PORTON WATERThrough Porton village, under the bridge,A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing,And elms that shelter under the ridge.Through Porton village we passed one day,Marching the plain for mile on mile,And crossed the bridge in single file,Happily singing, and marched awayOver the bridge where the shallow races,Under a clear and frosty sky:And the winterbourne, as we marched by,Mirrored a thousand laughing faces.O, do we trouble you, Porton river,We who laughing passed, and afterFound a resting-place for laughter?Over here, where the poplars shiverBy stagnant waters, we lie rotten.On windless nights, in the lonely places,There, where the winter water races,O, Porton river, are we forgotten?Through Porton village, under the bridge,The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing,And elms that shelter under the ridge.The pale moon she comes and looks;Over the lonely spire she climbs;For there she is lovelier many timesThan in the little broken brooks.AN OLD HOUSENo one lives in the old house; long agoThe voices of men and women left it lonely.They shuttered the sightless windows in a row,Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only.Beyond the garden-closes, with sudden thunderThe lumbering troop-train passing clanks and jangles;And I, a stranger, peer with careless wonderInto the thickets of the garden tangles.Yet, as I pass, a transient vision dawnsGhostly upon my pondering spirit's gloom,Of grey lavender bushes and weedy lawnsAnd a solitary cherry-tree in bloom....No one lives in the old house: year by yearThe plaster crumbles on the lonely walls:The apple falls in the lush grass; the pear,Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls.Yet this the garden was, where, on spring nightsUnder the cherry-blossom, lovers plightedHave wondered at the moony billows white,Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted;Whose ears have heard the blackbird's jolly whistle,The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flittingZigzag beneath the eaves; or, on the thistle,The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting;Whose eyes, on winter evenings, slow returningSaw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fallStreaming, or, on the hearth, red embers burning,And shadows of children playing in the hall.Where have they gone, lovers of another day?(No one lives in the old house; long agoThey shuttered the sightless windows....) Where are they,Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow?I cannot tell ... and little enough they care,Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light,And autumn pile her harvest unawareUnder the walls that echoed their delight.I cannot tell ... yet I am as those lovers;For me, who pass on my predestinate way,The prodigal blossom billows and recoversIn ghostly gardens a hundred miles away.Yet, in my heart, a melancholy raptureTells me that eyes, which now an iron hasteHurries to iron days, may here recaptureA vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste.THE DHOWSSouth of Guardafui with a dark tide flowingWe hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon,Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showingWhere dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon.'Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?''We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman's behest,With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of OphirFrom brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.''Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?''We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star.The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lyingA hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.''Oh whither be ye sailing...?''Alas, we sail no longer:Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know.And why should you torment us? ... Your iron keels are strongerThan ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.'THE GIFTMarching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plainOf wavering spear-grass past Pangani River,England came to me--me who had always ta'enBut never given before--England, the giver,In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiverOn still evenings of summer, after rain,By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiverWhen scarce a ripple moves the upland grain.Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain,And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awakeShivering all night through till cold daybreak:In that I count these sufferings my gainAnd her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fainSuffer as many more for her sweet sake.FIVE DEGREES SOUTHI love all waves and lovely water in motion,That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray:Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake's commotion,Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal wayUnquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowingPlumes of faint spray, cool in the deepAnd lucent seas, that pause not in their flowingTo lap the southern starlight while they sleep.These I have seen, these I have loved and known:I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swingingLike a ship's lantern, silent and aloneWithin his sea of sky, and heard the singingOf the south trade, that siren of the air,Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there.104° FAHRENHEITTo-night I lay with fever in my veinsConsumed, tormented creature of fire and ice,And, weaving the enhavock'd brain's device,Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plainsWhere sunlight slayeth life, and where no rainsAbated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire:So that death seemed the end of all desire,To ease the distracted body of its pains.And so I died, and from my eyes the glareFaded, nor had I further need of breath;But when I reached my hand to find you thereBeside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death.And with a cry I wakened, but to hearThin wings of fever singing in my ear.FEVER-TREESThe beautiful AcaciaShe sighs in desert lands:Over the burning waterwaysOf Africa she sways and sways,Even where no air glidethIn cooling green she stands.The beautiful AcaciaShe hath a yellow dress:A slender trunk of lemon sheenGleameth through the tender green(Where the thorn hideth)Shielding her loveliness.The beautiful AcaciaDwelleth in deadly lands:Over the brooding waterwaysWhere death breedeth, she sways and sways,And no man long abidethIn valleys where she stands.THE RAIN-BIRDHigh on the tufted baobab-treeTo-night a rain-bird sang to meA simple song, of three notes only,That made the wilderness more lonely;For in my brain it echoed nearly,Old village church bells chiming clearly:The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune,Over the mowing grass in June--Over the mowing grass, and meadowsWhere the low sun casts long shadows.And cuckoos call in the twilightFrom elm to elm, in level flight.Now through the evening meadows moveSlow couples of young folk in love,Who pause at every crooked stileAnd kiss in the hawthorn's shade the while:Like pale moths the summer frocksHover between the beds of phlox,And old men, feeling it is late,Cease their gossip at the gate,Till deeper still the twilight grows,And night blossometh, like a roseFull of love and sweet perfume,Whose heart most tender stars illume.Here the red sun sank like lead,And the sky blackened overhead;Only the locust chirped at meFrom the shadowy baobab-tree.MOTHSWhen I lay wakeful yesternightMy fever's flame was a clear light,A taper, flaring in the wind,Whither, fluttering out of the dimNight, many dreams glimmered by.Like moths, out of the darkness, blind,Hurling at that taper's flame,From drinking honey of the night's flowersInto my circled light they came:So near I could see their soft colours,Grey of the dove, most soothely grey;But my heat singed their wings, and awayDarting into the dark again,They escaped me....Others floated downLike those vaned seeds that fallIn autumn from the sycamore's crownWhen no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred,More silent in flight than any bird,Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, softAs lizards moving on a white wallThey came quietly from aloftDown through my circle of light, and soInto unlighted gloom below.But one dream, strong-winged, daringFlew beating at the heart of the flameTill I feared it would have put out my light,My thin taper, fitfully flaring,And that I should be left alone in the nightWith no more dreams for my delight.Can it be that from the deadEven their dreams, their dreams are fled?BÊTE HUMAINERiding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,I saw the world awake; and as the rayTouched the tall grasses where they dream till day,Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies,With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyesPiloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.I aimed at one, and struck it, and it layBroken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes...Then my soul sickened with a sudden painAnd horror, at my own careless cruelty,That where all things are cruel I had slainA creature whose sweet life it is to fly:Like beasts that prey with bloody claw...Nay, theyMust slay to live, but what excuse had I?DOVESOn the edge of the wild-woodGrey doves fluttering:Grey doves of AstarteTo the woods at daybreakLazily utteringTheir murmured enchantment,Old as man's childhood;While she, pale divinityOf hidden evil,Silvers the regions chasteOf cold sky, and broodethOver forests primevalAnd all that thorny waste'sWooded infinity.'Lovely goddess of groves,'Cried I, 'what enchantedSinister recessesOf these lone shadesMay still be hauntedBy thy demon caresses,Thy unholy loves?'But clear day quellethHer dominion lonely,And the soft ring-dove,Murmuring, tellethThat dark sin onlyFrom man's lust springeth,In man's heart dwelleth.SONGI made a song in my love's likenessFrom colours of my quietude,From trees whose blossoms shine no lessThan butterflies in the wild-wood.I laid claim on all beautyUnder the sun to praise her wonder,Till the noise of war swept over me,Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder.The angel of death hath swift wings,I heard him strip the huddled treesOverhead, as a hornet sings,And whip the grass about my knees.Down we crouched in the parchèd dust,Down beneath that deadly rain:Dead still I lay, as lie one mustWho hath a bullet in his brain.Dead they left me: but my soul, waking,Quietly laughed at their distressWho guessed not that I still was makingThat new song in my love's likeness.BEFORE ACTIONNow the wind of the dawn sighs,Now red embers have burned white,Under the darkness faints and diesThe slow-beating heart of night.Into the darkness my eyes peerSeeing only faces steel'd,And level eyes that know not fear;Yet each heart is a battlefieldWhere phantom armies foin and feintAnd bloody victories are wonFrom the time when stars are faintTo the rising of the sun.With banners broken, and the rollOf drums, at dawn the phantoms fly:A man must commune with his soulWhen he marches out to die.O day of wrath and of desire!For each may know upon this dayWhether he be a thing of fireOr fettered to the traitor clay.Such is the hazard that is thrown:We know not how the dice may fall:All the secrets shall be knownOr else we shall not know at all.ON A SUBALTERN KILLED IN ACTIONInto that dry and most desolate placeWith heavy gait they dragged the stretcher inAnd laid him on the bloody ground: the dinOf Maxim fire ceased not. I raised his head,And looked into his face,And saw that he was dead.Saw beneath matted curls the broken skinThat let the bullet in;And saw the limp, lithe limbs, the smiling mouth...