EDGELL RICKWORDCOMPLAINT OF A TADPOLE CONFINED IN A JAM-JARWhatreveries of far-off daysThese withered plaques of duck-weed raise!The creeping wretches, the crowded pond,A death in life, no Culture, no Beyond.Light and No-light in dull routine;Thought and No-thought two shades of green.The fair ideals all creatures needSmothered beneath the inferior weed.For highest aspirations stopWith breathing, at the water’s top.O Fairy MetamorphosisFor Being to become What Is.Here ceaseless radiance fills my sphere,The Lamp my Moon, all night, bright, near.And clustering on the crystal wallGreat strawberries iconistical.No strife to propagate the kindBut leisure to improve the mind;Till curious sensations rangeAbout the tail and hint at change.The weed with flowers stars the skyAnd monstrous forms go dimly by.Tail fades! The vestiges of gillsSwell with rare æther from the hills.Now Time reared up in rocky crestsWhere flaming fowl involve their nests,Across the rippled Stream of SpaceThrows shadows that obscure this place;But in the valleys pipers play:‘Over the hills and far away.’REGRET FOR THE DEPOPULATION OF RURAL DISTRICTSI haveseen villages grow suddenlyFrom dust and stand upright in the airWith comfortable homes grouped round a spire;And in the fields strong women bendingDown to coarse toil to nourish unborn women.But in the gardens, languid with flowers’ fragranceGirls linger on close lawns for unknown happenings,Tearing a petal in long shining fingers.So waiting whilst pear blossom apple blossomAnd white plum blossom are fallen down to earth,And the white moon fallen. Then a heap of dustThat once was named, loved and familiarLies unsubstantial in the eternal sunlight.Whence faint thoughtsStirring far down in twilight consciousnessMove dark-boughed yew-trees over graves and stars.COMPLAINT AFTER PSYCHO-ANALYSISNowmy days are all undone,Spirit sunken, girls forgone,I will weave in other meshThan fading bone and flesh.Into cold deserted mindDrag the relics of the blind;And raise from wives none other seesSubstantial families.Hunt through woods of maidenhairTangled in the shining airThe forms of ecstasies achieved,Not then believed.O Unicorns and jewelled BirdsAnd trampling dappled moonlight herds,In icy glades now slainWith arrows bright as pain.Leap, Moon, from the berg’s pale womb!Frail Bride, out of Earth’s tomb!The stars are ashen coldBeneath their gold.DESIREAsthe white sails of ships across the ocean,The last sounds fade when the sun has declined.I am alone. There is no motionRippling the clear waters in the mind.Only now the madrepores’ frail tentaclesSway languidly before they fall asleep;And waiting in their dark pinnaclesThe virgin medusae watch and weep.Moving darkly among the forests of weedAncient memories drag their crinkled shellsTo glades where crimson tree-trunks bleedThickly, and hushed are the faint sea-bells.Out of that silent depth loveless arisingUndine sheds on the water her shining hair,Softly calleth her soul, devisingA fragrance of music in the air.TRENCH POETSI knewa man, he was my chum,But he grew blacker every day,And would not brush the flies away,Nor blanch however fierce the humOf passing shells. I used to read,To rouse him, random things from Donne,Like ‘Get with child a mandrake-root,’But you can tell he was far gone,For he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed,And stiff and senseless as a post,Even when that old poet cried,‘I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.’I tried the Elegies one day;But he, because he heard me say,‘What needst thou have more covering than a man?’Grinned nastily, and so I knewThe worms had got his brains at last.There was one thing that I might doTo starve the worms; I racked my headFor healthy things and quotedMaud.His grin got worse, and I could seeHe laughed at passion’s purity.He stank so badly, though we were great chumsI had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.WINTER PROPHECIESCitieswith tall and graceful spires I knowMirrored in pools and rivers silver bright,That wither if the softest wind should blowAnd by a stone are blotted out of sight.Frailer they are than curvèd leaves of snowFluttering down from the dark trees of nightSlowly, and then unutterably slow,And ceasing as most quietly comes the light.Water is carved like fern and stone takes onThe flush of life when flesh lies quiet as stone;Whilst sinister and clownish, bright and wan,With solemn affectations the old MoonSpins dooms and weirds and meltings of the boneAnd universal silence to be soon.
