Chapter 2

And warm and quiet.From this all-but sleep

She started into life again; the sky

Was full of a strange tumult suddenly—

Beating of mighty wings and shrill-voiced fear

And the hoarse scream of rapine following near.

In the high windlessness above her flew,

Dazzlingly white on the untroubled blue,

A splendid swan, with outstretched neck and wing

Spread fathom wide, and closely following

An eagle, tawny and black. This god-like pair

Circled and swooped through the calm of upper air,

The eagle striking and the white swan still

’Scaping as though by happy miracle

The imminent talons. For the twentieth time

The furious hunter stooped, to miss and climb

A mounting spiral into the height again.

He hung there poised, eyeing the grassy plain

Far, far beneath, where the girls’ upturned faces

Were like white flowers that bloom in open places

Among the scarcely budded woods. And they

Breathlessly watched and waited; long he lay,

Becalmed upon that tideless sea of light,

While the great swan with slow and creaking flight

Went slanting down towards safety, where the stream

Shines through the trees below, with glance and gleam

Of blue aerial eyes that seem to give

Sense to the sightless earth and make it live.

The ponderous wings beat on and no pursuit:

Stiff as the painted kite that guards the fruit,

Afloat o’er orchards ripe, the eagle yet

Hung as at anchor, seeming to forget

His uncaught prey, his rage unsatisfied.

Still, quiet, dead . . . and then the quickest-eyed

Had lost him. Like a star unsphered, a stone

Dropped from the vault of heaven, a javelin thrown,

He swooped upon his prey. Down, down he came,

And through his plumes with a noise of wind-blown flame

Loud roared the air. From Leda’s lips a cry

Broke, and she hid her face—she could not see him die,

Her lovely, hapless swan.

Her lovely, hapless swan.Ah, had she heard,

Even as the eagle hurtled past, the word

That treacherous pair exchanged. “Peace,” cried the swan;

“Peace, daughter. All my strength will soon be gone,

Wasted in tedious flying, ere I come

Where my desire hath set its only home.”

“Go,” said the eagle, “I have played my part,

Roused pity for your plight in Leda’s heart

(Pity the mother of voluptuousness).

Go, father Jove; be happy; for success

Attends this moment.”

Attends this moment.”On the queen’s numbed sense

Fell a glad shout that ended sick suspense,

Bidding her lift once more towards the light

Her eyes, by pity closed against a sight

Of blood and death—her eyes, how happy now

To see the swan still safe, while far below,

Brought by the force of his eluded stroke

So near to earth that with his wings he woke

A gust whose sudden silvery motion stirred

The meadow grass, struggled the sombre bird

Of rage and rapine. Loud his scream and hoarse

With baffled fury as he urged his course

Upwards again on threshing pinions wide.

But the fair swan, not daring to abide

This last assault, dropped with the speed of fear

Towards the river. Like a winged spear,

Outstretching his long neck, rigid and straight,

Aimed at where Leda on the bank did wait

With open arms and kind, uplifted eyes

And voice of tender pity, down he flies.

Nearer, nearer, terribly swift, he sped

Directly at the queen; then widely spread

Resisting wings, and breaking his descent

’Gainst his own wind, all speed and fury spent,

The great swan fluttered slowly down to rest

And sweet security on Leda’s breast.

Menacingly the eagle wheeled above her;

But Leda, like a noble-hearted lover

Keeping his child-beloved from tyrannous harm,

Stood o’er the swan and, with one slender arm

Imperiously lifted, waved away

The savage foe, still hungry for his prey.

Baffled at last, he mounted out of sight

And the sky was void—save for a single white

Swan’s feather moulted from a harassed wing

That down, down, with a rhythmic balancing

From side to side dropped sleeping on the air.

Down, slowly down over that dazzling pair,

Whose different grace in union was a birth

Of unimagined beauty on the earth:

So lovely that the maidens standing round

Dared scarcely look. Couched on the flowery ground

Young Leda lay, and to her side did press

The swan’s proud-arching opulent loveliness,

Stroking the snow-soft plumage of his breast

With fingers slowly drawn, themselves caressed

By the warm softness where they lingered, loth

To break away. Sometimes against their growth

Ruffling the feathers inlaid like little scales

On his sleek neck, the pointed finger-nails

Rasped on the warm, dry, puckered skin beneath;

And feeling it she shuddered, and her teeth

Grated on edge; for there was something strange

And snake-like in the touch. He, in exchange,

Gave back to her, stretching his eager neck,

For every kiss a little amorous peck;

Rubbing his silver head on her gold tresses,

And with the nip of horny dry caresses

Leaving upon her young white breast and cheek

And arms the red print of his playful beak.

Closer he nestled, mingling with the slim

Austerity of virginal flank and limb

His curved and florid beauty, till she felt

That downy warmth strike through her flesh and melt

The bones and marrow of her strength away.

One lifted arm bent o’er her brow, she lay

With limbs relaxed, scarce breathing, deathly still;

Save when a quick, involuntary thrill

Shook her sometimes with passing shudderings,

As though some hand had plucked the aching strings

Of life itself, tense with expectancy.

And over her the swan shook slowly free

The folded glory of his wings, and made

A white-walled tent of soft and luminous shade

To be her veil and keep her from the shame

Of naked light and the sun’s noonday flame.

Hushed lay the earth and the wide, careless sky.

Then one sharp sound, that might have been a cry

Of utmost pleasure or of utmost pain,

Broke sobbing forth, and all was still again.

THE BIRTH OF GOD

NIGHT is a void about me; I lie alone;And water drips, like an idiot clicking his tongue,Senselessly, ceaselessly, endlessly dripsInto the waiting silence, grownEmptier for this small inhuman sound.My love is gone, my love who is tender and young.O smooth warm body! O passionate lips!I have stretched forth hands in the dark and nothing found:The silence is huge as the sky—I lie alone—My narrow room, a darkness that knows no bound.How shall I fill this measurelessDeep void that the taking awayOf a child’s slim beauty has made?Slender she is and small, but the lonelinessShe has left is a night no stars allay,And I am cold and afraid.Long, long ago, cut off from the wolfish pack,From the warm, immediate touch of friends and mate,Lost and alone, alone in the utter blackOf a forest night, some far-off, beast-like man,Cowed by the cold indifferent hateOf the northern silence, crouched in fear,When through his bleared and suffering mindA sudden tremor of comfort ran,And the void was filled by a rushing wind,And he breathed a sense of something friendly and near,And in privation the life of God began.Love, from your loss shall a god be born to fillThe emptiness, where once you were,With friendly knowledge and more than a lover’s willTo ease despair?Shall I feed longing with what it hungers after,Seeing in earth and sea and airA lover’s smiles, hearing a lover’s laughter,Feeling love everywhere?The night drags on. Darkness and silence grow,And with them my desire has grown,My bitter need. Alas, I know,I know that here I lie alone.

