (violent jets from life to light) ; 

Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves 

Between the showers of bright hot leaves 

The window-glasses glaze our faces 

And jar them to the very basis 

But they could never put a polish 

Upon my manners or abolish 

My most distinct disinclination 

For calling on a rich relation ! 

In her house (bulwark built between 

The life man lives and visions seen) 

The sunlight hiccups white as chalk, 

Grown drunk with emptiness of talk, 

And silence hisses like a snake 

Invertebrate and rattling ache .... 

Then suddenly Eternity 

Drowns all the houses Like a sea 

And down the street the Trump of Doom 

Blares madly shakes the drawing-room 

Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn 

As dank dark nettles. Down the horn 

Of her ear-trumpet I convey 

The news that " It is Judgment Day ! " 

" Speak louder : I don't catch, my dear/' 

I roared : " It is the Trump we hear ! " 

" The What ? " " THE TRUMP /" "I shall complain ! 

.... the boy-scouts practising again." 




The evening found us whom the day had fled, 

Once more in bitter anger, you and I, 

Over some small, some foolish, trivial thing 

Our anger would not decently let die, 

But dragged between us, shamed and shivering 

Until each other's taunts we scarcely heard, 

Until we lost the sense of all we said, 

And knew not who first spoke the fatal word. 

It seemed that even every kiss we wrung 

We killed at birth with shuddering and hate, 

As if we feared a thing too passionate. 

However close we clung 

One hour the next hour found us separate, 

Estranged, and Love most bitter on our tongue. 

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


I said : " My son shall wear his father's sword." Muriel 

You said : " Shall hands once blossoms at my breast Stuart 

Be stained with blood ? " I answered with a word 

More bitter, and your own, the bitterest 

Stung me to sullen anger, and I said : 

" My son shall be no coward of his line 

Because his mother choose " ; you turned your head 

And your eyes grew implacable in mine. 

And like a trodden snake you turned to meet 

The foe with sudden hissing .... then you smiled, 

And broke our life in pieces at my feet, 

" Your child ? " you said : " Your child ? " 



The low bay melts into a ring of silver, 
And slips it on the shore's reluctant finger 
Though in an hour the tide will turn, will tremble, 
Forsaking her because the moon persuades him. 
But the black wood that leans and sighs above her 
No tide can turn, no moon can slave nor summon. 
Then comes the dark : on sleepy, shell-strewn beaches, 
O'er long pale leagues of sand and cold, clear water 
She hears the tide go out towards the moonlight. 
The wood still leans .... weeping she turns to seek 

And his black hair all night is on her bosom. 



I came by night to Thelus wood, 

And though in dark and desperate places 

Stubborned with wire and brown with blood 

Undaunted April crept and sewed 

Her violets in dead men's faces, 

And in a soft and snowy shroud 

Drew the scarred fields with gentle stitch ; 

Though in the valley where the ditch 

Was hoarse with nettles, blind with mud, 

She stroked the golden-headed bud, 

And loosed the fern, she dared not here 

To touch nor tend this murdered thing ; 

The wind went wide of it, the year 

Upon this breast stopped short of Spring : 

Beauty turned back from Thelus Wood. 

From broken brows the dim eyes stared, 

Blistered and maimed the wide stumps grinned 

From the black mouth of Thelus bared 

In laughter at some monstrous jest. 

No creature moved there, weed nor wind. 

Huge arms, half -torn from savage breast, 

Hung wide, and tangled limbs and faces 

Lay, as if giants blind and stark 

With violent, with perverse embraces 

Groped for each other in the dark. 

A moaning rose not of the wind, 

There was no wind, but hollowly 

From its dim bed of mud each tree 

Gave forth a sound, till trees and mud 

Seemed but a single, sighing mouth, 

A wound that spoke with lips uncouth, 

And cried to me from Thelus Wood . 


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

Then from the ruined churchyard where 

Old vaults and graves lay turned and tossed 

And earth from earth was shaken bare, 

Came murmurings of a tongueless host 

That to each ghastly brother said : 

" Who raised us from our sleep ? Is this 

The resurrection of the dead ? 

Upon our bodies no flesh grows, 

No bright blood through our temples springs, 

No glory spreads, no trumpet blows, 

The air is not white and blind with wings. 

And yet dragged up before us lie 

The woods of Thelus at our feet, 

And strange hills sentinel the sky, 


And where the road went yawns a pit. Muriel 

The world is finished : let us sleep. Stuart 

God has forgotten : we shall keep 

Here a sweet, safe Eternity. 

There is no other end than this, 

And this is death, and that is peace." 

But even as they ceased the stones 

Were loosed, the earth shook where I stood, 

And from far off the crouching guns 

Swung slowly round on Thelus Wood. 