EDGELL RICKWORD
Whatreveries of far-off daysThese withered plaques of duck-weed raise!The creeping wretches, the crowded pond,A death in life, no Culture, no Beyond.Light and No-light in dull routine;Thought and No-thought two shades of green.The fair ideals all creatures needSmothered beneath the inferior weed.For highest aspirations stopWith breathing, at the water’s top.O Fairy MetamorphosisFor Being to become What Is.Here ceaseless radiance fills my sphere,The Lamp my Moon, all night, bright, near.And clustering on the crystal wallGreat strawberries iconistical.No strife to propagate the kindBut leisure to improve the mind;Till curious sensations rangeAbout the tail and hint at change.The weed with flowers stars the skyAnd monstrous forms go dimly by.Tail fades! The vestiges of gillsSwell with rare æther from the hills.Now Time reared up in rocky crestsWhere flaming fowl involve their nests,Across the rippled Stream of SpaceThrows shadows that obscure this place;But in the valleys pipers play:‘Over the hills and far away.’
Whatreveries of far-off daysThese withered plaques of duck-weed raise!The creeping wretches, the crowded pond,A death in life, no Culture, no Beyond.Light and No-light in dull routine;Thought and No-thought two shades of green.The fair ideals all creatures needSmothered beneath the inferior weed.For highest aspirations stopWith breathing, at the water’s top.O Fairy MetamorphosisFor Being to become What Is.Here ceaseless radiance fills my sphere,The Lamp my Moon, all night, bright, near.And clustering on the crystal wallGreat strawberries iconistical.No strife to propagate the kindBut leisure to improve the mind;Till curious sensations rangeAbout the tail and hint at change.The weed with flowers stars the skyAnd monstrous forms go dimly by.Tail fades! The vestiges of gillsSwell with rare æther from the hills.Now Time reared up in rocky crestsWhere flaming fowl involve their nests,Across the rippled Stream of SpaceThrows shadows that obscure this place;But in the valleys pipers play:‘Over the hills and far away.’
Whatreveries of far-off daysThese withered plaques of duck-weed raise!
The creeping wretches, the crowded pond,A death in life, no Culture, no Beyond.
Light and No-light in dull routine;Thought and No-thought two shades of green.
The fair ideals all creatures needSmothered beneath the inferior weed.
For highest aspirations stopWith breathing, at the water’s top.
O Fairy MetamorphosisFor Being to become What Is.
Here ceaseless radiance fills my sphere,The Lamp my Moon, all night, bright, near.
And clustering on the crystal wallGreat strawberries iconistical.
No strife to propagate the kindBut leisure to improve the mind;
Till curious sensations rangeAbout the tail and hint at change.
The weed with flowers stars the skyAnd monstrous forms go dimly by.
Tail fades! The vestiges of gillsSwell with rare æther from the hills.
Now Time reared up in rocky crestsWhere flaming fowl involve their nests,
Across the rippled Stream of SpaceThrows shadows that obscure this place;
But in the valleys pipers play:‘Over the hills and far away.’
I haveseen villages grow suddenlyFrom dust and stand upright in the airWith comfortable homes grouped round a spire;And in the fields strong women bendingDown to coarse toil to nourish unborn women.But in the gardens, languid with flowers’ fragranceGirls linger on close lawns for unknown happenings,Tearing a petal in long shining fingers.So waiting whilst pear blossom apple blossomAnd white plum blossom are fallen down to earth,And the white moon fallen. Then a heap of dustThat once was named, loved and familiarLies unsubstantial in the eternal sunlight.Whence faint thoughtsStirring far down in twilight consciousnessMove dark-boughed yew-trees over graves and stars.