NIGHT is a void about me; I lie alone;And water drips, like an idiot clicking his tongue,Senselessly, ceaselessly, endlessly dripsInto the waiting silence, grownEmptier for this small inhuman sound.My love is gone, my love who is tender and young.O smooth warm body! O passionate lips!I have stretched forth hands in the dark and nothing found:The silence is huge as the sky—I lie alone—My narrow room, a darkness that knows no bound.How shall I fill this measurelessDeep void that the taking awayOf a child’s slim beauty has made?Slender she is and small, but the lonelinessShe has left is a night no stars allay,And I am cold and afraid.Long, long ago, cut off from the wolfish pack,From the warm, immediate touch of friends and mate,Lost and alone, alone in the utter blackOf a forest night, some far-off, beast-like man,Cowed by the cold indifferent hateOf the northern silence, crouched in fear,When through his bleared and suffering mindA sudden tremor of comfort ran,And the void was filled by a rushing wind,And he breathed a sense of something friendly and near,And in privation the life of God began.Love, from your loss shall a god be born to fillThe emptiness, where once you were,With friendly knowledge and more than a lover’s willTo ease despair?Shall I feed longing with what it hungers after,Seeing in earth and sea and airA lover’s smiles, hearing a lover’s laughter,Feeling love everywhere?The night drags on. Darkness and silence grow,And with them my desire has grown,My bitter need. Alas, I know,I know that here I lie alone.

NIGHT is a void about me; I lie alone;And water drips, like an idiot clicking his tongue,Senselessly, ceaselessly, endlessly dripsInto the waiting silence, grownEmptier for this small inhuman sound.My love is gone, my love who is tender and young.O smooth warm body! O passionate lips!I have stretched forth hands in the dark and nothing found:The silence is huge as the sky—I lie alone—My narrow room, a darkness that knows no bound.How shall I fill this measurelessDeep void that the taking awayOf a child’s slim beauty has made?Slender she is and small, but the lonelinessShe has left is a night no stars allay,And I am cold and afraid.Long, long ago, cut off from the wolfish pack,From the warm, immediate touch of friends and mate,Lost and alone, alone in the utter blackOf a forest night, some far-off, beast-like man,Cowed by the cold indifferent hateOf the northern silence, crouched in fear,When through his bleared and suffering mindA sudden tremor of comfort ran,And the void was filled by a rushing wind,And he breathed a sense of something friendly and near,And in privation the life of God began.Love, from your loss shall a god be born to fillThe emptiness, where once you were,With friendly knowledge and more than a lover’s willTo ease despair?Shall I feed longing with what it hungers after,Seeing in earth and sea and airA lover’s smiles, hearing a lover’s laughter,Feeling love everywhere?The night drags on. Darkness and silence grow,And with them my desire has grown,My bitter need. Alas, I know,I know that here I lie alone.

NIGHT is a void about me; I lie alone;

And water drips, like an idiot clicking his tongue,

Senselessly, ceaselessly, endlessly drips

Into the waiting silence, grown

Emptier for this small inhuman sound.

My love is gone, my love who is tender and young.

O smooth warm body! O passionate lips!

I have stretched forth hands in the dark and nothing found:

The silence is huge as the sky—I lie alone—

My narrow room, a darkness that knows no bound.

How shall I fill this measureless

Deep void that the taking away

Of a child’s slim beauty has made?

Slender she is and small, but the loneliness

She has left is a night no stars allay,

And I am cold and afraid.

Long, long ago, cut off from the wolfish pack,

From the warm, immediate touch of friends and mate,

Lost and alone, alone in the utter black

Of a forest night, some far-off, beast-like man,

Cowed by the cold indifferent hate

Of the northern silence, crouched in fear,

When through his bleared and suffering mind

A sudden tremor of comfort ran,

And the void was filled by a rushing wind,

And he breathed a sense of something friendly and near,

And in privation the life of God began.

Love, from your loss shall a god be born to fill

The emptiness, where once you were,

With friendly knowledge and more than a lover’s will

To ease despair?

Shall I feed longing with what it hungers after,

Seeing in earth and sea and air

A lover’s smiles, hearing a lover’s laughter,

Feeling love everywhere?

The night drags on. Darkness and silence grow,

And with them my desire has grown,

My bitter need. Alas, I know,

I know that here I lie alone.

ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

BENEATH the sunlight and blue of all-but AutumnThe grass sleeps goldenly; woodland and distant hillShine through the gauzy air in a dust of golden pollen,And even the glittering leaves are almost still.Scattered on the grass, like a ragman’s bundles carelessly dropped,Men sleep outstretched or, sprawling, bask in the sun;Here glows a woman’s bright dress and here a child is sitting,And I lie down and am one of the sleepers, oneLike the rest of this tumbled crowd. Do they all, I wonder,Feel anguish grow with the calm day’s slow decline,Longing, as I, for a shattering wind, a passionOf bodily pain to be the soul’s anodyne?

BENEATH the sunlight and blue of all-but AutumnThe grass sleeps goldenly; woodland and distant hillShine through the gauzy air in a dust of golden pollen,And even the glittering leaves are almost still.Scattered on the grass, like a ragman’s bundles carelessly dropped,Men sleep outstretched or, sprawling, bask in the sun;Here glows a woman’s bright dress and here a child is sitting,And I lie down and am one of the sleepers, oneLike the rest of this tumbled crowd. Do they all, I wonder,Feel anguish grow with the calm day’s slow decline,Longing, as I, for a shattering wind, a passionOf bodily pain to be the soul’s anodyne?

