BAHAMA ISLANDS

Slowlythe pale feet of morningTread out the ashes of midnight still burning with feverous lamplight,Colourless, cold, as the raincladSleep-druggèd river that carries the wreckage of cities out sea-ward.Slowly the fingers of dawn-lightSnuff out the candles that yearned to those Gods of delirium,Sleep-huge as shadows grimacingFrom niches made black with the smoke of a fire-spangled passion.Smoothly the wild hair of darknessIs plaited for rest, and the faces of visions are covered with sleep veils.Patiently, Morning, the priestessDrones out a psalm for the souls that we damned in the blackness,Gashed with the daggers of street-lights,Crushing the poisonous berries of sinisterkisses,—Morning with healing and kindnessFolds up the dresses dishevelled with terror and laughter,Sweeps up the rags of our shadowsThat danced in a red smoke of dreams on the walls of oblivion.1919

Slowlythe pale feet of morning

Tread out the ashes of midnight still burning with feverous lamplight,

Colourless, cold, as the rainclad

Sleep-druggèd river that carries the wreckage of cities out sea-ward.

Slowly the fingers of dawn-light

Snuff out the candles that yearned to those Gods of delirium,

Sleep-huge as shadows grimacing

From niches made black with the smoke of a fire-spangled passion.

Smoothly the wild hair of darkness

Is plaited for rest, and the faces of visions are covered with sleep veils.

Patiently, Morning, the priestess

Drones out a psalm for the souls that we damned in the blackness,

Gashed with the daggers of street-lights,

Crushing the poisonous berries of sinisterkisses,—

Morning with healing and kindness

Folds up the dresses dishevelled with terror and laughter,

Sweeps up the rags of our shadows

That danced in a red smoke of dreams on the walls of oblivion.

1919

Whathave I to do with them,The red athletes in their snow-white clothes?They are sun lovers and moon haters,Toiling or playing in the fieldsWhereon no shadows lie,Pensively, whisperingtogether—They are space lovers and haters of the stars,Soundly they sleep by night nor ever seeThe tiaraed brows of darkness.I weary of their striving upward and onward,Away from the green hush of twilight,Where silence drips from the trees,Away from the solemn avenuesWhere the ghosts blow byAlong with a drift of leaves.Let us linger awhileFar away from the frets and wars of the world,From the strong menWith their strident hymning voices and marchingfeet—Let us walk aloneFor the love of our own shadowsStretching their length on lawns of powdered silver,With behind us the sky's grey curtainDrawn backward from the moon....Let us sit by the firesideAnd hear the wind's shrill orchestras,Fiddle and fife and flute,And omened bagpipe screaming....Let us lie abed and dreamThrough the long summer's morningOf trivial things, and beautiful....Let us dance with Folly when midnight knocks on his golden gong;Let us run through pools of wineAnd be splashed with purple.Let us, being sick, make merry,And rejoice when we are weary.Let us sit by our grave as at a banquet,Drinking to Death.What have we to do with them,Sons of the sun and the soil,Daughters of the hearth and the field?They that remake the worldMelting our idols for silver,Our goblets for gold;Tearing our temples downTo build their red brick villages.The doomed world faints into mist,World of our indolence and dreams,And the faces and bodies we loveSink through oblivion, and are seenDimly, as divers through the waters.Old worlds and new worlds!Let us slip between them,And float on the stream that flowethnowhither—Our red ambitions burnTo a blue smoke of forgetting;Our moonshine faints on the tide that goeth out,As the sun leers to the tide that cometh in.1918

Whathave I to do with them,

The red athletes in their snow-white clothes?

They are sun lovers and moon haters,

Toiling or playing in the fields

Whereon no shadows lie,

Pensively, whisperingtogether—

They are space lovers and haters of the stars,

Soundly they sleep by night nor ever see

The tiaraed brows of darkness.

I weary of their striving upward and onward,

Away from the green hush of twilight,

Where silence drips from the trees,

Away from the solemn avenues

Where the ghosts blow by

Along with a drift of leaves.

Let us linger awhileFar away from the frets and wars of the world,From the strong menWith their strident hymning voices and marchingfeet—Let us walk aloneFor the love of our own shadowsStretching their length on lawns of powdered silver,With behind us the sky's grey curtainDrawn backward from the moon....Let us sit by the firesideAnd hear the wind's shrill orchestras,Fiddle and fife and flute,And omened bagpipe screaming....Let us lie abed and dreamThrough the long summer's morningOf trivial things, and beautiful....Let us dance with Folly when midnight knocks on his golden gong;Let us run through pools of wineAnd be splashed with purple.Let us, being sick, make merry,And rejoice when we are weary.Let us sit by our grave as at a banquet,Drinking to Death.

Let us linger awhile

Far away from the frets and wars of the world,

From the strong men

With their strident hymning voices and marchingfeet—

Let us walk alone

For the love of our own shadows

Stretching their length on lawns of powdered silver,

With behind us the sky's grey curtain

Drawn backward from the moon....

Let us sit by the fireside

And hear the wind's shrill orchestras,

Fiddle and fife and flute,

And omened bagpipe screaming....

Let us lie abed and dream

Through the long summer's morning

Of trivial things, and beautiful....

Let us dance with Folly when midnight knocks on his golden gong;

Let us run through pools of wine

And be splashed with purple.

Let us, being sick, make merry,

And rejoice when we are weary.

Let us sit by our grave as at a banquet,

Drinking to Death.

What have we to do with them,Sons of the sun and the soil,Daughters of the hearth and the field?They that remake the worldMelting our idols for silver,Our goblets for gold;Tearing our temples downTo build their red brick villages.

What have we to do with them,

Sons of the sun and the soil,

Daughters of the hearth and the field?

They that remake the world

Melting our idols for silver,

Our goblets for gold;

Tearing our temples down

To build their red brick villages.

The doomed world faints into mist,World of our indolence and dreams,And the faces and bodies we loveSink through oblivion, and are seenDimly, as divers through the waters.Old worlds and new worlds!Let us slip between them,And float on the stream that flowethnowhither—Our red ambitions burnTo a blue smoke of forgetting;Our moonshine faints on the tide that goeth out,As the sun leers to the tide that cometh in.

The doomed world faints into mist,

World of our indolence and dreams,

And the faces and bodies we love

Sink through oblivion, and are seen

Dimly, as divers through the waters.

Old worlds and new worlds!

Let us slip between them,

And float on the stream that flowethnowhither—

Our red ambitions burn

To a blue smoke of forgetting;

Our moonshine faints on the tide that goeth out,

As the sun leers to the tide that cometh in.

