Chapter 2

Dining-room TeaWhen you were there, and you, and you,Happiness crowned the night; I too,Laughing and looking, one of all,I watched the quivering lamplight fallOn plate and flowers and pouring teaAnd cup and cloth; and they and weFlung all the dancing moments byWith jest and glitter. Lip and eyeFlashed on the glory, shone and cried,Improvident, unmemoried;And fitfully and like a flameThe light of laughter went and came.Proud in their careless transience movedThe changing faces that I loved.Till suddenly, and otherwhence,I looked upon your innocence.For lifted clear and still and strangeFrom the dark woven flow of changeUnder a vast and starless skyI saw the immortal moment lie.One instant I, an instant, knewAs God knows all. And it and youI, above Time, oh, blind! could seeIn witless immortality.I saw the marble cup; the tea,Hung on the air, an amber stream;I saw the fire's unglittering gleam,The painted flame, the frozen smoke.No more the flooding lamplight brokeOn flying eyes and lips and hair;But lay, but slept unbroken there,On stiller flesh, and body breathless,And lips and laughter stayed and deathless,And words on which no silence grew.Light was more alive than you.For suddenly, and otherwhence,I looked on your magnificence.I saw the stillness and the light,And you, august, immortal, white,Holy and strange; and every glintPosture and jest and thought and tintFreed from the mask of transiency,Triumphant in eternity,Immote, immortal.Dazed at lengthHuman eyes grew, mortal strengthWearied; and Time began to creep.Change closed about me like a sleep.Light glinted on the eyes I loved.The cup was filled. The bodies moved.The drifting petal came to ground.The laughter chimed its perfect round.The broken syllable was ended.And I, so certain and so friended,How could I cloud, or how distress,The heaven of your unconsciousness?Or shake at Time's sufficient spell,Stammering of lights unutterable?The eternal holiness of you,The timeless end, you never knew,The peace that lay, the light that shone.You never knew that I had goneA million miles away, and stayedA million years. The laughter playedUnbroken round me; and the jestFlashed on. And we that knew the bestDown wonderful hours grew happier yet.I sang at heart, and talked, and eat,And lived from laugh to laugh, I too,When you were there, and you, and you.The Old Vicarage, GrantchesterCafé des WestensBerlin, May 1912Just now the lilac is in bloom,All before my little room;And in my flower-beds, I think,Smile the carnation and the pink;And down the borders, well I know,The poppy and the pansy blow...Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,Beside the river make for youA tunnel of green gloom, and sleepDeeply above; and green and deepThe stream mysterious glides beneath,Green as a dream and deep as death.—Oh, damn! I know it! And I knowHow the May fields all golden show,And when the day is young and sweet,Gild gloriously the bare feetThat run to bathe....Du lieber Gott!Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,And there the shadowed waters freshLean up to embrace the naked flesh.TemperamentvottGerman JewsDrink beer around;—and there the dewsAre soft beneath a morn of gold.Here tulips bloom as they are told;Unkempt about those hedges blowsAn English unofficial rose;And there the unregulated sunSlopes down to rest when day is done,And wakes a vague unpunctual star,A slippered Hesper; and there areMeads towards Haslingfield and CotonWheredas Betreten's notverboten....[Greek: eíthe genoimen] ... would I wereIn Grantchester, in Grantchester!—Some, it may be, can get in touchWith Nature there, or Earth, or such.And clever modern men have seenA Faun a-peeping through the green,And felt the Classics were not dead,To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,Or hear the Goat-foot piping low;But these are things I do not know.I only know that you may lieDay long and watch the Cambridge sky,And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,Until the centuries blend and blurIn Grantchester, in Grantchester....Still in the dawnlit waters coolHis ghostly Lordship swims his pool,And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx,Dan Chaucer hears his river stillChatter beneath a phantom mill.Tennyson notes, with studious eye,How Cambridge waters hurry by....And in that garden, black and white,Creep whispers through the grass all night;And spectral dance, before the dawn,A hundred Vicars down the lawn;Curates, long dust, will come and goOn lissom, clerical, printless toe;And oft between the boughs is seenThe sly shade of a Rural Dean....Till, at a shiver in the skies,Vanishing with Satanic cries,The prim ecclesiastic routLeaves but a startled sleeper-out,Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,The falling house that never falls.God! I will pack, and take a train,And get me to England once again!For England's the one land, I know,Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;And Cambridgeshire, of all England,The shire for Men who Understand;And ofthatdistrict I preferThe lovely hamlet Grantchester.For Cambridge people rarely smile,Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;And Royston men in the far SouthAre black and fierce and strange of mouth;At Over they fling oaths at one,And worse than oaths at Trumpington,And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,And there's none in Harston under thirty,And folks in Shelford and those partsHave twisted lips and twisted hearts,And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,And Coton's full of nameless crimes,And things are done you'd not believeAt Madingley, on Christmas Eve.Strong men have run for miles and miles,When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;Strong men have blanched, and shot their wivesRather than send them to St. Ives;Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,To hear what happened at Babraham.But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!There's peace and holy quiet there,Great clouds along pacific skies,And men and women with straight eyes,Lithe children lovelier than a dream,A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,And little kindly winds that creepRound twilight corners, half asleep.In Grantchester their skins are white;They bathe by day, they bathe by night;The women there do all they ought;The men observe the Rules of Thought.They love the Good; they worship Truth;They laugh uproariously in youth;(And when they get to feeling old,They up and shoot themselves, I'm told)....Ah God! to see the branches stirAcross the moon at Grantchester!To smell the thrilling-sweet and rottenUnforgettable, unforgottenRiver-smell, and hear the breezeSobbing in the little trees.Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand,Still guardians of that holy land?The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,The yet unacademic stream?Is dawn a secret shy and coldAnadyomene, silver-gold?And sunset still a golden seaFrom Haslingfield to Madingley?And after, ere the night is born,Do hares come out about the corn?Oh, is the water sweet and cool,Gentle and brown, above the pool?And laughs the immortal river stillUnder the mill, under the mill?Say, is there Beauty yet to find?And Certainty? and Quiet kind?Deep meadows yet, for to forgetThe lies, and truths, and pain? ... oh! yetStands the Church clock at ten to three?And is there honey still for tea?The Funeral of Youth: ThrenodyThe day thatYouthhad died,There came to his grave-side,In decent mourning, from the county's ends,Those scattered friendsWho had lived the boon companions of his prime,And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,The days and nights and dawnings of the timeWhenYouthkept open house,Nor left untastedAught of his high emprise and ventures dear,No quest of his unshar'd—All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,Followed their old friend's bier.Follywent first,With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;And after trod the bearers, hat in hand—Laughter, most hoarse, and CaptainPridewith tannedAnd martial face all grim, and fussyJoy,Who had to catch a train, andLust, poor, snivelling boy;These bore the dear departed.Behind them, broken-hearted,CameGrief, so noisy a widow, that all said,"Had he but wedHer elder sisterSorrow, in her stead."And by her, trying to soothe her all the time,The fatherless children,Colour,Tune, andRhyme(The sweet ladRhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.Then, at the way's sad ending,Round the raw grave they stay'd. OldWisdomread,In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.There stoodRomance,The furrowing tears had mark'd her rougèd cheek;Poor oldConceit, his wonder unassuag'd;DeadInnocency'sdaughter,Ignorance;And shabby, ill-dress'dGenerosity;AndArgument, too full of woe to speak;Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged;AndFriendship—not a minute older, she;Impatience, ever taking out his watch;Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean to catchOldWisdom'sendless drone.Beautywas there,Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.Poor maz'dImagination;Fancywild;Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair;Contentment, who had knownYouthas a childAnd never seen him since. AndSpringcame too,Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers—She did not stay for long.AndTruth, andGrace, and all the merry crew,The laughingWindsandRivers, and litheHours;AndHope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowingSong;—Yes, with much woe and mourning general,At deadYouth'sfuneral,Even these were met once more together, all,Who erst the fair and livingYouthdid know;All, except onlyLove.Lovehad died long ago.Beauty and BeautyWhen Beauty and Beauty meetAll naked, fair to fair,The earth is crying-sweet,And scattering-bright the air,Eddying, dizzying, closing round,With soft and drunken laughter;Veiling all that may befallAfter—after—Where Beauty and Beauty met,Earth's still a-tremble there,And winds are scented yet,And memory-soft the air,Bosoming, folding glints of light,And shreds of shadowy laughter;Not the tears that fill the yearsAfter—after—The ChilternsYour hands, my dear, adorable,Your lips of tenderness—Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,Three years, or a bit less.It wasn't a success.Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,Quit of my youth and you,The Roman road to WendoverBy Tring and Lilley Hoo,As a free man may do.For youth goes over, the joys that fly,The tears that follow fast;And the dirtiest things we do must lieForgotten at the last;Even Love goes past.What's left behind I shall not find,The splendour and the pain;The splash of sun, the shouting wind,And the brave sting of rain,I may not meet again.But the years, that take the best away,Give something in the end;And a better friend than love have they,For none to mar or mend,That have themselves to friend.I shall desire and I shall findThe best of my desires;The autumn road, the mellow windThat soothes the darkening shires.And laughter, and inn-fires.White mist about the black hedgerows,The slumbering Midland plain,The silence where the clover grows,And the dead leaves in the lane,Certainly, these remain.And I shall find some girl perhaps,And a better one than you,With eyes as wise, but kindlier,And lips as soft, but true.And I daresay she will do.LoveLove is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,Where that comes in that shall not go again;Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.They have known shame, who love unloved. Even thenWhen two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,And agony's forgot, and hushed the cryingOf credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but takingTheir own poor dreams within their arms, and lyingEach in his lonely night, each with a ghost.Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.All this is love; and all love is but this.The Busy HeartNow that we've done our best and worst, and parted,I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;And evening hush, broken by homing wings;And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,One after one, like tasting a sweet food.I have need to busy my heart with quietude.He Wonders Whether to Praiseor to Blame HerI have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over,But if to praise or blame you, cannot say.For, who decries the loved, decries the lover;Yet what man lauds the thing he's thrown away?Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught,The more fool I, so great a fool to adore;But if you're that high goddess once I thought,The more your godhead is, I lose the more.Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever!Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you!Most fair,—the blind has lost your face for ever!Most foul,—how could I see you while I kissed you?So ... the poor love of fools and blind I've proved you,For, foul or lovely, 'twas a fool that loved you.HauntingsIn the grey tumult of these after yearsOft silence falls; the incessant wranglers part;And less-than-echoes of remembered tearsHush all the loud confusion of the heart;And a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying,Hungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood,—Quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,Comes back the ecstasy of your quietude.So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams,Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams,Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men,Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible,And light on waving grass, he knows not when,And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.THE PACIFIC, 1914One DayToday I have been happy. All the dayI held the memory of you, and woveIts laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,And sent you following the white waves of sea,And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,Stray buds from that old dust of misery,Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.So lightly I played with those dark memories,Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,And love has been betrayed, and murder done,And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.THE PACIFIC,October1913Sonnet(Suggested by some of the Proceedings of theSociety for Psychical Research)Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor treadThose dusty high-roads of the aimless deadPlaintive for Earth; but rather turn and runDown some close-covered by-way of the air,Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, findSome whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and thereSpend in pure converse our eternal day;Think each in each, immediately wise;Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and sayWhat this tumultuous body now denies;And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.CloudsDown the blue night the unending columns pressIn noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snowUp to the white moon's hidden loveliness.Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,As who would pray good for the world, but knowTheir benediction empty as they bless.They say that the Dead die not, but remainNear to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,In wise majestic melancholy train,And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,And men, coming and going on the earth.THE PACIFIC,October1913MutabilityThey say there's a high windless world and strange,Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,Æterna corpora, subject to no change.There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,And perishing hearts, imperishable Love....Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;Love has no habitation but the heart.Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,Cling, and are borne into the night apart.The laugh dies with the lips, "Love" with the lover.SOUTH KENSINGTON—MAKAWELI, 1913HeavenFish (fly-replete, in depth of June,Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,Each secret fishy hope or fear.Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;But is there anything Beyond?This life cannot be All, they swear,For how unpleasant, if it were!One may not doubt that, somehow, goodShall come of Water and of Mud;And, sure, the reverent eye must seeA Purpose in Liquidity.We darkly know, by Faith we cry,The future is not Wholly Dry.Mud unto Mud!—Death eddies near—Not here the appointed End, not here!But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,Is wetter water, slimier slime!And there (they trust) there swimmeth OneWho swam ere rivers were begun,Immense, of fishy form and mind,Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;And under that Almighty Fin,The littlest fish may enter in.Oh! never fly conceals a hook,Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,But more than mundane weeds are there,And mud, celestially fair;Fat caterpillars drift around,And Paradisal grubs are found;Unfading moths, immortal flies,And the worm that never dies.And in that Heaven of all their wish,There shall be no more land, say fish.Tiare TahitiMamua, when our laughter ends,And hearts and bodies, brown as white,Are dust about the doors of friends,Or scent a-blowing down the night,Then, oh! then, the wise agree,Comes our immortality.Mamua, there waits a landHard for us to understand.Out of time, beyond the sun,All are one in Paradise,You and Pupure are one,And Taü, and the ungainly wise.There the Eternals are, and thereThe Good, the Lovely, and the True,And Types, whose earthly copies wereThe foolish broken things we knew;There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;The real, the never-setting Star;And the Flower, of which we loveFaint and fading shadows here;Never a tear, but only Grief;Dance, but not the limbs that move;Songs in Song shall disappear;Instead of lovers, Love shall be;For hearts, Immutability;And there, on the Ideal Reef,Thunders the Everlasting Sea!And my laughter, and my pain,Shall home to the Eternal Brain.And all lovely things, they say,Meet in Loveliness again;Miri's laugh, Teïpo's feet,And the hands of Matua,Stars and sunlight there shall meet,Coral's hues and rainbows there,And Teüra's braided hair;And with the starredtiare'swhite,And white birds in the dark ravine,Andflamboyantsablaze at night,And jewels, and evening's after-green,And dawns of pearl and gold and red,Mamua, your lovelier head!And there'll no more be one who dreamsUnder the ferns, of crumbling stuff,Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,All time-entangled human love.And you'll no longer swing and swayDivinely down the scented shade,Where feet to Ambulation fade,And moons are lost in endless Day.How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,Where there are neither heads nor flowers?Oh, Heaven's Heaven!—but we'll be missingThe palms, and sunlight, and the south;And there's an end, I think, of kissing,When our mouths are one with Mouth....Taü here, Mamua,Crown the hair, and come away!Hear the calling of the moon,And the whispering scents that strayAbout the idle warm lagoon.Hasten, hand in human hand,Down the dark, the flowered way,Along the whiteness of the sand,And in the water's soft caressWash the mind of foolishness,Mamua, until the day.Spend the glittering moonlight therePursuing down the soundless deepLimbs that gleam and shadowy hair,Or floating lazy, half-asleep.Dive and double and follow after,Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,With lips that fade, and human laughter,And faces individual,Well this side of Paradise! ....There's little comfort in the wise.PAPEETE, February 1914

