The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPicture-ShowThis 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: Picture-ShowAuthor: Siegfried SassoonRelease date: June 24, 2019 [eBook #59800]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICTURE-SHOW ***
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: Picture-ShowAuthor: Siegfried SassoonRelease date: June 24, 2019 [eBook #59800]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Picture-Show
Author: Siegfried Sassoon
Author: Siegfried Sassoon
Release date: June 24, 2019 [eBook #59800]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICTURE-SHOW ***
BY
SIEGFRIED SASSOON
AUTHOR OF"THE OLD HUNTSMAN," "COUNTER-ATTACK," ETC.
NEW YORKE. P. DUTTON & COMPANY681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT, 1920,BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
TOJOHN MASEFIELD
CONTENTS
PICTURE-SHOWRECONCILIATIONCONCERT PARTYNIGHT ON THE CONVOYTHE DUG-OUTBATTALION-RELIEFIN AN UNDERGROUND DRESSING STATIONI STOOD WITH THE DEADMEMORIAL TABLETATROCITIESTO LEONIDE MASSINEMEMORYTO A VERY WISE MANEARLY CHRONOLOGYELEGYMIRACLESTHE GOLDSMITHDEVOTION TO DUTYANCIENT HISTORYSPORTING ACQUAINTANCESWHAT THE CAPTAIN SAID AT THE POINT-TO-POINTCINEMA HEROFANCY DRESSMIDDLE-AGESTHE PORTRAITBUTTERFLIESWRAITHSPHANTOMTHE DARK HOUSEIDYLLPARTEDLOVERSSLUMBER-SONGTHE IMPERFECT LOVERVISIONTO A CHILDLESS WOMANAFTERMATHFALLING ASLEEPPRELUDE TO AN UNWRITTEN MASTERPIECELIMITATIONSEVERYONE SANG
And still they come and go: and this is all I know—That from the gloom I watch an endless picture-show,Where wild or listless faces flicker on their way,With glad or grievous hearts I'll never understandBecause Time spins so fast, and they've no time to stayBeyond the moment's gesture of a lifted hand.
And still, between the shadow and the blinding flame,The brave despair of men flings onward, ever the sameAs in those doom-lit years that wait them, and have been...And life is just the picture dancing on a screen.
When you are standing at your hero's grave,Or near some homeless village where he died,Remember, through your heart's rekindling pride,The German soldiers who were loyal and brave.
Men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done;And you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind.But in that Golgotha perhaps you'll findThe mothers of the men who killed your son.
November, 1918.
(EGYPTIAN BASE CAMP)
They are gathering round...Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound—The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum...Drawn by a lamp, they comeOut of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.
O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,You warbling ladies in white.Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,This wall of faces risen out of the night,These eyes that keep their memories of the placesSo long beyond their sight.
Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brownTilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,He rattles the keys.... Some actor-bloke from town...God send you home; and thenA long, long trail;I hear you calling me; andDixieland....Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by oneWe hear them, drink them; till the concert's done.Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.
KANTARA.April, 1918.
(ALEXANDRIA-MARSEILLES)
Out in the blustering darkness, on the deckA gleam of stars looks down. Long blurs of black,The lean Destroyers, level with our track,Plunging and stealing, watch the perilous wayThrough backward racing seas and caverns of chill spray.One sentry by the davits, in the gloomStands mute: the boat heaves onward through the night.Shrouded is every chink of cabined light:And sluiced by floundering waves that hiss and boomAnd crash like guns, the troop-ship shudders ... doom.
Now something at my feet stirs with a sigh;And slowly growing used to groping dark,I know that the hurricane-deck, down all its length,Is heaped and spread with lads in sprawling strength—Blanketed soldiers sleeping. In the starkDanger of life at war, they lie so still,All prostrate and defenceless, head by head...And I remember Arras, and that hillWhere dumb with pain I stumbled among the dead.
We are going home. The troopship, in a thrillOf fiery-chamber'd anguish, throbs and rolls.We are going home ... victims ... three thousand souls.
May, 1918.
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled,And one arm bent across your sullen, cold,Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you,Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold;And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder;Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head....
You are too young to fall asleep for ever;And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.
ST. VENANT.July, 1918.
'Fall in! Now get a move on.' (Curse the rain.)We splash away along the straggling village,Out to the flat rich country, green with June....And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage,Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon,Up in the Line.) 'Perhaps the War'll be done'By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son.'
Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge.'Lead on there, by platoons.' (The Line's a-glareWith shellfire through the poplars; distant rattleOf rifles and machine-guns.) 'Fritz is there!'Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?'More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles.'There's over-head artillery!' some chap grumbles.
What's all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?...'Lead on with number One.' And off they go.'Three minute intervals.' (Poor blundering files,Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to knowIf death will catch them in those two dark miles?)More rain. 'Lead on, Head-quarters.' (That's the lot.)
'Who's that? ... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don't get shot!'And tell me, have we won this war or not!'
Quietly they set their burden down: he triedTo grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side.* * * * * * *He gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed,
'O put my leg down, doctor, do!' (He'd gotA bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shotHorribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemedSo kind and gentle, saying, above that crying,'You must keep still, my lad.' But he was dying.
I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still:When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead.And my slow heart said, 'You must kill, you must kill:'Soldier, soldier, morning is red.'
On the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace,I stared for a while through the thin cold rain....'O lad that I loved, there is rain on your face,'And your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain.'
I stood with the Dead.... They were dead; they were dead;My heart and my head beat a march of dismay:And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns.'Fall in!' I shouted; 'Fall in for your pay!'
(GREAT WAR)
Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,(Under Lord Derby's Scheme). I died in hell—(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,And I was hobbling back; and then a shellBurst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fellInto the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare;For, though low down upon the list, I'm there;'In proud and glorious memory' ... that's my due.Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:I suffered anguish that he's never guessed.Once I came home on leave: and then went west...What greater glory could a man desire?
You told me, in your drunken-boasting mood,How once you butchered prisoners. That was good!I'm sure you felt no pity while they stoodPatient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should.
How did you do them in? Come, don't be shy:You know I love to hear how Germans die,Downstairs in dug-outs. 'Kamerad!' They cry;Then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly.
* * * * * * *
And you? I know your record. You went sickWhen orders looked unwholesome: then, with trickAnd lie, you wangled home. And here you are,Still talking big and boozing in a bar.
IN 'CLEOPATRA'
O beauty doomed and perfect for an hour,Leaping along the verge of death and night,You show me dauntless Youth that went to fightFour long years past, discovering pride and power.
You die but in our dreams, who watch you fallKnowing that to-morrow you will dance again.But not to ebbing music were they slainWho sleep in ruined graves, beyond recall;Who, following phantom-glory, friend and foe,Into the darkness that was War must go;Blind; banished from desire.O mortal heartBe still; you have drained the cup; you have played your part.
When I was young my heart and head were light,And I was gay and feckless as a coltOut in the fields, with morning in the may,Wind on the grass, wings in the orchard bloom.O thrilling sweet, my joy, when life was free,And all the paths led on from hawthorn-timeAcross the carolling meadows into June.
But now my heart is heavy-laden. I sitBurning my dreams away beside the fire:For death has made me wise and bitter and strong;And I am rich in all that I have lost.O starshine on the fields of long-ago,Bring me the darkness and the nightingale;Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home,And silence; and the faces of my friends.
I
Fires in the dark you build; tall quivering flamesIn the huge midnight forest of the unknown.Your soul is full of cities with dead names,And blind-faced, earth-bound gods of bronze and stoneWhose priests and kings and lust-begotten lordsWatch the procession of their thundering hosts,Or guard relentless fanes with flickering swordsAnd wizardry of ghosts.
II
In a strange house I woke; heard overheadHastily-thudding feet and a muffled scream...(Is death like that?) ... I quaked uncomforted,Striving to frame to-morrow in a dreamOf woods and sliding pools and cloudless day.(You know how bees come into a twilight roomFrom dazzling afternoon, then sail awayOut of the curtained gloom.)
III
You understand my thoughts; though, when you think,You're out beyond the boundaries of my brain.I'm but a bird at dawn that cries, 'chink, chink'—A garden-bird that warbles in the rain.And you're the flying-man, the speck that steersA careful course; far down the verge of day,Half-way across the world. Above the yearsYou soar ... Is death so bad? ... I wish you'd say.
Slowly the daylight left our listening faces.Professor Brown, with level baritone,Discoursed into the dusk.Five thousand yearsHe guided us through scientific spacesOf excavated History, till the loneRoads of research grew blurred, and in our earsTime was the rumoured tongues of vanished races,And Thought a chartless Age of Ice and Stone.
