Balkis was in her marble town,And shadow over the world came down.Whiteness of walls, towers and piers,That all day dazzled eyes to tears,Turned from being white-golden flame,And like the deep-sea blue became.Balkis into her garden went;Her spirit was in discontentLike a torch in restless air.Joylessly she wandered there,And saw her city's azure whiteLying under the great night,Beautiful as the memoryOf a worshipping world would beIn the mind of a god, in the hourWhen he must kill his outward power;And, coming to a pool where treesGrew in double greeneries,Saw herself, as she went byThe water, walking beautifully,And saw the stars shine in the glanceOf her eyes, and her own fair countenancePassing, pale and wonderful,Across the night that filled the pool.And cruel was the grief that playedWith the queen's spirit; and she said:"What do I here, reigning alone?For to be unloved is to be alone.There is no man in all my landDare my longing understand;The whole folk like a peasant bowsLest its look should meet my browsAnd be harmed by this beauty of mine.I burn their brains as I were signOf God's beautiful anger sentTo master them with punishmentOf beauty that must pour distressOn hearts grown dark with ugliness.But it is I am the punisht one.Is there no man, is there none,In whom my beauty will but moveThe lust of a delighted love;In whom some spirit of God so thrivesThat we may wed our lonely lives.Is there no man, is there none?"—She said, "I will go to Solomon."
Balkis was in her marble town,And shadow over the world came down.Whiteness of walls, towers and piers,That all day dazzled eyes to tears,Turned from being white-golden flame,And like the deep-sea blue became.Balkis into her garden went;Her spirit was in discontentLike a torch in restless air.Joylessly she wandered there,And saw her city's azure whiteLying under the great night,Beautiful as the memoryOf a worshipping world would beIn the mind of a god, in the hourWhen he must kill his outward power;And, coming to a pool where treesGrew in double greeneries,Saw herself, as she went byThe water, walking beautifully,And saw the stars shine in the glanceOf her eyes, and her own fair countenancePassing, pale and wonderful,Across the night that filled the pool.And cruel was the grief that playedWith the queen's spirit; and she said:"What do I here, reigning alone?For to be unloved is to be alone.There is no man in all my landDare my longing understand;The whole folk like a peasant bowsLest its look should meet my browsAnd be harmed by this beauty of mine.I burn their brains as I were signOf God's beautiful anger sentTo master them with punishmentOf beauty that must pour distressOn hearts grown dark with ugliness.But it is I am the punisht one.Is there no man, is there none,In whom my beauty will but moveThe lust of a delighted love;In whom some spirit of God so thrivesThat we may wed our lonely lives.Is there no man, is there none?"—She said, "I will go to Solomon."
Another remarkable poet whose early death was a blow to English literature, James Elroy Flecker, was born in London, November 5, 1884. Possibly due to his low vitality, Flecker found little to interest him but a classical reaction against realism in verse, a delight in verbal craftsmanship, and a passion for technical perfection—especially the deliberate technique of the French Parnassians whom he worshipped. Flecker was opposed to any art that was emotional or that "taught" anything. "The poet's business," he declared, "is not to save the soul of man, but to make it worth saving."
The advent of the war began to make Flecker's verse more personal and romantic. The tuberculosis that finally killed him at Davos Platz, Switzerland, January 3, 1915, forced him from an Olympian disinterest to a deep concern with life and death. He passionately denied that he was weary of living "as the pallid poets are," and he was attempting higher flights of song when his singing ceased altogether.
His two colorful volumes areThe Golden Journey to Samarkand(1913) andThe Old Ships(1915).
I have seen old ships sail like swans asleepBeyond the village which men still call Tyre,With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deepFor Famagusta and the hidden sunThat rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;And all those ships were certainly so old—Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,The pirate GenoeseHell-raked them till they rolledBlood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.But now through friendly seas they softly run,Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.But I have seen,Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawnAnd image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,A drowsy ship of some yet older day;And, wonder's breath indrawn,Thought I—who knows—who knows—but in that same(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new—Stern painted brighter blue—)That talkative, bald-headed seaman came(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)From Troy's doom-crimson shore,And with great lies about his wooden horseSet the crew laughing, and forgot his course.It was so old a ship—who knows, who knows?—And yet so beautiful, I watched in vainTo see the mast burst open with a rose,And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
I have seen old ships sail like swans asleepBeyond the village which men still call Tyre,With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deepFor Famagusta and the hidden sunThat rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;And all those ships were certainly so old—Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun,Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,The pirate GenoeseHell-raked them till they rolledBlood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.But now through friendly seas they softly run,Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.