Dining-room Tea

When you were there, and you, and you,Happiness crowned the night; I too,Laughing and looking, one of all,I watched the quivering lamplight fallOn plate and flowers and pouring teaAnd cup and cloth; and they and weFlung all the dancing moments byWith jest and glitter. Lip and eyeFlashed on the glory, shone and cried,Improvident, unmemoried;And fitfully and like a flameThe light of laughter went and came.Proud in their careless transience movedThe changing faces that I loved.Till suddenly, and otherwhence,I looked upon your innocence.For lifted clear and still and strangeFrom the dark woven flow of changeUnder a vast and starless skyI saw the immortal moment lie.One instant I, an instant, knewAs God knows all. And it and youI, above Time, oh, blind! could seeIn witless immortality.I saw the marble cup; the tea,Hung on the air, an amber stream;I saw the fire's unglittering gleam,The painted flame, the frozen smoke.No more the flooding lamplight brokeOn flying eyes and lips and hair;But lay, but slept unbroken there,On stiller flesh, and body breathless,And lips and laughter stayed and deathless,And words on which no silence grew.Light was more alive than you.For suddenly, and otherwhence,I looked on your magnificence.I saw the stillness and the light,And you, august, immortal, white,Holy and strange; and every glintPosture and jest and thought and tintFreed from the mask of transiency,Triumphant in eternity,Immote, immortal.Dazed at lengthHuman eyes grew, mortal strengthWearied; and Time began to creep.Change closed about me like a sleep.Light glinted on the eyes I loved.The cup was filled. The bodies moved.The drifting petal came to ground.The laughter chimed its perfect round.The broken syllable was ended.And I, so certain and so friended,How could I cloud, or how distress,The heaven of your unconsciousness?Or shake at Time's sufficient spell,Stammering of lights unutterable?The eternal holiness of you,The timeless end, you never knew,The peace that lay, the light that shone.You never knew that I had goneA million miles away, and stayedA million years. The laughter playedUnbroken round me; and the jestFlashed on. And we that knew the bestDown wonderful hours grew happier yet.I sang at heart, and talked, and eat,And lived from laugh to laugh, I too,When you were there, and you, and you.

When you were there, and you, and you,

Happiness crowned the night; I too,

Laughing and looking, one of all,

I watched the quivering lamplight fall

On plate and flowers and pouring tea

And cup and cloth; and they and we

Flung all the dancing moments by

With jest and glitter. Lip and eye

Flashed on the glory, shone and cried,

Improvident, unmemoried;

And fitfully and like a flame

The light of laughter went and came.

Proud in their careless transience moved

The changing faces that I loved.

Till suddenly, and otherwhence,I looked upon your innocence.For lifted clear and still and strangeFrom the dark woven flow of changeUnder a vast and starless skyI saw the immortal moment lie.One instant I, an instant, knewAs God knows all. And it and youI, above Time, oh, blind! could seeIn witless immortality.I saw the marble cup; the tea,Hung on the air, an amber stream;I saw the fire's unglittering gleam,The painted flame, the frozen smoke.No more the flooding lamplight brokeOn flying eyes and lips and hair;But lay, but slept unbroken there,On stiller flesh, and body breathless,And lips and laughter stayed and deathless,And words on which no silence grew.Light was more alive than you.

Till suddenly, and otherwhence,

I looked upon your innocence.

For lifted clear and still and strange

From the dark woven flow of change

Under a vast and starless sky

I saw the immortal moment lie.

One instant I, an instant, knew

As God knows all. And it and you

I, above Time, oh, blind! could see

In witless immortality.

I saw the marble cup; the tea,

Hung on the air, an amber stream;

I saw the fire's unglittering gleam,

The painted flame, the frozen smoke.

No more the flooding lamplight broke

On flying eyes and lips and hair;

But lay, but slept unbroken there,

On stiller flesh, and body breathless,

And lips and laughter stayed and deathless,

And words on which no silence grew.

Light was more alive than you.

For suddenly, and otherwhence,I looked on your magnificence.I saw the stillness and the light,And you, august, immortal, white,Holy and strange; and every glintPosture and jest and thought and tintFreed from the mask of transiency,Triumphant in eternity,Immote, immortal.

For suddenly, and otherwhence,

I looked on your magnificence.

I saw the stillness and the light,

And you, august, immortal, white,

Holy and strange; and every glint

Posture and jest and thought and tint

Freed from the mask of transiency,

Triumphant in eternity,

Immote, immortal.

Dazed at lengthHuman eyes grew, mortal strengthWearied; and Time began to creep.Change closed about me like a sleep.Light glinted on the eyes I loved.The cup was filled. The bodies moved.The drifting petal came to ground.The laughter chimed its perfect round.The broken syllable was ended.And I, so certain and so friended,How could I cloud, or how distress,The heaven of your unconsciousness?Or shake at Time's sufficient spell,Stammering of lights unutterable?The eternal holiness of you,The timeless end, you never knew,The peace that lay, the light that shone.You never knew that I had goneA million miles away, and stayedA million years. The laughter playedUnbroken round me; and the jestFlashed on. And we that knew the bestDown wonderful hours grew happier yet.I sang at heart, and talked, and eat,And lived from laugh to laugh, I too,When you were there, and you, and you.

Dazed at length

Human eyes grew, mortal strength

Wearied; and Time began to creep.

Change closed about me like a sleep.

Light glinted on the eyes I loved.

The cup was filled. The bodies moved.

The drifting petal came to ground.

The laughter chimed its perfect round.

The broken syllable was ended.

And I, so certain and so friended,

How could I cloud, or how distress,

The heaven of your unconsciousness?

Or shake at Time's sufficient spell,

Stammering of lights unutterable?

The eternal holiness of you,

The timeless end, you never knew,

The peace that lay, the light that shone.