I haveseen villages grow suddenlyFrom dust and stand upright in the airWith comfortable homes grouped round a spire;And in the fields strong women bendingDown to coarse toil to nourish unborn women.But in the gardens, languid with flowers’ fragranceGirls linger on close lawns for unknown happenings,Tearing a petal in long shining fingers.So waiting whilst pear blossom apple blossomAnd white plum blossom are fallen down to earth,And the white moon fallen. Then a heap of dustThat once was named, loved and familiarLies unsubstantial in the eternal sunlight.Whence faint thoughtsStirring far down in twilight consciousnessMove dark-boughed yew-trees over graves and stars.
I haveseen villages grow suddenlyFrom dust and stand upright in the airWith comfortable homes grouped round a spire;And in the fields strong women bendingDown to coarse toil to nourish unborn women.But in the gardens, languid with flowers’ fragranceGirls linger on close lawns for unknown happenings,Tearing a petal in long shining fingers.So waiting whilst pear blossom apple blossomAnd white plum blossom are fallen down to earth,And the white moon fallen. Then a heap of dustThat once was named, loved and familiarLies unsubstantial in the eternal sunlight.Whence faint thoughtsStirring far down in twilight consciousnessMove dark-boughed yew-trees over graves and stars.
Nowmy days are all undone,Spirit sunken, girls forgone,I will weave in other meshThan fading bone and flesh.Into cold deserted mindDrag the relics of the blind;And raise from wives none other seesSubstantial families.Hunt through woods of maidenhairTangled in the shining airThe forms of ecstasies achieved,Not then believed.O Unicorns and jewelled BirdsAnd trampling dappled moonlight herds,In icy glades now slainWith arrows bright as pain.Leap, Moon, from the berg’s pale womb!Frail Bride, out of Earth’s tomb!The stars are ashen coldBeneath their gold.
Nowmy days are all undone,Spirit sunken, girls forgone,I will weave in other meshThan fading bone and flesh.Into cold deserted mindDrag the relics of the blind;And raise from wives none other seesSubstantial families.Hunt through woods of maidenhairTangled in the shining airThe forms of ecstasies achieved,Not then believed.O Unicorns and jewelled BirdsAnd trampling dappled moonlight herds,In icy glades now slainWith arrows bright as pain.Leap, Moon, from the berg’s pale womb!Frail Bride, out of Earth’s tomb!The stars are ashen coldBeneath their gold.
Nowmy days are all undone,Spirit sunken, girls forgone,I will weave in other meshThan fading bone and flesh.
Into cold deserted mindDrag the relics of the blind;And raise from wives none other seesSubstantial families.
Hunt through woods of maidenhairTangled in the shining airThe forms of ecstasies achieved,Not then believed.
O Unicorns and jewelled BirdsAnd trampling dappled moonlight herds,In icy glades now slainWith arrows bright as pain.
Leap, Moon, from the berg’s pale womb!Frail Bride, out of Earth’s tomb!The stars are ashen coldBeneath their gold.
Asthe white sails of ships across the ocean,The last sounds fade when the sun has declined.I am alone. There is no motionRippling the clear waters in the mind.Only now the madrepores’ frail tentaclesSway languidly before they fall asleep;And waiting in their dark pinnaclesThe virgin medusae watch and weep.Moving darkly among the forests of weedAncient memories drag their crinkled shellsTo glades where crimson tree-trunks bleedThickly, and hushed are the faint sea-bells.Out of that silent depth loveless arisingUndine sheds on the water her shining hair,Softly calleth her soul, devisingA fragrance of music in the air.
Asthe white sails of ships across the ocean,The last sounds fade when the sun has declined.I am alone. There is no motionRippling the clear waters in the mind.Only now the madrepores’ frail tentaclesSway languidly before they fall asleep;And waiting in their dark pinnaclesThe virgin medusae watch and weep.Moving darkly among the forests of weedAncient memories drag their crinkled shellsTo glades where crimson tree-trunks bleedThickly, and hushed are the faint sea-bells.Out of that silent depth loveless arisingUndine sheds on the water her shining hair,Softly calleth her soul, devisingA fragrance of music in the air.
Asthe white sails of ships across the ocean,The last sounds fade when the sun has declined.I am alone. There is no motionRippling the clear waters in the mind.