1918

Amongthe crumbling arches of decayWhere all around the red new buildings crept,Where huge machines had rolled the past away,And the dead princes lay accursed and slept;Among the ruins I beheld a manWho heeded not the engines as they neared,Painting dead carnivals upon a fan,He smiled and trifled with his pointed beard.And here and there were flung a mess of things,Tokens and fripperies and faded dresses,Kept from the courtships of a thousand kings,Tossed roses for the tossing of caresses.A carven sabre hung upon the wall,A toy thing, with no rust of blood upon it,A tray of glasses, an embroidered shawl,A muff, a bottle and a feathered bonnet.And mirrors flashed their argent memoriesOut of the shadows where they laughed and gleamed,While ghostly faces of past vanitiesCome back to dream there where they once had dreamed.The stranger turned his head and bowed to meAnd waved me vaguely to a gilded chair.I spoke: "You are a connoisseur, I see,You really have a fine collection there."He bowed to me again, and in his handDangled a string of gems, they caught my eyeWith beckoning lights—I could notunderstand—His fingers seemed to touch them like a sighSo much he loved their frail inconsequence.I spoke of progress conquering decay,And tired the stillness with my common senseLoud-spoken in the jargon of the day.But I have never met so queer a man,"I better love my memories," he said,"Look at those painted figures on the fan,How delicate and wistful are the dead."1917

Amongthe crumbling arches of decayWhere all around the red new buildings crept,Where huge machines had rolled the past away,And the dead princes lay accursed and slept;

Amongthe crumbling arches of decay

Where all around the red new buildings crept,

Where huge machines had rolled the past away,

And the dead princes lay accursed and slept;

Among the ruins I beheld a manWho heeded not the engines as they neared,Painting dead carnivals upon a fan,He smiled and trifled with his pointed beard.

Among the ruins I beheld a man

Who heeded not the engines as they neared,

Painting dead carnivals upon a fan,

He smiled and trifled with his pointed beard.

And here and there were flung a mess of things,Tokens and fripperies and faded dresses,Kept from the courtships of a thousand kings,Tossed roses for the tossing of caresses.

And here and there were flung a mess of things,

Tokens and fripperies and faded dresses,

Kept from the courtships of a thousand kings,

Tossed roses for the tossing of caresses.

A carven sabre hung upon the wall,A toy thing, with no rust of blood upon it,A tray of glasses, an embroidered shawl,A muff, a bottle and a feathered bonnet.

A carven sabre hung upon the wall,

A toy thing, with no rust of blood upon it,

A tray of glasses, an embroidered shawl,

A muff, a bottle and a feathered bonnet.

And mirrors flashed their argent memoriesOut of the shadows where they laughed and gleamed,While ghostly faces of past vanitiesCome back to dream there where they once had dreamed.

And mirrors flashed their argent memories

Out of the shadows where they laughed and gleamed,

While ghostly faces of past vanities

Come back to dream there where they once had dreamed.

The stranger turned his head and bowed to meAnd waved me vaguely to a gilded chair.I spoke: "You are a connoisseur, I see,You really have a fine collection there."

The stranger turned his head and bowed to me

And waved me vaguely to a gilded chair.

I spoke: "You are a connoisseur, I see,

You really have a fine collection there."

He bowed to me again, and in his handDangled a string of gems, they caught my eyeWith beckoning lights—I could notunderstand—His fingers seemed to touch them like a sigh

He bowed to me again, and in his hand

Dangled a string of gems, they caught my eye

With beckoning lights—I could notunderstand—

His fingers seemed to touch them like a sigh

So much he loved their frail inconsequence.I spoke of progress conquering decay,And tired the stillness with my common senseLoud-spoken in the jargon of the day.

So much he loved their frail inconsequence.

I spoke of progress conquering decay,

And tired the stillness with my common sense

Loud-spoken in the jargon of the day.

But I have never met so queer a man,"I better love my memories," he said,"Look at those painted figures on the fan,How delicate and wistful are the dead."

But I have never met so queer a man,

"I better love my memories," he said,

"Look at those painted figures on the fan,

How delicate and wistful are the dead."

1917

Asa nun's face from her black draperiesSo full of mystery the moon looks down.She dreams of a passion that shall outlive time,Of Beauty's face beheld unveiled and close,Of God Who blows the worlds like bubbles up,Smiling away, to watch them swell and die.She dreams of music played among the starsWhen the slow tongues of silence are unloosed.Above the city glittering giddily,Above the jostling heads of man she moves,Strange as a dreamer walking in her sleep.1912

Asa nun's face from her black draperies

So full of mystery the moon looks down.

She dreams of a passion that shall outlive time,

Of Beauty's face beheld unveiled and close,

Of God Who blows the worlds like bubbles up,

Smiling away, to watch them swell and die.

She dreams of music played among the stars

When the slow tongues of silence are unloosed.

Above the city glittering giddily,

Above the jostling heads of man she moves,

Strange as a dreamer walking in her sleep.

1912

Thesun is lord of life and colour,Blood of the rose and hyacinth,Hair of the sea and forests,Crown of the cornfields,Body of the hills.The moon is the harlot of Death,Slaughterer of the Sun,Priestess and poisoner she goesWith all her silver flock of wandering souls,Her chant of wailing waters,The bed of shimmering dust from which she comesBound all around with bandages of mist....The living are as blossoms and fruit on the tree,The dead are as lilies and wind on the marshes;The living are as cherries that bow to the morningBeckoning to the loitering stranger,The wind, to sing them his eerie ballads.The dead are as frozen skeleton branchesWhereon the stillness perches like an owl....The dead are as snows on the cherry orchard.1918

Thesun is lord of life and colour,

Blood of the rose and hyacinth,

Hair of the sea and forests,

Crown of the cornfields,

Body of the hills.

The moon is the harlot of Death,

Slaughterer of the Sun,

Priestess and poisoner she goes

With all her silver flock of wandering souls,

Her chant of wailing waters,

The bed of shimmering dust from which she comes

Bound all around with bandages of mist....

The living are as blossoms and fruit on the tree,

The dead are as lilies and wind on the marshes;

The living are as cherries that bow to the morning

Beckoning to the loitering stranger,

The wind, to sing them his eerie ballads.

The dead are as frozen skeleton branches

Whereon the stillness perches like an owl....

The dead are as snows on the cherry orchard.

1918

BAHAMA ISLANDS

Alldown the somnolent street where pale tinged houses dreamThe negroes go, black faces crowding together;And between the palm leaves dancing with lethargic gestures,The bright long water spreads, green as a parrot'swing—We have rest here and a monotony of wheels,A peaceful noise like bees that moan inJune—And the sun rusts not, but his brazen heraldriesTarnished with evening are burnished with the dawn.Yet pain comes stabbing in the night with silver knife through the window,A blanched moon full of fear and the burden ofdesire—And nothing rids us utterly of grief,We who have pilgrim souls that will not sleep.IIMoonlight planting the world with lilies, so hushed it seems and scented,But in the chapel is a droning where the negroes chant their hymnsAnd we in aureoled loneliness go down the street contented,With hearts that beat for pleasure to the rhythm of our limbs.1917

Alldown the somnolent street where pale tinged houses dream

The negroes go, black faces crowding together;

And between the palm leaves dancing with lethargic gestures,

The bright long water spreads, green as a parrot'swing—

We have rest here and a monotony of wheels,

A peaceful noise like bees that moan inJune—

And the sun rusts not, but his brazen heraldries

Tarnished with evening are burnished with the dawn.

Yet pain comes stabbing in the night with silver knife through the window,

A blanched moon full of fear and the burden ofdesire—

And nothing rids us utterly of grief,

We who have pilgrim souls that will not sleep.

Moonlight planting the world with lilies, so hushed it seems and scented,But in the chapel is a droning where the negroes chant their hymnsAnd we in aureoled loneliness go down the street contented,With hearts that beat for pleasure to the rhythm of our limbs.

Moonlight planting the world with lilies, so hushed it seems and scented,

But in the chapel is a droning where the negroes chant their hymns

And we in aureoled loneliness go down the street contented,

With hearts that beat for pleasure to the rhythm of our limbs.

