The Project Gutenberg eBook ofArgonaut and JuggernautThis 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 atwww.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: Argonaut and JuggernautAuthor: Osbert SitwellRelease date: February 11, 2020 [eBook #61368]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT ***
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 atwww.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: Argonaut and JuggernautAuthor: Osbert SitwellRelease date: February 11, 2020 [eBook #61368]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Argonaut and Juggernaut
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Author: Osbert Sitwell
Release date: February 11, 2020 [eBook #61368]Most recently updated: October 17, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARGONAUT AND JUGGERNAUT ***
BY
OSBERT SITWELL
LONDONChatto & Windus1919
All rights reserved
TOTHE MEMORY OFROBERT ROSS
My thanks are due to Messrs. Blackwell for permission to reprint certain poems which first appeared in the anthology "Wheels," and to the editors ofThe Times, theNation,Art and Letters, theCambridge Magazine,Everyman,Colour,New Paths, andPoetry and Drama(New Series), for allowing me to reprint various poems which first appeared in their columns. Several of the war verses at the end of this volume first appeared in theNationunder the signature "Miles."
How shall we rise to greet the dawn?Not timidly,With a hand above our eyes,But greet the strong lightJoyfully;Nor will we mistake the dawnFor the mid-day.
We must create and fashion a new God—A God of power, of beauty, and of strength—Created painfully, cruelly,Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds.
It is not that the money-changersPly their tradeWithin the sacred places;But that the old GodHas made the Stock Exchange his Temple.We must drive him from it.Why should we tinker with clay feet?We will fashionA perfect unityOf precious metals.
Let us tear the paper moonFrom its empty dome.Let us see the world with young eyes.Let us harness the waves to make power,And in so doing,Seek not to spoil their rolling freedom,But to endowThe soiled and straining citiesWith the same splendour of strength.
We will not be afraid,Tho' the golden geese cackle in the Capitol,In fearThat their eggs may be placedIn an incubator.Continually they cackle thus—These venerable birds—Crying, "Those whom the Gods loveDie young,"Or something of that sort.But we will see that they liveAnd prosper.
Let us prune the tree of languageOf its dead fruit.Let us melt up the clichésInto molten metal;Fashion weapons that will scald and flay;Let us curb this eternal humourAnd become witty.
Let us dig up the dragon's teethFrom this fertile soil;Swiftly,Before they fructify;Let us give them as medicineTo the writhing monster itself.
We must create and fashion a new God—A God of power, of beauty, and of strength;Created painfully, cruelly,Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds.Cast down the idols of a thousand years,Crush them to dustBeneath the dancing rhythm of our feet.Oh! let us dance upon the weak and cruel:We must create and fashion a new God.
November, 1918.
CONTENTS
PREFACE POEM
"How shall We rise to Greet the Dawn?"
BOOK I: THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS
PART I
PreludeThe Silence of GodAdventureDuskSailor-SongThe DanceWhy should a Sailor ride the Sea?
PART II
CornucopiaSongProspect Road
BOOK II: GREEN-FLY
War HorsesChurch-ParadeAt the House of Mrs. KinfootGreen-flyDe Luxe
BOOK III: PROMENADES
NocturneLament of the Mole CatcherThe BeginningThe EndFountainsSong of the Fauns"A Sculptor's Cruelty"Pierrot OldNightFrom CarcassonneProgressReturn of the ProdigalLondon SquaresTearsClavichordsPromenadesClown PondiLausiac ThemeMetamorphosisThe Gipsy QueenBlack MassPierrot at the WarSpring Hours
BOOK IV: WAR POEMS
"Therefore is the Name of it called Babel"Twentieth-Century HarlequinadeThis GenerationSheep-SongThe Poet's LamentJudas and the ProfiteerRhapsodeThe Modern AbrahamThe TrapThe Eternal ClubHeavenThe Blind PedlarHymn to MolochArmchairRagtimePeace CelebrationThe Next War
ToEDITH
THE PHOENIX-FEASTERS
PART I
We have wandered through the dim valleys of sleep—That lie so still and far—Have bathed in the lakes of silence,Where each starShines brighter than its own reflection in the heavens;Where, diving deep,My soul has sought to catch and keepThe silver feathers of the moonThat float like down upon the waters,In whose pale restWe findForgetfulness of deathThat comes so soon—Waters that lull the mindWith some sweet breathOf wind, of flowers,With summer showers of rain,Or quicken it with recreative pain.
We have fled further from this leaden cage,Seeking those rainbow forests,Where the lightThrills through you, shaking, fainting, with delight;Where sway tall luminous treesWind-swept in one vast flashing harmony,That like a waveSplashes its seething soundAnd then envelops you.
