“IT is dangerous to lean out of the window.”No doubt, when meteors shoot athwart the night.No doubt, no doubt; and yet it haunts the sight.I read, re-read this ponderous adviceIn French and English; play a game of diceWith mental clouds through cannonades of hours,With foamless islands legioned with lush flow’rs,Prismatic juicy glades bee-pasturing.“In case of danger you must pull the ring.”A girl arranges a mellifluous grin:Eternal teas and afternoons beginTo lurk within the forests of the mindWith vividness that cuts it like a wind.And while my nostrils draw the vital air,They quiver to discern the sweat of hairIn awkward crevices!Signal d’AlarmeRecalls the fact that I am safe from harm.I count, re-count each pendulum and beat.Pardie! the train has swollen in the heat;Freighted with smuts he heaves his metal breasts,Nor heeds the broad and burning moon’s behests.(The moon is lingering and luminous.Mired in a wrinkling silk diaphanousShe floats a supple pose upon the airAnd whispers invitations.)“I don’t care!”The train replies; although his body glows,He is austere as tempest-sifted snows,Pursuing moral dumb-bell exerciseTo muscle-burst criterion; he defiesFlesh and its shuddering spurts of harlotry.Pavilioned on hills of chastity,“I do not care a damn,” the train replies.
“IT is dangerous to lean out of the window.”No doubt, when meteors shoot athwart the night.No doubt, no doubt; and yet it haunts the sight.I read, re-read this ponderous adviceIn French and English; play a game of diceWith mental clouds through cannonades of hours,With foamless islands legioned with lush flow’rs,Prismatic juicy glades bee-pasturing.“In case of danger you must pull the ring.”A girl arranges a mellifluous grin:Eternal teas and afternoons beginTo lurk within the forests of the mindWith vividness that cuts it like a wind.And while my nostrils draw the vital air,They quiver to discern the sweat of hairIn awkward crevices!Signal d’AlarmeRecalls the fact that I am safe from harm.I count, re-count each pendulum and beat.Pardie! the train has swollen in the heat;Freighted with smuts he heaves his metal breasts,Nor heeds the broad and burning moon’s behests.(The moon is lingering and luminous.Mired in a wrinkling silk diaphanousShe floats a supple pose upon the airAnd whispers invitations.)“I don’t care!”The train replies; although his body glows,He is austere as tempest-sifted snows,Pursuing moral dumb-bell exerciseTo muscle-burst criterion; he defiesFlesh and its shuddering spurts of harlotry.Pavilioned on hills of chastity,“I do not care a damn,” the train replies.
“IT is dangerous to lean out of the window.”No doubt, when meteors shoot athwart the night.No doubt, no doubt; and yet it haunts the sight.I read, re-read this ponderous adviceIn French and English; play a game of diceWith mental clouds through cannonades of hours,With foamless islands legioned with lush flow’rs,Prismatic juicy glades bee-pasturing.
“In case of danger you must pull the ring.”A girl arranges a mellifluous grin:Eternal teas and afternoons beginTo lurk within the forests of the mindWith vividness that cuts it like a wind.And while my nostrils draw the vital air,They quiver to discern the sweat of hairIn awkward crevices!Signal d’AlarmeRecalls the fact that I am safe from harm.
I count, re-count each pendulum and beat.Pardie! the train has swollen in the heat;Freighted with smuts he heaves his metal breasts,Nor heeds the broad and burning moon’s behests.(The moon is lingering and luminous.Mired in a wrinkling silk diaphanousShe floats a supple pose upon the airAnd whispers invitations.)“I don’t care!”The train replies; although his body glows,He is austere as tempest-sifted snows,Pursuing moral dumb-bell exerciseTo muscle-burst criterion; he defiesFlesh and its shuddering spurts of harlotry.Pavilioned on hills of chastity,“I do not care a damn,” the train replies.
THE young man yawned with feigned inconsequenceOf manner; boredom exquisite; a fenceTo hide the quick explosions in his soul.He sucked at his surroundings, and the wholeGrim agony of his dull youth returned,The blue fins of his sullen eyelids burned,He could have mouthed a curse, an oath obscene:For horror at the glib familiar sceneA clayey lump stuck blistered in his throat.Chrysallic faces, garlic, myosote,And rows of beans and artichokes, a fieldInterminably patterned, jigged and reeledAlong the corridors of memory.“Is childhood happy? dismal fallacy!And yet I am not one of those who thinkThat lilies smell not, orange-flowers stink.”Here had the best hours coolly leaked awayLike driblets from a tap, a disarrayOf tumbled hispid stars; a clean dry sleepOf stunted senses, where he could not weepFor ignorance. And ever shone the moon;The warm sky twinkled like a chopped lagoon.“This world is but a foggy circumstance,”He thought, “where timid mortals must advanceTo claim their rights and drain what cup of joyIt has to offer, now no longer boyI’ll cease to play the rôle of Tantalus,But leave this place, discharge a blunderbussAgainst my present drawling mode of life.I’m still too young to bear the plague of wife,And though ’tis true, when all fine things be said,I’m welcome to a partner for my bed,To kiss a gaping throat of flaccid silk;I fear her plump white breasts would hold no milkTo suckle babes on, after I had doneWith kissing at her nipples; one by oneEach new-born babe would wither up and die.”He picked his teeth and fetched a windy sigh,Informed his father of his bold resolve,Who told him of the cost it would involve:So, settling up accounts, he bade farewellTo all the damned of his domestic hell.Ohwagon-litsand tickets bought from Cook’s,Surpassing all the fairy-tales in books!Warm exhalations, streets with spicy smellsAnd oh, the Poe-like harmonies of bells!Venice and Ruskin andThe Deadly Lamps,The pulsing cafés and patchouli’d vampsWith sticky flowers in their copper hair,The languid music throbbing on the air!The Watteaufêtes galantes, the bistre-brownSombrero’d poets, yet without a crownTo purchase food; the graceful unwashed handsAnd flung-proud gestures of these Southern lands!The tiny shiny shoes with pointed tipsAnd carmine-rouged pursed petulance of lips!But all the while the young man’s pockets burned,And all the while he piteously yearnedFor lucre; many azure nights he’d lainWith shirt-front soaked and squelching in champagneAnd pleasures, money, all are volatile,For after belching Pol-Roger the bileWill wreak revenge.And thus it came aboutThat when his full supply had given out,The harlots would no longer share his bed;Since he could pay no cash, they, laughing, said:“One sucks the orange, throws away the peel.”The young man’s vanity forbade him kneelAs penitent before his father’s glare,Before the well-staged patronising stareOf his familiar family—poor things—How they would love to clip his phœnix-wings!So he became a labourer and sleptIn musty garrets where the grey mice crept,With cobwebs and the gibbering of batsAnd scuttling cockroaches, and lice, and ratsWho dragged their heavy bellies on the floorThud, thud and thud; the creaking of the doorIn twilight cavernous, the broken paneThrough which the hiss and crackle of the rainWould slant in rivulets across the planks,The thunder tramped, the lightning played his pranksLike a young leopard prancing from the skiesDivinely, whilst the tough wind slapped its thighs.Through dismal days he sweated at the plough.And half a crust beneath an apple-boughBecame his nourishment, and so he thinnedIn figure-line; the sweltering east windAnd thick-flamed sun had bronzed his body quite....And often through the oozing hours of nightHe’d sing a sparkling catch of better times—No longer pedant à propos of rhymes,He’d hum or whistle: “Gosh, she looks immense,You never met a girl like sweet Hortense,”With genuine emotion in his throat.But soon he was reduced to pawning coatAnd hat; dismissed for superflux of dreamsOr bathing on hot afternoons in streamsWhen there was corn to reap, or hay to storeIn soporific barns; and all the moreHe dreamt of silken harlots, velvet wine.A tender farmer let him tend the swine.With weighty flanks well caked in slime, a sowGrunted and suckled farrow, whilst a cowLowed like a mellow snore; a mastiff whinedTo demonstrate sheer vacancy of mind.“Shall I arise and go? ’tis not too lateTo gain an entrance to my father’s gate.”The young man shook his head and muttered “No,Nor shall arise, nor to my father go.”He had acquired a preference to dineOn scraps amongst the confidential swine.
