HOLY RUSSIA

O flattery,imposture, battle show,What banners have you woven from the parted raiment,What crimes from Calvary, what endless flowOf blood from blood, revenge, exacted payment!How have you turned the simple truth to liesMade capital from creeds and missed their beauty,Exalted vainly with self-pitying sighsThe wrongs enacted in the name of duty.And ever quoting God for your excuse,Bribing divinity to cloak your shame,You train the spirit for material use,You sacrifice men's hearts to feed your flame.When shall the world be rid of these bald priests,Pig-snouted with their gilded wolfish ears,The scarlet cardinals of drunken feastsWhose hands are washed in blood, whose feet in tears?1916

O flattery,imposture, battle show,What banners have you woven from the parted raiment,What crimes from Calvary, what endless flowOf blood from blood, revenge, exacted payment!

O flattery,imposture, battle show,

What banners have you woven from the parted raiment,

What crimes from Calvary, what endless flow

Of blood from blood, revenge, exacted payment!

How have you turned the simple truth to liesMade capital from creeds and missed their beauty,Exalted vainly with self-pitying sighsThe wrongs enacted in the name of duty.

How have you turned the simple truth to lies

Made capital from creeds and missed their beauty,

Exalted vainly with self-pitying sighs

The wrongs enacted in the name of duty.

And ever quoting God for your excuse,Bribing divinity to cloak your shame,You train the spirit for material use,You sacrifice men's hearts to feed your flame.

And ever quoting God for your excuse,

Bribing divinity to cloak your shame,

You train the spirit for material use,

You sacrifice men's hearts to feed your flame.

When shall the world be rid of these bald priests,Pig-snouted with their gilded wolfish ears,The scarlet cardinals of drunken feastsWhose hands are washed in blood, whose feet in tears?

When shall the world be rid of these bald priests,

Pig-snouted with their gilded wolfish ears,

The scarlet cardinals of drunken feasts

Whose hands are washed in blood, whose feet in tears?

1916

Whatwill happen to the beggar, and the sinner, and the sad,And the drunk that drinks for sorrow, and the maimed, and mad;What will happen to the starving, and the rebel run from drilling,Cowardly, afraid of fighting, and the child who stole a shilling?They shall go to prison blackWith a striped shirt on the back,Feast on bread and water thereIn a cell, without a care.They shall learn at least their duty,Never tempted more ofbeauty—They shall walk in rows and praise the Lord,And one or two shall hang upon acord—And two or three shall die of griefalone—(And this is well, for sinners should atone,)And five or six shall curse the God that made them,(And this is wicked, for the priests forbade them,)And those that grew from dust shall go to dustDowntrodden. Saith the preacher:—"God is just."1917

Whatwill happen to the beggar, and the sinner, and the sad,

And the drunk that drinks for sorrow, and the maimed, and mad;

What will happen to the starving, and the rebel run from drilling,

Cowardly, afraid of fighting, and the child who stole a shilling?

They shall go to prison black

With a striped shirt on the back,

Feast on bread and water there

In a cell, without a care.

They shall learn at least their duty,

Never tempted more ofbeauty—

They shall walk in rows and praise the Lord,

And one or two shall hang upon acord—

And two or three shall die of griefalone—

(And this is well, for sinners should atone,)

And five or six shall curse the God that made them,

(And this is wicked, for the priests forbade them,)

And those that grew from dust shall go to dust

Downtrodden. Saith the preacher:—"God is just."

1917

IfI were what I would be, and could breakThe buttressed fortress of stupidityWhere laws are sentinels, and lies the masonry,Surrounded with inertia, weedy lake,Where centuries of mud lie curdled, and the fakeGrandeur of cardboard turrets, solemnpuppetry—The gods are blinking at us sleepily,Tired of our games, the muddles that we make,The bloodshed, idol worshipping, the chessOf king, queen, castle, bishop, knight andpawn—The rigid squares of black and white, they dressWith their perpetual challenge—faded, worn,Are all the creeds and praises you professTo weary gods that stretch themselves and yawn.1917

IfI were what I would be, and could break

The buttressed fortress of stupidity

Where laws are sentinels, and lies the masonry,

Surrounded with inertia, weedy lake,

Where centuries of mud lie curdled, and the fake

Grandeur of cardboard turrets, solemnpuppetry—

The gods are blinking at us sleepily,

Tired of our games, the muddles that we make,

The bloodshed, idol worshipping, the chess

Of king, queen, castle, bishop, knight andpawn—

The rigid squares of black and white, they dress

With their perpetual challenge—faded, worn,

Are all the creeds and praises you profess

To weary gods that stretch themselves and yawn.

1917

HOLY RUSSIA

Theghostly blood of thee is in my veins,Back through the centuries of death and birth,Sometime I thrilled with thy gigantic pains,My kin lie somewhere covered with thine earth.And ever as in dreams I seem to seeThose streets and people with their colours cold;Thou hast the singing hungers of the sea,The tides of restless passion ages old.I know thy humours and their contradiction,I know thy fevers and hallucinations,I see beneath the painted mask of fictionThy face of fierce and weary exaltations.And art thou come to gaze with wakened eyesInto the sick world's travail and her grief,Dost thou from thy long battling surmiseThe end of battle and the world's relief?While we are creeping in our crooked waysAlong the crumbling roads of worn-out creedsWhere Ignorance walks royally through daysThat smell of death, decay and bloody deeds.While we still cry to God for strength to kill,Reminding Him that Britain rules the waves,And grind young bones for the commercial mill,And build munition works among the graves.Still crying "Honour," "Country" and "The Flag,""The last heroic fight in Freedom's name!"Though Kings make mouths at Kings, and Prelatesbrag—They boast of murder and they reek of shame!...Thou that hast touched the mystic wounds of God,And strewn with broken hearts the Virgin's feet,Feeling beneath the burden and the rodHis justice and Her pity in the street.Justice and Pity, crying in thewind—We only hear the guns that never cease,The flapping of our flags has made us blind!We may not see the sacred gods of peace.But thou dost build fanatic temples for them,And thou dost pave the road with sanity,And all the train of bitter ghosts adore them,Who died to puff a monarch's vanity.I hear thy orchestras of holy cheers,The drum that life has snatched away from death,And all the sighing rhythm of thy tears,And the brave laughter of thy trumpet-breath.Peace!But a cynic whispered in my earHow kings like worms still wrangled for a crownThat lay amid the dust—and I could hearA hum of money-changing in the town.I feared that afterwards, when all is won,We shall forget the meaning of thydeed—And man will creep as he has always doneAlong the little gutters of his greed.1917

Theghostly blood of thee is in my veins,Back through the centuries of death and birth,Sometime I thrilled with thy gigantic pains,My kin lie somewhere covered with thine earth.

Theghostly blood of thee is in my veins,

Back through the centuries of death and birth,

Sometime I thrilled with thy gigantic pains,

My kin lie somewhere covered with thine earth.

And ever as in dreams I seem to seeThose streets and people with their colours cold;Thou hast the singing hungers of the sea,The tides of restless passion ages old.

And ever as in dreams I seem to see

Those streets and people with their colours cold;

Thou hast the singing hungers of the sea,

The tides of restless passion ages old.

I know thy humours and their contradiction,I know thy fevers and hallucinations,I see beneath the painted mask of fictionThy face of fierce and weary exaltations.

I know thy humours and their contradiction,

I know thy fevers and hallucinations,

I see beneath the painted mask of fiction

Thy face of fierce and weary exaltations.

And art thou come to gaze with wakened eyesInto the sick world's travail and her grief,Dost thou from thy long battling surmiseThe end of battle and the world's relief?

