The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOver the Brazier

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOver the BrazierThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Over the BrazierAuthor: Robert GravesRelease date: October 18, 2014 [eBook #47144]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced fromimages generously made available by The InternetArchive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE BRAZIER ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Over the BrazierAuthor: Robert GravesRelease date: October 18, 2014 [eBook #47144]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced fromimages generously made available by The InternetArchive/American Libraries.)

Title: Over the Brazier

Author: Robert Graves

Release date: October 18, 2014 [eBook #47144]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced fromimages generously made available by The InternetArchive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVER THE BRAZIER ***

BY ROBERT GRAVES

LONDON — THE POETRYBOOKSHOP, 35 DEVONSHIREST., THEOBALDS RD. W.C.1

Poetry by the Same Author

FAIRIES AND FUSILIERS(William Heinemann 1917)

COUNTRY SENTIMENT(Martin Secker: 1920)

First Printed 1916Second Impression 1917Reprinted 1920

When these poems, written between the ages of fourteen and twenty, first appeared, I was serving in France and had no leisure for getting the final proofs altogether as I wanted them. The same year, but too late, I decided on several alterations in the text, including the suppression of two small poems inexcusable even as early work. These amendations appear in this new edition, but I have left the bulk of the book as it stood.

Robert Graves.

Harlech,North Wales.

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumblingIn a dim library, just behind the chairFrom which the ancient poet was mum-mumblingA song about some Lovers at a Fair,Pulling his long white beard and gently grumblingThat rhymes were beastly things and never there.And as I groped, the whole time I was thinkingAbout the tragic poem I'd been writing—An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking,His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting;And how at last, into a fever sinking,Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.But suddenly I saw the bright green coverOf a thin pretty book right down below;I snatched it up and turned the pages over,To find it full of poetry, and soPut it down my neck with quick hands like a loverAnd turned to watch if the old man saw it go.The book was full of funny muddling mazesEach rounded off into a lovely song,And most extraordinary and monstrous phrasesKnotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong,And metre twisting like a chain of daisiesWith great big splendid words a sentence long.I took the book to bed with me and gloated,Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand,So soon the pretty emerald green was coatedWith jam and greasy marks from my hot hand,While round the nursery for long months there floatedWonderful words no one could understand.

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling

In a dim library, just behind the chair

From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling

A song about some Lovers at a Fair,

Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling

That rhymes were beastly things and never there.

And as I groped, the whole time I was thinkingAbout the tragic poem I'd been writing—An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking,His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting;And how at last, into a fever sinking,Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.

And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking

About the tragic poem I'd been writing—

An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking,

His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting;

And how at last, into a fever sinking,

Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.

But suddenly I saw the bright green coverOf a thin pretty book right down below;I snatched it up and turned the pages over,To find it full of poetry, and soPut it down my neck with quick hands like a loverAnd turned to watch if the old man saw it go.

But suddenly I saw the bright green cover

Of a thin pretty book right down below;

I snatched it up and turned the pages over,

To find it full of poetry, and so

Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover

And turned to watch if the old man saw it go.

The book was full of funny muddling mazesEach rounded off into a lovely song,And most extraordinary and monstrous phrasesKnotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong,And metre twisting like a chain of daisiesWith great big splendid words a sentence long.

The book was full of funny muddling mazes

Each rounded off into a lovely song,

And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases

Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong,

And metre twisting like a chain of daisies

With great big splendid words a sentence long.

I took the book to bed with me and gloated,Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand,So soon the pretty emerald green was coatedWith jam and greasy marks from my hot hand,While round the nursery for long months there floatedWonderful words no one could understand.

I took the book to bed with me and gloated,

Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand,

So soon the pretty emerald green was coated

With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand,

While round the nursery for long months there floated

Wonderful words no one could understand.

"Are you awake, Gemelli,This frosty night?""We'll be awake till reveillé,Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli,"It's no good trying to go to sleep:If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,But sleep is gone to to-night,But sleep is gone for to-night.""Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,This frosty night?""Yes, and so are the Hyads:See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:We huddle together like birds in a storm:It's bitter weather to-night,It's bitter weather to-night.""What do you hunt, Orion,This starry night?""The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,And the Great Bear," says Orion,"With my starry quiver and beautiful beltI am trying to find a good thick peltTo warm my shoulders to-night,To warm my shoulders to-night.""Did you hear that, Great She-bear,This frosty night?""Yes, he's talking of strippingmebareOf my own big fur," says the She-bear,"I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,And the frost so cruel to-night!And the frost so cruel to-night!""How is your trade, Aquarius,This frosty night?""Complaints is many and variousAnd my feet are cold," says Aquarius,"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,And the pump has frozen to-night,And the pump has frozen to-night."

"Are you awake, Gemelli,

This frosty night?"

"We'll be awake till reveillé,

Which is Sunrise," say the Gemelli,

"It's no good trying to go to sleep:

If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,

But sleep is gone to to-night,

But sleep is gone for to-night."

"Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,This frosty night?""Yes, and so are the Hyads:See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:We huddle together like birds in a storm:It's bitter weather to-night,It's bitter weather to-night."

"Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,

This frosty night?"

"Yes, and so are the Hyads:

See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads,

"All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:

We huddle together like birds in a storm:

It's bitter weather to-night,

It's bitter weather to-night."