THE young man yawned with feigned inconsequenceOf manner; boredom exquisite; a fenceTo hide the quick explosions in his soul.He sucked at his surroundings, and the wholeGrim agony of his dull youth returned,The blue fins of his sullen eyelids burned,He could have mouthed a curse, an oath obscene:For horror at the glib familiar sceneA clayey lump stuck blistered in his throat.Chrysallic faces, garlic, myosote,And rows of beans and artichokes, a fieldInterminably patterned, jigged and reeledAlong the corridors of memory.“Is childhood happy? dismal fallacy!And yet I am not one of those who thinkThat lilies smell not, orange-flowers stink.”Here had the best hours coolly leaked awayLike driblets from a tap, a disarrayOf tumbled hispid stars; a clean dry sleepOf stunted senses, where he could not weepFor ignorance. And ever shone the moon;The warm sky twinkled like a chopped lagoon.“This world is but a foggy circumstance,”He thought, “where timid mortals must advanceTo claim their rights and drain what cup of joyIt has to offer, now no longer boyI’ll cease to play the rôle of Tantalus,But leave this place, discharge a blunderbussAgainst my present drawling mode of life.I’m still too young to bear the plague of wife,And though ’tis true, when all fine things be said,I’m welcome to a partner for my bed,To kiss a gaping throat of flaccid silk;I fear her plump white breasts would hold no milkTo suckle babes on, after I had doneWith kissing at her nipples; one by oneEach new-born babe would wither up and die.”He picked his teeth and fetched a windy sigh,Informed his father of his bold resolve,Who told him of the cost it would involve:So, settling up accounts, he bade farewellTo all the damned of his domestic hell.Ohwagon-litsand tickets bought from Cook’s,Surpassing all the fairy-tales in books!Warm exhalations, streets with spicy smellsAnd oh, the Poe-like harmonies of bells!Venice and Ruskin andThe Deadly Lamps,The pulsing cafés and patchouli’d vampsWith sticky flowers in their copper hair,The languid music throbbing on the air!The Watteaufêtes galantes, the bistre-brownSombrero’d poets, yet without a crownTo purchase food; the graceful unwashed handsAnd flung-proud gestures of these Southern lands!The tiny shiny shoes with pointed tipsAnd carmine-rouged pursed petulance of lips!But all the while the young man’s pockets burned,And all the while he piteously yearnedFor lucre; many azure nights he’d lainWith shirt-front soaked and squelching in champagneAnd pleasures, money, all are volatile,For after belching Pol-Roger the bileWill wreak revenge.And thus it came aboutThat when his full supply had given out,The harlots would no longer share his bed;Since he could pay no cash, they, laughing, said:“One sucks the orange, throws away the peel.”The young man’s vanity forbade him kneelAs penitent before his father’s glare,Before the well-staged patronising stareOf his familiar family—poor things—How they would love to clip his phœnix-wings!So he became a labourer and sleptIn musty garrets where the grey mice crept,With cobwebs and the gibbering of batsAnd scuttling cockroaches, and lice, and ratsWho dragged their heavy bellies on the floorThud, thud and thud; the creaking of the doorIn twilight cavernous, the broken paneThrough which the hiss and crackle of the rainWould slant in rivulets across the planks,The thunder tramped, the lightning played his pranksLike a young leopard prancing from the skiesDivinely, whilst the tough wind slapped its thighs.Through dismal days he sweated at the plough.And half a crust beneath an apple-boughBecame his nourishment, and so he thinnedIn figure-line; the sweltering east windAnd thick-flamed sun had bronzed his body quite....And often through the oozing hours of nightHe’d sing a sparkling catch of better times—No longer pedant à propos of rhymes,He’d hum or whistle: “Gosh, she looks immense,You never met a girl like sweet Hortense,”With genuine emotion in his throat.But soon he was reduced to pawning coatAnd hat; dismissed for superflux of dreamsOr bathing on hot afternoons in streamsWhen there was corn to reap, or hay to storeIn soporific barns; and all the moreHe dreamt of silken harlots, velvet wine.A tender farmer let him tend the swine.With weighty flanks well caked in slime, a sowGrunted and suckled farrow, whilst a cowLowed like a mellow snore; a mastiff whinedTo demonstrate sheer vacancy of mind.“Shall I arise and go? ’tis not too lateTo gain an entrance to my father’s gate.”The young man shook his head and muttered “No,Nor shall arise, nor to my father go.”He had acquired a preference to dineOn scraps amongst the confidential swine.
THE young man yawned with feigned inconsequenceOf manner; boredom exquisite; a fenceTo hide the quick explosions in his soul.He sucked at his surroundings, and the wholeGrim agony of his dull youth returned,The blue fins of his sullen eyelids burned,He could have mouthed a curse, an oath obscene:For horror at the glib familiar sceneA clayey lump stuck blistered in his throat.Chrysallic faces, garlic, myosote,And rows of beans and artichokes, a fieldInterminably patterned, jigged and reeledAlong the corridors of memory.
“Is childhood happy? dismal fallacy!And yet I am not one of those who thinkThat lilies smell not, orange-flowers stink.”Here had the best hours coolly leaked awayLike driblets from a tap, a disarrayOf tumbled hispid stars; a clean dry sleepOf stunted senses, where he could not weepFor ignorance. And ever shone the moon;The warm sky twinkled like a chopped lagoon.“This world is but a foggy circumstance,”He thought, “where timid mortals must advanceTo claim their rights and drain what cup of joyIt has to offer, now no longer boyI’ll cease to play the rôle of Tantalus,But leave this place, discharge a blunderbussAgainst my present drawling mode of life.I’m still too young to bear the plague of wife,And though ’tis true, when all fine things be said,I’m welcome to a partner for my bed,To kiss a gaping throat of flaccid silk;I fear her plump white breasts would hold no milkTo suckle babes on, after I had doneWith kissing at her nipples; one by oneEach new-born babe would wither up and die.”
He picked his teeth and fetched a windy sigh,Informed his father of his bold resolve,Who told him of the cost it would involve:So, settling up accounts, he bade farewellTo all the damned of his domestic hell.
Ohwagon-litsand tickets bought from Cook’s,Surpassing all the fairy-tales in books!Warm exhalations, streets with spicy smellsAnd oh, the Poe-like harmonies of bells!Venice and Ruskin andThe Deadly Lamps,The pulsing cafés and patchouli’d vampsWith sticky flowers in their copper hair,The languid music throbbing on the air!The Watteaufêtes galantes, the bistre-brownSombrero’d poets, yet without a crownTo purchase food; the graceful unwashed handsAnd flung-proud gestures of these Southern lands!The tiny shiny shoes with pointed tipsAnd carmine-rouged pursed petulance of lips!But all the while the young man’s pockets burned,And all the while he piteously yearnedFor lucre; many azure nights he’d lainWith shirt-front soaked and squelching in champagneAnd pleasures, money, all are volatile,For after belching Pol-Roger the bileWill wreak revenge.
And thus it came aboutThat when his full supply had given out,The harlots would no longer share his bed;Since he could pay no cash, they, laughing, said:“One sucks the orange, throws away the peel.”The young man’s vanity forbade him kneelAs penitent before his father’s glare,Before the well-staged patronising stareOf his familiar family—poor things—How they would love to clip his phœnix-wings!
So he became a labourer and sleptIn musty garrets where the grey mice crept,With cobwebs and the gibbering of batsAnd scuttling cockroaches, and lice, and ratsWho dragged their heavy bellies on the floorThud, thud and thud; the creaking of the doorIn twilight cavernous, the broken paneThrough which the hiss and crackle of the rainWould slant in rivulets across the planks,The thunder tramped, the lightning played his pranksLike a young leopard prancing from the skiesDivinely, whilst the tough wind slapped its thighs.
Through dismal days he sweated at the plough.And half a crust beneath an apple-boughBecame his nourishment, and so he thinnedIn figure-line; the sweltering east windAnd thick-flamed sun had bronzed his body quite....And often through the oozing hours of nightHe’d sing a sparkling catch of better times—No longer pedant à propos of rhymes,
He’d hum or whistle: “Gosh, she looks immense,You never met a girl like sweet Hortense,”With genuine emotion in his throat.But soon he was reduced to pawning coatAnd hat; dismissed for superflux of dreamsOr bathing on hot afternoons in streamsWhen there was corn to reap, or hay to storeIn soporific barns; and all the moreHe dreamt of silken harlots, velvet wine.A tender farmer let him tend the swine.
With weighty flanks well caked in slime, a sowGrunted and suckled farrow, whilst a cowLowed like a mellow snore; a mastiff whinedTo demonstrate sheer vacancy of mind.“Shall I arise and go? ’tis not too lateTo gain an entrance to my father’s gate.”The young man shook his head and muttered “No,Nor shall arise, nor to my father go.”He had acquired a preference to dineOn scraps amongst the confidential swine.