(Ah, may we smile at deathAs bravely....) the curv'd lips that no more drouthShould blacken, and no sweetly stirring breathMildly displace.So I covered the calm faceAnd stripped the shirt from his firm breast, and there,A zinc identity disc, a bracelet of elephant hairI found.... Ah, God, how deep it stingsThis unendurable pity of small things!But more than this I saw,That dead stranger welcoming, more than the rawAnd brutal havoc of war.England I saw, the mother from whose sideHe came hither and died, she at whose hems he had play'd,In whose quiet womb his body and soul were made.That pale, estrangèd flesh that we bowed overHad breathed the scent in summer of white clover;Dreamed her cool fading nights, her twilights long,And days as careless as a blackbird's songHeard in the hush of eve, when midges' wingsMake a thin music, and the night-jar spins.(For it is summer, I thought, in England now....)And once those forward gazing eyes had seenHer lovely living green: that blackened browCool airs, from those blue hills moving, had fann'd--Breath of that holy landWhither my soul aspireth without despair:In the broken brain had many a lovely wordAwakened magical echoes of things heard,Telling of love and laughter and low voices,And tales in which the English heart rejoicesIn vanishing visions of childhood and its glories:Old-fashioned nursery rhymes and fairy stories:Words that only an English tongue could tell.And the firing died away; and the night fellOn our battle. Only in the sullen skyA prairie fire, with huge fantastic flameLeapt, lighting dark clouds charged with thunder.And my heart was sick with shameThat there, in death, he should lie,Crying: 'Oh, why am I alive, I wonder?'In a dream I saw war riding the land:Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glareOf sack'd cities smouldering in the dark,A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head,And hid her face of dread....Yet, in my passion would I look on her,Crying, O hark,Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scytheOf God, that iron scythe forged by his thunderFor reaping of nations overripened, fashionedUpon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flyingIn a starry night, dying, fall hereunder....But she, she heeded not my cry impassionedNor turned her face of dread,Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head,O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy goingThese bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery waysWhereby no influence straysRuder than a cold wind blowing,Or beating needles of rain,Why must thou ride againRuthless among the pastures yet unripened,Crushing their beauty in thine iron trackDowntrodden, ravish'd in thy following flame,Parched and black?But she, she stayed not in her weary hasteNor turned her face; but fled:And where she passed the lands lay waste....And now I cannot tell whither she rideth:But tired, tired rides she.Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth:She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth,Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning,Nor all her hate availeth:For she passeth out of sightInto that nightFrom which none, none returnethTo waste the meadows of youth,Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe,O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow.And a hope within me springsThat fair will be the morrow,And that charred plain,Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at lastIn a sweet, cleanFreshness, as when the greenGrass springeth, where the prairie fire hath passed.AFTER ACTIONAll through that day of battle the broken soundOf shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood;So that the low trees shuddered where they stood,And echoes bellowed in the bush around:But when, at last the light of day was drowned,That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good!There, in the reek of iodine and blood,I flung me down upon the thorny ground.So quiet was it, I might well have been lyingIn a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakesIts dew upon the lattice panes at even:Where rusty ivory scatters from the dyingJessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaksHer dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven.SONNETNot only for remembered loveliness,England, my mother, my own, we hold thee rareWho toil, and fight, and sicken beneath the glareOf brazen skies that smile on our duress,Making us crave thy cloudy state no lessThan the sweet clarity of thy rain-wash'd air,Meadows in moonlight cool, and every fairSlow-fading flower of thy summer dress:Not for thy flowers, but for the unfading crownOf sacrifice our happy brothers wove thee:The joyous ones who laid thy beauty downNor stayed to see it shamed. For these we love thee,For this (O love, O dread!) we hold thee moreDivinely fair to-day than heretofore.A FAREWELL TO AFRICA,, vspace:: 2Now once again, upon the pole-star's bearing,We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth;Again the busy trade in the halyards singethSun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing;The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring;In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost,And the starry south rolls over until no ghostRemaineth of us and all our pitiful daring;For the sea beareth no trace of man's endeavour,His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies,Soundless, within her unsounded caves, foreverShe broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace,And our grey cruisers holds in mind no moreThan the cedarn fleets that Sheba's treasure bore.SONGWhat is the worth of warIn a world that turneth, turnethAbout a tired starWhose flaming centre burnethNo longer than the spaceOf the spent atom's race:Where conquered lands, soon, soonLie waste as the pale moon?What is the worth of artIn a world that fast forgettethThose who have wrung its heartWith beauty that love begetteth,Whose faint flames vanish quiteIn that star-powdered nightWhere even the mighty onesShine only as far suns?And what is beauty worth,Sweet beauty, that persuadethOf her immortal birth,Then, as a flower, fadeth:Or love, whose tender yearsEnd with the mourner's tears,Die, when the mourner's breathIs quiet, at last, in death?Beauty and love are one,Even when fierce war clashes:Even when our fiery sunHath burnt itself to ashes,And the dead planets raceUnlighted through blind space,Beauty will still shine there:Wherefore, I worship her.THE HAWTHORN SPRAYI saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray,One moment only, spilling creamy blossom,While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom,Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.The branch was still; but, in my heart, a painThan the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, onlyRemembering days in a far land and lonelyWhen I had never hoped for summer again.THE PAVEMENTIn bitter London's heart of stone,Under the lamplight's shielded glare.I saw a soldier's body thrownUnto the drabs that traffic therePacing the pavements with slow feet:Those old pavements whose blown dustThrottles the hot air of the street,And the darkness smells of lust.The chaste moon, with equal glance,Looked down on the mad world, astareAt those who conquered in sad FranceAnd those who perished in Leicester Square.And in her light his lips were pale:Lips that love had moulded well:Out of the jaws of PasschendaeleThey had sent him to this nether hell.I had no stone of scorn to fling,For I know not how the wrong began--But I had seen a hateful thingMasked in the dignity of man:And hate and sorrow and hopeless angerSwept my heart, as the winds that sweepAngrily through the leafless hangerWhen winter rises from the deep....* * * * *I would that war were what men dream:A crackling fire, a cleansing flame,That it might leap the space betweenAnd lap up London and its shame.To LYDIA LOPOKOVAHER GARLAND
PORTON WATER
Through Porton village, under the bridge,A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing,And elms that shelter under the ridge.Through Porton village we passed one day,Marching the plain for mile on mile,And crossed the bridge in single file,Happily singing, and marched awayOver the bridge where the shallow races,Under a clear and frosty sky:And the winterbourne, as we marched by,Mirrored a thousand laughing faces.O, do we trouble you, Porton river,We who laughing passed, and afterFound a resting-place for laughter?Over here, where the poplars shiverBy stagnant waters, we lie rotten.On windless nights, in the lonely places,There, where the winter water races,O, Porton river, are we forgotten?Through Porton village, under the bridge,The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing,And elms that shelter under the ridge.The pale moon she comes and looks;Over the lonely spire she climbs;For there she is lovelier many timesThan in the little broken brooks.
Through Porton village, under the bridge,A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing,And elms that shelter under the ridge.
Through Porton village, under the bridge,
A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing,
A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing,
Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing,
And elms that shelter under the ridge.