But I have seen,Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawnAnd image tumbled on a rose-swept bay,A drowsy ship of some yet older day;And, wonder's breath indrawn,Thought I—who knows—who knows—but in that same(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new—Stern painted brighter blue—)That talkative, bald-headed seaman came(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)From Troy's doom-crimson shore,And with great lies about his wooden horseSet the crew laughing, and forgot his course.
It was so old a ship—who knows, who knows?—And yet so beautiful, I watched in vainTo see the mast burst open with a rose,And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
David Herbert Lawrence, born in 1885, is one of the most psychologically intense of the modern poets. This intensity, ranging from a febrile morbidity to an exalted and almost frenzied mysticism, is seen even in his prose works—particularly in his short stories,The Prussian Officer(1917), hisanalyticalSons and Lovers(1913), and the rhapsodic novel,The Rainbow(1915).
As a poet he is often caught in the net of his own emotions; his passion thickens his utterance and distorts his rhythms, which sometimes seem purposely harsh and bitter-flavored. But within his range he is as powerful as he is poignant. His most notable volumes of poetry areAmores(1916),Look! We Have Come Through!(1918), andNew Poems(1920).
The great gold apples of lightHang from the street's long boughDripping their lightOn the faces that drift below,On the faces that drift and blowDown the night-time, out of sightIn the wind's sad sough.The ripeness of these apples of nightDistilling over meMakes sickening the whiteGhost-flux of faces that hieThem endlessly, endlessly byWithout meaning or reason whyThey ever should be.
The great gold apples of lightHang from the street's long boughDripping their lightOn the faces that drift below,On the faces that drift and blowDown the night-time, out of sightIn the wind's sad sough.
The ripeness of these apples of nightDistilling over meMakes sickening the whiteGhost-flux of faces that hieThem endlessly, endlessly byWithout meaning or reason whyThey ever should be.
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;Taking me back down the vista of years, till I seeA child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling stringsAnd pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of songBetrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belongTo the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outsideAnd hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamourWith the great black piano appassionato. The glamourOf childish days is upon me, my manhood is castDown in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;Taking me back down the vista of years, till I seeA child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling stringsAnd pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of songBetrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belongTo the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outsideAnd hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamourWith the great black piano appassionato. The glamourOf childish days is upon me, my manhood is castDown in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
John Freeman, born in 1885, has published several volumes of pleasantly descriptive verse. The two most distinctive areStone Trees(1916) andMemories of Childhood(1919).
Last night a sword-light in the skyFlashed a swift terror on the dark.In that sharp light the fields did lieNaked and stone-like; each tree stoodLike a tranced woman, bound and stark.Far off the woodWith darkness ridged the riven dark.And cows astonished stared with fear,And sheep crept to the knees of cows,And conies to their burrows slid,And rooks were still in rigid boughs,And all things else were still or hid.From all the woodCame but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.In that cold trance the earth was heldIt seemed an age, or time was nought.Sure never from that stone-like fieldSprang golden corn, nor from those chillGrey granite trees was music wrought.In all the woodEven the tall poplar hung stone still.It seemed an age, or time was none ...Slowly the earth heaved out of sleepAnd shivered, and the trees of stoneBent and sighed in the gusty wind,And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.Far off the woodRolled the slow thunders on the wind.From all the wood came no brave bird,No song broke through the close-fall'n night,Nor any sound from cowering herd:Only a dog's long lonely howlWhen from the window poured pale light.And from the woodThe hoot came ghostly of the owl.
Last night a sword-light in the skyFlashed a swift terror on the dark.In that sharp light the fields did lieNaked and stone-like; each tree stoodLike a tranced woman, bound and stark.Far off the woodWith darkness ridged the riven dark.