OPEN the window! now that breezes playOver the wrinkled hills; the sweltering dayFused by the wedge-shaped engines of the sunWith heat intensive, split as flowers spunOf glass to myriad particles minuteWith spot-like swiftness, hovers chilled and mute.Now that no far voice cleaves the air or blurs,No plash, no fall of oars, no rumour stirs,And life itself has long outbreathed its lungs—(Or so it seems, for no dim amorous tonguesTrouble the foliage, and the moon is full,Unflecked by wind-froth); all seems sorrowfulWith beauty exanimate, a beauty dead,A subterranean silence where vague dreadPuckers the brooding soul until it weepsTerrible heavy tears. The garden sleeps....Sleeps as the desolate magnificenceOf Angkor with its grave mute eloquenceWhere blistering suns, invectives of the windHurl vainly; frenzied storms undisciplinedBeat, plunge inanely at the steadfast walls.And no sad throat of nightingale enthrallsThe quickly-pulsing heart with turbulent song.So massive has the stillness grown, so strongA blood-vessel would burst, a muscle snap,A sane malt mind would rave, grow weak as pap....Oh aching ears, have you too heard the lipsOf silence utter some apocalypseTo slake the agony of my desires,To scatter them like ashes of the pyresOf calcined and cremated limbs? but harkIn the faint failing distances what sparkOf flashed sound quivers? hold your breath, what flushOf fluid moan? The sluice is opened; rushAnd avalanche of panic-writhing cries.Some soul in anguish is it? vague surmiseAs of some tragedy—I shudder, shakeWith fear....It is the peacocks by the lake!
OPEN the window! now that breezes playOver the wrinkled hills; the sweltering dayFused by the wedge-shaped engines of the sunWith heat intensive, split as flowers spunOf glass to myriad particles minuteWith spot-like swiftness, hovers chilled and mute.Now that no far voice cleaves the air or blurs,No plash, no fall of oars, no rumour stirs,And life itself has long outbreathed its lungs—(Or so it seems, for no dim amorous tonguesTrouble the foliage, and the moon is full,Unflecked by wind-froth); all seems sorrowfulWith beauty exanimate, a beauty dead,A subterranean silence where vague dreadPuckers the brooding soul until it weepsTerrible heavy tears. The garden sleeps....Sleeps as the desolate magnificenceOf Angkor with its grave mute eloquenceWhere blistering suns, invectives of the windHurl vainly; frenzied storms undisciplinedBeat, plunge inanely at the steadfast walls.And no sad throat of nightingale enthrallsThe quickly-pulsing heart with turbulent song.So massive has the stillness grown, so strongA blood-vessel would burst, a muscle snap,A sane malt mind would rave, grow weak as pap....Oh aching ears, have you too heard the lipsOf silence utter some apocalypseTo slake the agony of my desires,To scatter them like ashes of the pyresOf calcined and cremated limbs? but harkIn the faint failing distances what sparkOf flashed sound quivers? hold your breath, what flushOf fluid moan? The sluice is opened; rushAnd avalanche of panic-writhing cries.Some soul in anguish is it? vague surmiseAs of some tragedy—I shudder, shakeWith fear....It is the peacocks by the lake!
OPEN the window! now that breezes playOver the wrinkled hills; the sweltering dayFused by the wedge-shaped engines of the sunWith heat intensive, split as flowers spunOf glass to myriad particles minuteWith spot-like swiftness, hovers chilled and mute.
Now that no far voice cleaves the air or blurs,No plash, no fall of oars, no rumour stirs,And life itself has long outbreathed its lungs—(Or so it seems, for no dim amorous tonguesTrouble the foliage, and the moon is full,Unflecked by wind-froth); all seems sorrowfulWith beauty exanimate, a beauty dead,A subterranean silence where vague dreadPuckers the brooding soul until it weepsTerrible heavy tears. The garden sleeps....Sleeps as the desolate magnificenceOf Angkor with its grave mute eloquenceWhere blistering suns, invectives of the windHurl vainly; frenzied storms undisciplinedBeat, plunge inanely at the steadfast walls.And no sad throat of nightingale enthrallsThe quickly-pulsing heart with turbulent song.
So massive has the stillness grown, so strongA blood-vessel would burst, a muscle snap,A sane malt mind would rave, grow weak as pap....Oh aching ears, have you too heard the lipsOf silence utter some apocalypseTo slake the agony of my desires,To scatter them like ashes of the pyresOf calcined and cremated limbs? but harkIn the faint failing distances what sparkOf flashed sound quivers? hold your breath, what flushOf fluid moan? The sluice is opened; rushAnd avalanche of panic-writhing cries.Some soul in anguish is it? vague surmiseAs of some tragedy—I shudder, shakeWith fear....It is the peacocks by the lake!
THE sky is very blue to-day,And the soft turf yieldsTo each well-fitting shoe; so theyBring their bananas and sandwichesTo munch on the battle-fields.O, why has Nature taken such a sheen,Why does the grass grow green,So cruelly green?O, surely it must wither in the spateOf clashing contumacious worlds of agony and hate!How can the sun keep pace so? why not reel,White steel,Or stagger ankleted with yawning fireNeath the tremendous byre?But the absurd courageous cloudsLook on, look onIn bustling business crowds,They conA Masse-Mensch imaginary power.They do not cowerBefore the charabancs’ toot toot a tootAnd men who bring their sandwiches to boot,And break beer-bottles where men’s souls were tornBy invisible billion hands ... where agony was born.There is a lady in an orange gown.(Did not those shrieks hang airily down,Suspended for eternity to hear,A thousand tired stars over a shattered townNot formed enough to speak, but formed enough to shriekAnd formed enough to make men fear?)Not so. The roses dangle deep asleep,Men play Bo-peepWith poor worn-out banalities,Sentimentalities,Tepid-with-languor-liliesAnd daffodillies.We shall have each wind-melody dictatedAnd by Puccini orchestrated,And from innumerable Noah’s arksThose little gasps of men make little gasp remarksAnd puff Abdullas in their elegant central parks.A cross ... a cross ... and row on row the sameSmall cross without a name,Each silhouette so slimAnd, God, how ghastlily trim!And down beneath the skeletons are piled.... But now a childDiscovering some fraction of a bomb,Adventure-wild,Performs a jig with exquisite aplombOver, who knows? a corpse or mandrake root(What matters it?) the charabancs toot-toot,The sky’s so very blue to-dayAnd the soft turf yieldsTo each well-fitting shoe: and theyBring their bananas and sandwichesTo munch on the battle-fields.
THE sky is very blue to-day,And the soft turf yieldsTo each well-fitting shoe; so theyBring their bananas and sandwichesTo munch on the battle-fields.O, why has Nature taken such a sheen,Why does the grass grow green,So cruelly green?O, surely it must wither in the spateOf clashing contumacious worlds of agony and hate!How can the sun keep pace so? why not reel,White steel,Or stagger ankleted with yawning fireNeath the tremendous byre?But the absurd courageous cloudsLook on, look onIn bustling business crowds,They conA Masse-Mensch imaginary power.They do not cowerBefore the charabancs’ toot toot a tootAnd men who bring their sandwiches to boot,And break beer-bottles where men’s souls were tornBy invisible billion hands ... where agony was born.There is a lady in an orange gown.(Did not those shrieks hang airily down,Suspended for eternity to hear,A thousand tired stars over a shattered townNot formed enough to speak, but formed enough to shriekAnd formed enough to make men fear?)Not so. The roses dangle deep asleep,Men play Bo-peepWith poor worn-out banalities,Sentimentalities,Tepid-with-languor-liliesAnd daffodillies.We shall have each wind-melody dictatedAnd by Puccini orchestrated,And from innumerable Noah’s arksThose little gasps of men make little gasp remarksAnd puff Abdullas in their elegant central parks.A cross ... a cross ... and row on row the sameSmall cross without a name,Each silhouette so slimAnd, God, how ghastlily trim!And down beneath the skeletons are piled.... But now a childDiscovering some fraction of a bomb,Adventure-wild,Performs a jig with exquisite aplombOver, who knows? a corpse or mandrake root(What matters it?) the charabancs toot-toot,The sky’s so very blue to-dayAnd the soft turf yieldsTo each well-fitting shoe: and theyBring their bananas and sandwichesTo munch on the battle-fields.
THE sky is very blue to-day,And the soft turf yieldsTo each well-fitting shoe; so theyBring their bananas and sandwichesTo munch on the battle-fields.