The story ended. Then the darkened airFlowered as he lit his pipe; an aureole glowedEnwreathed with smoke; the moment's match-light showedHis rosy face, broad brow, and smooth grey hair,Backed by the crowded book-shelves.In his wakeAn archæologist began to makeAssumptions about aqueducts; (he quotedProfessor Sandstorm's book;) and soon they floatedThrough desiccated forests; mangled myths;And argued easily round megaliths.* * * * * * *Beyond the college garden something glinted:A copper moon climbed clear above the trees.Some Lydian coin? ... Professor Brown agreesThat copper coinswerein that culture minted.But, as her whitening way aloft she took,I thought she had a pre-dynastic look.
(TO ROBERT ROSS)
Your dextrous wit will haunt us longWounding our grief with yesterday.Your laughter is a broken song;And death has found you, kind and gay.
We may forget those transient thingsThat made your charm and our delight:But loyal love has deathless wingsThat rise and triumph out of night.
So, in the days to come, your nameShall be as music that ascendsWhen honour turns a heart from shame...O heart of hearts! ... O friend of friends!
I dreamt I saw a huge grey boat in silence steamingDown a canal; it drew the dizzy landscape after;The solemn world was sucked along with it—a streamingLand-slide of loveliness. O, but I rocked with laughter,Staring, and clinging to my tree-top. For a lakeOf gleaming peace swept on behind. (I mustn't wake.)
And then great clouds gathered and burst in spumes of greenThat plunged into the water; and the sun came outOn glittering islands thronged with orchards scarlet-bloomed;And rosy-plumed flamingoes flashed across the scene...O, but the beauty of their freedom made me shout...And when I woke I wondered where on earth I'd been.
'This job's the best I've done.' He bent his headOver the golden vessel that he'd wrought.A bird was singing. But the craftsman's thoughtIs a forgotten language, lost and dead.
He sigh'd and stretch'd brown arms. His friend came inAnd stood beside him in the morning sun.The goldwork glitter'd.... 'That's the best I've done.'And now I've got a necklace to begin.'
This was at Gnossos, in the isle of Crete...A girl was selling flowers along the street.
I was near the King that day. I saw him snatchAnd briskly scan the G.H.Q. dispatch.Thick-voiced, he read it out. (His face was grave.)'This officer advanced with the first wave,'And when our first objective had been gained,'(Though wounded twice), reorganized the line:'The spirit of the troops was by his fine'Example most effectively sustained.'
He gripped his beard; then closed his eyes and said,'Bathsheba must be warned that he is dead.'Send for her. I will be the first to tell'This wife how her heroic husband fell.'
Adam, a brown old vulture in the rain,Shivered below his wind-whipped olive-trees;Huddling sharp chin on scarred and scraggy knees,He moaned and mumbled to his darkening brain;'He was the grandest of them all—was Cain!'A lion laired in the hills, that none could tire;'Swift as a stag; a stallion of the plain,'Hungry and fierce with deeds of huge desire.'
Grimly he thought of Abel, soft and fair—A lover with disaster in his face,And scarlet blossom twisted in bright hair.'Afraid to fight; was murder more disgrace? ...'God always hated Cain.' ... He bowed his head—The gaunt wild man whose lovely sons were dead.
I watched old squatting Chimpanzee: he tracedHis painful patterns in the dirt: I sawRed-haired Ourang-Utang, whimsical-faced,Chewing a sportsman's meditative straw.I'd met them years ago, and half-forgottenThey'd come to grief. (But how, I'd never heard,Poor beggars!) Still, it seemed so rude and rottenTo stand and gape at them with never a word.
I ventured 'Ages since we met,' and triedMy candid smile of friendship. No success.One scratched his hairy thigh, while t'other sighedAnd glanced away. I saw they liked me lessThan when, on Epsom Downs, in cloudless weather,We backed The Tetrarch and got drunk together.
I've had a good bump round; my little horseRefused the brook first time,Then jumped it prime;And ran out at the double,But of courseThere's always trouble at a double:And then—I don't know howIt was—he turned it upAt that big, hairy fence before the plough;And some young silly pup,(I don't know which),Near as a toucher knocked me into the ditch;But we finished full of running, and quite sound:And anyhow I've had a good bump round.
O, this is more than fiction! It's the truthThat somehow never happened. Pay your bob,And walk straight in, abandoning To-day.(To-day's a place outside the picture-house;Forget it, and the film will do the rest.)
There's nothing fine in being as large as life:The splendour starts when things begin to moveAnd gestures grow enormous. That's the wayTo dramatise your dreams and play the partAs you'd have done if luck had starred your face.
