HEAP the earth upon this head.Nature, like a wistful child,Clings unto the clay she fed,Shatters it—unreconciledMoans the ashes of her dead.Heap the earth upon this head.Chanter of the lonely tombs,Lift him to thy harmony—Moulded in the million wombsThat breed the soul’s nobility!...Such the man that perished?Heap the earth upon this head.Our masters brood and preach and plot,And mourn in monuments, not tears,The man the centuries forgotWho builded up the mighty years!Faded are the fights they led,Piteous the blood they shed.Heap the earth upon this head.Heap, heap the earth upon this head,Brother he was to you, to me—Lived, lusted, joyed and wept....TheyspentTheir verbal earnings, and he wentAnd fought for human liberty,And died. And politics were free.Raise, raise memorials to our Dead....But heap the earth upon this head.Oh! heap the earth upon this head.
HEAP the earth upon this head.Nature, like a wistful child,Clings unto the clay she fed,Shatters it—unreconciledMoans the ashes of her dead.Heap the earth upon this head.Chanter of the lonely tombs,Lift him to thy harmony—Moulded in the million wombsThat breed the soul’s nobility!...Such the man that perished?Heap the earth upon this head.Our masters brood and preach and plot,And mourn in monuments, not tears,The man the centuries forgotWho builded up the mighty years!Faded are the fights they led,Piteous the blood they shed.Heap the earth upon this head.Heap, heap the earth upon this head,Brother he was to you, to me—Lived, lusted, joyed and wept....TheyspentTheir verbal earnings, and he wentAnd fought for human liberty,And died. And politics were free.Raise, raise memorials to our Dead....But heap the earth upon this head.Oh! heap the earth upon this head.
HEAP the earth upon this head.Nature, like a wistful child,Clings unto the clay she fed,Shatters it—unreconciledMoans the ashes of her dead.Heap the earth upon this head.
Chanter of the lonely tombs,Lift him to thy harmony—Moulded in the million wombsThat breed the soul’s nobility!...Such the man that perished?Heap the earth upon this head.
Our masters brood and preach and plot,And mourn in monuments, not tears,The man the centuries forgotWho builded up the mighty years!Faded are the fights they led,Piteous the blood they shed.Heap the earth upon this head.
Heap, heap the earth upon this head,Brother he was to you, to me—Lived, lusted, joyed and wept....TheyspentTheir verbal earnings, and he wentAnd fought for human liberty,And died. And politics were free.
Raise, raise memorials to our Dead....But heap the earth upon this head.Oh! heap the earth upon this head.
ISEE men walk wild ways with love,Along the wind their laughter blownStrikes up against the singing stars;But I lie all alone.When love has stricken laughter deadAnd tears their silly hearts in twain,They long for easeful death, but IAm hungry for their pain.
ISEE men walk wild ways with love,Along the wind their laughter blownStrikes up against the singing stars;But I lie all alone.When love has stricken laughter deadAnd tears their silly hearts in twain,They long for easeful death, but IAm hungry for their pain.
ISEE men walk wild ways with love,Along the wind their laughter blownStrikes up against the singing stars;But I lie all alone.When love has stricken laughter deadAnd tears their silly hearts in twain,They long for easeful death, but IAm hungry for their pain.
UNDER the crags of Teiriwch,The door-sills of the Sun,Where God has left the bony earthJust as it was begun;Where clouds sail past like argosiesBreasting the crested hills,With mainsail and foretop-sailThat the thin breeze fills;With ballast of round thunder,And anchored with the rain;With a long shadow soundingThe deep, far plain:Where rocks are broken playthingsBy petulant gods hurled,And Heaven sits a-straddleOn the roof-ridge of the World.—Under the crags of TeiriwchIs a round pile of stones:Large stones, small stones,—White as old bones;Some from high places,Or from the lake’s shore;And every man that passesAdds one more:The years it has been growingVerge on a hundred score.For in the cave of TeiriwchThat scarce holds a sheep,Where plovers and rock-coniesAnd wild things sleep,A woman lived for ninety yearsOn bilberries and mossAnd lizards, and small creeping things,And carved herself a cross:But wild hill robbersFound the ancient saintAnd dragged her to the sunlight,Making no complaint:Too old was she for weeping,Too shrivelled, and too dry:She crouched and mumle-mumledAnd mumled to the sky.No breath had she for wailing,Her cheeks were paper-thin:She was, for all her holinessAs ugly as sin.They cramped her in a barrel—All but her bobbing head.—And rolled her down from TeiriwchUntil she was dead:They took her out, and buried her—Just broken bits of boneAnd rags and skin: and over herSet one small stone:But if you pass her sepulchreAnd add not one theretoThe ghost of that old murdered SaintWill roll in front of youThe whole night through.The clouds sail past in argosiesAnd cold drips the rain:The whole world is far and highAbove the tilted plain.The silent mist floats eerily,And I am here alone:Dare I pass the place by,And cast not a stone?
UNDER the crags of Teiriwch,The door-sills of the Sun,Where God has left the bony earthJust as it was begun;Where clouds sail past like argosiesBreasting the crested hills,With mainsail and foretop-sailThat the thin breeze fills;With ballast of round thunder,And anchored with the rain;With a long shadow soundingThe deep, far plain:Where rocks are broken playthingsBy petulant gods hurled,And Heaven sits a-straddleOn the roof-ridge of the World.—Under the crags of TeiriwchIs a round pile of stones:Large stones, small stones,—White as old bones;Some from high places,Or from the lake’s shore;And every man that passesAdds one more:The years it has been growingVerge on a hundred score.For in the cave of TeiriwchThat scarce holds a sheep,Where plovers and rock-coniesAnd wild things sleep,A woman lived for ninety yearsOn bilberries and mossAnd lizards, and small creeping things,And carved herself a cross:But wild hill robbersFound the ancient saintAnd dragged her to the sunlight,Making no complaint:Too old was she for weeping,Too shrivelled, and too dry:She crouched and mumle-mumledAnd mumled to the sky.No breath had she for wailing,Her cheeks were paper-thin:She was, for all her holinessAs ugly as sin.They cramped her in a barrel—All but her bobbing head.—And rolled her down from TeiriwchUntil she was dead:They took her out, and buried her—Just broken bits of boneAnd rags and skin: and over herSet one small stone:But if you pass her sepulchreAnd add not one theretoThe ghost of that old murdered SaintWill roll in front of youThe whole night through.The clouds sail past in argosiesAnd cold drips the rain:The whole world is far and highAbove the tilted plain.The silent mist floats eerily,And I am here alone:Dare I pass the place by,And cast not a stone?
UNDER the crags of Teiriwch,The door-sills of the Sun,Where God has left the bony earthJust as it was begun;Where clouds sail past like argosiesBreasting the crested hills,With mainsail and foretop-sailThat the thin breeze fills;With ballast of round thunder,And anchored with the rain;With a long shadow soundingThe deep, far plain:Where rocks are broken playthingsBy petulant gods hurled,And Heaven sits a-straddleOn the roof-ridge of the World.—Under the crags of TeiriwchIs a round pile of stones:Large stones, small stones,—White as old bones;Some from high places,Or from the lake’s shore;And every man that passesAdds one more:The years it has been growingVerge on a hundred score.