O, why has Nature taken such a sheen,Why does the grass grow green,So cruelly green?O, surely it must wither in the spateOf clashing contumacious worlds of agony and hate!How can the sun keep pace so? why not reel,White steel,Or stagger ankleted with yawning fireNeath the tremendous byre?But the absurd courageous cloudsLook on, look onIn bustling business crowds,They conA Masse-Mensch imaginary power.They do not cowerBefore the charabancs’ toot toot a tootAnd men who bring their sandwiches to boot,And break beer-bottles where men’s souls were tornBy invisible billion hands ... where agony was born.There is a lady in an orange gown.
(Did not those shrieks hang airily down,Suspended for eternity to hear,A thousand tired stars over a shattered townNot formed enough to speak, but formed enough to shriekAnd formed enough to make men fear?)
Not so. The roses dangle deep asleep,Men play Bo-peepWith poor worn-out banalities,Sentimentalities,Tepid-with-languor-liliesAnd daffodillies.We shall have each wind-melody dictatedAnd by Puccini orchestrated,And from innumerable Noah’s arksThose little gasps of men make little gasp remarksAnd puff Abdullas in their elegant central parks.
A cross ... a cross ... and row on row the sameSmall cross without a name,Each silhouette so slimAnd, God, how ghastlily trim!And down beneath the skeletons are piled.... But now a childDiscovering some fraction of a bomb,Adventure-wild,Performs a jig with exquisite aplombOver, who knows? a corpse or mandrake root(What matters it?) the charabancs toot-toot,The sky’s so very blue to-dayAnd the soft turf yieldsTo each well-fitting shoe: and theyBring their bananas and sandwichesTo munch on the battle-fields.
AND do the rushes grow so greenUpon this chill All Hallows’ E’enThat voices as a lutanySurge through my window-panes to die?For in this room of rot and rustThese dark red circles filled with dust,These sodden and lead-heavy eyesLong stunned with muted symphonies,Are racked with the old hunger, hungWith memory’s hard ice-flakes, stungBy each note-star in crystal setTo glint and pierce this lazaret.O, why not let me wallow, bleed,Riot and guzzle in red greed,And leave my doom-gripped body tossedInto an agony of frost?Cruel, marauding throats, begone!Before I hurl my curse uponYour youth, oh loathsome things, to tryTorturing me with purity!
AND do the rushes grow so greenUpon this chill All Hallows’ E’enThat voices as a lutanySurge through my window-panes to die?For in this room of rot and rustThese dark red circles filled with dust,These sodden and lead-heavy eyesLong stunned with muted symphonies,Are racked with the old hunger, hungWith memory’s hard ice-flakes, stungBy each note-star in crystal setTo glint and pierce this lazaret.O, why not let me wallow, bleed,Riot and guzzle in red greed,And leave my doom-gripped body tossedInto an agony of frost?Cruel, marauding throats, begone!Before I hurl my curse uponYour youth, oh loathsome things, to tryTorturing me with purity!
AND do the rushes grow so greenUpon this chill All Hallows’ E’enThat voices as a lutanySurge through my window-panes to die?
For in this room of rot and rustThese dark red circles filled with dust,These sodden and lead-heavy eyesLong stunned with muted symphonies,
Are racked with the old hunger, hungWith memory’s hard ice-flakes, stungBy each note-star in crystal setTo glint and pierce this lazaret.
O, why not let me wallow, bleed,Riot and guzzle in red greed,And leave my doom-gripped body tossedInto an agony of frost?
Cruel, marauding throats, begone!Before I hurl my curse uponYour youth, oh loathsome things, to tryTorturing me with purity!
IN long prim rows the formal words distend,Stuffed birds with loosely-fitting beaks, they glareWith beady eyes pathetically vagueBeneath their sober domes of dusty glass.(Pale frigid flute-voiced children promenadeTo suck the air into their fading lungs,Native to soot: the tortoise-shell effectOf sunsets barred by buildings smug and bareAnd sleek pat streets of asphalt: gamins drabWhose nightingales the Cockney sparrows are.When furry frost hangs white about the chin,These too will cough a dirge, no doubt, and die!)O words, assert yourselves! from long prim rowsTrip out and weave new patterns with the cloudsThat preen their swan-wings spread upon the air,Then loll like tufts of lilac heavily;Lush coolness, limpid nebulousness; whereThe dove-tame zephyrs leap in shapely loopsTo fill the windy trammel of a skirt,Or must we oil you with celebral sweat?When levers, springs and cogs are oiled you’ll comeNaked and unembarrassed by the moon.. . . . . . . . .The words have answered, lo, the words advanceNo longer blocked in patterns, dribble outIn pleasant drops, with bird-quick flickers tripInto a dissonance or discord: so,Sharp darts of dappled sound to cleave the ear.Some strut, and laughing madly, stridently,These crack their wind-swift fingers, or like antsWaving antennæ, struggle bravely onBeneath their heavy burdens, one or twoTwinkle, then flutter off like hueless leaves,Or dart and flash like wagtails on a pool,Some fired with sulphurous glow, and some askewSway perilously, like a drunkard’s hat.But what are these with puckered, pointed earsThat flit among the crowds like strips of tape?They seem to stumble into tragedies.“Oh, we shall twine you merry wreaths,” they say,“Gay wreaths, festoons of entrails for your brow!”Their eyes like little glasses of liqueurGlitter and frighten me: within, without,Words with hot breath hiss subtly venomous,A million droning insects in my ears,A million mottled thrushes in my mind.
IN long prim rows the formal words distend,Stuffed birds with loosely-fitting beaks, they glareWith beady eyes pathetically vagueBeneath their sober domes of dusty glass.(Pale frigid flute-voiced children promenadeTo suck the air into their fading lungs,Native to soot: the tortoise-shell effectOf sunsets barred by buildings smug and bareAnd sleek pat streets of asphalt: gamins drabWhose nightingales the Cockney sparrows are.When furry frost hangs white about the chin,These too will cough a dirge, no doubt, and die!)O words, assert yourselves! from long prim rowsTrip out and weave new patterns with the cloudsThat preen their swan-wings spread upon the air,Then loll like tufts of lilac heavily;Lush coolness, limpid nebulousness; whereThe dove-tame zephyrs leap in shapely loopsTo fill the windy trammel of a skirt,Or must we oil you with celebral sweat?When levers, springs and cogs are oiled you’ll comeNaked and unembarrassed by the moon.. . . . . . . . .The words have answered, lo, the words advanceNo longer blocked in patterns, dribble outIn pleasant drops, with bird-quick flickers tripInto a dissonance or discord: so,Sharp darts of dappled sound to cleave the ear.Some strut, and laughing madly, stridently,These crack their wind-swift fingers, or like antsWaving antennæ, struggle bravely onBeneath their heavy burdens, one or twoTwinkle, then flutter off like hueless leaves,Or dart and flash like wagtails on a pool,Some fired with sulphurous glow, and some askewSway perilously, like a drunkard’s hat.But what are these with puckered, pointed earsThat flit among the crowds like strips of tape?They seem to stumble into tragedies.“Oh, we shall twine you merry wreaths,” they say,“Gay wreaths, festoons of entrails for your brow!”Their eyes like little glasses of liqueurGlitter and frighten me: within, without,Words with hot breath hiss subtly venomous,A million droning insects in my ears,A million mottled thrushes in my mind.
IN long prim rows the formal words distend,Stuffed birds with loosely-fitting beaks, they glareWith beady eyes pathetically vagueBeneath their sober domes of dusty glass.(Pale frigid flute-voiced children promenadeTo suck the air into their fading lungs,Native to soot: the tortoise-shell effectOf sunsets barred by buildings smug and bareAnd sleek pat streets of asphalt: gamins drabWhose nightingales the Cockney sparrows are.When furry frost hangs white about the chin,These too will cough a dirge, no doubt, and die!)O words, assert yourselves! from long prim rowsTrip out and weave new patterns with the cloudsThat preen their swan-wings spread upon the air,Then loll like tufts of lilac heavily;Lush coolness, limpid nebulousness; whereThe dove-tame zephyrs leap in shapely loopsTo fill the windy trammel of a skirt,Or must we oil you with celebral sweat?When levers, springs and cogs are oiled you’ll comeNaked and unembarrassed by the moon.. . . . . . . . .The words have answered, lo, the words advanceNo longer blocked in patterns, dribble outIn pleasant drops, with bird-quick flickers tripInto a dissonance or discord: so,Sharp darts of dappled sound to cleave the ear.Some strut, and laughing madly, stridently,These crack their wind-swift fingers, or like antsWaving antennæ, struggle bravely onBeneath their heavy burdens, one or twoTwinkle, then flutter off like hueless leaves,Or dart and flash like wagtails on a pool,Some fired with sulphurous glow, and some askewSway perilously, like a drunkard’s hat.But what are these with puckered, pointed earsThat flit among the crowds like strips of tape?They seem to stumble into tragedies.“Oh, we shall twine you merry wreaths,” they say,“Gay wreaths, festoons of entrails for your brow!”Their eyes like little glasses of liqueurGlitter and frighten me: within, without,Words with hot breath hiss subtly venomous,A million droning insects in my ears,A million mottled thrushes in my mind.