"What do you hunt, Orion,This starry night?""The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,And the Great Bear," says Orion,"With my starry quiver and beautiful beltI am trying to find a good thick peltTo warm my shoulders to-night,To warm my shoulders to-night."

"What do you hunt, Orion,

This starry night?"

"The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,

And the Great Bear," says Orion,

"With my starry quiver and beautiful belt

I am trying to find a good thick pelt

To warm my shoulders to-night,

To warm my shoulders to-night."

"Did you hear that, Great She-bear,This frosty night?""Yes, he's talking of strippingmebareOf my own big fur," says the She-bear,"I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,And the frost so cruel to-night!And the frost so cruel to-night!"

"Did you hear that, Great She-bear,

This frosty night?"

"Yes, he's talking of strippingmebare

Of my own big fur," says the She-bear,

"I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:

The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,

And the frost so cruel to-night!

And the frost so cruel to-night!"

"How is your trade, Aquarius,This frosty night?""Complaints is many and variousAnd my feet are cold," says Aquarius,"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,And the pump has frozen to-night,And the pump has frozen to-night."

"How is your trade, Aquarius,

This frosty night?"

"Complaints is many and various

And my feet are cold," says Aquarius,

"There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,

And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,

And the pump has frozen to-night,

And the pump has frozen to-night."

Through the dreams of yesternightMy blood brother great in fightI saw lying, slowly dyingWhere the weary woods were sighingWith the rustle of the birches,With the quiver of the larches....Woodland fauns with hairy haunchesGrin in wonder through the branchesWoodland fauns that know no fear.Wondering, they wander nearMunching mushrooms red as coral,Bunches, too, of rue and sorrel;Wonder at his radiant fairness,At his dinted, shattered harness,With uncouth and bestial sounds,Knowing nought of war or wounds:But the crimson life-blood oozesAnd make roses of the daisies,Persian carpets of the mosses—Softly now his spirit passesAs the bee forsakes the lily,As the berry leaves the holly;But the fauns still think him living,And with bay leaves they are weavingCrowns to deck him. Well they may!He was worthy of the Bay.

Through the dreams of yesternight

My blood brother great in fight

I saw lying, slowly dying

Where the weary woods were sighing

With the rustle of the birches,

With the quiver of the larches....

Woodland fauns with hairy haunches

Grin in wonder through the branches

Woodland fauns that know no fear.

Wondering, they wander near

Munching mushrooms red as coral,

Bunches, too, of rue and sorrel;

Wonder at his radiant fairness,

At his dinted, shattered harness,

With uncouth and bestial sounds,

Knowing nought of war or wounds:

But the crimson life-blood oozes

And make roses of the daisies,

Persian carpets of the mosses—

Softly now his spirit passes

As the bee forsakes the lily,

As the berry leaves the holly;

But the fauns still think him living,

And with bay leaves they are weaving

Crowns to deck him. Well they may!

He was worthy of the Bay.

On the rough mountain windThat blows so freeRides a little storm-spriteWhose name is Willaree.The fleecy cloudlets are not his,No shepherd is he,For he drives the shaggy thundercloudsOver land and sea.His home is on the mountain-topWhere I love to be,Amid grey rocks and bramblesAnd the red rowan-tree.He whistles down the chimney,He whistles to me,And I send greeting back to himWhistling cheerily.The great elms are battling,Waves are on the sea,Loud roars the mountain-wind—God rest you, Willaree!

On the rough mountain windThat blows so freeRides a little storm-spriteWhose name is Willaree.

On the rough mountain wind

That blows so free

Rides a little storm-sprite

Whose name is Willaree.

The fleecy cloudlets are not his,No shepherd is he,For he drives the shaggy thundercloudsOver land and sea.

The fleecy cloudlets are not his,

No shepherd is he,

For he drives the shaggy thunderclouds

Over land and sea.

His home is on the mountain-topWhere I love to be,Amid grey rocks and bramblesAnd the red rowan-tree.

His home is on the mountain-top

Where I love to be,

Amid grey rocks and brambles

And the red rowan-tree.

He whistles down the chimney,He whistles to me,And I send greeting back to himWhistling cheerily.

He whistles down the chimney,

He whistles to me,

And I send greeting back to him

Whistling cheerily.

The great elms are battling,Waves are on the sea,Loud roars the mountain-wind—God rest you, Willaree!

The great elms are battling,

Waves are on the sea,

Loud roars the mountain-wind—

God rest you, Willaree!

Little winds in a hurry,Great winds over the sky,Clouds sleek or furry,Storms that rage and die,The whole cycle of weatherFrom calm to hurricaneOf four gales wroth together,Thunder, lightning, rain,The burning sun, snowing,Hailstones pattering down,Blue skies and red skies showing,Skies with a black frown,By these signs and wondersYou may tell God's mood:He shines, rains, thunders,But all His works are good.

Little winds in a hurry,Great winds over the sky,Clouds sleek or furry,Storms that rage and die,

Little winds in a hurry,

Great winds over the sky,

Clouds sleek or furry,

Storms that rage and die,

The whole cycle of weatherFrom calm to hurricaneOf four gales wroth together,Thunder, lightning, rain,

The whole cycle of weather

From calm to hurricane

Of four gales wroth together,

Thunder, lightning, rain,

The burning sun, snowing,Hailstones pattering down,Blue skies and red skies showing,Skies with a black frown,

The burning sun, snowing,

Hailstones pattering down,

Blue skies and red skies showing,

Skies with a black frown,

By these signs and wondersYou may tell God's mood:He shines, rains, thunders,But all His works are good.