BENEATH the sunlight and blue of all-but AutumnThe grass sleeps goldenly; woodland and distant hillShine through the gauzy air in a dust of golden pollen,And even the glittering leaves are almost still.Scattered on the grass, like a ragman’s bundles carelessly dropped,Men sleep outstretched or, sprawling, bask in the sun;Here glows a woman’s bright dress and here a child is sitting,And I lie down and am one of the sleepers, oneLike the rest of this tumbled crowd. Do they all, I wonder,Feel anguish grow with the calm day’s slow decline,Longing, as I, for a shattering wind, a passionOf bodily pain to be the soul’s anodyne?

BENEATH the sunlight and blue of all-but Autumn

The grass sleeps goldenly; woodland and distant hill

Shine through the gauzy air in a dust of golden pollen,

And even the glittering leaves are almost still.

Scattered on the grass, like a ragman’s bundles carelessly dropped,

Men sleep outstretched or, sprawling, bask in the sun;

Here glows a woman’s bright dress and here a child is sitting,

And I lie down and am one of the sleepers, one

Like the rest of this tumbled crowd. Do they all, I wonder,

Feel anguish grow with the calm day’s slow decline,

Longing, as I, for a shattering wind, a passion

Of bodily pain to be the soul’s anodyne?

SYMPATHY

THE irony of being two . . . !Grey eyes, wide open suddenly,Regard me and enquire; I see a faceGrave and unquiet in tenderness.Heart-rending question of women—never answered:“Tell me, tell me, what are you thinking of?”Oh, the pain and foolishness of love!What can I do but make my old grimace,Ending it with a kiss, as I always do?

THE irony of being two . . . !Grey eyes, wide open suddenly,Regard me and enquire; I see a faceGrave and unquiet in tenderness.Heart-rending question of women—never answered:“Tell me, tell me, what are you thinking of?”Oh, the pain and foolishness of love!What can I do but make my old grimace,Ending it with a kiss, as I always do?

THE irony of being two . . . !Grey eyes, wide open suddenly,Regard me and enquire; I see a faceGrave and unquiet in tenderness.Heart-rending question of women—never answered:“Tell me, tell me, what are you thinking of?”Oh, the pain and foolishness of love!What can I do but make my old grimace,Ending it with a kiss, as I always do?

THE irony of being two . . . !

Grey eyes, wide open suddenly,

Regard me and enquire; I see a face

Grave and unquiet in tenderness.

Heart-rending question of women—never answered:

“Tell me, tell me, what are you thinking of?”

Oh, the pain and foolishness of love!

What can I do but make my old grimace,

Ending it with a kiss, as I always do?

MALE AND FEMALE CREATED HE THEM

DIAPHENIA, drunk with sleep,Drunk with pleasure, drunk with fatigue,Feels her Corydon’s fingers creep—Ring-finger, middle finger, index, thumb—Strummingly over the smooth sleek drumOf her thorax.Meanwhile Händel’s GigueTurns in Corydon’s absent mindTo Yakka-Hoola.She can findNo difference in the thrilling touchOf one who, now, in everythingIs God-like. “Was there ever suchPassion as ours?”His pianoingGives place to simple arithmetic’sSimplest constatations:—sixLetters in Gneiss and three in Gnu:Luncheon to-day cost three and two;In a year—he couldn’t calculateThree-sixty-five times thirty-eight,Figuring with printless fingers onHer living parchment.“Corydon!I faint, faint, faint at your dear touch.Say, is it possible . . . to love too much?”

DIAPHENIA, drunk with sleep,Drunk with pleasure, drunk with fatigue,Feels her Corydon’s fingers creep—Ring-finger, middle finger, index, thumb—Strummingly over the smooth sleek drumOf her thorax.Meanwhile Händel’s GigueTurns in Corydon’s absent mindTo Yakka-Hoola.She can findNo difference in the thrilling touchOf one who, now, in everythingIs God-like. “Was there ever suchPassion as ours?”His pianoingGives place to simple arithmetic’sSimplest constatations:—sixLetters in Gneiss and three in Gnu:Luncheon to-day cost three and two;In a year—he couldn’t calculateThree-sixty-five times thirty-eight,Figuring with printless fingers onHer living parchment.“Corydon!I faint, faint, faint at your dear touch.Say, is it possible . . . to love too much?”

DIAPHENIA, drunk with sleep,Drunk with pleasure, drunk with fatigue,Feels her Corydon’s fingers creep—Ring-finger, middle finger, index, thumb—Strummingly over the smooth sleek drumOf her thorax.Meanwhile Händel’s GigueTurns in Corydon’s absent mindTo Yakka-Hoola.She can findNo difference in the thrilling touchOf one who, now, in everythingIs God-like. “Was there ever suchPassion as ours?”His pianoingGives place to simple arithmetic’sSimplest constatations:—sixLetters in Gneiss and three in Gnu:Luncheon to-day cost three and two;In a year—he couldn’t calculateThree-sixty-five times thirty-eight,Figuring with printless fingers onHer living parchment.“Corydon!I faint, faint, faint at your dear touch.Say, is it possible . . . to love too much?”

DIAPHENIA, drunk with sleep,

Drunk with pleasure, drunk with fatigue,

Feels her Corydon’s fingers creep—

Ring-finger, middle finger, index, thumb—

Strummingly over the smooth sleek drum

Of her thorax.

Meanwhile Händel’s Gigue

Turns in Corydon’s absent mind

To Yakka-Hoola.

She can find

No difference in the thrilling touch

Of one who, now, in everything

Is God-like. “Was there ever such

Passion as ours?”

His pianoing

Gives place to simple arithmetic’s

Simplest constatations:—six

Letters in Gneiss and three in Gnu:

Luncheon to-day cost three and two;

In a year—he couldn’t calculate

Three-sixty-five times thirty-eight,

Figuring with printless fingers on

Her living parchment.

“Corydon!

I faint, faint, faint at your dear touch.

Say, is it possible . . . to love too much?”

FROM THE PILLAR

SIMEON, the withered stylite,Sat gloomily looking downUpon each roof and skylightIn all the seething town.And in every upper chamber,On roofs, where the orange flowersMake weary men rememberThe perfume of long-dead hours,He saw the wine-drenched riotOf harlots and human beasts,And how celestial quietWas shattered by their feasts.The steam of fetid vicesFrom a thousand lupanars,Like smoke of sacrifices,Reeked up to the heedless stars.And the saint from his high fastnessOf purity apartCursed them and their unchasteness,And envied them in his heart.