I'm 'Rupert from the Mountains'! (Pass the stout)...Yes, I'm the Broncho Boy we watched to-night,That robbed a ranch and galloped down the creek.(Moonlight and shattering hoofs.... O moonlight of the West!Wind in the gum-trees, and my swerving mareBeating her flickering shadow on the post.)Ah, I was wild in those fierce days! You saw meFix that saloon? They stared into my faceAnd slowly put their hands up, while I stoodWith dancing eyes,—romantic to the world!
Things happened afterwards ... You know the story...The sheriff's daughter, bandaging my head;Love at first sight; the escape; and making good(To music by Mascagni). And at last——Peace; and the gradual beauty of my smile.
But that's all finished now. One has to takeLife as it comes. I've nothing to regret.For men like me, the only thing that countsIs the adventure. Lord, what times I've had!
God and King Charles! And then my mistress's arms....(To-morrow evening I'm a Cavalier.)
Well, what's the news to-night about the Strike?
Some Brave, awake in you to-night,Knocked at your heart: an eagle's flightStirred in the feather on your head.Your wide-set Indian eyes, alightAbove high cheek-bones smeared with red,Unveiled cragg'd centuries, and ledYou, the snared wraith of bygone things—Wild ancestries of trackless Kings—Out of the past.... So men have feltStrange anger move them as they kneltPraying to gods serenely starredIn heavens where tomahawks are barred.
I heard a clash, and a cry,And a horseman fleeing the wood.The moon hid in a cloud.Deep in shadow I stood.'Ugly work!' thought I,Holding my breath.'Men must be cruel and proud,'Jousting for death.'
With gusty glimmering shoneThe moon; and the wind blew colder.A man went over the hill,Bent to his horse's shoulder.'Time for me to be gone'...Darkly I fled.Owls in the wood were shrill,And the moon sank red.
I watch you, gazing at me from the wall,And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine,If, mastering time's illusion, I could callYou back to share this quiet candle-shine.
For you were young, three-hundred years ago;And by your looks I guess that you were wise...Come, whisper soft, and Death will never knowYou've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes.
Strange is your voice ... Poor ninny, dead so long,And all your pride forgotten like your name.'One April morn I heard a blackbird's song,'And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame.'
And so you died before your songs took wing;While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake.'Love thrilled me into music. I could singBut for a moment,—but for beauty's sake.'
Who passes? There's a star-lit breeze that stirsThe glimmer of white lilies in the gloom.Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers:And there was more than silence in this room
While you were gazing at me from the wallAnd wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine,If, mastering time's illusion, you could callMe back to share your vanished candle-shine.
Frail travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers;O living flowers against the heedless blueOf summer days, what sends them dancing throughThis fiery-blossom'd revel of the hours?
Theirs are the musing silences betweenThe enraptured crying of shrill birds that makeHeaven in the wood while summer dawns awake;And theirs the faintest winds that hush the green.
And they are as my soul that wings its wayOut of the starlit dimness into morn:And they are as my tremulous being—bornTo know but this, the phantom glare of day.
They know not the green leaves;In whose earth-haunting dreamDimly the forest heaves,And voiceless goes the stream.Strangely they seek a placeIn love's night-memoried hall;Peering from face to face,Until some heart shall callAnd keep them, for a breath,Half-mortal ... (Hark to the rain!) ...They are dead ... (O hear how deathGropes on the shutter'd pane!)
The clock has stopped; and the wind's dropped:A candle burns with moon-gold flame.Blank silence whispers at my ears,'Though I've been dead these coffin'd years,'You'll never choke my shame.'
'Dip your quill in clotted ink:'Write; I'll quicken you to think'In my old fiery alphabet.'The candle-flame upon its wickStaggers; the time-piece starts to tick;And down the dark the wind blows wet.
* * * * * * *
Good angels, help me to forget.
Dusk in the rain-soaked garden,And dark the house within.A door creaked: someone was earlyTo watch the dawn begin.But he stole away like a thiefIn the chilly, star-bright air:Though the house was shuttered for slumber,He had left one wakeful there.
Nothing moved in the garden.Never a bird would sing,Nor shake and scatter the dew from the boughsWith shy and startled wing.But when that lover had passed the gateA quavering thrush began...'Come back; come back!' he shrilled to the heartOf the passion-plighted man.
In the grey summer garden I shall find youWith day-break and the morning hills behind you.There will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings;And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.Not from the past you'll come, but from that deepWhere beauty murmurs to the soul asleep:And I shall know the sense of life re-bornFrom dreams into the mystery of mornWhere gloom and brightness meet. And standing thereTill that calm song is done, at last we'll shareThe league-spread, quiring symphonies that areJoy in the world, and peace, and dawn's one star.