We have strayed to other places,Courts of fear,That stretch like echoes through the endless duskDrenched with dead memories;Like muskThey cling about youIn a heavy cloud.Each shadow-sound we hearClutches the heart.With fevered hands we tearThe terror-pulsing walls—Fight our way out—OutInto other CourtsAs vague and full of fear.And we have found the proud and distant palaces of night.
One night upon the southern seaIn helpless calm we lay,Waiting for day,Waiting for day.
As goldripe fruit fall from a treeA comet fell; no other sight,But in the ocean tracks of lightTrembled—then passed away,Away.
No sound broke on our waiting ears,Though instinct whispered wayward fearsOf things we cannot tell—Of things the sea could tell.
No wisp of wind, no watery soundReached us; as if high on the groundWe stayed. A sense of fever fellUpon each mind,Each soul and mind.
Until our eyes, that ever soughtThe cloying empty darkness, findAnother shape—or is it wroughtOf terror?—on the deepThe endless deep.
All dark it lay. No light shone out;And though we cried across, no shoutCame back to us. As if in sleepThe black bulk lay so still,So still.
No sign came back; no answering cryCleft the immense monotonyThat swathed us like a funeral pall,In folds of menace; almost shrillThe silence seemed,And we so small.
Swiftly a boat was lowered down;The rowlocks creaked; our track shone whiteBehind us like God's frown,God's frown.
We clambered up that great ship's height;There was no light; there was no sound;Nor was there any being foundUpon that ship,That ship.
We groped our way along. God knowsHow long the rats had been aloneWith dust and rust! Yet flight was shownTo have been instant, in the gripOf some force stronger than its foes—Its human foes.
* * * * *
Then sudden from the dark there thrilledThe distant dying of a songThat hung like haze upon the sea, and filledEach soul with joy and terror strong,With joy and terror strong.
Upon the sombre air were spentThese notes, as from a hidden placeWhere all time and all love lay pentIn lingering embrace—In lingering embrace.
Deep in our hearts we felt the call;We knew that if our fate should sendThat song again, we must leave allAnd follow to the end,The end.
Down through the torrid seas we swept,Sails curved like bows about to shoot.As an arrow speeds through the airOur ship parted the clinging waters.
Then, out of the oceanBlossomed a distant land.
* * * * *
The air quivered,Dancing above itIn a frenzy of passion.Waves of heat trembled towards usAcross the cool lassitude of the ocean.They rolled new odours at us,Sounding the chords of hidden senses,Till we were alertWith minds as sensitive and tautAs resined strings.The sea itselfCrouched down behind us,Urging us on,Driving us on,To unknownPerilous adventures.
* * * * *
Ships and sea were forgotten.We trampledAnd stumbledOn, on,Through the burning sandTo the hot shroud of the squat threatening forest,Where, as you walked,You tore apartA solid sheet of air.
Brown satyrs grimaced at us,Swinging with long hairy armsFrom crooked branch to crooked branch.The sunWas at its height.Rays pierced the hot shade;White lines of lightShot through the shadowsTo where a point of greenShuddered with dangerous movement,Throbbed and hummed with the whirr of insects.Birds more bright than any streamers from the sunCleft the airLike hammers;Scintillating wingsTossed patches of colourInto the dark shimmering air.Shrill callsWhistled like knivesHurled through the empty heat.
Frantic chattering rose up.Through the honeycombed darknessSlim animals—Their hides splashed with false sunlight—Quivered awayInto the hollow distance.Or clattered past us,Cloven hoovesKicking at the hard, bent trunksOf gnarled trees.Large hairy fruits of woodWere cast at us,Snarlingly,From the darkness.Faces—Faces peered downFrom the interwoven boughs.
Hastily we stumbled on;Hurriedly we stumbled back,Bewildered.Small tracksTripped through the blacknessHither and thither;Twigs crawled from under our feet,Hissing awayIn venom—And we were bewildered.
Then suddenlyWe felt,Rumbling in curling patterns through the ground,The beating of drums.As winds bellow into caves,As waves swirl and curl into hollows,We heard the blowing of wooden trumpetsAnd of pipes.
Soon,Under the western canopy of the sun,Where the fevered hills lay huddled together,We saw great gourd-shaped palacesLoom up like mountains.Figures played on trumpets,Twisted like snakes,Or on the curved, carved horns of unknown beasts.In the sound was mirroredThe panic seizures of the night,—The fear of things that walk in darkness.The drums were paintedIn hot coloursThat, even through the dusk,Glowed torture and writhing torment.Like a shower of molten leadThe din fell down upon usFrom the Palaces.
Bare yellow womenHurriedTo greet us;Their heels swayed inwardAs they walked.They offered fruits—Fruits that were strange to us;Mellow they were, and with a scentOf sun, of summer,And of woodland nights.We ate—And dreams closed round.
* * * * *
Night like a hawkSwooped downOn to the phoenix bird,—Tore out its flaming feathers.Solitary plumesFlared down into the darkness,Floating above the distant sea.Stillness and heat clung together;And the hawkSpread out her wings.