SIMEON, the withered stylite,Sat gloomily looking downUpon each roof and skylightIn all the seething town.And in every upper chamber,On roofs, where the orange flowersMake weary men rememberThe perfume of long-dead hours,He saw the wine-drenched riotOf harlots and human beasts,And how celestial quietWas shattered by their feasts.The steam of fetid vicesFrom a thousand lupanars,Like smoke of sacrifices,Reeked up to the heedless stars.And the saint from his high fastnessOf purity apartCursed them and their unchasteness,And envied them in his heart.

SIMEON, the withered stylite,Sat gloomily looking downUpon each roof and skylightIn all the seething town.And in every upper chamber,On roofs, where the orange flowersMake weary men rememberThe perfume of long-dead hours,He saw the wine-drenched riotOf harlots and human beasts,And how celestial quietWas shattered by their feasts.The steam of fetid vicesFrom a thousand lupanars,Like smoke of sacrifices,Reeked up to the heedless stars.And the saint from his high fastnessOf purity apartCursed them and their unchasteness,And envied them in his heart.

SIMEON, the withered stylite,

Sat gloomily looking down

Upon each roof and skylight

In all the seething town.

And in every upper chamber,

On roofs, where the orange flowers

Make weary men remember

The perfume of long-dead hours,

He saw the wine-drenched riot

Of harlots and human beasts,

And how celestial quiet

Was shattered by their feasts.

The steam of fetid vices

From a thousand lupanars,

Like smoke of sacrifices,

Reeked up to the heedless stars.

And the saint from his high fastness

Of purity apart

Cursed them and their unchasteness,

And envied them in his heart.

JONAH

ACREAM of phosphorescent lightFloats on the wash that to and froSlides round his feet—enough to showMany a pendulous stalactiteOf naked mucus, whorls and wreathsAnd huge festoons of mottled tripesAnd smaller palpitating pipesThrough which a yeasty liquor seethes.Seated upon the convex moundOf one vast kidney, Jonah praysAnd sings his canticles and hymns,Making the hollow vault resoundGod’s goodness and mysterious ways,Till the great fish spouts music as he swims.

ACREAM of phosphorescent lightFloats on the wash that to and froSlides round his feet—enough to showMany a pendulous stalactiteOf naked mucus, whorls and wreathsAnd huge festoons of mottled tripesAnd smaller palpitating pipesThrough which a yeasty liquor seethes.Seated upon the convex moundOf one vast kidney, Jonah praysAnd sings his canticles and hymns,Making the hollow vault resoundGod’s goodness and mysterious ways,Till the great fish spouts music as he swims.

ACREAM of phosphorescent lightFloats on the wash that to and froSlides round his feet—enough to showMany a pendulous stalactiteOf naked mucus, whorls and wreathsAnd huge festoons of mottled tripesAnd smaller palpitating pipesThrough which a yeasty liquor seethes.Seated upon the convex moundOf one vast kidney, Jonah praysAnd sings his canticles and hymns,Making the hollow vault resoundGod’s goodness and mysterious ways,Till the great fish spouts music as he swims.

ACREAM of phosphorescent light

Floats on the wash that to and fro

Slides round his feet—enough to show

Many a pendulous stalactite

Of naked mucus, whorls and wreaths

And huge festoons of mottled tripes

And smaller palpitating pipes

Through which a yeasty liquor seethes.

Seated upon the convex mound

Of one vast kidney, Jonah prays

And sings his canticles and hymns,

Making the hollow vault resound

God’s goodness and mysterious ways,

Till the great fish spouts music as he swims.

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

SWAN, Swan,Yesterday you wereThe whitest of things in this dark winter.To-day the snow has made of your plumesAn unwashed pocket handkercher,An unwashed pocket handkercher . . .“Lancashire, to Lancashire!”—Tune of the antique trains long ago:Each summer holiday a milestoneBackwards, backwards:—Tenby, Barmouth, and year by yearAll the different hues of the sea,Blue, green and blue.But on this river of muddy jadeThere swims a yellow swan,And along the bank the snow lies dazzlingly white.

SWAN, Swan,Yesterday you wereThe whitest of things in this dark winter.To-day the snow has made of your plumesAn unwashed pocket handkercher,An unwashed pocket handkercher . . .“Lancashire, to Lancashire!”—Tune of the antique trains long ago:Each summer holiday a milestoneBackwards, backwards:—Tenby, Barmouth, and year by yearAll the different hues of the sea,Blue, green and blue.But on this river of muddy jadeThere swims a yellow swan,And along the bank the snow lies dazzlingly white.

SWAN, Swan,Yesterday you wereThe whitest of things in this dark winter.To-day the snow has made of your plumesAn unwashed pocket handkercher,An unwashed pocket handkercher . . .“Lancashire, to Lancashire!”—Tune of the antique trains long ago:Each summer holiday a milestoneBackwards, backwards:—Tenby, Barmouth, and year by yearAll the different hues of the sea,Blue, green and blue.But on this river of muddy jadeThere swims a yellow swan,And along the bank the snow lies dazzlingly white.

SWAN, Swan,

Yesterday you were

The whitest of things in this dark winter.

To-day the snow has made of your plumes

An unwashed pocket handkercher,

An unwashed pocket handkercher . . .

“Lancashire, to Lancashire!”—

Tune of the antique trains long ago:

Each summer holiday a milestone

Backwards, backwards:—

Tenby, Barmouth, and year by year

All the different hues of the sea,

Blue, green and blue.

But on this river of muddy jade

There swims a yellow swan,

And along the bank the snow lies dazzlingly white.

A MELODY BY SCARLATTI

HOW clear under the trees,How softly the music flows,Rippling from one still pool to anotherInto the lake of silence.

HOW clear under the trees,How softly the music flows,Rippling from one still pool to anotherInto the lake of silence.

HOW clear under the trees,How softly the music flows,Rippling from one still pool to anotherInto the lake of silence.

HOW clear under the trees,

How softly the music flows,

Rippling from one still pool to another

Into the lake of silence.