For in the cave of TeiriwchThat scarce holds a sheep,Where plovers and rock-coniesAnd wild things sleep,A woman lived for ninety yearsOn bilberries and mossAnd lizards, and small creeping things,And carved herself a cross:But wild hill robbersFound the ancient saintAnd dragged her to the sunlight,Making no complaint:Too old was she for weeping,Too shrivelled, and too dry:She crouched and mumle-mumledAnd mumled to the sky.No breath had she for wailing,Her cheeks were paper-thin:She was, for all her holinessAs ugly as sin.They cramped her in a barrel—All but her bobbing head.—And rolled her down from TeiriwchUntil she was dead:They took her out, and buried her—Just broken bits of boneAnd rags and skin: and over herSet one small stone:But if you pass her sepulchreAnd add not one theretoThe ghost of that old murdered SaintWill roll in front of youThe whole night through.
The clouds sail past in argosiesAnd cold drips the rain:The whole world is far and highAbove the tilted plain.The silent mist floats eerily,And I am here alone:Dare I pass the place by,And cast not a stone?
(From “The Englishman.”)
“IF kith and kin disowned you,And all your friends were dead?”—I’d buy a spotted handkerchiefTo flaunt upon my head:I’d resurrect my maddest clothes,And gaily would I laugh,And climb the proud hills scornfullyWith swinging cherry staff.“But when you’d crossed the sky-line,And knew you were alone?”—I’d cast away the hollow sham,I’d kick the ground, and groan,And tear my coloured handkerchiefAnd snap my staff; and thenI’d curse the God that built me upTo break me down again.
“IF kith and kin disowned you,And all your friends were dead?”—I’d buy a spotted handkerchiefTo flaunt upon my head:I’d resurrect my maddest clothes,And gaily would I laugh,And climb the proud hills scornfullyWith swinging cherry staff.“But when you’d crossed the sky-line,And knew you were alone?”—I’d cast away the hollow sham,I’d kick the ground, and groan,And tear my coloured handkerchiefAnd snap my staff; and thenI’d curse the God that built me upTo break me down again.
“IF kith and kin disowned you,And all your friends were dead?”—I’d buy a spotted handkerchiefTo flaunt upon my head:I’d resurrect my maddest clothes,And gaily would I laugh,And climb the proud hills scornfullyWith swinging cherry staff.
“But when you’d crossed the sky-line,And knew you were alone?”—I’d cast away the hollow sham,I’d kick the ground, and groan,And tear my coloured handkerchiefAnd snap my staff; and thenI’d curse the God that built me upTo break me down again.
HERE’S a daffodilNodding to the hill,Tipsy in the sunlightDrinking his fill.Here’s a violetPearled in dew as yet,Smiling in the wood shade,Sweet coquette!
HERE’S a daffodilNodding to the hill,Tipsy in the sunlightDrinking his fill.Here’s a violetPearled in dew as yet,Smiling in the wood shade,Sweet coquette!
HERE’S a daffodilNodding to the hill,Tipsy in the sunlightDrinking his fill.
Here’s a violetPearled in dew as yet,Smiling in the wood shade,Sweet coquette!
QUEEN Anne is dead’Tis often said,For my part I agree.But she lived full ten score years agoAnd soShe ought to be.
QUEEN Anne is dead’Tis often said,For my part I agree.But she lived full ten score years agoAnd soShe ought to be.
QUEEN Anne is dead’Tis often said,For my part I agree.But she lived full ten score years agoAnd soShe ought to be.
There was a scholarOf Oxford Town.He read till his wits were blunt.He put his gownOn upside down,And his capOn back to front.
There was a scholarOf Oxford Town.He read till his wits were blunt.He put his gownOn upside down,And his capOn back to front.
There was a scholarOf Oxford Town.He read till his wits were blunt.He put his gownOn upside down,And his capOn back to front.
FULL of unearthly peace lies river-water,Glaucous and here and there with irised circles:Now subdued melody rises from the wreathsOf whirling flies, their mazy conflict drivingTo melancholy lamp-images in the pool:An unseen fish greyly breeds lubric roundsUp-reaching to the thrill of populous air:O hour supreme for poised and halting thought!Down colonnade on colonnade of roseThe immense Symbols move augustly on;Mystery, her stony eyes revealed a little,Not cumbered longer by the veils of noise:Evening, a lithe and virginal dream-figure,Wavering between a green cloak and a blue,And, robed at length, turning with exquisiteAnd old despair towards the gate of Dawn:And Fate, bemused awhile and half withdrawn,Charmed to short rest between grim Day and Night.
FULL of unearthly peace lies river-water,Glaucous and here and there with irised circles:Now subdued melody rises from the wreathsOf whirling flies, their mazy conflict drivingTo melancholy lamp-images in the pool:An unseen fish greyly breeds lubric roundsUp-reaching to the thrill of populous air:O hour supreme for poised and halting thought!Down colonnade on colonnade of roseThe immense Symbols move augustly on;Mystery, her stony eyes revealed a little,Not cumbered longer by the veils of noise:Evening, a lithe and virginal dream-figure,Wavering between a green cloak and a blue,And, robed at length, turning with exquisiteAnd old despair towards the gate of Dawn:And Fate, bemused awhile and half withdrawn,Charmed to short rest between grim Day and Night.
FULL of unearthly peace lies river-water,Glaucous and here and there with irised circles:Now subdued melody rises from the wreathsOf whirling flies, their mazy conflict drivingTo melancholy lamp-images in the pool:An unseen fish greyly breeds lubric roundsUp-reaching to the thrill of populous air:O hour supreme for poised and halting thought!Down colonnade on colonnade of roseThe immense Symbols move augustly on;Mystery, her stony eyes revealed a little,Not cumbered longer by the veils of noise:Evening, a lithe and virginal dream-figure,Wavering between a green cloak and a blue,And, robed at length, turning with exquisiteAnd old despair towards the gate of Dawn:And Fate, bemused awhile and half withdrawn,Charmed to short rest between grim Day and Night.
MARSILIO sighed: and drew a rough discordFrom his guitar, and sang so to us listeners:“I too have mounted every step of iceAnd dragged my bleeding ankles, hope-enthralled,To Heaven’s blessed door; when instantlyFrom side-nooks rising tripped the outer angels,In thin, light-hammered armour, giggling boys,But muscular, and with concerted chargeSeized my poor feet, and flung me laughing, laughing,Laughing, down, down among the insect menWho look up never, antwise busy—crawling:Alas! the burden of their feathery laughter,More bitter than my fall, has pried a passageInto my luckless head, and ‘Ha-ha, ha-ha!’Maddens its walls and frets them ruinously:Beware my flitting pestilence: I’ll not gageThat certain easier outlets may not bringThe noise out and about and thick among you:O bitter, bitter days for those it visits!”And murmuring “bitter” with a fading sadnessMarsilio went: the assembly all were silent.
MARSILIO sighed: and drew a rough discordFrom his guitar, and sang so to us listeners:“I too have mounted every step of iceAnd dragged my bleeding ankles, hope-enthralled,To Heaven’s blessed door; when instantlyFrom side-nooks rising tripped the outer angels,In thin, light-hammered armour, giggling boys,But muscular, and with concerted chargeSeized my poor feet, and flung me laughing, laughing,Laughing, down, down among the insect menWho look up never, antwise busy—crawling:Alas! the burden of their feathery laughter,More bitter than my fall, has pried a passageInto my luckless head, and ‘Ha-ha, ha-ha!’Maddens its walls and frets them ruinously:Beware my flitting pestilence: I’ll not gageThat certain easier outlets may not bringThe noise out and about and thick among you:O bitter, bitter days for those it visits!”And murmuring “bitter” with a fading sadnessMarsilio went: the assembly all were silent.
