The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Iris TreeRelease date: May 14, 2014 [eBook #45643]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: PoemsAuthor: Iris TreeRelease date: May 14, 2014 [eBook #45643]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

Title: Poems

Author: Iris Tree

Release date: May 14, 2014 [eBook #45643]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Clarity, Charlie Howard, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

Theauthor returns thanks for permission to use in this collection of her poems, those which have appeared in Poetry, Vanity Fair and the "Wheels" Anthology.

HEAD OF IRIS TREEBy Jacob Epstein

Title Page

PoemsbyIris Tree

Decorations byCurtis Moffat

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEADNEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANYMCMXX

Press of J. J. Little & Ives CompanyNew York, U. S. A.

ROCKETS AND ASHESPAGE"You Preach to Me of Laws, You Tie My Limbs"11"We Are the Caretakers of Empty Houses"12"From Far Away the Lost Adventures Gleam"13"Give Me, O God, the Power of Laughter Still"14"Winding Down the Street in Wearied Gaiety"15"Tranquillity Stirred by a Sudden Spasm"17"I Could Explain"18"I Feel in Me a Manifold Desire"19"Silence"20"I Should Like to Say to the World"21"You Pass as in a Drugged Delirium"22"O Faces that Look so Coldly at Me"23"I See Myself in Many Different Dresses"24"There are Songs Enough of Love, of Joy, of Grief"25"How Often, When the Thought of Suicide"27"It is Still Something to have Cheated God"28"What Words that Move on Wings in a Long Drift"29"I Think Myself"30"The Adored, Wild, Strange, Irresistible"31A Rose32"Like Flocks of Tired Birds When Autumn Comes"33"Oh, Just Beyond the Curve of Ideal Quest"34"Ah! You, from the Small High-Walled Acre of Your Lives"35"Mouth of the Dust I Kiss, Corruption Absolute"36"The Curtains are Drawn as though it still were Night"37Black Velvet38Nerves39"My Pain has All the Patience of a Nun"40"The Scandal-Monger After All is Right"41"Woods of Brown Gloom Sombring with the Hush of Death"42"I Feel So Much Alone"43The Complex Life44"Shall We Be Christened Poets, Children of God"46"When I Am Weary at the Antic Chance"47Moods48SMOKE"Now is the Evening Dipped Knee-Deep in Blood"53"Blow Upon Blow They Bruise the Daylight Wan"54"A Ragged Drummer Rides Along the Street"56Zeppelins58"O Flattery, Imposture, Battle Show"62"What Will Happen to the Beggar, and the Sinner, and the Sad"63"If I Were What I Would Be, and Could Break"64Holy Russia65"How Deeply Nurtured is Your Foolishness"67"Of All Who Died in Silence Far Away"68"And Afterwards, When Honour Has Made Good"69"Pity the Slain that Laid Away Their Lives"70FLAME"You Have Understood so Little of Me, and My Adoration"75"Lulled are the Dazzling Colours of the Day"77"Washed at My Feet by the Curded Foam of Sluggish Waves"78"My Poems Cannot Laugh. They are the Voice"79"On the Hill There is a Tavern, Long-Loved, Well-Remembered"80"Oh Canst Thou Not Hear in My Heart All Its Whispering Fears"81"As in the Silence the Clear Moonlight Drips"83"I Can but Give Thee Unsubstantial Things"84"I Have No Other Friend but Thee"85"Bodies Heaving Like Waves"88"Your Face to Me is Like a Beautiful City"89"Oh! Why Will You Not Let Me Love You"90"My Devotion Kneels to You"92Islands93"Many Things I'd Find to Charm You"94LAMPLIGHT AND STARLIGHTLamp-posts97London98"Slowly the Pale Feet of Morning"100"What Have I to Do With Them"101"Among the Crumbling Arches of Decay"103"As a Nun's Face from Her Black Draperies"105"The Sun is Lord of Life and Colour"106Bahama Islands107Thoughts of London108Streets109"Laughter and Singing Come With the Morning"113"In the Night I Hear My Loneliness Calling"114Sunday115"The Leaves are Singing, and the Sea"116"How Soundly Sleepeth the Fool"117"Moonlit Lilacs Under the Window"118"Old Woman Forever Sitting"119"Loneliness I Love"120I Met an Indian121"From the Fathomless Depth of My Boredom"124"Lolling in Snow, Like Kings in Ermine Coats"125"The Roots of Our Longing are Probing the Heart of Night"126Vahdah127"Starlight Silences"128"The Mountain is an Emperor"130"I Know What Happiness Is"131"Long Hath the Pen Lain Idle in My Hand"133"I Lay My Heart on a Stone"134"The Cold Light Steals Into My Soul"135"The Caravans of Spring are in the Town"136"I Dread the Beauty of Approaching Spring"137To My Father139To My Mother140"London Grows Sad at Evening"142Ah! the Spring143The Undertone of the Volga Boat Song144