A SUNSET

OVER against the triumph and the close—Amber and green and rose—Of this short day,The pale ghost of the moon grows living-brightOnce more, as the last lightEbbs slowly away.Darkening the fringes of these western gloriesThe black phantasmagoriesOf cloud advanceWith noiseless footing—vague and villainous shapes,Wrapped in their ragged fustian capes,Of some grotesque romance.But overhead where, like a pool betweenDark rocks, the sky is greenAnd clear and deep,Floats windlessly a cloud, with curving breastFlushed by the fiery west,In god-like sleep . . .And in my mind opens a sudden doorThat lets me see once moreA little roomWith night beyond the window, chill and damp,And one green-lighted lampTempering the gloom,While here within, close to me, touching me(Even the memoryOf my desireShakes me like fear), you sit with scattered hair;And all your body bareBefore the fireIs lapped about with rosy flame. . . . But still,Here on the lonely hill,I walk alone;Silvery green is the moon’s lamp overhead,The cloud sleeps warm and red,And you are gone.

OVER against the triumph and the close—Amber and green and rose—Of this short day,The pale ghost of the moon grows living-brightOnce more, as the last lightEbbs slowly away.Darkening the fringes of these western gloriesThe black phantasmagoriesOf cloud advanceWith noiseless footing—vague and villainous shapes,Wrapped in their ragged fustian capes,Of some grotesque romance.But overhead where, like a pool betweenDark rocks, the sky is greenAnd clear and deep,Floats windlessly a cloud, with curving breastFlushed by the fiery west,In god-like sleep . . .And in my mind opens a sudden doorThat lets me see once moreA little roomWith night beyond the window, chill and damp,And one green-lighted lampTempering the gloom,While here within, close to me, touching me(Even the memoryOf my desireShakes me like fear), you sit with scattered hair;And all your body bareBefore the fireIs lapped about with rosy flame. . . . But still,Here on the lonely hill,I walk alone;Silvery green is the moon’s lamp overhead,The cloud sleeps warm and red,And you are gone.

OVER against the triumph and the close—Amber and green and rose—Of this short day,The pale ghost of the moon grows living-brightOnce more, as the last lightEbbs slowly away.Darkening the fringes of these western gloriesThe black phantasmagoriesOf cloud advanceWith noiseless footing—vague and villainous shapes,Wrapped in their ragged fustian capes,Of some grotesque romance.But overhead where, like a pool betweenDark rocks, the sky is greenAnd clear and deep,Floats windlessly a cloud, with curving breastFlushed by the fiery west,In god-like sleep . . .And in my mind opens a sudden doorThat lets me see once moreA little roomWith night beyond the window, chill and damp,And one green-lighted lampTempering the gloom,While here within, close to me, touching me(Even the memoryOf my desireShakes me like fear), you sit with scattered hair;And all your body bareBefore the fireIs lapped about with rosy flame. . . . But still,Here on the lonely hill,I walk alone;Silvery green is the moon’s lamp overhead,The cloud sleeps warm and red,And you are gone.

OVER against the triumph and the close—

Amber and green and rose—

Of this short day,

The pale ghost of the moon grows living-bright

Once more, as the last light

Ebbs slowly away.

Darkening the fringes of these western glories

The black phantasmagories

Of cloud advance

With noiseless footing—vague and villainous shapes,

Wrapped in their ragged fustian capes,

Of some grotesque romance.

But overhead where, like a pool between

Dark rocks, the sky is green

And clear and deep,

Floats windlessly a cloud, with curving breast

Flushed by the fiery west,

In god-like sleep . . .

And in my mind opens a sudden door

That lets me see once more

A little room

With night beyond the window, chill and damp,

And one green-lighted lamp

Tempering the gloom,

While here within, close to me, touching me

(Even the memory

Of my desire

Shakes me like fear), you sit with scattered hair;

And all your body bare

Before the fire

Is lapped about with rosy flame. . . . But still,

Here on the lonely hill,

I walk alone;

Silvery green is the moon’s lamp overhead,

The cloud sleeps warm and red,

And you are gone.

LIFE AND ART

YOU have sweet flowers for your pleasure;You laugh with the bountiful earthIn its richness of summer treasure:Where now are your flowers and your mirth?Petals and cadenced laughter,Each in a dying fall,Droop out of life; and afterIs nothing; they were all.But we from the death of rosesThat three suns perfume and gildWith a kiss, till the fourth disclosesA withered wreath, have distilledThe fulness of one rare phial,Whose nimble life shall outrunThe circling shadow on the dial,Outlast the tyrannous sun.

YOU have sweet flowers for your pleasure;You laugh with the bountiful earthIn its richness of summer treasure:Where now are your flowers and your mirth?Petals and cadenced laughter,Each in a dying fall,Droop out of life; and afterIs nothing; they were all.But we from the death of rosesThat three suns perfume and gildWith a kiss, till the fourth disclosesA withered wreath, have distilledThe fulness of one rare phial,Whose nimble life shall outrunThe circling shadow on the dial,Outlast the tyrannous sun.

YOU have sweet flowers for your pleasure;You laugh with the bountiful earthIn its richness of summer treasure:Where now are your flowers and your mirth?Petals and cadenced laughter,Each in a dying fall,Droop out of life; and afterIs nothing; they were all.But we from the death of rosesThat three suns perfume and gildWith a kiss, till the fourth disclosesA withered wreath, have distilledThe fulness of one rare phial,Whose nimble life shall outrunThe circling shadow on the dial,Outlast the tyrannous sun.

YOU have sweet flowers for your pleasure;

You laugh with the bountiful earth

In its richness of summer treasure:

Where now are your flowers and your mirth?

Petals and cadenced laughter,

Each in a dying fall,

Droop out of life; and after

Is nothing; they were all.

But we from the death of roses

That three suns perfume and gild

With a kiss, till the fourth discloses

A withered wreath, have distilled

The fulness of one rare phial,

Whose nimble life shall outrun

The circling shadow on the dial,

Outlast the tyrannous sun.