IN ombre gateways I had loitered, stoppedTo speak unto my nearest brother, Toad,Within the forest where the cobras proppedGreen twists on frothy treetops, their abode:“Toad, I salute you! in your chilly eyeI see the mignonette of modesty.”He did not answer, crouching like a sin,Steeped in a lethargy too dull to pierce,Centuple wisdom folded in his skin—He stared with humble stare that was not fierce,And yet within that stare I seemed to knowThe stare that maddened Hieronymo.I followed then a wedge of thoughtful cranesWho fled across the silence drearilyFrom desolations and eternal rainsAcross the frozen ridge of Rhodope,The stars grown piteous of my miseryDropped golden tears into the poem-sea.I have since dived, bathed in the poem-sea,In spilt genethliacs of amber wineMellowed to milk, like turtle-feathers freeFloating and flurry on the teasing brine,Below, I saw those youths that died of loveAnd wandered with them in the myrtle grove.[A]And when I rose a slender oaten pipeMade music in the entrails of my ears,Rich bandaliers of fruit grown pulpy-ripeMoistened the membranes and dissolved my fears,I could remember at her day of birthHow Flora with her daisies strewed the earth.But man still chased his jet-black butterflies,And looking up, as from a rippled cloud,Shunned me with viscous terror in his eyes,Then fell a-triply sewing at his shroud,Lest I should mar the self-fomenting strifeAnd cultivated void that was his life.
IN ombre gateways I had loitered, stoppedTo speak unto my nearest brother, Toad,Within the forest where the cobras proppedGreen twists on frothy treetops, their abode:“Toad, I salute you! in your chilly eyeI see the mignonette of modesty.”He did not answer, crouching like a sin,Steeped in a lethargy too dull to pierce,Centuple wisdom folded in his skin—He stared with humble stare that was not fierce,And yet within that stare I seemed to knowThe stare that maddened Hieronymo.I followed then a wedge of thoughtful cranesWho fled across the silence drearilyFrom desolations and eternal rainsAcross the frozen ridge of Rhodope,The stars grown piteous of my miseryDropped golden tears into the poem-sea.I have since dived, bathed in the poem-sea,In spilt genethliacs of amber wineMellowed to milk, like turtle-feathers freeFloating and flurry on the teasing brine,Below, I saw those youths that died of loveAnd wandered with them in the myrtle grove.[A]And when I rose a slender oaten pipeMade music in the entrails of my ears,Rich bandaliers of fruit grown pulpy-ripeMoistened the membranes and dissolved my fears,I could remember at her day of birthHow Flora with her daisies strewed the earth.But man still chased his jet-black butterflies,And looking up, as from a rippled cloud,Shunned me with viscous terror in his eyes,Then fell a-triply sewing at his shroud,Lest I should mar the self-fomenting strifeAnd cultivated void that was his life.
IN ombre gateways I had loitered, stoppedTo speak unto my nearest brother, Toad,Within the forest where the cobras proppedGreen twists on frothy treetops, their abode:“Toad, I salute you! in your chilly eyeI see the mignonette of modesty.”
He did not answer, crouching like a sin,Steeped in a lethargy too dull to pierce,Centuple wisdom folded in his skin—He stared with humble stare that was not fierce,And yet within that stare I seemed to knowThe stare that maddened Hieronymo.
I followed then a wedge of thoughtful cranesWho fled across the silence drearilyFrom desolations and eternal rainsAcross the frozen ridge of Rhodope,The stars grown piteous of my miseryDropped golden tears into the poem-sea.
I have since dived, bathed in the poem-sea,In spilt genethliacs of amber wineMellowed to milk, like turtle-feathers freeFloating and flurry on the teasing brine,Below, I saw those youths that died of loveAnd wandered with them in the myrtle grove.[A]
And when I rose a slender oaten pipeMade music in the entrails of my ears,Rich bandaliers of fruit grown pulpy-ripeMoistened the membranes and dissolved my fears,I could remember at her day of birthHow Flora with her daisies strewed the earth.
But man still chased his jet-black butterflies,And looking up, as from a rippled cloud,Shunned me with viscous terror in his eyes,Then fell a-triply sewing at his shroud,Lest I should mar the self-fomenting strifeAnd cultivated void that was his life.
[A]These two lines are derived from Pope.
[A]These two lines are derived from Pope.
INANE perspective stretched behind the street:A wall, a yard, a wall, a yard, a wall,Patterned interminably, patterned neatWith intervals of oblongs squat and tall.A full moon dims the stars and here and thereGlints on a bulging square of window-pane.Soon clinging sodden moistures glut the airAnd mists fall heavier than autumn rain.Only one room of all these rooms is lit.Perhaps somebody watches, dreams absurdAnd sentimental dreams, and from this pitThe ponderous bourdon of some heart is stirred.Men live their packed exasperated lives,Callous and unfamiliar, yet each knows,In all these sordid chiaroscuro hives,His neighbour’s pleasures and his neighbour’s woes.Through gutters of stagnations and defeats,Immense black ruins with the beds unmade,Interminable agonising streets,I walk alone, a stranger, and afraid
INANE perspective stretched behind the street:A wall, a yard, a wall, a yard, a wall,Patterned interminably, patterned neatWith intervals of oblongs squat and tall.A full moon dims the stars and here and thereGlints on a bulging square of window-pane.Soon clinging sodden moistures glut the airAnd mists fall heavier than autumn rain.Only one room of all these rooms is lit.Perhaps somebody watches, dreams absurdAnd sentimental dreams, and from this pitThe ponderous bourdon of some heart is stirred.Men live their packed exasperated lives,Callous and unfamiliar, yet each knows,In all these sordid chiaroscuro hives,His neighbour’s pleasures and his neighbour’s woes.Through gutters of stagnations and defeats,Immense black ruins with the beds unmade,Interminable agonising streets,I walk alone, a stranger, and afraid
INANE perspective stretched behind the street:A wall, a yard, a wall, a yard, a wall,Patterned interminably, patterned neatWith intervals of oblongs squat and tall.
A full moon dims the stars and here and thereGlints on a bulging square of window-pane.Soon clinging sodden moistures glut the airAnd mists fall heavier than autumn rain.
Only one room of all these rooms is lit.Perhaps somebody watches, dreams absurdAnd sentimental dreams, and from this pitThe ponderous bourdon of some heart is stirred.
Men live their packed exasperated lives,Callous and unfamiliar, yet each knows,In all these sordid chiaroscuro hives,His neighbour’s pleasures and his neighbour’s woes.
Through gutters of stagnations and defeats,Immense black ruins with the beds unmade,Interminable agonising streets,I walk alone, a stranger, and afraid
“Talk to me somewhat quickly,Or my imagination will carry meTo see her in the shameful act of sin.”Duchess of Malfi.
“Talk to me somewhat quickly,Or my imagination will carry meTo see her in the shameful act of sin.”Duchess of Malfi.
“Talk to me somewhat quickly,Or my imagination will carry meTo see her in the shameful act of sin.”Duchess of Malfi.
THE morning drums upon the window-pane,The evening drums upon the window-pane,I wait and wait and fumble in my brain....All night I’ve lain with soul that could not rest.At dusk strange hands were tearing at my heartIn a prim polar silence.The stags and does may frolic in the woodsAnd leap beyond the stars, for aught I care,Beyond those furbished clots of frigid light,Abstract and sad detached identities,Where they may anguish, fossilize or freeze.All night I’ve lain upon the charming rackYou manufactured: I shall not despair,Or coax a courteous isolated tear.But I shall hear my agonizing laughterEchoing far from floor to trembling rafterIn brittle carillons like metal bells,And hear my bleached emaciated yellsBurgeon in petalled peals, flamboyant, brightAs merry moons in petticoats of whiteTo hide their cancer and their leprosy.Then: “Patience, rebel, calm!” the darkness said,“You’ll never choke time’s throat of beaten lead.”I did not heed.... I knew that my heart bled.Near the pellucid lake—ah God, there stirredNo animalculus, and an absurdDecorous silence humped its back and purred.