Youpreach to me of laws, you tie my limbsWith rights and wrongs and arguments of good,You choke my songs and fill my mouth with hymns,You stop my heart and turn it into wood.I serve not God, but make my idol fairFrom clay of brown earth, painted bright with blood,Dressed in sweet flesh and wonder of wild hairBy Beauty's fingers to her changing mood.The long line of the sea, the straight horizon,The toss of flowers, the prance of milky feet,And moonlight clear as glass my great religion,And sunrise falling on the quiet street.The coloured crowd, the unrestrained, the gay,And lovers in the secret sheets of nightTrembling like instruments of music, till the dayStands marvelling at their sleeping bodies white.Age creeps upon your timid little facesBeneath each black umbrella sly and slow,Proud in the unimportance of your placesYou sit in twilight prophesying woe.So dim and false and grey, take my compassion,I from my pageant golden as the dayPity your littleness from all my passion,Leave you my sins to weep and whine away!1914

Youpreach to me of laws, you tie my limbsWith rights and wrongs and arguments of good,You choke my songs and fill my mouth with hymns,You stop my heart and turn it into wood.

Youpreach to me of laws, you tie my limbs

With rights and wrongs and arguments of good,

You choke my songs and fill my mouth with hymns,

You stop my heart and turn it into wood.

I serve not God, but make my idol fairFrom clay of brown earth, painted bright with blood,Dressed in sweet flesh and wonder of wild hairBy Beauty's fingers to her changing mood.

I serve not God, but make my idol fair

From clay of brown earth, painted bright with blood,

Dressed in sweet flesh and wonder of wild hair

By Beauty's fingers to her changing mood.

The long line of the sea, the straight horizon,The toss of flowers, the prance of milky feet,And moonlight clear as glass my great religion,And sunrise falling on the quiet street.

The long line of the sea, the straight horizon,

The toss of flowers, the prance of milky feet,

And moonlight clear as glass my great religion,

And sunrise falling on the quiet street.

The coloured crowd, the unrestrained, the gay,And lovers in the secret sheets of nightTrembling like instruments of music, till the dayStands marvelling at their sleeping bodies white.

The coloured crowd, the unrestrained, the gay,

And lovers in the secret sheets of night

Trembling like instruments of music, till the day

Stands marvelling at their sleeping bodies white.

Age creeps upon your timid little facesBeneath each black umbrella sly and slow,Proud in the unimportance of your placesYou sit in twilight prophesying woe.

Age creeps upon your timid little faces

Beneath each black umbrella sly and slow,

Proud in the unimportance of your places

You sit in twilight prophesying woe.

So dim and false and grey, take my compassion,I from my pageant golden as the dayPity your littleness from all my passion,Leave you my sins to weep and whine away!

So dim and false and grey, take my compassion,

I from my pageant golden as the day

Pity your littleness from all my passion,

Leave you my sins to weep and whine away!

1914

Weare the caretakers of empty houses,The moon leans her slender body against the door,But the lock is jarred with rust.The sun looks in through the window,But its closed shutters are as blinded eyes.Our souls are full of dead and beautiful thingsLike bowls of potpourri,A dust of petalsRustling through the tired fingers of a ghost.1918

Weare the caretakers of empty houses,

The moon leans her slender body against the door,

But the lock is jarred with rust.

The sun looks in through the window,

But its closed shutters are as blinded eyes.

Our souls are full of dead and beautiful things

Like bowls of potpourri,

A dust of petals

Rustling through the tired fingers of a ghost.