Gigantic pinionsFlutter the air above,Fanning our facesAndWe sing.....
On swinging seas our ship has flown—In sun and shadow lands alit.We saw the sack of Carthage Town(And Dido building it).
Cassandra, direful prophetess,We heard foretell the fate of Troy,And through its streets helped wheel and pressThat wooden, painted toy.
We've seen events aboard this hulkOf grave import and mystery—The serpent's writhing horrid bulkGo seething through the sea.
Then once we left Atlantis Town.Behind us like a lily flowerIt blossomed; but then down, far down,Sank every vane and tower.
Now you can hear the clanging beatOf bells beneath the furious foam.In coral palaces the greatSea monsters make their home.
Their corridors with pearl are pav'd;Float down them in an endless flightFierce finny beasts. The walls are lavedIn irridescent light.
We brought gifts—myrrh and frankincense—From Khubla to the Great Moghul;Espied the Juggernaut immensePound over flesh and skull;
Saw desert-men atone for illsWith frenzied hands, with wounds that gape,—The hermits hidden in the hills—The Herod in his Tyrian Cape.
From out our ship, held fast by gale,We watched Andromeda's release;Beheld the galleon in full sailThat flew the Golden Fleece.
Icarus, proud of his new power,We saw stretch out his wings to fly.We heard in that tremendous hourThe cry from Calvary.
Thus many things we understandThat puzzle landsmen: we can tellOf perils in each time and land;But outside Heaven or Hell
No fruit so strange we tasted saveBut one; none cast so strange a spellExcept the fruit the first Eve gaveTo the first man who fell.
The song ends.The rocking earthPlunges madly—Lunges like a manAbout to fight.Trees roll beckoning branches at us,Branches that swing and sway.From the forestThe animalsHowlLike laughter.With their burning scimitersFlames slice the night.
Monotony,A life preserved in ocean salt,Scales off our limbs.Within our veinsThe liquor of this fruit-of-fireMounts in splendour inexhaustible.The world itselfDancesTo make us danceIn cosmic frenzy.
Why should a sailor ride the sea,When he can drink and dance and sing,Or watch the stars out-blossomingUpon the tree of night?
Why should he face the tear-salt waves,When he can sing, or feast on fruit,Dance to the silver-sobbing lute,And all men seem his slaves?
No more to ship or sea we'll go,To watch the land sink out of sightSuffused by purple fumes of night,Each heart weighed down with woe.
But under rustling fretted laceOf leaves, we'll dance and stamp our feetIn frenzy, to the furious beat,—The rhythm of all space.
Or watch each dappled fawn and elfSpring from the green lairs where they hide;Now every soul is multipliedAnd communes with itself.
The softly sailing moon is nowA pendulum, hung in a vastBlue bubble—so to mark our fastLithe movements to and fro.
Down from the sky the willing starsFall round each brow a crown to form;Till feet and limbs, a rushing storm,Dance whirling on in ecstasy.
The earth dances;The earth dances;Trees charge at usLike horsemen;Forests swoopDown the hill,Charging at us,But we are brave,Full of a fiery courage,And go onwardOnward,Through the galloping trees.We shoutGlowing phrases—Snatches of ineffable wit.
The frenzy in our feetMust surely set the world afire.Yet still the starsRain down their golden tremors of delight,And the moonSweeps like a birdThrough the arch of space.
We, too,Float downwardGentlyTo soft shipwreck.We, too,Are of the kindred of the Pleiades;Reel on our golden pathDown,Down,Through the curved emptiness of the heavens.
PART II
Now music fills the night with moving shades;Its velvet darkness, veined like a grape,Obscures and falls round many a subtle shape—Figures that steal through cool tall colonnades,Vast minotaurian corridors of sleep;Rhythmic they pass us, splashed by red cascadesOf wine, fierce-flashing fountains whose proud wavesShimmer awhile; plunge foaming over steepAge-polished rocks, into the dim cold cavesOf starlit dusk below—then merge with night,Softly as children sinking into sleep.
But now more figures sway into our sight;Strong and bare-shouldered, pressed and laden down,Stagger across the terraces. They bearGreat Cornucopia of summer fruitAnd heavy roses scented with the noon—Piled up with fruit and blossoms, all full blown,Crimson, or golden as the harvest moon—Piled up and overflowing in a floodOf riches; brilliant-plumaged birds, that singAs the faint playing on a far sweet lute,Warble their tales of conquest and of love;Perch on each shoulder; sweep each rainbow wingLike light'ning through the breathless dark above.Heaped up in vases gems shine hard and bright;Sudden they flare out—gleaming red like blood—For now the darkness turns to swelling light,Great torches gild each shadow, tear the sky,As drums tear through the silence of the night;Breaking its crystal quiet—making us cryOr catch our sobbing breath in sudden fear.A shadow stumbles, and the jewels showerOn to the pavers with a sharp sweet sound.They mingle with the fountain drops that flowerUp in a scarlet bloom above the ground,A beauteous changing blossom; then they rainOn to the broad mysterious terraces,Where sea-gods rise to watch in cold disdainBefore those vast vermillion palaces,—Watch where the slumbering coral gods of noon,Drunk with the sudden golden light and flareOf flaming torches, try to pluck and tearThat wan enchanted lotus flower, the moon,Down from its calm still waters; thus they fall,Like flowing plumes, the fountains of our festival.