And art thou come to gaze with wakened eyes

Into the sick world's travail and her grief,

Dost thou from thy long battling surmise

The end of battle and the world's relief?

While we are creeping in our crooked waysAlong the crumbling roads of worn-out creedsWhere Ignorance walks royally through daysThat smell of death, decay and bloody deeds.

While we are creeping in our crooked ways

Along the crumbling roads of worn-out creeds

Where Ignorance walks royally through days

That smell of death, decay and bloody deeds.

While we still cry to God for strength to kill,Reminding Him that Britain rules the waves,And grind young bones for the commercial mill,And build munition works among the graves.

While we still cry to God for strength to kill,

Reminding Him that Britain rules the waves,

And grind young bones for the commercial mill,

And build munition works among the graves.

Still crying "Honour," "Country" and "The Flag,""The last heroic fight in Freedom's name!"Though Kings make mouths at Kings, and Prelatesbrag—They boast of murder and they reek of shame!...

Still crying "Honour," "Country" and "The Flag,"

"The last heroic fight in Freedom's name!"

Though Kings make mouths at Kings, and Prelatesbrag—

They boast of murder and they reek of shame!...

Thou that hast touched the mystic wounds of God,And strewn with broken hearts the Virgin's feet,Feeling beneath the burden and the rodHis justice and Her pity in the street.

Thou that hast touched the mystic wounds of God,

And strewn with broken hearts the Virgin's feet,

Feeling beneath the burden and the rod

His justice and Her pity in the street.

Justice and Pity, crying in thewind—We only hear the guns that never cease,The flapping of our flags has made us blind!We may not see the sacred gods of peace.

Justice and Pity, crying in thewind—

We only hear the guns that never cease,

The flapping of our flags has made us blind!

We may not see the sacred gods of peace.

But thou dost build fanatic temples for them,And thou dost pave the road with sanity,And all the train of bitter ghosts adore them,Who died to puff a monarch's vanity.

But thou dost build fanatic temples for them,

And thou dost pave the road with sanity,

And all the train of bitter ghosts adore them,

Who died to puff a monarch's vanity.

I hear thy orchestras of holy cheers,The drum that life has snatched away from death,And all the sighing rhythm of thy tears,And the brave laughter of thy trumpet-breath.

I hear thy orchestras of holy cheers,

The drum that life has snatched away from death,

And all the sighing rhythm of thy tears,

And the brave laughter of thy trumpet-breath.

Peace!But a cynic whispered in my earHow kings like worms still wrangled for a crownThat lay amid the dust—and I could hearA hum of money-changing in the town.

Peace!But a cynic whispered in my ear

How kings like worms still wrangled for a crown

That lay amid the dust—and I could hear

A hum of money-changing in the town.

I feared that afterwards, when all is won,We shall forget the meaning of thydeed—And man will creep as he has always doneAlong the little gutters of his greed.

I feared that afterwards, when all is won,

We shall forget the meaning of thydeed—

And man will creep as he has always done

Along the little gutters of his greed.

1917

Howdeeply nurtured is your foolishness,Calling destruction great and slaughter brave,Making large triumph of a little grave,Imperial purple of a mourning dress,The gun an emblem of yourgodliness—A fluttering ribbon or a banner's wave,A medal or a bayonet, or raveOf singing, marching in the forward pressOf hatred to the banging of a band;Your country's honour and the world's release.Aretheynot strong in courage who withstandThe armies of your folly and shall ceaseTo tarnish with spilt life their motherland?Cowards—or martyrs—crucified for peace.1917

Howdeeply nurtured is your foolishness,

Calling destruction great and slaughter brave,

Making large triumph of a little grave,

Imperial purple of a mourning dress,

The gun an emblem of yourgodliness—

A fluttering ribbon or a banner's wave,

A medal or a bayonet, or rave

Of singing, marching in the forward press

Of hatred to the banging of a band;

Your country's honour and the world's release.

Aretheynot strong in courage who withstand

The armies of your folly and shall cease

To tarnish with spilt life their motherland?

Cowards—or martyrs—crucified for peace.

1917

Ofall who died in silence far awayWhere sympathy was busy with other things,Busy with worlds, inventing how to slay,Troubled with rights and wrongs and governments and kings.The little dead who knew so large a love,Whose lives were sweet unto themselves a shepherdingOf hopes, ambitions, wonders in a droveOver the hills of time, that now are graves for burying.Of all the tenderness that flowed to them,A milky way streaming from out their mother's breast,Stars were they to her night, and she the stemFrom which they flowered—now barren and left unblessed.Of all the sparkling kisses that they gaveSpangling a secret radiance on adoring hands,Now stifled in the darkness of a graveWith kiss of loneliness and death's embracing bands.No more!—And we, the mourners, dare not wearThe black that folds our hearts in secrecy of pain,But must don purple and bright standards bear,Vermilion of our honour, a bloody train.We dare not weep who must be brave inbattle—"Another death—another day—another inch ofland—The dead are cheering and the ghost drums rattle" ...The dead are deaf and dumb and cannot understand....Of all who died in darkness far awayNothing is left of them butLOVE, who triumphs now,His arms held crosswise to the budding day,The passion-red roses clustering his brow.1917

Ofall who died in silence far awayWhere sympathy was busy with other things,Busy with worlds, inventing how to slay,Troubled with rights and wrongs and governments and kings.

Ofall who died in silence far away

Where sympathy was busy with other things,

Busy with worlds, inventing how to slay,

Troubled with rights and wrongs and governments and kings.

The little dead who knew so large a love,Whose lives were sweet unto themselves a shepherdingOf hopes, ambitions, wonders in a droveOver the hills of time, that now are graves for burying.

The little dead who knew so large a love,

Whose lives were sweet unto themselves a shepherding

Of hopes, ambitions, wonders in a drove

Over the hills of time, that now are graves for burying.

Of all the tenderness that flowed to them,A milky way streaming from out their mother's breast,Stars were they to her night, and she the stemFrom which they flowered—now barren and left unblessed.

Of all the tenderness that flowed to them,

A milky way streaming from out their mother's breast,

Stars were they to her night, and she the stem

From which they flowered—now barren and left unblessed.

Of all the sparkling kisses that they gaveSpangling a secret radiance on adoring hands,Now stifled in the darkness of a graveWith kiss of loneliness and death's embracing bands.

Of all the sparkling kisses that they gave

Spangling a secret radiance on adoring hands,

Now stifled in the darkness of a grave

With kiss of loneliness and death's embracing bands.

No more!—And we, the mourners, dare not wearThe black that folds our hearts in secrecy of pain,But must don purple and bright standards bear,Vermilion of our honour, a bloody train.

No more!—And we, the mourners, dare not wear

The black that folds our hearts in secrecy of pain,

But must don purple and bright standards bear,

Vermilion of our honour, a bloody train.

We dare not weep who must be brave inbattle—"Another death—another day—another inch ofland—The dead are cheering and the ghost drums rattle" ...The dead are deaf and dumb and cannot understand....

We dare not weep who must be brave inbattle—

"Another death—another day—another inch ofland—

The dead are cheering and the ghost drums rattle" ...

The dead are deaf and dumb and cannot understand....

Of all who died in darkness far awayNothing is left of them butLOVE, who triumphs now,His arms held crosswise to the budding day,The passion-red roses clustering his brow.

Of all who died in darkness far away

Nothing is left of them butLOVE, who triumphs now,

His arms held crosswise to the budding day,

The passion-red roses clustering his brow.