MARSILIO sighed: and drew a rough discordFrom his guitar, and sang so to us listeners:“I too have mounted every step of iceAnd dragged my bleeding ankles, hope-enthralled,To Heaven’s blessed door; when instantlyFrom side-nooks rising tripped the outer angels,In thin, light-hammered armour, giggling boys,But muscular, and with concerted chargeSeized my poor feet, and flung me laughing, laughing,Laughing, down, down among the insect menWho look up never, antwise busy—crawling:Alas! the burden of their feathery laughter,More bitter than my fall, has pried a passageInto my luckless head, and ‘Ha-ha, ha-ha!’Maddens its walls and frets them ruinously:Beware my flitting pestilence: I’ll not gageThat certain easier outlets may not bringThe noise out and about and thick among you:O bitter, bitter days for those it visits!”And murmuring “bitter” with a fading sadnessMarsilio went: the assembly all were silent.
ALCMENA. THREE ASTROLOGERS
IHAVE commanded you as often of oldTo ply the doctor’s trade with my disease,To cure me or to kill; for in whose veinsCourses the age-long poison of despair,Seeks for himself no gentle surgery,Nor wishes for the touch of tender handsUpon his body.
IHAVE commanded you as often of oldTo ply the doctor’s trade with my disease,To cure me or to kill; for in whose veinsCourses the age-long poison of despair,Seeks for himself no gentle surgery,Nor wishes for the touch of tender handsUpon his body.
IHAVE commanded you as often of oldTo ply the doctor’s trade with my disease,To cure me or to kill; for in whose veinsCourses the age-long poison of despair,Seeks for himself no gentle surgery,Nor wishes for the touch of tender handsUpon his body.
Something of your needHas been revealed us. Yet should there remainNo secret hid from the physician’s eye.
Something of your needHas been revealed us. Yet should there remainNo secret hid from the physician’s eye.
Something of your needHas been revealed us. Yet should there remainNo secret hid from the physician’s eye.
It has been said that from the lips of queensShould come no word more bitter than sweet honey.If you adjudge me queen, let this too passThat I must act unqueenly. In my soulDrips wine more bitter than the taste of gall.
It has been said that from the lips of queensShould come no word more bitter than sweet honey.If you adjudge me queen, let this too passThat I must act unqueenly. In my soulDrips wine more bitter than the taste of gall.
It has been said that from the lips of queensShould come no word more bitter than sweet honey.If you adjudge me queen, let this too passThat I must act unqueenly. In my soulDrips wine more bitter than the taste of gall.
When roses bloom most fully, death is near.
When roses bloom most fully, death is near.
When roses bloom most fully, death is near.
You too know this?
You too know this?
You too know this?
We know that life glides slowlyBut death is quicker than a lightning stroke.
We know that life glides slowlyBut death is quicker than a lightning stroke.
We know that life glides slowlyBut death is quicker than a lightning stroke.
Is it of me that you have gained this wisdom?
Is it of me that you have gained this wisdom?
Is it of me that you have gained this wisdom?
The grand revolving spheres of heaven teachThe mind that hears their music. We have learnedTo listen through the clamour of all noonsWith evening in the heart.
The grand revolving spheres of heaven teachThe mind that hears their music. We have learnedTo listen through the clamour of all noonsWith evening in the heart.
The grand revolving spheres of heaven teachThe mind that hears their music. We have learnedTo listen through the clamour of all noonsWith evening in the heart.
He does not liveWho hears no noon-day clamour about his ears.
He does not liveWho hears no noon-day clamour about his ears.
He does not liveWho hears no noon-day clamour about his ears.
And you, Queen, that have lived and now confrontDeath or his shadow deep within your soul,Have you in life such wisdom garnered upAs may disarm the heart’s rebellion?Wherefore then are we summoned?
And you, Queen, that have lived and now confrontDeath or his shadow deep within your soul,Have you in life such wisdom garnered upAs may disarm the heart’s rebellion?Wherefore then are we summoned?
And you, Queen, that have lived and now confrontDeath or his shadow deep within your soul,Have you in life such wisdom garnered upAs may disarm the heart’s rebellion?Wherefore then are we summoned?
The garden of lifeIs barren for you, bearing little fruit,And yields no store for hungry days ahead.
The garden of lifeIs barren for you, bearing little fruit,And yields no store for hungry days ahead.
The garden of lifeIs barren for you, bearing little fruit,And yields no store for hungry days ahead.
To me you seem as one that has in thoughtA hidden sin, and seeks an easy priestWho shall with smooth and flowing words of gracePersuade it from the heart.
To me you seem as one that has in thoughtA hidden sin, and seeks an easy priestWho shall with smooth and flowing words of gracePersuade it from the heart.
To me you seem as one that has in thoughtA hidden sin, and seeks an easy priestWho shall with smooth and flowing words of gracePersuade it from the heart.
Nay, I am sinless.
Nay, I am sinless.
Nay, I am sinless.
You are still young to be thus weary of life.
You are still young to be thus weary of life.
You are still young to be thus weary of life.
There comes to every man a sudden timeWhen he undoes the bolts that bar his heartDisplaying hidden shame and scars concealed.Such season is the present. Hear me now;For I am sick and pale with lingeringOver a mystery that has no clueCreated idly by an idle brain.Astrologers, thrice mighty in yourselves,Say whence crept into me this discontent,This fretfulness of mine. Say whence aroseMy malady, so cunning in its ways,That I tormented have no skill to guideMy doctors to the secret. Day by dayI feel the heavy burden of the fleshGrow heavier. Your words rang true indeed.Though I am young, I am grown weary of life.The tedious cycle of each passing dayLike streams of dripping tears from blinded eyesFalls in the cup of my calamity;While thoughts, such as you guess, are often here,Bringing a sweet temptation.I have triedAll means of remedy. This perfumed air,This gold and ivory, these purple robesHave caused no change. The mute insistent hoursWait for me still, interminably slow.And, as in mental pain a man will craveFor any fierce sensation of the fleshTo rid his agony, so I have cravedThe frenzied lashing of tempestuous rain,The heat of flame, the sharpened fang of frost.I have gone forth at midnight with no robe,And walked bare-footed over stony groundWhile wind and rain have done their worst on me.I have kissed flame and held these hands in fire;These hands have taken the scourge, that is for slaves,To beat my body. Hear then all my curse.Neither the blade of sharp-projecting flintNor wind nor rain nor burning tongue of flameNor knotted scourge can leave a mark on me.These lips are no less red since they were kissedBy glowing coal; these hands are yet untorn.Such is my fate, with flesh insensibleTo suffer from a mind which has no loveAnd no distraction. Have it as you will,I am a shipwreck far on lonely seasWith neither oars aboard, nor land in sight,Nor mast, nor mast for fluttering rags of sail.
