The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, 1916-1918 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Poems, 1916-1918 Creator: Francis Brett Young Release date: July 26, 2012 [eBook #40344] Language: English Credits: Produced by Al Haines *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1916-1918 *** Produced by Al Haines. [Illustration: Cover] POEMS 1916-1918 BY FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG LONDON: 48 PALL MALL W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD. GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND Copyright 1919 BY THE SAME AUTHOR _Novels:_ THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN THE CRESCENT MOON THE IRON AGE THE DARK TOWER DEEP SEA UNDERGROWTH (with E. Brett Young) _Poems:_ FIVE DEGREES SOUTH _Belles Lettres:_ ROBERT BRIDGES: A Critical Study MARCHING ON TANGA TO EDYTH GOODALL _Remember thus our sweet conspiracy: That I, having dreamed a lovely thing, with dull Words marred it--and you gave it back to me A thousand, thousand times more beautiful._ ERRATA Page 26, line 17, _for_ "Lybian" _read_ "Libyan." Page 46, line 9, _for_ "lythe" _read_ "lithe." Page 70, line 13, _for_ "tyrranous" _read_ "tyrannous." [Transcriber’s note: the above errata have been applied to this etext. The word "Lybia" was also on page 32, and was corrected as above. Similarly, "tyrranous" was also on page 86, and was corrected.] CONTENTS PROTHALAMION TESTAMENT LOCHANILAUN LETTERMORE LAMENT THE LEMON-TREE PHTHONOS EASTER THE LEANING ELM THE JOYOUS LOVER DEAD POETS PORTON WATER AN OLD HOUSE THE DHOWS THE GIFT FIVE DEGREES SOUTH 104° FAHRENHEIT FEVER-TREES THE RAIN-BIRD MOTHS BÊTE HUMAINE DOVES SONG (i) BEFORE ACTION ON A SUBALTERN KILLED IN ACTION AFTER ACTION SONNET A FAREWELL TO AFRICA SONG (ii) THE HAWTHORN SPRAY THE PAVEMENT TO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (i) TO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (ii) TO LYDIA LOPOKOVA (iii) GHOSTLY LOVES FEBRUARY SONG OF THE DARK AGES WINTER SUNSET SONG (iii) ENGLAND, APRIL 1918 SLENDER THEMES INVOCATION THAMAR ENVOI PROTHALAMION When the evening came my love said to me: Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool, The garden of black hellebore and rosemary, Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool. Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heat Of day had waned, and round that shaded plot Of secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet: Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not. Between that old garden and seas of lazy foam Gloomy and beautiful alleys of trees arise With spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome, So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skies Veiled with soft air, drench’d in the roses’ musk Or the dusky, dark carnation’s breath of clove; No stars burned in their deeps, but through the dusk I saw my love’s eyes, and they were brimmed with love. No star their secret ravished, no wasting moon Mocked the sad transience of those eternal hours: Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June, The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers. For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday now Were silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers, Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough-- Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers? Was ever a moment meeter made for love? Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss; And all your yielding sweetness beautiful-- Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this! TESTAMENT If I had died, and never seen the dawn For which I hardly hoped, lighting this lawn Of silvery grasses; if there had been no light, And last night merged into perpetual night; I doubt if I should ever have been content To have closed my eyes without some testament To the great benefits that marked my faring Through the sweet world; for all my joy was sharing And lonely pleasures were few. Unto which end Three legacies I’ll send, Three legacies, already half possess’d: One to a friend, of all good friends the best, Better than which is nothing; yet another Unto thy twin, dissimilar spirit, Brother; The third to you, Most beautiful, most true, Most perfect one, to whom they all are due. Quick, quick ... while there is time.... O best of friends, I leave you one sublime Summer, one fadeless summer. ’Twas begun Ere Cotswold hawthorn tarnished in the sun, When hedges were fledged with green, and early swallows Swift-darting, on curved wings, pillaged the fallows; When all our vale was dappled blossom and light, And oh, the scent of beanfields in the night! You shall remember that rich dust at even Which made old Evesham like a street in heaven, Gold-paved, and washed within a wave of golden Air all her dreamy towers and gables olden. You shall remember How arms sun-blistered, hot palms crack’d with rowing, Clove the cool water of Avon, sweetly flowing; And how our bodies, beautifully white, Stretch’d to a long stroke lengthened in green light, And we, emerging, laughed in childish wise, And pressed the kissing water from our eyes. Ah, was our laughter childish, or were we wise? And then, crown of the day, a tired returning With happy sunsets over Bredon burning, With music and with moonlight, and good ale, And no thought for the morrow.... Heavy phlox Our garden pathways bordered, and evening stocks, Those humble weeds, in sunlight withered and pale, With a night scent to match the nightingale, Gladdened with spicèd sweetness sweet night’s shadows, Meeting the breath of hay from mowing meadows: As humble was our joy, and as intense Our rapture. So, before I hurry hence, Yours be the memory. One night again, When we were men, and had striven, and known pain, By a dark canal debating, unresigned, On the blind fate that shadows humankind, On the blind sword that severs human love... Then did the hidden belfry from above On troubled minds in benediction shed The patience of the great anonymous dead Who reared those towers, those high cathedrals builded In solemn stone, and with clear fancy gilded A beauty beyond ours, trusting in God. Then dared we follow the dark way they trod, And bowing to the universal plan Trust in the true and fiery spirit of Man. And you, my Brother, You know, as knows one other, How my spirit revisiteth a room In a high wing, beneath pine-trees, where gloom Dwelleth, dispelled by resinous wood embers, Where, in half-darkness ... How the heart remembers... We talked of beauty, and those fiery things To which the divine desirous spirit clings, In a wing’d rapture to that heaven flinging, Where beauty is an easy thing, and singing The natural speech of man. Like kissing swords Our wits clashed there; the brittle beauty of words Breaking, seemed to discover its secret heart And all the rapt elusiveness of Art. Now I have known sorrow, and now I sing That a lovely word is not an idle thing; For as with stars the cloth of night is spangled, With star-like words, most lovelily entangled, The woof of sombre thought is deckt.... Ah, bright And cold they glitter in the spirit’s night! But neither distant nor dispassionate; For beauty is an armour against fate.... I tell you, who have stood in the dark alone. Seeing the face that turneth all to stone, Medusa, blind with hate, While I was dying, Beauty sate with me Nor tortured any longer; gracious was she; To her soft words I listened, and was content To die, nor sorry that my light was spent. So, Brother, if I come not home, Go to that little room That my spirit revisiteth, and there, Somewhere in the blue air, you shall discover If that you be a lover Nor haughtily minded, all that once half-shaped Then fled us, and escaped: All that I found that day, Far, so far away. And you, my lovely one, What can I leave to you, who, you having left, Am utterly bereft? What in my store of visionary dowers Is not already yours? What silences, what hours Of peace passing all understanding; days Made lyric by your beauty and its praise; Years neither time can tarnish, nor death mar, Wherein you shined as steadfast as a star In my bleak night, heedless of the cloud-wrack Scudding in torn fleeces black Of my dark moods, as those who rule the far Star-haunted pleasaunces of heaven are? So think but lightly of that afternoon With white clouds climbing a blue sky in June When a boy worshipped under dreaming trees, Who touched your hand, and sought your eyes. ... Ah, cease, Not these, not these... Nor yet those nights when icy Brathay thundered Under his bridges, and ghostly mountains wondered At the white blossoming of a Christmas rose More stainless than their snows; Nor even of those placid days together Mellow as