Through Porton village we passed one day,Marching the plain for mile on mile,And crossed the bridge in single file,Happily singing, and marched away
Through Porton village we passed one day,
Marching the plain for mile on mile,And crossed the bridge in single file,
Marching the plain for mile on mile,
And crossed the bridge in single file,
Happily singing, and marched away
Over the bridge where the shallow races,Under a clear and frosty sky:And the winterbourne, as we marched by,Mirrored a thousand laughing faces.
Over the bridge where the shallow races,
Under a clear and frosty sky:And the winterbourne, as we marched by,
Under a clear and frosty sky:
And the winterbourne, as we marched by,
Mirrored a thousand laughing faces.
O, do we trouble you, Porton river,We who laughing passed, and afterFound a resting-place for laughter?Over here, where the poplars shiver
O, do we trouble you, Porton river,
We who laughing passed, and afterFound a resting-place for laughter?
We who laughing passed, and after
Found a resting-place for laughter?
Over here, where the poplars shiver
By stagnant waters, we lie rotten.On windless nights, in the lonely places,There, where the winter water races,O, Porton river, are we forgotten?
By stagnant waters, we lie rotten.
On windless nights, in the lonely places,There, where the winter water races,
On windless nights, in the lonely places,
There, where the winter water races,
O, Porton river, are we forgotten?
Through Porton village, under the bridge,The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing,And elms that shelter under the ridge.
Through Porton village, under the bridge,
The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing,Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing,
The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing,
Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing,
And elms that shelter under the ridge.
The pale moon she comes and looks;Over the lonely spire she climbs;For there she is lovelier many timesThan in the little broken brooks.
The pale moon she comes and looks;
Over the lonely spire she climbs;For there she is lovelier many times
Over the lonely spire she climbs;
For there she is lovelier many times
Than in the little broken brooks.
AN OLD HOUSE
No one lives in the old house; long agoThe voices of men and women left it lonely.They shuttered the sightless windows in a row,Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only.Beyond the garden-closes, with sudden thunderThe lumbering troop-train passing clanks and jangles;And I, a stranger, peer with careless wonderInto the thickets of the garden tangles.Yet, as I pass, a transient vision dawnsGhostly upon my pondering spirit's gloom,Of grey lavender bushes and weedy lawnsAnd a solitary cherry-tree in bloom....No one lives in the old house: year by yearThe plaster crumbles on the lonely walls:The apple falls in the lush grass; the pear,Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls.Yet this the garden was, where, on spring nightsUnder the cherry-blossom, lovers plightedHave wondered at the moony billows white,Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted;Whose ears have heard the blackbird's jolly whistle,The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flittingZigzag beneath the eaves; or, on the thistle,The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting;Whose eyes, on winter evenings, slow returningSaw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fallStreaming, or, on the hearth, red embers burning,And shadows of children playing in the hall.Where have they gone, lovers of another day?(No one lives in the old house; long agoThey shuttered the sightless windows....) Where are they,Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow?I cannot tell ... and little enough they care,Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light,And autumn pile her harvest unawareUnder the walls that echoed their delight.I cannot tell ... yet I am as those lovers;For me, who pass on my predestinate way,The prodigal blossom billows and recoversIn ghostly gardens a hundred miles away.Yet, in my heart, a melancholy raptureTells me that eyes, which now an iron hasteHurries to iron days, may here recaptureA vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste.
No one lives in the old house; long agoThe voices of men and women left it lonely.They shuttered the sightless windows in a row,Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only.
No one lives in the old house; long ago
The voices of men and women left it lonely.
The voices of men and women left it lonely.
They shuttered the sightless windows in a row,
Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only.
Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only.
Beyond the garden-closes, with sudden thunderThe lumbering troop-train passing clanks and jangles;And I, a stranger, peer with careless wonderInto the thickets of the garden tangles.
Beyond the garden-closes, with sudden thunder
The lumbering troop-train passing clanks and jangles;
The lumbering troop-train passing clanks and jangles;
And I, a stranger, peer with careless wonder
Into the thickets of the garden tangles.
Into the thickets of the garden tangles.
Yet, as I pass, a transient vision dawnsGhostly upon my pondering spirit's gloom,Of grey lavender bushes and weedy lawnsAnd a solitary cherry-tree in bloom....
Yet, as I pass, a transient vision dawns
Ghostly upon my pondering spirit's gloom,
Ghostly upon my pondering spirit's gloom,
Of grey lavender bushes and weedy lawns
And a solitary cherry-tree in bloom....
And a solitary cherry-tree in bloom....
No one lives in the old house: year by yearThe plaster crumbles on the lonely walls:The apple falls in the lush grass; the pear,Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls.
No one lives in the old house: year by year
The plaster crumbles on the lonely walls:
The plaster crumbles on the lonely walls:
The apple falls in the lush grass; the pear,
Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls.
Pulpy with ripeness, on the pathway falls.
Yet this the garden was, where, on spring nightsUnder the cherry-blossom, lovers plightedHave wondered at the moony billows white,Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted;
Yet this the garden was, where, on spring nights
Under the cherry-blossom, lovers plighted
Under the cherry-blossom, lovers plighted
Have wondered at the moony billows white,
Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted;
Dreaming uncountable springs by love delighted;
Whose ears have heard the blackbird's jolly whistle,The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flittingZigzag beneath the eaves; or, on the thistle,The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting;
Whose ears have heard the blackbird's jolly whistle,
The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flitting
The shadowy cries of bats in twilight flitting
Zigzag beneath the eaves; or, on the thistle,
The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting;
The twitter of autumn birds swinging and sitting;
Whose eyes, on winter evenings, slow returningSaw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fallStreaming, or, on the hearth, red embers burning,And shadows of children playing in the hall.
Whose eyes, on winter evenings, slow returning
Saw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fall
Saw on the frosted paths pale lamplight fall
Streaming, or, on the hearth, red embers burning,
And shadows of children playing in the hall.
And shadows of children playing in the hall.
Where have they gone, lovers of another day?(No one lives in the old house; long agoThey shuttered the sightless windows....) Where are they,Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow?
Where have they gone, lovers of another day?
(No one lives in the old house; long ago
(No one lives in the old house; long ago
They shuttered the sightless windows....) Where are they,
Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow?
Whose eyes delighted in this moony snow?
I cannot tell ... and little enough they care,Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light,And autumn pile her harvest unawareUnder the walls that echoed their delight.
I cannot tell ... and little enough they care,
Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light,
Though April spray the cherry-boughs with light,
And autumn pile her harvest unaware
Under the walls that echoed their delight.
Under the walls that echoed their delight.
I cannot tell ... yet I am as those lovers;For me, who pass on my predestinate way,The prodigal blossom billows and recoversIn ghostly gardens a hundred miles away.
I cannot tell ... yet I am as those lovers;
For me, who pass on my predestinate way,
For me, who pass on my predestinate way,
The prodigal blossom billows and recovers
In ghostly gardens a hundred miles away.
In ghostly gardens a hundred miles away.
Yet, in my heart, a melancholy raptureTells me that eyes, which now an iron hasteHurries to iron days, may here recaptureA vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste.
Yet, in my heart, a melancholy rapture
Tells me that eyes, which now an iron haste
Tells me that eyes, which now an iron haste
Hurries to iron days, may here recapture
A vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste.
A vision of ancient loveliness gone to waste.
THE DHOWS
South of Guardafui with a dark tide flowingWe hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon,Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showingWhere dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon.'Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?''We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman's behest,With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of OphirFrom brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.''Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?''We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star.The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lyingA hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.''Oh whither be ye sailing...?''Alas, we sail no longer:Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know.And why should you torment us? ... Your iron keels are strongerThan ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.'
South of Guardafui with a dark tide flowingWe hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon,Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showingWhere dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon.
South of Guardafui with a dark tide flowing
We hailed two ships with tattered canvas bent to the monsoon,
Hung betwixt the outer sea and pale surf showing
Where dead cities of Libya lay bleaching in the moon.
'Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?''We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman's behest,With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of OphirFrom brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.'
