A ROSE

Howoften, when the thought of suicideWith ghostly weapon beckons us to die,The ghosts of many foods alluring glideOn golden dishes, wine in purple tideTo drown our whim. Things danced before the eyeLike tasselled grapes to Tantalus: The slyBlue of a curling trout, the battened prideOf ham in frills, complacent quails that lieResigned to death like heroes—July peas,Expectant bottles foaming at thebrink—White bread, and honey of the goldenbees—A peach with velvet coat, some prawns in pink,A slice of beef carved deftly, Stilton cheese,And cup where berries float and bubbles wink.1917

Howoften, when the thought of suicide

With ghostly weapon beckons us to die,

The ghosts of many foods alluring glide

On golden dishes, wine in purple tide

To drown our whim. Things danced before the eye

Like tasselled grapes to Tantalus: The sly

Blue of a curling trout, the battened pride

Of ham in frills, complacent quails that lie

Resigned to death like heroes—July peas,

Expectant bottles foaming at thebrink—

White bread, and honey of the goldenbees—

A peach with velvet coat, some prawns in pink,

A slice of beef carved deftly, Stilton cheese,

And cup where berries float and bubbles wink.

1917

Itis still something to have cheated GodAnd bored the Devil with so easy prey,And in the midst of summer woods to raiseA leafless tree whose stark limbs mock at Heaven,Flaunting an iron hatred in the midst ofhope—Yet sometimes in the loneliness of nightMy buried longings blossom on the boughs,My wistful longings come out star by star,Till the great sky is light with my desire,And on the winds my songs are galloping....Ah, to what dismal greyness creeps the soulToo weak, too tired, to struggle from the slough!My weapons rust, my pen is in the dust,The moulting feathers plucked from out my wingsLie dangling in the hats I stole them for.My heart is floating in a claret cup,My brain is toppling drunken at the brim,My life is drowned within the lurid dregs.I turn and fold my hands in a last appeal,What heaven shall I pray to and for what,Now that my songs to penny tunes are set,And nothing is to save of me but flesh?1913

Itis still something to have cheated God

And bored the Devil with so easy prey,

And in the midst of summer woods to raise

A leafless tree whose stark limbs mock at Heaven,

Flaunting an iron hatred in the midst ofhope—

Yet sometimes in the loneliness of night

My buried longings blossom on the boughs,

My wistful longings come out star by star,

Till the great sky is light with my desire,

And on the winds my songs are galloping....

Ah, to what dismal greyness creeps the soul

Too weak, too tired, to struggle from the slough!

My weapons rust, my pen is in the dust,

The moulting feathers plucked from out my wings

Lie dangling in the hats I stole them for.

My heart is floating in a claret cup,

My brain is toppling drunken at the brim,

My life is drowned within the lurid dregs.

I turn and fold my hands in a last appeal,

What heaven shall I pray to and for what,

Now that my songs to penny tunes are set,

And nothing is to save of me but flesh?

1913

Whatwords that move on wings in a long driftCan waft this silence into weary ears,And steal into the veins and fingertipsOf restless bodies, like magnificent shipsProud from the seas that calmly sail through fears,Mean streets, and miseries, with passage swift.What words pricked from the stars and shimmering together,Or swept like little winds through leaves alert,Can filter through the chinks of bolted doorsDeaf to the clamours knocking without pause,Steeled with indifference against all hurt,Deaf to the cry of man, and rack of weather:To sing the hubbub of this glittering night,Where all the lamps each with a separate soulThrob to the ecstasies of dancing life;And Beauty, gleaming high her magic knifeCuts free the tethered heart from long controlAnd flings it like a ball with mad delightInto the silver lap of the young moon.What needles quick, what threads, what fingers fineCan broider tapestries as rich as these,Stranger than dreams and drifting melodies,Transparent as the gods we half divine,Frail as the thoughts that dwindle in a swoonGhostly before begetting. Tinged with painThat glimmers pale on hands we cannot find,And visioned faces that our dreams createBorn in the land forbidden us of fateAnd longed for all our lives ... What words can bindForever Joy, that never comes again!1915

Whatwords that move on wings in a long drift

Can waft this silence into weary ears,

And steal into the veins and fingertips

Of restless bodies, like magnificent ships

Proud from the seas that calmly sail through fears,

Mean streets, and miseries, with passage swift.

What words pricked from the stars and shimmering together,

Or swept like little winds through leaves alert,

Can filter through the chinks of bolted doors

Deaf to the clamours knocking without pause,

Steeled with indifference against all hurt,

Deaf to the cry of man, and rack of weather:

To sing the hubbub of this glittering night,

Where all the lamps each with a separate soul

Throb to the ecstasies of dancing life;

And Beauty, gleaming high her magic knife

Cuts free the tethered heart from long control

And flings it like a ball with mad delight

Into the silver lap of the young moon.

What needles quick, what threads, what fingers fine

Can broider tapestries as rich as these,

Stranger than dreams and drifting melodies,

Transparent as the gods we half divine,

Frail as the thoughts that dwindle in a swoon

Ghostly before begetting. Tinged with pain

That glimmers pale on hands we cannot find,

And visioned faces that our dreams create

Born in the land forbidden us of fate

And longed for all our lives ... What words can bind

Forever Joy, that never comes again!

1915

I thinkmyselfThe fool of tragedy strutting upon the stageWhere murder creeps and whispers.The jester clad in piebald tightsHalf black, half golden, with no companySave bells that jingle,And an effigy,The grinning image painted like myselfUpon a stick....I think myselfThe fool of comedy mournfully strayingAmid the revellers,Loving the moon and my own shadowWith its strange solemngestures—Loving the painted moonThat lets me play with shadows.I am the jester on an empty stagePlaying a pantomimeTo spectres in the stalls,Listening at lastFor ghostly mirth and phantom hands applauding,And for some king with decadent tired fingersTo fling a white gardenia at my feet.1918

I thinkmyself

The fool of tragedy strutting upon the stage

Where murder creeps and whispers.

The jester clad in piebald tights

Half black, half golden, with no company

Save bells that jingle,

And an effigy,

The grinning image painted like myself

Upon a stick....

I think myselfThe fool of comedy mournfully strayingAmid the revellers,Loving the moon and my own shadowWith its strange solemngestures—Loving the painted moonThat lets me play with shadows.

I think myself

The fool of comedy mournfully straying

Amid the revellers,

Loving the moon and my own shadow

With its strange solemngestures—

Loving the painted moon

That lets me play with shadows.

I am the jester on an empty stagePlaying a pantomimeTo spectres in the stalls,Listening at lastFor ghostly mirth and phantom hands applauding,And for some king with decadent tired fingersTo fling a white gardenia at my feet.

I am the jester on an empty stage

Playing a pantomime

To spectres in the stalls,

Listening at last

For ghostly mirth and phantom hands applauding,

And for some king with decadent tired fingers

To fling a white gardenia at my feet.

1918

Theadored, wild, strange, irresistible,How they fail one at the last!What is there in your facesThat we should worship with our souls?Most lovable, perfidious,Vague—Molesting even our visionsWith treacherous pathos.O vulgarity, mediocrity, stupidity,What is it in you that makes us lavish our love,Covering your meagre bodiesWith our passionate mantle, dyed with blood and dreams?Life and its grey days, and timeAre a thin curtain through which you shadow,Or a dim glass through which you peer.You climb in at the windows of our soulsWith ladders and stratagems,You mope in corners with reproachful eyes.But what do you do for usLute players, dancers, deceivers,Other than lie with red lipsAnd cajole with tears of beryl?People—Men and women with laughable, tragic facesWinking at love,Treading our songs and illusionsUnder petulant feet!1917

Theadored, wild, strange, irresistible,

How they fail one at the last!

What is there in your faces

That we should worship with our souls?

Most lovable, perfidious,

Vague—

Molesting even our visions

With treacherous pathos.

O vulgarity, mediocrity, stupidity,

What is it in you that makes us lavish our love,

Covering your meagre bodies

With our passionate mantle, dyed with blood and dreams?

Life and its grey days, and time

Are a thin curtain through which you shadow,

Or a dim glass through which you peer.