FIRST PHILOSOPHER’S SONG

APOOR degenerate from the ape,Whose hands are four, whose tail’s a limb,I contemplate my flaccid shapeAnd know I may not rival him,Save with my mind—a nimbler beastPossessing a thousand sinewy tails,A thousand hands, with which it scales,Greedy of luscious truth, the greasedPoles and the coco palms of thought,Thrids easily through the mangrove mazeOf metaphysics, walks the tautFrail dangerous liana waysThat link across wide gulfs remoteAnalogies between tree and tree;Outruns the hare, outhops the goat;Mind fabulous, mind sublime and free!But oh, the sound of simian mirth!Mind, issued from the monkey’s womb,Is still umbilical to earth,Earth its home and earth its tomb.

APOOR degenerate from the ape,Whose hands are four, whose tail’s a limb,I contemplate my flaccid shapeAnd know I may not rival him,Save with my mind—a nimbler beastPossessing a thousand sinewy tails,A thousand hands, with which it scales,Greedy of luscious truth, the greasedPoles and the coco palms of thought,Thrids easily through the mangrove mazeOf metaphysics, walks the tautFrail dangerous liana waysThat link across wide gulfs remoteAnalogies between tree and tree;Outruns the hare, outhops the goat;Mind fabulous, mind sublime and free!But oh, the sound of simian mirth!Mind, issued from the monkey’s womb,Is still umbilical to earth,Earth its home and earth its tomb.

APOOR degenerate from the ape,Whose hands are four, whose tail’s a limb,I contemplate my flaccid shapeAnd know I may not rival him,Save with my mind—a nimbler beastPossessing a thousand sinewy tails,A thousand hands, with which it scales,Greedy of luscious truth, the greasedPoles and the coco palms of thought,Thrids easily through the mangrove mazeOf metaphysics, walks the tautFrail dangerous liana waysThat link across wide gulfs remoteAnalogies between tree and tree;Outruns the hare, outhops the goat;Mind fabulous, mind sublime and free!But oh, the sound of simian mirth!Mind, issued from the monkey’s womb,Is still umbilical to earth,Earth its home and earth its tomb.

APOOR degenerate from the ape,

Whose hands are four, whose tail’s a limb,

I contemplate my flaccid shape

And know I may not rival him,

Save with my mind—a nimbler beast

Possessing a thousand sinewy tails,

A thousand hands, with which it scales,

Greedy of luscious truth, the greased

Poles and the coco palms of thought,

Thrids easily through the mangrove maze

Of metaphysics, walks the taut

Frail dangerous liana ways

That link across wide gulfs remote

Analogies between tree and tree;

Outruns the hare, outhops the goat;

Mind fabulous, mind sublime and free!

But oh, the sound of simian mirth!

Mind, issued from the monkey’s womb,

Is still umbilical to earth,

Earth its home and earth its tomb.

SECOND PHILOSOPHER’S SONG

IF, O my Lesbia, I should commit,Not fornication, dear, but suicide,My Thames-blown body (Pliny vouches it)Would drift face upwards on the oily tideWith the other garbage, till it putrefied.But you, if all your lovers’ frozen heartsConspired to send you, desperate, to drown—Your maiden modesty would float face down,And men would weep upon your hinder parts.’Tis the Lord’s doing. Marvellous is the planBy which this best of worlds is wisely planned.One law He made for woman, one for man:We bow the head and do not understand.

IF, O my Lesbia, I should commit,Not fornication, dear, but suicide,My Thames-blown body (Pliny vouches it)Would drift face upwards on the oily tideWith the other garbage, till it putrefied.But you, if all your lovers’ frozen heartsConspired to send you, desperate, to drown—Your maiden modesty would float face down,And men would weep upon your hinder parts.’Tis the Lord’s doing. Marvellous is the planBy which this best of worlds is wisely planned.One law He made for woman, one for man:We bow the head and do not understand.

IF, O my Lesbia, I should commit,Not fornication, dear, but suicide,My Thames-blown body (Pliny vouches it)Would drift face upwards on the oily tideWith the other garbage, till it putrefied.But you, if all your lovers’ frozen heartsConspired to send you, desperate, to drown—Your maiden modesty would float face down,And men would weep upon your hinder parts.’Tis the Lord’s doing. Marvellous is the planBy which this best of worlds is wisely planned.One law He made for woman, one for man:We bow the head and do not understand.

IF, O my Lesbia, I should commit,

Not fornication, dear, but suicide,

My Thames-blown body (Pliny vouches it)

Would drift face upwards on the oily tide

With the other garbage, till it putrefied.

But you, if all your lovers’ frozen hearts

Conspired to send you, desperate, to drown—

Your maiden modesty would float face down,

And men would weep upon your hinder parts.

’Tis the Lord’s doing. Marvellous is the plan

By which this best of worlds is wisely planned.

One law He made for woman, one for man:

We bow the head and do not understand.

FIFTH PHILOSOPHER’S SONG

AMILLION million spermatozoa,All of them alive:Out of their cataclysm but one poor NoahDare hope to survive.And among that billion minus oneMight have chanced to beShakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne—But the One was Me.Shame to have ousted your betters thus,Taking ark while the others remained outside!Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,If you’d quietly died!

AMILLION million spermatozoa,All of them alive:Out of their cataclysm but one poor NoahDare hope to survive.And among that billion minus oneMight have chanced to beShakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne—But the One was Me.Shame to have ousted your betters thus,Taking ark while the others remained outside!Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,If you’d quietly died!

AMILLION million spermatozoa,All of them alive:Out of their cataclysm but one poor NoahDare hope to survive.And among that billion minus oneMight have chanced to beShakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne—But the One was Me.Shame to have ousted your betters thus,Taking ark while the others remained outside!Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,If you’d quietly died!

AMILLION million spermatozoa,

All of them alive:

Out of their cataclysm but one poor Noah

Dare hope to survive.

And among that billion minus one

Might have chanced to be

Shakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne—

But the One was Me.

Shame to have ousted your betters thus,

Taking ark while the others remained outside!

Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,

If you’d quietly died!