THE morning drums upon the window-pane,The evening drums upon the window-pane,I wait and wait and fumble in my brain....All night I’ve lain with soul that could not rest.At dusk strange hands were tearing at my heartIn a prim polar silence.The stags and does may frolic in the woodsAnd leap beyond the stars, for aught I care,Beyond those furbished clots of frigid light,Abstract and sad detached identities,Where they may anguish, fossilize or freeze.All night I’ve lain upon the charming rackYou manufactured: I shall not despair,Or coax a courteous isolated tear.But I shall hear my agonizing laughterEchoing far from floor to trembling rafterIn brittle carillons like metal bells,And hear my bleached emaciated yellsBurgeon in petalled peals, flamboyant, brightAs merry moons in petticoats of whiteTo hide their cancer and their leprosy.Then: “Patience, rebel, calm!” the darkness said,“You’ll never choke time’s throat of beaten lead.”I did not heed.... I knew that my heart bled.Near the pellucid lake—ah God, there stirredNo animalculus, and an absurdDecorous silence humped its back and purred.
THE morning drums upon the window-pane,The evening drums upon the window-pane,I wait and wait and fumble in my brain....
All night I’ve lain with soul that could not rest.At dusk strange hands were tearing at my heartIn a prim polar silence.
The stags and does may frolic in the woodsAnd leap beyond the stars, for aught I care,Beyond those furbished clots of frigid light,Abstract and sad detached identities,Where they may anguish, fossilize or freeze.
All night I’ve lain upon the charming rackYou manufactured: I shall not despair,Or coax a courteous isolated tear.But I shall hear my agonizing laughterEchoing far from floor to trembling rafterIn brittle carillons like metal bells,And hear my bleached emaciated yellsBurgeon in petalled peals, flamboyant, brightAs merry moons in petticoats of whiteTo hide their cancer and their leprosy.
Then: “Patience, rebel, calm!” the darkness said,“You’ll never choke time’s throat of beaten lead.”I did not heed.... I knew that my heart bled.
Near the pellucid lake—ah God, there stirredNo animalculus, and an absurdDecorous silence humped its back and purred.
“AND will he not come again?”Ophelia wanders out into the rainThat makes soft music on her yellow hair.“O, shall I then surrender to despair?”In vain she begs the strutting chanticleerAnd Tullia’s intellectual marmosyte,King Oberon a-lying on his bierAnd Leda’s downy swan.Throughout the nightShe listens to the noise of dead men’s bones,Sad subterranean murmurs drowned in sea-weed,Slow-drifting down jade silences....—She hopes to screw some answer from their groans!But there’s a seal upon their lipless mouths.“By all the moons that in the peacock’s tailRival the heaven’s moon,I conjure a reply; has any seenMy lover’s sandal-shoon?He wears a fluted cockle-hat,A staff of briar-wood,His hair’s coiled thick in a flaxen mat,And like a river in floodThe crisp locks tumble on his poll.”She cried but there came no answer at allSave, God ha’ mercy on his soul!“By molewarp’s brain and by pismire’s gall,Will he whom I love return again?”The pale grey rainFor pity’s sake,Breathed her asleep in a lullaby,Till slothful Charon in his barge rowed byAnd ferried her gently over the Stygian lake.
“AND will he not come again?”Ophelia wanders out into the rainThat makes soft music on her yellow hair.“O, shall I then surrender to despair?”In vain she begs the strutting chanticleerAnd Tullia’s intellectual marmosyte,King Oberon a-lying on his bierAnd Leda’s downy swan.Throughout the nightShe listens to the noise of dead men’s bones,Sad subterranean murmurs drowned in sea-weed,Slow-drifting down jade silences....—She hopes to screw some answer from their groans!But there’s a seal upon their lipless mouths.“By all the moons that in the peacock’s tailRival the heaven’s moon,I conjure a reply; has any seenMy lover’s sandal-shoon?He wears a fluted cockle-hat,A staff of briar-wood,His hair’s coiled thick in a flaxen mat,And like a river in floodThe crisp locks tumble on his poll.”She cried but there came no answer at allSave, God ha’ mercy on his soul!“By molewarp’s brain and by pismire’s gall,Will he whom I love return again?”The pale grey rainFor pity’s sake,Breathed her asleep in a lullaby,Till slothful Charon in his barge rowed byAnd ferried her gently over the Stygian lake.
“AND will he not come again?”Ophelia wanders out into the rainThat makes soft music on her yellow hair.“O, shall I then surrender to despair?”In vain she begs the strutting chanticleerAnd Tullia’s intellectual marmosyte,King Oberon a-lying on his bierAnd Leda’s downy swan.Throughout the nightShe listens to the noise of dead men’s bones,Sad subterranean murmurs drowned in sea-weed,Slow-drifting down jade silences....—She hopes to screw some answer from their groans!But there’s a seal upon their lipless mouths.
“By all the moons that in the peacock’s tailRival the heaven’s moon,I conjure a reply; has any seenMy lover’s sandal-shoon?He wears a fluted cockle-hat,A staff of briar-wood,His hair’s coiled thick in a flaxen mat,And like a river in floodThe crisp locks tumble on his poll.”She cried but there came no answer at allSave, God ha’ mercy on his soul!
“By molewarp’s brain and by pismire’s gall,Will he whom I love return again?”The pale grey rainFor pity’s sake,Breathed her asleep in a lullaby,Till slothful Charon in his barge rowed byAnd ferried her gently over the Stygian lake.
ISHALL console myself by being absurdAnd sit among the rank, unwholesome dews,And watch each whining pheasant and each birdGuzzle the very-human bearded grain:I shall not weep beneath the dismal yewsBut to the milk-white turtles tune my pain.Where spiny pines diffuse a noxious shadeI’ll wage a series of intestine wars,The listening wolves grow milder in the gladeBeneath the incense of the breathing Spring,Whilst every shepherd polishes his soresI’ll languish into life, and living, sing.The women teem their babes; the sative plantsQuiver as Cynthia fills her silver horn,The spicy forest and her sycophants,The fiery-pointed organons of sense,Attempt to catch the sound as it is bornAnd, as it dies, the hush is thick and tense.But even so the tensity can vexWhat I had hoped had blackened into jet,Like raven-feathers in the moon’s reflex,The feeble eyes of our aspiring thoughts,But even so the tensity can fret,And I must grope in unsuspected orts....I shall console myself with being fedOn hollow sapless tales and other slips,And to the pallid nations of the deadI’ll wander, and as soon as I ariseA liquid film will glaze upon my lips,Upon my pores, impatient for the skies.
ISHALL console myself by being absurdAnd sit among the rank, unwholesome dews,And watch each whining pheasant and each birdGuzzle the very-human bearded grain:I shall not weep beneath the dismal yewsBut to the milk-white turtles tune my pain.Where spiny pines diffuse a noxious shadeI’ll wage a series of intestine wars,The listening wolves grow milder in the gladeBeneath the incense of the breathing Spring,Whilst every shepherd polishes his soresI’ll languish into life, and living, sing.The women teem their babes; the sative plantsQuiver as Cynthia fills her silver horn,The spicy forest and her sycophants,The fiery-pointed organons of sense,Attempt to catch the sound as it is bornAnd, as it dies, the hush is thick and tense.But even so the tensity can vexWhat I had hoped had blackened into jet,Like raven-feathers in the moon’s reflex,The feeble eyes of our aspiring thoughts,But even so the tensity can fret,And I must grope in unsuspected orts....I shall console myself with being fedOn hollow sapless tales and other slips,And to the pallid nations of the deadI’ll wander, and as soon as I ariseA liquid film will glaze upon my lips,Upon my pores, impatient for the skies.
ISHALL console myself by being absurdAnd sit among the rank, unwholesome dews,And watch each whining pheasant and each birdGuzzle the very-human bearded grain:I shall not weep beneath the dismal yewsBut to the milk-white turtles tune my pain.
Where spiny pines diffuse a noxious shadeI’ll wage a series of intestine wars,The listening wolves grow milder in the gladeBeneath the incense of the breathing Spring,Whilst every shepherd polishes his soresI’ll languish into life, and living, sing.
The women teem their babes; the sative plantsQuiver as Cynthia fills her silver horn,The spicy forest and her sycophants,The fiery-pointed organons of sense,Attempt to catch the sound as it is bornAnd, as it dies, the hush is thick and tense.