early autumn’s amber weather When beech is ankleted with fire, and old Elms wear their livery of yellow gold, When orchards all are laden with increase, And the quiet earth hath fruited, and knows peace Oh, think not overmuch on those sweet years Lest their last fruit be tears,-- Your tears, beloved, that were my utmost pain,-- But rather, dream again How that a lover, half poet and half child, An eager spirit of fragile fancies wild Compact, adored the beauty and truth in you: To your own truth be true; And when, not mournfully, you turn this page Consider still your starry heritage, Continue in your loveliness, a star To gladden me from afar Even where there is no light In my last night. LOCHANILAUN This is the image of my last content: My soul shall be a little lonely lake, So hidden that no shadow of man may break The folding of its mountain battlement; Only the beautiful and innocent Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake Of churn’d cloud in a howling wind’s descent. For there shall be no terror in the night When stars that I have loved are born in me, And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair; But this shall be the end of my delight: That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see Your image in the mirrored beauty there. LETTERMORE These winter days on Lettermore The brown west wind it sweeps the bay, And icy rain beats on the bare Unhomely fields that perish there: The stony fields of Lettermore That drink the white Atlantic spray. And men who starve on Lettermore, Cursing the haggard, hungry surf, Will souse the autumn’s bruisèd grains To light dark fires within their brains And fight with stones on Lettermore Or sprawl beside the smoky turf. When spring blows over Lettermore To bloom the ragged furze with gold, The lovely south wind’s living breath Is laden with the smell of death: For fever breeds on Lettermore To waste the eyes of young and old. A black van comes to Lettermore; The horses stumble on the stones, The drivers curse,--for it is hard To cross the hills from Oughterard And cart the sick from Lettermore: A stinking load of rags and bones. But you will go to Lettermore When white sea-trout are on the run, When purple glows between the rocks About Lord Dudley’s fishing-box Adown the road to Lettermore, And wide seas tarnish in the sun. And so you’ll think of Lettermore As a lost island of the blest: With peasant lovers in a blue Dim dusk, with heather drench’d in dew, And the sweet peace of Lettermore Remote and dreaming in the West. LAMENT Once, I think, a finer fire Touched my lips, and then I sang Half the songs of my desire: With their splendour the world rang. And their sweetness made me free Of those starry ways whereby Planets make their minstrelsy In echoing, unending sky. So, before that spell was broken, Song of the wind, surge of the sea,-- Beautiful passionate things unspoken Rose like a breaking wave in me: Rose like a wave with curled crest That green sunlight splinters through... But the wave broke within my breast: And now I am a man like you. THE LEMON-TREE Last night, last night, a vision of you Sweetly troubled my waking dream: Beneath the clear Algerian blue You stood with lifted eyes: the beam Of a winter sun beat on the crown Of a lemon-tree, whose delicate fruit Like pale lamps hung airily down; And in your gazing eyes a mute And lovely wonder.... Have I sung Of slender things and naught beside? You were so beautifully young I must have kissed you or have died. PHTHONOS If, in high jealousy, God made me blind And laughed to see me stumble in the night, Driving his many-splintered arrows of light Into that lost dominion of my mind; Then, knowing me still unvext and unresigned, Stole from my ears all homely sounds that might Temper the darkness, saying, in heaven’s despite, I had not wholly left the world behind; So, sunless, soundless, if, to make an end, He smote the nerves that move, the nerves that feel: Even then, O jealous one, I would not complain If I were spared the wealth I cannot spend, If I were left the treasure none can steal: The lovely words that wander through my brain. EASTER Adown our lane at Eastertide Hosts of dancing bluebells lay In pools of light: and ’Oh,’ you cried, ’Look, look at them: I think that they Are bluer than the laughing sea,’ And ’Look!’ you cried, ’a piece of the sky Has fallen down for you and me To gaze upon and love.’ ... And I, Seeing in your eyes the dancing blue And in your heart the innocent birth Of a pure delight, I knew, I knew That heaven had fallen upon earth. THE LEANING ELM Before my window, in days of winter hoar Huddled a mournful wood: Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore, In stony sleep they stood: But you, unhappy elm, the angry west Had chosen from the rest, Flung broken on your brothers’ branches bare, And left you leaning there So dead that when the breath of winter cast Wild snow upon the blast, The other living branches, downward bowed, Shook free their crystal shroud And shed upon your blackened trunk beneath, Their livery of death.... On windless nights between the beechen bars I watched cold stars Throb whitely in the sky, and dreamily Wondered if any life lay locked in thee: If still the hidden sap secretly moved, As water in the icy winterbourne Floweth unheard; And half I pitied you your trance forlorn: You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird, The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilight Or cool voices of owls crying by night.... Hunting by night under the hornèd moon: Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon, Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risen Steals from his misty prison; The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shaken In a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken: And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond belief Slenderly fledged anew with tender leaf As pale as those twin vanes that break at last In a tiny fan above the black beech-mast Where no blade springeth green But pallid bells of the shy helleborine. What is this ecstasy that overwhelms The dreaming earth? See, the embrownèd elms Crowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood; A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown, His white clouds dapple the down; Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand; Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land.... There is no day for thee, my soul, like this, No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kiss Of mortal love that maketh man divine This light cannot outshine: Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catch The shadow of vanishing beauty, may not match This leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cull Such magical beauty as time may not destroy; But we, alas, are not more beautiful: We cannot flower in beauty as in joy. We sing, our musèd words are sped, and then Poets are only men Who age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim’d tree May stand in leaf when I have ceased to be. THE JOYOUS LOVER O, now that I am free as the air And fleet as clouds above, I will wander everywhere Over the ways I love. Lightly, lightly will I pass Nor scatter as I go A shadow on the blowing grass Or a footprint in the snow. All the wild things of the wood That once were timid and shy They shall not flee their solitude For fear, when I pass by; And beauty, beauty, the wide world over, Shall blush when I draw near: She knows her lover, the joyous lover, And greets him without fear. But if I come to the dark room From which our love hath fled And bend above you in the gloom Or kneel beside your bed, Smile soft in your sleep, my beautiful one, For if you should say ’Nay’ To the dream which visiteth you alone, My joy would wither away. DEAD POETS ODE WRITTEN AT WILTON HOUSE Last night, amazed, I trod on holy ground Breathing an air that ancient poets knew, Where, in a valley compassed with sweet sound, Beneath a garden’s alley’d shades of yew, With eager feet passèd that singer sweet Who Stella loved, whom bloody Zutphen slew In the starred zenith of his knightly fame. There too a dark-stoled figure I did meet: Herbert, whose faith burned true And steadfast as the altar candle’s flame. Under the Wilton cedars, pondering Upon the pains of Beauty and the wrong That sealeth lovely lips, fated to sing, Before they reach the cadence of their song, I mused upon dead poets: mighty ones Who sang and suffered: briefly heard were they As Libyan nightingales weary of wing Fleeing the temper of Saharan suns To gladden our moon’d May, And with the broken blossom vanishing. So to my eyes a sorrowful vision came Of one whose name was writ in water: bright His cheeks and eyes burned with a hectic flame; And one, alas! I saw whose passionate might Was spent upon a fevered fen in Greece; One shade there was who, starving, choked with bread; One, a drown’d corpse, through stormy water slips; One in the numbing poppy-juice found peace; And one, a youth, lay dead With powdered arsenic upon his lips. O bitter were the sorrow that could dull The sombre music of slow evening Here, where the old world is so beautiful That even lesser lips are moved to sing How the wide heron sails into the light Black as the cedarn shadows on the lawns Or stricken woodlands patient in decay, And river water murmurs through the night Until autumnal dawns Burn in the glass of Nadder’s watery way. Nay, these were they by whom the world was lost, To whom the world most richly gave: forlorn Beauty they worshipp’d, counting not the cost If of their torment beauty might be born; And life, the splendid flower of their delight, Loving too eagerly, they broke, and spill’d The perfume that the folded petals close Before its prime; yet their frail fingers white From that bruised bloom distill’d Uttermost attar of the living rose. Wherefore, O shining ones, I will not mourn You, who have ravish’d beauty’s secret ways Beneath death’s impotent shadow, suffering scorn, Hatred, and desolation in her praise.... Thus as I spoke their phantom faces smiled, As brooding night with heavy downward wing Fell upon Wilton’s elegiac stone, On the dark woodlands and the waters wild And every living thing-- Leaving me there amazèd and alone. PORTON WATER Through Porton village, under the bridge, A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing, Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing, And elms that shelter under the ridge. Through Porton village we passed one day, Marching the plain for mile on mile, And crossed the bridge in single file, Happily singing, and marched away Over the bridge where the shallow races, Under a clear and frosty sky: And the winterbourne, as we marched by, Mirrored a thousand laughing faces. O, do we trouble you, Porton river, We who laughing passed, and after Found a resting-place for laughter? Over here, where the poplars shiver By stagnant waters, we lie rotten. On windless nights, in the lonely places, There, where the winter water races, O, Porton river, are we forgotten? Through Porton village, under the bridge, The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing, Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing, And elms that shelter under the ridge. The pale moon she comes and looks; Over the lonely spire she climbs; For there she is lovelier many times Than in the little broken brooks. AN OLD HOUSE No one lives in the old house; long ago The voices of men and women left it lonely. They shuttered the sightless windows in a row, Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only. Beyond the garden-closes, with sudden thunder The lumbering troop-train passing clanks and jangles; And I, a stranger, peer with careless wonder Into the thickets of the garden tangles. Yet, as I pass, a transient vision dawns Ghostly upon my pondering spirit’s gloom, Of grey lavender bushes and weedy lawns And a solitary cherry-tree in bloom.... No one lives in the old house: year by year The plaster crumbles on the lonely walls: The apple falls in the lush grass; the pear, Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls. Yet this the garden was, where, on spring nights Under the cherry-blossom, lovers plighted Have wondered at the moony billows white, Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted; Whose ears have heard the blackbird’s jolly whistle, The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flitting Zigzag beneath the eaves; or, on the thistle, The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting; Whose eyes, on winter evenings, slow returning Saw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fall Streaming, or, on the hearth, red embers burning, And shadows of children playing in the hall. Where have they gone, lovers of another day? (No one lives in the old house; long ago They shuttered the sightless windows....) Where are they, Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow? I cannot tell ... and little enough they care, Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light, And autumn pile her harvest unaware Under the walls that echoed their delight. I cannot tell ... yet I am as those lovers; For me, who pass on my predestinate way, The prodigal blossom billows and recovers In ghostly gardens a hundred miles away. Yet, in my heart, a melancholy rapture Tells me that eyes, which now an iron haste Hurries to iron days, may here recapture A vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste. THE DHOWS South of Guardafui with a dark tide flowing We hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon, Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showing Where dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon. ’Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?’ ’We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman’s behest, With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of Ophir From brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.’ ’Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?’ ’We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star. The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lying A hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.’ ’Oh whither be ye sailing...?’ ’Alas, we sail no longer: Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know. And why should you torment us? ... Your iron keels are stronger Than ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.’ THE GIFT Marching on Tanga, marching the parch’d plain Of wavering spear-grass past Pangani River, England came to me--me who had always ta’en But never given before--England, the giver, In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiver On still evenings of summer, after rain, By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiver When scarce a ripple moves the upland grain. Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain, And, as the parch’d plain, thirst, and lain awake Shivering all night through till cold daybreak: In that I count these sufferings my gain And her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fain Suffer as many more for her sweet sake. FIVE DEGREES SOUTH I love all waves and lovely water in motion, That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray: Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake’s commotion, Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal way Unquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowing Plumes of faint spray, cool in the deep And lucent seas, that pause not in their flowing To lap the southern starlight while they sleep. These I have seen, these I have loved and known: I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swinging Like a ship’s lantern, silent and alone Within his sea of sky, and heard the singing Of the south trade, that siren of the air, Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there. 104° FAHRENHEIT To-night I lay with fever in my veins Consumed, tormented creature of fire and ice, And, weaving the enhavock’d brain’s device, Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plains Where sunlight slayeth life, and where no rains Abated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire: So that death seemed the end of all desire, To ease the distracted body of its pains. And so I died, and from my eyes the glare Faded, nor had I further need of breath; But when I reached my hand to find you there Beside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death. And with a cry I wakened, but to hear Thin wings of fever singing in my ear. FEVER-TREES The beautiful Acacia She sighs in desert lands: Over the burning waterways Of Africa she sways and sways, Even where no air glideth In cooling green she stands. The beautiful Acacia She hath a yellow dress: A slender trunk of lemon sheen Gleameth through the tender green (Where the thorn hideth) Shielding her loveliness. The beautiful Acacia Dwelleth in deadly lands: Over the brooding waterways Where death breedeth, she sways and sways, And no man long abideth In valleys where she stands. THE RAIN-BIRD High on the tufted baobab-tree To-night a rain-bird sang to me A simple song, of three notes only, That made the wilderness more lonely; For in my brain it echoed nearly, Old village church bells chiming clearly: The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune, Over the mowing grass in June-- Over the mowing grass, and meadows Where the low sun