1917

Andafterwards, when honour has made good,And all you think you fight for shall take place,A late rejoicing to a crippled race;The bulldog's teeth relax and snap for food,The eagles fly to their forsaken brood,Within the ravaged nest. When no disgraceShall spread a blush across the haggard faceOf anxious Pride, already flushed with blood.In victory will you have conquered Hate,And stuck old Folly with a bayonetAnd battered down the hideous prison gate?Or will the fatted gods be gloried yet,Glutted with gold and dust and empty state,The incense of our anguish and our sweat?1917

Andafterwards, when honour has made good,

And all you think you fight for shall take place,

A late rejoicing to a crippled race;

The bulldog's teeth relax and snap for food,

The eagles fly to their forsaken brood,

Within the ravaged nest. When no disgrace

Shall spread a blush across the haggard face

Of anxious Pride, already flushed with blood.

In victory will you have conquered Hate,And stuck old Folly with a bayonetAnd battered down the hideous prison gate?Or will the fatted gods be gloried yet,Glutted with gold and dust and empty state,The incense of our anguish and our sweat?

In victory will you have conquered Hate,

And stuck old Folly with a bayonet

And battered down the hideous prison gate?

Or will the fatted gods be gloried yet,

Glutted with gold and dust and empty state,

The incense of our anguish and our sweat?

1917

Pitythe slain that laid away their lives,Pity the prisoners mangled with gyves,Thin little children and widowed wives,And the broken soldier who survives.Pity the woman whose body was soldFor a little bread or a little gold,And a little fire to keep out the cold,So tired, and fearful of growing old.Pity the people in the grey streetBefore the dawn trooping with listless feetDown to their work in the dust and the heat,For a little bread and a little meat.Pity the criminal sentenced to die,Loving life so, with the world in his eye,In his ears and his heart, with the passionate cryOf love that will call when he may not reply.Pity them all, the imperative facesThat peer through the dark where we sleep in our laces,Where we skulk among cushions in opulent places,With indolent postures and frivolous graces.Eyes that prick the darkness, fingers thinTearing at hypocrisy, and SinThat batters the door and staggers in....The streets surround with clamour and din,Drowning our flutes, till the cries of the cityFlurry us, flutter us, force us to pity,Force us to sigh and arrange a committee,Tea-party charity danced to a ditty....The scarlet ribbons flutter and wave,A rebel flag on a rebel grave,But to us the strong alone are brave,And only the rich are worthy to save!Yet who shall blame us, plaited and curled,Where silk banners fly and the red flags are furled,Flags that blow where the dead are hurled,Tattered and dripping with blood of the world!1918

Pitythe slain that laid away their lives,Pity the prisoners mangled with gyves,Thin little children and widowed wives,And the broken soldier who survives.

Pitythe slain that laid away their lives,

Pity the prisoners mangled with gyves,

Thin little children and widowed wives,

And the broken soldier who survives.

Pity the woman whose body was soldFor a little bread or a little gold,And a little fire to keep out the cold,So tired, and fearful of growing old.

Pity the woman whose body was sold

For a little bread or a little gold,

And a little fire to keep out the cold,

So tired, and fearful of growing old.

Pity the people in the grey streetBefore the dawn trooping with listless feetDown to their work in the dust and the heat,For a little bread and a little meat.

Pity the people in the grey street

Before the dawn trooping with listless feet

Down to their work in the dust and the heat,

For a little bread and a little meat.

Pity the criminal sentenced to die,Loving life so, with the world in his eye,In his ears and his heart, with the passionate cryOf love that will call when he may not reply.

Pity the criminal sentenced to die,

Loving life so, with the world in his eye,

In his ears and his heart, with the passionate cry

Of love that will call when he may not reply.

Pity them all, the imperative facesThat peer through the dark where we sleep in our laces,Where we skulk among cushions in opulent places,With indolent postures and frivolous graces.

Pity them all, the imperative faces

That peer through the dark where we sleep in our laces,

Where we skulk among cushions in opulent places,

With indolent postures and frivolous graces.

Eyes that prick the darkness, fingers thinTearing at hypocrisy, and SinThat batters the door and staggers in....The streets surround with clamour and din,

Eyes that prick the darkness, fingers thin

Tearing at hypocrisy, and Sin

That batters the door and staggers in....

The streets surround with clamour and din,

Drowning our flutes, till the cries of the cityFlurry us, flutter us, force us to pity,Force us to sigh and arrange a committee,Tea-party charity danced to a ditty....

Drowning our flutes, till the cries of the city

Flurry us, flutter us, force us to pity,

Force us to sigh and arrange a committee,

Tea-party charity danced to a ditty....

The scarlet ribbons flutter and wave,A rebel flag on a rebel grave,But to us the strong alone are brave,And only the rich are worthy to save!

The scarlet ribbons flutter and wave,

A rebel flag on a rebel grave,

But to us the strong alone are brave,

And only the rich are worthy to save!

Yet who shall blame us, plaited and curled,Where silk banners fly and the red flags are furled,Flags that blow where the dead are hurled,Tattered and dripping with blood of the world!

Yet who shall blame us, plaited and curled,

Where silk banners fly and the red flags are furled,

Flags that blow where the dead are hurled,

Tattered and dripping with blood of the world!

1918

Youhave understood so little of me, and my adorationThat shone upon my forehead, like a crown of curious stones,You turned into a cap and bells for Folly's coronationAnd made a foolish tinkling from my laughter and mymoans.You have led me through the market like an ass upon the halter,You have fed me upon thistles; I was driven by the crowd;But my faith in what I am, my conceit, you cannot alter;I was proud in pomp and purple, as a clown I leave you proud!A greater pride than sits upon a throne for mere adorning,A fiercer strength than in the gods of wood that cannot bow;I tore my purple into rags and knelt to bear your scorning,And I am rebel leader to a band of beggars now.In the twilight of my love I stand and strew the bitter ashes;They are blown into my eyes again, the fires that shone for you;In the blushing of the sunset their ghostly fervour flashesAs they sink for everlasting in the darkness and the dew.Your heart is as a moonstone hieroglyphed with secret letters;You have never read my passion, as I never learnt their sign,But I praise your haunting beauty and I bear the bruise of fettersAnd I reel from your remembrance as I spill the ancient wine.All those women I have envied with their pink and foolish faces,Moths that have out-distanced me in circling round your head,For the strangeness of your kisses and the curse of your embracesAnd the frenzy of pursuing where your despot feet have led.I will shout, and tear the darkness; I will snuff the candles sacredWith the rage of my abasement, with the blast of my farewell;I will smile with cynic softness, but my tears are dropping acridAnd sizzling in a gutter down the white-hot streets of Hell!1914

Youhave understood so little of me, and my adoration

That shone upon my forehead, like a crown of curious stones,

You turned into a cap and bells for Folly's coronation

And made a foolish tinkling from my laughter and my

moans.

You have led me through the market like an ass upon the halter,You have fed me upon thistles; I was driven by the crowd;But my faith in what I am, my conceit, you cannot alter;I was proud in pomp and purple, as a clown I leave you proud!

You have led me through the market like an ass upon the halter,

You have fed me upon thistles; I was driven by the crowd;

But my faith in what I am, my conceit, you cannot alter;

I was proud in pomp and purple, as a clown I leave you proud!

A greater pride than sits upon a throne for mere adorning,A fiercer strength than in the gods of wood that cannot bow;I tore my purple into rags and knelt to bear your scorning,And I am rebel leader to a band of beggars now.

A greater pride than sits upon a throne for mere adorning,

A fiercer strength than in the gods of wood that cannot bow;

I tore my purple into rags and knelt to bear your scorning,

And I am rebel leader to a band of beggars now.

In the twilight of my love I stand and strew the bitter ashes;They are blown into my eyes again, the fires that shone for you;In the blushing of the sunset their ghostly fervour flashesAs they sink for everlasting in the darkness and the dew.