By these signs and wonders

You may tell God's mood:

He shines, rains, thunders,

But all His works are good.

Oh, now has faded from the WestA sunset red as wine,And beast and bird are hushed to restWhen the jolly yellow moon doth shine.Come comrades, roam we round the meadWhere couch the sleeping kine;The breath of night blows soft indeed,And the jolly yellow moon doth shine.And step we slowly, friend with friend,Let arm with arm entwine.And voice with voice together blend,For the jolly yellow moon doth shine.Whether we loudly sing or soft,The tune goes wondrous fine;Our chorus sure will float aloftWhere the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

Oh, now has faded from the WestA sunset red as wine,And beast and bird are hushed to restWhen the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

Oh, now has faded from the West

A sunset red as wine,

And beast and bird are hushed to rest

When the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

Come comrades, roam we round the meadWhere couch the sleeping kine;The breath of night blows soft indeed,And the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

Come comrades, roam we round the mead

Where couch the sleeping kine;

The breath of night blows soft indeed,

And the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

And step we slowly, friend with friend,Let arm with arm entwine.And voice with voice together blend,For the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

And step we slowly, friend with friend,

Let arm with arm entwine.

And voice with voice together blend,

For the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

Whether we loudly sing or soft,The tune goes wondrous fine;Our chorus sure will float aloftWhere the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

Whether we loudly sing or soft,

The tune goes wondrous fine;

Our chorus sure will float aloft

Where the jolly yellow moon doth shine.

("Life is a very awful thing! You young fellows are too busy being jolly to realize the folly of your lives."—A Charterhouse Sermon)

("Life is a very awful thing! You young fellows are too busy being jolly to realize the folly of your lives."

—A Charterhouse Sermon)

In Chapel often when I bawlThe hymns, to show I'm musical,With bright eye and cheery voiceBidding Christian folk rejoice,Shame be it said, I've not a thoughtOf the One Being whom I oughtTo worship: with unwitting roarOther godheads I adore.I celebrate the Gods of MirthAnd Love and Youth and Springing Earth,Bacchus, beautiful, divine,Gulping down his heady wine,Dear Pan piping in his hollow,Fiery-headed King ApolloAnd rugged Atlas all aloofHolding up the purple roof.I have often felt and sung,"It's a good thing to be young:Though the preacher says it's folly,Is it foolish to be jolly?"I have often prayed in fear,"Let me never grow austere;Let me never think, I pray,Too much about Judgment Day;Never, never feel in Spring,'Life's a very awful thing!'"Then I realize and startAnd curse my arrogant young heart,Bind it over to confessIts horrible ungodliness,Set myself penances, and sighThat I was born in sin, and tryTo find the whole world vanity.

In Chapel often when I bawl

The hymns, to show I'm musical,

With bright eye and cheery voice

Bidding Christian folk rejoice,

Shame be it said, I've not a thought

Of the One Being whom I ought

To worship: with unwitting roar

Other godheads I adore.

I celebrate the Gods of Mirth

And Love and Youth and Springing Earth,

Bacchus, beautiful, divine,

Gulping down his heady wine,

Dear Pan piping in his hollow,

Fiery-headed King Apollo

And rugged Atlas all aloof

Holding up the purple roof.

I have often felt and sung,

"It's a good thing to be young:

Though the preacher says it's folly,

Is it foolish to be jolly?"

I have often prayed in fear,

"Let me never grow austere;

Let me never think, I pray,

Too much about Judgment Day;

Never, never feel in Spring,

'Life's a very awful thing!'"

Then I realize and start

And curse my arrogant young heart,

Bind it over to confess

Its horrible ungodliness,

Set myself penances, and sigh

That I was born in sin, and try

To find the whole world vanity.

Gloomy and bare the organ-loft,Bent-backed and blind the organist.From rafters looming shadowy,From the pipes' tuneful company,Drifted together drowsily,Innumerable, formless, dim,The ghosts of long-dead melodies,Of anthems, stately, thunderous,Of Kyries shrill and tremulous:In melancholy drowsy-sweetThey huddled there in harmony,Like bats at noontide rafter-hung.

Gloomy and bare the organ-loft,

Bent-backed and blind the organist.

From rafters looming shadowy,

From the pipes' tuneful company,

Drifted together drowsily,

Innumerable, formless, dim,

The ghosts of long-dead melodies,

Of anthems, stately, thunderous,

Of Kyries shrill and tremulous:

In melancholy drowsy-sweet

They huddled there in harmony,

Like bats at noontide rafter-hung.

I now delight,In spiteOf the mightAnd the rightOf classic tradition,In writingAnd recitingStraight ahead,Without let or omission,Just any little rhymeIn any little timeThat runs in my head:Because, I've said,My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayedLike Prussian soldiers on paradeThat march,Stiff as starch,Foot to foot,Boot to boot,Blade to blade,Button to button,Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.No! No!My rhymes must goTurn 'ee, twist 'ee,Twinkling, frosty,Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty,Rhymes I will makeLike Keats and BlakeAnd Christina Rossetti,With run and ripple and shake.How pettyTo takeA merry little rhymeIn a jolly little timeAnd poke it,And choke it,Change it, arrange it,Straight-lace it, deface it,Pleat it with pleats,Sheet it with sheetsOf empty conceits,And chop and chew,And hack and hew,And weld it into a uniform stanza,And evolve a neat,Complacent, complete,Academic extravaganza!