1917

THOUGHTS OF LONDON

Oh,have I bartered and forgotten thee,Selling thy tarnished twilights for gold sun,Relinquishing thy dreams that used to runA ragged troop along thy streets with me?Cast off the glitter of thy jewelry,Thy lamp-light, starlight, colours crudely spun,The eloquent ugliness, the roofs of dun,The fogs that swathe in bands of mystery?Mother of dreams and laughter and despair!Thy joy my Heaven is, my Hell thy pain,Thy labyrinthian streets wind everywhere,Thy sins and passions baffle me again;And all my hopes thy lamps that flick and glare,And all my griefs thy beggars in the rain.1918

Oh,have I bartered and forgotten thee,

Selling thy tarnished twilights for gold sun,

Relinquishing thy dreams that used to run

A ragged troop along thy streets with me?

Cast off the glitter of thy jewelry,

Thy lamp-light, starlight, colours crudely spun,

The eloquent ugliness, the roofs of dun,

The fogs that swathe in bands of mystery?

Mother of dreams and laughter and despair!

Thy joy my Heaven is, my Hell thy pain,

Thy labyrinthian streets wind everywhere,

Thy sins and passions baffle me again;

And all my hopes thy lamps that flick and glare,

And all my griefs thy beggars in the rain.

1918

STREETS

I amgoingUp and down the roads and alleysThrough the forests of the city,Hunting thoughts, hunting dreams.My mind shall wander through the streetsWhistling to a vague adventure,Plucking strange fancies where they lurk and peerAnd casting them away.Dusk is creeping through the townLighting the lamps and loitering,Leaving smoky clouds of shadow,Hovering clouds of peace;And behind her race the windsWhining to the scent of darkness,Scattering the dustWith their swift hounds' feet....I am a hunter in the city's jungle,Exploring all her secret mysteries.I know her well,The moaning highways,And whispering alleys,The chimney-dishevelled roofsWhere the moon walks delicatelyAs a stray spectral cat;The little forlorn squaresWhere one tree standsDrooping bedraggled hair and fingersOver the benches where the people sitAnd stir not from their sullen postures,Staring out where evening passesWith such a sauntering dreamy step.I know her parks that spring had decked with garlands,Fluttered with flags and child imaginings,Powdered with blossoms exquisite and shy,Haunted with lovers and their last year's ghosts.Now stripped with autumn, as the ragpickerWrapped in his tattered coat emaciatePicks up the littered wreck of holidayTo mount the dust heap where our memories lieSprawled in a mess of ruins....I know her monotone of gloomy mansions,Repeating each in each a dull despair,Indifferent and dignified;Those tarnished prisons lined with white and gold,With dismal silences of velvet carpets,Where starving souls are keptFeeding upon each other's isolations,Not daring to escape....Some roads seem steep as mountains, weary meWith their crude temples built in praise of lust,Squatting and smiling at some hideous dreamOf fat bejewelled goddesses, or godsFrock-coated, undismayed by prayers and tears,Their hats atilt like halos on their heads....I love the ribald multi-coloured crowd,Its radiant loves, and laughters, all the facesThat are as songs, as flowers, as hovering stardust....I love the memory-crusted tavernsIn which my heart has leapt to a fiddler's tuneUntil the dawn,Like a white minstrel stopped to singFantastic serenades, and called me forthWhere through the crystal chandeliers of morningDew-prismed shone the sun....I love the narrow streets whose crippled housesAre bathed in vitriol twilights,Spitting smoke,Or making oaths and mouths at one another....While betweenThe flaring tinsel lights of shop and windowAre gaps of goblin darkness passagingInto Cimmerian depths of mystery and sin....Wan children stare at me, and in their eyesI see the flickering pallor of the lamps,Reflective of the solitude of stars....And I am thrilledWith horror and the hope for tragedies....But, they surround my heart these weary streets,Yea, in my soul they cut their mournful paths,And through them pass foreverThose shadow figures trudging through the greyLike penitent souls through haunted corridors....Ah, Grief, thou wanderer,Thou maker of music, lingering and sweet!Here dost thou pause to play thy shrill faint tunes,Thy fingers touch the stops to loose our tears,And shake our hearts, and fold our hands in prayer.Through all the winding mazes of the cityThy stooping shoulders and thy pitiful face are seen,And thou dost stand before the gate of brass,And by the iron door,Under the windows where we sit and waitFor some sweet promise to unfold itselfFrom the shut scrolls of sleep,And at the dusty curtain that dividesGlory from Death,And lover from the lover....Now in my room I sitAnd round me falls the darknessIn rustling folds of peace.But round my heart I knowNo scarves of sleep and silence can be boundTo shut the city out.For I shall feel the rush of streetsShooting inquisitive fingers into chaos,Piercing the night's remote divinity.And I shall never rid me of these scarsThat time and man have cut into my thought,Never shake off my shouldersThe burden of the city's pain.Oh, never shall we escape thee,Mother of mutiny and want,Thou beautiful mistress of Grief....Oh, never shall we escape thy insomnial nightsBeating with ineloquent handsThe tambourines of time,The drums of war;Fevering our mindsWith the swollen traffic of thoughts,The wheels and rattle of an endless search....Tired I am with wandering,Pricked with the lights and jostled by the worlds,More jaded than the Moon, more hopeless, grey,Than that sad pilgrim lost amid the stars!...1918

I amgoing

Up and down the roads and alleys

Through the forests of the city,

Hunting thoughts, hunting dreams.

My mind shall wander through the streets

Whistling to a vague adventure,

Plucking strange fancies where they lurk and peer

And casting them away.

Dusk is creeping through the town

Lighting the lamps and loitering,

Leaving smoky clouds of shadow,

Hovering clouds of peace;

And behind her race the winds

Whining to the scent of darkness,

Scattering the dust

With their swift hounds' feet....

I am a hunter in the city's jungle,

Exploring all her secret mysteries.

I know her well,

The moaning highways,

And whispering alleys,

The chimney-dishevelled roofs

Where the moon walks delicately

As a stray spectral cat;

The little forlorn squares

Where one tree stands

Drooping bedraggled hair and fingers

Over the benches where the people sit

And stir not from their sullen postures,

Staring out where evening passes

With such a sauntering dreamy step.

I know her parks that spring had decked with garlands,

Fluttered with flags and child imaginings,

Powdered with blossoms exquisite and shy,

Haunted with lovers and their last year's ghosts.

Now stripped with autumn, as the ragpicker

Wrapped in his tattered coat emaciate

Picks up the littered wreck of holiday

To mount the dust heap where our memories lie

Sprawled in a mess of ruins....

I know her monotone of gloomy mansions,

Repeating each in each a dull despair,

Indifferent and dignified;

Those tarnished prisons lined with white and gold,

With dismal silences of velvet carpets,

Where starving souls are kept

Feeding upon each other's isolations,

Not daring to escape....

Some roads seem steep as mountains, weary me

With their crude temples built in praise of lust,

Squatting and smiling at some hideous dream

Of fat bejewelled goddesses, or gods

Frock-coated, undismayed by prayers and tears,

Their hats atilt like halos on their heads....

I love the ribald multi-coloured crowd,Its radiant loves, and laughters, all the facesThat are as songs, as flowers, as hovering stardust....I love the memory-crusted tavernsIn which my heart has leapt to a fiddler's tuneUntil the dawn,Like a white minstrel stopped to singFantastic serenades, and called me forthWhere through the crystal chandeliers of morningDew-prismed shone the sun....I love the narrow streets whose crippled housesAre bathed in vitriol twilights,Spitting smoke,Or making oaths and mouths at one another....While betweenThe flaring tinsel lights of shop and windowAre gaps of goblin darkness passagingInto Cimmerian depths of mystery and sin....Wan children stare at me, and in their eyesI see the flickering pallor of the lamps,Reflective of the solitude of stars....And I am thrilledWith horror and the hope for tragedies....