You never knew that I had gone

A million miles away, and stayed

A million years. The laughter played

Unbroken round me; and the jest

Flashed on. And we that knew the best

Down wonderful hours grew happier yet.

I sang at heart, and talked, and eat,

And lived from laugh to laugh, I too,

When you were there, and you, and you.

The Old Vicarage, Grantchester

Café des WestensBerlin, May 1912

Just now the lilac is in bloom,All before my little room;And in my flower-beds, I think,Smile the carnation and the pink;And down the borders, well I know,The poppy and the pansy blow...Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,Beside the river make for youA tunnel of green gloom, and sleepDeeply above; and green and deepThe stream mysterious glides beneath,Green as a dream and deep as death.—Oh, damn! I know it! And I knowHow the May fields all golden show,And when the day is young and sweet,Gild gloriously the bare feetThat run to bathe....Du lieber Gott!Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,And there the shadowed waters freshLean up to embrace the naked flesh.TemperamentvottGerman JewsDrink beer around;—and there the dewsAre soft beneath a morn of gold.Here tulips bloom as they are told;Unkempt about those hedges blowsAn English unofficial rose;And there the unregulated sunSlopes down to rest when day is done,And wakes a vague unpunctual star,A slippered Hesper; and there areMeads towards Haslingfield and CotonWheredas Betreten's notverboten....[Greek: eíthe genoimen] ... would I wereIn Grantchester, in Grantchester!—Some, it may be, can get in touchWith Nature there, or Earth, or such.And clever modern men have seenA Faun a-peeping through the green,And felt the Classics were not dead,To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,Or hear the Goat-foot piping low;But these are things I do not know.I only know that you may lieDay long and watch the Cambridge sky,And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,Until the centuries blend and blurIn Grantchester, in Grantchester....Still in the dawnlit waters coolHis ghostly Lordship swims his pool,And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx,Dan Chaucer hears his river stillChatter beneath a phantom mill.Tennyson notes, with studious eye,How Cambridge waters hurry by....And in that garden, black and white,Creep whispers through the grass all night;And spectral dance, before the dawn,A hundred Vicars down the lawn;Curates, long dust, will come and goOn lissom, clerical, printless toe;And oft between the boughs is seenThe sly shade of a Rural Dean....Till, at a shiver in the skies,Vanishing with Satanic cries,The prim ecclesiastic routLeaves but a startled sleeper-out,Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,The falling house that never falls.God! I will pack, and take a train,And get me to England once again!For England's the one land, I know,Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;And Cambridgeshire, of all England,The shire for Men who Understand;And ofthatdistrict I preferThe lovely hamlet Grantchester.For Cambridge people rarely smile,Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;And Royston men in the far SouthAre black and fierce and strange of mouth;At Over they fling oaths at one,And worse than oaths at Trumpington,And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,And there's none in Harston under thirty,And folks in Shelford and those partsHave twisted lips and twisted hearts,And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,And Coton's full of nameless crimes,And things are done you'd not believeAt Madingley, on Christmas Eve.Strong men have run for miles and miles,When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;Strong men have blanched, and shot their wivesRather than send them to St. Ives;Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,To hear what happened at Babraham.But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!There's peace and holy quiet there,Great clouds along pacific skies,And men and women with straight eyes,Lithe children lovelier than a dream,A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,And little kindly winds that creepRound twilight corners, half asleep.In Grantchester their skins are white;They bathe by day, they bathe by night;The women there do all they ought;The men observe the Rules of Thought.They love the Good; they worship Truth;They laugh uproariously in youth;(And when they get to feeling old,They up and shoot themselves, I'm told)....Ah God! to see the branches stirAcross the moon at Grantchester!To smell the thrilling-sweet and rottenUnforgettable, unforgottenRiver-smell, and hear the breezeSobbing in the little trees.Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand,Still guardians of that holy land?The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,The yet unacademic stream?Is dawn a secret shy and coldAnadyomene, silver-gold?And sunset still a golden seaFrom Haslingfield to Madingley?And after, ere the night is born,Do hares come out about the corn?Oh, is the water sweet and cool,Gentle and brown, above the pool?And laughs the immortal river stillUnder the mill, under the mill?Say, is there Beauty yet to find?And Certainty? and Quiet kind?Deep meadows yet, for to forgetThe lies, and truths, and pain? ... oh! yetStands the Church clock at ten to three?And is there honey still for tea?

Just now the lilac is in bloom,

All before my little room;

And in my flower-beds, I think,

Smile the carnation and the pink;

And down the borders, well I know,

The poppy and the pansy blow...

Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,

Beside the river make for you

A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep

Deeply above; and green and deep

The stream mysterious glides beneath,

Green as a dream and deep as death.

—Oh, damn! I know it! And I know

How the May fields all golden show,

And when the day is young and sweet,

Gild gloriously the bare feet

That run to bathe....

Du lieber Gott!

Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,

And there the shadowed waters fresh

Lean up to embrace the naked flesh.

TemperamentvottGerman JewsDrink beer around;—and there the dewsAre soft beneath a morn of gold.Here tulips bloom as they are told;Unkempt about those hedges blowsAn English unofficial rose;And there the unregulated sunSlopes down to rest when day is done,And wakes a vague unpunctual star,A slippered Hesper; and there areMeads towards Haslingfield and CotonWheredas Betreten's notverboten....

TemperamentvottGerman Jews

Drink beer around;—and there the dews

Are soft beneath a morn of gold.

Here tulips bloom as they are told;

Unkempt about those hedges blows

An English unofficial rose;

And there the unregulated sun

Slopes down to rest when day is done,

And wakes a vague unpunctual star,

A slippered Hesper; and there are

Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton

Wheredas Betreten's notverboten....

[Greek: eíthe genoimen] ... would I wereIn Grantchester, in Grantchester!—Some, it may be, can get in touchWith Nature there, or Earth, or such.And clever modern men have seenA Faun a-peeping through the green,And felt the Classics were not dead,To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,Or hear the Goat-foot piping low;But these are things I do not know.I only know that you may lieDay long and watch the Cambridge sky,And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,Until the centuries blend and blurIn Grantchester, in Grantchester....Still in the dawnlit waters coolHis ghostly Lordship swims his pool,And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx,Dan Chaucer hears his river stillChatter beneath a phantom mill.Tennyson notes, with studious eye,How Cambridge waters hurry by....And in that garden, black and white,Creep whispers through the grass all night;And spectral dance, before the dawn,A hundred Vicars down the lawn;Curates, long dust, will come and goOn lissom, clerical, printless toe;And oft between the boughs is seenThe sly shade of a Rural Dean....Till, at a shiver in the skies,Vanishing with Satanic cries,The prim ecclesiastic routLeaves but a startled sleeper-out,Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,The falling house that never falls.

[Greek: eíthe genoimen] ... would I were

In Grantchester, in Grantchester!—

Some, it may be, can get in touch

With Nature there, or Earth, or such.

And clever modern men have seen

A Faun a-peeping through the green,

And felt the Classics were not dead,

To glimpse a Naiad's reedy head,

Or hear the Goat-foot piping low;

But these are things I do not know.