The mind is Beauty's thief, the poet takes 
The golden spendthrift's trail among the blooms 
Where she stands tossing silver in the lakes, 
And twisting bright swift threads on airy looms. 
Her ring the poppy snatches, and the rose 
With laughter plunders all her gusty plumes. 
The poet gleans and gathers as she goes 
Heedless of summer's end certain and soon, 
Of winter rattling at the door of June. 


When Beauty lies hand-folded, pale and still, 
Forsaken of her lovers and her lords, 
And winter keeps cold watch upon the hill, 
Then he lets fall his bale of coloured words. 
At frosty midnight June shall rise in flame, 
Move at his magic with her bells and birds, 
The rose will redden as he speaks her name. 
He shall release earth's frozen bosom there, 
And with great words shall cuff the whining air. 



I will buUd up a wall for Freedom to dwell therein, Titterton 
A high wall with towers 
And steel fangs for a gate. 

For Freedom that lacks a home falleth by pit and gin, 
A prey to the alien powers 
That lie in wait. 

I will build up a house for her where the ways divide, 

A house set on a hill, 

With a lamp in the topmost tower, 

And a trumpet calling to arms, and a flag like a flame 

blown wide, 

And a sword to save and to kill 
As her bridal dower. 

I will take her to wife, she that is life an* death ; 

Life for a trumpet calls ; 

Death for it calls me still, 

And I shall know love a star, and a fluttering breath 

Till the shadow of silence falls 

In the house on the hill. 

I will build up a house for her where the ways divide, 

Four-square on the rock, 

A high house and a great ; 

So, when I fly, spent, back from a broken ride, 

Her key shall cry in the lock, 

She shall stand in the gate. 

She shall stand in the gate the prize of the world to win, 

Stand steel-shod, 

Crowned with a cloud of flowers. 

I will build up a wall, a wall, for Freedom to dwell therein 

In the name of the most high God, 

A wall with towers. 



Titterton . 

Soldier, soldier, burnishing your sword, 

Is there no place for a wayfaring man in the courts of 

your lord ? 

A couch, and a crust, and a song, and a flagon of wine ? 
Haggard, begrimed though I be, and out at heel, 
A lean, grey hop-and-go-one with a crutch of steel, 
Brother-at-arms with death ? Behold the sign : 

I have tasted great weather on high, white, green-tur- 
ret ed cliffs by the sea. 

I have tramped the tough heather, the purple, the brown, 
By pools of peat water ; from the night to the day, 
Till the moon has dropped down : the ghost of a minim, 

low down, 
In a high-piping treble of grey. 

In shy, dim recesses, mid tresses, green tresses. 

Slow dipping, caressing, I've heard 

A whisper, a chuckle of laughter, a scamper ; and high, 

High up in the air the cry, the call of a bird. 

And when the night came with a flicker of wings 

I have heard the earth breathing quiet and slow 

Like a pulse in the tiny, wild tumult of things. 

I have sung to the sun, and the moon and the stars, 

In valleys uncharted of tumbled sea meadows 

I have shouted aloud 'neath a sky whipped to smoke in 

the fret of my spars 
And I fought as I fared ; and my couch was a camp ; 

and my songs were my scars. 

Soldier ! Soldier ! Cosetting your sword ! 
Have you no place for a harper-at-arms in the courts of 
your lord 


Prim fountains, clipped trees, and trim gardens, and W. R. 

music, and rest ? Titterto 

Nay, keep your sugared delights and your margents 

embroidered ! My life is the best. 
In my ears is the sound of a bugle blown, and my pulses 

like kettle-drums beat 
For the hungry blind onset, the rally, the stubborn 

I, too, could have polished, and polished, and jeered at 

the wayfaring man who passed by. 
But I follow the fighting Apollo. 
And I stand unashamed ; and I raise up my shard of a 

sword ; and I cry the old cry. 
Please God they shall find but a hilt in my hand when I 




Dark hurrying shapes beset my path that night 
Pushing and buffeting ; and in my brain 
Dark hurrying shapes beset my soul. In vain 
I struggled ; as a fevered dreamer might ; 
Or some spent, breathless swimmer, in despite 
Of desperate stroke, thrust headlong to the main. 
The waking nightmare, monstrous and inane, 
Whirled, rushed, and huddled in its random flight, 

Like a spent swimmer, battling with a swoon, 
Silent I fought, yet seemed to cry aloud. 
When, at the challenge of a marching tune, 
Heard in a sudden stillness of the crowd, 
I looked aloft, and saw the great round moon 
Steadfast behind her ragged rout of cloud. 