casts long shadows. And cuckoos call in the twilight From elm to elm, in level flight. Now through the evening meadows move Slow couples of young folk in love, Who pause at every crooked stile And kiss in the hawthorn’s shade the while: Like pale moths the summer frocks Hover between the beds of phlox, And old men, feeling it is late, Cease their gossip at the gate, Till deeper still the twilight grows, And night blossometh, like a rose Full of love and sweet perfume, Whose heart most tender stars illume. Here the red sun sank like lead, And the sky blackened overhead; Only the locust chirped at me From the shadowy baobab-tree. MOTHS When I lay wakeful yesternight My fever’s flame was a clear light, A taper, flaring in the wind, Whither, fluttering out of the dim Night, many dreams glimmered by. Like moths, out of the darkness, blind, Hurling at that taper’s flame, From drinking honey of the night’s flowers Into my circled light they came: So near I could see their soft colours, Grey of the dove, most soothely grey; But my heat singed their wings, and away Darting into the dark again, They escaped me.... Others floated down Like those vaned seeds that fall In autumn from the sycamore’s crown When no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred, More silent in flight than any bird, Or bat’s wings flitting in darkness, soft As lizards moving on a white wall They came quietly from aloft Down through my circle of light, and so Into unlighted gloom below. But one dream, strong-winged, daring Flew beating at the heart of the flame Till I feared it would have put out my light, My thin taper, fitfully flaring, And that I should be left alone in the night With no more dreams for my delight. Can it be that from the dead Even their dreams, their dreams are fled? BÊTE HUMAINE Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise, I saw the world awake; and as the ray Touched the tall grasses where they dream till day, Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies, With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay. I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes... Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain And horror, at my own careless cruelty, That where all things are cruel I had slain A creature whose sweet life it is to fly: Like beasts that prey with bloody claw... Nay, they Must slay to live, but what excuse had I? DOVES On the edge of the wild-wood Grey doves fluttering: Grey doves of Astarte To the woods at daybreak Lazily uttering Their murmured enchantment, Old as man’s childhood; While she, pale divinity Of hidden evil, Silvers the regions chaste Of cold sky, and broodeth Over forests primeval And all that thorny waste’s Wooded infinity. ’Lovely goddess of groves,’ Cried I, ’what enchanted Sinister recesses Of these lone shades May still be haunted By thy demon caresses, Thy unholy loves?’ But clear day quelleth Her dominion lonely, And the soft ring-dove, Murmuring, telleth That dark sin only From man’s lust springeth, In man’s heart dwelleth. SONG I made a song in my love’s likeness From colours of my quietude, From trees whose blossoms shine no less Than butterflies in the wild-wood. I laid claim on all beauty Under the sun to praise her wonder, Till the noise of war swept over me, Stopp’d my singing mouth with thunder. The angel of death hath swift wings, I heard him strip the huddled trees Overhead, as a hornet sings, And whip the grass about my knees. Down we crouched in the parchèd dust, Down beneath that deadly rain: Dead still I lay, as lie one must Who hath a bullet in his brain. Dead they left me: but my soul, waking, Quietly laughed at their distress Who guessed not that I still was making That new song in my love’s likeness. BEFORE ACTION Now the wind of the dawn sighs, Now red embers have burned white, Under the darkness faints and dies The slow-beating heart of night. Into the darkness my eyes peer Seeing only faces steel’d, And level eyes that know not fear; Yet each heart is a battlefield Where phantom armies foin and feint And bloody victories are won From the time when stars are faint To the rising of the sun. With banners broken, and the roll Of drums, at dawn the phantoms fly: A man must commune with his soul When he marches out to die. O day of wrath and of desire! For each may know upon this day Whether he be a thing of fire Or fettered to the traitor clay. Such is the hazard that is thrown: We know not how the dice may fall: All the secrets shall be known Or else we shall not know at all. ON A SUBALTERN KILLED IN ACTION Into that dry and most desolate place With heavy gait they dragged the stretcher in And laid him on the bloody ground: the din Of Maxim fire ceased not. I raised his head, And looked into his face, And saw that he was dead. Saw beneath matted curls the broken skin That let the bullet in; And saw the limp, lithe limbs, the smiling mouth... (Ah, may we smile at death As bravely....) the curv’d lips that no more drouth Should blacken, and no sweetly stirring breath Mildly displace. So I covered the calm face And stripped the shirt from his firm breast, and there, A zinc identity disc, a bracelet of elephant hair I found.... Ah, God, how deep it stings This unendurable pity of small things! But more than this I saw, That dead stranger welcoming, more than the raw And brutal havoc of war. England I saw, the mother from whose side He came hither and died, she at whose hems he had play’d, In whose quiet womb his body and soul were made. That pale, estrangèd flesh that we bowed over Had breathed the scent in summer of white clover; Dreamed her cool fading nights, her twilights long, And days as careless as a blackbird’s song Heard in the hush of eve, when midges’ wings Make a thin music, and the night-jar spins. (For it is summer, I thought, in England now....) And once those forward gazing eyes had seen Her lovely living green: that blackened brow Cool airs, from those blue hills moving, had fann’d-- Breath of that holy land Whither my soul aspireth without despair: In the broken brain had many a lovely word Awakened magical echoes of things heard, Telling of love and laughter and low voices, And tales in which the English heart rejoices In vanishing visions of childhood and its glories: Old-fashioned nursery rhymes and fairy stories: Words that only an English tongue could tell. And the firing died away; and the night fell On our battle. Only in the sullen sky A prairie fire, with huge fantastic flame Leapt, lighting dark clouds charged with thunder. And my heart was sick with shame That there, in death, he should lie, Crying: ’Oh, why am I alive, I wonder?’ In a dream I saw war riding the land: Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glare Of sack’d cities smouldering in the dark, A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head, And hid her face of dread.... Yet, in my passion would I look on her, Crying, O hark, Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scythe Of God, that iron scythe forged by his thunder For reaping of nations overripened, fashioned Upon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flying In a starry night, dying, fall hereunder.... But she, she heeded not my cry impassioned Nor turned her face of dread, Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head, O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy going These bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery ways Whereby no influence strays Ruder than a cold wind blowing, Or beating needles of rain, Why must thou ride again Ruthless among the pastures yet unripened, Crushing their beauty in thine iron track Downtrodden, ravish’d in thy following flame, Parched and black? But she, she stayed not in her weary haste Nor turned her face; but fled: And where she passed the lands lay waste.... And now I cannot tell whither she rideth: But tired, tired rides she. Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth: She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth, Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning, Nor all her hate availeth: For she passeth out of sight Into that night From which none, none returneth To waste the meadows of youth, Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe, O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow. And a hope within me springs That fair will be the morrow, And that charred plain, Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at last In a sweet, clean Freshness, as when the green Grass springeth, where the prairie fire hath passed. AFTER ACTION All through that day of battle the broken sound Of shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood; So that the low trees shuddered where they stood, And echoes bellowed in the bush around: But when, at last the light of day was drowned, That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good! There, in the reek of iodine and blood, I flung me down upon the thorny ground. So quiet was it, I might well have been lying In a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakes Its dew upon the lattice panes at even: Where rusty ivory scatters from the dying Jessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaks Her dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven. SONNET Not only for remembered loveliness, England, my mother, my own, we hold thee rare Who toil, and fight, and sicken beneath the glare Of brazen skies that smile on our duress, Making us crave thy cloudy state no less Than the sweet clarity of thy rain-wash’d air, Meadows in moonlight cool, and every fair Slow-fading flower of thy summer dress: Not for thy flowers, but for the unfading crown Of sacrifice our happy brothers wove thee: The joyous ones who laid thy beauty down Nor stayed to see it shamed. For these we love thee, For this (O love, O dread!) we hold thee more Divinely fair to-day than heretofore. A FAREWELL TO AFRICA ,, vspace:: 2 Now once again, upon the pole-star’s bearing, We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth; Again the busy trade in the halyards singeth Sun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing; The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring; In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost, And the starry south rolls over until no ghost Remaineth of us and all our pitiful daring; For the sea beareth no trace of man’s endeavour, His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies, Soundless, within her unsounded caves, forever She broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace, And our grey cruisers holds in mind no more Than the cedarn fleets that Sheba’s treasure bore. SONG What is the worth of war In a world that turneth, turneth About a tired star Whose flaming centre burneth No longer than the space Of the spent atom’s race: Where conquered lands, soon, soon Lie waste as the pale moon? What is the worth of art In a world that fast forgetteth Those who have wrung its heart With beauty that love begetteth, Whose faint flames vanish quite In that star-powdered night Where even the mighty ones Shine only as far suns? And what is beauty worth, Sweet beauty, that persuadeth Of her immortal birth, Then, as a flower, fadeth: Or love, whose tender years End with the mourner’s tears, Die, when the mourner’s breath Is quiet, at last, in death? Beauty and love are one, Even when fierce war clashes: Even when our fiery sun Hath burnt itself to ashes, And the dead planets race Unlighted through blind space, Beauty will still shine there: Wherefore, I worship her. THE HAWTHORN SPRAY I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray, One moment only, spilling creamy blossom, While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom, Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away. The branch was still; but, in my heart, a pain Than the thorn’d spray more cruel, stabbed me, only Remembering days in a far land and lonely When I had never hoped for summer again. THE PAVEMENT In bitter London’s heart of stone, Under the lamplight’s shielded glare. I saw a soldier’s body thrown Unto the drabs that traffic there Pacing the pavements with slow feet: Those old pavements whose blown dust Throttles the hot air of the street, And the darkness smells of lust. The chaste moon, with equal glance, Looked down on the mad world, astare At those who conquered in sad France And those who perished in Leicester Square. And in her light his lips were pale: Lips that love had moulded well: Out of the jaws of Passchendaele They had sent him to this nether hell. I had no stone of scorn to fling, For I know not how the wrong began-- But I had seen a hateful thing Masked in the dignity of man: And hate and sorrow and hopeless anger Swept my heart, as the winds that sweep Angrily through the leafless hanger When winter rises from the deep.... * * * * * I would that war were what men dream: A crackling fire, a cleansing flame, That it might leap the space between And lap up London and its shame. To LYDIA LOPOKOVA HER GARLAND O thou who comest to our wintry shade Gay and light-footed as the virgin Spring, Before whose shining feet the cherries fling Their moony tribute, when the sloe is sprayed With light, and all things musical are made: O thou who art Spring’s daughter, who can bring Blossom, or song of bird, or anything To match the youth in which you stand arrayed? Not that rich garland Meleager twined In his sun-guarded glade above the blue That flashes from the burning Tyrian seas: No, you are cooler, sweeter than the wind That wakes our woodlands; so I bring to you These wind-blown blossoms of anemones. HER VARIETY Soft as a pale moth flitting in moonshine I saw thee flutter to the shadowy call That beckons from the strings of Carneval, O frail and fragrant image of Columbine: So, when the spectre of the rose was thine, A flower wert thou, and last I saw thee fall In Cleopatra’s stormy bacchanal Flown with the red insurgence of the vine. O moth, O flower, O mænad, which art thou? Shadowy, beautiful, or leaping wild As stormlight over savage Tartar skies? Such were my ancient questionings; but now I know that you are nothing but a child With a red flower’s mouth and hazel eyes. HER SWIFTNESS You are too swift for poetry, too fleet For any musèd numbers to ensnare: Swifter than music dying on the air Or bloom upon rose-petals, fades the sweet Vanishing magic of your flying feet, Your poisèd finger, and your shining hair: Words cannot tell how wonderful you were, Or how one gesture made a joy complete. And since you know my pen may never capture The transient swift loveliness of you, Come, let us salve our sense of the world’s loss Remembering, with a melancholy rapture, How many dancing-girls ... and poets too... Dream in the dust of Hecatompylos. GHOSTLY LOVES ’Oh why,’ my darling prayeth me, ’must you sing For ever of ghostly loves, phantasmal passion? Seeing that you never loved me after that fashion And the love I gave was not a phantom thing, But delight of eager lips and strong arms folding The beauty of yielding arms and of smooth shoulder, All fluent grace of which you were the moulder: And I.... Oh, I was happy for your holding.’ ’Ah, do you not know, my dearest, have you not seen The shadow that broodeth over things that perish: How age may mock sweet moments that have been And death defile the beauty that we cherish? Wherefore, sweet spirit, I thank thee for thy giving: ’Tis my spirit that embraceth thee dead or living.’ FEBRUARY The robin on my lawn, He was the first to tell How, in the frozen dawn, This miracle befell, Waking the meadows white With hoar, the iron road Agleam with splintered light, And ice where water flowed: Till, when the low sun drank Those milky mists that cloak Hanger and hollied bank, The winter world awoke To hear the feeble bleat Of lambs on downland farms: A blackbird whistled sweet; Old beeches moved their arms Into a mellow haze Aerial, newly-born: And I, alone, agaze, Stood waiting for the thorn To break in blossom white Or burst in a green flame... So, in a single night, Fair February came, Bidding my lips to sing Or whisper their surprise, With all the joy of spring And morning in her eyes. SONG OF THE DARK AGES We digged our trenches on the down Beside old barrows, and the wet White chalk we shovelled from below; It lay like drifts of thawing snow On parados and parapet: Until a pick neither struck flint Nor split the yielding chalky soil, But only calcined human bone: Poor relic of that Age of Stone Whose ossuary was our spoil. Home we marched singing in the rain, And all the while, beneath our song, I mused how many springs should wane And still our trenches scar the plain: The monument of an old wrong. But then, I thought, the fair green sod Will wholly cover that white stain, And soften, as it clothes the face Of those old barrows, every trace Of violence to the patient plain. And careless people, passing by, Will speak of both in casual tone: Saying: ’You see the toil they made: The age of iron, pick, and spade, Here jostles with the Age of Stone.’ Yet either from that happier race Will merit but a passing glance; And they will leave us both alone: Poor savages who wrought in stone-- Poor savages who fought in France. WINTER SUNSET Athwart the blackening bars of pines benighted, The sun, descending to the zones of denser Cloud that o’erhung the long horizon, lighted Upon the crown of earth a flaming censer From which white clouds of incense, overflowing, Filled the chill clarity from whence the swallows Had lately fled with wreathèd vapours, showing Like a fine bloom over the lonely fallows: Where, with the pungent breath of mist was blended A faint aroma of pine-needles sodden By autumn rains, and fainter still, ascended Beneath high woods the scent of leaves downtrodden. It was a moment when the earth, that sickened For Spring, as lover when the beloved lingers, Lay breathless, while the distant goddess quickened Some southern hill-side with her glowing fingers: And so, it seemed, the drowsy lands were shaken, Stirred in their sleep, and sighed, as though the pain Of a strange dream had bidden them awaken To frozen days and bitter nights again. SONG Why have you stolen my delight In all the golden shows of Spring When every cherry-tree is white And in the limes the thrushes sing, O fickler than the April day, O brighter than the golden broom, O blyther than the thrushes’ lay, O whiter than the cherry-bloom, O sweeter than all things that blow ... Why have you only left for me The broom, the cherry’s crown of snow, And thrushes in the linden-tree? ENGLAND--APRIL, 1918 Last night the North flew at the throat of Spring With spite to tear her greening banners down, Tossing the elm-tree’s tender tassels brown, The virgin blossom of sloe burdening With colder snow; beneath his frosty sting Patient, the newly-wakened woods were bowed By drownèd fields where stormy waters flowed: Yet, on the thorn, I heard a blackbird sing.... ’Too late, too late,’ he sang, ’this wintry spite; For molten snow will feed the springing grass: The tide of life, it floweth with the year.’ O England, England, thou that standest upright Against the tide of death, the bad days pass: Know, by this miracle, that summer is near. SLENDER THEMES When, by a happier race, these leaves are turned, They’ll wonder that such quiet themes engaged A soldier’s mind when noisy wars were waged, And half the world in one red bonfire burned. ’When that fierce age,’ they’ll say, ’went up in flame He lived ... or died, seeing those bright deeds done Whereby our sweet and settled peace was won, Yet offereth slender dreams, not deeds, to Fame.’ Then say: ’Out of the heart the mouth speaketh, And mine was as the hearts of other men Whom those dark days impassioned; yet it seeketh To paint the sombre woes that held us then, No more than the cloud-rending levin’s light Seeks to illumine the sad skies of night.’ INVOCATION Whither, O, my sweet mistress, must I follow thee? For when I hear thy distant footfall nearing, And wait on thy appearing, Lo! my lips are silent: no words come to me. Once I waylaid thee in green forest covers, Hoping that spring might free my lips with gentle fingers; Alas! her presence lingers No longer than on the plain the shadow of brown kestrel hovers. Through windless ways of the night my spirit followed after;-- Cold and remote were they, and there, possessed By a strange unworldly rest, Awaiting thy still voice heard only starry laughter. The pillared halls of sleep echoed my ghostly tread. Yet when their secret chambers I essayed My spirit sank, dismayed, Waking in fear to find the new-born vision fled. Once indeed--but then my spirit bloomed in leafy rapture-- I loved; and once I looked death in the eyes: So, suddenly made wise, Spoke of such beauty as I may never recapture.... Whither, O, divine mistress, must I then follow thee? Is it only in love ... say, is it only in death That the spirit blossometh, And words that may match my vision shall come to me? THAMAR (_To Thamar Karsavina_) Once in the sombre light of the throng’d courts of night, In a dream-haunted land only inhabited By the unhappy dead, came one who, anxious eyed, Clung to my idle hand with clenched fingers weak And gazed into my eyes as he had wrongs to speak. Silent he stood and wan, more pallid than the leaves Of an aspen blown under a wind that grieves. Then I: ’O haggard one, say from what ghostly zone Of thwarted destinies or torment hast thou come? Tell me thy race and name!’ And he, with veiled face: ’I have neither name nor race, but I have travelled far, A timeless avatar of never-ending dooms, Out of those tyrannous glooms where, like a tired star In stormy darkness, looms the castle of Thamar... Once in a lonely dawn my eager spirit fared By ways that no men dared unto a desert land, Where, on a sullen strand, a mouldering city, vast As towered Babylon, stood in the dreamy sand-- Older a million years: Babel was builded on That broken city’s tears; dust of her crumbled past Rose from the rapid wheels of Babel’s charioteers In whorled clouds above those shining thoroughfares Where Babel’s millions tread on her unheeding dead. Forth from an eastern gate where the lips of Asia wait Parch’d with an ancient thirst that no æons can abate, Passed I, predestinate, to a thorn’d desert’s drought, Where the rivers of the south, flowing in a cloudy spate, Spend at last their splendid strength in a sea of molten glass Seething with the brazen might of a white sun dipped at length Like a baked stone, burning hot, plunged in a hissing pot. Out of that solemn portal over the tawny waste, Without stay, without haste, nor the joy of any mortal Glance of eye or clasp of hand, desolate, in a burning land, Lonely days and nights I travelled and the changing seasons squandered Friendless, endlessly, I wandered nor my woven fate unravelled; Drawn to a hidden goal, sore, forlorn with waiting, Seeking I knew not what, yet unhesitating Struggled my hapless soul... There, in a thousand springs, Slow, beneath frozen snow, where the blind earth lay cringing, Have I seen the steppe unfold uncounted blossomings, Where salty pools shone fair in a quivering blue air That shivered every fringing reed-bed with cool delight, And fanned the mazy flight of slow-wing’d egrets white Beating and wheeling bright against the sun astare; But I could not hear their wings for they were ghostly things Sent by the powers of night to mock my sufferings And rain upon the bitter waterpools their drops aglitter. Yet, when these lakes accursed tortured my aching thirst, The green reeds fell to dust, the cool pools to a crust Of frozen salt crystallised to taunt my broken lips, To cheat my staring eyes, as a vision of great ships With moving towers of sail, poops throng’d with grinning crowds And a wind in their shrouds, bears down upon the pale Wasted castaway afloat with the salt in his throat And a feeble wild desire to be quenched of his fire In the green gloom beneath. So, again and again, Hath a phantom city thrust to the visionary vault Of inviolate cobalt, dome and dreaming minaret Mosque and gleaming water-tower hazy in a fountain’s jet Or a market’s rising dust; and my lips have cried aloud To see them tremble there, though I knew within my heart They were chiselled out of cloud or carven of thin air; And my fingers clenched my hand, for I wondered if this land Of my stony pilgrimage were a glimmering mirage, And I myself no more than a phantom of the sand. ’But beyond these fading slender cities, many leagues away, Strange brooding mountains lay heaped, crowding range on range In a changing cloudy splendour; and beyond, in lakes of light, As eastward still I staggered, there swam into my sight, More vast and hoar and haggard, shoulders of ice and snow Bounding the heavens low of burnished brass, whereunder The hot plains of Cathay perpetually slumber: Where tawny millions breed in cities without number, Whither, a hill-born thunder, rolling on Tartary With torrents and barb’d lightning, swelleth the yellow river To a tumult of whitening foam and confusèd might That drowns in a single night many a mud-made city; And cities of boats, and frail cities of lath and reed, Are whirled away without pity or set afloat in a pale, Swirling, shallow sea ... and their names seem lost for ever Till a stranger nomad race drive their herds to the sad place Where old sorrows lie forgotten, and raise upon the rotten Level waste another brood to await another flood. ’But I never might attain to this melancholy plain For the mountains rose between; stark in my path they lay Between me and Cathay, through moving mist half-seen. And I knew that they were real, for their drooping folds of cloud Enwrapped me in a shroud, and the air that fell at night From their frozen summits white slid like an ice-blue steel Into my living breast and stilled the heart within As the chill of an old sin that robs a man of rest, Killing all delight in the silence of the night And brooding black above till the heart dare not move But lieth cold and numb ... and the dawn will not come. ’Yet to me a dawn came, new-kindled in cold flame, Flinging the imminence of those inviolate snows