1918

Fromfar away the lost adventures gleam,The print of childhood's feet that dance and run,The love of her who showed me to the sunIn triumph of creation, who did seemWith vivid spirit like a rainbow streamTo paint the shells, young blossoms, one by oneEach strange and delicate toy, whose hands have spunThe woven cloth of wonder like a dream ...The row of soldiered books, authoritySharp as the scales I strummed upon the keys,The priest who damned the things I dared not praise,Rebellion, love made sad withmystery—And like a firefly through the twilit treesRomance, the golden play-boy of my days.1917

Fromfar away the lost adventures gleam,

The print of childhood's feet that dance and run,

The love of her who showed me to the sun

In triumph of creation, who did seem

With vivid spirit like a rainbow stream

To paint the shells, young blossoms, one by one

Each strange and delicate toy, whose hands have spun

The woven cloth of wonder like a dream ...

The row of soldiered books, authority

Sharp as the scales I strummed upon the keys,

The priest who damned the things I dared not praise,

Rebellion, love made sad withmystery—

And like a firefly through the twilit trees

Romance, the golden play-boy of my days.

1917

Giveme, O God, the power of laughter still,I shall have need of humour, deftest foilAgainst the army of infuriated pride,Against the shields of reason, and the spearsOf savage moments, sharp-edged bitterness;Against the blazoned armour of intolerance,And all the flags of sentiment waved aloft....Love, Humour, and Rebellion, go with me,Three musketeers of faithful following.We will fear nothing.—Is not laughter brave,That unconcerned goes rippling through despair?Is not rebellion brave, that fiercely movesAgainst the buttressed prisons of the world?And is not love the bravest of them all,So frail to hold his white hands up to HeavenWhile the red fists are threatening all around,And hate is beating on the battledrums?As d'Artagnan upon a starved grey horseGoes singing ballads on adventurous roads,I ride my fancy blithely into dangerTo throw my gauntlet at the feet of prideAnd stick my roses in the cap of Love....1916

Giveme, O God, the power of laughter still,

I shall have need of humour, deftest foil

Against the army of infuriated pride,

Against the shields of reason, and the spears

Of savage moments, sharp-edged bitterness;

Against the blazoned armour of intolerance,

And all the flags of sentiment waved aloft....

Love, Humour, and Rebellion, go with me,Three musketeers of faithful following.We will fear nothing.—Is not laughter brave,That unconcerned goes rippling through despair?Is not rebellion brave, that fiercely movesAgainst the buttressed prisons of the world?And is not love the bravest of them all,So frail to hold his white hands up to HeavenWhile the red fists are threatening all around,And hate is beating on the battledrums?As d'Artagnan upon a starved grey horseGoes singing ballads on adventurous roads,I ride my fancy blithely into dangerTo throw my gauntlet at the feet of prideAnd stick my roses in the cap of Love....

Love, Humour, and Rebellion, go with me,

Three musketeers of faithful following.

We will fear nothing.—Is not laughter brave,

That unconcerned goes rippling through despair?

Is not rebellion brave, that fiercely moves

Against the buttressed prisons of the world?

And is not love the bravest of them all,

So frail to hold his white hands up to Heaven

While the red fists are threatening all around,

And hate is beating on the battledrums?

As d'Artagnan upon a starved grey horse

Goes singing ballads on adventurous roads,

I ride my fancy blithely into danger

To throw my gauntlet at the feet of pride

And stick my roses in the cap of Love....