In the twilight of my love I stand and strew the bitter ashes;

They are blown into my eyes again, the fires that shone for you;

In the blushing of the sunset their ghostly fervour flashes

As they sink for everlasting in the darkness and the dew.

Your heart is as a moonstone hieroglyphed with secret letters;You have never read my passion, as I never learnt their sign,But I praise your haunting beauty and I bear the bruise of fettersAnd I reel from your remembrance as I spill the ancient wine.All those women I have envied with their pink and foolish faces,Moths that have out-distanced me in circling round your head,For the strangeness of your kisses and the curse of your embracesAnd the frenzy of pursuing where your despot feet have led.

Your heart is as a moonstone hieroglyphed with secret letters;

You have never read my passion, as I never learnt their sign,

But I praise your haunting beauty and I bear the bruise of fetters

And I reel from your remembrance as I spill the ancient wine.

All those women I have envied with their pink and foolish faces,

Moths that have out-distanced me in circling round your head,

For the strangeness of your kisses and the curse of your embraces

And the frenzy of pursuing where your despot feet have led.

I will shout, and tear the darkness; I will snuff the candles sacredWith the rage of my abasement, with the blast of my farewell;I will smile with cynic softness, but my tears are dropping acridAnd sizzling in a gutter down the white-hot streets of Hell!

I will shout, and tear the darkness; I will snuff the candles sacred

With the rage of my abasement, with the blast of my farewell;

I will smile with cynic softness, but my tears are dropping acrid

And sizzling in a gutter down the white-hot streets of Hell!

1914

Lulledare the dazzling colours of the day,And mild the heavens, burnt out like an ash.Hungry and strange along the shadowed duskWalks Melancholy, and with bitter mouthSucks the last juices from the sun's ripe fruit.Now can I sing the sickly lines of loveAnd of love's failure, spell my sorrows outIn the sad spaces of the gloaming night,And stooping, huddled, hide me in the dark.My words were fireless in the flaming sun,And all the throats of flowers from their contentPuffed back my pinings proudly in my faceAnd bade me give them tunes to make them dance....Lean, hungry, like my love the moon looks downFrom the white solitudes of Heaven. All aghastAnd sterile as the arms of my desireShe flings her light despairing on the sky.The night is strange and still, for dropping tears,Or burying hatred in a deep-dug grave.1914

Lulledare the dazzling colours of the day,

And mild the heavens, burnt out like an ash.

Hungry and strange along the shadowed dusk

Walks Melancholy, and with bitter mouth

Sucks the last juices from the sun's ripe fruit.

Now can I sing the sickly lines of love

And of love's failure, spell my sorrows out

In the sad spaces of the gloaming night,

And stooping, huddled, hide me in the dark.

My words were fireless in the flaming sun,

And all the throats of flowers from their content

Puffed back my pinings proudly in my face

And bade me give them tunes to make them dance....

Lean, hungry, like my love the moon looks down

From the white solitudes of Heaven. All aghast

And sterile as the arms of my desire

She flings her light despairing on the sky.

The night is strange and still, for dropping tears,

Or burying hatred in a deep-dug grave.

1914

Washedat my feet by the curded foam of sluggish waves,As the rain splinters and the mud gleams with malicious light,Like a frail shell, million tinged and quaintly wroughtThe thought of you, which held against mine earHums all the echoed melodies of your soul;The sigh of wearied life, the ebbing sweet of love,The little tunes of wine mixed with the chants of death,The following of beauty's fugitive limbsWhose classic feet, and rapturous pale breastGleam on the clouds and foam,Call to herlovers.—Thus standing in the blasting of the wind,And numb with ceaseless drip of moments from the cloudOf lowering hours, I toy with this strange relic of the sea,Turned with such perfectness from her tumultuous wheels,Thoughts of you million tinged and quaintly wrought.1916

Washedat my feet by the curded foam of sluggish waves,

As the rain splinters and the mud gleams with malicious light,

Like a frail shell, million tinged and quaintly wrought

The thought of you, which held against mine ear

Hums all the echoed melodies of your soul;

The sigh of wearied life, the ebbing sweet of love,

The little tunes of wine mixed with the chants of death,

The following of beauty's fugitive limbs

Whose classic feet, and rapturous pale breast

Gleam on the clouds and foam,

Call to herlovers.—

Thus standing in the blasting of the wind,

And numb with ceaseless drip of moments from the cloud

Of lowering hours, I toy with this strange relic of the sea,

Turned with such perfectness from her tumultuous wheels,

Thoughts of you million tinged and quaintly wrought.

1916

Mypoems cannot laugh. They are the voiceOf birds that mourn and cry above the sea,And this wild joy my love has brought to meLies dumb and knows not how it shall rejoice.I am most weary of the petulant songs I sing,Most tired of tunes that only learn to weep,And long to turn my dreams from their pale sleepInto a gentle minstrelsy with harp of silver string;To fashion for my love one perfect verseSymmetrically threaded by beauty word on word,Flowing and flashing like the luted laughter of a birdTo bless the soul with music which I ravished with a curse.But as a coward in the general gloomI mimic fortune with my tunes of ill,Nor pipe despite her wistful mirth and trillOf love that moves with music into Doom;Of love that thrills with joy the graveyard cold,And like a gay canary in a cageMocks at his prison, and with flippant rageFlaunts his bright wing to fill the gloom with gold.1916

Mypoems cannot laugh. They are the voiceOf birds that mourn and cry above the sea,And this wild joy my love has brought to meLies dumb and knows not how it shall rejoice.

Mypoems cannot laugh. They are the voice

Of birds that mourn and cry above the sea,

And this wild joy my love has brought to me

Lies dumb and knows not how it shall rejoice.

I am most weary of the petulant songs I sing,Most tired of tunes that only learn to weep,And long to turn my dreams from their pale sleepInto a gentle minstrelsy with harp of silver string;

I am most weary of the petulant songs I sing,

Most tired of tunes that only learn to weep,

And long to turn my dreams from their pale sleep

Into a gentle minstrelsy with harp of silver string;

To fashion for my love one perfect verseSymmetrically threaded by beauty word on word,Flowing and flashing like the luted laughter of a birdTo bless the soul with music which I ravished with a curse.

To fashion for my love one perfect verse

Symmetrically threaded by beauty word on word,

Flowing and flashing like the luted laughter of a bird

To bless the soul with music which I ravished with a curse.

But as a coward in the general gloomI mimic fortune with my tunes of ill,Nor pipe despite her wistful mirth and trillOf love that moves with music into Doom;

But as a coward in the general gloom

I mimic fortune with my tunes of ill,

Nor pipe despite her wistful mirth and trill

Of love that moves with music into Doom;

Of love that thrills with joy the graveyard cold,And like a gay canary in a cageMocks at his prison, and with flippant rageFlaunts his bright wing to fill the gloom with gold.

Of love that thrills with joy the graveyard cold,

And like a gay canary in a cage

Mocks at his prison, and with flippant rage

Flaunts his bright wing to fill the gloom with gold.

1916

Onthe hill there is a tavern, long-loved, well-remembered,Where all the sleepy afternoon the little tables dream,And the cool green bottles ranged, laugh and gleam with golden highlights,And the waiters wrangle, and the flies, with murmurs merged and mixed.We will go there, you and I, to wake the nodding contentment,And toast our fancies reverently with red wine and with white wine,And with eyes mesmerised to the horizon gazing,Dream our iridescent dreams and sigh our shadowy sighs.1916

Onthe hill there is a tavern, long-loved, well-remembered,

Where all the sleepy afternoon the little tables dream,

And the cool green bottles ranged, laugh and gleam with golden highlights,

And the waiters wrangle, and the flies, with murmurs merged and mixed.