Slowly the torches die. They echo long,These last notes of a Bacchanalian song,Of drifting drowsy beauty, born of sleep,—Vast as the sea, as changing and as deep.In thanksgiving for shelt'ring summer skiesStill, far away, a fervent red light glows.Small winds brush past against our lips and eyes,Caress them like a laughing summer rose,And rainbow moths flit by, in circling flight.A harp sobs out its crystal syruppings;Faintly it sounds, as the poor petal-wings,Fragile yet radiant, of a butterflyBeating against the barriers of night.
Then from the Ocean came the Syren song,Heavy with perfume, yet faint as a sigh,Kissing our minds, and changing right from wrong;Chaining our limbs; making our bodies seemInert and spellbound, dead as in a dream.
* * * * *
Bound by the silver fetters of your voiceTo this new slavery of dreams,We, listening, rejoice.The magic strainsSwell in this darkness star-devoid.The music streamsUpon the world in patterns passionate yet clear,And stainsEach soul. The mind, decoyedBy thoughts that grind and tearAway old values,Is sent down other thoughtsSo subtly swift,That in their fleeting passageThey can cut adrift our soulsUpon a sea of wonder and of fear.Within the arid minds of menThis music sounds but once, for thenThey hear no other song.In it, tumultuous rush of wings,The glamour of old lovely thingsIn deserts buried long,The grace of beasts that bound and leapWith movements blithe and strong—Of those that creepAway in hissing-reptile rage—All these, all these are found.They hearThe secrets, solved, of each dead age,Each mystery is clear.For in this music's flow, the dinOf spheres that tear and speed and spinThrough pulsing space is heard,And all things men have loved and fearedAre mirror'd in each sound.
Our hidden voices, wreathed with love's soft flowers,Wind-toss'd thro' valleys, tremble across seasTo turbann'd cities; touch tall lonely towers,Call to you thro' the sky, the wind, the trees.
Misted and golden as the hanging moon,That like a summer fruit floats from the sky,Thrills out our distant age-enchanted tune,—Nor will it let you pass our beauty by.But if it should not reach to stir your mind,Then hold a summer rose against the ear,Till through its crimson sweetness you can hearThe falling flow of rhythm—so designedThat from this secret island, like a starShining above a shrouded world, our songCleaves through the darkest night and echoes long,Bidding you follow whether near or far.Come hither where the mermaids churn the foam,Lashing their tails across the calm, or diveTo groves and gardens of bright flowers; then roamBeneath the shade of stone-branched trees, or driveSome slow sea-monster to its musselled home.Here, as a ladder, they climb up and downThe rainbow's steep refracted steps of light,Till, when the dusk sends down its rippling frown,They quiver back to us in silver flight.The moon sails down once more; our mermaids bringRich gifts of ocean fruit. Again we sing.Enchantment, love, vague fear, and memoriesThat cling about us like the fumes of wineWith myriad love-enhancing mysteriesWe pour out in one song—intense—divine,Down the deep moonlit chasms of the wavesOur song floats on the opiate breeze. Why seekTo goad your carven galleys, fast-bound slavesWho search each sweeping line of bay and creek,Only to stagger on a hidden rock, or findThe limp dead sails swept off by sudden wind?Thus always you must search the cruel sea,For if you find us mankind shall be free!
But when you sleep we grasp you by the hand,And to the trickling honey of the fluteWe lead you to a distant shimmering landWhere lotus-eaters munch their golden fruit,Then fall upon the fields of summer flowersIn drunken sunlit slumber, while a fawnPrances and dances round them.Oh, those hoursWhen through the crystal valleys of the dawnDown from the haunted forests of the nightThere dash the dew-drenched centaurs on their way,Mad with the sudden rush of golden light—Affright the lotus-eaters, as they swayTowards the woodlands in a stumbling flight.In these deep groves we follow through the coolShadow of high columnar trees, to findThe fallen sky within a forest poolThat's faintly veiled and fretted by a wind,Lest our white flashing limbs should turn you blind.
* * * * *
As the sweet sound of bells that fall and fadeIn watery circles on the verge of night,So rounded ripples spread beneath the shadeOf flowing branches dripping with green light.