And cows astonished stared with fear,And sheep crept to the knees of cows,And conies to their burrows slid,And rooks were still in rigid boughs,And all things else were still or hid.From all the woodCame but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.
In that cold trance the earth was heldIt seemed an age, or time was nought.Sure never from that stone-like fieldSprang golden corn, nor from those chillGrey granite trees was music wrought.In all the woodEven the tall poplar hung stone still.
It seemed an age, or time was none ...Slowly the earth heaved out of sleepAnd shivered, and the trees of stoneBent and sighed in the gusty wind,And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.Far off the woodRolled the slow thunders on the wind.
From all the wood came no brave bird,No song broke through the close-fall'n night,Nor any sound from cowering herd:Only a dog's long lonely howlWhen from the window poured pale light.And from the woodThe hoot came ghostly of the owl.
Shane Leslie, the only surviving son of Sir John Leslie, was born at Swan Park, Monaghan, Ireland, in 1886 and was educated at Eton and the University of Paris. He worked for a time among the Irish poor and was deeply interested in the Celtic revival. During the greater part of a year he lectured in the United States, marrying an American, Marjorie Ide.
Leslie has been editor ofThe Dublin Reviewsince 1916. He is the author of several volumes on Irish political matters as well asThe End of a ChapterandVerses in Peace and War.
I never see the newsboys runAmid the whirling street,With swift untiring feet,To cry the latest venture done,But I expect one day to hearThem cry the crack of doomAnd risings from the tomb,With great Archangel Michael near;And see them running from the FleetAs messengers of God,With Heaven's tidings shodAbout their brave unwearied feet.
I never see the newsboys runAmid the whirling street,With swift untiring feet,To cry the latest venture done,But I expect one day to hearThem cry the crack of doomAnd risings from the tomb,With great Archangel Michael near;And see them running from the FleetAs messengers of God,With Heaven's tidings shodAbout their brave unwearied feet.
Father of the thunder,Flinger of the flame,Searing stars asunder,Hallowed be Thy Name!By the sweet-sung quiringSister bullets hum,By our fiercest firing,May Thy Kingdom come!By Thy strong apostleOf the Maxim gun,By his pentecostalFlame,Thy Will be done!Give us, Lord, good feedingTo Thy battles sped—Flesh, white grained and bleeding,Give for daily bread!
Father of the thunder,Flinger of the flame,Searing stars asunder,Hallowed be Thy Name!
By the sweet-sung quiringSister bullets hum,By our fiercest firing,May Thy Kingdom come!
By Thy strong apostleOf the Maxim gun,By his pentecostalFlame,Thy Will be done!
Give us, Lord, good feedingTo Thy battles sped—Flesh, white grained and bleeding,Give for daily bread!
The daughter of Francis Darwin, third son of Charles Darwin, Mrs. Frances Macdonald Cornford, whose husband is a Fellow and Lecturer of Trinity College, was born in 1886. She has published three volumes of unaffected lyrical verse, the most recent of which,Spring Morning, was brought out by The Poetry Bookshop in 1915.
I laid me down upon the shoreAnd dreamed a little space;I heard the great waves break and roar;The sun was on my face.My idle hands and fingers brownPlayed with the pebbles grey;The waves came up, the waves went down,Most thundering and gay.The pebbles, they were smooth and roundAnd warm upon my hands,Like little people I had foundSitting among the sands.The grains of sand so shining-smallSoft through my fingers ran;The sun shone down upon it all,And so my dream began:How all of this had been before,How ages far awayI lay on some forgotten shoreAs here I lie to-day.The waves came shining up the sands,As here to-day they shine;And in my pre-pelasgian handsThe sand was warm and fine.I have forgotten whence I came,Or what my home might be,Or by what strange and savage nameI called that thundering sea.I only know the sun shone downAs still it shines to-day,And in my fingers long and brownThe little pebbles lay.
I laid me down upon the shoreAnd dreamed a little space;I heard the great waves break and roar;The sun was on my face.
My idle hands and fingers brownPlayed with the pebbles grey;The waves came up, the waves went down,Most thundering and gay.