'Oh whither be ye sailing with torn sails broken?'
'We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliman's behest,
With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of Ophir
From brown-skinned baharias of Arabia the Blest.'
'Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?''We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star.The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lyingA hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.'
'Oh whither be ye sailing, with your dark flag flying?'
'We sail, with creaking cedar, towards the Northern Star.
The helmsman singeth wearily, and in our hold are lying
A hundred slaves in shackles from the marts of Zanzibar.'
'Oh whither be ye sailing...?''Alas, we sail no longer:Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know.And why should you torment us? ... Your iron keels are strongerThan ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.'
'Oh whither be ye sailing...?'
'Alas, we sail no longer:
'Alas, we sail no longer:
Our hulls are wrack, our sails are dust, as any man might know.
And why should you torment us? ... Your iron keels are stronger
Than ghostly ships that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago.'
THE GIFT
Marching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plainOf wavering spear-grass past Pangani River,England came to me--me who had always ta'enBut never given before--England, the giver,In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiverOn still evenings of summer, after rain,By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiverWhen scarce a ripple moves the upland grain.Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain,And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awakeShivering all night through till cold daybreak:In that I count these sufferings my gainAnd her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fainSuffer as many more for her sweet sake.
Marching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plainOf wavering spear-grass past Pangani River,England came to me--me who had always ta'enBut never given before--England, the giver,In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiverOn still evenings of summer, after rain,By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiverWhen scarce a ripple moves the upland grain.Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain,And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awakeShivering all night through till cold daybreak:In that I count these sufferings my gainAnd her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fainSuffer as many more for her sweet sake.
Marching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plain
Of wavering spear-grass past Pangani River,
England came to me--me who had always ta'en
But never given before--England, the giver,
In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiver
On still evenings of summer, after rain,
By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiver
When scarce a ripple moves the upland grain.
Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain,
And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awake
Shivering all night through till cold daybreak:
In that I count these sufferings my gain
And her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fain
Suffer as many more for her sweet sake.
FIVE DEGREES SOUTH
I love all waves and lovely water in motion,That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray:Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake's commotion,Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal wayUnquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowingPlumes of faint spray, cool in the deepAnd lucent seas, that pause not in their flowingTo lap the southern starlight while they sleep.These I have seen, these I have loved and known:I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swingingLike a ship's lantern, silent and aloneWithin his sea of sky, and heard the singingOf the south trade, that siren of the air,Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there.
I love all waves and lovely water in motion,That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray:Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake's commotion,Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal wayUnquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowingPlumes of faint spray, cool in the deepAnd lucent seas, that pause not in their flowingTo lap the southern starlight while they sleep.These I have seen, these I have loved and known:I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swingingLike a ship's lantern, silent and aloneWithin his sea of sky, and heard the singingOf the south trade, that siren of the air,Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there.
I love all waves and lovely water in motion,
That wavering iris in comb of the blown spray:
Iris of tumbled nautilus in the wake's commotion,
Their spread sails dipped in a marmoreal way
Unquarried, wherein are greeny bubbles blowing
Plumes of faint spray, cool in the deep
And lucent seas, that pause not in their flowing
To lap the southern starlight while they sleep.
These I have seen, these I have loved and known:
I have seen Jupiter, that great star, swinging
Like a ship's lantern, silent and alone
Within his sea of sky, and heard the singing
Of the south trade, that siren of the air,
Who shivers the taut shrouds, and singeth there.
104° FAHRENHEIT
To-night I lay with fever in my veinsConsumed, tormented creature of fire and ice,And, weaving the enhavock'd brain's device,Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plainsWhere sunlight slayeth life, and where no rainsAbated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire:So that death seemed the end of all desire,To ease the distracted body of its pains.And so I died, and from my eyes the glareFaded, nor had I further need of breath;But when I reached my hand to find you thereBeside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death.And with a cry I wakened, but to hearThin wings of fever singing in my ear.
To-night I lay with fever in my veinsConsumed, tormented creature of fire and ice,And, weaving the enhavock'd brain's device,Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plainsWhere sunlight slayeth life, and where no rainsAbated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire:So that death seemed the end of all desire,To ease the distracted body of its pains.And so I died, and from my eyes the glareFaded, nor had I further need of breath;But when I reached my hand to find you thereBeside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death.And with a cry I wakened, but to hearThin wings of fever singing in my ear.
To-night I lay with fever in my veins
Consumed, tormented creature of fire and ice,
And, weaving the enhavock'd brain's device,
Dreamed that for evermore I must walk these plains
Where sunlight slayeth life, and where no rains
Abated the fierce air, nor slaked its fire:
So that death seemed the end of all desire,
To ease the distracted body of its pains.
And so I died, and from my eyes the glare
Faded, nor had I further need of breath;
But when I reached my hand to find you there
Beside me, I found nothing.... Lonely was death.
And with a cry I wakened, but to hear
Thin wings of fever singing in my ear.
FEVER-TREES
The beautiful AcaciaShe sighs in desert lands:Over the burning waterwaysOf Africa she sways and sways,Even where no air glidethIn cooling green she stands.The beautiful AcaciaShe hath a yellow dress:A slender trunk of lemon sheenGleameth through the tender green(Where the thorn hideth)Shielding her loveliness.The beautiful AcaciaDwelleth in deadly lands:Over the brooding waterwaysWhere death breedeth, she sways and sways,And no man long abidethIn valleys where she stands.
The beautiful AcaciaShe sighs in desert lands:Over the burning waterwaysOf Africa she sways and sways,Even where no air glidethIn cooling green she stands.
The beautiful Acacia
She sighs in desert lands:
Over the burning waterways
Of Africa she sways and sways,
Even where no air glideth
In cooling green she stands.
The beautiful AcaciaShe hath a yellow dress:A slender trunk of lemon sheenGleameth through the tender green(Where the thorn hideth)Shielding her loveliness.
The beautiful Acacia
She hath a yellow dress:
A slender trunk of lemon sheen
Gleameth through the tender green
(Where the thorn hideth)
Shielding her loveliness.
The beautiful AcaciaDwelleth in deadly lands:Over the brooding waterwaysWhere death breedeth, she sways and sways,And no man long abidethIn valleys where she stands.
The beautiful Acacia
Dwelleth in deadly lands:
Over the brooding waterways
Where death breedeth, she sways and sways,
And no man long abideth
In valleys where she stands.
THE RAIN-BIRD
High on the tufted baobab-treeTo-night a rain-bird sang to meA simple song, of three notes only,That made the wilderness more lonely;For in my brain it echoed nearly,Old village church bells chiming clearly:The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune,Over the mowing grass in June--Over the mowing grass, and meadowsWhere the low sun casts long shadows.And cuckoos call in the twilightFrom elm to elm, in level flight.Now through the evening meadows moveSlow couples of young folk in love,Who pause at every crooked stileAnd kiss in the hawthorn's shade the while:Like pale moths the summer frocksHover between the beds of phlox,And old men, feeling it is late,Cease their gossip at the gate,Till deeper still the twilight grows,And night blossometh, like a roseFull of love and sweet perfume,Whose heart most tender stars illume.Here the red sun sank like lead,And the sky blackened overhead;Only the locust chirped at meFrom the shadowy baobab-tree.
High on the tufted baobab-treeTo-night a rain-bird sang to meA simple song, of three notes only,That made the wilderness more lonely;
High on the tufted baobab-tree
To-night a rain-bird sang to me
A simple song, of three notes only,
That made the wilderness more lonely;
For in my brain it echoed nearly,Old village church bells chiming clearly:The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune,Over the mowing grass in June--
For in my brain it echoed nearly,
Old village church bells chiming clearly:
The sweet cracked bells, just out of tune,
Over the mowing grass in June--
Over the mowing grass, and meadowsWhere the low sun casts long shadows.And cuckoos call in the twilightFrom elm to elm, in level flight.
Over the mowing grass, and meadows
Where the low sun casts long shadows.
And cuckoos call in the twilight
From elm to elm, in level flight.