Thus do we wander; but when day is spentWe grope our way thro' vast tall palaces,Palaces sinister and somnolent,Where lurk dim fears and unknown menaces.
These high pale walls and this pale shining floorSeem built of bones, by ages planed and groundTo a white smoothness.On this rock-bound shoreThe bodies of dead sailors oft are found.
These sombre arches pierce the sullen sky.
These pillars are the pillars of the night.
Of what avail your strife and agony?Why seek to search and struggle for the light?Our music chains you: binds your limbs from flight.
Gigantic houses, tattered by all time,Raise their immense and ruined bulk and heightIn one unending universal street,Against a strange and sunken yellow sky—Like sunset trickling through into the sea,Down to the depths—yellow and grey and green.Blind windows face the interminable road;Innumerable those windows seem to stretchAll smeared and stained and stamped with time and blood,—Stains that seem faces—horrid twitching masksMoving their lewd derisive lips and tongues,Spitting out treacheries with vampire lips—Or eyes that gaze from far blank-stretching walls—The tortured eyes of those who see their deathApproaching æon-by-æon along this road.Behind the walls sound voices whisperingOf dire and hidden, carefully hidden, thoughts—Cruel, wicked and unfathomable thingsThat lie behind this infamy of stone.Then clamour, shrieking voices, or a pauseThat falls like lead through the suspended air;Broken by laughter—rending piercing soundsThat seem to tear the fabric of our minds.Slinking along these wicked, stricken walls,I reached a shining distant point of light.And glory came—vast and unending light,Rays—flashing, writhing rays of light.And then the music sounded. Ah, that sound!
Cadences rose and fell unendingly—Quivering, shining waves of sound and sight—Sounds of the universe—the cries of spaceAnd planets tumbling wildly round our world—Showing the meaning of the meaningless."God and eternity"—strange flashing soundsThe whirl of time, "Melchisedec"—"Glory of God"And space—the universe—like framing words—"Gog and Magog"—"Infinity"—the rush of watersAnd the sky comes down.Down with the splintering stars.
1916-1919.
How they come out—These Septuagenarian Butterflies—After restingFor four years!
Surely they are more spiritedThan ever?Their enamelled wingsAre rusty with waiting—Their eyelidsSag a littleLike those of a bloodhound;But they swim gaily into the limelight.
Oh, these war-horses!They have seen it through.Theirs has been a splendid part!The waiting—the weariness!For the Queens of ShebaAre used to courts and feasting;But for four yearsPlatitudes have remainedUncoined,For there have been few partiesAnd onlyThree stout mealsA day.
But nowThey have come out.They have preenedAnd dried themselvesAfter their blood-bath.Old men seem a little younger,And tortoise-shell combsAre longer than ever;Earrings weigh down aged ears;And Golconda has given them of its best.
They have seen it through!Theirs is the triumph,And, beneathThe carved smile of the Mona LisaFalse teeth,RattleLike machine guns,In anticipationOf food and platitudes.Les Veilles Dames Sans Merci!
The flattened sea is harsh and blue—Lies stiff beneath—one tone, one hue,While concertina waves unfoldThe painted shimmering sands of gold.
Each bird that whirls and wheels on highMust strangle, stifle in, its cry,
For nothing that's of Nature bornShould seem so on the Sabbath morn.
The terrace glitters hard and white,Bedaubed and flecked with points of light
That flicker at the passers-by—Reproachful as a curate's eye.
And china flowers, in steel-bound beds,Flare out in blues and flaming reds;
Each blossom, rich and opulent,Stands like a soldier; and its scent
Is turned to camphor in the air.No breath of wind would ever dare
To make the trees' plump branches sway,Whose thick green leaves hang down to pray.
The stiff, tall churches vomit outTheir rustling masses of devout,
Tall churches whose stained Gothic nightRefuses to receive the light!
Watch how the stately walk alongToward the terrace, join the throng
That paces carefully up and downAbove a cut-out cardboard town!
With prayer-book rigid in each hand,They look below at sea and sand.
The round contentment in their eyesBetrays their favourite fond surmise,
That all successful at a tradeShall tread an eternal Church-Parade,
And every soul that's sleek and fatShall gain a heavenly top-hat.
From out the Church's Gothic night,Past beds of blossoms china-bright,Beneath the green trees' porous shade,We watch the sea-side Church-Parade.
At the house of Mrs. KinfootAre collectedMen and womenOf all ages.They are supposedTo sing, paint, or to play the piano.In the drawing-roomThe fireplace is setWith green tilesOf an acanthus pattern.The black curls of Mrs. KinfootAre symmetrical.—Descended, it is said,From the Kings of Ethiopia—But the British bourgeoisie has triumphed.Mr. Kinfoot is baldAnd talksIn front of the fireplaceWith his head on one side,And his right handIn his pocket.The joy of catching tame elephants,And finding them to be white ones,Still gleams from the jungle-eyesOf Mrs. Kinfoot,But her mind is no jungleOf Ethiopia,But a sound British meadow.