I only know that you may lie

Day long and watch the Cambridge sky,

And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,

Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,

Until the centuries blend and blur

In Grantchester, in Grantchester....

Still in the dawnlit waters cool

His ghostly Lordship swims his pool,

And tries the strokes, essays the tricks,

Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx,

Dan Chaucer hears his river still

Chatter beneath a phantom mill.

Tennyson notes, with studious eye,

How Cambridge waters hurry by....

And in that garden, black and white,

Creep whispers through the grass all night;

And spectral dance, before the dawn,

A hundred Vicars down the lawn;

Curates, long dust, will come and go

On lissom, clerical, printless toe;

And oft between the boughs is seen

The sly shade of a Rural Dean....

Till, at a shiver in the skies,

Vanishing with Satanic cries,

The prim ecclesiastic rout

Leaves but a startled sleeper-out,

Grey heavens, the first bird's drowsy calls,

The falling house that never falls.

God! I will pack, and take a train,And get me to England once again!For England's the one land, I know,Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;And Cambridgeshire, of all England,The shire for Men who Understand;And ofthatdistrict I preferThe lovely hamlet Grantchester.For Cambridge people rarely smile,Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;And Royston men in the far SouthAre black and fierce and strange of mouth;At Over they fling oaths at one,And worse than oaths at Trumpington,And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,And there's none in Harston under thirty,And folks in Shelford and those partsHave twisted lips and twisted hearts,And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,And Coton's full of nameless crimes,And things are done you'd not believeAt Madingley, on Christmas Eve.Strong men have run for miles and miles,When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;Strong men have blanched, and shot their wivesRather than send them to St. Ives;Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,To hear what happened at Babraham.But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!There's peace and holy quiet there,Great clouds along pacific skies,And men and women with straight eyes,Lithe children lovelier than a dream,A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,And little kindly winds that creepRound twilight corners, half asleep.In Grantchester their skins are white;They bathe by day, they bathe by night;The women there do all they ought;The men observe the Rules of Thought.They love the Good; they worship Truth;They laugh uproariously in youth;(And when they get to feeling old,They up and shoot themselves, I'm told)....

God! I will pack, and take a train,

And get me to England once again!

For England's the one land, I know,

Where men with Splendid Hearts may go;

And Cambridgeshire, of all England,

The shire for Men who Understand;

And ofthatdistrict I prefer

The lovely hamlet Grantchester.

For Cambridge people rarely smile,

Being urban, squat, and packed with guile;

And Royston men in the far South

Are black and fierce and strange of mouth;

At Over they fling oaths at one,

And worse than oaths at Trumpington,

And Ditton girls are mean and dirty,

And there's none in Harston under thirty,

And folks in Shelford and those parts

Have twisted lips and twisted hearts,

And Barton men make Cockney rhymes,

And Coton's full of nameless crimes,

And things are done you'd not believe

At Madingley, on Christmas Eve.

Strong men have run for miles and miles,

When one from Cherry Hinton smiles;

Strong men have blanched, and shot their wives

Rather than send them to St. Ives;

Strong men have cried like babes, bydam,

To hear what happened at Babraham.

But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester!

There's peace and holy quiet there,

Great clouds along pacific skies,

And men and women with straight eyes,

Lithe children lovelier than a dream,

A bosky wood, a slumbrous stream,

And little kindly winds that creep

Round twilight corners, half asleep.

In Grantchester their skins are white;

They bathe by day, they bathe by night;

The women there do all they ought;

The men observe the Rules of Thought.

They love the Good; they worship Truth;

They laugh uproariously in youth;

(And when they get to feeling old,

They up and shoot themselves, I'm told)....

Ah God! to see the branches stirAcross the moon at Grantchester!To smell the thrilling-sweet and rottenUnforgettable, unforgottenRiver-smell, and hear the breezeSobbing in the little trees.Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand,Still guardians of that holy land?The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,The yet unacademic stream?Is dawn a secret shy and coldAnadyomene, silver-gold?And sunset still a golden seaFrom Haslingfield to Madingley?And after, ere the night is born,Do hares come out about the corn?Oh, is the water sweet and cool,Gentle and brown, above the pool?And laughs the immortal river stillUnder the mill, under the mill?Say, is there Beauty yet to find?And Certainty? and Quiet kind?Deep meadows yet, for to forgetThe lies, and truths, and pain? ... oh! yetStands the Church clock at ten to three?And is there honey still for tea?

Ah God! to see the branches stir

Across the moon at Grantchester!

To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten

Unforgettable, unforgotten

River-smell, and hear the breeze

Sobbing in the little trees.

Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand,

Still guardians of that holy land?

The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,

The yet unacademic stream?

Is dawn a secret shy and cold

Anadyomene, silver-gold?

And sunset still a golden sea

From Haslingfield to Madingley?

And after, ere the night is born,

Do hares come out about the corn?

Oh, is the water sweet and cool,

Gentle and brown, above the pool?

And laughs the immortal river still

Under the mill, under the mill?

Say, is there Beauty yet to find?

And Certainty? and Quiet kind?

Deep meadows yet, for to forget

The lies, and truths, and pain? ... oh! yet

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?

And is there honey still for tea?

The Funeral of Youth: Threnody

The day thatYouthhad died,There came to his grave-side,In decent mourning, from the county's ends,Those scattered friendsWho had lived the boon companions of his prime,And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,The days and nights and dawnings of the timeWhenYouthkept open house,Nor left untastedAught of his high emprise and ventures dear,No quest of his unshar'd—All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,Followed their old friend's bier.Follywent first,With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;And after trod the bearers, hat in hand—Laughter, most hoarse, and CaptainPridewith tannedAnd martial face all grim, and fussyJoy,Who had to catch a train, andLust, poor, snivelling boy;These bore the dear departed.Behind them, broken-hearted,CameGrief, so noisy a widow, that all said,"Had he but wedHer elder sisterSorrow, in her stead."And by her, trying to soothe her all the time,The fatherless children,Colour,Tune, andRhyme(The sweet ladRhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.Then, at the way's sad ending,Round the raw grave they stay'd. OldWisdomread,In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.There stoodRomance,The furrowing tears had mark'd her rougèd cheek;Poor oldConceit, his wonder unassuag'd;DeadInnocency'sdaughter,Ignorance;And shabby, ill-dress'dGenerosity;AndArgument, too full of woe to speak;Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged;AndFriendship—not a minute older, she;Impatience, ever taking out his watch;Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean to catchOldWisdom'sendless drone.Beautywas there,Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.Poor maz'dImagination;Fancywild;Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair;Contentment, who had knownYouthas a childAnd never seen him since. AndSpringcame too,Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers—She did not stay for long.AndTruth, andGrace, and all the merry crew,The laughingWindsandRivers, and litheHours;AndHope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowingSong;—Yes, with much woe and mourning general,At deadYouth'sfuneral,Even these were met once more together, all,Who erst the fair and livingYouthdid know;All, except onlyLove.Lovehad died long ago.