You climb in at the windows of our souls

With ladders and stratagems,

You mope in corners with reproachful eyes.

But what do you do for us

Lute players, dancers, deceivers,

Other than lie with red lips

And cajole with tears of beryl?

People—

Men and women with laughable, tragic faces

Winking at love,

Treading our songs and illusions

Under petulant feet!

1917

A ROSE

Whatdo you ask of me with your beauty, what are you urgingOf labour and painful aspiring to flatter your perfection?What secretness of love with terrible blushes surgingUnseen, have found in you at last their passionate reflection?What dreams that lovers knew, as sleep with subtle magicTore off the rags of life and made her dance with body spangled,Drew back the vacant hours, the tedious and the tragic,And showed the glittering souls from bodies we hadmangled;—What visions made you, emblem of longing and love that has died unrequited,And all lost joys, and tears, and beauty passionately given,Winked at by folly, skewered by the butcher, danced on and slighted,That now spring up from death, showing their slayers the colours of Heaven?You have burst from the ground with your joy, you are pining and bleeding,Your scent is heavy with sorrowful love; oh, memories clinging,What do you ask of my soul with such fierceness of pleading,I that was glad to forget ... What do you need of my singing?1916

Whatdo you ask of me with your beauty, what are you urging

Of labour and painful aspiring to flatter your perfection?

What secretness of love with terrible blushes surging

Unseen, have found in you at last their passionate reflection?

What dreams that lovers knew, as sleep with subtle magicTore off the rags of life and made her dance with body spangled,Drew back the vacant hours, the tedious and the tragic,And showed the glittering souls from bodies we hadmangled;—

What dreams that lovers knew, as sleep with subtle magic

Tore off the rags of life and made her dance with body spangled,

Drew back the vacant hours, the tedious and the tragic,

And showed the glittering souls from bodies we hadmangled;—

What visions made you, emblem of longing and love that has died unrequited,And all lost joys, and tears, and beauty passionately given,Winked at by folly, skewered by the butcher, danced on and slighted,That now spring up from death, showing their slayers the colours of Heaven?

What visions made you, emblem of longing and love that has died unrequited,

And all lost joys, and tears, and beauty passionately given,

Winked at by folly, skewered by the butcher, danced on and slighted,

That now spring up from death, showing their slayers the colours of Heaven?

You have burst from the ground with your joy, you are pining and bleeding,Your scent is heavy with sorrowful love; oh, memories clinging,What do you ask of my soul with such fierceness of pleading,I that was glad to forget ... What do you need of my singing?

You have burst from the ground with your joy, you are pining and bleeding,

Your scent is heavy with sorrowful love; oh, memories clinging,

What do you ask of my soul with such fierceness of pleading,

I that was glad to forget ... What do you need of my singing?

1916

Likeflocks of tired birds when autumn comes,My spirit flags across the darkening fieldsAnd melts into the drabness of the skyAnd falls like dust upon the huddled corn.But many wizened faces brown and sadPeer from the bushes as I wanderpast,—They tell me all those things that old men sayAs youth looks up through tears with pallid cheek."When you are grey and crooked as ourselves,When you have bowed before all other gods,And found them false, then shall you come at lastTo that dark King of grief, and he shall blessYour bread with tears, and manacle your hands,And call you slave and lover." ...Shall not a child take Pain for companyAnd share her loneliness with him?Does not a youth know tearsIn the first bitterness of broken love?Is Grief so proud a king that none shall comeTo seek him save the blind, the halt, the lame? ...He is a tramp, a beggar, and a clown,He sits a jester at the feet of kingsAnd scurries with the leaves in Autumn's train.He rides the wooden horses at a fair,And dances with the jiggers on the stage.Led by the violins of discontentThat whine their music to my listening soul,I dance with him the dance of withered leaves,We dance together to the tunes of rainPlayed on one note upon the only string.1913

Likeflocks of tired birds when autumn comes,

My spirit flags across the darkening fields

And melts into the drabness of the sky

And falls like dust upon the huddled corn.

But many wizened faces brown and sad

Peer from the bushes as I wanderpast,—

They tell me all those things that old men say

As youth looks up through tears with pallid cheek.

"When you are grey and crooked as ourselves,

When you have bowed before all other gods,

And found them false, then shall you come at last

To that dark King of grief, and he shall bless

Your bread with tears, and manacle your hands,

And call you slave and lover." ...

Shall not a child take Pain for company

And share her loneliness with him?

Does not a youth know tears

In the first bitterness of broken love?

Is Grief so proud a king that none shall come

To seek him save the blind, the halt, the lame? ...

He is a tramp, a beggar, and a clown,

He sits a jester at the feet of kings

And scurries with the leaves in Autumn's train.

He rides the wooden horses at a fair,

And dances with the jiggers on the stage.

Led by the violins of discontent

That whine their music to my listening soul,

I dance with him the dance of withered leaves,

We dance together to the tunes of rain

Played on one note upon the only string.

1913

Oh,just beyond the curve of ideal questThat changes as a sea wave to the wind,Beyond the cloud that folds around a star,And dawn, that stands ajar to let us in,Lies that to which our loves and dreams have gone,The paradise of all we might have been,While we are washed back downwards in the darkWhere tides recede, to dwindle with the foam.1917

Oh,just beyond the curve of ideal quest

That changes as a sea wave to the wind,

Beyond the cloud that folds around a star,

And dawn, that stands ajar to let us in,

Lies that to which our loves and dreams have gone,

The paradise of all we might have been,

While we are washed back downwards in the dark

Where tides recede, to dwindle with the foam.

1917

Ah!you, from the small high-walled acre of your lives,Your windows only looking upon gardens,Only perceiving love and death and truthAs facts that come to pass,That pass and leave you stillWithin your safe small prisons,Older, duller,To walk and talk among the evergreens.You have never knownDelight of dying slowly,Poisoned with rapturesIn many hues from the slim-cut decanters ofdeath—The tunesThat dishevel and smooth,Cajole andmelancholize—The danceWhich is a whirling of leavesIn their last scorn of sorrowFlung upwards by the windInto the haggard face ofwinter—Nor felt your souls go blowing like balloonsTossed by impulsive hands;Nor slid as skaters swiftlyOver the crackling crystals of perilous ice,Buffeted with bouquets and blinded with confetti ...You have not felt the abandonOf light loveDragged by the hair across a slippery floor....1916

Ah!you, from the small high-walled acre of your lives,

Your windows only looking upon gardens,

Only perceiving love and death and truth

As facts that come to pass,

That pass and leave you still

Within your safe small prisons,

Older, duller,

To walk and talk among the evergreens.

You have never known

Delight of dying slowly,

Poisoned with raptures

In many hues from the slim-cut decanters ofdeath—

The tunes

That dishevel and smooth,

Cajole andmelancholize—

The dance

Which is a whirling of leaves

In their last scorn of sorrow

Flung upwards by the wind

Into the haggard face ofwinter—

Nor felt your souls go blowing like balloons

Tossed by impulsive hands;

Nor slid as skaters swiftly

Over the crackling crystals of perilous ice,

Buffeted with bouquets and blinded with confetti ...

You have not felt the abandon

Of light love

Dragged by the hair across a slippery floor....

1916

Mouthof the dust I kiss, corruption absolute,Worm, that shall come at last to be my paramour,Envenomed, unseen wanderer who alone is mute,Yet greater than gods or heroes that have gone before.For you I sheave the harvest of my hair,For you the whiteness of my flesh, my passion's valour,For you I throw upon the grey screen of the airMy prism-like conceptions, my gigantic colour.For you the delicate hands that fashion to make greatClay, and white paper, plant a tongue in silence,For you the battle-frenzy, and the might of hate,Science for giving wounds, and healing science.For you the heart's wild love, beauty, long care,Virginity, passionate womanhood, perfected wholeness,For you the unborn child that I prepare,You, flabby, boneless, brainless, senseless, soulless!1913

Mouthof the dust I kiss, corruption absolute,Worm, that shall come at last to be my paramour,Envenomed, unseen wanderer who alone is mute,Yet greater than gods or heroes that have gone before.