Now through the evening meadows moveSlow couples of young folk in love,Who pause at every crooked stileAnd kiss in the hawthorn's shade the while:
Now through the evening meadows move
Slow couples of young folk in love,
Who pause at every crooked stile
And kiss in the hawthorn's shade the while:
Like pale moths the summer frocksHover between the beds of phlox,And old men, feeling it is late,Cease their gossip at the gate,
Like pale moths the summer frocks
Hover between the beds of phlox,
And old men, feeling it is late,
Cease their gossip at the gate,
Till deeper still the twilight grows,And night blossometh, like a roseFull of love and sweet perfume,Whose heart most tender stars illume.
Till deeper still the twilight grows,
And night blossometh, like a rose
Full of love and sweet perfume,
Whose heart most tender stars illume.
Here the red sun sank like lead,And the sky blackened overhead;Only the locust chirped at meFrom the shadowy baobab-tree.
Here the red sun sank like lead,
And the sky blackened overhead;
Only the locust chirped at me
From the shadowy baobab-tree.
MOTHS
When I lay wakeful yesternightMy fever's flame was a clear light,A taper, flaring in the wind,Whither, fluttering out of the dimNight, many dreams glimmered by.Like moths, out of the darkness, blind,Hurling at that taper's flame,From drinking honey of the night's flowersInto my circled light they came:So near I could see their soft colours,Grey of the dove, most soothely grey;But my heat singed their wings, and awayDarting into the dark again,They escaped me....Others floated downLike those vaned seeds that fallIn autumn from the sycamore's crownWhen no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred,More silent in flight than any bird,Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, softAs lizards moving on a white wallThey came quietly from aloftDown through my circle of light, and soInto unlighted gloom below.But one dream, strong-winged, daringFlew beating at the heart of the flameTill I feared it would have put out my light,My thin taper, fitfully flaring,And that I should be left alone in the nightWith no more dreams for my delight.Can it be that from the deadEven their dreams, their dreams are fled?
When I lay wakeful yesternightMy fever's flame was a clear light,A taper, flaring in the wind,Whither, fluttering out of the dimNight, many dreams glimmered by.Like moths, out of the darkness, blind,Hurling at that taper's flame,From drinking honey of the night's flowersInto my circled light they came:So near I could see their soft colours,Grey of the dove, most soothely grey;But my heat singed their wings, and awayDarting into the dark again,They escaped me....Others floated downLike those vaned seeds that fallIn autumn from the sycamore's crownWhen no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred,More silent in flight than any bird,Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, softAs lizards moving on a white wallThey came quietly from aloftDown through my circle of light, and soInto unlighted gloom below.But one dream, strong-winged, daringFlew beating at the heart of the flameTill I feared it would have put out my light,My thin taper, fitfully flaring,And that I should be left alone in the nightWith no more dreams for my delight.
When I lay wakeful yesternight
My fever's flame was a clear light,
A taper, flaring in the wind,
Whither, fluttering out of the dim
Night, many dreams glimmered by.
Like moths, out of the darkness, blind,
Hurling at that taper's flame,
From drinking honey of the night's flowers
Into my circled light they came:
So near I could see their soft colours,
Grey of the dove, most soothely grey;
But my heat singed their wings, and away
Darting into the dark again,
They escaped me....
Others floated down
Others floated down
Like those vaned seeds that fall
In autumn from the sycamore's crown
When no leaf trembleth nor branch is stirred,
More silent in flight than any bird,
Or bat's wings flitting in darkness, soft
As lizards moving on a white wall
They came quietly from aloft
Down through my circle of light, and so
Into unlighted gloom below.
But one dream, strong-winged, daring
Flew beating at the heart of the flame
Till I feared it would have put out my light,
My thin taper, fitfully flaring,
And that I should be left alone in the night
With no more dreams for my delight.
Can it be that from the deadEven their dreams, their dreams are fled?
Can it be that from the dead
Even their dreams, their dreams are fled?
BÊTE HUMAINE
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,I saw the world awake; and as the rayTouched the tall grasses where they dream till day,Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies,With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyesPiloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.I aimed at one, and struck it, and it layBroken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes...Then my soul sickened with a sudden painAnd horror, at my own careless cruelty,That where all things are cruel I had slainA creature whose sweet life it is to fly:Like beasts that prey with bloody claw...Nay, theyMust slay to live, but what excuse had I?
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,I saw the world awake; and as the rayTouched the tall grasses where they dream till day,Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies,With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyesPiloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.I aimed at one, and struck it, and it layBroken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes...Then my soul sickened with a sudden painAnd horror, at my own careless cruelty,That where all things are cruel I had slainA creature whose sweet life it is to fly:Like beasts that prey with bloody claw...Nay, theyMust slay to live, but what excuse had I?
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,
I saw the world awake; and as the ray
Touched the tall grasses where they dream till day,
Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies,
With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes
Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.
I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay
Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes...
Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain
And horror, at my own careless cruelty,
That where all things are cruel I had slain
A creature whose sweet life it is to fly:
Like beasts that prey with bloody claw...
Nay, they
Nay, they
Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?
DOVES
On the edge of the wild-woodGrey doves fluttering:Grey doves of AstarteTo the woods at daybreakLazily utteringTheir murmured enchantment,Old as man's childhood;While she, pale divinityOf hidden evil,Silvers the regions chasteOf cold sky, and broodethOver forests primevalAnd all that thorny waste'sWooded infinity.'Lovely goddess of groves,'Cried I, 'what enchantedSinister recessesOf these lone shadesMay still be hauntedBy thy demon caresses,Thy unholy loves?'But clear day quellethHer dominion lonely,And the soft ring-dove,Murmuring, tellethThat dark sin onlyFrom man's lust springeth,In man's heart dwelleth.
On the edge of the wild-woodGrey doves fluttering:Grey doves of AstarteTo the woods at daybreakLazily utteringTheir murmured enchantment,Old as man's childhood;
On the edge of the wild-wood
Grey doves fluttering:
Grey doves of Astarte
To the woods at daybreak
Lazily uttering
Their murmured enchantment,
Old as man's childhood;
While she, pale divinityOf hidden evil,Silvers the regions chasteOf cold sky, and broodethOver forests primevalAnd all that thorny waste'sWooded infinity.
While she, pale divinity
Of hidden evil,
Silvers the regions chaste
Of cold sky, and broodeth
Over forests primeval
And all that thorny waste's
Wooded infinity.
'Lovely goddess of groves,'Cried I, 'what enchantedSinister recessesOf these lone shadesMay still be hauntedBy thy demon caresses,Thy unholy loves?'
'Lovely goddess of groves,'
Cried I, 'what enchanted
Sinister recesses
Of these lone shades
May still be haunted
By thy demon caresses,
Thy unholy loves?'
But clear day quellethHer dominion lonely,And the soft ring-dove,Murmuring, tellethThat dark sin onlyFrom man's lust springeth,In man's heart dwelleth.
But clear day quelleth
Her dominion lonely,
And the soft ring-dove,
Murmuring, telleth
That dark sin only
From man's lust springeth,
In man's heart dwelleth.
SONG
I made a song in my love's likenessFrom colours of my quietude,From trees whose blossoms shine no lessThan butterflies in the wild-wood.I laid claim on all beautyUnder the sun to praise her wonder,Till the noise of war swept over me,Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder.The angel of death hath swift wings,I heard him strip the huddled treesOverhead, as a hornet sings,And whip the grass about my knees.Down we crouched in the parchèd dust,Down beneath that deadly rain:Dead still I lay, as lie one mustWho hath a bullet in his brain.Dead they left me: but my soul, waking,Quietly laughed at their distressWho guessed not that I still was makingThat new song in my love's likeness.
I made a song in my love's likenessFrom colours of my quietude,From trees whose blossoms shine no lessThan butterflies in the wild-wood.
I made a song in my love's likeness
From colours of my quietude,
From colours of my quietude,
From trees whose blossoms shine no less
Than butterflies in the wild-wood.
Than butterflies in the wild-wood.
I laid claim on all beautyUnder the sun to praise her wonder,Till the noise of war swept over me,Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder.