I love the ribald multi-coloured crowd,

Its radiant loves, and laughters, all the faces

That are as songs, as flowers, as hovering stardust....

I love the memory-crusted taverns

In which my heart has leapt to a fiddler's tune

Until the dawn,

Like a white minstrel stopped to sing

Fantastic serenades, and called me forth

Where through the crystal chandeliers of morning

Dew-prismed shone the sun....

I love the narrow streets whose crippled houses

Are bathed in vitriol twilights,

Spitting smoke,

Or making oaths and mouths at one another....

While between

The flaring tinsel lights of shop and window

Are gaps of goblin darkness passaging

Into Cimmerian depths of mystery and sin....

Wan children stare at me, and in their eyes

I see the flickering pallor of the lamps,

Reflective of the solitude of stars....

And I am thrilled

With horror and the hope for tragedies....

But, they surround my heart these weary streets,Yea, in my soul they cut their mournful paths,And through them pass foreverThose shadow figures trudging through the greyLike penitent souls through haunted corridors....Ah, Grief, thou wanderer,Thou maker of music, lingering and sweet!Here dost thou pause to play thy shrill faint tunes,Thy fingers touch the stops to loose our tears,And shake our hearts, and fold our hands in prayer.Through all the winding mazes of the cityThy stooping shoulders and thy pitiful face are seen,And thou dost stand before the gate of brass,And by the iron door,Under the windows where we sit and waitFor some sweet promise to unfold itselfFrom the shut scrolls of sleep,And at the dusty curtain that dividesGlory from Death,And lover from the lover....

But, they surround my heart these weary streets,

Yea, in my soul they cut their mournful paths,

And through them pass forever

Those shadow figures trudging through the grey

Like penitent souls through haunted corridors....

Ah, Grief, thou wanderer,

Thou maker of music, lingering and sweet!

Here dost thou pause to play thy shrill faint tunes,

Thy fingers touch the stops to loose our tears,

And shake our hearts, and fold our hands in prayer.

Through all the winding mazes of the city

Thy stooping shoulders and thy pitiful face are seen,

And thou dost stand before the gate of brass,

And by the iron door,

Under the windows where we sit and wait

For some sweet promise to unfold itself

From the shut scrolls of sleep,

And at the dusty curtain that divides

Glory from Death,

And lover from the lover....

Now in my room I sitAnd round me falls the darknessIn rustling folds of peace.But round my heart I knowNo scarves of sleep and silence can be boundTo shut the city out.For I shall feel the rush of streetsShooting inquisitive fingers into chaos,Piercing the night's remote divinity.And I shall never rid me of these scarsThat time and man have cut into my thought,Never shake off my shouldersThe burden of the city's pain.Oh, never shall we escape thee,Mother of mutiny and want,Thou beautiful mistress of Grief....Oh, never shall we escape thy insomnial nightsBeating with ineloquent handsThe tambourines of time,The drums of war;Fevering our mindsWith the swollen traffic of thoughts,The wheels and rattle of an endless search....

Now in my room I sit

And round me falls the darkness

In rustling folds of peace.

But round my heart I know

No scarves of sleep and silence can be bound

To shut the city out.

For I shall feel the rush of streets

Shooting inquisitive fingers into chaos,

Piercing the night's remote divinity.

And I shall never rid me of these scars

That time and man have cut into my thought,

Never shake off my shoulders

The burden of the city's pain.

Oh, never shall we escape thee,

Mother of mutiny and want,

Thou beautiful mistress of Grief....

Oh, never shall we escape thy insomnial nights

Beating with ineloquent hands

The tambourines of time,

The drums of war;

Fevering our minds

With the swollen traffic of thoughts,

The wheels and rattle of an endless search....

Tired I am with wandering,Pricked with the lights and jostled by the worlds,More jaded than the Moon, more hopeless, grey,Than that sad pilgrim lost amid the stars!...

Tired I am with wandering,

Pricked with the lights and jostled by the worlds,

More jaded than the Moon, more hopeless, grey,

Than that sad pilgrim lost amid the stars!...

1918

Laughterand singing come with the morning,When Life doth mask his face with a gilded visor,And dons his arrogant clothes.But in the night,When the unsheathed moon stands naked and pale,We too put off our opulent disguiseAnd stand alone in the baffling darkness,Fighting with our sins,Weeping for our loneliness,That moon-like gropes forever through the desolate air.1918

Laughterand singing come with the morning,

When Life doth mask his face with a gilded visor,

And dons his arrogant clothes.

But in the night,

When the unsheathed moon stands naked and pale,

We too put off our opulent disguise

And stand alone in the baffling darkness,

Fighting with our sins,

Weeping for our loneliness,

That moon-like gropes forever through the desolate air.

1918

Inthe night I hear my loneliness callingThe long shrill note of the seabird's cryOver the fuming spite of breakers,Over the brumous, sulky tides.All the ocean is craving Heavenward,And the wild sky crushes downward toward the sea,Where the clouds stoop their passionate bodies,And the waves rear their supplicating hands.Mine eyes grow tired of looking outward forever,Away from the firelight and my sleeping idols,To where the darkness is shattered with gusts of white,Wings of ship, and bird, and cloud, and wave,Flashing their signals ofunrest.—My longing is a warm thing in a cold street,Taking refuge by the chinks of lighteddoors—My longing is a pale ghost stepping into the sunlightThat falls in golden curtains sumptuous andhushed—My longing is a fiddler making a thin tune through the silence,Through the heavy pauses ofsleep.—Ah! Stop up my ears lest I hear my longing call,Lest I hear my loneliness crying!1918

Inthe night I hear my loneliness calling

The long shrill note of the seabird's cry

Over the fuming spite of breakers,

Over the brumous, sulky tides.

All the ocean is craving Heavenward,

And the wild sky crushes downward toward the sea,

Where the clouds stoop their passionate bodies,

And the waves rear their supplicating hands.

Mine eyes grow tired of looking outward forever,

Away from the firelight and my sleeping idols,

To where the darkness is shattered with gusts of white,

Wings of ship, and bird, and cloud, and wave,

Flashing their signals ofunrest.—

My longing is a warm thing in a cold street,

Taking refuge by the chinks of lighteddoors—

My longing is a pale ghost stepping into the sunlight

That falls in golden curtains sumptuous andhushed—

My longing is a fiddler making a thin tune through the silence,

Through the heavy pauses ofsleep.—

Ah! Stop up my ears lest I hear my longing call,

Lest I hear my loneliness crying!