I now delight,

In spite

Of the might

And the right

Of classic tradition,

In writing

And reciting

Straight ahead,

Without let or omission,

Just any little rhyme

In any little time

That runs in my head:

Because, I've said,

My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed

Like Prussian soldiers on parade

That march,

Stiff as starch,

Foot to foot,

Boot to boot,

Blade to blade,

Button to button,

Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton.

No! No!

My rhymes must go

Turn 'ee, twist 'ee,

Twinkling, frosty,

Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty,

Rhymes I will make

Like Keats and Blake

And Christina Rossetti,

With run and ripple and shake.

How petty

To take

A merry little rhyme

In a jolly little time

And poke it,

And choke it,

Change it, arrange it,

Straight-lace it, deface it,

Pleat it with pleats,

Sheet it with sheets

Of empty conceits,

And chop and chew,

And hack and hew,

And weld it into a uniform stanza,

And evolve a neat,

Complacent, complete,

Academic extravaganza!

Christ of his gentlenessThirsting and hungeringWalked in the wilderness;Soft words of grace He spokeUnto lost desert-folkThat listened wondering.He heard the bitterns callFrom ruined palace-wall,Answered them brotherly.He held communionWith the she-pelicanOf lonely piety.Basilisk, cockatrice,Flocked to His homilies,With mail of dread device,With monstrous barbéd stings,With eager dragon-eyes;Great rats on leather wingsAnd poor blind broken things,Foul in their miseries.And ever with Him went,Of all His wanderingsComrade, with ragged coat,Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—Bleeding foot, burning throat,The guileless old scape-goat;For forty nights and daysFollowed in Jesus' ways,Sure guard behind Him kept,Tears like a lover wept.

Christ of his gentleness

Thirsting and hungering

Walked in the wilderness;

Soft words of grace He spoke

Unto lost desert-folk

That listened wondering.

He heard the bitterns call

From ruined palace-wall,

Answered them brotherly.

He held communion

With the she-pelican

Of lonely piety.

Basilisk, cockatrice,

Flocked to His homilies,

With mail of dread device,

With monstrous barbéd stings,

With eager dragon-eyes;

Great rats on leather wings

And poor blind broken things,

Foul in their miseries.

And ever with Him went,

Of all His wanderings

Comrade, with ragged coat,

Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—

Bleeding foot, burning throat,

The guileless old scape-goat;

For forty nights and days

Followed in Jesus' ways,

Sure guard behind Him kept,

Tears like a lover wept.

Oh, and oh!The world's a muddle,The clouds are untidy,Moon lopsidey,Shining in a puddle.Down dirty streets in stench and smokeThe pale townsfolkCrawl and kiss and cuddle,In doorways hug and huddle;Loutish heAnd sluttish sheIn loathsome love together pressAnd unbelievable ugliness.These spiders spin a loathly woof!I walk aloof,Head burning and heart snarling,Tread feverish quick;My love is sick;Far away lives my darling.

Oh, and oh!

The world's a muddle,

The clouds are untidy,

Moon lopsidey,

Shining in a puddle.

Down dirty streets in stench and smoke

The pale townsfolk

Crawl and kiss and cuddle,

In doorways hug and huddle;

Loutish he

And sluttish she

In loathsome love together press

And unbelievable ugliness.

These spiders spin a loathly woof!

I walk aloof,

Head burning and heart snarling,

Tread feverish quick;

My love is sick;

Far away lives my darling.

Cherries of the night are riperThan the cherries pluckt at noon:Gather to your fairy piperWhen he pipes his magic tune:Merry, merry,Take a cherry,Mine are sounder,Mine are rounder,Mine are sweeterFor the eaterUnder the moon.And you'll be fairies soon.In the cherry pluckt at night,With the dew of summer swelling,There's a juice of pure delight,Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling.Merry, merry,Take a cherry,Mine are sounder,Mine are rounder,Mine are sweeterFor the eaterIn the moonlight.And you'll be fairies quite.When I sound the fairy call,Gather here in silent meeting,Chin to knee on the orchard wall,Cooled with dew and cherries eating.Merry, merry,Take a cherry,Mine are sounder,Mine are rounder,Mine are sweeterFor the eaterWhen the dews fall.And you'll be fairies all.

Cherries of the night are riper

Than the cherries pluckt at noon:

Gather to your fairy piper

When he pipes his magic tune:

Merry, merry,

Take a cherry,

Mine are sounder,

Mine are rounder,

Mine are sweeter

For the eater

Under the moon.

And you'll be fairies soon.

In the cherry pluckt at night,With the dew of summer swelling,There's a juice of pure delight,Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling.Merry, merry,Take a cherry,Mine are sounder,Mine are rounder,Mine are sweeterFor the eaterIn the moonlight.And you'll be fairies quite.

In the cherry pluckt at night,

With the dew of summer swelling,

There's a juice of pure delight,

Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling.