I laid claim on all beauty
Under the sun to praise her wonder,
Under the sun to praise her wonder,
Till the noise of war swept over me,
Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder.
Stopp'd my singing mouth with thunder.
The angel of death hath swift wings,I heard him strip the huddled treesOverhead, as a hornet sings,And whip the grass about my knees.
The angel of death hath swift wings,
I heard him strip the huddled trees
I heard him strip the huddled trees
Overhead, as a hornet sings,
And whip the grass about my knees.
And whip the grass about my knees.
Down we crouched in the parchèd dust,Down beneath that deadly rain:Dead still I lay, as lie one mustWho hath a bullet in his brain.
Down we crouched in the parchèd dust,
Down beneath that deadly rain:
Down beneath that deadly rain:
Dead still I lay, as lie one must
Who hath a bullet in his brain.
Who hath a bullet in his brain.
Dead they left me: but my soul, waking,Quietly laughed at their distressWho guessed not that I still was makingThat new song in my love's likeness.
Dead they left me: but my soul, waking,
Quietly laughed at their distress
Quietly laughed at their distress
Who guessed not that I still was making
That new song in my love's likeness.
That new song in my love's likeness.
BEFORE ACTION
Now the wind of the dawn sighs,Now red embers have burned white,Under the darkness faints and diesThe slow-beating heart of night.Into the darkness my eyes peerSeeing only faces steel'd,And level eyes that know not fear;Yet each heart is a battlefieldWhere phantom armies foin and feintAnd bloody victories are wonFrom the time when stars are faintTo the rising of the sun.With banners broken, and the rollOf drums, at dawn the phantoms fly:A man must commune with his soulWhen he marches out to die.O day of wrath and of desire!For each may know upon this dayWhether he be a thing of fireOr fettered to the traitor clay.Such is the hazard that is thrown:We know not how the dice may fall:All the secrets shall be knownOr else we shall not know at all.
Now the wind of the dawn sighs,Now red embers have burned white,Under the darkness faints and diesThe slow-beating heart of night.
Now the wind of the dawn sighs,
Now red embers have burned white,
Now red embers have burned white,
Under the darkness faints and dies
The slow-beating heart of night.
The slow-beating heart of night.
Into the darkness my eyes peerSeeing only faces steel'd,And level eyes that know not fear;Yet each heart is a battlefield
Into the darkness my eyes peer
Seeing only faces steel'd,
Seeing only faces steel'd,
And level eyes that know not fear;
Yet each heart is a battlefield
Yet each heart is a battlefield
Where phantom armies foin and feintAnd bloody victories are wonFrom the time when stars are faintTo the rising of the sun.
Where phantom armies foin and feint
And bloody victories are won
And bloody victories are won
From the time when stars are faint
To the rising of the sun.
To the rising of the sun.
With banners broken, and the rollOf drums, at dawn the phantoms fly:A man must commune with his soulWhen he marches out to die.
With banners broken, and the roll
Of drums, at dawn the phantoms fly:
Of drums, at dawn the phantoms fly:
A man must commune with his soul
When he marches out to die.
When he marches out to die.
O day of wrath and of desire!For each may know upon this dayWhether he be a thing of fireOr fettered to the traitor clay.
O day of wrath and of desire!
For each may know upon this day
For each may know upon this day
Whether he be a thing of fire
Or fettered to the traitor clay.
Or fettered to the traitor clay.
Such is the hazard that is thrown:We know not how the dice may fall:All the secrets shall be knownOr else we shall not know at all.
Such is the hazard that is thrown:
We know not how the dice may fall:
We know not how the dice may fall:
All the secrets shall be known
Or else we shall not know at all.
Or else we shall not know at all.
ON A SUBALTERN KILLED IN ACTION
Into that dry and most desolate placeWith heavy gait they dragged the stretcher inAnd laid him on the bloody ground: the dinOf Maxim fire ceased not. I raised his head,And looked into his face,And saw that he was dead.Saw beneath matted curls the broken skinThat let the bullet in;And saw the limp, lithe limbs, the smiling mouth...(Ah, may we smile at deathAs bravely....) the curv'd lips that no more drouthShould blacken, and no sweetly stirring breathMildly displace.So I covered the calm faceAnd stripped the shirt from his firm breast, and there,A zinc identity disc, a bracelet of elephant hairI found.... Ah, God, how deep it stingsThis unendurable pity of small things!But more than this I saw,That dead stranger welcoming, more than the rawAnd brutal havoc of war.England I saw, the mother from whose sideHe came hither and died, she at whose hems he had play'd,In whose quiet womb his body and soul were made.That pale, estrangèd flesh that we bowed overHad breathed the scent in summer of white clover;Dreamed her cool fading nights, her twilights long,And days as careless as a blackbird's songHeard in the hush of eve, when midges' wingsMake a thin music, and the night-jar spins.(For it is summer, I thought, in England now....)And once those forward gazing eyes had seenHer lovely living green: that blackened browCool airs, from those blue hills moving, had fann'd--Breath of that holy landWhither my soul aspireth without despair:In the broken brain had many a lovely wordAwakened magical echoes of things heard,Telling of love and laughter and low voices,And tales in which the English heart rejoicesIn vanishing visions of childhood and its glories:Old-fashioned nursery rhymes and fairy stories:Words that only an English tongue could tell.And the firing died away; and the night fellOn our battle. Only in the sullen skyA prairie fire, with huge fantastic flameLeapt, lighting dark clouds charged with thunder.And my heart was sick with shameThat there, in death, he should lie,Crying: 'Oh, why am I alive, I wonder?'In a dream I saw war riding the land:Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glareOf sack'd cities smouldering in the dark,A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head,And hid her face of dread....Yet, in my passion would I look on her,Crying, O hark,Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scytheOf God, that iron scythe forged by his thunderFor reaping of nations overripened, fashionedUpon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flyingIn a starry night, dying, fall hereunder....But she, she heeded not my cry impassionedNor turned her face of dread,Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head,O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy goingThese bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery waysWhereby no influence straysRuder than a cold wind blowing,Or beating needles of rain,Why must thou ride againRuthless among the pastures yet unripened,Crushing their beauty in thine iron trackDowntrodden, ravish'd in thy following flame,Parched and black?But she, she stayed not in her weary hasteNor turned her face; but fled:And where she passed the lands lay waste....And now I cannot tell whither she rideth:But tired, tired rides she.Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth:She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth,Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning,Nor all her hate availeth:For she passeth out of sightInto that nightFrom which none, none returnethTo waste the meadows of youth,Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe,O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow.And a hope within me springsThat fair will be the morrow,And that charred plain,Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at lastIn a sweet, cleanFreshness, as when the greenGrass springeth, where the prairie fire hath passed.
Into that dry and most desolate placeWith heavy gait they dragged the stretcher inAnd laid him on the bloody ground: the dinOf Maxim fire ceased not. I raised his head,And looked into his face,And saw that he was dead.Saw beneath matted curls the broken skinThat let the bullet in;And saw the limp, lithe limbs, the smiling mouth...(Ah, may we smile at deathAs bravely....) the curv'd lips that no more drouthShould blacken, and no sweetly stirring breathMildly displace.So I covered the calm faceAnd stripped the shirt from his firm breast, and there,A zinc identity disc, a bracelet of elephant hairI found.... Ah, God, how deep it stingsThis unendurable pity of small things!
Into that dry and most desolate place
With heavy gait they dragged the stretcher in
And laid him on the bloody ground: the din
Of Maxim fire ceased not. I raised his head,
And looked into his face,
And saw that he was dead.
Saw beneath matted curls the broken skin
That let the bullet in;
And saw the limp, lithe limbs, the smiling mouth...
(Ah, may we smile at death
As bravely....) the curv'd lips that no more drouth
Should blacken, and no sweetly stirring breath
Mildly displace.
So I covered the calm face
And stripped the shirt from his firm breast, and there,
A zinc identity disc, a bracelet of elephant hair
I found.... Ah, God, how deep it stings
This unendurable pity of small things!