There comes to every man a sudden timeWhen he undoes the bolts that bar his heartDisplaying hidden shame and scars concealed.Such season is the present. Hear me now;For I am sick and pale with lingeringOver a mystery that has no clueCreated idly by an idle brain.Astrologers, thrice mighty in yourselves,Say whence crept into me this discontent,This fretfulness of mine. Say whence aroseMy malady, so cunning in its ways,That I tormented have no skill to guideMy doctors to the secret. Day by dayI feel the heavy burden of the fleshGrow heavier. Your words rang true indeed.Though I am young, I am grown weary of life.The tedious cycle of each passing dayLike streams of dripping tears from blinded eyesFalls in the cup of my calamity;While thoughts, such as you guess, are often here,Bringing a sweet temptation.I have triedAll means of remedy. This perfumed air,This gold and ivory, these purple robesHave caused no change. The mute insistent hoursWait for me still, interminably slow.And, as in mental pain a man will craveFor any fierce sensation of the fleshTo rid his agony, so I have cravedThe frenzied lashing of tempestuous rain,The heat of flame, the sharpened fang of frost.I have gone forth at midnight with no robe,And walked bare-footed over stony groundWhile wind and rain have done their worst on me.I have kissed flame and held these hands in fire;These hands have taken the scourge, that is for slaves,To beat my body. Hear then all my curse.Neither the blade of sharp-projecting flintNor wind nor rain nor burning tongue of flameNor knotted scourge can leave a mark on me.These lips are no less red since they were kissedBy glowing coal; these hands are yet untorn.Such is my fate, with flesh insensibleTo suffer from a mind which has no loveAnd no distraction. Have it as you will,I am a shipwreck far on lonely seasWith neither oars aboard, nor land in sight,Nor mast, nor mast for fluttering rags of sail.
There comes to every man a sudden timeWhen he undoes the bolts that bar his heartDisplaying hidden shame and scars concealed.Such season is the present. Hear me now;For I am sick and pale with lingeringOver a mystery that has no clueCreated idly by an idle brain.Astrologers, thrice mighty in yourselves,Say whence crept into me this discontent,This fretfulness of mine. Say whence aroseMy malady, so cunning in its ways,That I tormented have no skill to guideMy doctors to the secret. Day by dayI feel the heavy burden of the fleshGrow heavier. Your words rang true indeed.Though I am young, I am grown weary of life.The tedious cycle of each passing dayLike streams of dripping tears from blinded eyesFalls in the cup of my calamity;While thoughts, such as you guess, are often here,Bringing a sweet temptation.I have triedAll means of remedy. This perfumed air,This gold and ivory, these purple robesHave caused no change. The mute insistent hoursWait for me still, interminably slow.And, as in mental pain a man will craveFor any fierce sensation of the fleshTo rid his agony, so I have cravedThe frenzied lashing of tempestuous rain,The heat of flame, the sharpened fang of frost.I have gone forth at midnight with no robe,And walked bare-footed over stony groundWhile wind and rain have done their worst on me.
I have kissed flame and held these hands in fire;These hands have taken the scourge, that is for slaves,To beat my body. Hear then all my curse.Neither the blade of sharp-projecting flintNor wind nor rain nor burning tongue of flameNor knotted scourge can leave a mark on me.These lips are no less red since they were kissedBy glowing coal; these hands are yet untorn.Such is my fate, with flesh insensibleTo suffer from a mind which has no loveAnd no distraction. Have it as you will,I am a shipwreck far on lonely seasWith neither oars aboard, nor land in sight,Nor mast, nor mast for fluttering rags of sail.
When you have seen the solemn moon in tearsWith long green tresses dipped in a purple sea,And noted in each tear a breaking heart,A lump of salty crystal, then your dreamsWill give you counsel which we cannot give.
When you have seen the solemn moon in tearsWith long green tresses dipped in a purple sea,And noted in each tear a breaking heart,A lump of salty crystal, then your dreamsWill give you counsel which we cannot give.
When you have seen the solemn moon in tearsWith long green tresses dipped in a purple sea,And noted in each tear a breaking heart,A lump of salty crystal, then your dreamsWill give you counsel which we cannot give.
We are empowered to tell you what has beenAnd what shall be, but this created imageOf your own thought eludes our groping hand.
We are empowered to tell you what has beenAnd what shall be, but this created imageOf your own thought eludes our groping hand.
We are empowered to tell you what has beenAnd what shall be, but this created imageOf your own thought eludes our groping hand.
Soon he shall come to you!That stung your heart?
Soon he shall come to you!That stung your heart?
Soon he shall come to you!That stung your heart?
O wailing winds, scatter these words awayAs chaff unfruitful to unfruitful soil.
O wailing winds, scatter these words awayAs chaff unfruitful to unfruitful soil.
O wailing winds, scatter these words awayAs chaff unfruitful to unfruitful soil.
As glints the jewel in the toad’s brown head——
As glints the jewel in the toad’s brown head——
As glints the jewel in the toad’s brown head——
As lurks a bitter sting in honeyed words——
As lurks a bitter sting in honeyed words——
As lurks a bitter sting in honeyed words——
As a foul plague lies hid beneath the skin——
As a foul plague lies hid beneath the skin——
As a foul plague lies hid beneath the skin——
You wrong me.
You wrong me.
You wrong me.
Nay, your heart has uttered it.When the strong arms of young Amphitryon——
Nay, your heart has uttered it.When the strong arms of young Amphitryon——
Nay, your heart has uttered it.When the strong arms of young Amphitryon——
I hear a voice.
I hear a voice.
I hear a voice.
O God! the dream returns.
O God! the dream returns.
O God! the dream returns.
The dream was not, then, of Amphitryon?
The dream was not, then, of Amphitryon?
The dream was not, then, of Amphitryon?
May the royal hand of Zeus deliver me.
May the royal hand of Zeus deliver me.
May the royal hand of Zeus deliver me.
[Zeusenters in the form of Amphitryon.
[Zeusenters in the form of Amphitryon.
[Zeusenters in the form of Amphitryon.
Your task is ended. Go, astrologers,Taking your admonition to such earsAs are in need of it. Go silently.
Your task is ended. Go, astrologers,Taking your admonition to such earsAs are in need of it. Go silently.
Your task is ended. Go, astrologers,Taking your admonition to such earsAs are in need of it. Go silently.
[TheAstrologersgo out.
[TheAstrologersgo out.
[TheAstrologersgo out.
Still you pursue their empty sorceries?
Still you pursue their empty sorceries?
Still you pursue their empty sorceries?
Will you now weary me again? You driveMy friends away like dogs. I follow them.
Will you now weary me again? You driveMy friends away like dogs. I follow them.
Will you now weary me again? You driveMy friends away like dogs. I follow them.
A sullen greeting to the traveller.
A sullen greeting to the traveller.
A sullen greeting to the traveller.
Have I not told you often how it isWith me and you? Or must you ask againAnd hear me through unreasoned reasoningsTo the last drop of bitterness? And yet——
Have I not told you often how it isWith me and you? Or must you ask againAnd hear me through unreasoned reasoningsTo the last drop of bitterness? And yet——
Have I not told you often how it isWith me and you? Or must you ask againAnd hear me through unreasoned reasoningsTo the last drop of bitterness? And yet——
Why gaze so strangely on me?
Why gaze so strangely on me?
Why gaze so strangely on me?
I had thoughtYour journey would be longer.