The pebbles, they were smooth and roundAnd warm upon my hands,Like little people I had foundSitting among the sands.
The grains of sand so shining-smallSoft through my fingers ran;The sun shone down upon it all,And so my dream began:
How all of this had been before,How ages far awayI lay on some forgotten shoreAs here I lie to-day.
The waves came shining up the sands,As here to-day they shine;And in my pre-pelasgian handsThe sand was warm and fine.
I have forgotten whence I came,Or what my home might be,Or by what strange and savage nameI called that thundering sea.
I only know the sun shone downAs still it shines to-day,And in my fingers long and brownThe little pebbles lay.
Anna Wickham, one of the most individual of the younger women-poets, has published two distinctive volumes,The Contemplative Quarry(1915) andThe Man with a Hammer(1916).
If I had peace to sit and sing,Then I could make a lovely thing;But I am stung with goads and whips,So I build songs like iron ships.Let it be something for my song,If it is sometimes swift and strong.
If I had peace to sit and sing,Then I could make a lovely thing;But I am stung with goads and whips,So I build songs like iron ships.
Let it be something for my song,If it is sometimes swift and strong.
Only a starveling singer seeksThe stuff of songs among the Greeks.Juno is old,Jove's loves are cold;Tales over-told.By a new risen Attic streamA mortal singer dreamed a dream.Fixed he not Fancy's habitation,Nor set in bonds Imagination.There are new waters, and a new Humanity.For all old myths give us the dream to be.We are outwearied with Persephone;Rather than her, we'll sing Reality.
Only a starveling singer seeksThe stuff of songs among the Greeks.Juno is old,Jove's loves are cold;Tales over-told.By a new risen Attic streamA mortal singer dreamed a dream.Fixed he not Fancy's habitation,Nor set in bonds Imagination.There are new waters, and a new Humanity.For all old myths give us the dream to be.We are outwearied with Persephone;Rather than her, we'll sing Reality.
I was so chill, and overworn, and sad,To be a lady was the only joy I had.I walked the street as silent as a mouse,Buying fine clothes, and fittings for the house.But since I saw my loveI wear a simple dress,And happily I moveForgetting weariness.
I was so chill, and overworn, and sad,To be a lady was the only joy I had.I walked the street as silent as a mouse,Buying fine clothes, and fittings for the house.
But since I saw my loveI wear a simple dress,And happily I moveForgetting weariness.
Siegfried Loraine Sassoon, the poet whom Masefield hailed as "one of England's most brilliant rising stars," was born September 8, 1886. He was educated at Marlborough and Clare College, Cambridge, and was a captain in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. He fought three times in France, once in Palestine, winning the Military Cross for bringing in wounded on the battlefield.
His poetry divides itself sharply in two moods—the lyric and the ironic. His early lilting poems were without significance or individuality. But withThe Old Huntsman(1917) Sassoon found his own idiom, and became one of the leading younger poets upon the appearance of this striking volume. The first poem, a long monologue evidently inspired by Masefield, gave little evidence of what was to come. Immediately following it, however, came a series of war poems, undisguised in their tragedy and bitterness. Every line of these quivering stanzas bore the mark of a sensitive and outraged nature; there was scarcely a phrase that did not protest against the "glorification" and false glamour of war.
Counter-Attackappeared in 1918. In this volume Sassoon turned entirely from an ordered loveliness to the gigantic brutality of war. At heart a lyric idealist, the bloody years intensified and twisted his tenderness till what was stubborn and satiric in him forced its way to the top. InCounter-AttackSassoon found his angry outlet. Most of these poems are choked with passion; many of them are torn out, roots and all, from the very core of an intense conviction; they rush on, not so much because of the poet's art but almost in spite of it. A suave utterance, a neatly-joined structure would be out of place and even inexcusable in poems like "The Rear-Guard," "To Any Dead Officer," "Does It Matter?"—verses that are composed of love, fever and indignation.