NINTH PHILOSOPHER’S SONG

GOD’S in His Heaven: He never issues(Wise Man!) to visit this world of ours.Unchecked the cancer gnaws our tissues,Stops to lick chops and then again devours.Those find, who most delight to roam’Mid castles of remotest Spain,That there’s, thank Heaven, no place like home;So they set out upon their travels again.Beauty for some provides escape,Who gain a happiness in eyeingThe gorgeous buttocks of the apeOr Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.And some to better worlds than thisMount up on wings as frail and mistyAs passion’s all-too-transient kiss(Though afterwards—oh,omne animal triste!)But I, too rational by halfTo live but where I bodily am.Can only do my best to laugh.Can only sip my misery dram by dram.While happier mortals take to drink,A dolorous dipsomaniac,Fuddled with grief I sit and think,Looking upon the bile when it is black.Then brim the bowl with atrabilious liquor!We’ll pledge our Empire vast across the flood:For Blood, as all men know, than Water’s thicker,But water’s wider, thank the Lord, than Blood.

GOD’S in His Heaven: He never issues(Wise Man!) to visit this world of ours.Unchecked the cancer gnaws our tissues,Stops to lick chops and then again devours.Those find, who most delight to roam’Mid castles of remotest Spain,That there’s, thank Heaven, no place like home;So they set out upon their travels again.Beauty for some provides escape,Who gain a happiness in eyeingThe gorgeous buttocks of the apeOr Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.And some to better worlds than thisMount up on wings as frail and mistyAs passion’s all-too-transient kiss(Though afterwards—oh,omne animal triste!)But I, too rational by halfTo live but where I bodily am.Can only do my best to laugh.Can only sip my misery dram by dram.While happier mortals take to drink,A dolorous dipsomaniac,Fuddled with grief I sit and think,Looking upon the bile when it is black.Then brim the bowl with atrabilious liquor!We’ll pledge our Empire vast across the flood:For Blood, as all men know, than Water’s thicker,But water’s wider, thank the Lord, than Blood.

GOD’S in His Heaven: He never issues(Wise Man!) to visit this world of ours.Unchecked the cancer gnaws our tissues,Stops to lick chops and then again devours.Those find, who most delight to roam’Mid castles of remotest Spain,That there’s, thank Heaven, no place like home;So they set out upon their travels again.Beauty for some provides escape,Who gain a happiness in eyeingThe gorgeous buttocks of the apeOr Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.And some to better worlds than thisMount up on wings as frail and mistyAs passion’s all-too-transient kiss(Though afterwards—oh,omne animal triste!)But I, too rational by halfTo live but where I bodily am.Can only do my best to laugh.Can only sip my misery dram by dram.While happier mortals take to drink,A dolorous dipsomaniac,Fuddled with grief I sit and think,Looking upon the bile when it is black.Then brim the bowl with atrabilious liquor!We’ll pledge our Empire vast across the flood:For Blood, as all men know, than Water’s thicker,But water’s wider, thank the Lord, than Blood.

GOD’S in His Heaven: He never issues

(Wise Man!) to visit this world of ours.

Unchecked the cancer gnaws our tissues,

Stops to lick chops and then again devours.

Those find, who most delight to roam

’Mid castles of remotest Spain,

That there’s, thank Heaven, no place like home;

So they set out upon their travels again.

Beauty for some provides escape,

Who gain a happiness in eyeing

The gorgeous buttocks of the ape

Or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.

And some to better worlds than this

Mount up on wings as frail and misty

As passion’s all-too-transient kiss

(Though afterwards—oh,omne animal triste!)

But I, too rational by half

To live but where I bodily am.

Can only do my best to laugh.

Can only sip my misery dram by dram.

While happier mortals take to drink,

A dolorous dipsomaniac,

Fuddled with grief I sit and think,

Looking upon the bile when it is black.

Then brim the bowl with atrabilious liquor!

We’ll pledge our Empire vast across the flood:

For Blood, as all men know, than Water’s thicker,

But water’s wider, thank the Lord, than Blood.

MORNING SCENE

LIGHT through the latticed blindSpans the dim intermediate spaceWith parallels of luminous dustTo gild a nuptial couch, where Goya’s mindConceived those agonising hands, that hairScattered, and half a sunlit bosom bare,And, imminently above them, a red faceFixed in the imbecile earnestness of lust.

LIGHT through the latticed blindSpans the dim intermediate spaceWith parallels of luminous dustTo gild a nuptial couch, where Goya’s mindConceived those agonising hands, that hairScattered, and half a sunlit bosom bare,And, imminently above them, a red faceFixed in the imbecile earnestness of lust.

LIGHT through the latticed blindSpans the dim intermediate spaceWith parallels of luminous dustTo gild a nuptial couch, where Goya’s mindConceived those agonising hands, that hairScattered, and half a sunlit bosom bare,And, imminently above them, a red faceFixed in the imbecile earnestness of lust.

LIGHT through the latticed blind

Spans the dim intermediate space

With parallels of luminous dust

To gild a nuptial couch, where Goya’s mind

Conceived those agonising hands, that hair

Scattered, and half a sunlit bosom bare,

And, imminently above them, a red face

Fixed in the imbecile earnestness of lust.

VERREY’S

HERE, every winter’s night at eight,Epicurus lies in state,Two candles at his head and twoCandles at his feet. A fewChoice spirits watch beneath the vaultOf his dim chapel, where defaultOf music fills the pregnant airWith subtler requiem and prayerThan ever an organ wrought with notesSpouted from its tubal throats.Black Ethiopia’s Holy Child,The Cradled Bottle, breathes its mildMeek spirit on the ravished nose,The palate and the tongue of thoseWho piously partake with meOf this funereal agape.

HERE, every winter’s night at eight,Epicurus lies in state,Two candles at his head and twoCandles at his feet. A fewChoice spirits watch beneath the vaultOf his dim chapel, where defaultOf music fills the pregnant airWith subtler requiem and prayerThan ever an organ wrought with notesSpouted from its tubal throats.Black Ethiopia’s Holy Child,The Cradled Bottle, breathes its mildMeek spirit on the ravished nose,The palate and the tongue of thoseWho piously partake with meOf this funereal agape.

HERE, every winter’s night at eight,Epicurus lies in state,Two candles at his head and twoCandles at his feet. A fewChoice spirits watch beneath the vaultOf his dim chapel, where defaultOf music fills the pregnant airWith subtler requiem and prayerThan ever an organ wrought with notesSpouted from its tubal throats.Black Ethiopia’s Holy Child,The Cradled Bottle, breathes its mildMeek spirit on the ravished nose,The palate and the tongue of thoseWho piously partake with meOf this funereal agape.