1918

SUNDAY

Howbeautiful is the world's delight,How trivial, yet as sweet as a passing dreamThat makes the harassed sleeper in the nightSmile, and on waking sigh. Forever the streamOf time moves onward; as in coloured boatsA thousand souls go sailing,And stilly down the tide my spirit floatsSinging or wailingTo the tune the waters make. Here we forget a spaceThe crawling sins of man that sting and gloat,The pain and fear that haggers every face,But vaguely and remoteThe strident trumpet and the clamorous voicessound—Grief doth forget to curse her Gods or pray,While pagan follies squander all aroundTheir brief gay hours in holiday;For all prayers die when laughter is on thelips.—How frail the moods of joy, how sweet to see them passLike bubbles on the tide, like coloured shipsSailing on glass!1918

Howbeautiful is the world's delight,

How trivial, yet as sweet as a passing dream

That makes the harassed sleeper in the night

Smile, and on waking sigh. Forever the stream

Of time moves onward; as in coloured boats

A thousand souls go sailing,

And stilly down the tide my spirit floats

Singing or wailing

To the tune the waters make. Here we forget a space

The crawling sins of man that sting and gloat,

The pain and fear that haggers every face,

But vaguely and remote

The strident trumpet and the clamorous voicessound—

Grief doth forget to curse her Gods or pray,

While pagan follies squander all around

Their brief gay hours in holiday;

For all prayers die when laughter is on thelips.—

How frail the moods of joy, how sweet to see them pass

Like bubbles on the tide, like coloured ships

Sailing on glass!

1918

Theleaves are singing, and the sea,And the sand in the wind,Blown grass and hurrying people;Full of melodious strings and lutes and flutesRustling and whispering forever.The sad music of Life is in my ears,Never ceasing, never asleep,And my heart is strung between chord and chordLike a crucifix in a rosary.1918

Theleaves are singing, and the sea,

And the sand in the wind,

Blown grass and hurrying people;

Full of melodious strings and lutes and flutes

Rustling and whispering forever.

The sad music of Life is in my ears,

Never ceasing, never asleep,

And my heart is strung between chord and chord

Like a crucifix in a rosary.

1918

Howsoundly sleepeth the fool,With profane snore taunting the solemn-pillarednight—He hath no dreams of restless, subtle formsThat shift across a feverish vacancy;Nor doth he hear the drums of timeBeating against oblivion tunes of war,Goading the crippled hours on their endlessmarch—But waketh to yawn in the face of the sun,Then turneth back to sleep....How soundly the wise man sleepeth,Couched royally in the purple of the darkWith his white mistress,Peace—And when the morning stealeth on his rest,As a rose he doth pluck her from the spreading tree of days,And reviveth his heartWith the perfume of the world....But 'twixt the wise and the foolishMany nights shed sorrow and fear,And nets are spread for timid feet,And the waves beat on the shifting sand....1918

Howsoundly sleepeth the fool,

With profane snore taunting the solemn-pillarednight—

He hath no dreams of restless, subtle forms

That shift across a feverish vacancy;

Nor doth he hear the drums of time

Beating against oblivion tunes of war,

Goading the crippled hours on their endlessmarch—

But waketh to yawn in the face of the sun,

Then turneth back to sleep....

How soundly the wise man sleepeth,Couched royally in the purple of the darkWith his white mistress,Peace—And when the morning stealeth on his rest,As a rose he doth pluck her from the spreading tree of days,And reviveth his heartWith the perfume of the world....But 'twixt the wise and the foolishMany nights shed sorrow and fear,And nets are spread for timid feet,And the waves beat on the shifting sand....

How soundly the wise man sleepeth,

Couched royally in the purple of the dark

With his white mistress,Peace—

And when the morning stealeth on his rest,

As a rose he doth pluck her from the spreading tree of days,

And reviveth his heart

With the perfume of the world....

But 'twixt the wise and the foolish

Many nights shed sorrow and fear,

And nets are spread for timid feet,

And the waves beat on the shifting sand....

1918

Moonlitlilacs under the window,And the pale smell of their falling blossoms,And the white floating beams like luminous mothsFluttering from bloom to bloom.Sprays of lilac flowersFrothing at the green verge of midnight waves,Frozen to motionless icicles.Moonlight flows over me,Spreads her bright watery hair over my face,Full of illicit, marvellous perfumesWreathed with syringa and plaited with hyacinths;Hair of the moonlight falling about me,Straight and cool as the drooping tresses of rain.1918

Moonlitlilacs under the window,

And the pale smell of their falling blossoms,

And the white floating beams like luminous moths

Fluttering from bloom to bloom.

Sprays of lilac flowers

Frothing at the green verge of midnight waves,

Frozen to motionless icicles.

Moonlight flows over me,

Spreads her bright watery hair over my face,

Full of illicit, marvellous perfumes

Wreathed with syringa and plaited with hyacinths;

Hair of the moonlight falling about me,

Straight and cool as the drooping tresses of rain.

1918

Oldwoman forever sittingAlone in the large hotel under the fans,Infinitely alone where around you spinSo many lives like painted tops,Smearing the void a moment with their hues,Giddily catching at balance as they pause.What crime was yours, old woman,What sin against the EarthThat she should give you nowA cap of dust and furrows on your cheeks,And at the endA hole dug in the mould?Is death the promise of Fate's last rebound,Revenge of Time that waits within the clockAnd laughs awry at life,For a kiss, for a dream, for a child that you bore,For a fresh rose pinned to your bosom?The owl is in your spirit,Blinking through the oldest tree ofwisdom—And now your fingers are weavingThe cold pale invisible blossoms of deathInto a waxen wreath,And TimeSits down beside you knitting with quick handsGrey counterpanes to cover up a grave!1918

Oldwoman forever sitting

Alone in the large hotel under the fans,

Infinitely alone where around you spin

So many lives like painted tops,

Smearing the void a moment with their hues,

Giddily catching at balance as they pause.

What crime was yours, old woman,

What sin against the Earth

That she should give you now

A cap of dust and furrows on your cheeks,

And at the end

A hole dug in the mould?

Is death the promise of Fate's last rebound,

Revenge of Time that waits within the clock

And laughs awry at life,

For a kiss, for a dream, for a child that you bore,

For a fresh rose pinned to your bosom?

The owl is in your spirit,

Blinking through the oldest tree ofwisdom—

And now your fingers are weaving

The cold pale invisible blossoms of death

Into a waxen wreath,

And Time

Sits down beside you knitting with quick hands

Grey counterpanes to cover up a grave!

1918

LonelinessI love,And that is why they have called me forth into the streets.Loneliness I love,But the crowd has clutched at me with fawning hands,...My spirit speaksIn the scented quietness of a divine melancholyMurmuring the tunesFor which my dreams are the delicate instruments.The shadowy silencesHave made me beautiful and dressed me in velvet dignities,And that is whyThe noise of tambourines has maddened my soul into dancing,And I am cladIn the lust-lipped whispering of furtive caresses.Holiness I love,And touching the virginal pierced feet of martyrs,The crucified feetNestled among lilies and hallowing candles.Holiness I loveAnd the melodious absolution falling on my sins.But that is whyBlasphemous priests have forced my hands to tearThe vesture of secrecyWhich hides the human nakedness of God.*****1918

LonelinessI love,

And that is why they have called me forth into the streets.

Loneliness I love,

But the crowd has clutched at me with fawning hands,...

My spirit speaks

In the scented quietness of a divine melancholy

Murmuring the tunes

For which my dreams are the delicate instruments.

The shadowy silences

Have made me beautiful and dressed me in velvet dignities,

And that is why

The noise of tambourines has maddened my soul into dancing,

And I am clad

In the lust-lipped whispering of furtive caresses.

Holiness I love,

And touching the virginal pierced feet of martyrs,

The crucified feet

Nestled among lilies and hallowing candles.

Holiness I love

And the melodious absolution falling on my sins.