The day thatYouthhad died,

There came to his grave-side,

In decent mourning, from the county's ends,

Those scattered friends

Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,

And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,

In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,

The days and nights and dawnings of the time

WhenYouthkept open house,

Nor left untasted

Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear,

No quest of his unshar'd—

All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,

Followed their old friend's bier.

Follywent first,

With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;

And after trod the bearers, hat in hand—

Laughter, most hoarse, and CaptainPridewith tanned

And martial face all grim, and fussyJoy,

Who had to catch a train, andLust, poor, snivelling boy;

These bore the dear departed.

Behind them, broken-hearted,

CameGrief, so noisy a widow, that all said,

"Had he but wed

Her elder sisterSorrow, in her stead."

And by her, trying to soothe her all the time,

The fatherless children,Colour,Tune, andRhyme

(The sweet ladRhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.

Then, at the way's sad ending,

Round the raw grave they stay'd. OldWisdomread,

In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.

There stoodRomance,

The furrowing tears had mark'd her rougèd cheek;

Poor oldConceit, his wonder unassuag'd;

DeadInnocency'sdaughter,Ignorance;

And shabby, ill-dress'dGenerosity;

AndArgument, too full of woe to speak;

Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged;

AndFriendship—not a minute older, she;

Impatience, ever taking out his watch;

Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean to catch

OldWisdom'sendless drone.

Beautywas there,

Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.

Poor maz'dImagination;Fancywild;

Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair;

Contentment, who had knownYouthas a child

And never seen him since. AndSpringcame too,

Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers—

She did not stay for long.

AndTruth, andGrace, and all the merry crew,

The laughingWindsandRivers, and litheHours;

AndHope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowingSong;—

Yes, with much woe and mourning general,

At deadYouth'sfuneral,

Even these were met once more together, all,

Who erst the fair and livingYouthdid know;

All, except onlyLove.Lovehad died long ago.

Beauty and Beauty

When Beauty and Beauty meetAll naked, fair to fair,The earth is crying-sweet,And scattering-bright the air,Eddying, dizzying, closing round,With soft and drunken laughter;Veiling all that may befallAfter—after—Where Beauty and Beauty met,Earth's still a-tremble there,And winds are scented yet,And memory-soft the air,Bosoming, folding glints of light,And shreds of shadowy laughter;Not the tears that fill the yearsAfter—after—

When Beauty and Beauty meet

All naked, fair to fair,

The earth is crying-sweet,

And scattering-bright the air,

Eddying, dizzying, closing round,

With soft and drunken laughter;

Veiling all that may befall

After—after—

Where Beauty and Beauty met,Earth's still a-tremble there,And winds are scented yet,And memory-soft the air,Bosoming, folding glints of light,And shreds of shadowy laughter;Not the tears that fill the yearsAfter—after—

Where Beauty and Beauty met,

Earth's still a-tremble there,

And winds are scented yet,

And memory-soft the air,

Bosoming, folding glints of light,

And shreds of shadowy laughter;

Not the tears that fill the years

After—after—

The Chilterns

Your hands, my dear, adorable,Your lips of tenderness—Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,Three years, or a bit less.It wasn't a success.Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,Quit of my youth and you,The Roman road to WendoverBy Tring and Lilley Hoo,As a free man may do.For youth goes over, the joys that fly,The tears that follow fast;And the dirtiest things we do must lieForgotten at the last;Even Love goes past.What's left behind I shall not find,The splendour and the pain;The splash of sun, the shouting wind,And the brave sting of rain,I may not meet again.But the years, that take the best away,Give something in the end;And a better friend than love have they,For none to mar or mend,That have themselves to friend.I shall desire and I shall findThe best of my desires;The autumn road, the mellow windThat soothes the darkening shires.And laughter, and inn-fires.White mist about the black hedgerows,The slumbering Midland plain,The silence where the clover grows,And the dead leaves in the lane,Certainly, these remain.And I shall find some girl perhaps,And a better one than you,With eyes as wise, but kindlier,And lips as soft, but true.And I daresay she will do.

Your hands, my dear, adorable,Your lips of tenderness—Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,Three years, or a bit less.It wasn't a success.

Your hands, my dear, adorable,

Your lips of tenderness

—Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,

Three years, or a bit less.It wasn't a success.

Three years, or a bit less.

It wasn't a success.

Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,Quit of my youth and you,The Roman road to WendoverBy Tring and Lilley Hoo,As a free man may do.

Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,

Quit of my youth and you,

The Roman road to Wendover

By Tring and Lilley Hoo,As a free man may do.

By Tring and Lilley Hoo,

As a free man may do.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly,The tears that follow fast;And the dirtiest things we do must lieForgotten at the last;Even Love goes past.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly,

The tears that follow fast;

And the dirtiest things we do must lie

Forgotten at the last;Even Love goes past.

Forgotten at the last;

Even Love goes past.

What's left behind I shall not find,The splendour and the pain;The splash of sun, the shouting wind,And the brave sting of rain,I may not meet again.

What's left behind I shall not find,

The splendour and the pain;

The splash of sun, the shouting wind,

And the brave sting of rain,I may not meet again.

And the brave sting of rain,

I may not meet again.

But the years, that take the best away,Give something in the end;And a better friend than love have they,For none to mar or mend,That have themselves to friend.

But the years, that take the best away,

Give something in the end;

And a better friend than love have they,

For none to mar or mend,That have themselves to friend.

For none to mar or mend,

That have themselves to friend.

I shall desire and I shall findThe best of my desires;The autumn road, the mellow windThat soothes the darkening shires.And laughter, and inn-fires.

I shall desire and I shall find

The best of my desires;

The autumn road, the mellow wind

That soothes the darkening shires.And laughter, and inn-fires.

That soothes the darkening shires.

And laughter, and inn-fires.

White mist about the black hedgerows,The slumbering Midland plain,The silence where the clover grows,And the dead leaves in the lane,Certainly, these remain.

White mist about the black hedgerows,

The slumbering Midland plain,

The silence where the clover grows,

And the dead leaves in the lane,Certainly, these remain.

And the dead leaves in the lane,

Certainly, these remain.

And I shall find some girl perhaps,And a better one than you,With eyes as wise, but kindlier,And lips as soft, but true.And I daresay she will do.

And I shall find some girl perhaps,

And a better one than you,

With eyes as wise, but kindlier,

And lips as soft, but true.And I daresay she will do.

And lips as soft, but true.

And I daresay she will do.

Love

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,Where that comes in that shall not go again;Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.They have known shame, who love unloved. Even thenWhen two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,And agony's forgot, and hushed the cryingOf credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but takingTheir own poor dreams within their arms, and lyingEach in his lonely night, each with a ghost.Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.All this is love; and all love is but this.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,

Where that comes in that shall not go again;

Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.

They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then

When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,

And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying

Of credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but taking

Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying

Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.

Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,

Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.

Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,

But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.

All this is love; and all love is but this.

The Busy Heart

Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;And evening hush, broken by homing wings;And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,One after one, like tasting a sweet food.I have need to busy my heart with quietude.

Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,

I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.

(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)

I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;

Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;

And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;

And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;

And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;

And evening hush, broken by homing wings;

And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,

That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,

Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,

One after one, like tasting a sweet food.

I have need to busy my heart with quietude.

He Wonders Whether to Praiseor to Blame Her

I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over,But if to praise or blame you, cannot say.For, who decries the loved, decries the lover;Yet what man lauds the thing he's thrown away?Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught,The more fool I, so great a fool to adore;But if you're that high goddess once I thought,The more your godhead is, I lose the more.Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever!Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you!Most fair,—the blind has lost your face for ever!Most foul,—how could I see you while I kissed you?So ... the poor love of fools and blind I've proved you,For, foul or lovely, 'twas a fool that loved you.

I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over,But if to praise or blame you, cannot say.For, who decries the loved, decries the lover;Yet what man lauds the thing he's thrown away?

I have peace to weigh your worth, now all is over,

But if to praise or blame you, cannot say.

For, who decries the loved, decries the lover;

Yet what man lauds the thing he's thrown away?

Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught,The more fool I, so great a fool to adore;But if you're that high goddess once I thought,The more your godhead is, I lose the more.

Be you, in truth, this dull, slight, cloudy naught,

The more fool I, so great a fool to adore;

But if you're that high goddess once I thought,

The more your godhead is, I lose the more.

Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever!Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you!Most fair,—the blind has lost your face for ever!Most foul,—how could I see you while I kissed you?

Dear fool, pity the fool who thought you clever!

Dear wisdom, do not mock the fool that missed you!

Most fair,—the blind has lost your face for ever!

Most foul,—how could I see you while I kissed you?

So ... the poor love of fools and blind I've proved you,For, foul or lovely, 'twas a fool that loved you.

So ... the poor love of fools and blind I've proved you,

For, foul or lovely, 'twas a fool that loved you.

Hauntings

In the grey tumult of these after yearsOft silence falls; the incessant wranglers part;And less-than-echoes of remembered tearsHush all the loud confusion of the heart;And a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying,Hungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood,—Quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,Comes back the ecstasy of your quietude.So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams,Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams,Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men,Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible,And light on waving grass, he knows not when,And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.THE PACIFIC, 1914

In the grey tumult of these after years

Oft silence falls; the incessant wranglers part;

And less-than-echoes of remembered tears

Hush all the loud confusion of the heart;

And a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying,

Hungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood,—

Quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,

Comes back the ecstasy of your quietude.

So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams,Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams,Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men,Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible,And light on waving grass, he knows not when,And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.

So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams,

Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams,

Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men,

Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible,

And light on waving grass, he knows not when,

And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.

THE PACIFIC, 1914

One Day

Today I have been happy. All the dayI held the memory of you, and woveIts laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,And sent you following the white waves of sea,And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,Stray buds from that old dust of misery,Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.So lightly I played with those dark memories,Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,And love has been betrayed, and murder done,And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.THE PACIFIC,October1913

Today I have been happy. All the day

I held the memory of you, and wove

Its laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,

And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,

And sent you following the white waves of sea,

And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,

Stray buds from that old dust of misery,

Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.

So lightly I played with those dark memories,Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,And love has been betrayed, and murder done,And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.

So lightly I played with those dark memories,

Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,

Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,

For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,

And love has been betrayed, and murder done,

And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.

THE PACIFIC,October1913

Sonnet

(Suggested by some of the Proceedings of theSociety for Psychical Research)Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor treadThose dusty high-roads of the aimless deadPlaintive for Earth; but rather turn and runDown some close-covered by-way of the air,Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, findSome whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and thereSpend in pure converse our eternal day;Think each in each, immediately wise;Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and sayWhat this tumultuous body now denies;And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

(Suggested by some of the Proceedings of theSociety for Psychical Research)

(Suggested by some of the Proceedings of the

Society for Psychical Research)

Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor treadThose dusty high-roads of the aimless deadPlaintive for Earth; but rather turn and runDown some close-covered by-way of the air,Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, findSome whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there

Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,

We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor treadThose dusty high-roads of the aimless dead

We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread

Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead

Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run

Down some close-covered by-way of the air,

Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find

Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,

Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find

Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there

Spend in pure converse our eternal day;Think each in each, immediately wise;Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and sayWhat this tumultuous body now denies;And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

Spend in pure converse our eternal day;

Think each in each, immediately wise;

Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say

What this tumultuous body now denies;

And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;

And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

Clouds

Down the blue night the unending columns pressIn noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snowUp to the white moon's hidden loveliness.Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,As who would pray good for the world, but knowTheir benediction empty as they bless.They say that the Dead die not, but remainNear to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,In wise majestic melancholy train,And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,And men, coming and going on the earth.THE PACIFIC,October1913

Down the blue night the unending columns press

In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow

In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,

Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow

Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.

Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,

And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,As who would pray good for the world, but know

And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,

As who would pray good for the world, but know

Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remainNear to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,In wise majestic melancholy train,And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,And men, coming and going on the earth.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain

Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,

Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.

I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,

In wise majestic melancholy train,

And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,And men, coming and going on the earth.

And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,

And men, coming and going on the earth.

THE PACIFIC,October1913

Mutability

They say there's a high windless world and strange,Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,Æterna corpora, subject to no change.There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,And perishing hearts, imperishable Love....Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;Love has no habitation but the heart.Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,Cling, and are borne into the night apart.The laugh dies with the lips, "Love" with the lover.SOUTH KENSINGTON—MAKAWELI, 1913

They say there's a high windless world and strange,

Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,

Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,

Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,

Æterna corpora, subject to no change.

There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;

There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,

There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;

Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,

And perishing hearts, imperishable Love....

Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;Love has no habitation but the heart.Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,Cling, and are borne into the night apart.The laugh dies with the lips, "Love" with the lover.

Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;

Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;Love has no habitation but the heart.

Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;

Love has no habitation but the heart.

Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,

Cling, and are borne into the night apart.The laugh dies with the lips, "Love" with the lover.

Cling, and are borne into the night apart.

The laugh dies with the lips, "Love" with the lover.

SOUTH KENSINGTON—MAKAWELI, 1913

Heaven

Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,Each secret fishy hope or fear.Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;But is there anything Beyond?This life cannot be All, they swear,For how unpleasant, if it were!One may not doubt that, somehow, goodShall come of Water and of Mud;And, sure, the reverent eye must seeA Purpose in Liquidity.We darkly know, by Faith we cry,The future is not Wholly Dry.Mud unto Mud!—Death eddies near—Not here the appointed End, not here!But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,Is wetter water, slimier slime!And there (they trust) there swimmeth OneWho swam ere rivers were begun,Immense, of fishy form and mind,Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;And under that Almighty Fin,The littlest fish may enter in.Oh! never fly conceals a hook,Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,But more than mundane weeds are there,And mud, celestially fair;Fat caterpillars drift around,And Paradisal grubs are found;Unfading moths, immortal flies,And the worm that never dies.And in that Heaven of all their wish,There shall be no more land, say fish.

Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,

Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)

Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,

Each secret fishy hope or fear.

Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;

But is there anything Beyond?

This life cannot be All, they swear,

For how unpleasant, if it were!

One may not doubt that, somehow, good

Shall come of Water and of Mud;

And, sure, the reverent eye must see

A Purpose in Liquidity.

We darkly know, by Faith we cry,

The future is not Wholly Dry.

Mud unto Mud!—Death eddies near—

Not here the appointed End, not here!

But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,

Is wetter water, slimier slime!

And there (they trust) there swimmeth One

Who swam ere rivers were begun,

Immense, of fishy form and mind,

Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;

And under that Almighty Fin,

The littlest fish may enter in.

Oh! never fly conceals a hook,

Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,

But more than mundane weeds are there,

And mud, celestially fair;

Fat caterpillars drift around,

And Paradisal grubs are found;

Unfading moths, immortal flies,

And the worm that never dies.

And in that Heaven of all their wish,

There shall be no more land, say fish.

Tiare Tahiti

Mamua, when our laughter ends,And hearts and bodies, brown as white,Are dust about the doors of friends,Or scent a-blowing down the night,Then, oh! then, the wise agree,Comes our immortality.Mamua, there waits a landHard for us to understand.Out of time, beyond the sun,All are one in Paradise,You and Pupure are one,And Taü, and the ungainly wise.There the Eternals are, and thereThe Good, the Lovely, and the True,And Types, whose earthly copies wereThe foolish broken things we knew;There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;The real, the never-setting Star;And the Flower, of which we loveFaint and fading shadows here;Never a tear, but only Grief;Dance, but not the limbs that move;Songs in Song shall disappear;Instead of lovers, Love shall be;For hearts, Immutability;And there, on the Ideal Reef,Thunders the Everlasting Sea!And my laughter, and my pain,Shall home to the Eternal Brain.And all lovely things, they say,Meet in Loveliness again;Miri's laugh, Teïpo's feet,And the hands of Matua,Stars and sunlight there shall meet,Coral's hues and rainbows there,And Teüra's braided hair;And with the starredtiare'swhite,And white birds in the dark ravine,Andflamboyantsablaze at night,And jewels, and evening's after-green,And dawns of pearl and gold and red,Mamua, your lovelier head!And there'll no more be one who dreamsUnder the ferns, of crumbling stuff,Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,All time-entangled human love.And you'll no longer swing and swayDivinely down the scented shade,Where feet to Ambulation fade,And moons are lost in endless Day.How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,Where there are neither heads nor flowers?Oh, Heaven's Heaven!—but we'll be missingThe palms, and sunlight, and the south;And there's an end, I think, of kissing,When our mouths are one with Mouth....Taü here, Mamua,Crown the hair, and come away!Hear the calling of the moon,And the whispering scents that strayAbout the idle warm lagoon.Hasten, hand in human hand,Down the dark, the flowered way,Along the whiteness of the sand,And in the water's soft caressWash the mind of foolishness,Mamua, until the day.Spend the glittering moonlight therePursuing down the soundless deepLimbs that gleam and shadowy hair,Or floating lazy, half-asleep.Dive and double and follow after,Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,With lips that fade, and human laughter,And faces individual,Well this side of Paradise! ....There's little comfort in the wise.PAPEETE, February 1914

Mamua, when our laughter ends,

And hearts and bodies, brown as white,

Are dust about the doors of friends,

Or scent a-blowing down the night,

Then, oh! then, the wise agree,

Comes our immortality.

Mamua, there waits a land

Hard for us to understand.

Out of time, beyond the sun,

All are one in Paradise,

You and Pupure are one,

And Taü, and the ungainly wise.

There the Eternals are, and there

The Good, the Lovely, and the True,

And Types, whose earthly copies were

The foolish broken things we knew;

There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;

The real, the never-setting Star;

And the Flower, of which we love

Faint and fading shadows here;

Never a tear, but only Grief;

Dance, but not the limbs that move;

Songs in Song shall disappear;

Instead of lovers, Love shall be;

For hearts, Immutability;

And there, on the Ideal Reef,

Thunders the Everlasting Sea!

And my laughter, and my pain,Shall home to the Eternal Brain.And all lovely things, they say,Meet in Loveliness again;Miri's laugh, Teïpo's feet,And the hands of Matua,Stars and sunlight there shall meet,Coral's hues and rainbows there,And Teüra's braided hair;And with the starredtiare'swhite,And white birds in the dark ravine,Andflamboyantsablaze at night,And jewels, and evening's after-green,And dawns of pearl and gold and red,Mamua, your lovelier head!And there'll no more be one who dreamsUnder the ferns, of crumbling stuff,Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,All time-entangled human love.And you'll no longer swing and swayDivinely down the scented shade,Where feet to Ambulation fade,And moons are lost in endless Day.How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,Where there are neither heads nor flowers?Oh, Heaven's Heaven!—but we'll be missingThe palms, and sunlight, and the south;And there's an end, I think, of kissing,When our mouths are one with Mouth....

And my laughter, and my pain,

Shall home to the Eternal Brain.

And all lovely things, they say,

Meet in Loveliness again;

Miri's laugh, Teïpo's feet,

And the hands of Matua,

Stars and sunlight there shall meet,

Coral's hues and rainbows there,

And Teüra's braided hair;

And with the starredtiare'swhite,

And white birds in the dark ravine,

Andflamboyantsablaze at night,

And jewels, and evening's after-green,

And dawns of pearl and gold and red,

Mamua, your lovelier head!

And there'll no more be one who dreams

Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff,

Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,

All time-entangled human love.

And you'll no longer swing and sway

Divinely down the scented shade,

Where feet to Ambulation fade,

And moons are lost in endless Day.

How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,

Where there are neither heads nor flowers?

Oh, Heaven's Heaven!—but we'll be missing

The palms, and sunlight, and the south;

And there's an end, I think, of kissing,

When our mouths are one with Mouth....

Taü here, Mamua,Crown the hair, and come away!Hear the calling of the moon,And the whispering scents that strayAbout the idle warm lagoon.Hasten, hand in human hand,Down the dark, the flowered way,Along the whiteness of the sand,And in the water's soft caressWash the mind of foolishness,Mamua, until the day.Spend the glittering moonlight therePursuing down the soundless deepLimbs that gleam and shadowy hair,Or floating lazy, half-asleep.Dive and double and follow after,Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,With lips that fade, and human laughter,And faces individual,Well this side of Paradise! ....There's little comfort in the wise.

Taü here, Mamua,

Crown the hair, and come away!

Hear the calling of the moon,

And the whispering scents that stray

About the idle warm lagoon.

Hasten, hand in human hand,

Down the dark, the flowered way,

Along the whiteness of the sand,

And in the water's soft caress

Wash the mind of foolishness,

Mamua, until the day.

Spend the glittering moonlight there

Pursuing down the soundless deep

Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair,

Or floating lazy, half-asleep.

Dive and double and follow after,

Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,

With lips that fade, and human laughter,

And faces individual,

Well this side of Paradise! ....

There's little comfort in the wise.

PAPEETE, February 1914

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