Only now the madrepores’ frail tentaclesSway languidly before they fall asleep;And waiting in their dark pinnaclesThe virgin medusae watch and weep.
Moving darkly among the forests of weedAncient memories drag their crinkled shellsTo glades where crimson tree-trunks bleedThickly, and hushed are the faint sea-bells.
Out of that silent depth loveless arisingUndine sheds on the water her shining hair,Softly calleth her soul, devisingA fragrance of music in the air.
I knewa man, he was my chum,But he grew blacker every day,And would not brush the flies away,Nor blanch however fierce the humOf passing shells. I used to read,To rouse him, random things from Donne,Like ‘Get with child a mandrake-root,’But you can tell he was far gone,For he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed,And stiff and senseless as a post,Even when that old poet cried,‘I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.’I tried the Elegies one day;But he, because he heard me say,‘What needst thou have more covering than a man?’Grinned nastily, and so I knewThe worms had got his brains at last.There was one thing that I might doTo starve the worms; I racked my headFor healthy things and quotedMaud.His grin got worse, and I could seeHe laughed at passion’s purity.He stank so badly, though we were great chumsI had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.
I knewa man, he was my chum,But he grew blacker every day,And would not brush the flies away,Nor blanch however fierce the humOf passing shells. I used to read,To rouse him, random things from Donne,Like ‘Get with child a mandrake-root,’But you can tell he was far gone,For he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed,And stiff and senseless as a post,Even when that old poet cried,‘I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.’I tried the Elegies one day;But he, because he heard me say,‘What needst thou have more covering than a man?’Grinned nastily, and so I knewThe worms had got his brains at last.There was one thing that I might doTo starve the worms; I racked my headFor healthy things and quotedMaud.His grin got worse, and I could seeHe laughed at passion’s purity.He stank so badly, though we were great chumsI had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.
I knewa man, he was my chum,But he grew blacker every day,And would not brush the flies away,Nor blanch however fierce the humOf passing shells. I used to read,To rouse him, random things from Donne,Like ‘Get with child a mandrake-root,’But you can tell he was far gone,For he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed,And stiff and senseless as a post,Even when that old poet cried,‘I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.’
I tried the Elegies one day;But he, because he heard me say,‘What needst thou have more covering than a man?’Grinned nastily, and so I knewThe worms had got his brains at last.There was one thing that I might doTo starve the worms; I racked my headFor healthy things and quotedMaud.His grin got worse, and I could seeHe laughed at passion’s purity.
He stank so badly, though we were great chumsI had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.
Citieswith tall and graceful spires I knowMirrored in pools and rivers silver bright,That wither if the softest wind should blowAnd by a stone are blotted out of sight.Frailer they are than curvèd leaves of snowFluttering down from the dark trees of nightSlowly, and then unutterably slow,And ceasing as most quietly comes the light.Water is carved like fern and stone takes onThe flush of life when flesh lies quiet as stone;Whilst sinister and clownish, bright and wan,With solemn affectations the old MoonSpins dooms and weirds and meltings of the boneAnd universal silence to be soon.
Citieswith tall and graceful spires I knowMirrored in pools and rivers silver bright,That wither if the softest wind should blowAnd by a stone are blotted out of sight.Frailer they are than curvèd leaves of snowFluttering down from the dark trees of nightSlowly, and then unutterably slow,And ceasing as most quietly comes the light.Water is carved like fern and stone takes onThe flush of life when flesh lies quiet as stone;Whilst sinister and clownish, bright and wan,With solemn affectations the old MoonSpins dooms and weirds and meltings of the boneAnd universal silence to be soon.
Citieswith tall and graceful spires I knowMirrored in pools and rivers silver bright,That wither if the softest wind should blowAnd by a stone are blotted out of sight.Frailer they are than curvèd leaves of snowFluttering down from the dark trees of nightSlowly, and then unutterably slow,And ceasing as most quietly comes the light.
Water is carved like fern and stone takes onThe flush of life when flesh lies quiet as stone;Whilst sinister and clownish, bright and wan,With solemn affectations the old MoonSpins dooms and weirds and meltings of the boneAnd universal silence to be soon.