But that is why

Blasphemous priests have forced my hands to tear

The vesture of secrecy

Which hides the human nakedness of God.

*****

1918

I metan Indian underneath a tree, under a ragged tree,His face was yellow and wrinkled like some stone whereon a God had writAnd his emaciated fingers drew circles in the dust....I bent my mouth to his ear, crying "O father, O Prophet!I have wandered far over the earth troubled with doubts that will not let me rest,Canst thou not tell me with all thy wizardries and meditationsThe purpose of our lives upon this world,The secret truth Earth shelters in her womb?"But he was listening to the whispering of the mountains,To the boom of God's paces on the rocks,And the swishing steps of his followers in the rivers.Then suddenly he pointed to the arched doorway in between the hills,And the mysterious purple curtain of the dusk that drooped from cliff to cliff.I saw in his eyes the vision of highborn ghosts,Of divine ivory faces wreathed with the flowers ofwisdom—And I knew that he had found only the half-spoken promises of Heaven....*****I saw a drunkard laughing in a tavern,His cup was tilted and the wine spilt crimson on the sprawled arms and distracted hair of a woman fallen asleep,I watched him there and wonderedIf ever the bubbling goblins of wine had whispered him life's secret.But he raised the cup of his carousals and gazed at emptiness,Toasting some wild, irreverent dream,Some flame-red salamander pirouetting among the dead waste ashes oftime—And I knew that he had found only the secrets of sleep....*****A woman sat within a little house,Scolding and singing ballads to her child,And all around came the quarrel of children's voices.Yet one boy sat apart within the furthest corner of the roomPainting an animal with coloured chalks.I lingered by the fire thinking of life, its vanities and mysteries,But the woman did not heed me,Nor her pale son that sat so hunched and still,Painting his visions with the broken chalks,For they had discovered the absorbing painful secrets of giving birth....*****It was evening as I wandered,By a lake two lovers leaned, smiling to see their faces in the water,For they had found within each other's soulsAn argent flattering mirror wherein to gaze and see their faces change with all the moods and shadows of the day....Not here should I discover the answer to bring light into my darkness,Into the dim psychic crystals of my soul opalled with the changing colours ofunrest—So I went away into the loneliness, asking the forests and the mountains and the seaThe knowledge of life's baffling mysteries.But they were roaring in a wind of memories,Gathering the rain into their bodies to make them fierce and strong,Heaving their shoulders upward to the morning,Crowning their foreheads with sunlight.And I knew that they were Life itself,The pushing vehemence that rushes from the strangling arms of Death,Nor could they guessThe purpose of God's beauty in their joy....1918

I metan Indian underneath a tree, under a ragged tree,

His face was yellow and wrinkled like some stone whereon a God had writ

And his emaciated fingers drew circles in the dust....

I bent my mouth to his ear, crying "O father, O Prophet!

I have wandered far over the earth troubled with doubts that will not let me rest,

Canst thou not tell me with all thy wizardries and meditations

The purpose of our lives upon this world,

The secret truth Earth shelters in her womb?"

But he was listening to the whispering of the mountains,To the boom of God's paces on the rocks,And the swishing steps of his followers in the rivers.Then suddenly he pointed to the arched doorway in between the hills,And the mysterious purple curtain of the dusk that drooped from cliff to cliff.I saw in his eyes the vision of highborn ghosts,Of divine ivory faces wreathed with the flowers ofwisdom—And I knew that he had found only the half-spoken promises of Heaven....

But he was listening to the whispering of the mountains,

To the boom of God's paces on the rocks,

And the swishing steps of his followers in the rivers.

Then suddenly he pointed to the arched doorway in between the hills,

And the mysterious purple curtain of the dusk that drooped from cliff to cliff.

I saw in his eyes the vision of highborn ghosts,

Of divine ivory faces wreathed with the flowers ofwisdom—

And I knew that he had found only the half-spoken promises of Heaven....

*****

I saw a drunkard laughing in a tavern,His cup was tilted and the wine spilt crimson on the sprawled arms and distracted hair of a woman fallen asleep,I watched him there and wonderedIf ever the bubbling goblins of wine had whispered him life's secret.But he raised the cup of his carousals and gazed at emptiness,Toasting some wild, irreverent dream,Some flame-red salamander pirouetting among the dead waste ashes oftime—And I knew that he had found only the secrets of sleep....

I saw a drunkard laughing in a tavern,

His cup was tilted and the wine spilt crimson on the sprawled arms and distracted hair of a woman fallen asleep,

I watched him there and wondered

If ever the bubbling goblins of wine had whispered him life's secret.

But he raised the cup of his carousals and gazed at emptiness,

Toasting some wild, irreverent dream,

Some flame-red salamander pirouetting among the dead waste ashes oftime—

And I knew that he had found only the secrets of sleep....

*****

A woman sat within a little house,Scolding and singing ballads to her child,And all around came the quarrel of children's voices.Yet one boy sat apart within the furthest corner of the roomPainting an animal with coloured chalks.I lingered by the fire thinking of life, its vanities and mysteries,But the woman did not heed me,Nor her pale son that sat so hunched and still,Painting his visions with the broken chalks,For they had discovered the absorbing painful secrets of giving birth....

A woman sat within a little house,

Scolding and singing ballads to her child,

And all around came the quarrel of children's voices.

Yet one boy sat apart within the furthest corner of the room

Painting an animal with coloured chalks.

I lingered by the fire thinking of life, its vanities and mysteries,

But the woman did not heed me,

Nor her pale son that sat so hunched and still,

Painting his visions with the broken chalks,

For they had discovered the absorbing painful secrets of giving birth....

*****

It was evening as I wandered,By a lake two lovers leaned, smiling to see their faces in the water,For they had found within each other's soulsAn argent flattering mirror wherein to gaze and see their faces change with all the moods and shadows of the day....Not here should I discover the answer to bring light into my darkness,Into the dim psychic crystals of my soul opalled with the changing colours ofunrest—So I went away into the loneliness, asking the forests and the mountains and the seaThe knowledge of life's baffling mysteries.But they were roaring in a wind of memories,Gathering the rain into their bodies to make them fierce and strong,Heaving their shoulders upward to the morning,Crowning their foreheads with sunlight.And I knew that they were Life itself,The pushing vehemence that rushes from the strangling arms of Death,Nor could they guessThe purpose of God's beauty in their joy....

It was evening as I wandered,

By a lake two lovers leaned, smiling to see their faces in the water,

For they had found within each other's souls

An argent flattering mirror wherein to gaze and see their faces change with all the moods and shadows of the day....

Not here should I discover the answer to bring light into my darkness,

Into the dim psychic crystals of my soul opalled with the changing colours ofunrest—

So I went away into the loneliness, asking the forests and the mountains and the sea

The knowledge of life's baffling mysteries.

But they were roaring in a wind of memories,

Gathering the rain into their bodies to make them fierce and strong,

Heaving their shoulders upward to the morning,

Crowning their foreheads with sunlight.

And I knew that they were Life itself,

The pushing vehemence that rushes from the strangling arms of Death,

Nor could they guess

The purpose of God's beauty in their joy....