Listen then to the gospel of Mrs. Kinfoot:"The world was made for the British bourgeoisie,They are its Swiss Family Robinson;The world is not what it was.We cannot understand all this unrest!
Adam and Eve were born to evening dressIn the southern confinesOf Belgravia.Eve was very artistic, and all that,And felt the fallQuite dreadfully.Cain was such a man of the worldAnd belonged to every club in London;His father simply adored him,—But had never really liked Abel,Who was rather a milk-sop.Nothing exists which the British bourgeoisieDoes not understand;Therefore there is no death—And, of course, no life.
The British bourgeoisieIs not born,And does not die,But, if it is ill,It has a frightened look in its eyes.
The War was splendid, wasn't it?Oh yes, splendid, splendid."
Mrs. Kinfoot is a dear,And so artistic.
I.
Like ninepins houses stand up squareIn lines; their windows mouths to biteAt servants, who lean out to stareAt anything that moves in sight.
Where once was green-limbed tree or ledgeOf greener moss or flowery lane,Set back behind a private hedgeEach house repeats itself again.
Each house repeats itself again,But smaller still and yet more dry;For—just as those who live within—So have these houses progeny.
Throughout each dusty endless year,Whose days seem merely wet or fine,These children constantly appearIn an unending dusty line.
As, on a rose that is ill-grownNature, insulted and defied,Showers down a blight, so sends she downOn houses, those who live inside.
II.
Within each high, well-papered room,Compressed, all darkness lay,Darkness of night, and crypt, and tomb,Nor ever entered day.
But through the endless black there crept,With groping hand and groping thought,With eyes that blinked, but never wept,And minds that fell, but never fought,
The wonderless, the hard, the nice,Who scurry at a ray of light,Then, like a flock of frightened mice,Career back into night.
From out this damning dreadful dark(While history, thundering, rolls by)They wait for an anæmic larkTo sing from weak blue sky.
Or if a dog is hurt, why thenThey see the evil, and they cry.But yet they watch ten million menGo out to end in agony!
Their own strange God they have set up,Of clay, of iron, and mothéd hide;Whose eyes, each convex as a cup,Reflect the herd endeified.
Their twisted feet in boots He madeTo walk the narrow asphalt way,And gave each room a curtain's shadeTo muffle out the light of day.
For this God understands their need;Created lids for each pale eye;He sculped each mouth to say "Agreed,"And gives them coffins if they die.
When, if for punishment they goTo other lands, why, it should beThe judgment that, down there below,They see this world as they might see!
A world of contrast, shade and light—Clashing romance and cruelty,But stricken with the dreadful blightOf fear to feel and fear to cry.
Where for a moment lives are filledWith love or hate—where born of painThe children grow up—to be killed!Where freedom—dead—is born again.
Wherein life's pattern crude and shrillIs weft by neither foe nor friend,But by some rough colossal willTowards some vast invisible end.
But in those houses dark there creep,With bodies wrapt in woollen dress,With eyes that blink but never weep,The sentimental wonderless!
I.
HYMN.
Above from plaster-mountains,Wine-shadowed by the sea,Spurt white-wool clouds, as fountainsWhirl from a rockery.
These clouds were surely givenTo keep the hills from harm,For when a cloud is rivenThe fatted rain falls warm.
Through porous leaves the sun dropsEach dripping stalactiteOf green. The chiselled tree-topsSeem cut from malachite.
Stiff leaves with ragged edges(Each one a wooden sword)Are carved to prickly hedges,On which, with one accord,
Their clock-work songs of calf-loveStout birds stop to recite,From cages which the sun woveOf shade and latticed light.
Each brittle booth and joy-storeShines brightly. Below theseThe ocean at a toy shoreYaps like a Pekinese.
II.
NURSERY RHYME.
The dusky king of MalabarIs chief of Eastern Potentates;Yet he wears no clothes exceptThe jewels that decency dictates.
A thousand Malabaric wivesRoam beneath green-tufted palms;Revel in the vilenessThat Bishop Heber psalms.
From honey-combs of light and shadeThey stop to watch black bodies dartInto the sea to search for pearls.By means of diabolic art
Magicians keep the sharks away;Mutter, utter, each dark spell,So that if a thief should steal,One more black would go to Hell.
But Mrs. Freudenthal, in furs,From brioche dreams to mild surpriseAwakes; the music throbs and purrs.The cellist, with albino eyes,
Rivets attention; is, in fact,The very climax; pink eyes flashWhenever nervous and pain-rackedHe hears the drums and cymbols clash.
Mrs. Freudenthal day-dreams—Ice-spoon half-way to her nose—Till the girl in ochre screams,Hits out at the girl in rose.