Can Sassoon see nothing glorious or uplifting in war? His friend, Robert Nichols, another poet and soldier, speaks for him in a preface. "Let no one ever," Nichols quotes Sassoon as saying, "from henceforth say one word in any way countenancing war. It is dangerous even to speak of how here and there the individual may gain some hardship of soul by it. For war is hell, and those who institute it are criminals. Were there even anything to say for it, it should not be said; for its spiritual disasters far outweigh any of its advantages...." Nichols adds his approval to these sentences, saying, "For myself, this is the truth. War does not ennoble, it degrades."
Early in 1920 Sassoon visited America. At the same time he brought out hisPicture Show(1920), a vigorous answer to those who feared that Sassoon had "written himself out" or had begun to burn away in his own fire. Had Rupert Brookelived, he might have written many of these lacerated but somehow exalted lines. Sassoon's three volumes are the most vital and unsparing records of the war we have had. They synthesize in poetry what Barbusse'sUnder Firespreads out in panoramic prose.
Return to greet me, colours that were my joy,Not in the woeful crimson of men slain,But shining as a garden; come with the streamingBanners of dawn and sundown after rain.I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver,Radiance through living roses, spires of green,Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood,Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen.I am not sad; only I long for lustre,—Tired of the greys and browns and leafless ash.I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers,Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness,Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice;Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness,When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with uplifted voice.
Return to greet me, colours that were my joy,Not in the woeful crimson of men slain,But shining as a garden; come with the streamingBanners of dawn and sundown after rain.
I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver,Radiance through living roses, spires of green,Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood,Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen.
I am not sad; only I long for lustre,—Tired of the greys and browns and leafless ash.I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers,Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.
Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness,Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice;Come from the sea with breadth of approaching brightness,When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with uplifted voice.
Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.In the great hour of destiny they stand,Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.Soldiers are sworn to action; they must winSome flaming, fatal climax with their lives.Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns beginThey think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,And mocked by hopeless longing to regainBank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,And going to the office in the train.
Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land,Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.In the great hour of destiny they stand,Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.Soldiers are sworn to action; they must winSome flaming, fatal climax with their lives.Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns beginThey think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,And mocked by hopeless longing to regainBank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,And going to the office in the train.
Groping along the tunnel, step by step,He winked his prying torch with patching glareFrom side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;And he, exploring fifty feet belowThe rosy gloom of battle overhead.Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw someone lieHumped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug."I'm looking for headquarters." No reply."God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,And flashed his beam across the livid faceTerribly glaring up, whose eyes yet woreAgony dying hard ten days before;And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.Alone he staggered on until he foundDawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stairTo the dazed, muttering creatures undergroundWho hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,Unloading hell behind him step by step.
Groping along the tunnel, step by step,He winked his prying torch with patching glareFrom side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.
Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;And he, exploring fifty feet belowThe rosy gloom of battle overhead.
Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw someone lieHumped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug."I'm looking for headquarters." No reply."God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,And flashed his beam across the livid faceTerribly glaring up, whose eyes yet woreAgony dying hard ten days before;And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.Alone he staggered on until he foundDawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stairTo the dazed, muttering creatures undergroundWho hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,Unloading hell behind him step by step.
Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,Whose voices make the emptiness of lightA windy palace. Quavering from the brimOf dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,They clutch their leafy pinnacles and singScornful of man, and from his toils aloofWhose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;Who hears the cry of God in everything,And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.
Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,Whose voices make the emptiness of lightA windy palace. Quavering from the brimOf dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,They clutch their leafy pinnacles and singScornful of man, and from his toils aloofWhose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;Who hears the cry of God in everything,And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.
Have you forgotten yet?...For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flowLike clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.But the past is just the same,—and War's a bloody game....Have you forgotten yet?...Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,—The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?Do you remember the rats; and the stenchOf corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,—And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,—And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you thenAs you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching backWith dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-greyMasks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?Have you forgotten yet?...Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll never forget.
Have you forgotten yet?...For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,Like traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flowLike clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.But the past is just the same,—and War's a bloody game....Have you forgotten yet?...Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,—The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?Do you remember the rats; and the stenchOf corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,—And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,—And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you thenAs you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching backWith dying eyes and lolling heads, those ashen-greyMasks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet?...Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll never forget.