We will go there, you and I, to wake the nodding contentment,

And toast our fancies reverently with red wine and with white wine,

And with eyes mesmerised to the horizon gazing,

Dream our iridescent dreams and sigh our shadowy sighs.

1916

Ohcanst thou not hear in my heart all its whispering fearsWhose wind-like voicesFlutter the leaves of my hope and bow them with tearsWhile the body rejoices.Till all the pomp and beauty of day, the Cardinal SunTrailing his scarlet vestureLeaves after light the pale hills sullen and dun,Turns with a gestureColour and glory to smoke that is deathly and grey.I follow the shadows of sorrowThat press so close to the dancing heels of the dayAnd darken the morrow.The world turns pale and cold, for I seem to seeBeyond its golden visorThe leering skull that derides at our lives and meBeing older than life and wiser....I hear the cry of the world that writhes to the lash of the whipBeyond the sound of the treetops singingTo the wind's persuasive violins and bells of dews that drip,Or rush of feathers winging....Dost thou fear death as I? Ah no, but thy lips are against my cheekMurmuring tenderlyThe perfumed lies stolen from spring that wistfully through the bleakWindows of frost so slenderlySteals her little ghost's flute. Thou tellest of things that might beIf life were as kind as a lover,If we were beloved of the world and the world of we.Thy white words hoverDove-like in rose leaf evenings over the nestSilvering heavenWith rustle of lovers that nestle together for rest.If I could have givenMy tired lips to kisses and my body to sleep and to thee,Ah then and then onlyThe dust were as gentleness mingling thy beauty with meAnd death were not lonely.1916

Ohcanst thou not hear in my heart all its whispering fears

Whose wind-like voices

Flutter the leaves of my hope and bow them with tears

While the body rejoices.

Till all the pomp and beauty of day, the Cardinal Sun

Trailing his scarlet vesture

Leaves after light the pale hills sullen and dun,

Turns with a gesture

Colour and glory to smoke that is deathly and grey.

I follow the shadows of sorrow

That press so close to the dancing heels of the day

And darken the morrow.

The world turns pale and cold, for I seem to see

Beyond its golden visor

The leering skull that derides at our lives and me

Being older than life and wiser....

I hear the cry of the world that writhes to the lash of the whip

Beyond the sound of the treetops singing

To the wind's persuasive violins and bells of dews that drip,

Or rush of feathers winging....

Dost thou fear death as I? Ah no, but thy lips are against my cheek

Murmuring tenderly

The perfumed lies stolen from spring that wistfully through the bleak

Windows of frost so slenderly

Steals her little ghost's flute. Thou tellest of things that might be

If life were as kind as a lover,

If we were beloved of the world and the world of we.

Thy white words hover

Dove-like in rose leaf evenings over the nest

Silvering heaven

With rustle of lovers that nestle together for rest.

If I could have given

My tired lips to kisses and my body to sleep and to thee,

Ah then and then only

The dust were as gentleness mingling thy beauty with me

And death were not lonely.

1916

Asin the silence the clear moonlight dripsAmong the fields that love her drowsily,These passionate moments trickle on through time,From soul to languorous soul.Like mad musicians upon fretted harps,The senses play upon the poignantnerves,—And colours clothe our moodAs smoke against the light, as shimmering prismsIrised with pallors of an opal's heartIn which the glittered pattern of desireSmoulders and changes....O love, thou nightingale-throated singer,Thread on thy jewelled chords from start to starAnd keep thy silver delicate delightOut of the flush and lustre that makes mad.Let thy fairy feetGo tripping down a scarcely scented path,Between an avenue of breathless flowers.The hours glide by as swans across a lake,Across the luminous waters of desire,And beat as wings the rustle of soft words,As love bends down,Breathing his adoration on a fainting mouth.1917

Asin the silence the clear moonlight drips

Among the fields that love her drowsily,

These passionate moments trickle on through time,

From soul to languorous soul.

Like mad musicians upon fretted harps,

The senses play upon the poignantnerves,—

And colours clothe our mood

As smoke against the light, as shimmering prisms

Irised with pallors of an opal's heart

In which the glittered pattern of desire

Smoulders and changes....

O love, thou nightingale-throated singer,

Thread on thy jewelled chords from start to star

And keep thy silver delicate delight

Out of the flush and lustre that makes mad.

Let thy fairy feet

Go tripping down a scarcely scented path,

Between an avenue of breathless flowers.

The hours glide by as swans across a lake,

Across the luminous waters of desire,

And beat as wings the rustle of soft words,

As love bends down,

Breathing his adoration on a fainting mouth.

1917

I canbut give thee unsubstantial thingsWrapt as in rose-leaves between thought and thought,No gems or garments marvellously wroughtOn ivory spools with rare embroiderings.Nor for thy fingers precious, fabled ringsThat cardinals have worn, and queens have boughtWith blood and beauty. I have only soughtA song that hovers on illusive wings.Accept from me a dream that hath no art,I give my empty hands for thee to hold,Take thou the gift of silence for my part,With all the deeper things I have not told.Yet if thou canst, decipher in my heartIts passions writ in hieroglyphs of gold.1917

I canbut give thee unsubstantial things

Wrapt as in rose-leaves between thought and thought,

No gems or garments marvellously wrought

On ivory spools with rare embroiderings.

Nor for thy fingers precious, fabled rings

That cardinals have worn, and queens have bought

With blood and beauty. I have only sought

A song that hovers on illusive wings.

Accept from me a dream that hath no art,I give my empty hands for thee to hold,Take thou the gift of silence for my part,With all the deeper things I have not told.Yet if thou canst, decipher in my heartIts passions writ in hieroglyphs of gold.

Accept from me a dream that hath no art,

I give my empty hands for thee to hold,

Take thou the gift of silence for my part,

With all the deeper things I have not told.

Yet if thou canst, decipher in my heart

Its passions writ in hieroglyphs of gold.

1917

I haveno other friend but thee,But while I tell thee all my thoughtThine ears are buzzing with gossip of dreams,Soothsayings and sighs, and littlethings—How canst thou listen to me?IIPerchance I roamed under the old moon too long,And when my cheek grew paleI laid it against thine to feel the blood beat backResponsive in the double rose ofjoy—But I feel thee shifting away into lonelinessWhere the ghost moon glides between us....IIIWhen at a masqueradeI meet thee in the shrill indifferent throng,Our faces painted each in some disguiseOf varnished revelry;I whisper in thine earFables, and flatteries, and inconsequent tales,Trivial as the dust that whirls about our feet,And shower the multicoloured streamers highWhere Folly is king ofmidnight—Suddenly dost thou snatch thy mask aside,And thy still face looks out,Weary and overwiseWhere the mad pretence avails not.IVLong ago we walked together in a garden;It was evening and the leaves fell down;Silently we passed over the dead, the fallen,Over flowers and branches that were witheredthere—And the air was weary with the scent of other days,A fragrance faint and pensive.The sighing of the leaves beneath our feetWere as old dreams retold,Stirred from the golden quilt of memory,And farewells rang their whispering bells,Tolling the days away.But peace lay folded between our handsAs we thought of the vanishing yearsAnd of love dying in the arms of love.VSometimes I look into the glassAnd see my face without the conquering lightThat gave me glamour when I gave thee love.Fain would I bathe in the fountains of beauty,To glitter with the crystals of her sparkling desire,And touch with my feet the floors of a bright paven Hell,And rear my head among the lilies of Heaven.I would be for theeAs a ring of white flowers on the sward,As a red fire playing to thy breath,As a flock of kingfishersSurprised from the dark fringe of rushes!Remember only this,My will toward all loveliness, and lookDeep in thyself for my reflected soul.VIBe perfect—for I love thee more in thoughtThan thou canst reach in every trivial day.Since days are as the flowers on a wreathThat wither while we bind them each to each.Only the soul is timeless, and no round of daysCan wall it in a little space of ground.Sometimes our minds are cheated by the clockAnd crave love, wisdom, joy within an hour,But the patient spirit standsWaiting the last fulfilment.Around thy soul my thoughts are as garlandsOr as an endless rosary.Be perfect! lest my psalm should falterAnd my hands part from the unriveted faithWith Amen scarcely sighed.1917

I haveno other friend but thee,But while I tell thee all my thoughtThine ears are buzzing with gossip of dreams,Soothsayings and sighs, and littlethings—How canst thou listen to me?