I had thoughtYour journey would be longer.
I had thoughtYour journey would be longer.
No, alas!
No, alas!
No, alas!
What brings you here to probe the core of my heartWith your unspoken question?
What brings you here to probe the core of my heartWith your unspoken question?
What brings you here to probe the core of my heartWith your unspoken question?
We have needNo longer of these lamps. Quench them. The dawnArises in the East.
We have needNo longer of these lamps. Quench them. The dawnArises in the East.
We have needNo longer of these lamps. Quench them. The dawnArises in the East.
Since when am IBecome your slave?
Since when am IBecome your slave?
Since when am IBecome your slave?
Since you obeyed my word.
Since you obeyed my word.
Since you obeyed my word.
I was no friend to such obedienceIn the dead days that were my life’s design.
I was no friend to such obedienceIn the dead days that were my life’s design.
I was no friend to such obedienceIn the dead days that were my life’s design.
You tremble. Speak your fear.
You tremble. Speak your fear.
You tremble. Speak your fear.
Heart’s utteranceWere mockery, if spoken by the tongue.
Heart’s utteranceWere mockery, if spoken by the tongue.
Heart’s utteranceWere mockery, if spoken by the tongue.
Yet, be assured, nothing is hid from me.
Yet, be assured, nothing is hid from me.
Yet, be assured, nothing is hid from me.
Unmoving figure of AmphitryonI knew and hated, when you crossed the threshold,Hope seemed to step beside you.
Unmoving figure of AmphitryonI knew and hated, when you crossed the threshold,Hope seemed to step beside you.
Unmoving figure of AmphitryonI knew and hated, when you crossed the threshold,Hope seemed to step beside you.
Hope is mine.
Hope is mine.
Hope is mine.
Then say, where have you found the keys of life,That you unlock its portals suddenly?
Then say, where have you found the keys of life,That you unlock its portals suddenly?
Then say, where have you found the keys of life,That you unlock its portals suddenly?
At my command all doors are set ajar.
At my command all doors are set ajar.
At my command all doors are set ajar.
The miserable forebodings of the nightHave fallen from me like the gossamerWhich spiders weave until a master-handSweeps clean their tracery. Mark you a changeIn me, as I in you?
The miserable forebodings of the nightHave fallen from me like the gossamerWhich spiders weave until a master-handSweeps clean their tracery. Mark you a changeIn me, as I in you?
The miserable forebodings of the nightHave fallen from me like the gossamerWhich spiders weave until a master-handSweeps clean their tracery. Mark you a changeIn me, as I in you?
I am unchanging,But, till this moment, me you have not known.
I am unchanging,But, till this moment, me you have not known.
I am unchanging,But, till this moment, me you have not known.
Or known myself save as a falling leaf,The toy of winds, uncherished and unloved,Gliding to earth and slow decay in earthOf what was green and young.
Or known myself save as a falling leaf,The toy of winds, uncherished and unloved,Gliding to earth and slow decay in earthOf what was green and young.
Or known myself save as a falling leaf,The toy of winds, uncherished and unloved,Gliding to earth and slow decay in earthOf what was green and young.
When you were youngerAnd guarded still the pitiable illusionThat life is good and destiny exalted,Did you not dream perhaps of sacrificeIn which yourself as immolated victimShould satisfy delirious desire,Wedded at last in death with strength,—which marriageHumanly shaped has never learned to yield?
When you were youngerAnd guarded still the pitiable illusionThat life is good and destiny exalted,Did you not dream perhaps of sacrificeIn which yourself as immolated victimShould satisfy delirious desire,Wedded at last in death with strength,—which marriageHumanly shaped has never learned to yield?
When you were youngerAnd guarded still the pitiable illusionThat life is good and destiny exalted,Did you not dream perhaps of sacrificeIn which yourself as immolated victimShould satisfy delirious desire,Wedded at last in death with strength,—which marriageHumanly shaped has never learned to yield?
Your voice has in it the power of new commandTo pierce my secret.
Your voice has in it the power of new commandTo pierce my secret.
Your voice has in it the power of new commandTo pierce my secret.
Naught is hid from me.
Naught is hid from me.
Naught is hid from me.
My soul is weak with longing for your counsel.
My soul is weak with longing for your counsel.
My soul is weak with longing for your counsel.
When Semele, with lightning-darted flameEngirdled, woke with knowledge she must die,Having aspired to touch the majestyOf the omnipotent, in no wise dismayedWas she consumed with that unquenchable fireWhich burns all veils that overspread the flesh.
When Semele, with lightning-darted flameEngirdled, woke with knowledge she must die,Having aspired to touch the majestyOf the omnipotent, in no wise dismayedWas she consumed with that unquenchable fireWhich burns all veils that overspread the flesh.
When Semele, with lightning-darted flameEngirdled, woke with knowledge she must die,Having aspired to touch the majestyOf the omnipotent, in no wise dismayedWas she consumed with that unquenchable fireWhich burns all veils that overspread the flesh.
Whence came the thought of Semele to you?And why this chain of words now coiled on meAs a predestined victim?
Whence came the thought of Semele to you?And why this chain of words now coiled on meAs a predestined victim?
Whence came the thought of Semele to you?And why this chain of words now coiled on meAs a predestined victim?
I myselfBlaze with the fire of Semele. This handShall rend the veil once more. Myself am hope,Sole arbiter of germinating life,The driver of the lusty winds of morning,The cloud-compeller, dancer of the danceWherein the sea is festive and the hillsNod musical assent, the charioteerThat drags the world behind his flashing wheels,Bringer of life and change that is called deathAnd vibrant longing, setter of an endTo fear and doubt, a darting two-edged swordThat heals the wounds created of itself,The crystal-veined one, in whose blood there flowsThe flame of life—in such wise apprehendMe standing here, and in such wise remarkThe honour I have done you.
I myselfBlaze with the fire of Semele. This handShall rend the veil once more. Myself am hope,Sole arbiter of germinating life,The driver of the lusty winds of morning,The cloud-compeller, dancer of the danceWherein the sea is festive and the hillsNod musical assent, the charioteerThat drags the world behind his flashing wheels,Bringer of life and change that is called deathAnd vibrant longing, setter of an endTo fear and doubt, a darting two-edged swordThat heals the wounds created of itself,The crystal-veined one, in whose blood there flowsThe flame of life—in such wise apprehendMe standing here, and in such wise remarkThe honour I have done you.
I myselfBlaze with the fire of Semele. This handShall rend the veil once more. Myself am hope,Sole arbiter of germinating life,The driver of the lusty winds of morning,The cloud-compeller, dancer of the danceWherein the sea is festive and the hillsNod musical assent, the charioteerThat drags the world behind his flashing wheels,Bringer of life and change that is called deathAnd vibrant longing, setter of an endTo fear and doubt, a darting two-edged swordThat heals the wounds created of itself,The crystal-veined one, in whose blood there flowsThe flame of life—in such wise apprehendMe standing here, and in such wise remarkThe honour I have done you.
Open-eyedAt last, I see a spirit stands beside me.For this cause I grew pale and bent my headIn sweet confusion. Bringer of release,Even if it should be my worship fallsBefore a devil from hell, behold I kneelTo kiss the fragrance of your garment’s hem.