The Silent People of No Man's Land Titterton 

Calm they lie, 

With a stare and vacant smile 
At the vacant sky. 
Over them swept the battle, 
And stirred them not. 
Armies passed over, beyond them. 
They are forgot. 

Calmly the earth deals with them, 

Melts them away. 

Nothing is left of them now but bones, 

Bones and clay. 

Bones of the Valley of Judgment, 

Bones stripped clean. 

We fought, day in, day out, and the others, 

With this between. 

Dawn comes white and finds them 

Stark and cold. 

Twilight creeps over and covers them, 

Fold on fold. 

Night cannot hide them from us. 

In the dark, again, 

We see the Silent People 

Who once were men. 

The Silent People of No Man's Land, 

They rise, they rise, 

With the glory of utter loss 

In their stary eyes. 

Beckoning, beckoning, calling, 

Pointing the way. 

But the dawn comes white, and finds them 

Bones and clay. 


W. R. Winds of the world blow o'er them 

Titterton Your serenade ! 

Touch like a lute the broken earth 

Where our dead are laid ! 

Broken bones of the martyrs, 

Reliques of pain, 

Anoint them, anoint them with sunlight, 

Robe them in rain. 

The Silent People of No Man's Land 

Calm they lie, 

Bones, broken and bleached, 

Under the sky. 

Over them sweeps the tempest, 

And stirs them not. 

We pass over, beyond them, 

They are forgot. 




When I had sight, great glamour was 
In myriad lamps of coloured glass : 
Old lamps for new I never sold ; 
For old were new, and new were old. 

And Chinese lanterns, paper globes, 
Were Dragon Gods in tissue robes 
That stood on air with squat round shoon, 
Beneath the thin, receded Moon. 



Dusk gathers. On the seaward hedge 
The wild hops, hanging bright, 
Gleamas a foam-spray flung on sedge 
From a sea of golden light. 

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

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

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

But at the seams, in every crack, 

A beaded sweat appears : 

The soul that's stretched on such a rack 

Can shed no other tears ! 



We may fill the daytime with friendship 

And laughter and song ; 
But however the laughter may trip 

And the words break in song 
On a loved one's lip ; 
And however gaily the road may bend 

Into the sky, 
It must come to this in the end, 

That we stand 
And watch the last friend 

Turn with a half-felt sigh 

And a wave of the hand ; 
And silence is over the day, 

Shadows fall, 
And our happiness crumbles away 

Like a wall 
That nobody cares for, 

That falls stone by stone 
Till its grandeur is rubble once more, 

And we are alone. 




Word through the world went 

On Christmas morn, 
' Tiding.; ! behold, a 

Townsman is born ! ' 

Then in their council 

Smiled the high lords : 
' Sword for world-conquest 

' Mid a world's swords. 
Need shall our armies 

Have of each birth, 
In that last battle 

Wins us the earth.' 

Still were the priesthood, 

Singing the Mass : 
' Lo, is our creed come 

Truly to pass ? 
Blessed and broken 

Crumbs that we give, 
Say ! say, O chalice, 

Can a creed live ? 

Then to lord Shakespeare, 

Brooding alone, 
While in a vision 

Lear was shown, 
While his just loathing 

Hung over men, 
Ix>, from the darkness 

Came Imogen. 


Then said a free maid, Charles 

Heart against mine, Williams 

' Take me, lord governor, 

Who am all thine ! 
Thou that hast blessed me 

With a new light, 
Ah, is thy handmaid 

Fair in thy sight ? ' 

Then said our Lady, 

' Clean is the hut, 
Filled are the platters, 

And the door shut. 
Sit, O son Jesus ! 

Sit thou, sweet friend ! 
Poor folk have supper 

And their woes end.' 

' Now/ said our Father, 

' All things are won : 
Welcome, O Saviour ! 

Welcome, O Son ! 
More than creation 

Lives now again, 
God hath borne Godhead 

Nowise in vain.' 

Word went through Sarras 

On Easter morn, 
' Tidings ! behold a 

Townsman is born ! ' 


Charles BRISEIS 


The footfalls of the parting Myrmidons 

And counter-cries of leaguer and of town 
Are hushed behind her as the silks drop down ; 

Alone she stands, and wonderingly cons 

Heads circleted with gold or helmed with bronze ; 
Higher her eyes from crown to loftier crown 
Creep, till they fall, nigh-blasted, at the frown 

Of Argos, throned in his pavilions 

And mid his captains wrathfully aware 

How the plague smites the host, how by the sea 

Beyond the ships, with vengeful prayer and oath, 

Rages the young Achilles, of whose wrath 
Innocent, ignorant, a captive, she 

Sees but the dropped staff on the voided chair. 

Printed at The Morland Press Ltd. 190 Ebury Street S.W.I