1918

Fromthe fathomless depth of my boredom, from thelast room of its emptiness, an elf has come to playwith me.As comes a little gold spider to a prison cell teasing thecriminal from his darkness to tear at a thread of sunlight,and kiss the mouth of a shy morning whispering throughthe window.An elf has come to dance with me, blown like a leaf onthe path of my autumn lassitude.Sprightly one, dervish! You are the living adventureborn of my dead childhood, you are the small god in thetemples of my unbelief, you are the bird that nests in ruinedtemples, laying your silver eggs by moonlight and singingwhen the pagan birds are still.You are the dream-sower in the fields of sleep, you havejingled the star-bells on the hood of darkness, and from theknarled, stark tree of time have flung me the apple ofeternal laughter.1919

Fromthe fathomless depth of my boredom, from thelast room of its emptiness, an elf has come to playwith me.

Fromthe fathomless depth of my boredom, from the

last room of its emptiness, an elf has come to play

with me.

As comes a little gold spider to a prison cell teasing thecriminal from his darkness to tear at a thread of sunlight,and kiss the mouth of a shy morning whispering throughthe window.

As comes a little gold spider to a prison cell teasing the

criminal from his darkness to tear at a thread of sunlight,

and kiss the mouth of a shy morning whispering through

the window.

An elf has come to dance with me, blown like a leaf onthe path of my autumn lassitude.

An elf has come to dance with me, blown like a leaf on

the path of my autumn lassitude.

Sprightly one, dervish! You are the living adventureborn of my dead childhood, you are the small god in thetemples of my unbelief, you are the bird that nests in ruinedtemples, laying your silver eggs by moonlight and singingwhen the pagan birds are still.

Sprightly one, dervish! You are the living adventure

born of my dead childhood, you are the small god in the

temples of my unbelief, you are the bird that nests in ruined

temples, laying your silver eggs by moonlight and singing

when the pagan birds are still.

You are the dream-sower in the fields of sleep, you havejingled the star-bells on the hood of darkness, and from theknarled, stark tree of time have flung me the apple ofeternal laughter.

You are the dream-sower in the fields of sleep, you have

jingled the star-bells on the hood of darkness, and from the

knarled, stark tree of time have flung me the apple of

eternal laughter.

1919

Lollingin snow, like kings in ermine coats, the gilt-crownedbottles lie.... Our thoughts are dangled ina laughter of leaves as bunches of blue and yellow grapesfor faery beggars, for ragged fancies to pluck and taste.Our music shall be the minstrelsy of ghostly ballad-mongersthat have stolen from the ashen banquets of death to blessour revels.Our spirits shall flit like those winged faces of cherubsthat never can alight, but swing forever on the azure ribbonsof the sky.And all our dreams and kisses shall be as the rose-leavesfalling on ancient festivals, as the shadows of rose-leavesfalling on phantom lovers in the sleep-pillared temples ofour first archaic passion.1918

Lollingin snow, like kings in ermine coats, the gilt-crowned

bottles lie.... Our thoughts are dangled in

a laughter of leaves as bunches of blue and yellow grapes

for faery beggars, for ragged fancies to pluck and taste.

Our music shall be the minstrelsy of ghostly ballad-mongersthat have stolen from the ashen banquets of death to blessour revels.

Our music shall be the minstrelsy of ghostly ballad-mongers

that have stolen from the ashen banquets of death to bless

our revels.

Our spirits shall flit like those winged faces of cherubsthat never can alight, but swing forever on the azure ribbonsof the sky.

Our spirits shall flit like those winged faces of cherubs

that never can alight, but swing forever on the azure ribbons

of the sky.

And all our dreams and kisses shall be as the rose-leavesfalling on ancient festivals, as the shadows of rose-leavesfalling on phantom lovers in the sleep-pillared temples ofour first archaic passion.

And all our dreams and kisses shall be as the rose-leaves

falling on ancient festivals, as the shadows of rose-leaves

falling on phantom lovers in the sleep-pillared temples of

our first archaic passion.

1918

Theroots of our longing are probing the heart of night,delving and twining together that our ultimate truthmay grow out of the darkness that bewilders and nourishes.Out of the earth, the dust, the crystals of frost that bindthemselves like a tight crown over our heads.Through the mould and the frost our hair and fingers shallprick their spears of pallor and flame, and in the greenardour of our up-rushing leaves the red goblets of fireshall open, and masses of white flowers, milky as the star-spraysthat droop over Heaven, shall splash their brightfoam from the darkness, as waves that rise and break intoa fountain of blossoms.1919

Theroots of our longing are probing the heart of night,

delving and twining together that our ultimate truth

may grow out of the darkness that bewilders and nourishes.

Out of the earth, the dust, the crystals of frost that bind

themselves like a tight crown over our heads.

Through the mould and the frost our hair and fingers shallprick their spears of pallor and flame, and in the greenardour of our up-rushing leaves the red goblets of fireshall open, and masses of white flowers, milky as the star-spraysthat droop over Heaven, shall splash their brightfoam from the darkness, as waves that rise and break intoa fountain of blossoms.

Through the mould and the frost our hair and fingers shall

prick their spears of pallor and flame, and in the green

ardour of our up-rushing leaves the red goblets of fire

shall open, and masses of white flowers, milky as the star-sprays

that droop over Heaven, shall splash their bright

foam from the darkness, as waves that rise and break into

a fountain of blossoms.

1919

VAHDAH

Sun-aureoledlilies are your priestesses,They stand like choirs in silver surplices,Melodious streams of silence fill the room,And pensive listeners lean within the gloomOf purple quietness. A laughter full ofholiness—Like the wild bells of lilies ringing in the lonelinessOf star-reflected gardens walled withnight,—Thrills from your soul which empties its delightAs rain on lilies, or as sunlight falling slenderlyTo gild their ivory temples, and as moonlight shutting tenderlyTheir alabaster doors.... A white peace grows,And love, within your spirit like a lily and a rose.1918

Sun-aureoledlilies are your priestesses,

They stand like choirs in silver surplices,

Melodious streams of silence fill the room,

And pensive listeners lean within the gloom

Of purple quietness. A laughter full ofholiness—

Like the wild bells of lilies ringing in the loneliness

Of star-reflected gardens walled withnight,—

Thrills from your soul which empties its delight

As rain on lilies, or as sunlight falling slenderly

To gild their ivory temples, and as moonlight shutting tenderly

Their alabaster doors.... A white peace grows,

And love, within your spirit like a lily and a rose.

1918

Starlitsilences!Breeding fears, swarming with sudden deaths,With separations, burdens, and despairs,Weaving slow eerie fancies in my brain ...Forlorn shorn monks go down the cloisters of quietnessWith tortured crucifixes cut in ivoryClasped in their praying hands,And psalmed with lips renunciate of kisses ...Forgotten days are painted on the nightIn parables and symbols of remorseThat jeer from out the wind-stirred tapestries.The hangman's rope coils upward like a snakeOut of the death-coloured waters,While the black barges passFunereal,Carrying doom from mist to mist....And madmen steal about the wintry parksUnder the high glum walls of an asylum,With eyes lit up in phosphorescent ecstasies,With fumbling handsThat grope for things invisibly obscene.Even the clockGrown idiot too from keeping madmen's timeGibbers the hours away in irrelevant chimes....Silence embalms the dead with scented bandsAnd is the watchman to deserted houses,And draws the violet curtain on the day,And fits a mask of silver to the moon.Silence brings corpses from the crypts of memoryAnd sits them round us in the empty chairs,Opens the secret chambers of our hopesAnd shows us there in awful pantomimeLust wreathing love with poppies and with ashes,And Beauty dressing Sin for carnival,And Peace made drunken with a cup of blood.It winds as ivy round our listening thoughtsShutting all sounds away, enclosing usWithin its stifled virid twilight....Cry out, sing, make noises,Bacchantes, revellers, clowns!Bring myriad lamps in clusters, likening grapesThat spill the wine of light into our gloom;Pressing against our lipsThe red grape-kisses of pleasure.Bring the hounds,The garlanded white ones,To bay and snarl and tear the flying ragsOf stillness shadowing away!Lean over me, O Life,And whisper all thy lying flatteriesThat drag me back from Silence and her dead.I have kept vigil on my soul too longWithin this vast cathedral of dim sleep,Languidly gatheringThe cold grey lilies of the starsTo slip between her passive waxen hands....1918

Starlitsilences!