I haveno other friend but thee,

But while I tell thee all my thought

Thine ears are buzzing with gossip of dreams,

Soothsayings and sighs, and littlethings—

How canst thou listen to me?

Perchance I roamed under the old moon too long,And when my cheek grew paleI laid it against thine to feel the blood beat backResponsive in the double rose ofjoy—But I feel thee shifting away into lonelinessWhere the ghost moon glides between us....

Perchance I roamed under the old moon too long,

And when my cheek grew pale

I laid it against thine to feel the blood beat back

Responsive in the double rose ofjoy—

But I feel thee shifting away into loneliness

Where the ghost moon glides between us....

When at a masqueradeI meet thee in the shrill indifferent throng,Our faces painted each in some disguiseOf varnished revelry;I whisper in thine earFables, and flatteries, and inconsequent tales,Trivial as the dust that whirls about our feet,And shower the multicoloured streamers highWhere Folly is king ofmidnight—Suddenly dost thou snatch thy mask aside,And thy still face looks out,Weary and overwiseWhere the mad pretence avails not.

When at a masquerade

I meet thee in the shrill indifferent throng,

Our faces painted each in some disguise

Of varnished revelry;

I whisper in thine ear

Fables, and flatteries, and inconsequent tales,

Trivial as the dust that whirls about our feet,

And shower the multicoloured streamers high

Where Folly is king ofmidnight—

Suddenly dost thou snatch thy mask aside,

And thy still face looks out,

Weary and overwise

Where the mad pretence avails not.

Long ago we walked together in a garden;It was evening and the leaves fell down;Silently we passed over the dead, the fallen,Over flowers and branches that were witheredthere—And the air was weary with the scent of other days,A fragrance faint and pensive.The sighing of the leaves beneath our feetWere as old dreams retold,Stirred from the golden quilt of memory,And farewells rang their whispering bells,Tolling the days away.But peace lay folded between our handsAs we thought of the vanishing yearsAnd of love dying in the arms of love.

Long ago we walked together in a garden;

It was evening and the leaves fell down;

Silently we passed over the dead, the fallen,

Over flowers and branches that were witheredthere—

And the air was weary with the scent of other days,

A fragrance faint and pensive.

The sighing of the leaves beneath our feet

Were as old dreams retold,

Stirred from the golden quilt of memory,

And farewells rang their whispering bells,

Tolling the days away.

But peace lay folded between our hands

As we thought of the vanishing years

And of love dying in the arms of love.

Sometimes I look into the glassAnd see my face without the conquering lightThat gave me glamour when I gave thee love.Fain would I bathe in the fountains of beauty,To glitter with the crystals of her sparkling desire,And touch with my feet the floors of a bright paven Hell,And rear my head among the lilies of Heaven.I would be for theeAs a ring of white flowers on the sward,As a red fire playing to thy breath,As a flock of kingfishersSurprised from the dark fringe of rushes!Remember only this,My will toward all loveliness, and lookDeep in thyself for my reflected soul.

Sometimes I look into the glass

And see my face without the conquering light

That gave me glamour when I gave thee love.

Fain would I bathe in the fountains of beauty,

To glitter with the crystals of her sparkling desire,

And touch with my feet the floors of a bright paven Hell,

And rear my head among the lilies of Heaven.

I would be for thee

As a ring of white flowers on the sward,

As a red fire playing to thy breath,

As a flock of kingfishers

Surprised from the dark fringe of rushes!

Remember only this,

My will toward all loveliness, and look

Deep in thyself for my reflected soul.

Be perfect—for I love thee more in thoughtThan thou canst reach in every trivial day.Since days are as the flowers on a wreathThat wither while we bind them each to each.Only the soul is timeless, and no round of daysCan wall it in a little space of ground.Sometimes our minds are cheated by the clockAnd crave love, wisdom, joy within an hour,But the patient spirit standsWaiting the last fulfilment.Around thy soul my thoughts are as garlandsOr as an endless rosary.Be perfect! lest my psalm should falterAnd my hands part from the unriveted faithWith Amen scarcely sighed.

Be perfect—for I love thee more in thought

Than thou canst reach in every trivial day.

Since days are as the flowers on a wreath

That wither while we bind them each to each.

Only the soul is timeless, and no round of days

Can wall it in a little space of ground.

Sometimes our minds are cheated by the clock

And crave love, wisdom, joy within an hour,

But the patient spirit stands

Waiting the last fulfilment.

Around thy soul my thoughts are as garlands

Or as an endless rosary.

Be perfect! lest my psalm should falter

And my hands part from the unriveted faith

With Amen scarcely sighed.

1917

Bodiesheaving like waves,Sighing through the dishevelled tresses of foam,The massive whiteness of limbs flung out of shadow,Splashed with ecstasial moonlight,Sculptured voluptuously in ephemeral marbles.Lingering touch of fingers,Cooler than the curving ringlets of sprayFluting the new-blown petals of a shell,And kisses murmuring as the lips of darknessAgainst the ivory forehead of the moon.1919

Bodiesheaving like waves,

Sighing through the dishevelled tresses of foam,

The massive whiteness of limbs flung out of shadow,

Splashed with ecstasial moonlight,

Sculptured voluptuously in ephemeral marbles.

Lingering touch of fingers,

Cooler than the curving ringlets of spray

Fluting the new-blown petals of a shell,

And kisses murmuring as the lips of darkness

Against the ivory forehead of the moon.

1919

Yourface to me is like a beautiful cityDreaming forever by the rough wild sea,And I the ship upon a wilderness of wavesHeavily laden with memories....I roam over all the earthMaking rhymes of you, and singing songs,Because your face will never let me rest,Because I can not frame it in a starSurrounded with my cloudy reveries,Because I may not pluck it like a flowerTo breathe the incense of its perfumedsoul—Your face is like the carved hilt of a swordWhose sheath is in my breast!1918

Yourface to me is like a beautiful city

Dreaming forever by the rough wild sea,

And I the ship upon a wilderness of waves

Heavily laden with memories....

I roam over all the earth

Making rhymes of you, and singing songs,

Because your face will never let me rest,

Because I can not frame it in a star

Surrounded with my cloudy reveries,

Because I may not pluck it like a flower

To breathe the incense of its perfumedsoul—

Your face is like the carved hilt of a sword

Whose sheath is in my breast!