Merry, merry,

Take a cherry,

Mine are sounder,

Mine are rounder,

Mine are sweeter

For the eater

In the moonlight.

And you'll be fairies quite.

When I sound the fairy call,Gather here in silent meeting,Chin to knee on the orchard wall,Cooled with dew and cherries eating.Merry, merry,Take a cherry,Mine are sounder,Mine are rounder,Mine are sweeterFor the eaterWhen the dews fall.And you'll be fairies all.

When I sound the fairy call,

Gather here in silent meeting,

Chin to knee on the orchard wall,

Cooled with dew and cherries eating.

Merry, merry,

Take a cherry,

Mine are sounder,

Mine are rounder,

Mine are sweeter

For the eater

When the dews fall.

And you'll be fairies all.

Here's an end to my art!I must die and I know it,With battle murder at my heart—Sad death for a poet!Oh my songs never sung,And my plays to darkness blown!I am still so young, so young,And life was my own.Some bad fairy stoleThe baby I nursed:Was this my pretty little soul,This changeling accursed?To fight and kill is wrong—To stay at home wronger:Oh soul, little play and song,I may father no longer!Here's an end to my art!I must die and I know it,With battle murder at my heart—Sad death for a poet!

Here's an end to my art!I must die and I know it,With battle murder at my heart—Sad death for a poet!

Here's an end to my art!

I must die and I know it,

With battle murder at my heart—

Sad death for a poet!

Oh my songs never sung,And my plays to darkness blown!I am still so young, so young,And life was my own.

Oh my songs never sung,

And my plays to darkness blown!

I am still so young, so young,

And life was my own.

Some bad fairy stoleThe baby I nursed:Was this my pretty little soul,This changeling accursed?

Some bad fairy stole

The baby I nursed:

Was this my pretty little soul,

This changeling accursed?

To fight and kill is wrong—To stay at home wronger:Oh soul, little play and song,I may father no longer!

To fight and kill is wrong—

To stay at home wronger:

Oh soul, little play and song,

I may father no longer!

Here's an end to my art!I must die and I know it,With battle murder at my heart—Sad death for a poet!

Here's an end to my art!

I must die and I know it,

With battle murder at my heart—

Sad death for a poet!

To-day, the fight: my end is very soon,And sealed the warrant limiting my hours:I knew it walking yesterday at noonDown a deserted garden full of flowers.... Carelessly sang, pinned roses on my breast,Reached for a cherry-bunch—and then, then, DeathBlew through the garden from the North and EastAnd blighted every beauty with chill breath.I looked, and ah, my wraith before me stood,His head all battered in by violent blows:The fruit between my lips to clotted bloodWas transubstantiate, and the pale roseSmelt sickly, till it seemed through a swift tear-floodThat dead men blossomed in the garden-close.

To-day, the fight: my end is very soon,

And sealed the warrant limiting my hours:

I knew it walking yesterday at noon

Down a deserted garden full of flowers.

... Carelessly sang, pinned roses on my breast,

Reached for a cherry-bunch—and then, then, Death

Blew through the garden from the North and East

And blighted every beauty with chill breath.

I looked, and ah, my wraith before me stood,His head all battered in by violent blows:The fruit between my lips to clotted bloodWas transubstantiate, and the pale roseSmelt sickly, till it seemed through a swift tear-floodThat dead men blossomed in the garden-close.

I looked, and ah, my wraith before me stood,

His head all battered in by violent blows:

The fruit between my lips to clotted blood

Was transubstantiate, and the pale rose

Smelt sickly, till it seemed through a swift tear-flood

That dead men blossomed in the garden-close.

After a week spent under raining skies,In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a weekOf bursting shells, of blood and hideous criesAnd the ever-watchful sniper: where the reekOf death offends the living ... but poor deadCan't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid soundThat roars and whirs and rattles overheadAll day, all night, and jars and tears the ground;When rats run, big as kittens: to and froThey dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare,And then one night relief comes, and we goMiles back into the sunny cornland whereBabies like tickling, and where tall white horsesDraw the plough leisurely in quiet courses.

After a week spent under raining skies,

In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week

Of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries

And the ever-watchful sniper: where the reek

Of death offends the living ... but poor dead

Can't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound

That roars and whirs and rattles overhead

All day, all night, and jars and tears the ground;

When rats run, big as kittens: to and fro

They dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare,

And then one night relief comes, and we go

Miles back into the sunny cornland where

Babies like tickling, and where tall white horses

Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses.

Scratches in the dirt?No, that sounds much too nice.Oh, far too nice.Seams, rather, of a Greyback Shirt,And we're the little liceWriggling about in them a week or two,Till one day, suddenly, from the blueSomething bloody and big will comeLike—watch this fingernail and thumb!—Squash! and he needs no twice.

Scratches in the dirt?

No, that sounds much too nice.

Oh, far too nice.

Seams, rather, of a Greyback Shirt,

And we're the little lice

Wriggling about in them a week or two,

Till one day, suddenly, from the blue

Something bloody and big will come

Like—watch this fingernail and thumb!—

Squash! and he needs no twice.