HERE, every winter’s night at eight,

Epicurus lies in state,

Two candles at his head and two

Candles at his feet. A few

Choice spirits watch beneath the vault

Of his dim chapel, where default

Of music fills the pregnant air

With subtler requiem and prayer

Than ever an organ wrought with notes

Spouted from its tubal throats.

Black Ethiopia’s Holy Child,

The Cradled Bottle, breathes its mild

Meek spirit on the ravished nose,

The palate and the tongue of those

Who piously partake with me

Of this funereal agape.

FRASCATI’S

BUBBLE-BREASTED swells the domeOf this my spiritual home,From whose nave the chandelier,Schaffhausen frozen, tumbles sheer.We in the round balcony sit,Lean o’er and look into the pitWhere feed the human bears beneath,Champing with their gilded teeth.What negroid holiday makes freeWith such priapic revelry?What songs? What gongs? What nameless rites?What gods like wooden stalagmites?What steam of blood or kidney pie?What blasts of Bantu melody?Ragtime. . . . But when the wearied BandSwoons to a waltz, I take her hand.And there we sit in blissful calm,Quietly sweating palm to palm.

BUBBLE-BREASTED swells the domeOf this my spiritual home,From whose nave the chandelier,Schaffhausen frozen, tumbles sheer.We in the round balcony sit,Lean o’er and look into the pitWhere feed the human bears beneath,Champing with their gilded teeth.What negroid holiday makes freeWith such priapic revelry?What songs? What gongs? What nameless rites?What gods like wooden stalagmites?What steam of blood or kidney pie?What blasts of Bantu melody?Ragtime. . . . But when the wearied BandSwoons to a waltz, I take her hand.And there we sit in blissful calm,Quietly sweating palm to palm.

BUBBLE-BREASTED swells the domeOf this my spiritual home,From whose nave the chandelier,Schaffhausen frozen, tumbles sheer.We in the round balcony sit,Lean o’er and look into the pitWhere feed the human bears beneath,Champing with their gilded teeth.What negroid holiday makes freeWith such priapic revelry?What songs? What gongs? What nameless rites?What gods like wooden stalagmites?What steam of blood or kidney pie?What blasts of Bantu melody?Ragtime. . . . But when the wearied BandSwoons to a waltz, I take her hand.And there we sit in blissful calm,Quietly sweating palm to palm.

BUBBLE-BREASTED swells the dome

Of this my spiritual home,

From whose nave the chandelier,

Schaffhausen frozen, tumbles sheer.

We in the round balcony sit,

Lean o’er and look into the pit

Where feed the human bears beneath,

Champing with their gilded teeth.

What negroid holiday makes free

With such priapic revelry?

What songs? What gongs? What nameless rites?

What gods like wooden stalagmites?

What steam of blood or kidney pie?

What blasts of Bantu melody?

Ragtime. . . . But when the wearied Band

Swoons to a waltz, I take her hand.

And there we sit in blissful calm,

Quietly sweating palm to palm.

FATIGUE

THE mind has lost its Aristotelian elegance of shape: there is only a darkness where bubbles and inconsequent balloons float up to burst their luminous cheeks and vanish.

A woman with a basket on her head: a Chinese lantern quite askew: the vague bright bulging of chemists’ window bottles; and then in my ears the distant noise of a great river of people. And phrases, phrases—

It is only a question of saddle-bags,

Stane Street and Gondibert,

Foals in Iceland (or was it Foals in aspic?).

As that small reddish devil turns away with an insolent jut of his hindquarters, I become aware that his curling pug’s tail is an electric bell-push. But that does not disquiet me so much as the sight of all these polished statues twinkling with high lights and all of them grotesque and all of them colossal.

THE MERRY-GO-ROUND

THE machine is ready to start. The symbolic beasts grow resty, curveting where they stand at their places in the great blue circle of the year. The Showman’s voice rings out. “Montez, mesdames et messieurs, montez. You, sir, must bestride the Ram. You will take the Scorpion. Yours, madame, is the Goat. As for you there, blackguard boy, you must be content with the Fishes. I have allotted you the Virgin, mademoiselle.” . . . “Polisson!” “Pardon, pardon. Evidemment, c’est le Sagittaire qu’on demande. Ohé, les dards! The rest must take what comes. The Twins shall counterpoise one another in the Scales. So, so. Now away we go, away.”

Ha, what keen air. Wind of the upper spaces. Snuff it deep, drink in the intoxication of our speed. Hark how the music swells and rings. . . . sphery music, music of every vagabond planet, every rooted star; sound of winds and seas and all the simmering millions of life. Moving, singing . . . so with a roar and a rush round we go and round, for ever whirling on a ceaseless Bank Holiday of drunken life and speed.

But I happened to look inwards among the machinery of our roundabout, and there I saw a slobbering cretin grinding at a wheel and sweating as he ground, and grinding eternally. And when I perceived that he was the author of all our speed and that the music was of his making, that everything depended on his grinding wheel, I thought I would like to get off. But we were going too fast.

BACK STREETS

BACK streets, gutters of stagnating darkness where men breathe something that is not so much air as a kind of rarefied slime. . . . I look back down the tunnelled darkness of a drain to where, at the mouth, a broader, windier water-way glitters with the gay speed and motion of sunlit life. But around all is dimly rotting; and the inhabitants are those squamous, phosphorescent creatures that darkness and decay beget. Little men, sheathed tightly in clothes of an exaggeratedly fashionable cheapness, hurry along the pavements, jaunty and at the same time furtive. There is a thin layer of slime over all of them. And then there are the eyes of the women, with their hard glitter that is only of the surface. They see acutely, but in a glassy, superficial way, taking in the objects round them no more than my western windows retain the imprint of the sunset that enriches them.

Back streets, exhalations of a difficulty puberty, I once lived on the fringes of them.

LAST THINGS

THERE have been visions, dark in the minds of men, death and corruption dancing across the secular abyss that separates eternity from time to where sits the ineluctable judge, waiting, waiting through the ages, and ponders all his predestinated decrees. There will be judgment, and each, in an agony of shame, reluctant yet compelled, will turn his own accuser. For

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