Sleepless I listen to the surge and droneAnd drifting roar of the town's undertone;Till through quiet falling rain I hear the bellsTolling and chiming their brief tune that tellsDay's midnight end. And from the day that's overNo flashes of delight I can recover;But only dreary winter streets, and facesOf people moving in loud clanging places:And I in my loneliness, longing for you...
For all I did to-day, and all I'll doTo-morrow, in this city of intenseArteried activities that throb and strive,Is but a beating down of that suspenseWhich holds me from your arms.I am aliveOnly that I may find you at the endOf these slow-striking hours I toil to spend,Putting each one behind me, knowing but this—That all my days are turning toward your kiss;That all expectancy awaits the deepConsoling passion of your eyes, that keepTheir radiance for my coming, and their peaceFor when I find in you my love's release.
You were glad to-night: and now you've gone away.Flushed in the dark, you put your dreams to bed;But as you fall asleep I hear you sayThose tired sweet drowsy words we left unsaid.
I am alone: but in the windless nightI listen to the gurgling rain that veilsThe gloom with peace; and whispering of your whiteLimbs, and your mouth that stormed my throat with bliss,The rain becomes your voice, and tells me talesThat crowd my heart with memories of your kiss.
Sleep well: for I can follow you, to blessAnd lull your distant beauty where you roam;And with wild songs of hoarded lovelinessRecall you to these arms that were your home.
Sleep; and my song shall build about your bedA Paradise of dimness. You shall feelThe folding of tired wings; and peace will dwellThroned in your silence: and one hour shall holdSummer, and midnight, and immensityLulled to forgetfulness. For, where you dream,The stately gloom of foliage shall embowerYour slumbering thought with tapestries of blue.And there shall be no memory of the sky,Nor sunlight with its cruelty of swords.But, to your soul that sinks from deep to deepThrough drowned and glimmering colour, Time shall beOnly slow rhythmic swaying; and your breath;And roses in the darkness; and my love.
I never asked you to be perfect—did I?—Though often I've called you sweet, in the invasionOf mastering love. I never prayed that youMight stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman,Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post.
Oh yes, I know the way to heaven was easy.We found the little kingdom of our passionThat all can share who walk the road of lovers.In wild and secret happiness we stumbled;And gods and demons clamoured in our senses.
But I've grown thoughtful now. And you have lostYour early-morning freshness of surpriseAt being so utterly mine: you've learned to fearThe gloomy, stricken places in my soul,And the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze.
You made me glad; and I can still returnTo you, the haven of my lonely pride:But I am sworn to murder those illusionsThat blossom from desire with desperate beauty:And there shall be no falsehood in our failure;Since, if we loved like beasts, the thing is done,And I'll not hide it, though our heaven be hell.
You dream long liturgies of our devotion.Yet, in my heart, I dread our love's destruction.But, should you grow to hate me, I would askNo mercy of your mood: I'd have you standAnd look me in the eyes, and laugh, and smite me.
Then I should know, at least, that truth endured,Though love had died of wounds. And you could leave meUnvanquished in my atmosphere of devils.
I love all things that pass: their briefness isMusic that fades on transient silences.Winds, birds, and glittering leaves that flare and fall—They fling delight across the world; they callTo rhythmic-flashing limbs that rove and race...A moment in the dawn for Youth's lit face;A moment's passion, closing on the cry—'O Beauty, born of lovely things that die!'
You think I cannot understand. Ah, but I do ...I have been wrung with anger and compassion for you.I wonder if you'd loathe my pity, if you knew.
But youshallknow. I've carried in my heart too longThis secret burden. Has not silence wroughtyourwrong—Brought you to dumb and wintry middle-age, with greyUnfruitful withering?—Ah, the pitiless things I say...
What do you ask your God for, at the end of day,Kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head?What mercy can He give you?—Dreams of the unbornChildren that haunt your soul like loving words unsaid—Dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn?
I see you in the chapel, where you bend beforeThe enhaloed calm of everlasting MotherhoodThat wounds your life; I see you humbled to adoreThe painted miracle you've never understood.Tender, and bitter-sweet, and shy, I've watched you holdingAnother's child. O childless woman, was it thenThat, with an instant's cry, your heart, made young again,Was crucified for ever—those poor arms enfoldingThe life, the consummation that had been denied you?I too have longed for children. Ah, but you must not weep.Something I have to whisper as I kneel beside you...And you must pray for me before you fall asleep.