But more than this I saw,That dead stranger welcoming, more than the rawAnd brutal havoc of war.England I saw, the mother from whose sideHe came hither and died, she at whose hems he had play'd,In whose quiet womb his body and soul were made.That pale, estrangèd flesh that we bowed overHad breathed the scent in summer of white clover;Dreamed her cool fading nights, her twilights long,And days as careless as a blackbird's songHeard in the hush of eve, when midges' wingsMake a thin music, and the night-jar spins.(For it is summer, I thought, in England now....)And once those forward gazing eyes had seenHer lovely living green: that blackened browCool airs, from those blue hills moving, had fann'd--Breath of that holy landWhither my soul aspireth without despair:In the broken brain had many a lovely wordAwakened magical echoes of things heard,Telling of love and laughter and low voices,And tales in which the English heart rejoicesIn vanishing visions of childhood and its glories:Old-fashioned nursery rhymes and fairy stories:Words that only an English tongue could tell.
But more than this I saw,
That dead stranger welcoming, more than the raw
And brutal havoc of war.
England I saw, the mother from whose side
He came hither and died, she at whose hems he had play'd,
In whose quiet womb his body and soul were made.
That pale, estrangèd flesh that we bowed over
Had breathed the scent in summer of white clover;
Dreamed her cool fading nights, her twilights long,
And days as careless as a blackbird's song
Heard in the hush of eve, when midges' wings
Make a thin music, and the night-jar spins.
(For it is summer, I thought, in England now....)
And once those forward gazing eyes had seen
Her lovely living green: that blackened brow
Cool airs, from those blue hills moving, had fann'd--
Breath of that holy land
Whither my soul aspireth without despair:
In the broken brain had many a lovely word
Awakened magical echoes of things heard,
Telling of love and laughter and low voices,
And tales in which the English heart rejoices
In vanishing visions of childhood and its glories:
Old-fashioned nursery rhymes and fairy stories:
Words that only an English tongue could tell.
And the firing died away; and the night fellOn our battle. Only in the sullen skyA prairie fire, with huge fantastic flameLeapt, lighting dark clouds charged with thunder.And my heart was sick with shameThat there, in death, he should lie,Crying: 'Oh, why am I alive, I wonder?'
And the firing died away; and the night fell
On our battle. Only in the sullen sky
A prairie fire, with huge fantastic flame
Leapt, lighting dark clouds charged with thunder.
And my heart was sick with shame
That there, in death, he should lie,
Crying: 'Oh, why am I alive, I wonder?'
In a dream I saw war riding the land:Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glareOf sack'd cities smouldering in the dark,A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head,And hid her face of dread....Yet, in my passion would I look on her,Crying, O hark,Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scytheOf God, that iron scythe forged by his thunderFor reaping of nations overripened, fashionedUpon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flyingIn a starry night, dying, fall hereunder....But she, she heeded not my cry impassionedNor turned her face of dread,Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head,O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy goingThese bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery waysWhereby no influence straysRuder than a cold wind blowing,Or beating needles of rain,Why must thou ride againRuthless among the pastures yet unripened,Crushing their beauty in thine iron trackDowntrodden, ravish'd in thy following flame,Parched and black?But she, she stayed not in her weary hasteNor turned her face; but fled:And where she passed the lands lay waste....
In a dream I saw war riding the land:
Stark rode she, with bowed eyes, against the glare
Of sack'd cities smouldering in the dark,
A tired horse, lean, with outreaching head,
And hid her face of dread....
Yet, in my passion would I look on her,
Crying, O hark,
Thou pale one, whom now men say bearest the scythe
Of God, that iron scythe forged by his thunder
For reaping of nations overripened, fashioned
Upon the clanging anvil whose sparks, flying
In a starry night, dying, fall hereunder....
But she, she heeded not my cry impassioned
Nor turned her face of dread,
Urging the tired horse, with outreaching head,
O thou, cried I, who choosest for thy going
These bloomy meadows of youth, these flowery ways
Whereby no influence strays
Ruder than a cold wind blowing,
Or beating needles of rain,
Why must thou ride again
Ruthless among the pastures yet unripened,
Crushing their beauty in thine iron track
Downtrodden, ravish'd in thy following flame,
Parched and black?
But she, she stayed not in her weary haste
Nor turned her face; but fled:
And where she passed the lands lay waste....
And now I cannot tell whither she rideth:But tired, tired rides she.Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth:She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth,Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning,Nor all her hate availeth:For she passeth out of sightInto that nightFrom which none, none returnethTo waste the meadows of youth,Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe,O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow.And a hope within me springsThat fair will be the morrow,And that charred plain,Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at lastIn a sweet, cleanFreshness, as when the greenGrass springeth, where the prairie fire hath passed.
And now I cannot tell whither she rideth:
But tired, tired rides she.
Yet know I well why her dread face she hideth:
She is pale and faint to death. Yea, her day faileth,
Nor all her blood, nor all her frenzy burning,
Nor all her hate availeth:
For she passeth out of sight
Into that night
From which none, none returneth
To waste the meadows of youth,
Nor vex thine eyelids, Routhe,
O sorrowful sister, soother of our sorrow.
And a hope within me springs
That fair will be the morrow,
And that charred plain,
Those flowery meadows, shall rejoice at last
In a sweet, clean
Freshness, as when the green
Grass springeth, where the prairie fire hath passed.
AFTER ACTION
All through that day of battle the broken soundOf shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood;So that the low trees shuddered where they stood,And echoes bellowed in the bush around:But when, at last the light of day was drowned,That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good!There, in the reek of iodine and blood,I flung me down upon the thorny ground.So quiet was it, I might well have been lyingIn a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakesIts dew upon the lattice panes at even:Where rusty ivory scatters from the dyingJessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaksHer dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven.
All through that day of battle the broken soundOf shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood;So that the low trees shuddered where they stood,And echoes bellowed in the bush around:But when, at last the light of day was drowned,That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good!There, in the reek of iodine and blood,I flung me down upon the thorny ground.So quiet was it, I might well have been lyingIn a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakesIts dew upon the lattice panes at even:Where rusty ivory scatters from the dyingJessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaksHer dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven.
All through that day of battle the broken sound
Of shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood;
So that the low trees shuddered where they stood,
And echoes bellowed in the bush around:
But when, at last the light of day was drowned,
That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good!
There, in the reek of iodine and blood,
I flung me down upon the thorny ground.
So quiet was it, I might well have been lying
In a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakes
Its dew upon the lattice panes at even:
Where rusty ivory scatters from the dying
Jessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaks
Her dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven.
SONNET
Not only for remembered loveliness,England, my mother, my own, we hold thee rareWho toil, and fight, and sicken beneath the glareOf brazen skies that smile on our duress,Making us crave thy cloudy state no lessThan the sweet clarity of thy rain-wash'd air,Meadows in moonlight cool, and every fairSlow-fading flower of thy summer dress:Not for thy flowers, but for the unfading crownOf sacrifice our happy brothers wove thee:The joyous ones who laid thy beauty downNor stayed to see it shamed. For these we love thee,For this (O love, O dread!) we hold thee moreDivinely fair to-day than heretofore.
Not only for remembered loveliness,England, my mother, my own, we hold thee rareWho toil, and fight, and sicken beneath the glareOf brazen skies that smile on our duress,Making us crave thy cloudy state no lessThan the sweet clarity of thy rain-wash'd air,Meadows in moonlight cool, and every fairSlow-fading flower of thy summer dress:Not for thy flowers, but for the unfading crownOf sacrifice our happy brothers wove thee:The joyous ones who laid thy beauty downNor stayed to see it shamed. For these we love thee,For this (O love, O dread!) we hold thee moreDivinely fair to-day than heretofore.
Not only for remembered loveliness,
England, my mother, my own, we hold thee rare
Who toil, and fight, and sicken beneath the glare
Of brazen skies that smile on our duress,
Making us crave thy cloudy state no less
Than the sweet clarity of thy rain-wash'd air,
Meadows in moonlight cool, and every fair
Slow-fading flower of thy summer dress:
Not for thy flowers, but for the unfading crown
Of sacrifice our happy brothers wove thee:
The joyous ones who laid thy beauty down
Nor stayed to see it shamed. For these we love thee,
For this (O love, O dread!) we hold thee more
Divinely fair to-day than heretofore.