Open-eyedAt last, I see a spirit stands beside me.For this cause I grew pale and bent my headIn sweet confusion. Bringer of release,Even if it should be my worship fallsBefore a devil from hell, behold I kneelTo kiss the fragrance of your garment’s hem.
Open-eyedAt last, I see a spirit stands beside me.For this cause I grew pale and bent my headIn sweet confusion. Bringer of release,Even if it should be my worship fallsBefore a devil from hell, behold I kneelTo kiss the fragrance of your garment’s hem.
FATE from an unimaginable throneScatters a million roses on the world;They fall like shooting stars across the skyGlittering:Under a dark clump of treesMan, a gaunt creature, squats upon the groundApe-like, and grins to see those brilliant flowersRaining through the dark foliage:He triesSometimes to clutch at them, but in his handsThey melt like snow.Then in despair he turnsBack to his wigwam, stirs the embers, patsHis blear-eyed dog, and smokes a pipe, and soon,Wrapped in his blankets, drowses off to sleep.But all his dreams are full of flying flowers.
FATE from an unimaginable throneScatters a million roses on the world;They fall like shooting stars across the skyGlittering:Under a dark clump of treesMan, a gaunt creature, squats upon the groundApe-like, and grins to see those brilliant flowersRaining through the dark foliage:He triesSometimes to clutch at them, but in his handsThey melt like snow.Then in despair he turnsBack to his wigwam, stirs the embers, patsHis blear-eyed dog, and smokes a pipe, and soon,Wrapped in his blankets, drowses off to sleep.But all his dreams are full of flying flowers.
FATE from an unimaginable throneScatters a million roses on the world;They fall like shooting stars across the skyGlittering:Under a dark clump of treesMan, a gaunt creature, squats upon the groundApe-like, and grins to see those brilliant flowersRaining through the dark foliage:He triesSometimes to clutch at them, but in his handsThey melt like snow.Then in despair he turnsBack to his wigwam, stirs the embers, patsHis blear-eyed dog, and smokes a pipe, and soon,Wrapped in his blankets, drowses off to sleep.
But all his dreams are full of flying flowers.
IHELD imagination’s candle highTo thread the pitchy cavern, life. A whisperDazed all the dark with sweetness oversweet,A lithe body languished around my neck.“Do out this unavailing light;” she pleaded.“Soother is darkness. How may candle striveWith topless, bleak, obdurate blanks of space?It can but cold the darkness else were warm.Leave, leave to search so bitter-toilfullyUnthroughgone silence, leave and follow me;For I will lead where many riches lie,Where rippling silks and snow-soft cushions, rareCool wines, and delicates unearthly sweet,And all the comfort flesh of man craves more.We two shall dallying uncurl the longAnd fragrant hours.” She reached a slender armSlowly along mine to the light. I flung herOff, down. My candle showed her cheeks raddled,Her bindweed pressure made me sick and mad;I flung her back to the gloom. Her further handClanked; hidden gyves fell ringing to the rock.Peering behind her barely I could discernOutstretching bodies clamped along the floor,Unmoving most and silent, some uneasy,Stirring and moaning. Smothery clutches cameOf slothful scents and fingered at my throat;But, brushing by them, unaccompaniedI held aloft my rushlight in the caveAnd searched for beauty through the cleaner air.Thus far in parable. Laugh loud, O world,Laugh loud and hollow. There are those would spurnYour joys unjoyous and your acid fruits.They would not tread the corpsy paths of commerceNor juggle with men’s bones; they would not chafferTheir souls for strumpet pleasure. Cast them out,Deny what little they would ask of life,Assail, starve, torture, murder them, and laugh.Shall it be war between us? Better warThan faint submission—better death. And yetI would not, no, nor shall not die. How weaponedShall I go passionate against your host?How, cautelous, elude your calm blockade?Of older days heart-free the poet rovedAlong the furrowed lanes, and watched the robinSquat in a puddle, whir his stumpy wings,And tweet amid the tempest he aroused;A hare would hirple on ahead (keep back,Let her get out of sight; quick, cross yourself),Or taper weasel slink past over the road;And, seeing native blossoms, breathing airFrom English hills, what recked the wandererThat barons threw no penny to his song?Should he be hungered, he would seek some rillAnd, scrambling down the hazel scarp, would walkWet-ankled up the stream until he foundA larger pool of cold, colourless water,Full two-foot deep, scooped out of solid stoneBy a chuckling trickle spated after rains.There he would rest upon the bank, while slowlyHis fingers crept along the crannied rock.Poor starveling belly!—No, that lower fissure,Straight, lipless grin like an unholy god’s,Reach out for that. The water stings to his armpit,He hangs above the pool from head to waist,His legs push tautly back for body’s poise,And careful, careful creep the sensitive fingers.—Sudden touch of cold, wet silk.Now flesh be one with brain! He lightly strokesThe slippery smoothness upward to the gillsAnd throws a twiring trout upon the grass.Or where the rattle of the water slacksTo low leaf-whisper, there he gropes beneathRoot-knots that hug black, unctuous mould from topplingTo slutch the daylit stream. His wary nervesTell blunt teeth biting at his thumb. StormswiftHe snatches a heavy hand over his head.A floundering eel flops wildly to the floor,And glides for the water. Quick the hungry poetSpins round, whips out his knife, and shears the neckHow firm soever gripped, the limber bodyLong after wriggles headless out of hand.But if he roam across foot-tangling heathAnd bracken, where no burble glads the rootOf juicy grasses? If along his wayNever a kingcup lifted bowls of light,Nor burly watermint with bludgeon scent,Beat down the fair, mild, slumbering meadowsweet?If no nearby forgetmenot looks upWith frank and modest eye, no yellow flagPlays Harold crowned and girt by fearless pikes?No more he fails of ample fare; nor famineDrains out his blood and piecemeal drags his fleshFrom outward-leaping bones, till wrathful death,Grudging to lose a pebble from his cairn,Bears off the pitiful orts. For, stepping soft,He finds a rabbit gazing at the worldWith eyes in which not many moons have gleamed;And, raising a bawl of more expended breathThan fritter your burghers in a year of gabbling,He runs and hurls himself headlong on to it.Stunned at the cry, the rabbit waits and dithers;His muscles melt beneath him; “Pluck up strength,”He calls to his legs; “oh, stiffen, stiffen!” and stillHe waits and dithers. Now the trembling scaleOf timeless pain crashes suddenly down,And life’s a puffed-out flame.Thus the poetOf bygone England (as an alchemistAfter ill magics and long labours wroughtSeals in the flask his magisterium,Lest volatile it waste among the winds,And all men breathe a never-ageing youth)Found way to pend within his body lifeAnd what of pain or interwoven joyLife brings to poets. Friend, I do not gulpAnd weep with maudlin, sentimental tears,Lacking a late lamented golden age.The more of life was ever misery’s,And Socrates won hemlock. Yet beforeWas man so constant enemy to man?Did earth grow bleak at all these purposeless,Rotting and blotting, roaking, smoking chimneys?Look, men are dying, women dying, children dying.They sell their souls for bread, and poison-filthsWhiten their flesh, bow their bodies. Crippled,Consumption-spotted, feeble-minded, sullen,They seek, bewildered, out of black despair,The star of life; so, dying a Christian death,Lie seven a grave unheedful. “Bad as that?Put down five hundred on the Lord Mayor’s list.After the cost of organizing’s paidThere’ll still be something left. Besides, it looks well,And charity brings the firm new customers.Not that I hold with all this nonsense really.When I was young I’d nothing more than they,But I climbed, and trampled other people down.Why shouldn’t they?” O murderers, look, look, look.No man but tramples, tramples on his neighbour,And these the lowest wrench and writhe and kickAnd crush the desperate lives of whom they can.I will not tread the corpsy path of commerceNor juggle with men’s bones. The world shall wendThose murderous ways. Not I, no, never I.You shall not gaol me round with city walls;I will not waste among your houses; roadsThat indiscriminate feel a thousand footingsShall not for mine augment their insolence.But, as of old the poet, poet nowShall hold a near communion with earth,Free from all traffic or truck with worldlihood:As poet one time lived of natural bounty,So now shall I. Yet differs even this.Me no man wronging still the world shall houndWith interdict of food. Gamekeepers, bailiffs,And all the manlings vail and bob to lordsShall sturdy stand on decent English LawAnd threat my famine with a worser fate,The seasonless monotonies of wallsThat straitlier cabin than the closest town.So let them threat. War stands between us. ITake peril comrade, knowing a hazel scarpThat breaks down ragged to a scampering brook;Knowing a hill whose deep-slit, slanting sidesBrave out the wind and shoulder the rough clouds through.