1916

Windingdown the street in wearied gaiety, the barrel-organ dribbled out its songMerged with the thud of feet forever dallying indifferent and indefinite along.The houses stood like rows of cripples, some paralysed, some hunch-backed and some bent with age,They seemed at war, their chimneys threatening, their brows hung heavy in a sombre rage.Crab-like the children crawled, while always hammering above their heads the scolding shrewish tongue;They grew as bloodless flowers unflourishing, waxen and pale from out the dust and dung.Above I saw the strip of sunset fluttering, even as washed-out rags upon the line,I listened to the sparrows twittering, and the hours ticking in a slow decline.Then beaded on the hem of evening, the coloured lights were threaded here and there,Till proud with sweets and plumes and oranges, the shops grew brilliant in the tinsel glare.Grey was the death-bed of the twilight, shuddering the faint hands of the day stretched to the night,Fending it off, or feebly wavering over the pallid glints of stolen light.And grey the faces that were gathering among the fallen ashes of the day,And red the faces, yellow, flickering, under the lamps upon the long highway.And some were gashed with smiles, and quaint grimaces of hate and pain and hunger and despair,And some wore coloured hats and meek frivolities, limp ribbons, and false pansies in their hair,But all were cold, and all seemed passionless; there shone no zest or splendour in their lives,Nor hope in anything but holidays, or watching funerals, or taking wives.I dared not think, for truth rose horrible, slapping the face with coarse uncaring hand,But like them cheated into merriment, I wilfully refused to understand;Turned me away from wan-eyed poverty, trod pity underfoot, oh, danced on grief,Bade the crowd sing and fill my desolation, bade them be glad and hide my disbelief.Strange we so love the world—for presently, out of my window looking on the city,I blessed the night, and the roofs slumbering all huddled, and I felt no shame nor pityFor all our dusty days of journeying amid the wreck and ruins of our dreams,Meandering in a bleared forgetfulness, where lethe laps the wharf of sleeping streams.I only breathed the air, intensified by the ascending breath of million lungs,And heard the labouring metropolis, quickened by whispers of a million tongues;And felt a king of splendid loneliness, and felt an atom of the peopled spaces,And felt again my lordly egoism, one face distinct among the blur of faces.1913

Windingdown the street in wearied gaiety, the barrel-organ dribbled out its song

Merged with the thud of feet forever dallying indifferent and indefinite along.

The houses stood like rows of cripples, some paralysed, some hunch-backed and some bent with age,

They seemed at war, their chimneys threatening, their brows hung heavy in a sombre rage.

Crab-like the children crawled, while always hammering above their heads the scolding shrewish tongue;

They grew as bloodless flowers unflourishing, waxen and pale from out the dust and dung.

Above I saw the strip of sunset fluttering, even as washed-out rags upon the line,

I listened to the sparrows twittering, and the hours ticking in a slow decline.

Then beaded on the hem of evening, the coloured lights were threaded here and there,

Till proud with sweets and plumes and oranges, the shops grew brilliant in the tinsel glare.

Grey was the death-bed of the twilight, shuddering the faint hands of the day stretched to the night,

Fending it off, or feebly wavering over the pallid glints of stolen light.

And grey the faces that were gathering among the fallen ashes of the day,

And red the faces, yellow, flickering, under the lamps upon the long highway.

And some were gashed with smiles, and quaint grimaces of hate and pain and hunger and despair,

And some wore coloured hats and meek frivolities, limp ribbons, and false pansies in their hair,

But all were cold, and all seemed passionless; there shone no zest or splendour in their lives,

Nor hope in anything but holidays, or watching funerals, or taking wives.

I dared not think, for truth rose horrible, slapping the face with coarse uncaring hand,

But like them cheated into merriment, I wilfully refused to understand;

Turned me away from wan-eyed poverty, trod pity underfoot, oh, danced on grief,

Bade the crowd sing and fill my desolation, bade them be glad and hide my disbelief.

Strange we so love the world—for presently, out of my window looking on the city,I blessed the night, and the roofs slumbering all huddled, and I felt no shame nor pityFor all our dusty days of journeying amid the wreck and ruins of our dreams,Meandering in a bleared forgetfulness, where lethe laps the wharf of sleeping streams.I only breathed the air, intensified by the ascending breath of million lungs,And heard the labouring metropolis, quickened by whispers of a million tongues;And felt a king of splendid loneliness, and felt an atom of the peopled spaces,And felt again my lordly egoism, one face distinct among the blur of faces.

Strange we so love the world—for presently, out of my window looking on the city,

I blessed the night, and the roofs slumbering all huddled, and I felt no shame nor pity

For all our dusty days of journeying amid the wreck and ruins of our dreams,

Meandering in a bleared forgetfulness, where lethe laps the wharf of sleeping streams.