This is not at all the wayTo act in large and smart hotels;Angrily the couples sway,Eagerly the riot swells.
Girls who cannot act with graceShould learn behaviour; stay at home;A convent is the proper place.Why not join the Church of Rome?
A waiter nearly drops the tray—Twenty tea-cups in one hand.Now the band joins in the fray,Fighting for the Promised Land.
Mrs. Freudenthal resentsThe scene; and slowly rustles out,But the orchestra relents,Waking from its fever bout.
The valleys that were known in sunlit hoursAre vast and vague as seas;Wan as the blackthorn flowersThat quiver in the first spring-scented breeze:Far as the frosted hollows of the moon.The sighing woods are still—Wrapp'd in their age-long boonOf mystery and sleep. A naked hill,Loud and discordant, looms against the sky,And little lights like starsBreak the monotonyOf blue and silver, black and grey. Strange barsOf light resemble silver masks, and leerAcross the forest lane.Tall nettles, rank from rain,Scent all the woods with some ancestral fear.
Trees rustle by the water. A voice singsFaintly, to ward off fright.
The water breathes pale ringsOf sad, wan light;Faintly they grow,Then merge into the night:The last poor twisted echo takes to flight.
ToW. H. DAVIES.
An old, sad man who catches molesWent lonely down the lane—All lily-green were the lanes and knolls,But sorrow numbed his brain.He paid no heed to flower or weedAs he went his lonely way.No note he heard from any birdThat sang, that sad spring day.
"I trap'd the moles for forty yearsWho could not see the sky,I reckoned not blind blood or tears,And the Lord has seen them die.For forty years I've sought to slayThe small, the dumb, the blind,But now the Lord has made me pay,And I am like their kind.I cannot see or lane or hill,Or flower or bird or moon;Lest life shall lay me lower still,O Lord—come take it soon."
Great spheres of fire, to which the sun is nought,Pass thund'ring round our world. A golden mist—The margin to the universe—falls roundThe verges of our vision. Rocks ablazeLeap upward to the sun, or fall beneathThe rush of our rapidity, that seemsCatastrophy, and not the joyous birthOf yet another star. The air is fullOf clashing colour, full of sights and soundsToo plain and loud for men to heed or hear,The cosmic cries of pain that follow birth:A multi-coloured world.The scorching heatSurpasses all the equatorial days:Steam rises from the surface of the sea.Gigantic rainbow mists resemble formsThat bring to mind strange elemental spritesExulting in the chaos of creation.They glide above the tumult-ridden seaWhich now is shaken as are autumn leaves;Great hollows open and reveal its depths—Devoid of any form of life or death.Till wave on wave it gathers strength againAnd shakes a mountain, splits it to the base(Still weak from struggle as a new-born babe).Then night comes on, and shows the flaming pathOf all the rocks that vainly seek the sun.Broad as the arch of space, a myriad moonsSail slowly by the sea; the glowing worldShows up the pallor of their ivory.The din grows greater from the universe:There rises up the smell of fire and iron,—Not dreary like the smell of burnt-out things,But like the smell of some gigantic forge—Cheerful, of good intent, and full of life.
Now all the joyous cries of sea and earth,The universal harmonies of birth,Rise up to haunt the slumber of their God.
Round the great ruins crawl those things of slimeGreen ruins lichenous and scarred by moss—An evil lichen that proclaims world doom,Like blood dried brown upon a dead man's face.And nothing moves save those monstrosities,Armoured and grey, and of a monster size.
But now, a thing passed through the cloying airWith flap and clatter of its scaly wings—As if the whole world echoed from some storm.One scarce could see it in the dim green lightTill suddenly it swooped and made a dartAnd brushed away one of those things of slime,Just as a hawk might sweep upon its prey.
It seems as if the light grows dimmer yet—No radiance from the dreadful green above,Only a lustrous light or iridescenceAs if from off a carrion-fly,—surroundsThat vegetation which is never touchedBy any breeze. The air is thick, and bringsThe tainted subtle sweetness of decay.Where, yonder, lies the noisome river-course,There shows a faintly phosphorescent glow.
Long writhing bodies fall and twist and rise,And one can hear them playing in the mud.Upon the ruined walls there gleam and shineThe track of those grey vast monstrosities—As some gigantic snail had crawled along.
All round the shining bushes waver linesSuggesting shadows, slight and grey, but fullOf that which makes one nigh to dead with fear.
Watch how those awful shadows culminateAnd dance in one long wish to hurt the world.
A world that now is past all agony!
"The graven fountain-masks suffer and weep.Carved with a smile, the poor mouths clutchAt a half-remembered song,Striving to forget the agony of ever laughing."SACHEVERELL SITWELL.
Some fountains sing of loveIn full and flute-like notes that charge the nightWith all the red-mouthed essence of the rose;Then turn to voices murmuring above,Among the trees,Of hidden sweet delight.