(The first corpse I saw was on the German wires, and couldn't be buried)

The whole field was so smelly;We smelt the poor dog first:His horrid swollen bellyLooked just like going burst.His fur was most untidy;He hadn't any eyes.It happened on Good FridayAnd there was lots of flies.And then I felt the coldestI'd ever felt, and sick,But Rose, 'cause she's the oldest,Dared poke him with her stick.He felt quite soft and horrid:The flies buzzed round his headAnd settled on his forehead:Rose whispered: "That dog's dead."You bury all dead people,When they're quite really dead,Round churches with a steeple:Let's bury this," Rose said."And let's put mint all round itTo hide the nasty smell."I went to look and found it—Lots, growing near the well.We poked him through the cloverInto a hole, and thenWe threw brown earth right overAnd said: "Poor dog, Amen!"

The whole field was so smelly;We smelt the poor dog first:His horrid swollen bellyLooked just like going burst.

The whole field was so smelly;

We smelt the poor dog first:

His horrid swollen belly

Looked just like going burst.

His fur was most untidy;He hadn't any eyes.It happened on Good FridayAnd there was lots of flies.

His fur was most untidy;

He hadn't any eyes.

It happened on Good Friday

And there was lots of flies.

And then I felt the coldestI'd ever felt, and sick,But Rose, 'cause she's the oldest,Dared poke him with her stick.

And then I felt the coldest

I'd ever felt, and sick,

But Rose, 'cause she's the oldest,

Dared poke him with her stick.

He felt quite soft and horrid:The flies buzzed round his headAnd settled on his forehead:Rose whispered: "That dog's dead.

He felt quite soft and horrid:

The flies buzzed round his head

And settled on his forehead:

Rose whispered: "That dog's dead.

"You bury all dead people,When they're quite really dead,Round churches with a steeple:Let's bury this," Rose said.

"You bury all dead people,

When they're quite really dead,

Round churches with a steeple:

Let's bury this," Rose said.

"And let's put mint all round itTo hide the nasty smell."I went to look and found it—Lots, growing near the well.

"And let's put mint all round it

To hide the nasty smell."

I went to look and found it—

Lots, growing near the well.

We poked him through the cloverInto a hole, and thenWe threw brown earth right overAnd said: "Poor dog, Amen!"

We poked him through the clover

Into a hole, and then

We threw brown earth right over

And said: "Poor dog, Amen!"

(Suggested by the claim of a machine-gun team to have annihilated an enemy wire party: no bodies were found however)

To-day I killed a tiger near my shackAmong the trees: at least, it must have been,Because his hide was yellow, striped with black,And his eyes were green.I crept up close and slung a pointed stoneWith all my might: I must have hit his head,For there he died without a twitch or groan,And he lay there dead.I expect that he'd escaped from a Wild Beast ShowBy pulling down his cage with an angry tear;He'd killed and wounded all the people—soHe was hiding there.I brought my brother up as quick's I couldBut there was nothing left when he did come:The tiger's mate was watching in the woodAnd she'd dragged him home.But, anyhow, I killed him by the shack,'Cause—listen!—when we hunted in the woodMy brother found my pointed stone all blackWith the clotted blood.

To-day I killed a tiger near my shackAmong the trees: at least, it must have been,Because his hide was yellow, striped with black,And his eyes were green.

To-day I killed a tiger near my shack

Among the trees: at least, it must have been,

Because his hide was yellow, striped with black,

And his eyes were green.

I crept up close and slung a pointed stoneWith all my might: I must have hit his head,For there he died without a twitch or groan,And he lay there dead.

I crept up close and slung a pointed stone

With all my might: I must have hit his head,

For there he died without a twitch or groan,

And he lay there dead.

I expect that he'd escaped from a Wild Beast ShowBy pulling down his cage with an angry tear;He'd killed and wounded all the people—soHe was hiding there.

I expect that he'd escaped from a Wild Beast Show

By pulling down his cage with an angry tear;

He'd killed and wounded all the people—so

He was hiding there.

I brought my brother up as quick's I couldBut there was nothing left when he did come:The tiger's mate was watching in the woodAnd she'd dragged him home.

I brought my brother up as quick's I could

But there was nothing left when he did come:

The tiger's mate was watching in the wood

And she'd dragged him home.

But, anyhow, I killed him by the shack,'Cause—listen!—when we hunted in the woodMy brother found my pointed stone all blackWith the clotted blood.

But, anyhow, I killed him by the shack,

'Cause—listen!—when we hunted in the wood

My brother found my pointed stone all black

With the clotted blood.

(After a moonlight patrol near the Brickstacks)

I hate the Moon, though it makes most people glad,And they giggle and talk of silvery beams—you know!Butshesays the look of the Moon drives people mad,And that's the thing that always frightens me so.I hate it worst when it's cruel and round and bright,And you can't make out the marks on its stupid face,Except when you shut your eyelashes, and all nightThe sky looks green, and the world's a horrible place.I like the stars, and especially the Big BearAnd the W star, and one like a diamond ring,But Ihatethe Moon and its horrible stony stare,And I know one day it'll do me some dreadful thing.

I hate the Moon, though it makes most people glad,

And they giggle and talk of silvery beams—you know!

Butshesays the look of the Moon drives people mad,

And that's the thing that always frightens me so.

I hate it worst when it's cruel and round and bright,And you can't make out the marks on its stupid face,Except when you shut your eyelashes, and all nightThe sky looks green, and the world's a horrible place.