But even so the tensity can vexWhat I had hoped had blackened into jet,Like raven-feathers in the moon’s reflex,The feeble eyes of our aspiring thoughts,But even so the tensity can fret,And I must grope in unsuspected orts....I shall console myself with being fedOn hollow sapless tales and other slips,And to the pallid nations of the deadI’ll wander, and as soon as I ariseA liquid film will glaze upon my lips,Upon my pores, impatient for the skies.
THESE ruins seem a womb of cringing air,So thin that the ears tingle, flickering,And every barren plant is withering,Ready to snap, like glass, for sheer despair ...And through the ether mountains loom like bonesSo hollow you could scrape a melodySounding like water from them, oozilyTo this sun-stricken desert-world of groans.The light is cruel: it is hard to readThe letters on these stones, but, lo, the words:“Lord Jesus Christ” and further “soul”; what birdsErased the script with droppings? and what weedHas wrested from these crevices a home?“In month of Athyr” ... “Lucius fell asleep”....His age is mentioned: he was young; and deepBeneath the damaged parts, as in a foamOf centuries I see, disfigured, “tears.”Then “tears” again, “for us his friends who weep”....Lucius was much belovèd, it appears.In grey November ... Lucius fell asleep....
THESE ruins seem a womb of cringing air,So thin that the ears tingle, flickering,And every barren plant is withering,Ready to snap, like glass, for sheer despair ...And through the ether mountains loom like bonesSo hollow you could scrape a melodySounding like water from them, oozilyTo this sun-stricken desert-world of groans.The light is cruel: it is hard to readThe letters on these stones, but, lo, the words:“Lord Jesus Christ” and further “soul”; what birdsErased the script with droppings? and what weedHas wrested from these crevices a home?“In month of Athyr” ... “Lucius fell asleep”....His age is mentioned: he was young; and deepBeneath the damaged parts, as in a foamOf centuries I see, disfigured, “tears.”Then “tears” again, “for us his friends who weep”....Lucius was much belovèd, it appears.In grey November ... Lucius fell asleep....
THESE ruins seem a womb of cringing air,So thin that the ears tingle, flickering,And every barren plant is withering,Ready to snap, like glass, for sheer despair ...And through the ether mountains loom like bonesSo hollow you could scrape a melodySounding like water from them, oozilyTo this sun-stricken desert-world of groans.The light is cruel: it is hard to readThe letters on these stones, but, lo, the words:“Lord Jesus Christ” and further “soul”; what birdsErased the script with droppings? and what weedHas wrested from these crevices a home?“In month of Athyr” ... “Lucius fell asleep”....His age is mentioned: he was young; and deepBeneath the damaged parts, as in a foamOf centuries I see, disfigured, “tears.”Then “tears” again, “for us his friends who weep”....Lucius was much belovèd, it appears.In grey November ... Lucius fell asleep....
[B]The ancient Egyptian November (derived from a poem by C. P. Cavafy).
[B]The ancient Egyptian November (derived from a poem by C. P. Cavafy).
WE have discovered many thingsTo suit our moods, to give us wings:More than an Aristotle-tomeIn crimson splash of a fowl’s comb,In silver-boled unleaving treesLike organ-pipes along the breeze;Sometimes the notes run sharp and falseWhen rooks and twigs join in the valseOf smooth and swaying treetop spunLike yarn across the copper sun....But there are times when you would cryTo hear the trees’ low melody.And we have watched the hemlock sprayAnd smelt dank wafture of decay,The fume from tawny bellied leavesIn spirals where the autumn grieves.With froth of flowers we have been rich—The globuled frog-spawn on the ditchWas mottled with our wonder; vastMoist moans of raping bees’ repastHave sluiced our languid afternoonsLike ripples crawling on lagoons.But we have not discovered yetHow to erase, how to forgetSheer vividness of solitude,How to obliterate each moodTo dim Antarctic memories,Merged icebergs twinkling in chopped seas.
WE have discovered many thingsTo suit our moods, to give us wings:More than an Aristotle-tomeIn crimson splash of a fowl’s comb,In silver-boled unleaving treesLike organ-pipes along the breeze;Sometimes the notes run sharp and falseWhen rooks and twigs join in the valseOf smooth and swaying treetop spunLike yarn across the copper sun....But there are times when you would cryTo hear the trees’ low melody.And we have watched the hemlock sprayAnd smelt dank wafture of decay,The fume from tawny bellied leavesIn spirals where the autumn grieves.With froth of flowers we have been rich—The globuled frog-spawn on the ditchWas mottled with our wonder; vastMoist moans of raping bees’ repastHave sluiced our languid afternoonsLike ripples crawling on lagoons.But we have not discovered yetHow to erase, how to forgetSheer vividness of solitude,How to obliterate each moodTo dim Antarctic memories,Merged icebergs twinkling in chopped seas.
WE have discovered many thingsTo suit our moods, to give us wings:More than an Aristotle-tomeIn crimson splash of a fowl’s comb,In silver-boled unleaving treesLike organ-pipes along the breeze;Sometimes the notes run sharp and falseWhen rooks and twigs join in the valseOf smooth and swaying treetop spunLike yarn across the copper sun....But there are times when you would cryTo hear the trees’ low melody.And we have watched the hemlock sprayAnd smelt dank wafture of decay,The fume from tawny bellied leavesIn spirals where the autumn grieves.With froth of flowers we have been rich—The globuled frog-spawn on the ditchWas mottled with our wonder; vastMoist moans of raping bees’ repastHave sluiced our languid afternoonsLike ripples crawling on lagoons.But we have not discovered yetHow to erase, how to forgetSheer vividness of solitude,How to obliterate each moodTo dim Antarctic memories,Merged icebergs twinkling in chopped seas.
GAUNT woman with pinched, palsied hands,Cramped fingers once their nimble slaves,Did your poor feet once print the sandsWith lovely dimpled curves like waves?I’m told men once would march to wars,Your name upon their lips, would kneelRapt by your eyes that fleered the stars,Where passions leapt like sparks from steel.I’m told snow hawthorn massed in bloomCould not cool whiter than your hands,Or candles crackling up the gloomOf churches in chill twilit lands.Gaunt woman, why so tense your mouth?Is it your blistered heart that speaks?Did colour fluid as the SouthLight those emaciated cheeks?I’m told your voice once trembled clearAnd frail withal as linnet’s wings....And now your voice is but the mereVague echo of forgotten things.“Once lovers bruised each blue-veined breastAnd charred my body as ’twere coal.Now I would lay me down to rest.May Christ receive my wrinkled soul!”
GAUNT woman with pinched, palsied hands,Cramped fingers once their nimble slaves,Did your poor feet once print the sandsWith lovely dimpled curves like waves?I’m told men once would march to wars,Your name upon their lips, would kneelRapt by your eyes that fleered the stars,Where passions leapt like sparks from steel.I’m told snow hawthorn massed in bloomCould not cool whiter than your hands,Or candles crackling up the gloomOf churches in chill twilit lands.Gaunt woman, why so tense your mouth?Is it your blistered heart that speaks?Did colour fluid as the SouthLight those emaciated cheeks?I’m told your voice once trembled clearAnd frail withal as linnet’s wings....And now your voice is but the mereVague echo of forgotten things.“Once lovers bruised each blue-veined breastAnd charred my body as ’twere coal.Now I would lay me down to rest.May Christ receive my wrinkled soul!”
GAUNT woman with pinched, palsied hands,Cramped fingers once their nimble slaves,Did your poor feet once print the sandsWith lovely dimpled curves like waves?
I’m told men once would march to wars,Your name upon their lips, would kneelRapt by your eyes that fleered the stars,Where passions leapt like sparks from steel.
I’m told snow hawthorn massed in bloomCould not cool whiter than your hands,Or candles crackling up the gloomOf churches in chill twilit lands.
Gaunt woman, why so tense your mouth?Is it your blistered heart that speaks?Did colour fluid as the SouthLight those emaciated cheeks?
I’m told your voice once trembled clearAnd frail withal as linnet’s wings....And now your voice is but the mereVague echo of forgotten things.
“Once lovers bruised each blue-veined breastAnd charred my body as ’twere coal.Now I would lay me down to rest.May Christ receive my wrinkled soul!”