Another fountain flowsWith the faint music of a first spring breeze;Each falling drop is jewelled by the moonTo some fine luminous ecstasy of light.It sings of noon,Of sunlit blossoms on a first spring dayAnd all things sweet and pleasant to the sight.
Another fountain singsOf the cool pleasures of those moonlit hoursWhen dappled sylvan thingsTrample through thickets and through secret bowersTo prance and play,Or, squatting round in rings,To wreathe their horned heads with wan sweet flowersTill dawn comes grey and sweeps them to the wood.
Another fountain sobsIts song of passions that have passed away.Then with a sound like threatening rolling drums, it throbsAnd bursts into a floodOf fierce wild music; and its savage sprayBecomes the bloodRenewed, of crimes long past.
Another fountain sings its song of fear,Of rustics flying fastBefore some foe—A deadly, unknown foe that comes so nearThey feel his panting breath,And run for many a lengthy, panic mile.
Those graven fountain-masks are white with woe!Carved with a happy smileThey strive to weep...End their eternal laughing—for awhileTo lose themselves in sleepOr in the silver peacefulness of death.
When the woods are white beneath the moonAnd grass is wet with crystal dew,When in the poolSo clear and coolThe moon reflects itself anew,We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon,We shake awayThe sleep of day,Out from our bosky homes we spring;Horns wreathed with flowers,Throughout the hoursOf moonlight, worshipping we sing.Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan lightLooks down upon us worshipping—Each dappled faunWho shuns the dawn,Is here, and rarest gifts we bring—The feathers of the birds of nightWrought to a crownOf softest downWe offer you, and crystal bright,The dew within a lily cupReflecting starsIn shining bars;All things most strange we offer up—Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowersTo place within your secret bowers.We shake down apples from the trees,And pears, and plums with velvet skin;Up to the skyWe cast these highAnd pray you'll stoop to net them in.We dance: then fall upon our kneesAnd pray and sing—all this to showThe love that all loyal fauns must oweTo you, white goddess of the night.But no more play,We must away,The eastern sky is growing bright.
The faun runs through the forest of the noon,Then leaps into some lovely shrouded gladeSplashed with hot light. He dances in the shadeOf tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoonBeneath their weight of green. No breath of airRuffles the vivid blossom or the mossOn which he pirouettes, all is so fair!
He leaps about; then, tired and at a lossFor what to do, he roams the wood—espiesA figure like himself—but stiff and grey!Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighsThat are his pride. "But surely this can playAnd scamper, dance and snuffle through the dayAs well as me?" So he comes near and eyesThe lichened features of a faun of stone.
Oh! it is sad to be so young—alone!
The harvest moon is at its height,The evening primrose greets its lightWith grace and joy: then opens upThe mimic moon within its cup.Tall trees, as high as Babel tower,Throw down their shadows to the flower—Shadows that shiver—seem to seeAn ending to infinity.
The Pagan Pan has now unbentAnd stoops to sniff the night-stock scentThat brings a memory sad and old,When he was young, and free, and bold,To play his pipe in forests black,Or follow in some goatherd's trackWho, fill'd with panic fear, then fleesThrough all the terror-threatening trees.
Huge silver moths, like ghosts of flowers,Hover about the warm dark bowers,And wait to breathe the lime-tree scentThat perfum'd many a complimentAddress'd to beauties young and gay,Their faces powdered by the rayOf that same moon that looks uponTheir dreary lichen-cover'd tomb.The dryads throw their water wideAnd strive to stem the surging tideThat dashes up the fountain base,Hoping to catch the moon's pale face—A game now played without a scoreFor three good centuries or more.And all the earth smells warm and sweet—A fitting place for fairy feet.
But now a figure white and frailLeaps out into the moonlight pale.From wakeful thoughts, old age and grief,He finds in this strange world relief.Yet all the shadow, scent and sound,Poor Pierrot's mind do sad confound.Watch how he dances to the moonWhile singing some faint fragrant tune!
But Pierrot now is tired and sad—Remembers all the evenings madHe spent with that fantastic bandSo gaily wand'ring o'er the land.They all are dead—and at an end,And he is left without a friend.For tho' the hours can pass away,Poor Pierrot still must grieve and stay.
Upon the dewy grass he lies:The perfumes stir strange memories.Once more he hears a laughing cryThat brings great tear-drops to his eye.That step—that look—that voice—that smile.Ah! they've been buried a long while!And who's the man in pantaloons,And he who sings such festive tunes?Why, it's that laughing man of sin,That roguish rascal Harlequin!
Forgiving Pierrot hides his headDeep in the grass and mourns the dead;Forgetting all the pranks they play'd,And how he was himself betray'd.
The butterfly lives but one day,But Pierrot still seems doom'd to stay.
He falls asleep there, tragic-white,And wakes to find the bleak daylight.