I only breathed the air, intensified by the ascending breath of million lungs,

And heard the labouring metropolis, quickened by whispers of a million tongues;

And felt a king of splendid loneliness, and felt an atom of the peopled spaces,

And felt again my lordly egoism, one face distinct among the blur of faces.

1913

Tranquilitystirred by a sudden spasm,Knives of rain that cut the silence,Storms that rattle the bones of the forest,Calm of the marble-terraced nightCharred with the spattering of rockets.Drums will I hear and battles now,And the long death howl of wolves by night,Watching the moon on the forest tops,Walking with delicate frightened stepsTo the slaughter-house of a red sunrise.1918

Tranquilitystirred by a sudden spasm,Knives of rain that cut the silence,Storms that rattle the bones of the forest,Calm of the marble-terraced nightCharred with the spattering of rockets.

Tranquilitystirred by a sudden spasm,

Knives of rain that cut the silence,

Storms that rattle the bones of the forest,

Calm of the marble-terraced night

Charred with the spattering of rockets.

Drums will I hear and battles now,And the long death howl of wolves by night,Watching the moon on the forest tops,Walking with delicate frightened stepsTo the slaughter-house of a red sunrise.

Drums will I hear and battles now,

And the long death howl of wolves by night,

Watching the moon on the forest tops,

Walking with delicate frightened steps

To the slaughter-house of a red sunrise.

1918

I couldexplainThe complicated lore that drags the soulFrom what shall profit himTo gild damnation with his choicest gold.But youAre poring over precious books and do not hearOur plaintive, frivolous songs;For we in stubborn vanity ascendOn ladders insecure,Toward the tottering balconiesTo serenade our painted paramours;Caught by the lure of dangerous pale hands,Oblivion's heavy lids on sleepless eyesThat cheat between unrest and false repose.And we are hauntedBy spectral Joy once murdered in a rage,Now taking shape of Pleasure,Disguised in many clothes and skilful masks.I could discloseThe truth that hangs between our liesAnd jostles sleep to semi-consciousness;Truth, that stings like nettlesOur frail hands dare not pluckFrom out our garden's terraced indolence.We are not happy,And you make us dumb with loving handsReproachful on our lips.Nor can we sob our sorrows on your breast,For we have bartered diamonds for glass,Our tears for smiles,Eternity for now.1917

I couldexplain

The complicated lore that drags the soul

From what shall profit him

To gild damnation with his choicest gold.

But you

Are poring over precious books and do not hear

Our plaintive, frivolous songs;

For we in stubborn vanity ascend

On ladders insecure,

Toward the tottering balconies

To serenade our painted paramours;

Caught by the lure of dangerous pale hands,

Oblivion's heavy lids on sleepless eyes

That cheat between unrest and false repose.

And we are haunted

By spectral Joy once murdered in a rage,

Now taking shape of Pleasure,

Disguised in many clothes and skilful masks.

I could disclose

The truth that hangs between our lies

And jostles sleep to semi-consciousness;

Truth, that stings like nettles

Our frail hands dare not pluck

From out our garden's terraced indolence.

We are not happy,

And you make us dumb with loving hands

Reproachful on our lips.

Nor can we sob our sorrows on your breast,

For we have bartered diamonds for glass,

Our tears for smiles,

Eternity for now.

1917

I feelin me a manifold desireFrom many lands and times and clamouring peoples,And I the QueenOf crowding vagabonds,Ghosts of lost years in seeming fancy dress,With pathos of torn lacesAnd broken swords;Cut-throats and kings and poetsWho have loved meIn visions wild, not knowingWhat I was.In me no endEven where the last contentClasps on my head a crownOf shiningendurance—I slip from all my robesInto the rags of a tattered romance;The stars crowd at the window,Their jealous destinyRaps at thedoor—They bob and wink and leer,And I must leave the lamplight for the roadTo keep strange company.Farewell and Hail!1917

I feelin me a manifold desire

From many lands and times and clamouring peoples,

And I the Queen

Of crowding vagabonds,

Ghosts of lost years in seeming fancy dress,

With pathos of torn laces

And broken swords;

Cut-throats and kings and poets

Who have loved me

In visions wild, not knowing

What I was.