IN mental constipation shivering,He went into the fields, where he could singTo ease the sobbing of his plangent mind,With desolate, cracked voice, for they were kind.The sky an ashen cup of neutral air;Black specks of surly rooks whirred cawing thereAnd sombre clots of writhing, stunted treesStretched withered fingers, creaking traceriesOf mazed arms multitudinous; their moanA memory that he was not alone.Upon the gravel path small frosted starsGlittered and bleared; the rusty railing-barsWere furred with silver lichen as the downBristled upon a dead man’s throat; a crownOf Gothic spires through lustrous distance crept.The world and all its wedge-shaped engines slept.Disturbed, he heard the crunch of footsteps fastAnd looking up, he saw two men that passed.“Good-morning, Mr. Gosling.” “Oh, good-day!”“Bit nippy weather!” then strode on their wayWith patch-work quilted minds and bowler hats,With Sunday journal, gloves and yellow spats,Into the distance ... while the echoes bear“Bit nippy weather” drifting down the air.
IN mental constipation shivering,He went into the fields, where he could singTo ease the sobbing of his plangent mind,With desolate, cracked voice, for they were kind.The sky an ashen cup of neutral air;Black specks of surly rooks whirred cawing thereAnd sombre clots of writhing, stunted treesStretched withered fingers, creaking traceriesOf mazed arms multitudinous; their moanA memory that he was not alone.Upon the gravel path small frosted starsGlittered and bleared; the rusty railing-barsWere furred with silver lichen as the downBristled upon a dead man’s throat; a crownOf Gothic spires through lustrous distance crept.The world and all its wedge-shaped engines slept.Disturbed, he heard the crunch of footsteps fastAnd looking up, he saw two men that passed.“Good-morning, Mr. Gosling.” “Oh, good-day!”“Bit nippy weather!” then strode on their wayWith patch-work quilted minds and bowler hats,With Sunday journal, gloves and yellow spats,Into the distance ... while the echoes bear“Bit nippy weather” drifting down the air.
IN mental constipation shivering,He went into the fields, where he could singTo ease the sobbing of his plangent mind,With desolate, cracked voice, for they were kind.The sky an ashen cup of neutral air;Black specks of surly rooks whirred cawing thereAnd sombre clots of writhing, stunted treesStretched withered fingers, creaking traceriesOf mazed arms multitudinous; their moanA memory that he was not alone.
Upon the gravel path small frosted starsGlittered and bleared; the rusty railing-barsWere furred with silver lichen as the downBristled upon a dead man’s throat; a crownOf Gothic spires through lustrous distance crept.The world and all its wedge-shaped engines slept.
Disturbed, he heard the crunch of footsteps fastAnd looking up, he saw two men that passed.“Good-morning, Mr. Gosling.” “Oh, good-day!”“Bit nippy weather!” then strode on their wayWith patch-work quilted minds and bowler hats,With Sunday journal, gloves and yellow spats,Into the distance ... while the echoes bear“Bit nippy weather” drifting down the air.
UP, silver man nid-nodding by the hearth!The languid summer has trailed out her days....For this night leave your bible, leave your pathOf selfish righteousness; delay your praiseOf God till He has given you a seatAmongst the flapping angels. (Fire and sleeteAnd candle-lightAnd Christ receive thy soul.)Well, these are facts, even if impolite—As trite and boring as the price of coal.The lyke-wake dirge comes after; now you live—Too old for fornication—that is true.But you may love the slender fleeting things,The terrible music of the slipping hours,If sordid Life has nothing else to give.In each clock-tick there is a something new—Unsatiated sweet imaginings,Pianola dreams or orchidaceous flowers!And though you shiver in a slow decay,You still have guts and marrow, though your limbsBe well-nigh licked of blood, you need not stayFor ever by the fire and croon cracked hymns!The children gloze and fleech him all in vain—The taxi throbs outside.“I hope the rainWon’t spoil the fireworks.”Granpa’s left behindWith baby and the adenoided nurse.The maid moves in to draw the window blind.Her lips compressed have never known a curse.Amazed, she sees frail drops are trickling downWhat she had ever held to be a mask.Half-pitying the old exhausted manSo infantine, yet sitting all aloneAs in blue forest depths a mossy stone,Where toads crouch like the voice in gramophone,She brings him crumpets and a cup of tea.
UP, silver man nid-nodding by the hearth!The languid summer has trailed out her days....For this night leave your bible, leave your pathOf selfish righteousness; delay your praiseOf God till He has given you a seatAmongst the flapping angels. (Fire and sleeteAnd candle-lightAnd Christ receive thy soul.)Well, these are facts, even if impolite—As trite and boring as the price of coal.The lyke-wake dirge comes after; now you live—Too old for fornication—that is true.But you may love the slender fleeting things,The terrible music of the slipping hours,If sordid Life has nothing else to give.In each clock-tick there is a something new—Unsatiated sweet imaginings,Pianola dreams or orchidaceous flowers!And though you shiver in a slow decay,You still have guts and marrow, though your limbsBe well-nigh licked of blood, you need not stayFor ever by the fire and croon cracked hymns!The children gloze and fleech him all in vain—The taxi throbs outside.“I hope the rainWon’t spoil the fireworks.”Granpa’s left behindWith baby and the adenoided nurse.The maid moves in to draw the window blind.Her lips compressed have never known a curse.Amazed, she sees frail drops are trickling downWhat she had ever held to be a mask.Half-pitying the old exhausted manSo infantine, yet sitting all aloneAs in blue forest depths a mossy stone,Where toads crouch like the voice in gramophone,She brings him crumpets and a cup of tea.
UP, silver man nid-nodding by the hearth!The languid summer has trailed out her days....For this night leave your bible, leave your pathOf selfish righteousness; delay your praiseOf God till He has given you a seatAmongst the flapping angels. (Fire and sleeteAnd candle-lightAnd Christ receive thy soul.)
Well, these are facts, even if impolite—As trite and boring as the price of coal.The lyke-wake dirge comes after; now you live—Too old for fornication—that is true.But you may love the slender fleeting things,The terrible music of the slipping hours,If sordid Life has nothing else to give.In each clock-tick there is a something new—Unsatiated sweet imaginings,Pianola dreams or orchidaceous flowers!And though you shiver in a slow decay,You still have guts and marrow, though your limbsBe well-nigh licked of blood, you need not stayFor ever by the fire and croon cracked hymns!
The children gloze and fleech him all in vain—The taxi throbs outside.“I hope the rainWon’t spoil the fireworks.”Granpa’s left behindWith baby and the adenoided nurse.The maid moves in to draw the window blind.Her lips compressed have never known a curse.Amazed, she sees frail drops are trickling downWhat she had ever held to be a mask.Half-pitying the old exhausted manSo infantine, yet sitting all aloneAs in blue forest depths a mossy stone,Where toads crouch like the voice in gramophone,She brings him crumpets and a cup of tea.
“HE’S got hot lips when he plays jazz.”How trite and obvious; of course he has!Sex blossoms on the lips as well as other parts,If not, he is unworthy of an entrance to our hearts.And you invite spontaneous destructionFor splitting chips which form so tiresome an obstructionTo our imaginative possibilities.No half-dissembled grey tranquillitiesOf mental judgment! We want elephants,Tough-grained calamities, to clamber up on;To travel petulantly bump-a-bump, to sup onChampagne and slippery flesh of oysters,And conversational quips and roystersWith childishly garrulous termagants.And in their company you’ll find it paysTo polish up the petals of a phrase!
“HE’S got hot lips when he plays jazz.”How trite and obvious; of course he has!Sex blossoms on the lips as well as other parts,If not, he is unworthy of an entrance to our hearts.And you invite spontaneous destructionFor splitting chips which form so tiresome an obstructionTo our imaginative possibilities.No half-dissembled grey tranquillitiesOf mental judgment! We want elephants,Tough-grained calamities, to clamber up on;To travel petulantly bump-a-bump, to sup onChampagne and slippery flesh of oysters,And conversational quips and roystersWith childishly garrulous termagants.And in their company you’ll find it paysTo polish up the petals of a phrase!
“HE’S got hot lips when he plays jazz.”How trite and obvious; of course he has!Sex blossoms on the lips as well as other parts,If not, he is unworthy of an entrance to our hearts.And you invite spontaneous destructionFor splitting chips which form so tiresome an obstructionTo our imaginative possibilities.No half-dissembled grey tranquillitiesOf mental judgment! We want elephants,Tough-grained calamities, to clamber up on;To travel petulantly bump-a-bump, to sup onChampagne and slippery flesh of oysters,And conversational quips and roystersWith childishly garrulous termagants.And in their company you’ll find it paysTo polish up the petals of a phrase!