Possibly the most famous of the Georgians, Rupert Brooke, was born at Rugby in August, 1887, his father being assistant master at the school. As a youth, Brooke was keenly interested in all forms of athletics; playing cricket, football, tennis, and swimming as well as most professionals. He was six feet tall, his finely molded head topped with a crown of loose hair of lively brown; "a golden young Apollo," said Edward Thomas. Another friend of his wrote, "to look at, he was part of the youth of the world. He was one of the handsomest Englishmen of his time." His beauty overstressed somewhat his naturallyromantic disposition; his early poems are a blend of delight in the splendor of actuality and disillusion in a loveliness that dies. The shadow of John Donne lies over his pages.
This occasional cynicism was purged, when after several years of travel (he had been to Germany, Italy and Honolulu) the war came, turning Brooke away from
"A world grown old and cold and weary ...And half men, and their dirty songs and dreary,And all the little emptiness of love."
"A world grown old and cold and weary ...And half men, and their dirty songs and dreary,And all the little emptiness of love."
Brooke enlisted with a relief that was like a rebirth; he sought a new energy in the struggle "where the worst friend and enemy is but Death." After seeing service in Belgium, 1914, he spent the following winter in a training-camp in Dorsetshire and sailed with the British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force in February, 1915, to take part in the unfortunate Dardenelles Campaign.
Brooke never reached his destination. He died of blood-poison at Skyros, April 23, 1915. His early death was one of England's great literary losses; Lascelles Abercrombie, W. W. Gibson (with both of whom he had been associated on the quarterly,New Numbers), Walter De la Mare, the Hon. Winston Spencer Churchill, and a host of others united to pay tribute to the most brilliant and passionate of the younger poets.
Brooke's sonnet-sequence,1914(from which "The Soldier" is taken), which, with prophetic irony, appeared a few weeks before his death, contains the accents of immortality. And "The Old Vicarage, Grantchester" (unfortunately too long to reprint in this volume), is fully as characteristic of the lighter and more playful side of Brooke's temperament. Both these phases are combined in "The Great Lover," of which Abercrombie has written, "It is life he loves, and not in any abstract sense, but all the infinite little familiar details of life, remembered and catalogued with delightful zest."
I have been so great a lover: filled my daysSo proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,Desire illimitable, and still content,And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,For the perplexed and viewless streams that bearOur hearts at random down the dark of life.Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strifeSteals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,My night shall be remembered for a starThat outshone all the suns of all men's days.Shall I not crown them with immortal praiseWhom I have loved, who have given me, dared with meHigh secrets, and in darkness knelt to seeThe inenarrable godhead of delight?Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.A city:—and we have built it, these and I.An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,And the high cause of Love's magnificence,And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those namesGolden for ever, eagles, crying flames,And set them as a banner, that men may know,To dare the generations, burn, and blowOut on; the wind of Time, shining and streaming....These I have loved:White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crustOf friendly bread; and many-tasting food;Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soonSmooth away trouble; and the rough male kissOf blankets; grainy wood; live hair that isShining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keenUnpassioned beauty of a great machine;The benison of hot water; furs to touch;The good smell of old clothes; and other such—The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingersAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns....Dear names,And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foamThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;And washen stones, gay for an hour; the coldGraveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.Whatever passes not, in the great hour,Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have powerTo hold them with me through the gate of Death.They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trustAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.—Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,And give what's left of love again, and makeNew friends, now strangers....But the best I've known,Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.Nothing remains.O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one last gift I give: that after menShall know, and later lovers, far-removedPraise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."