In me no end

Even where the last content

Clasps on my head a crown

Of shiningendurance—

I slip from all my robes

Into the rags of a tattered romance;

The stars crowd at the window,

Their jealous destiny

Raps at thedoor—

They bob and wink and leer,

And I must leave the lamplight for the road

To keep strange company.

Farewell and Hail!

1917

Silence—Somewhere on earthThere is a purpose that I miss or have forgotten.The trees stand bolt uprightLike roofless pillars of a broken temple.There is a purpose in Heaven,But for meNothing.1917

Silence—Somewhere on earthThere is a purpose that I miss or have forgotten.The trees stand bolt uprightLike roofless pillars of a broken temple.There is a purpose in Heaven,But for meNothing.

Silence—

Somewhere on earth

There is a purpose that I miss or have forgotten.

The trees stand bolt upright

Like roofless pillars of a broken temple.

There is a purpose in Heaven,

But for me

Nothing.

1917

I shouldlike to say to the world:I have launched my soul like a ship upon free waters;Beautiful she stands in the docks with proud masts cutting the sky,Perfectly poised, her white sails spreading like wings,Her figurehead a woman with breasts that daunt the spray,Her flag a flutter of coloured exuberance.I should like to see her plunging out of the idle harbourWhere the sulky tide drifts scum, and the sailors wrangle and shout,In a thunder of churning waves ramping before her like dappled stallions,Blossoming behind her a field of etiolate lilies....But to the mimicking, plotting, miserly, cynical,To the rabble and gabble that dance and kill on the quay,I can only say that my soul is a sleeping gondolaLulled by a jester's mandolin, till night is atinkle with tunesAnd lantern-lights, along the indolent backwaters.1915

I shouldlike to say to the world:

I have launched my soul like a ship upon free waters;

Beautiful she stands in the docks with proud masts cutting the sky,

Perfectly poised, her white sails spreading like wings,

Her figurehead a woman with breasts that daunt the spray,

Her flag a flutter of coloured exuberance.

I should like to see her plunging out of the idle harbour

Where the sulky tide drifts scum, and the sailors wrangle and shout,

In a thunder of churning waves ramping before her like dappled stallions,

Blossoming behind her a field of etiolate lilies....

But to the mimicking, plotting, miserly, cynical,To the rabble and gabble that dance and kill on the quay,I can only say that my soul is a sleeping gondolaLulled by a jester's mandolin, till night is atinkle with tunesAnd lantern-lights, along the indolent backwaters.

But to the mimicking, plotting, miserly, cynical,

To the rabble and gabble that dance and kill on the quay,

I can only say that my soul is a sleeping gondola

Lulled by a jester's mandolin, till night is atinkle with tunes

And lantern-lights, along the indolent backwaters.

1915

Youpass as in a drugged deliriumWrought strange upon the mind's distraction;You sing a blasphemous Te DeumTo harlot virgins, and a fractionOf your fulginous colour passes,Stains my spirit's great conceptionAs it dips into your glasses.I that am the sole exceptionTo your stillborn, false devices,I that know you, I that hate you,I that drank now spit your vicesThrough my loathing reinstate you;Dive once more into the stagnance,Kiss your cynic lips and drink you,Concentrate your cruel fragrance,Steal your flowers before I sink you,Lift with hate instead of praises,Show you honour of my scorning,Garlanded you go to blazesWith my rhymes for your adorning!1913

Youpass as in a drugged delirium

Wrought strange upon the mind's distraction;

You sing a blasphemous Te Deum

To harlot virgins, and a fraction

Of your fulginous colour passes,

Stains my spirit's great conception

As it dips into your glasses.

I that am the sole exception

To your stillborn, false devices,

I that know you, I that hate you,

I that drank now spit your vices

Through my loathing reinstate you;

Dive once more into the stagnance,

Kiss your cynic lips and drink you,

Concentrate your cruel fragrance,

Steal your flowers before I sink you,

Lift with hate instead of praises,

Show you honour of my scorning,

Garlanded you go to blazes

With my rhymes for your adorning!