Have you forgotten yet?...For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,Like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of city-ways:And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flowLike clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you're a manreprieved to go,Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.But the past is just the same—and War's a bloody game...Have you forgotten yet? ...Look down, and swear by the slain of the War thatyou'll never forget.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz—The nights you watched and wired and dug and piledsandbags on parapets?Do you remember the rats; and the stenchOf corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench—And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack—And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you thenAs you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching backWith dying eyes and lolling heads—those ashen-greyMasks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet? ...Look up, and swear by the green of the spring thatyou'll never forget.
March, 1919.
Voices moving about in the quiet house:Thud of feet and a muffled shutting of doors:Everyone yawning ... only the clocks are alert.
Out in the night there's autumn-smelling gloomCrowded with whispering trees,—looming of oaksThat roared in wild wet gales: across the parkThe hollow cry of hounds like lonely bells:And I know that the clouds are moving across the moon,The low, red, rising moon.The herons callAnd wrangle by their pool; and hooting owlsSail from the wood across pale stocks of wheat.
Waiting for sleep, I drift from thoughts like these;And where to-day was dream-like, build my dreams.Music ... there was a bright white room below,And someone singing a song about a soldier,—One hour, two hours ago; and soon the songWill be 'last night': but now the beauty swingsAcross my brain, ghost of remember'd chordsWhich still can make such radiance in my dreamThat I can watch the marching of my soldiers,And count their faces; faces; sunlit faces.
Falling asleep ... the herons, and the hounds...September in the darkness; and the worldI've known; all fading past me into peace.
You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;And Youth against the sun-rise ... 'Not profound;'But such a haunting music in the sound:'Do it once more; it helps us to forget.'
Last night I dreamt an old recurring scene—Some complex out of childhood; (sex, of course!)I can't remember how the trouble starts;And then I'm running blindly in the sunDown the old orchard, and there's something cruelChasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuitOf clumsy anger ... Crash! I'm through the fenceAnd thrusting wildly down the wood that's denseWith woven green of safety; paths that windMoss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind,One thwarted yell; then silence. I've escaped.
That's where it used to stop. Last night I wentOnward until the trees were dark and huge,And I was lost, cut off from all returnBy swamps and birdless jungles. I'd no chanceOf getting home for tea. I woke with shivers,And thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers.
Some day I'll build (more ruggedly than Doughty)A dark tremendous song you'll never hear.My beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiterOn bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year.And some will say, 'His work has grown so dreary.'Others, 'He used to be a charming writer.'And you, my friend, will query—'Why can't you cut it short, you pompous blighter?'
If you could crowd them into forty lines!Yes; you can do it, once you get a start:All that you want is waiting in your head,For long-ago you've learnt it off by heart.
* * * * * * *
Begin: your mind's the room where you must sleep,(Don't pause for rhymes), till twilight wakes you early.The window stands wide-open, as it stoodWhen tree-tops loomed enchanted for a childHearing the dawn's first thrushes through the woodWarbling (you know the words) serene and wild.
You've said it all before: you dreamed of Death,A dim Apollo in the bird-voiced breezeThat drifts across the morning veiled with showers,While golden weather shines among dark trees.
You've got your limitations; let them sing,And all your life will waken with a cry:Why should you halt when rapture's on the wingAnd you've no limit but the cloud-flocked sky?...
But some chap shouts, 'Here, stop it; that's been done!'—As God might holloa to the rising sun,And then relent, because the glorying raysReminded Him of glinting Eden days,And Adam's trustful eyes as he looks upFrom carving eagles on his beechwood cup.
Young Adam knew his job; he could condenseLife to an eagle from the unknown immense ...Go on, whoever you are; your lines can beA whisper in the music from the weirsOf song that plunge and tumble toward the seaThat is the uncharted mercy of our tears.
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I told you it was easy: words are foolsWho follow blindly, once they get a lead.But thoughts are kingfishers that haunt the poolsOf quiet; seldom-seen; and all you needIs just that flash of joy above your dream.So, when those forty platitudes are done,You'll hear a bird-note calling from the streamThat wandered through your childhood; and the sunWill strike the old flaming wonder from the waters ...And there'll be forty lines not yet begun.
Everyone suddenly burst out singing;And I was filled with such delightAs prisoned birds must find in freedom,Winging wildly across the whiteOrchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight.
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;And beauty came like the setting sun:My heart was shaken with tears; and horrorDrifted away ... O, but EveryoneWas a bird; and the song was wordless; the singingwill never be done.