A FAREWELL TO AFRICA
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Now once again, upon the pole-star's bearing,We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth;Again the busy trade in the halyards singethSun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing;The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring;In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost,And the starry south rolls over until no ghostRemaineth of us and all our pitiful daring;For the sea beareth no trace of man's endeavour,His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies,Soundless, within her unsounded caves, foreverShe broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace,And our grey cruisers holds in mind no moreThan the cedarn fleets that Sheba's treasure bore.
Now once again, upon the pole-star's bearing,We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth;Again the busy trade in the halyards singethSun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing;The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring;In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost,And the starry south rolls over until no ghostRemaineth of us and all our pitiful daring;For the sea beareth no trace of man's endeavour,His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies,Soundless, within her unsounded caves, foreverShe broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace,And our grey cruisers holds in mind no moreThan the cedarn fleets that Sheba's treasure bore.
Now once again, upon the pole-star's bearing,
We plough these furrowed fields where no blade springeth;
Again the busy trade in the halyards singeth
Sun-whitened spindrift from the blown wave shearing;
The uncomplaining sea suffers our faring;
In a brazen glitter our little wake is lost,
And the starry south rolls over until no ghost
Remaineth of us and all our pitiful daring;
For the sea beareth no trace of man's endeavour,
His might enarmoured, his prosperous argosies,
Soundless, within her unsounded caves, forever
She broodeth, knowing neither war nor peace,
And our grey cruisers holds in mind no more
Than the cedarn fleets that Sheba's treasure bore.
SONG
What is the worth of warIn a world that turneth, turnethAbout a tired starWhose flaming centre burnethNo longer than the spaceOf the spent atom's race:Where conquered lands, soon, soonLie waste as the pale moon?What is the worth of artIn a world that fast forgettethThose who have wrung its heartWith beauty that love begetteth,Whose faint flames vanish quiteIn that star-powdered nightWhere even the mighty onesShine only as far suns?And what is beauty worth,Sweet beauty, that persuadethOf her immortal birth,Then, as a flower, fadeth:Or love, whose tender yearsEnd with the mourner's tears,Die, when the mourner's breathIs quiet, at last, in death?Beauty and love are one,Even when fierce war clashes:Even when our fiery sunHath burnt itself to ashes,And the dead planets raceUnlighted through blind space,Beauty will still shine there:Wherefore, I worship her.
What is the worth of warIn a world that turneth, turnethAbout a tired starWhose flaming centre burnethNo longer than the spaceOf the spent atom's race:Where conquered lands, soon, soonLie waste as the pale moon?
What is the worth of war
In a world that turneth, turneth
About a tired star
Whose flaming centre burneth
No longer than the space
Of the spent atom's race:
Where conquered lands, soon, soon
Lie waste as the pale moon?
What is the worth of artIn a world that fast forgettethThose who have wrung its heartWith beauty that love begetteth,Whose faint flames vanish quiteIn that star-powdered nightWhere even the mighty onesShine only as far suns?
What is the worth of art
In a world that fast forgetteth
Those who have wrung its heart
With beauty that love begetteth,
Whose faint flames vanish quite
In that star-powdered night
Where even the mighty ones
Shine only as far suns?
And what is beauty worth,Sweet beauty, that persuadethOf her immortal birth,Then, as a flower, fadeth:Or love, whose tender yearsEnd with the mourner's tears,Die, when the mourner's breathIs quiet, at last, in death?
And what is beauty worth,
Sweet beauty, that persuadeth
Of her immortal birth,
Then, as a flower, fadeth:
Or love, whose tender years
End with the mourner's tears,
Die, when the mourner's breath
Is quiet, at last, in death?
Beauty and love are one,Even when fierce war clashes:Even when our fiery sunHath burnt itself to ashes,And the dead planets raceUnlighted through blind space,Beauty will still shine there:Wherefore, I worship her.
Beauty and love are one,
Even when fierce war clashes:
Even when our fiery sun
Hath burnt itself to ashes,
And the dead planets race
Unlighted through blind space,
Beauty will still shine there:
Wherefore, I worship her.
THE HAWTHORN SPRAY
I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray,One moment only, spilling creamy blossom,While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom,Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.The branch was still; but, in my heart, a painThan the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, onlyRemembering days in a far land and lonelyWhen I had never hoped for summer again.
I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray,One moment only, spilling creamy blossom,While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom,Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.
I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray,
One moment only, spilling creamy blossom,
While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom,
Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.
The branch was still; but, in my heart, a painThan the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, onlyRemembering days in a far land and lonelyWhen I had never hoped for summer again.
The branch was still; but, in my heart, a pain
Than the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, only
Remembering days in a far land and lonely
When I had never hoped for summer again.
THE PAVEMENT
In bitter London's heart of stone,Under the lamplight's shielded glare.I saw a soldier's body thrownUnto the drabs that traffic therePacing the pavements with slow feet:Those old pavements whose blown dustThrottles the hot air of the street,And the darkness smells of lust.The chaste moon, with equal glance,Looked down on the mad world, astareAt those who conquered in sad FranceAnd those who perished in Leicester Square.And in her light his lips were pale:Lips that love had moulded well:Out of the jaws of PasschendaeleThey had sent him to this nether hell.I had no stone of scorn to fling,For I know not how the wrong began--But I had seen a hateful thingMasked in the dignity of man:And hate and sorrow and hopeless angerSwept my heart, as the winds that sweepAngrily through the leafless hangerWhen winter rises from the deep....* * * * *I would that war were what men dream:A crackling fire, a cleansing flame,That it might leap the space betweenAnd lap up London and its shame.
In bitter London's heart of stone,Under the lamplight's shielded glare.I saw a soldier's body thrownUnto the drabs that traffic there
In bitter London's heart of stone,
Under the lamplight's shielded glare.
Under the lamplight's shielded glare.
I saw a soldier's body thrown
Unto the drabs that traffic there
Unto the drabs that traffic there
Pacing the pavements with slow feet:Those old pavements whose blown dustThrottles the hot air of the street,And the darkness smells of lust.
Pacing the pavements with slow feet:
Those old pavements whose blown dust
Those old pavements whose blown dust
Throttles the hot air of the street,
And the darkness smells of lust.
And the darkness smells of lust.
The chaste moon, with equal glance,Looked down on the mad world, astareAt those who conquered in sad FranceAnd those who perished in Leicester Square.
The chaste moon, with equal glance,
Looked down on the mad world, astare
Looked down on the mad world, astare
At those who conquered in sad France
And those who perished in Leicester Square.
And those who perished in Leicester Square.
And in her light his lips were pale:Lips that love had moulded well:Out of the jaws of PasschendaeleThey had sent him to this nether hell.
And in her light his lips were pale:
Lips that love had moulded well:
Lips that love had moulded well:
Out of the jaws of Passchendaele
They had sent him to this nether hell.
They had sent him to this nether hell.
I had no stone of scorn to fling,For I know not how the wrong began--But I had seen a hateful thingMasked in the dignity of man:
I had no stone of scorn to fling,
For I know not how the wrong began--
For I know not how the wrong began--
But I had seen a hateful thing
Masked in the dignity of man:
Masked in the dignity of man:
And hate and sorrow and hopeless angerSwept my heart, as the winds that sweepAngrily through the leafless hangerWhen winter rises from the deep....
And hate and sorrow and hopeless anger
Swept my heart, as the winds that sweep
Swept my heart, as the winds that sweep
Angrily through the leafless hanger
When winter rises from the deep....
When winter rises from the deep....
* * * * *
* * * * *
I would that war were what men dream:A crackling fire, a cleansing flame,That it might leap the space betweenAnd lap up London and its shame.
I would that war were what men dream:
A crackling fire, a cleansing flame,
A crackling fire, a cleansing flame,
That it might leap the space between
And lap up London and its shame.
And lap up London and its shame.
To LYDIA LOPOKOVA
HER GARLAND