Breeding fears, swarming with sudden deaths,

With separations, burdens, and despairs,

Weaving slow eerie fancies in my brain ...

Forlorn shorn monks go down the cloisters of quietness

With tortured crucifixes cut in ivory

Clasped in their praying hands,

And psalmed with lips renunciate of kisses ...

Forgotten days are painted on the night

In parables and symbols of remorse

That jeer from out the wind-stirred tapestries.

The hangman's rope coils upward like a snake

Out of the death-coloured waters,

While the black barges pass

Funereal,

Carrying doom from mist to mist....

And madmen steal about the wintry parks

Under the high glum walls of an asylum,

With eyes lit up in phosphorescent ecstasies,

With fumbling hands

That grope for things invisibly obscene.

Even the clock

Grown idiot too from keeping madmen's time

Gibbers the hours away in irrelevant chimes....

Silence embalms the dead with scented bands

And is the watchman to deserted houses,

And draws the violet curtain on the day,

And fits a mask of silver to the moon.

Silence brings corpses from the crypts of memory

And sits them round us in the empty chairs,

Opens the secret chambers of our hopes

And shows us there in awful pantomime

Lust wreathing love with poppies and with ashes,

And Beauty dressing Sin for carnival,

And Peace made drunken with a cup of blood.

It winds as ivy round our listening thoughts

Shutting all sounds away, enclosing us

Within its stifled virid twilight....

Cry out, sing, make noises,Bacchantes, revellers, clowns!Bring myriad lamps in clusters, likening grapesThat spill the wine of light into our gloom;Pressing against our lipsThe red grape-kisses of pleasure.Bring the hounds,The garlanded white ones,To bay and snarl and tear the flying ragsOf stillness shadowing away!Lean over me, O Life,And whisper all thy lying flatteriesThat drag me back from Silence and her dead.I have kept vigil on my soul too longWithin this vast cathedral of dim sleep,Languidly gatheringThe cold grey lilies of the starsTo slip between her passive waxen hands....

Cry out, sing, make noises,

Bacchantes, revellers, clowns!

Bring myriad lamps in clusters, likening grapes

That spill the wine of light into our gloom;

Pressing against our lips

The red grape-kisses of pleasure.

Bring the hounds,

The garlanded white ones,

To bay and snarl and tear the flying rags

Of stillness shadowing away!

Lean over me, O Life,

And whisper all thy lying flatteries

That drag me back from Silence and her dead.

I have kept vigil on my soul too long

Within this vast cathedral of dim sleep,

Languidly gathering

The cold grey lilies of the stars

To slip between her passive waxen hands....

1918

Themountain is an Emperor.The clouds are his beard, and the stars his diadem;His bauble is the moon;He is dressed in silver forests, and the mist his train;His feet are two white rivers.1917

Themountain is an Emperor.The clouds are his beard, and the stars his diadem;His bauble is the moon;He is dressed in silver forests, and the mist his train;His feet are two white rivers.

Themountain is an Emperor.

The clouds are his beard, and the stars his diadem;

His bauble is the moon;

He is dressed in silver forests, and the mist his train;

His feet are two white rivers.

1917

I knowwhat happinessis—It is the negation of thought,The shutting offOf all those brooding phantoms that surroundAs dank trees in a forestCutting the daylight into rags,Caging the sunIn rusted prison bars.Happiness loves to lie at a river's edgeAnd make no song,But listen to the water's murmuring wisdom,The kissing touch of leaves wind-bowed together,The feathery swish of cloud wings on a hill;Opening wide the violet-petalled doorsOf every shy and cloistered sense,That all the scent and music of the worldMay rush into the soul.And happiness expandsThe rainbow arch for a procession of dreams,For moth-like fancies winged with evening,For dove-breasted silences,For shadowy reveriesAnd starry pilgrims....I know what happinessis—It is the giving back to EarthOf all our furtive thefts,The lurid jewels that we stole awayFrom passion, sin and pain,Because they glittered strangely, luring usWith their forbidden beauty.Because our childish fingers curiouslyCrave the pale secrets of the moonAnd grope for dangerous toys.Happiness comes in giving back to EarthThe things we took from her with violent hands,Remembering onlyThat her dust is our garment,Her fruits our endeavour,Her waters our priestess,Her leaves our interpreters to God,Her hills our infinite patience.1918

I knowwhat happinessis—

It is the negation of thought,

The shutting off

Of all those brooding phantoms that surround

As dank trees in a forest

Cutting the daylight into rags,

Caging the sun

In rusted prison bars.

Happiness loves to lie at a river's edge

And make no song,

But listen to the water's murmuring wisdom,

The kissing touch of leaves wind-bowed together,

The feathery swish of cloud wings on a hill;

Opening wide the violet-petalled doors

Of every shy and cloistered sense,

That all the scent and music of the world

May rush into the soul.

And happiness expands

The rainbow arch for a procession of dreams,

For moth-like fancies winged with evening,

For dove-breasted silences,

For shadowy reveries

And starry pilgrims....

I know what happinessis—

It is the giving back to Earth

Of all our furtive thefts,

The lurid jewels that we stole away

From passion, sin and pain,

Because they glittered strangely, luring us

With their forbidden beauty.

Because our childish fingers curiously

Crave the pale secrets of the moon

And grope for dangerous toys.

Happiness comes in giving back to Earth

The things we took from her with violent hands,

Remembering only

That her dust is our garment,

Her fruits our endeavour,

Her waters our priestess,

Her leaves our interpreters to God,

Her hills our infinite patience.

1918

Longhath the pen lain idle in my hand,Or traced slow sentences without a rhyme,Words strung at random to beguile the timeAs children threading beads upon a strand.I have strayed far away from fairylandWhose little hills grow steep and hard to climb;I creep along the valleys in the slime,Or hide me like an ostrich in the sand.For I have sought a mellow idleness,To be forever buried as a flyLies casketed in amber; where the stressOf peril, hunger, Death can never cryTo wake me from my sanguine weariness,Or cloud the lucid stillness with a sigh.1918

Longhath the pen lain idle in my hand,

Or traced slow sentences without a rhyme,

Words strung at random to beguile the time

As children threading beads upon a strand.

I have strayed far away from fairyland

Whose little hills grow steep and hard to climb;

I creep along the valleys in the slime,

Or hide me like an ostrich in the sand.

For I have sought a mellow idleness,To be forever buried as a flyLies casketed in amber; where the stressOf peril, hunger, Death can never cryTo wake me from my sanguine weariness,Or cloud the lucid stillness with a sigh.

For I have sought a mellow idleness,

To be forever buried as a fly

Lies casketed in amber; where the stress

Of peril, hunger, Death can never cry

To wake me from my sanguine weariness,

Or cloud the lucid stillness with a sigh.

1918

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