IHELD imagination’s candle highTo thread the pitchy cavern, life. A whisperDazed all the dark with sweetness oversweet,A lithe body languished around my neck.“Do out this unavailing light;” she pleaded.“Soother is darkness. How may candle striveWith topless, bleak, obdurate blanks of space?It can but cold the darkness else were warm.Leave, leave to search so bitter-toilfullyUnthroughgone silence, leave and follow me;For I will lead where many riches lie,Where rippling silks and snow-soft cushions, rareCool wines, and delicates unearthly sweet,And all the comfort flesh of man craves more.We two shall dallying uncurl the longAnd fragrant hours.” She reached a slender armSlowly along mine to the light. I flung herOff, down. My candle showed her cheeks raddled,Her bindweed pressure made me sick and mad;I flung her back to the gloom. Her further handClanked; hidden gyves fell ringing to the rock.Peering behind her barely I could discernOutstretching bodies clamped along the floor,Unmoving most and silent, some uneasy,Stirring and moaning. Smothery clutches cameOf slothful scents and fingered at my throat;But, brushing by them, unaccompaniedI held aloft my rushlight in the caveAnd searched for beauty through the cleaner air.Thus far in parable. Laugh loud, O world,Laugh loud and hollow. There are those would spurnYour joys unjoyous and your acid fruits.They would not tread the corpsy paths of commerceNor juggle with men’s bones; they would not chafferTheir souls for strumpet pleasure. Cast them out,Deny what little they would ask of life,Assail, starve, torture, murder them, and laugh.Shall it be war between us? Better warThan faint submission—better death. And yetI would not, no, nor shall not die. How weaponedShall I go passionate against your host?How, cautelous, elude your calm blockade?Of older days heart-free the poet rovedAlong the furrowed lanes, and watched the robinSquat in a puddle, whir his stumpy wings,And tweet amid the tempest he aroused;A hare would hirple on ahead (keep back,Let her get out of sight; quick, cross yourself),Or taper weasel slink past over the road;And, seeing native blossoms, breathing airFrom English hills, what recked the wandererThat barons threw no penny to his song?Should he be hungered, he would seek some rillAnd, scrambling down the hazel scarp, would walkWet-ankled up the stream until he foundA larger pool of cold, colourless water,Full two-foot deep, scooped out of solid stoneBy a chuckling trickle spated after rains.There he would rest upon the bank, while slowlyHis fingers crept along the crannied rock.Poor starveling belly!—No, that lower fissure,Straight, lipless grin like an unholy god’s,Reach out for that. The water stings to his armpit,He hangs above the pool from head to waist,His legs push tautly back for body’s poise,And careful, careful creep the sensitive fingers.—Sudden touch of cold, wet silk.Now flesh be one with brain! He lightly strokesThe slippery smoothness upward to the gillsAnd throws a twiring trout upon the grass.Or where the rattle of the water slacksTo low leaf-whisper, there he gropes beneathRoot-knots that hug black, unctuous mould from topplingTo slutch the daylit stream. His wary nervesTell blunt teeth biting at his thumb. StormswiftHe snatches a heavy hand over his head.A floundering eel flops wildly to the floor,And glides for the water. Quick the hungry poetSpins round, whips out his knife, and shears the neckHow firm soever gripped, the limber bodyLong after wriggles headless out of hand.But if he roam across foot-tangling heathAnd bracken, where no burble glads the rootOf juicy grasses? If along his wayNever a kingcup lifted bowls of light,Nor burly watermint with bludgeon scent,Beat down the fair, mild, slumbering meadowsweet?If no nearby forgetmenot looks upWith frank and modest eye, no yellow flagPlays Harold crowned and girt by fearless pikes?No more he fails of ample fare; nor famineDrains out his blood and piecemeal drags his fleshFrom outward-leaping bones, till wrathful death,Grudging to lose a pebble from his cairn,Bears off the pitiful orts. For, stepping soft,He finds a rabbit gazing at the worldWith eyes in which not many moons have gleamed;And, raising a bawl of more expended breathThan fritter your burghers in a year of gabbling,He runs and hurls himself headlong on to it.Stunned at the cry, the rabbit waits and dithers;His muscles melt beneath him; “Pluck up strength,”He calls to his legs; “oh, stiffen, stiffen!” and stillHe waits and dithers. Now the trembling scaleOf timeless pain crashes suddenly down,And life’s a puffed-out flame.Thus the poetOf bygone England (as an alchemistAfter ill magics and long labours wroughtSeals in the flask his magisterium,Lest volatile it waste among the winds,And all men breathe a never-ageing youth)Found way to pend within his body lifeAnd what of pain or interwoven joyLife brings to poets. Friend, I do not gulpAnd weep with maudlin, sentimental tears,Lacking a late lamented golden age.The more of life was ever misery’s,And Socrates won hemlock. Yet beforeWas man so constant enemy to man?Did earth grow bleak at all these purposeless,Rotting and blotting, roaking, smoking chimneys?Look, men are dying, women dying, children dying.They sell their souls for bread, and poison-filthsWhiten their flesh, bow their bodies. Crippled,Consumption-spotted, feeble-minded, sullen,They seek, bewildered, out of black despair,The star of life; so, dying a Christian death,Lie seven a grave unheedful. “Bad as that?Put down five hundred on the Lord Mayor’s list.After the cost of organizing’s paidThere’ll still be something left. Besides, it looks well,And charity brings the firm new customers.Not that I hold with all this nonsense really.When I was young I’d nothing more than they,But I climbed, and trampled other people down.Why shouldn’t they?” O murderers, look, look, look.No man but tramples, tramples on his neighbour,And these the lowest wrench and writhe and kickAnd crush the desperate lives of whom they can.I will not tread the corpsy path of commerceNor juggle with men’s bones. The world shall wendThose murderous ways. Not I, no, never I.You shall not gaol me round with city walls;I will not waste among your houses; roadsThat indiscriminate feel a thousand footingsShall not for mine augment their insolence.But, as of old the poet, poet nowShall hold a near communion with earth,Free from all traffic or truck with worldlihood:As poet one time lived of natural bounty,So now shall I. Yet differs even this.Me no man wronging still the world shall houndWith interdict of food. Gamekeepers, bailiffs,And all the manlings vail and bob to lordsShall sturdy stand on decent English LawAnd threat my famine with a worser fate,The seasonless monotonies of wallsThat straitlier cabin than the closest town.So let them threat. War stands between us. ITake peril comrade, knowing a hazel scarpThat breaks down ragged to a scampering brook;Knowing a hill whose deep-slit, slanting sidesBrave out the wind and shoulder the rough clouds through.