Mouthof the dust I kiss, corruption absolute,

Worm, that shall come at last to be my paramour,

Envenomed, unseen wanderer who alone is mute,

Yet greater than gods or heroes that have gone before.

For you I sheave the harvest of my hair,For you the whiteness of my flesh, my passion's valour,For you I throw upon the grey screen of the airMy prism-like conceptions, my gigantic colour.

For you I sheave the harvest of my hair,

For you the whiteness of my flesh, my passion's valour,

For you I throw upon the grey screen of the air

My prism-like conceptions, my gigantic colour.

For you the delicate hands that fashion to make greatClay, and white paper, plant a tongue in silence,For you the battle-frenzy, and the might of hate,Science for giving wounds, and healing science.

For you the delicate hands that fashion to make great

Clay, and white paper, plant a tongue in silence,

For you the battle-frenzy, and the might of hate,

Science for giving wounds, and healing science.

For you the heart's wild love, beauty, long care,Virginity, passionate womanhood, perfected wholeness,For you the unborn child that I prepare,You, flabby, boneless, brainless, senseless, soulless!

For you the heart's wild love, beauty, long care,

Virginity, passionate womanhood, perfected wholeness,

For you the unborn child that I prepare,

You, flabby, boneless, brainless, senseless, soulless!

1913

Thecurtains are drawn as though it still were night,A slip of dawn between them is a dangling silver ribbon;And all about the room is quietness—Each patient chairErect, alert, in place. A letter on the table and a bookLie as you left them, now bereft ofpurpose—Garish a little in the room's sedateness, youReturning dressed so frivolously in all your coloured clothes!How grey and sober, full of placid witThe furniture, the pictures on the wall;How steely swift the light, stabbing you to the heartAs you stand at the window, bright as rushing blood.Garish your hair, your shoes, your startling chalky faceAnd white, white gloves ...What time is it? ... Still ticks the tireless clock,With face grimacing ... nearly six it is....Yet hurries not nor lingers, like our hearts,For in its dial eternity ishoused—A cock should crow ... there are no cocks in town!But a water cart with surly noise belowGrates unconcerned along the disconsolate street.How cold and how familiar all these things,To you so lonely in the enormous dawnSlowly unfastening that vermilion dress ...1916

Thecurtains are drawn as though it still were night,

A slip of dawn between them is a dangling silver ribbon;

And all about the room is quietness—Each patient chair

Erect, alert, in place. A letter on the table and a book

Lie as you left them, now bereft ofpurpose—

Garish a little in the room's sedateness, you

Returning dressed so frivolously in all your coloured clothes!

How grey and sober, full of placid wit

The furniture, the pictures on the wall;

How steely swift the light, stabbing you to the heart

As you stand at the window, bright as rushing blood.

Garish your hair, your shoes, your startling chalky face

And white, white gloves ...

What time is it? ... Still ticks the tireless clock,

With face grimacing ... nearly six it is....

Yet hurries not nor lingers, like our hearts,

For in its dial eternity ishoused—

A cock should crow ... there are no cocks in town!

But a water cart with surly noise below

Grates unconcerned along the disconsolate street.

How cold and how familiar all these things,

To you so lonely in the enormous dawn

Slowly unfastening that vermilion dress ...

1916

BLACK VELVET

Thedarkness of the trees at deep midnightAnd sombreness of shadows in the lake;A mountain in the starlight wide awakeDreaming to Heaven with imperial mightOf lifted shoulders, huge against the brightBespattered jewelry of stars—the acheOf silence, and the sobbing tides that breakFrom music. Slumbering cities—candle lightSnuffed in the flooding darkness, and the trainOf Queens that go to scaffold for asin—Or splash of blackness manifest of pain,Hamlet among his court, a HarlequinOf tragedies ... Mysterious ... And againVenetian masks against a milky skin.1917

Thedarkness of the trees at deep midnight

And sombreness of shadows in the lake;

A mountain in the starlight wide awake

Dreaming to Heaven with imperial might

Of lifted shoulders, huge against the bright

Bespattered jewelry of stars—the ache

Of silence, and the sobbing tides that break

From music. Slumbering cities—candle light

Snuffed in the flooding darkness, and the train

Of Queens that go to scaffold for asin—

Or splash of blackness manifest of pain,

Hamlet among his court, a Harlequin

Of tragedies ... Mysterious ... And again

Venetian masks against a milky skin.

1917

NERVES

Thesecurious looms where we have spun our fancies,These intricate webs where our desires are threaded,These weird trapezes that our passion frenziesStrange acrobats to catch them dizzy headed.These tightening strings upon our spirit's fiddlesTuneful or out of tune where music hungersFrom writhing bow, these intertwining riddlesMazes and labyrinths and storms and languors.These colours twinging on a prism's edges,These speckled patterns of fanatic madnessFrom glittering eyeballs, these unresting dredgesFor pearls within the depths of sadness and ofgladness—O tortuous thoughts, what are you seeking afterAs flies around a carcass with a humming dreary,Gibing the silent dead with treacherous laughter,Molesting quietness and waking up the weary!What then, what then, can sleep not crush you to forgettingWith all her body's beauty, cannot peace submerge youO wrangling, juggling, jangling,pirouetting—What hope can drag you from the small desires that urge you?You have lassoed the moon and trapped the sun's bright lion,And trodden out the red stars into ashes,Destroyed night's temple and broken the pillars of iron,And striped the snowy horses of the clouds with zebra gashes ...You have debauched the world! And as I sit here weary,Deafened with your demands and torn in tatters,The world seems suddenly most passionless and dreary,A poor bewildered clown—and nothing matters.1916

Thesecurious looms where we have spun our fancies,

These intricate webs where our desires are threaded,

These weird trapezes that our passion frenzies

Strange acrobats to catch them dizzy headed.

These tightening strings upon our spirit's fiddles

Tuneful or out of tune where music hungers

From writhing bow, these intertwining riddles

Mazes and labyrinths and storms and languors.

These colours twinging on a prism's edges,

These speckled patterns of fanatic madness

From glittering eyeballs, these unresting dredges

For pearls within the depths of sadness and ofgladness—

O tortuous thoughts, what are you seeking after

As flies around a carcass with a humming dreary,

Gibing the silent dead with treacherous laughter,

Molesting quietness and waking up the weary!

What then, what then, can sleep not crush you to forgetting

With all her body's beauty, cannot peace submerge you

O wrangling, juggling, jangling,pirouetting—

What hope can drag you from the small desires that urge you?

You have lassoed the moon and trapped the sun's bright lion,

And trodden out the red stars into ashes,

Destroyed night's temple and broken the pillars of iron,

And striped the snowy horses of the clouds with zebra gashes ...

You have debauched the world! And as I sit here weary,

Deafened with your demands and torn in tatters,

The world seems suddenly most passionless and dreary,

A poor bewildered clown—and nothing matters.

1916

Mypain has all the patience of a nunWho kneels and prays for Heaven on the stone,In some chill cellar where the amens moan,Ave Maria, the long penance spunForever. And the tapers one by oneStand like cold angels round the Virgin's throne.My soul is tired from kneeling all alone,Its little candles yearning to the sun.Long have I dreamed of Paradise and seenBright mirages of glory on the greyOf sad horizons; I have kept the greenSurprise of spring through winter and dismay,Tasting within the bitter dregs of spleenDrugs that bring peace, and wine that maketh gay.1917

Mypain has all the patience of a nun

Who kneels and prays for Heaven on the stone,

In some chill cellar where the amens moan,

Ave Maria, the long penance spun

Forever. And the tapers one by one

Stand like cold angels round the Virgin's throne.

My soul is tired from kneeling all alone,

Its little candles yearning to the sun.

Long have I dreamed of Paradise and seenBright mirages of glory on the greyOf sad horizons; I have kept the greenSurprise of spring through winter and dismay,Tasting within the bitter dregs of spleenDrugs that bring peace, and wine that maketh gay.

Long have I dreamed of Paradise and seen

Bright mirages of glory on the grey

Of sad horizons; I have kept the green

Surprise of spring through winter and dismay,

Tasting within the bitter dregs of spleen

Drugs that bring peace, and wine that maketh gay.