On the forest lawns below in a shadow more immense Than their eternal vastness; and a new hope beyond reason, Flamed in my heart’s dark season, dazzled my pallid eyes, Till, when the hot sun soared above the uttermost height, A draught of keen delight into my body was poured, For all that frozen fastness lay flowered with the spring: Her starry blossoms broke beneath my bruisèd feet, And their beauty was so sweet to me I kissed them where they lay; Yea, I bent my weary hips and kissed them with dry lips, Tenderly, only dreading lest their petals delicate Should be broken by my treading, for I lived, I lived again, And my heart would have been broken by a living creature’s pain, So I kissed them for a token of my joy in their new birth, And I kissed the gentle earth. Slowly the shadows crept To the bases of the crags, and I slept.... ’Once, in another life, had I remembered sleep, When tired children creep on to their mother’s knees, And there a dreamless peace more quietly descendeth Than gentle evening endeth or ring-doves fold their wings, Before the nightjar spins or the nightingale begins; When the brooding hedgerow trees where they nest lie awake And breathe so soft they shake not a single shuddering leaf Lest the silence should break. ’Other sleep have I known, Deeper, beyond belief, when straining limbs relax After hot human toil in yellow harvest fields Where the panting earth yields a smell of baked soil, And the dust of dry stubbles blows over the whitening Shocks of lank grain and bundles of flax, And men fling themselves down forgetting their troubles, Unheedful of the song that the landrail weaves along Misty woodlands, or lightning that the pale sky laves Like phosphorescent waves washing summer seas: And, more beautiful than these, that sleep of dazèd wonder When love has torn asunder the veils of the sky And raptured lovers lie faint in each other’s arms Beneath a heaven strewn with myriad starry swarms, Where planets float like lonely gold-flowered nenuphars In pools of the sky; yet, when they wake, they turn From those burning galaxies seeking heaven only In each other’s eyes, and sigh, and sleep again; For while they sleep they seem to forget the world’s pain, And when they wake, they dream.... ’But other sleep was mine As I had drunk of wine with bitter hemlock steep’d, Or sousèd with the heapèd milky poppyheads A drowsy Tartar treads where slow waters sweep Over red river beds, and the air is heavy with sleep. So, when I woke at last, the labouring earth had rolled Eastward under the vast dominion of night, Funereal, forlorn as that unlighted chamber Wherein she first was born, bereft of all starlight, Pale silver of the moon, or the low sun’s amber. ’Then to my queen I prayed, grave Ashtoreth, whose shade Hallows the dim abyss of Heliopolis, Where many an olive maid clashed kissing Syrian cymbals, And silver-sounding timbrels shivered through the vale. O lovely, and O white, under the holy night Is their gleaming wonder, and their brows are pale As the new risen moon, dancing till they swoon In far forests under desolate Lebanon, While the flame of Moloch’s pyre reddens the sea-born cloud That overshadows Tyre; so, when I cried aloud, Behold, a torch of fire leapt on the mountain-side! ’O bright, O beautiful! for never kindlier light Fell on the darkened sight of mortal eyes and dull Since that devoted one, whom gloomy Caucasus In icy silence lonely bound to his cruel shoulders, Brought to benighted men in a hollow fennel-stem Sparks of the torrid vapour that burned behind the bars Of evening, broke dawn’s rose, or smouldered in the stars, Or lit the glowworm’s taper, or wavered over the fen, Or tipped the javelin of the far-ravening levin, Lash of the Lord of Heaven and bitter scourge of sin. O beautiful, O bright! my tired sinews strained To this torch that flared and waned as a watery planet gloweth And waneth in the night when a calm sea floweth Under a misty sky spread with the tattered veils Of rapid cloud driven over the deeps of heaven By winds that range too high to sweep the languid sails. On through the frozen night, like a blind moth flying With battered wing and bruisèd bloom into a light, I dragged my ragged limbs, cared not if I were dying, Knew not if I were dead, where cavernous crevasses, And stony desperate passes snared, waylaid my tread: In the roar of broken boulders split from rocky shoulders, In the thunder of snow sliding, or under the appalling Rending of glacier ice or hoarse cataracts falling: And I knew not what could save me but the unholy guiding That some demon gave me. Thrice I fell, and thrice In torrents of blue ice-water slipp’d and was toss’d Like a dead leaf, or a ghost Harried by thin bufferings of wind Downward to Tartarus at daybreak, Downward to the regions of the lost.... But the rushing waters ceased, and the bitter wind fell: How I cannot tell, unless that I had come To the hollow heart of the storm where the wind is dumb; And there my gelid blood thawed, glowed, and grew warm, While a black-hooded form caught at my arm, and stayed And held me as I swayed, until, at last, I saw In a strange unworldly awe, at the gate of light I stood: And I entered, alone.... ’Behold a cavern of stone carven, and in the midst A brazier that hissed with tongued flames, leaping Over whitened embers of gummy frankincense, Into a fume of dense and fragrant vapour, creeping Over the roof to spread a milky coverlet Softer than the woof of webby spider’s net. But never spider yet spun a more delicate wonder Than that which hung thereunder, drooping fold on fold, Silks that glowed with fire of tawny Oxus gold, Richer than ever flowed from the eager fancy of man In his vain desire for beauty that endures: And on the floor were spread by many a heaped daiwan Carpets of Kurdistan, cured skins, and water-ewers Encrusted with such gems as emperors of Hind (Swart conquerors, long dead) sought for their diadems. No other light was there but one torch, flaring Against a square of sky possess’d by the wind, And never another sound but the tongued flames creeping. ’At last, my eyes staring into the clouded gloom, Saw that the caverned room with shadowy forms was strewn In heavy sleep or swoon fallen, who did not move But lay as mortals lie in the sweet release of love. And stark between them stood huge eunuchs of ebony, Mute, motionless, as they had been carven of black wood. But these I scarcely saw, for, through the flame was seen Another, a queen, with heavy closèd eyes White against the skies of that empurpled night In her loveliness she lay, and leaned upon her hand: And my blood leapt at the sight, so that I could not stand But fell upon my knees, pleading, and cried aloud For her white loveliness as Ixion for his cloud: And my cry the silence broke, and the sleepers awoke From their slumber, stirred, and rose every one,--save those Mute eunuchs of ebony, those frowning caryatides. Slowly she looked at me, and when I cried again In yearning and in pain, she beckoned with her hand. Then from my knees rose I, and greatly daring, Through the hazy air, past the brazier flaring And the hissing flame, crept, until I came Unto the carven seat, and kissed her white feet; And she smiled, but spake not. When she smiled the sleepers wavered as the grass Of a cornfield wavers when the ears are swept By the breath of brown reapers singing as they pass, Or grass of woody glades when a wind that has slept Wakens, and invades their moonlit solitude, When the hazels shiver and the birch is blown To a billow of silver, but oaks in the wood Stand firm nor quiver, stand firm as stone: So, amid the sleepers, the black eunuchs stood. When the sleepers stirred faintly in the heat Of that painted room a silken sound I heard, And a thin music, sweet as the brown nightingale Sings in the jealous shade of a lonely spinney, Stranger far than any music mortal made Fell softer than the dew falleth when stars are pale. Sweet it was, and clear as light, or as the tears That sad Narcissus wears in the spring of the year On barren mountain ranges where rain falls cool And every lonely pool is sprayed with broken light: So cool, so beautiful, and so divinely strange I doubted if it came from any marshy reed Or hollow fluting stem pluck’d by the hands of men, Unless it were indeed that airy fugitive Syrinx, who cried and ran before the laughing eyes Of goat-footed Pan, and must for ever live A shadowy green reed by an Arcadian river-- But never music made of Ladon’s reedy daughter Or singing river-water more sweet than that which stole, Slow as amber honey wells from the honeycomb, Into my weary soul with solace and strange peace. So, trembling as I lay in a dream more desolate Than is the darkened day of