1913

O facesthat look so coldly at me,Colder than dawn through the windows of festival,Colder than dawn with her grey nun's face.You blame me, you curse me with your eyes,While your lips are filled with flattering syllables,With tinkling bells that harass my calm,Disturb my silence and shatter my thoughts.Your laughter waltzes like musical boxes,How can I hear the triumphant symphonies?The scarlet rhapsodies and beryl-cold sonatas? ...Ah, strangers, ah, vacant tedious faces,Bobbing beneath the feathery hats,You have stolen the wings of birds for your garnishing,And the stars and the dim pale petals of the seaTo make your breasts resplendent, to glitter yourdress,—How I might love you and weep for you,Crowning your brows with a wreath of songsIf you could understand my singing,If you could understand my love!But you are waltzing with your marionettesAnd marching to the music of theclock—I cannot bear you to watch meWith those cold eyes through which I see,Emptiness only and dust.1918

O facesthat look so coldly at me,

Colder than dawn through the windows of festival,

Colder than dawn with her grey nun's face.

You blame me, you curse me with your eyes,

While your lips are filled with flattering syllables,

With tinkling bells that harass my calm,

Disturb my silence and shatter my thoughts.

Your laughter waltzes like musical boxes,

How can I hear the triumphant symphonies?

The scarlet rhapsodies and beryl-cold sonatas? ...

Ah, strangers, ah, vacant tedious faces,

Bobbing beneath the feathery hats,

You have stolen the wings of birds for your garnishing,

And the stars and the dim pale petals of the sea

To make your breasts resplendent, to glitter yourdress,—

How I might love you and weep for you,

Crowning your brows with a wreath of songs

If you could understand my singing,

If you could understand my love!

But you are waltzing with your marionettes

And marching to the music of theclock—

I cannot bear you to watch me

With those cold eyes through which I see,

Emptiness only and dust.

1918

I seemyself in many different dresses,In many moods, and many different places;All gold amid the grey where solemn facesAre silence to my mirth—a flame that blessesFrom yellow lamp the darkness which oppresses ...Or mid the dancers in their trivial lacesAloof, as in the ring a lion paces,Disdainful of their slander or caresses.I see myself the child of many races,Poisoners, martyrs, harlots and princesses;Within my soul a thousand weary tracesOf pain and joy and passionateexcesses—Eternal beauty that our brief love chasesWith snatch of desperate hands and dying tresses.1917

I seemyself in many different dresses,

In many moods, and many different places;

All gold amid the grey where solemn faces

Are silence to my mirth—a flame that blesses

From yellow lamp the darkness which oppresses ...

Or mid the dancers in their trivial laces

Aloof, as in the ring a lion paces,

Disdainful of their slander or caresses.

I see myself the child of many races,

Poisoners, martyrs, harlots and princesses;

Within my soul a thousand weary traces

Of pain and joy and passionateexcesses—

Eternal beauty that our brief love chases

With snatch of desperate hands and dying tresses.

1917

Thereare songs enough of love, of joy, of grief:Roads to the sunset, alleys to the moon;Poems of the red rose and the golden leaf,Fantastic faery and gay ballad tune.The long road unto nothing I will sing,Sing on one note, monotonous and dry,Of sameness, calmness and the years that bringNo more emotion than the fear to die.Grey house, grey house and after that grey house,Another house as grey and steep and still:An old cat tired of playing with a mouse,A sick child tired of chasing down the hill.Shuffle and hurry, idle feet, and slow,Grim face and merry face, so ugly all!Why do you hurry? Where is there to go?Why are you shouting? Who is there to call?Lovers still kissing, feverish to drainStale juices from the shrivelled fruit of lust:A black umbrella held up in the rain,The raindrops making patterns in the dust.If this distaste I hold for fools is such,Shall I not spit upon myself as well?Do I not eat and drink and smile as much?Do I not fatten also in this hell?Sadness and joy—if they were melted up,Things that were great—upon the fires of timeDrop but as soup in the accustomed cup,Settle in stagnance, trickle into grime.Faith, freedom, art that fire a man or twoAnd set him like a pilgrim on his wayWith Beauty's face before him—what of you,Priest, Butcher, Scholar, King, upon that day?The dullard-masses that no god can save!If I were God, to rise and strike you downAnd break your churches in an angry waveAnd make a furious bonfire of your town!God in a coloured globe, alone and still,Embroidering wonders with a fearless brain,On loom of spaces measureless, to fillThe empty air with passion and with pain.Emblazon all the heavens with desireAnd Wisdom delved for in the depths oftime—Thoughts sculptured mountainous, and fancy's fireCaught in the running swiftness of a rhyme.Passion high-pedestalled, pangs turned to treasure,Perfected and undone and built afreshWith concentrated agony and Pleasure ...If I were God, and not a weight of flesh!1914

Thereare songs enough of love, of joy, of grief:Roads to the sunset, alleys to the moon;Poems of the red rose and the golden leaf,Fantastic faery and gay ballad tune.