1917

Thescandal-monger after all isright—The old and cunning voice with weary repetitionIs justified in all dull words and warnings.I see at last how you,Spendthrift of passionIn love's bankruptcy,Borrow new beauty from each passingface—How being too lavish you did stealFrom generoushands—You are the idol builder and the robber of temples,Praising with passionate psalmsThe thing you cannotworship—And yet your prayers have stirredBelief inus—We see beyond the false and weary faceInto your haggard soul and trust frompity—We hear beyond the idle music of your voice,A wisdom taught by crueltyAnd a tired scorn of treachery andguile—We see your wounds and weep,You meet our pity with a traitor'skiss—For, you are schooled in suffering and schooledIn teaching pain toothers—And all that mob of furious accusationTo which you turn the cheek, or curse so well,Are but the ghosts of bodies you have murdered,That drive you on in vengeance to fresh crime.1917

Thescandal-monger after all isright—

The old and cunning voice with weary repetition

Is justified in all dull words and warnings.

I see at last how you,

Spendthrift of passion

In love's bankruptcy,

Borrow new beauty from each passingface—

How being too lavish you did steal

From generoushands—

You are the idol builder and the robber of temples,

Praising with passionate psalms

The thing you cannotworship—

And yet your prayers have stirred

Belief inus—

We see beyond the false and weary face

Into your haggard soul and trust frompity—

We hear beyond the idle music of your voice,

A wisdom taught by cruelty

And a tired scorn of treachery andguile—

We see your wounds and weep,

You meet our pity with a traitor'skiss—

For, you are schooled in suffering and schooled

In teaching pain toothers—

And all that mob of furious accusation

To which you turn the cheek, or curse so well,

Are but the ghosts of bodies you have murdered,

That drive you on in vengeance to fresh crime.

1917

Woodsof brown gloom sombring with the hush of death,Wind's lassitude that sets the tired leaves shivering,Starved yellow leaves sighing beneath the feet, a breathConsumptive, old, and fever-red leaves quivering,As with an earthward flutter like a ghostly butterflyListless they perish, wavering and hovering.Skeleton branches where the rooks flap wings and cry,Perched upon ribs and fingers; and the white mists coveringThe far-off hills and bloodless visage of the sun.No noise save the meandering dribble of a rivulet,No noise save of the slow hours dropping one by oneAs embers, no colour save Time's ashen coverlet....How melancholy here the gayest tunes would soundFrom shrill carousers riotous and merry all,As echoes of lost joy their dancing feet upon the ground,As funeral bagpipes at a burial.And I who wander passionless and forlorn,A leaf-forsaken tree symbolic of dejection,In rags of old desires, dispirited and torn,See in the stagnant glass of Time my soul's reflection.1916

Woodsof brown gloom sombring with the hush of death,

Wind's lassitude that sets the tired leaves shivering,

Starved yellow leaves sighing beneath the feet, a breath

Consumptive, old, and fever-red leaves quivering,

As with an earthward flutter like a ghostly butterfly

Listless they perish, wavering and hovering.

Skeleton branches where the rooks flap wings and cry,

Perched upon ribs and fingers; and the white mists covering

The far-off hills and bloodless visage of the sun.

No noise save the meandering dribble of a rivulet,

No noise save of the slow hours dropping one by one

As embers, no colour save Time's ashen coverlet....

How melancholy here the gayest tunes would sound

From shrill carousers riotous and merry all,

As echoes of lost joy their dancing feet upon the ground,

As funeral bagpipes at a burial.

And I who wander passionless and forlorn,

A leaf-forsaken tree symbolic of dejection,

In rags of old desires, dispirited and torn,

See in the stagnant glass of Time my soul's reflection.

1916

I feelso much alone,And yet I know that many hopes are stormingMy shut heart;For I am bolted fast in my own house.I pace distracted through its corridorsTo the music of Love's knocking handsAgainst the gate,Or silence when they sleep.I cannot find the key to let them in,I, my own host and guest and ghost,Imprisoned in myself!1917

I feelso much alone,

And yet I know that many hopes are storming

My shut heart;

For I am bolted fast in my own house.

I pace distracted through its corridors

To the music of Love's knocking hands

Against the gate,

Or silence when they sleep.

I cannot find the key to let them in,

I, my own host and guest and ghost,

Imprisoned in myself!

1917

THE COMPLEX LIFE

I knowit to be true that those who liveAs do the grasses and the lilies of the fieldReceiving joy from Heaven, sweetly yieldTheir joy to Earth, and taking Beauty, give.But we are gathered for the looms of FateThat Time with ever-turning multiplying wheelsSpins into complex patterns and concealsHis huge invention with forms intricate.Each generation blindly fills the plan,A sorry muddle or an inspiration of GodWith many processes from out the sod,The Earth and Heaven are mingled and made man.We must be tired and sleepless, gaily sad,Frothing like waves in clamorous confusion,A chemistry of subtle interfusion,Experiments of genius that the ignorant call mad.We spell the crimes of our unruly days,We see a fabled Arcady in our mind,We crave perfection that we may not find.Time laughs within the clock and Destiny plays.You peasants and you hermits, simple livers!So picturesquely pure, all unconcernedWhile we give up our bodies to be burned,And dredge for treasure in the muddy rivers.We drink and die and sell ourselves for power,We hunt with treacherous steps and stealthy knife,We make a gaudy havoc of our lifeAnd live a thousand ages in an hour.Our loves are spoilt by introspective guile,We vivisect our souls with elaborate tools,We dance in couples to the tune of fools,And dream of harassed continents the while.Subconscious visions hold us and we fashionDelirious verses, tortured statues, spasms of paint,Make cryptic perorations of complaint,Inverted religion, and perverted passion.But since we are children of this age,In curious ways discovering salvation,I will not quit my muddled generation,But ever plead for Beauty in this rage.Although I know that Nature's bounty yieldsUnto simplicity a beautiful content,Only when battle breaks me and my strength is spentWill I give back my body to the fields.1917

I knowit to be true that those who liveAs do the grasses and the lilies of the fieldReceiving joy from Heaven, sweetly yieldTheir joy to Earth, and taking Beauty, give.

I knowit to be true that those who live

As do the grasses and the lilies of the field

Receiving joy from Heaven, sweetly yield

Their joy to Earth, and taking Beauty, give.

But we are gathered for the looms of FateThat Time with ever-turning multiplying wheelsSpins into complex patterns and concealsHis huge invention with forms intricate.

But we are gathered for the looms of Fate

That Time with ever-turning multiplying wheels

Spins into complex patterns and conceals

His huge invention with forms intricate.

Each generation blindly fills the plan,A sorry muddle or an inspiration of GodWith many processes from out the sod,The Earth and Heaven are mingled and made man.

Each generation blindly fills the plan,

A sorry muddle or an inspiration of God

With many processes from out the sod,

The Earth and Heaven are mingled and made man.

We must be tired and sleepless, gaily sad,Frothing like waves in clamorous confusion,A chemistry of subtle interfusion,Experiments of genius that the ignorant call mad.

We must be tired and sleepless, gaily sad,

Frothing like waves in clamorous confusion,

A chemistry of subtle interfusion,

Experiments of genius that the ignorant call mad.

We spell the crimes of our unruly days,We see a fabled Arcady in our mind,We crave perfection that we may not find.Time laughs within the clock and Destiny plays.

We spell the crimes of our unruly days,

We see a fabled Arcady in our mind,

We crave perfection that we may not find.

Time laughs within the clock and Destiny plays.

You peasants and you hermits, simple livers!So picturesquely pure, all unconcernedWhile we give up our bodies to be burned,And dredge for treasure in the muddy rivers.

You peasants and you hermits, simple livers!

So picturesquely pure, all unconcerned

While we give up our bodies to be burned,

And dredge for treasure in the muddy rivers.

We drink and die and sell ourselves for power,We hunt with treacherous steps and stealthy knife,We make a gaudy havoc of our lifeAnd live a thousand ages in an hour.

We drink and die and sell ourselves for power,

We hunt with treacherous steps and stealthy knife,

We make a gaudy havoc of our life

And live a thousand ages in an hour.