1918

Oh!why will you not let me love youWell enough?You have plucked my blossoms,Gathered the leavesAnd revived them with water;But all the tortuous rootsDelving for your spiritIn subterranean passionsWith a blind unresting desire,Have you felt them, have you known?In the blackest night of sleepThough I be sunk a thousand fathomsIn the cerulean depths of slow oblivion,My soul still swims toward youAgainst the envious pressure of the tide....You who are so tired, so filled with sleepThat you would brush a rose-leaf from your cheekLest its heaviness should stir your rest,How can you shoulder the weight of my great burdenThat is too vast for me to bear alone?I tell youLove is no little thing,No moth-winged Cupid painted on the air,No thin flute music petaling the silenceAs leaves that flutter from a cherry tree.It is the thought that broods upon its death,The dread of mountains looking to the stormEre shrieks of lightning cleave their breasts in twain.It is the fire that pillars up the starsTo mix its flame with their eternal gold.Oh, listen to me!You shall hear my message sung from sphere to sphereAs star-dust pouring a path through Heaven.You shall know meIn the pensive shadows of trees,In the luminary phantomsReflected in the stillness of a lake;In the arrows of sunlight shot through meshing leavesAnd quivering in the moss;In the abandoned play of breakersShowering their crystals to the moon;In the folly of rainbow dolphins.I only ask of youTo be the diver in my deepest pool,To bring from out its blue obscurityThe things my life has moulded unaware,Treasures my passion and my hunger fashionedIn loneliness of prayer unlit by life,Created out of nothing save myselfWithin the blind fast silence of the soul.1918

Oh!why will you not let me love you

Well enough?

You have plucked my blossoms,

Gathered the leaves

And revived them with water;

But all the tortuous roots

Delving for your spirit

In subterranean passions

With a blind unresting desire,

Have you felt them, have you known?

In the blackest night of sleep

Though I be sunk a thousand fathoms

In the cerulean depths of slow oblivion,

My soul still swims toward you

Against the envious pressure of the tide....

You who are so tired, so filled with sleep

That you would brush a rose-leaf from your cheek

Lest its heaviness should stir your rest,

How can you shoulder the weight of my great burden

That is too vast for me to bear alone?

I tell you

Love is no little thing,

No moth-winged Cupid painted on the air,

No thin flute music petaling the silence

As leaves that flutter from a cherry tree.

It is the thought that broods upon its death,

The dread of mountains looking to the storm

Ere shrieks of lightning cleave their breasts in twain.

It is the fire that pillars up the stars

To mix its flame with their eternal gold.

Oh, listen to me!

You shall hear my message sung from sphere to sphere

As star-dust pouring a path through Heaven.

You shall know me

In the pensive shadows of trees,

In the luminary phantoms

Reflected in the stillness of a lake;

In the arrows of sunlight shot through meshing leaves

And quivering in the moss;

In the abandoned play of breakers

Showering their crystals to the moon;

In the folly of rainbow dolphins.

I only ask of you

To be the diver in my deepest pool,

To bring from out its blue obscurity

The things my life has moulded unaware,

Treasures my passion and my hunger fashioned

In loneliness of prayer unlit by life,

Created out of nothing save myself

Within the blind fast silence of the soul.

1918

Mydevotion kneels to you,Holding a candle to illumine your face.My loneliness is your shadowAlong the solitary roads.My passion is a book between your handsWhose leaves are as the leaves of violets,A volume of pressed flowersScenting your fingers though you read it not.And my white faithIs a silken surplice clothing you in peace.1919

Mydevotion kneels to you,

Holding a candle to illumine your face.

My loneliness is your shadow

Along the solitary roads.

My passion is a book between your hands

Whose leaves are as the leaves of violets,

A volume of pressed flowers

Scenting your fingers though you read it not.

And my white faith

Is a silken surplice clothing you in peace.

1919

ISLANDS

Aslaunched upon the loneliness of timeWe float and dream of what the waves conceal,Each like a thought that rolls with rapid zealSucceeded by a breaker of fierce crime,Or curling passion, or a rhythm of rhyme,Or indolent ripple sighing at thekeel—Beyond us, though our fretted longings reel,The lulled horizon sleeps, the still hoursclimb—So toss our weary ships, till from afarOur visioned island rises suddenly,Where palaces like cloudy colours are,With scented gardens terraced to the sea,The silver steps to our appointed starWhere gleam the spires that pierce eternity.1917

Aslaunched upon the loneliness of time

We float and dream of what the waves conceal,

Each like a thought that rolls with rapid zeal

Succeeded by a breaker of fierce crime,

Or curling passion, or a rhythm of rhyme,

Or indolent ripple sighing at thekeel—

Beyond us, though our fretted longings reel,

The lulled horizon sleeps, the still hoursclimb—

So toss our weary ships, till from afar

Our visioned island rises suddenly,

Where palaces like cloudy colours are,

With scented gardens terraced to the sea,

The silver steps to our appointed star

Where gleam the spires that pierce eternity.

1917

Manythings I'd find to charm you,Books and scarves and silken socks,All the seven rainbow coloursBlack and white with 'broidered clocks.Then a stick of polished whaleboneAnd a coat of tawny fur,And a row of gleaming bottlesFilled with rose-water and myrrh.Rarest brandy of the 'fifties,Old liqueurs in leather kegs,Golden Sauterne, copper sherryAnd a nest of plover's eggs.Toys of tortoise-shell and jasper,Little boxes cut in jade;Handkerchiefs of finest cambric,Damask cloths and dim brocade.Six musicians of the Magyar,Madness making harmony;And a bed austere and narrowWith a quilt from Barbary.You shall have a bath of amber,A Venetian looking-glass,And a crimson-chested parrotOn a lawn of terraced grass.Then a small Tanagra statueFound anew in ruins old,Or an azure plate from Persia,Or my hair in plaits of gold;Or my scalp that like an IndianYou shall carry for a purse,Or my spilt blood in a goblet ...Or a volume of my verse.1916

Manythings I'd find to charm you,

Books and scarves and silken socks,

All the seven rainbow colours

Black and white with 'broidered clocks.

Then a stick of polished whalebone

And a coat of tawny fur,

And a row of gleaming bottles

Filled with rose-water and myrrh.

Rarest brandy of the 'fifties,

Old liqueurs in leather kegs,

Golden Sauterne, copper sherry

And a nest of plover's eggs.

Toys of tortoise-shell and jasper,

Little boxes cut in jade;

Handkerchiefs of finest cambric,

Damask cloths and dim brocade.

Six musicians of the Magyar,

Madness making harmony;

And a bed austere and narrow

With a quilt from Barbary.

You shall have a bath of amber,

A Venetian looking-glass,

And a crimson-chested parrot

On a lawn of terraced grass.

Then a small Tanagra statue

Found anew in ruins old,

Or an azure plate from Persia,

Or my hair in plaits of gold;

Or my scalp that like an Indian

You shall carry for a purse,

Or my spilt blood in a goblet ...

Or a volume of my verse.

1916

LAMP-POSTS

Theeternal flame of laughter and desireBreaks the long darkness with a little glance,Till all the gloom is radiant in a danceOf yellow hopefulness, reflecting fireThat dreams from Heaven's lamps as we aspireSadly toward their jubilance—RomanceOf faery glitter in the streets ofchance—Those beacon-trees that blossom from the mireWithin the fog of our despairing gloom;In the glum alleys, down the haunted nightThrough tunnelling of subterranean doom,Among the grovelling shadows, kingly bright,They bear their coronets of golden bloomTo front our anguish with their brave delight.1917

Theeternal flame of laughter and desire

Breaks the long darkness with a little glance,

Till all the gloom is radiant in a dance

Of yellow hopefulness, reflecting fire

That dreams from Heaven's lamps as we aspire

Sadly toward their jubilance—Romance

Of faery glitter in the streets ofchance—

Those beacon-trees that blossom from the mire

Within the fog of our despairing gloom;

In the glum alleys, down the haunted night

Through tunnelling of subterranean doom,

Among the grovelling shadows, kingly bright,

They bear their coronets of golden bloom

To front our anguish with their brave delight.