I have been so great a lover: filled my daysSo proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,Desire illimitable, and still content,And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,For the perplexed and viewless streams that bearOur hearts at random down the dark of life.Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strifeSteals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,My night shall be remembered for a starThat outshone all the suns of all men's days.Shall I not crown them with immortal praiseWhom I have loved, who have given me, dared with meHigh secrets, and in darkness knelt to seeThe inenarrable godhead of delight?Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.A city:—and we have built it, these and I.An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,And the high cause of Love's magnificence,And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those namesGolden for ever, eagles, crying flames,And set them as a banner, that men may know,To dare the generations, burn, and blowOut on; the wind of Time, shining and streaming....These I have loved:White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crustOf friendly bread; and many-tasting food;Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soonSmooth away trouble; and the rough male kissOf blankets; grainy wood; live hair that isShining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keenUnpassioned beauty of a great machine;The benison of hot water; furs to touch;The good smell of old clothes; and other such—The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingersAbout dead leaves and last year's ferns....Dear names,And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing:Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foamThat browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;And washen stones, gay for an hour; the coldGraveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.Whatever passes not, in the great hour,Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have powerTo hold them with me through the gate of Death.They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trustAnd sacramented covenant to the dust.—Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,And give what's left of love again, and makeNew friends, now strangers....But the best I've known,Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blownAbout the winds of the world, and fades from brainsOf living men, and dies.Nothing remains.
O dear my loves, O faithless, once againThis one last gift I give: that after menShall know, and later lovers, far-removedPraise you, "All these were lovely"; say, "He loved."
When the white flame in us is gone,And we that lost the world's delightStiffen in darkness, left aloneTo crumble in our separate night;When your swift hair is quiet in death,And through the lips corruption thrustHas stilled the labour of my breath—When we are dust, when we are dust!—Not dead, not undesirous yet,Still sentient, still unsatisfied,We'll ride the air, and shine and flit,Around the places where we died,And dance as dust before the sun,And light of foot, and unconfined,Hurry from road to road, and runAbout the errands of the wind.And every mote, on earth or air,Will speed and gleam, down later days,And like a secret pilgrim fareBy eager and invisible ways,Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,Till, beyond thinking, out of view,One mote of all the dust that's IShall meet one atom that was you.Then in some garden hushed from wind,Warm in a sunset's afterglow,The lovers in the flowers will findA sweet and strange unquiet growUpon the peace; and, past desiring,So high a beauty in the air,And such a light, and such a quiring,And such a radiant ecstasy there,They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,Or out of earth, or in the height,Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,Or two that pass, in light, to light,Out of the garden higher, higher ...But in that instant they shall learnThe shattering fury of our fire,And the weak passionless hearts will burnAnd faint in that amazing glow,Until the darkness close above;And they will know—poor fools, they'll know!—One moment, what it is to love.
When the white flame in us is gone,And we that lost the world's delightStiffen in darkness, left aloneTo crumble in our separate night;
When your swift hair is quiet in death,And through the lips corruption thrustHas stilled the labour of my breath—When we are dust, when we are dust!—
Not dead, not undesirous yet,Still sentient, still unsatisfied,We'll ride the air, and shine and flit,Around the places where we died,
And dance as dust before the sun,And light of foot, and unconfined,Hurry from road to road, and runAbout the errands of the wind.
And every mote, on earth or air,Will speed and gleam, down later days,And like a secret pilgrim fareBy eager and invisible ways,
Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,Till, beyond thinking, out of view,One mote of all the dust that's IShall meet one atom that was you.
Then in some garden hushed from wind,Warm in a sunset's afterglow,The lovers in the flowers will findA sweet and strange unquiet grow
Upon the peace; and, past desiring,So high a beauty in the air,And such a light, and such a quiring,And such a radiant ecstasy there,
They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,Or out of earth, or in the height,Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,Or two that pass, in light, to light,
Out of the garden higher, higher ...But in that instant they shall learnThe shattering fury of our fire,And the weak passionless hearts will burn
And faint in that amazing glow,Until the darkness close above;And they will know—poor fools, they'll know!—One moment, what it is to love.
If I should die, think only this of me;That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
If I should die, think only this of me;That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
FOOTNOTES:[19]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.[20]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.[21]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[19]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[19]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[20]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[20]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[21]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
[21]FromThe Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. Copyright, 1915, by John Lane Company and reprinted by permission.
Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early work concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos found in her immediate surroundings. HerSongs from Leinster(1913) is her most characteristic collection; a volume full of the poetry of simple people and humble souls. Although she has called herself "a back-door sort of bard," she is particularly effective in the old ballad measure and in her quaint portrayalof Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic kings and pagan heroes. She has also written three novels, five books for children, a later volume ofPoems of the Warand, during the conflict, served as a nurse at various base hospitals.