Our loves are spoilt by introspective guile,We vivisect our souls with elaborate tools,We dance in couples to the tune of fools,And dream of harassed continents the while.

Our loves are spoilt by introspective guile,

We vivisect our souls with elaborate tools,

We dance in couples to the tune of fools,

And dream of harassed continents the while.

Subconscious visions hold us and we fashionDelirious verses, tortured statues, spasms of paint,Make cryptic perorations of complaint,Inverted religion, and perverted passion.

Subconscious visions hold us and we fashion

Delirious verses, tortured statues, spasms of paint,

Make cryptic perorations of complaint,

Inverted religion, and perverted passion.

But since we are children of this age,In curious ways discovering salvation,I will not quit my muddled generation,But ever plead for Beauty in this rage.

But since we are children of this age,

In curious ways discovering salvation,

I will not quit my muddled generation,

But ever plead for Beauty in this rage.

Although I know that Nature's bounty yieldsUnto simplicity a beautiful content,Only when battle breaks me and my strength is spentWill I give back my body to the fields.

Although I know that Nature's bounty yields

Unto simplicity a beautiful content,

Only when battle breaks me and my strength is spent

Will I give back my body to the fields.

1917

Shallwe be christened poets, children of God,For blowing sighs into the listeners' ears,For tugging at the moaning bells of death,And coming as the autumn grave-diggerTo close the eyes of flowers, and shut the fingersOf wind upon the rushes,Of music upon silence?Shall we be given wreathes of bay and laurelFor forcing tragedy into a rhymeAs a gaunt beggar in a spangled vest?The poet ever wanders after Death,The flunkey on a funeral chariotPouring the wine at feasts of burial;And all the roses that he plucks from summerAre carried to the crypts to deck a corpse....How shall the world learn how to laugh againWhen all its songs have only learnt to weep?1919

Shallwe be christened poets, children of God,

For blowing sighs into the listeners' ears,

For tugging at the moaning bells of death,

And coming as the autumn grave-digger

To close the eyes of flowers, and shut the fingers

Of wind upon the rushes,

Of music upon silence?

Shall we be given wreathes of bay and laurel

For forcing tragedy into a rhyme

As a gaunt beggar in a spangled vest?

The poet ever wanders after Death,

The flunkey on a funeral chariot

Pouring the wine at feasts of burial;

And all the roses that he plucks from summer

Are carried to the crypts to deck a corpse....

How shall the world learn how to laugh again

When all its songs have only learnt to weep?

1919

WhenI am weary at the antic chance,The hobby-horses and the wooden lance,The hope and fear in jugglery, and seeHow starved the juggler, mean and miserly,And life a laboured trick—the years advanceA shrilling chorus in affected danceWith lust of many eyes that watch and winkFixed on them; or a clown in feverish pinkWill draw gross laughter by a hideousprance—Vulgarity and sin and souls askance,Where fiddles squeal and all the folliesspin—Till, when the stage is empty, HarlequinThrough curtained silence trips as from a tranceWith blushing flowers for Columbine—Romance.1917

WhenI am weary at the antic chance,

The hobby-horses and the wooden lance,

The hope and fear in jugglery, and see

How starved the juggler, mean and miserly,

And life a laboured trick—the years advance

A shrilling chorus in affected dance

With lust of many eyes that watch and wink

Fixed on them; or a clown in feverish pink

Will draw gross laughter by a hideousprance—

Vulgarity and sin and souls askance,

Where fiddles squeal and all the folliesspin—

Till, when the stage is empty, Harlequin

Through curtained silence trips as from a trance

With blushing flowers for Columbine—Romance.

1917

MOODS

I crouchedupon cushions and wallowed in their somnolent caresses,And—listening with dread for the moment of my own silenceRending the flimsy lace ofwhisperings—My gnome dances before meBehind a fan of smoke,My dwarf squats on my shouldersTweeking their moulted wings,My ape peers in the mirror of my faceMimicking my soul's gauntgestures—My wolf bays through my moonly lonelinessBlotching the night withhowls—My laughter goes whining away on the wind,Laughs that are whipped by a soul too sick with merriment,Too satiate with humour's emptiness!...IIAh! loveliness with little pointed feetDancing across the leer of ugliness,Skimming like a gold threadThrough a necklace of vilemasks—Lifting with lotus fingersThe blue arras ofnightmare—Loveliness like a delicate silver flutePressed to a negro'slips—IIIDo you then wish for all those griefsWhose snarling hands you kiss,Kneeling in adoration to a daggerAs saints before a cross?You who have tossed all flowers away,Coveting the drenched red peonies of bloodTheir javelin-petals wet withslaughter,—Do you then crave your own blood's offering,Your own breast's pallor pierced with knives of flame?In your ears are the pattering of the hunter's feet,Softer than death, and omens mouthed by winds of twilight,You lean across the precipice of timeCalling and cryingFor the last abyssmal passion of self-slaughter—IVWaiting,Like grey cloud-giants climbing the hills of HeavenCarrying vast burdens over the crags ofchaos—Waiting,Like trees that hear the far-off moan of winds,Like listening trees that hug their branches round them,Their leaves whispering lividly the rumour of storms,Waiting like a vast arch of quietnessThrough which a screaming messenger shalldart—Like a dense hood of silencePierced by a sword ofmusic—Waiting, like the deathly stillness of a poolReflecting the diver poised before he plunges....1919

I crouchedupon cushions and wallowed in their somnolent caresses,

And—listening with dread for the moment of my own silence

Rending the flimsy lace ofwhisperings—

My gnome dances before me

Behind a fan of smoke,

My dwarf squats on my shoulders

Tweeking their moulted wings,

My ape peers in the mirror of my face

Mimicking my soul's gauntgestures—

My wolf bays through my moonly loneliness

Blotching the night withhowls—

My laughter goes whining away on the wind,

Laughs that are whipped by a soul too sick with merriment,

Too satiate with humour's emptiness!...

Ah! loveliness with little pointed feetDancing across the leer of ugliness,Skimming like a gold threadThrough a necklace of vilemasks—Lifting with lotus fingersThe blue arras ofnightmare—Loveliness like a delicate silver flutePressed to a negro'slips—

Ah! loveliness with little pointed feet

Dancing across the leer of ugliness,

Skimming like a gold thread

Through a necklace of vilemasks—

Lifting with lotus fingers

The blue arras ofnightmare—

Loveliness like a delicate silver flute

Pressed to a negro'slips—

Do you then wish for all those griefsWhose snarling hands you kiss,Kneeling in adoration to a daggerAs saints before a cross?You who have tossed all flowers away,Coveting the drenched red peonies of bloodTheir javelin-petals wet withslaughter,—Do you then crave your own blood's offering,Your own breast's pallor pierced with knives of flame?In your ears are the pattering of the hunter's feet,Softer than death, and omens mouthed by winds of twilight,You lean across the precipice of timeCalling and cryingFor the last abyssmal passion of self-slaughter—

Do you then wish for all those griefs

Whose snarling hands you kiss,

Kneeling in adoration to a dagger

As saints before a cross?

You who have tossed all flowers away,

Coveting the drenched red peonies of blood

Their javelin-petals wet withslaughter,—

Do you then crave your own blood's offering,

Your own breast's pallor pierced with knives of flame?

In your ears are the pattering of the hunter's feet,

Softer than death, and omens mouthed by winds of twilight,

You lean across the precipice of time

Calling and crying

For the last abyssmal passion of self-slaughter—

Waiting,Like grey cloud-giants climbing the hills of HeavenCarrying vast burdens over the crags ofchaos—Waiting,Like trees that hear the far-off moan of winds,Like listening trees that hug their branches round them,Their leaves whispering lividly the rumour of storms,Waiting like a vast arch of quietnessThrough which a screaming messenger shalldart—Like a dense hood of silencePierced by a sword ofmusic—Waiting, like the deathly stillness of a poolReflecting the diver poised before he plunges....