the mid-winter north, I heard the voice of one who sang in a strange tongue, And I know not what he sang save that he sang of love, The while they led me forth unheeding, till we came Unto a chamber lit with one slow-burning flame That yellow horn bedims, and laid me down, and there They soothed my bruised limbs, and combed my tangled hair, And salved my limbs with rarely-mingled unguents pressed By hands of holy ones who dream beneath the suns Of Araby the Blest, and so, when they had bathed My burning eyes with milk of dreamy anodyne And cool’d my throat with wine, In robings of cool silk my broken body they swathed, Sandals of gold they placed upon my feet, and round My sad sun-blistered brows a silver fillet bound-- Decking me with the pride of a bridegroom that goes To the joy of his bride and is lovely in her eyes-- And led me to her side. Then, as a conquering prince, I, who long since had been battered and tost Like a dead leaf or ghost buffeted by wild storms, Came to her white arms, conquering, and was lost, Yet dared not gaze upon the beauty that I dreamed. So, in my trance, it seemed that a shadowy soft dance Coiled slowly and unwound, swayed, beckoned, and recovered As hooded cobra bound by hollow spells of sound Unto the piper sways; so silently they hovered I only heard the beat of their naked feet, And then, another sound.... A dull throb thrumming, a noise of faint drumming, Threatening, coming nearer, piercing deeper Than a dream lost in the heart of a sleeper Into those deeps where the dark fire gloweth, The secret flame that every man knoweth, Embers that smoulder, fires that none can fan, Terrible, older than the mind of man.... Before he crawled from his swamp and spurned The life of the beast that dark fire burned In the hidden deeps where no dream can come: Only the throbbing of a drum Can wake it from its smouldering-- Sightless, soundless, senseless, dumb-- Dumb as those blind seeds that lie Drown’d in mud, and shuddering, I knew that I was man no more, But a throbbing core of flesh, that knew Nor beauty, nor truth, nor anything But the black sky and the slimy earth: Roots of trees, and fear, and pain, The blank of death, the pangs of birth, An inhuman thing possess’d By the throbbing of a drum: And my lips were strange and numb, But they kissed her white breast.... Then, being drunk with pride and splendour of love, I cried: ’"O spring of all delight, O moonèd mystery, O living marvel, white as the dead queen of night, O flower, and O flame ... tell me at least thy name That, from this desolate height, I may proclaim its wonder To the lost lands hereunder before thy beauty dies As fades the fire of dawn upon a peak of snow!"’ Then: "Look," she sighed, "into my eyes, and thou shalt know." So, with her fingers frail, she pressed my brows, and so, Slowly, at last, she raised my drooping eyelids pale, And in her eyes I gazed. ’Then fear, than love more blind, Caught at my heart and fast in chains of horror bound-- As one who in profound and midnight forest ways Sees in the dark the burning eyes of a tiger barred Or stealthy footed pard blaze in a solemn hate And lust of human blood, yet cannot cry, nor turning Flee from the huddled wood, but stands and sees his fate, Or one who in a black night, groping for his track, Clings to the dizzy verge of a cragged precipice, Shrinks from the dim abyss, yet dare not venture back, And no sound hears but the hiss of empty air Swirling past his ears.... So, in a hideous Abandonment of hope, I waited for her kiss. Then the restless beat of the muttering drum Rose to a frenzied heat; the naked dancers leapt Insolent through the flame, laughing as they came With parted lips; their cries deadened my ears, my eyes Throbbed with the pattering of their rapid feet, And the whirling dust of their dancing swept Into my throat unslaked, dry-parchèd with love’s drought, Until my mouth was pressed upon her burning mouth In a kiss most terrible.... Oh, was it pride, or shame Unending, without name, or ecstasy, or pain Or desperate desire? Alas! I cannot tell, Save that it pierced my trembling soul and body with fire. For, while her soft lips clove to mine in love, she drove A flaming blade of steel into my breast, and I, Rent with a bitter cry, slid from her side and fell Clutching in dumb despair the dark unbraided hair My passion had despoiled; while she, like serpent coiled, Poised for another stroke, terribly, slowly, smiled, Saying: "O stranger, red, red are my lips, and sweet Unto those lips so red are the kisses of the dead: Far hast thou wandered, far, for the kisses of Thamar." Then a deep silence fell on the frenzy and the laughter; The leaping dancers crept to the shadows where they had slept, And the mute eunuchs stood forth, and hugely bent Above my body, spent in its pool of blood, And hove me with black arms, while the queen followed after With stealthy steps, and eyes that burned into the night Of my dying brain, till, with her hand, she bade Them falter, and they stayed, while, eagerly, she propped My listless head that dropped downward from my shoulders, And slowly raised it up, raised it like a cup Unto her lips again, Then shuddered, trembled, shrunk, as though her mouth had drunk A potion where the fell fire of poison smoulders. And a darkness came, and I could see no more, But in my ears the roar of lonely torrents swelled And stilled my breath for ever, as though a wave appalling Had broken in my brain, and deep to deep were calling: And I felt my body falling down and down and down Into a blank of death, where dumb waters roll Endlessly, only knowing, that her dagger had stabbed my breast, But her kiss had killed my soul. And now I know no rest until again I stand Where that lost city’s towers rise from the dreamy sand, Until I reach the gate where the lips of Asia wait, Till I cross the desert’s drought, and the rivers of the south, And shiver through the night under those summits white That soar above Cathay; until I see the light Flame from those tyrannous glooms where, like a tired star In stormy darkness, looms the castle of Thamar.’ ENVOI Now that the hour has come, and under the lonely Darkness I stumble at the doors of death, It is not hope, nor faith That here my spirit sustaineth, but love only. In visions, in love: only there have I clutched at divinity: But the vision fadeth; yet love fades not: and for this I would have you know that your kiss Was more to me than all my hopes of infinity. Therein you made me divine ... you, who were moon and sun for me, You, for whose beauty I would have forsaken the splendour of the stars And my shadowy avatars Renounced: for there is nothing in the world you have not done for me. So that when at length all sentient skill hath forsaken me, And the bright world beats vainly on my consciousness, Your beauty shineth no less: And even if I were dead I think your shadow would awaken me. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS, 1916-1918 *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. START: FULL LICENSE THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license. Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works 1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. 1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. 1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States. 1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: 1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed: This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. 1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. 1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License. 1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. 1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that: • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works. • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work. • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. 1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. 1.F. 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. 1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE. 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem. 1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. 1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. 1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause. Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life. Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS. The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate. While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate. International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate. Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org. This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.