IHELD imagination’s candle highTo thread the pitchy cavern, life. A whisperDazed all the dark with sweetness oversweet,A lithe body languished around my neck.“Do out this unavailing light;” she pleaded.“Soother is darkness. How may candle striveWith topless, bleak, obdurate blanks of space?It can but cold the darkness else were warm.Leave, leave to search so bitter-toilfullyUnthroughgone silence, leave and follow me;For I will lead where many riches lie,Where rippling silks and snow-soft cushions, rareCool wines, and delicates unearthly sweet,And all the comfort flesh of man craves more.We two shall dallying uncurl the longAnd fragrant hours.” She reached a slender armSlowly along mine to the light. I flung herOff, down. My candle showed her cheeks raddled,Her bindweed pressure made me sick and mad;I flung her back to the gloom. Her further handClanked; hidden gyves fell ringing to the rock.Peering behind her barely I could discernOutstretching bodies clamped along the floor,Unmoving most and silent, some uneasy,Stirring and moaning. Smothery clutches cameOf slothful scents and fingered at my throat;But, brushing by them, unaccompaniedI held aloft my rushlight in the caveAnd searched for beauty through the cleaner air.Thus far in parable. Laugh loud, O world,Laugh loud and hollow. There are those would spurnYour joys unjoyous and your acid fruits.They would not tread the corpsy paths of commerceNor juggle with men’s bones; they would not chafferTheir souls for strumpet pleasure. Cast them out,Deny what little they would ask of life,Assail, starve, torture, murder them, and laugh.Shall it be war between us? Better warThan faint submission—better death. And yetI would not, no, nor shall not die. How weaponedShall I go passionate against your host?How, cautelous, elude your calm blockade?
Of older days heart-free the poet rovedAlong the furrowed lanes, and watched the robinSquat in a puddle, whir his stumpy wings,And tweet amid the tempest he aroused;A hare would hirple on ahead (keep back,Let her get out of sight; quick, cross yourself),Or taper weasel slink past over the road;And, seeing native blossoms, breathing airFrom English hills, what recked the wandererThat barons threw no penny to his song?Should he be hungered, he would seek some rillAnd, scrambling down the hazel scarp, would walkWet-ankled up the stream until he foundA larger pool of cold, colourless water,Full two-foot deep, scooped out of solid stoneBy a chuckling trickle spated after rains.There he would rest upon the bank, while slowlyHis fingers crept along the crannied rock.Poor starveling belly!—No, that lower fissure,Straight, lipless grin like an unholy god’s,Reach out for that. The water stings to his armpit,He hangs above the pool from head to waist,His legs push tautly back for body’s poise,And careful, careful creep the sensitive fingers.
—Sudden touch of cold, wet silk.Now flesh be one with brain! He lightly strokesThe slippery smoothness upward to the gillsAnd throws a twiring trout upon the grass.Or where the rattle of the water slacksTo low leaf-whisper, there he gropes beneathRoot-knots that hug black, unctuous mould from topplingTo slutch the daylit stream. His wary nervesTell blunt teeth biting at his thumb. StormswiftHe snatches a heavy hand over his head.A floundering eel flops wildly to the floor,And glides for the water. Quick the hungry poetSpins round, whips out his knife, and shears the neckHow firm soever gripped, the limber bodyLong after wriggles headless out of hand.But if he roam across foot-tangling heathAnd bracken, where no burble glads the rootOf juicy grasses? If along his wayNever a kingcup lifted bowls of light,Nor burly watermint with bludgeon scent,Beat down the fair, mild, slumbering meadowsweet?If no nearby forgetmenot looks upWith frank and modest eye, no yellow flagPlays Harold crowned and girt by fearless pikes?No more he fails of ample fare; nor famineDrains out his blood and piecemeal drags his fleshFrom outward-leaping bones, till wrathful death,Grudging to lose a pebble from his cairn,Bears off the pitiful orts. For, stepping soft,He finds a rabbit gazing at the worldWith eyes in which not many moons have gleamed;And, raising a bawl of more expended breathThan fritter your burghers in a year of gabbling,He runs and hurls himself headlong on to it.Stunned at the cry, the rabbit waits and dithers;His muscles melt beneath him; “Pluck up strength,”He calls to his legs; “oh, stiffen, stiffen!” and stillHe waits and dithers. Now the trembling scaleOf timeless pain crashes suddenly down,And life’s a puffed-out flame.
Thus the poetOf bygone England (as an alchemistAfter ill magics and long labours wroughtSeals in the flask his magisterium,Lest volatile it waste among the winds,And all men breathe a never-ageing youth)Found way to pend within his body lifeAnd what of pain or interwoven joyLife brings to poets. Friend, I do not gulpAnd weep with maudlin, sentimental tears,Lacking a late lamented golden age.The more of life was ever misery’s,And Socrates won hemlock. Yet beforeWas man so constant enemy to man?Did earth grow bleak at all these purposeless,Rotting and blotting, roaking, smoking chimneys?Look, men are dying, women dying, children dying.They sell their souls for bread, and poison-filthsWhiten their flesh, bow their bodies. Crippled,Consumption-spotted, feeble-minded, sullen,They seek, bewildered, out of black despair,The star of life; so, dying a Christian death,Lie seven a grave unheedful. “Bad as that?Put down five hundred on the Lord Mayor’s list.After the cost of organizing’s paidThere’ll still be something left. Besides, it looks well,And charity brings the firm new customers.Not that I hold with all this nonsense really.When I was young I’d nothing more than they,But I climbed, and trampled other people down.Why shouldn’t they?” O murderers, look, look, look.No man but tramples, tramples on his neighbour,And these the lowest wrench and writhe and kickAnd crush the desperate lives of whom they can.I will not tread the corpsy path of commerceNor juggle with men’s bones. The world shall wendThose murderous ways. Not I, no, never I.You shall not gaol me round with city walls;I will not waste among your houses; roadsThat indiscriminate feel a thousand footingsShall not for mine augment their insolence.But, as of old the poet, poet nowShall hold a near communion with earth,Free from all traffic or truck with worldlihood:As poet one time lived of natural bounty,So now shall I. Yet differs even this.Me no man wronging still the world shall houndWith interdict of food. Gamekeepers, bailiffs,And all the manlings vail and bob to lordsShall sturdy stand on decent English LawAnd threat my famine with a worser fate,The seasonless monotonies of wallsThat straitlier cabin than the closest town.So let them threat. War stands between us. ITake peril comrade, knowing a hazel scarpThat breaks down ragged to a scampering brook;Knowing a hill whose deep-slit, slanting sidesBrave out the wind and shoulder the rough clouds through.