Waiting,

Like grey cloud-giants climbing the hills of Heaven

Carrying vast burdens over the crags ofchaos—

Waiting,

Like trees that hear the far-off moan of winds,

Like listening trees that hug their branches round them,

Their leaves whispering lividly the rumour of storms,

Waiting like a vast arch of quietness

Through which a screaming messenger shalldart—

Like a dense hood of silence

Pierced by a sword ofmusic—

Waiting, like the deathly stillness of a pool

Reflecting the diver poised before he plunges....

1919

Nowis the evening dipped knee-deep in bloodAnd the dun hills stand fearful in their places.Cunning in sin, we shuffle down the streetsWith burdens of vainglory on our backs,Spinning with spider-hands the miser's webOr sitting placid, gay and fat with ease.But out beyond, the armies of the worldMarch doomwards to the rhythm of the drumUnder the thirsting sun. Death holds his state:His skeleton hands are filled with scarlet spoil:He stands on flaming ramparts, waving highThe ensign of decay. All his bones are dressedWith livid roses; all his pillars blackAre girt in ashen poppies, and on dustHe raises up his awful golden throne.Oh! your fierce shrieks have fainted on deaf ears;Your tears have flowed on feet of carven stone;Your blood is spilt for the boiling-pot of GodWhere good and evil mix; and all your rageIs but a thin smoke wafted in His face.1914

Nowis the evening dipped knee-deep in blood

And the dun hills stand fearful in their places.

Cunning in sin, we shuffle down the streets

With burdens of vainglory on our backs,

Spinning with spider-hands the miser's web

Or sitting placid, gay and fat with ease.

But out beyond, the armies of the world

March doomwards to the rhythm of the drum

Under the thirsting sun. Death holds his state:

His skeleton hands are filled with scarlet spoil:He stands on flaming ramparts, waving highThe ensign of decay. All his bones are dressedWith livid roses; all his pillars blackAre girt in ashen poppies, and on dustHe raises up his awful golden throne.

His skeleton hands are filled with scarlet spoil:

He stands on flaming ramparts, waving high

The ensign of decay. All his bones are dressed

With livid roses; all his pillars black

Are girt in ashen poppies, and on dust

He raises up his awful golden throne.

Oh! your fierce shrieks have fainted on deaf ears;Your tears have flowed on feet of carven stone;Your blood is spilt for the boiling-pot of GodWhere good and evil mix; and all your rageIs but a thin smoke wafted in His face.

Oh! your fierce shrieks have fainted on deaf ears;

Your tears have flowed on feet of carven stone;

Your blood is spilt for the boiling-pot of God

Where good and evil mix; and all your rage

Is but a thin smoke wafted in His face.

1914

Blowupon blow they bruise the daylight wan,Scar upon scar they rend the quiet shore;They ride on furious, leaving every manCrushed like a maggot by the hoofs of war:Gods that grow tired of paradisial waterAnd fill their cups with steaming wine of slaughter.I fear a thing more terrible than death:The glamour of the battle grips usyet—As crowds before a fire that hold their breathWatching the burning houses, and forgetAll they will lose, but marvel to beholdIts dazzling strength, the glamour of its gold.I fear the time when slow the flame expires,When this kaleidoscope of roaring colorFades, and rage faints; and of the funeral-firesThat shone with battle, nothing left of valourSave chill ignoble ashes for despairTo strew with widowed hands upon her hair.Livid and damp unfolds the winding-sheet,Hiding the mangled body of the Earth:The slow grey aftermath, the limping feetOf days that shall not know the sound of mirth,But pass in dry-eyed patience, with no trustSave to end living and be heaped with dust.That stillness that must follow where Death trod,The sullen street, the empty drinking-hall,The tuneless voices cringing praise to God,Deaf gods, that did not heed the anguished call,Now to be soothed with humbleness and praise,With fawning kisses for the hand that slays.Across the world from out the fevered groundDecay from every pore exhales its breath;A cloak of penance winding close aroundThe bright desire of spring. And unto Death,As to a conquering king, we yield the keysOf Beauty's gates upon our bended knees.The maiden loverless shall go her ways,And child unfathered feed on crust and husk;The sun that was the glory of our daysShining as tinsel till the moody duskInto our starving outstretched arms shall layHer silent sleep, the only boon we pray.1914

Blowupon blow they bruise the daylight wan,

Scar upon scar they rend the quiet shore;

They ride on furious, leaving every man

Crushed like a maggot by the hoofs of war:

Gods that grow tired of paradisial water

And fill their cups with steaming wine of slaughter.

I fear a thing more terrible than death:The glamour of the battle grips usyet—As crowds before a fire that hold their breathWatching the burning houses, and forgetAll they will lose, but marvel to beholdIts dazzling strength, the glamour of its gold.

I fear a thing more terrible than death:

The glamour of the battle grips usyet—

As crowds before a fire that hold their breath

Watching the burning houses, and forget

All they will lose, but marvel to behold

Its dazzling strength, the glamour of its gold.

I fear the time when slow the flame expires,When this kaleidoscope of roaring colorFades, and rage faints; and of the funeral-firesThat shone with battle, nothing left of valourSave chill ignoble ashes for despairTo strew with widowed hands upon her hair.

I fear the time when slow the flame expires,

When this kaleidoscope of roaring color

Fades, and rage faints; and of the funeral-fires

That shone with battle, nothing left of valour

Save chill ignoble ashes for despair

To strew with widowed hands upon her hair.

Livid and damp unfolds the winding-sheet,Hiding the mangled body of the Earth:The slow grey aftermath, the limping feetOf days that shall not know the sound of mirth,But pass in dry-eyed patience, with no trustSave to end living and be heaped with dust.

Livid and damp unfolds the winding-sheet,

Hiding the mangled body of the Earth:

The slow grey aftermath, the limping feet

Of days that shall not know the sound of mirth,

But pass in dry-eyed patience, with no trust

Save to end living and be heaped with dust.

That stillness that must follow where Death trod,The sullen street, the empty drinking-hall,The tuneless voices cringing praise to God,Deaf gods, that did not heed the anguished call,Now to be soothed with humbleness and praise,With fawning kisses for the hand that slays.

That stillness that must follow where Death trod,

The sullen street, the empty drinking-hall,

The tuneless voices cringing praise to God,

Deaf gods, that did not heed the anguished call,

Now to be soothed with humbleness and praise,

With fawning kisses for the hand that slays.

Across the world from out the fevered groundDecay from every pore exhales its breath;A cloak of penance winding close aroundThe bright desire of spring. And unto Death,As to a conquering king, we yield the keysOf Beauty's gates upon our bended knees.

Across the world from out the fevered ground

Decay from every pore exhales its breath;

A cloak of penance winding close around

The bright desire of spring. And unto Death,

As to a conquering king, we yield the keys

Of Beauty's gates upon our bended knees.

The maiden loverless shall go her ways,And child unfathered feed on crust and husk;The sun that was the glory of our daysShining as tinsel till the moody duskInto our starving outstretched arms shall layHer silent sleep, the only boon we pray.

The maiden loverless shall go her ways,

And child unfathered feed on crust and husk;

The sun that was the glory of our days

Shining as tinsel till the moody dusk

Into our starving outstretched arms shall lay

Her silent sleep, the only boon we pray.

1914

A raggeddrummer rides along the street,And at his comingThe silence fills with tunes and rustling feetAnd voices humming.He rode a year ago from far away,On charger prancing,With bright new buttons and with ribbons gay,And banners dancing.Oh, he was fatter than the bursting drumHe bore so proudly,His roaring music woke the silence dumbTo thunder loudly.And by his side the old men and the youngHad followed cheeringInto the sunset smiling as they sung,Nor thought of fearing.They left their lovers and their mothers' lap,Their homes demolish,"For, look, I have a ribbon for my cap,A sword to polish!"And so the town was silent once again,Though tunes of battleBeat fearful in the wind, or in the rainGhost drums would rattle.But at the chuckling dice or careful loom,Or candled churchesA few forgot or prayed or followed doomWith drunken lurches....Now loom and bar and church disgorge the throng,In huddled massesThey stand aghast to hear the drummer's songAs back hepasses—Palsied and drear and bent he turns aloneIn rags and tatters,And on a soundless barrel with a boneHe beats and batters."Where march your feet so gaily, careless crowd,That we may kiss them?Where sound your little songs that rang so loudTo us that miss them?"There are no songs, no happy marching feet,No favours flying:The drummer passes ... on the quiet streetThe sun is dying.Sun that must bleed to death so red and brave!...Have done with weeping,But put your ribbons on a soldier's graveAs he lies sleeping.1914

A raggeddrummer rides along the street,

And at his coming

The silence fills with tunes and rustling feet

And voices humming.