I hate it worst when it's cruel and round and bright,

And you can't make out the marks on its stupid face,

Except when you shut your eyelashes, and all night

The sky looks green, and the world's a horrible place.

I like the stars, and especially the Big BearAnd the W star, and one like a diamond ring,But Ihatethe Moon and its horrible stony stare,And I know one day it'll do me some dreadful thing.

I like the stars, and especially the Big Bear

And the W star, and one like a diamond ring,

But Ihatethe Moon and its horrible stony stare,

And I know one day it'll do me some dreadful thing.

"I've whined of coming death, but now, no more!It's weak and most ungracious. For, say I,Though still a boy if years are counted, why!I've lived those years from roof to cellar-floor,And feel, like grey-beards touching their fourscore,Ready, so soon as the need comes, to die:And I'm satisfied.For winning confidence in those quiet daysOf peace, poised sickly on the precipice sideOf Lliwedd crag by Snowdon, and in warFinding it firmlier with me than before;Winning a faith in the wisdom of God's waysThat once I lost, finding it justifiedEven in this chaos; winning love that staysAnd warms the heart like wine at Easter-tide;Having earlier triedFalse loves in plenty; oh! my cup of praiseBrims over, and I know I'll feel small sorrow,Confess no sins and make no weak delaysIf death ends all and I must die to-morrow."But on the firestep, waiting to attack,He cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back.

"I've whined of coming death, but now, no more!

It's weak and most ungracious. For, say I,

Though still a boy if years are counted, why!

I've lived those years from roof to cellar-floor,

And feel, like grey-beards touching their fourscore,

Ready, so soon as the need comes, to die:

And I'm satisfied.

For winning confidence in those quiet days

Of peace, poised sickly on the precipice side

Of Lliwedd crag by Snowdon, and in war

Finding it firmlier with me than before;

Winning a faith in the wisdom of God's ways

That once I lost, finding it justified

Even in this chaos; winning love that stays

And warms the heart like wine at Easter-tide;

Having earlier tried

False loves in plenty; oh! my cup of praise

Brims over, and I know I'll feel small sorrow,

Confess no sins and make no weak delays

If death ends all and I must die to-morrow."

But on the firestep, waiting to attack,He cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back.

But on the firestep, waiting to attack,

He cursed, prayed, sweated, wished the proud words back.

We found the little captain at the head;His men lay well aligned.We touched his hand—stone-cold—and he was dead,And they, all dead behind,Had never reached their goal, but they died well;They charged in line, and in the same line fell.The well-known rosy colours of his faceWere almost lost in grey.We saw that, dying and in hopeless case,For others' sake that dayHe'd smothered all rebellious groans: in deathHis fingers were tight clenched between his teeth.For those who live uprightly and die trueHeaven has no bars or locks,And serves all taste.... Or what's for him to doUp there, but hunt the fox?Angelic choirs? No, Justice must provideFor one who rode straight and at hunting died.So if Heaven had no Hunt before he came,Why, it must find one now:If any shirk and doubt they know the game,There's one to teach them how:And the whole host of Seraphim completeMust jog in scarlet to his opening Meet.

We found the little captain at the head;

His men lay well aligned.

We touched his hand—stone-cold—and he was dead,

And they, all dead behind,

Had never reached their goal, but they died well;

They charged in line, and in the same line fell.

The well-known rosy colours of his faceWere almost lost in grey.We saw that, dying and in hopeless case,For others' sake that dayHe'd smothered all rebellious groans: in deathHis fingers were tight clenched between his teeth.

The well-known rosy colours of his face

Were almost lost in grey.

We saw that, dying and in hopeless case,

For others' sake that day

He'd smothered all rebellious groans: in death

His fingers were tight clenched between his teeth.

For those who live uprightly and die trueHeaven has no bars or locks,And serves all taste.... Or what's for him to doUp there, but hunt the fox?Angelic choirs? No, Justice must provideFor one who rode straight and at hunting died.

For those who live uprightly and die true

Heaven has no bars or locks,

And serves all taste.... Or what's for him to do

Up there, but hunt the fox?

Angelic choirs? No, Justice must provide

For one who rode straight and at hunting died.

So if Heaven had no Hunt before he came,Why, it must find one now:If any shirk and doubt they know the game,There's one to teach them how:And the whole host of Seraphim completeMust jog in scarlet to his opening Meet.

So if Heaven had no Hunt before he came,

Why, it must find one now:

If any shirk and doubt they know the game,

There's one to teach them how:

And the whole host of Seraphim complete

Must jog in scarlet to his opening Meet.

It's hard to know if you're alive or deadWhen steel and fire go roaring through your head.One moment you'll be crouching at your gunTraversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:The next, you choke and clutch at your right breastNo time to think—leave all—and off you go ...To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime—Breathe no goodbye, but ho, for the Red West!It's a queer time.You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"When somehow something gives and your feet drag.You fall and strike your head; yet feel no painAnd find ... you're digging tunnels through the hayIn the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!You're back in the old sailor suit again.It's a queer time.Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out—A great roar—the trench shakes and falls about—You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo!Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,Hanky to nose—that lyddite makes a stench—Getting her pinafore all over grime.Funny! because she died ten years ago!It's a queer time.The trouble is, things happen much too quick;Up jump the Bosches, rifles thump and click,You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:Even good Christians don't like passing straightFrom Tipperary or their Hymn of HateTo Alleluiah-chanting, and the chimeOf golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...It's a queer time.