1917

LONDON

Richerthan fields of corn that fire in summer,Strange as the moon on forest rising sudden,More fearful and beloved than peace or silence,Heart with my heart at pace in throbbing fever,Calling towards me with a voice incessant.Thou that begot me: From whose streets triumphantI, coloured fiercely with thy passion, wakened!I sucked red wine, not milk, from thy gaunt bosom,My senses in thy fearfulness found beauty,And honey in thine oaths and lamentations.I played about thy feet that know not restingAnd bathed me in the sweat of thine endeavour.When on thy gala-nights the thronged lamps glitter,Sparkle like sequins, and the plumes of shadowWith curling smoke, with rain and rippling gutterAre tossed in feathered gaiety aboutthee—Thick grow the crowded streets in coloured pageant,Kaleidoscope of people, circling, crossing,Till the brain frenzies to a thousand patterns,While the ears buzz with noises of their laughter;Shouts hoarse and coarse and shrill in one great roaring,As of the angry ocean in her travail ...They haunt me in the tranquil of the forest,Those faces pain has marked and toil has mangled;Pangs greater than the lonely CrucifixionHere crucified each day with lust and hunger,Hung up unlovely in the open market;Made gay with paper garlands, covered overWith tinsel loincloth, painted like a puppet,Lest the elect in passing should be startled,Lest they should smear the blameless brow of honour!With bloody shoes and spinning-wheels of trafficVermilion-splashed, the city rushes onward,And thorns of death and lust and fruitless labourLie underneath the feet forever dancing.Gay tunes are rasped upon a weary fiddle,Or voice of moaning in the tinkling cymbal,Offspring of humour from disaster's bowels.I love the bitter and the rude, the drunken,The tramps and thieves that skulk among the shadows;The faces red as fire and dead as ashes,A million faces scattered like confetti,All changing, whirling, trodden into nothing.There Beauty wanders strange, an-hungered, weary,Throned on a dust-heap, or triumphant reelingIn mad disorder from the couch of chaos.O ragged Beauty, through the mournful houses,How frail the feet that lead the dawn towards us,Blushed in the sunrise with a great ambition,Spent in the evening like a rose of fever,Fainting before us paler than a lily.While here each day self-satisfied and placidMoves opulent among the groves of summer;The larks delight, the laughter of the thrushes,The kindly peasants in their ruddy orchard,Please for a while until the spirit sickensAnd turns her panting to her ancient lover.Oh, well I know the quickening of the pulses,Joy bursting through disgust as field and pastureGrow fewer, paler, till the eager housesLike hungry animals eat up the spacesAnd close upon the miles that God created,With triumph of man's greed. As warriors listeningTo the far rhythm in the drums of battle,As seamen hear the mighty tide-wave bursting,I feel the scamper of your feet approachingAnd your great starving arms and strangling fingersThat drag me back to my perverted Heaven!1914

Richerthan fields of corn that fire in summer,

Strange as the moon on forest rising sudden,

More fearful and beloved than peace or silence,

Heart with my heart at pace in throbbing fever,

Calling towards me with a voice incessant.

Thou that begot me: From whose streets triumphant

I, coloured fiercely with thy passion, wakened!

I sucked red wine, not milk, from thy gaunt bosom,

My senses in thy fearfulness found beauty,

And honey in thine oaths and lamentations.

I played about thy feet that know not resting

And bathed me in the sweat of thine endeavour.

When on thy gala-nights the thronged lamps glitter,Sparkle like sequins, and the plumes of shadowWith curling smoke, with rain and rippling gutterAre tossed in feathered gaiety aboutthee—Thick grow the crowded streets in coloured pageant,Kaleidoscope of people, circling, crossing,Till the brain frenzies to a thousand patterns,While the ears buzz with noises of their laughter;Shouts hoarse and coarse and shrill in one great roaring,As of the angry ocean in her travail ...They haunt me in the tranquil of the forest,Those faces pain has marked and toil has mangled;Pangs greater than the lonely CrucifixionHere crucified each day with lust and hunger,Hung up unlovely in the open market;Made gay with paper garlands, covered overWith tinsel loincloth, painted like a puppet,Lest the elect in passing should be startled,Lest they should smear the blameless brow of honour!With bloody shoes and spinning-wheels of trafficVermilion-splashed, the city rushes onward,And thorns of death and lust and fruitless labourLie underneath the feet forever dancing.Gay tunes are rasped upon a weary fiddle,Or voice of moaning in the tinkling cymbal,Offspring of humour from disaster's bowels.I love the bitter and the rude, the drunken,The tramps and thieves that skulk among the shadows;The faces red as fire and dead as ashes,A million faces scattered like confetti,All changing, whirling, trodden into nothing.There Beauty wanders strange, an-hungered, weary,Throned on a dust-heap, or triumphant reelingIn mad disorder from the couch of chaos.

When on thy gala-nights the thronged lamps glitter,

Sparkle like sequins, and the plumes of shadow

With curling smoke, with rain and rippling gutter

Are tossed in feathered gaiety aboutthee—

Thick grow the crowded streets in coloured pageant,

Kaleidoscope of people, circling, crossing,

Till the brain frenzies to a thousand patterns,

While the ears buzz with noises of their laughter;

Shouts hoarse and coarse and shrill in one great roaring,

As of the angry ocean in her travail ...

They haunt me in the tranquil of the forest,

Those faces pain has marked and toil has mangled;

Pangs greater than the lonely Crucifixion

Here crucified each day with lust and hunger,

Hung up unlovely in the open market;

Made gay with paper garlands, covered over

With tinsel loincloth, painted like a puppet,

Lest the elect in passing should be startled,

Lest they should smear the blameless brow of honour!

With bloody shoes and spinning-wheels of traffic

Vermilion-splashed, the city rushes onward,

And thorns of death and lust and fruitless labour

Lie underneath the feet forever dancing.

Gay tunes are rasped upon a weary fiddle,

Or voice of moaning in the tinkling cymbal,

Offspring of humour from disaster's bowels.

I love the bitter and the rude, the drunken,

The tramps and thieves that skulk among the shadows;

The faces red as fire and dead as ashes,

A million faces scattered like confetti,

All changing, whirling, trodden into nothing.

There Beauty wanders strange, an-hungered, weary,

Throned on a dust-heap, or triumphant reeling

In mad disorder from the couch of chaos.

O ragged Beauty, through the mournful houses,How frail the feet that lead the dawn towards us,Blushed in the sunrise with a great ambition,Spent in the evening like a rose of fever,Fainting before us paler than a lily.While here each day self-satisfied and placidMoves opulent among the groves of summer;The larks delight, the laughter of the thrushes,The kindly peasants in their ruddy orchard,Please for a while until the spirit sickensAnd turns her panting to her ancient lover.

O ragged Beauty, through the mournful houses,

How frail the feet that lead the dawn towards us,

Blushed in the sunrise with a great ambition,

Spent in the evening like a rose of fever,

Fainting before us paler than a lily.

While here each day self-satisfied and placid

Moves opulent among the groves of summer;

The larks delight, the laughter of the thrushes,

The kindly peasants in their ruddy orchard,

Please for a while until the spirit sickens

And turns her panting to her ancient lover.

Oh, well I know the quickening of the pulses,Joy bursting through disgust as field and pastureGrow fewer, paler, till the eager housesLike hungry animals eat up the spacesAnd close upon the miles that God created,With triumph of man's greed. As warriors listeningTo the far rhythm in the drums of battle,As seamen hear the mighty tide-wave bursting,I feel the scamper of your feet approachingAnd your great starving arms and strangling fingersThat drag me back to my perverted Heaven!

Oh, well I know the quickening of the pulses,

Joy bursting through disgust as field and pasture

Grow fewer, paler, till the eager houses

Like hungry animals eat up the spaces

And close upon the miles that God created,

With triumph of man's greed. As warriors listening

To the far rhythm in the drums of battle,

As seamen hear the mighty tide-wave bursting,

I feel the scamper of your feet approaching

And your great starving arms and strangling fingers

That drag me back to my perverted Heaven!

1914

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