He rode a year ago from far away,

On charger prancing,

With bright new buttons and with ribbons gay,

And banners dancing.

Oh, he was fatter than the bursting drum

He bore so proudly,

His roaring music woke the silence dumb

To thunder loudly.

And by his side the old men and the young

Had followed cheering

Into the sunset smiling as they sung,

Nor thought of fearing.

They left their lovers and their mothers' lap,

Their homes demolish,

"For, look, I have a ribbon for my cap,

A sword to polish!"

And so the town was silent once again,

Though tunes of battle

Beat fearful in the wind, or in the rain

Ghost drums would rattle.

But at the chuckling dice or careful loom,

Or candled churches

A few forgot or prayed or followed doom

With drunken lurches....

Now loom and bar and church disgorge the throng,

In huddled masses

They stand aghast to hear the drummer's song

As back hepasses—

Palsied and drear and bent he turns alone

In rags and tatters,

And on a soundless barrel with a bone

He beats and batters.

"Where march your feet so gaily, careless crowd,

That we may kiss them?

Where sound your little songs that rang so loud

To us that miss them?"

There are no songs, no happy marching feet,

No favours flying:

The drummer passes ... on the quiet street

The sun is dying.

Sun that must bleed to death so red and brave!...

Have done with weeping,

But put your ribbons on a soldier's grave

As he lies sleeping.

1914

ZEPPELINS

MIDNIGHTSuddenlyShutting our lips upon a jestAs we are sipping thoughts from little glasses,A gun bursts thunder and the echoing streetsQuiver with startledterrors—How swift runs fear: quicksilver that is free!Now every muscle weakens, every pulseIs set at gallop-pace and every nerveStretched taut with horror and a wild revolt....How sweetly spins the world to noise of music,How sweet to live life's arrogant adventure!Live in a vain world wracked with a thousand pangs,Limp in a dull street housed with crumbling dreams,To breathe and eat and sleep and love and sighA little longer, oh a little year!Forgotten prayers rise up in resurrection,And resolutions of new wondrous livesChoke up our hearts and fling us to our knees....Worms creep in dreadful hunger from the ground,The lurid silent people loved by death,And peer into our eyes with sly forebodingsTo drag our body's glory from the light.Though all the world should fall into their cellsAnd lie within their larders shelf onshelf—Yet will I toss the sheets of dust away,Yetwill Ibe the mistress of the sun!*****1 A. M.Look how they struggle in a mist of fire,Those hunchbacked chimneys and distorteddomes—Now gloat on Hell, the colour seems to roar,An army fierce upon its own destruction,A famished monster tearing in its clawsGigantic foods to glut its lean desireDigesting all the world!...Look at the eager people open-mouthedThat stand as foolish rabbits hypnotisedBy the uncoiling rhythm of a snake,Their earth adoring senses caught awhileIn the red whirlwind of ascending wings;Their spirits straining upward upon stringsLike kites and air balloons, but more grotesque,Lacking the ephemeral beauty of atoy—Yet for an hourDyed with the colour that their drabness fearsThey kiss the feet of beauty as she passesStarwards, tremendous in a coat of fire.*****3 A. M.The dawn seems drained of blood socolourless—Slowly the river moves as though in sleepWhile silent bargesSlide from the mist like dreams;The intricate patterns of the scaffoldingAre drawn against the skyMore delicate than lace.All the shimmering lightsHave shrunk away from morningAs a blue peacock sheaves his starry tail....I am alone, most utterly alone,More lonely than the last man in the worldStraying amid the dust of vanished lives.More lonely than a spirit stolen from heavenWho stands beside that nebulous cold riverDividing sleep from death,Eternity from time....Nothing disturbs the white peace of the dawn,She brings no feverous memories of nightAnd sheds no tears.Only two hours agoFire walked in crimson armour through the cityPiercing the night's black tent with glittering javelins,While shrieks and whispered omens flew like batsAmong the silver foliage of the stars....But rage has left no furrow in the sky,No wake of sparks across the placid water....This is the ominous and sacred hourWhen priest-like the world kneelsBowed low toward the empty throne ofday—Soon will the herald trumpet-blast be heardAnd the flamingo messengers will comeFlocking from out the burnished cage of sunrise....This is the hour of nothing,Colourless and chillOblivion's hands are folded on the world,As sits an idol holding in his fingersA scentless lotus carven out of stone.*****4 A. M.Leaving the dun river with hurried tapping feetAnd up the long uncomfortable streetWith eyes uninterested yet forced to see and readThe dingy notices once sharp and bright with greed,Now drear with want, that swear the Queen's HotelAnd Brown's Hotel and King's are doingwell—A soldier and a beggar mock me as I go,The light steals after me, emerging slowAnd pale from the dim alleys shadow-crouched.I hurried by the drunkard as he slouchedFrom lamp-post unto lamp-post.... Then I sawCaught in the mirror of a tailor's doorMy own reflection as I hurried past,My flaring colours and my faceaghast—The scarlet tassel of my hat that hungLimp as a spent flame, and my skirt that clungAbout my knees and fluttered at the back:An injured moth, with sulphur stripes and black,My bag flamboyant as a pillar-box;My frayed gilt fringe of hair and tarnished locks.Jagged and crude and swift I seemed to passPainted too brightly on that temperate glass.... An omnibus from sudden corner reels:Silence lies mangled underneath the wheels.1915

MIDNIGHT

SuddenlyShutting our lips upon a jestAs we are sipping thoughts from little glasses,A gun bursts thunder and the echoing streetsQuiver with startledterrors—How swift runs fear: quicksilver that is free!Now every muscle weakens, every pulseIs set at gallop-pace and every nerveStretched taut with horror and a wild revolt....How sweetly spins the world to noise of music,How sweet to live life's arrogant adventure!Live in a vain world wracked with a thousand pangs,Limp in a dull street housed with crumbling dreams,To breathe and eat and sleep and love and sighA little longer, oh a little year!Forgotten prayers rise up in resurrection,And resolutions of new wondrous livesChoke up our hearts and fling us to our knees....Worms creep in dreadful hunger from the ground,The lurid silent people loved by death,And peer into our eyes with sly forebodingsTo drag our body's glory from the light.Though all the world should fall into their cellsAnd lie within their larders shelf onshelf—Yet will I toss the sheets of dust away,Yetwill Ibe the mistress of the sun!

Suddenly

Shutting our lips upon a jest

As we are sipping thoughts from little glasses,

A gun bursts thunder and the echoing streets

Quiver with startledterrors—

How swift runs fear: quicksilver that is free!

Now every muscle weakens, every pulse

Is set at gallop-pace and every nerve

Stretched taut with horror and a wild revolt....

How sweetly spins the world to noise of music,

How sweet to live life's arrogant adventure!

Live in a vain world wracked with a thousand pangs,

Limp in a dull street housed with crumbling dreams,

To breathe and eat and sleep and love and sigh

A little longer, oh a little year!

Forgotten prayers rise up in resurrection,

And resolutions of new wondrous lives

Choke up our hearts and fling us to our knees....

Worms creep in dreadful hunger from the ground,

The lurid silent people loved by death,

And peer into our eyes with sly forebodings

To drag our body's glory from the light.

Though all the world should fall into their cells

And lie within their larders shelf onshelf—

Yet will I toss the sheets of dust away,

Yetwill Ibe the mistress of the sun!