It's hard to know if you're alive or deadWhen steel and fire go roaring through your head.

It's hard to know if you're alive or dead

When steel and fire go roaring through your head.

One moment you'll be crouching at your gunTraversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:The next, you choke and clutch at your right breastNo time to think—leave all—and off you go ...To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime—Breathe no goodbye, but ho, for the Red West!It's a queer time.

One moment you'll be crouching at your gun

Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:

The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast

No time to think—leave all—and off you go ...

To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,

To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime—

Breathe no goodbye, but ho, for the Red West!

It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"When somehow something gives and your feet drag.You fall and strike your head; yet feel no painAnd find ... you're digging tunnels through the hayIn the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!You're back in the old sailor suit again.It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"

When somehow something gives and your feet drag.

You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain

And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay

In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.

Oh springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!

You're back in the old sailor suit again.

It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out—A great roar—the trench shakes and falls about—You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo!Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,Hanky to nose—that lyddite makes a stench—Getting her pinafore all over grime.Funny! because she died ten years ago!It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out—

A great roar—the trench shakes and falls about—

You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then ... hullo!

Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,

Hanky to nose—that lyddite makes a stench—

Getting her pinafore all over grime.

Funny! because she died ten years ago!

It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick;Up jump the Bosches, rifles thump and click,You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:Even good Christians don't like passing straightFrom Tipperary or their Hymn of HateTo Alleluiah-chanting, and the chimeOf golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick;

Up jump the Bosches, rifles thump and click,

You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:

Even good Christians don't like passing straight

From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate

To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime

Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day ...

It's a queer time.

I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slowIn the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,Red poppy floods of June,August, and yellowing Autumn, soTo Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,And you've been everything,Dear, you've been everything that I most lackIn these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books,Music, the quiet of an English wood,Beautiful comrade-looks,The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,And Peace, and all that's good.

I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow

In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;

Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,

Red poppy floods of June,

August, and yellowing Autumn, so

To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,

And you've been everything,

Dear, you've been everything that I most lackIn these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books,Music, the quiet of an English wood,Beautiful comrade-looks,The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,And Peace, and all that's good.

Dear, you've been everything that I most lack

In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books,

Music, the quiet of an English wood,

Beautiful comrade-looks,

The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,

The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,

And Peace, and all that's good.

What life to lead and where to goAfter the War, after the War?We'd often talked this way beforeBut I still see the brazier glowThat April night, still feel the smokeAnd stifling pungency of burning coke.I'd thought: "A cottage in the hills,North Wales, a cottage full of books,Pictures and brass and cosy nooksAnd comfortable broad window-sills,Flowers in the garden, walls all white,I'd live there peacefully, and dream and write."But Willy said "No, Home's no goodOld England's quite a hopeless placeI've lost all feeling for my race:But France has given me heart and bloodEnough to last me all my lifeI'm off to Canada with my wee wife."Come with us, Mac, old thing," but MacDrawled: "No, a Coral Isle for me,A warm green jewel in the South Sea.There's merit in a lumber shackAnd labour is a grand thing ... butGive me my hot beach and my cocoanut."So then we built and stocked for WillyA log-hut, and for Mac a calmRockabye cradle on a palm—Idyllic dwellings—but this sillyMad War has now wrecked both, and whatBetter hopes has my little cottage got?July, 1915.

What life to lead and where to go

After the War, after the War?

We'd often talked this way before

But I still see the brazier glow

That April night, still feel the smoke

And stifling pungency of burning coke.

I'd thought: "A cottage in the hills,North Wales, a cottage full of books,Pictures and brass and cosy nooksAnd comfortable broad window-sills,Flowers in the garden, walls all white,I'd live there peacefully, and dream and write."

I'd thought: "A cottage in the hills,

North Wales, a cottage full of books,

Pictures and brass and cosy nooks

And comfortable broad window-sills,

Flowers in the garden, walls all white,

I'd live there peacefully, and dream and write."

But Willy said "No, Home's no goodOld England's quite a hopeless placeI've lost all feeling for my race:But France has given me heart and bloodEnough to last me all my lifeI'm off to Canada with my wee wife.

But Willy said "No, Home's no good

Old England's quite a hopeless place

I've lost all feeling for my race:

But France has given me heart and blood

Enough to last me all my life

I'm off to Canada with my wee wife.

"Come with us, Mac, old thing," but MacDrawled: "No, a Coral Isle for me,A warm green jewel in the South Sea.There's merit in a lumber shackAnd labour is a grand thing ... butGive me my hot beach and my cocoanut."

"Come with us, Mac, old thing," but Mac

Drawled: "No, a Coral Isle for me,

A warm green jewel in the South Sea.

There's merit in a lumber shack

And labour is a grand thing ... but

Give me my hot beach and my cocoanut."

So then we built and stocked for WillyA log-hut, and for Mac a calmRockabye cradle on a palm—Idyllic dwellings—but this sillyMad War has now wrecked both, and whatBetter hopes has my little cottage got?

So then we built and stocked for Willy

A log-hut, and for Mac a calm

Rockabye cradle on a palm—

Idyllic dwellings—but this silly

Mad War has now wrecked both, and what

Better hopes has my little cottage got?

July, 1915.

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