Thereare songs enough of love, of joy, of grief:

Roads to the sunset, alleys to the moon;

Poems of the red rose and the golden leaf,

Fantastic faery and gay ballad tune.

The long road unto nothing I will sing,Sing on one note, monotonous and dry,Of sameness, calmness and the years that bringNo more emotion than the fear to die.

The long road unto nothing I will sing,

Sing on one note, monotonous and dry,

Of sameness, calmness and the years that bring

No more emotion than the fear to die.

Grey house, grey house and after that grey house,Another house as grey and steep and still:An old cat tired of playing with a mouse,A sick child tired of chasing down the hill.

Grey house, grey house and after that grey house,

Another house as grey and steep and still:

An old cat tired of playing with a mouse,

A sick child tired of chasing down the hill.

Shuffle and hurry, idle feet, and slow,Grim face and merry face, so ugly all!Why do you hurry? Where is there to go?Why are you shouting? Who is there to call?

Shuffle and hurry, idle feet, and slow,

Grim face and merry face, so ugly all!

Why do you hurry? Where is there to go?

Why are you shouting? Who is there to call?

Lovers still kissing, feverish to drainStale juices from the shrivelled fruit of lust:A black umbrella held up in the rain,The raindrops making patterns in the dust.

Lovers still kissing, feverish to drain

Stale juices from the shrivelled fruit of lust:

A black umbrella held up in the rain,

The raindrops making patterns in the dust.

If this distaste I hold for fools is such,Shall I not spit upon myself as well?Do I not eat and drink and smile as much?Do I not fatten also in this hell?

If this distaste I hold for fools is such,

Shall I not spit upon myself as well?

Do I not eat and drink and smile as much?

Do I not fatten also in this hell?

Sadness and joy—if they were melted up,Things that were great—upon the fires of timeDrop but as soup in the accustomed cup,Settle in stagnance, trickle into grime.

Sadness and joy—if they were melted up,

Things that were great—upon the fires of time

Drop but as soup in the accustomed cup,

Settle in stagnance, trickle into grime.

Faith, freedom, art that fire a man or twoAnd set him like a pilgrim on his wayWith Beauty's face before him—what of you,Priest, Butcher, Scholar, King, upon that day?

Faith, freedom, art that fire a man or two

And set him like a pilgrim on his way

With Beauty's face before him—what of you,

Priest, Butcher, Scholar, King, upon that day?

The dullard-masses that no god can save!If I were God, to rise and strike you downAnd break your churches in an angry waveAnd make a furious bonfire of your town!

The dullard-masses that no god can save!

If I were God, to rise and strike you down

And break your churches in an angry wave

And make a furious bonfire of your town!

God in a coloured globe, alone and still,Embroidering wonders with a fearless brain,On loom of spaces measureless, to fillThe empty air with passion and with pain.

God in a coloured globe, alone and still,

Embroidering wonders with a fearless brain,

On loom of spaces measureless, to fill

The empty air with passion and with pain.

Emblazon all the heavens with desireAnd Wisdom delved for in the depths oftime—Thoughts sculptured mountainous, and fancy's fireCaught in the running swiftness of a rhyme.

Emblazon all the heavens with desire

And Wisdom delved for in the depths oftime—

Thoughts sculptured mountainous, and fancy's fire

Caught in the running swiftness of a rhyme.

Passion high-pedestalled, pangs turned to treasure,Perfected and undone and built afreshWith concentrated agony and Pleasure ...If I were God, and not a weight of flesh!

Passion high-pedestalled, pangs turned to treasure,

Perfected and undone and built afresh

With concentrated agony and Pleasure ...

If I were God, and not a weight of flesh!

1914

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