*****

1 A. M.Look how they struggle in a mist of fire,Those hunchbacked chimneys and distorteddomes—Now gloat on Hell, the colour seems to roar,An army fierce upon its own destruction,A famished monster tearing in its clawsGigantic foods to glut its lean desireDigesting all the world!...Look at the eager people open-mouthedThat stand as foolish rabbits hypnotisedBy the uncoiling rhythm of a snake,Their earth adoring senses caught awhileIn the red whirlwind of ascending wings;Their spirits straining upward upon stringsLike kites and air balloons, but more grotesque,Lacking the ephemeral beauty of atoy—Yet for an hourDyed with the colour that their drabness fearsThey kiss the feet of beauty as she passesStarwards, tremendous in a coat of fire.

1 A. M.

Look how they struggle in a mist of fire,Those hunchbacked chimneys and distorteddomes—Now gloat on Hell, the colour seems to roar,An army fierce upon its own destruction,A famished monster tearing in its clawsGigantic foods to glut its lean desireDigesting all the world!...Look at the eager people open-mouthedThat stand as foolish rabbits hypnotisedBy the uncoiling rhythm of a snake,Their earth adoring senses caught awhileIn the red whirlwind of ascending wings;Their spirits straining upward upon stringsLike kites and air balloons, but more grotesque,Lacking the ephemeral beauty of atoy—Yet for an hourDyed with the colour that their drabness fearsThey kiss the feet of beauty as she passesStarwards, tremendous in a coat of fire.

Look how they struggle in a mist of fire,

Those hunchbacked chimneys and distorteddomes—

Now gloat on Hell, the colour seems to roar,

An army fierce upon its own destruction,

A famished monster tearing in its claws

Gigantic foods to glut its lean desire

Digesting all the world!...

Look at the eager people open-mouthed

That stand as foolish rabbits hypnotised

By the uncoiling rhythm of a snake,

Their earth adoring senses caught awhile

In the red whirlwind of ascending wings;

Their spirits straining upward upon strings

Like kites and air balloons, but more grotesque,

Lacking the ephemeral beauty of atoy—

Yet for an hour

Dyed with the colour that their drabness fears

They kiss the feet of beauty as she passes

Starwards, tremendous in a coat of fire.

*****

3 A. M.The dawn seems drained of blood socolourless—Slowly the river moves as though in sleepWhile silent bargesSlide from the mist like dreams;The intricate patterns of the scaffoldingAre drawn against the skyMore delicate than lace.All the shimmering lightsHave shrunk away from morningAs a blue peacock sheaves his starry tail....I am alone, most utterly alone,More lonely than the last man in the worldStraying amid the dust of vanished lives.More lonely than a spirit stolen from heavenWho stands beside that nebulous cold riverDividing sleep from death,Eternity from time....Nothing disturbs the white peace of the dawn,She brings no feverous memories of nightAnd sheds no tears.

3 A. M.

The dawn seems drained of blood socolourless—Slowly the river moves as though in sleepWhile silent bargesSlide from the mist like dreams;The intricate patterns of the scaffoldingAre drawn against the skyMore delicate than lace.All the shimmering lightsHave shrunk away from morningAs a blue peacock sheaves his starry tail....I am alone, most utterly alone,More lonely than the last man in the worldStraying amid the dust of vanished lives.More lonely than a spirit stolen from heavenWho stands beside that nebulous cold riverDividing sleep from death,Eternity from time....Nothing disturbs the white peace of the dawn,She brings no feverous memories of nightAnd sheds no tears.

The dawn seems drained of blood socolourless—

Slowly the river moves as though in sleep

While silent barges

Slide from the mist like dreams;

The intricate patterns of the scaffolding

Are drawn against the sky

More delicate than lace.

All the shimmering lights

Have shrunk away from morning

As a blue peacock sheaves his starry tail....

I am alone, most utterly alone,

More lonely than the last man in the world

Straying amid the dust of vanished lives.

More lonely than a spirit stolen from heaven

Who stands beside that nebulous cold river

Dividing sleep from death,

Eternity from time....

Nothing disturbs the white peace of the dawn,

She brings no feverous memories of night

And sheds no tears.

Only two hours agoFire walked in crimson armour through the cityPiercing the night's black tent with glittering javelins,While shrieks and whispered omens flew like batsAmong the silver foliage of the stars....But rage has left no furrow in the sky,No wake of sparks across the placid water....This is the ominous and sacred hourWhen priest-like the world kneelsBowed low toward the empty throne ofday—Soon will the herald trumpet-blast be heardAnd the flamingo messengers will comeFlocking from out the burnished cage of sunrise....This is the hour of nothing,Colourless and chillOblivion's hands are folded on the world,As sits an idol holding in his fingersA scentless lotus carven out of stone.

Only two hours ago

Fire walked in crimson armour through the city

Piercing the night's black tent with glittering javelins,

While shrieks and whispered omens flew like bats

Among the silver foliage of the stars....

But rage has left no furrow in the sky,

No wake of sparks across the placid water....

This is the ominous and sacred hour

When priest-like the world kneels

Bowed low toward the empty throne ofday—

Soon will the herald trumpet-blast be heard

And the flamingo messengers will come

Flocking from out the burnished cage of sunrise....

This is the hour of nothing,

Colourless and chill

Oblivion's hands are folded on the world,

As sits an idol holding in his fingers

A scentless lotus carven out of stone.

*****

4 A. M.Leaving the dun river with hurried tapping feetAnd up the long uncomfortable streetWith eyes uninterested yet forced to see and readThe dingy notices once sharp and bright with greed,Now drear with want, that swear the Queen's HotelAnd Brown's Hotel and King's are doingwell—A soldier and a beggar mock me as I go,The light steals after me, emerging slowAnd pale from the dim alleys shadow-crouched.I hurried by the drunkard as he slouchedFrom lamp-post unto lamp-post.... Then I sawCaught in the mirror of a tailor's doorMy own reflection as I hurried past,My flaring colours and my faceaghast—The scarlet tassel of my hat that hungLimp as a spent flame, and my skirt that clungAbout my knees and fluttered at the back:An injured moth, with sulphur stripes and black,My bag flamboyant as a pillar-box;My frayed gilt fringe of hair and tarnished locks.Jagged and crude and swift I seemed to passPainted too brightly on that temperate glass.... An omnibus from sudden corner reels:Silence lies mangled underneath the wheels.1915

4 A. M.

Leaving the dun river with hurried tapping feetAnd up the long uncomfortable streetWith eyes uninterested yet forced to see and readThe dingy notices once sharp and bright with greed,Now drear with want, that swear the Queen's HotelAnd Brown's Hotel and King's are doingwell—A soldier and a beggar mock me as I go,The light steals after me, emerging slowAnd pale from the dim alleys shadow-crouched.I hurried by the drunkard as he slouchedFrom lamp-post unto lamp-post.... Then I sawCaught in the mirror of a tailor's doorMy own reflection as I hurried past,My flaring colours and my faceaghast—The scarlet tassel of my hat that hungLimp as a spent flame, and my skirt that clungAbout my knees and fluttered at the back:An injured moth, with sulphur stripes and black,My bag flamboyant as a pillar-box;My frayed gilt fringe of hair and tarnished locks.Jagged and crude and swift I seemed to passPainted too brightly on that temperate glass.... An omnibus from sudden corner reels:Silence lies mangled underneath the wheels.

Leaving the dun river with hurried tapping feet

And up the long uncomfortable street

With eyes uninterested yet forced to see and read

The dingy notices once sharp and bright with greed,

Now drear with want, that swear the Queen's Hotel

And Brown's Hotel and King's are doingwell—

A soldier and a beggar mock me as I go,

The light steals after me, emerging slow

And pale from the dim alleys shadow-crouched.

I hurried by the drunkard as he slouched

From lamp-post unto lamp-post.... Then I saw

Caught in the mirror of a tailor's door

My own reflection as I hurried past,

My flaring colours and my faceaghast—

The scarlet tassel of my hat that hung

Limp as a spent flame, and my skirt that clung

About my knees and fluttered at the back:

An injured moth, with sulphur stripes and black,

My bag flamboyant as a pillar-box;

My frayed gilt fringe of hair and tarnished locks.

Jagged and crude and swift I seemed to pass

Painted too brightly on that temperate glass.

... An omnibus from sudden corner reels:

Silence lies mangled underneath the wheels.

1915

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