THE sun is shining in the August weatherIn the little room and, I suppose,Gilding the painted parrot on the wall,The truckle-bed, the table and the roseOf the poor carpet that we bought together.And from the street the muted voices callAs though we saw, as though we heard it all.
THE sun is shining in the August weatherIn the little room and, I suppose,Gilding the painted parrot on the wall,The truckle-bed, the table and the roseOf the poor carpet that we bought together.And from the street the muted voices callAs though we saw, as though we heard it all.
THE sun is shining in the August weatherIn the little room and, I suppose,Gilding the painted parrot on the wall,The truckle-bed, the table and the roseOf the poor carpet that we bought together.And from the street the muted voices callAs though we saw, as though we heard it all.
LET it be written down, while still the woundFesters and there is horror in the worldAt what was done and suffered, while unfurledThe wings of death are dark upon the ground.Let it be written “Death we have not foundThe worst, though death is evil, nor the curledFangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurledThe tracery of old cities, when no soundIs in their broken streets. But there’s an apeOut of the slime into the spirit creeping,That twists mankind back, back into the shapeThat mumbles carrion. Here’s the cause for weeping.Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rustAs their flame dies and smoulders into lust.”
LET it be written down, while still the woundFesters and there is horror in the worldAt what was done and suffered, while unfurledThe wings of death are dark upon the ground.Let it be written “Death we have not foundThe worst, though death is evil, nor the curledFangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurledThe tracery of old cities, when no soundIs in their broken streets. But there’s an apeOut of the slime into the spirit creeping,That twists mankind back, back into the shapeThat mumbles carrion. Here’s the cause for weeping.Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rustAs their flame dies and smoulders into lust.”
LET it be written down, while still the woundFesters and there is horror in the worldAt what was done and suffered, while unfurledThe wings of death are dark upon the ground.Let it be written “Death we have not foundThe worst, though death is evil, nor the curledFangs of disease, nor yet to ruin hurledThe tracery of old cities, when no sound
Is in their broken streets. But there’s an apeOut of the slime into the spirit creeping,That twists mankind back, back into the shapeThat mumbles carrion. Here’s the cause for weeping.Prognathous chin, slant forehead, eyes that rustAs their flame dies and smoulders into lust.”
WHY should I care for love? The urgent rose—What does she promise the heart and what fulfill?“Delight, delight” she whispers, and she goes ...But love the rose outbidding is falser still.Why should I care for love? But hush, oh hush!What bird is singing in the dawn “ForgetThe spring,” and, you,—have you forgotten, thrush?...But love the thrush outsinging is falser yet.Why should I care for love? Love does not careWhether you care or do not care, says she!But ask your lips how the rose smells in my hair,If the thrush beats at my heart—here—Anthony!
WHY should I care for love? The urgent rose—What does she promise the heart and what fulfill?“Delight, delight” she whispers, and she goes ...But love the rose outbidding is falser still.Why should I care for love? But hush, oh hush!What bird is singing in the dawn “ForgetThe spring,” and, you,—have you forgotten, thrush?...But love the thrush outsinging is falser yet.Why should I care for love? Love does not careWhether you care or do not care, says she!But ask your lips how the rose smells in my hair,If the thrush beats at my heart—here—Anthony!
WHY should I care for love? The urgent rose—What does she promise the heart and what fulfill?“Delight, delight” she whispers, and she goes ...But love the rose outbidding is falser still.
Why should I care for love? But hush, oh hush!What bird is singing in the dawn “ForgetThe spring,” and, you,—have you forgotten, thrush?...But love the thrush outsinging is falser yet.
Why should I care for love? Love does not careWhether you care or do not care, says she!But ask your lips how the rose smells in my hair,If the thrush beats at my heart—here—Anthony!
IN your black hair are there not nightingalesSinging in the dark, and when you let it downIs there no stir in the air of tiniest sailsThat ever on lost seas of song were blown?In your black hair the heart of HyacinthLaments the daylight he shall see no more,And flowers are red as in the labyrinthThe red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakesThat twine themselves about Laocoon,How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaksBefore they strike and turn it into stone.
IN your black hair are there not nightingalesSinging in the dark, and when you let it downIs there no stir in the air of tiniest sailsThat ever on lost seas of song were blown?In your black hair the heart of HyacinthLaments the daylight he shall see no more,And flowers are red as in the labyrinthThe red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakesThat twine themselves about Laocoon,How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaksBefore they strike and turn it into stone.
IN your black hair are there not nightingalesSinging in the dark, and when you let it downIs there no stir in the air of tiniest sailsThat ever on lost seas of song were blown?
In your black hair the heart of HyacinthLaments the daylight he shall see no more,And flowers are red as in the labyrinthThe red eyes of the crazy Minotaur.
In your black hair, Medusa, there are snakesThat twine themselves about Laocoon,How soft, how warm! and how the poor heart breaksBefore they strike and turn it into stone.
TRUTH is the fourth dimension. By her graceMotion, the idiot of time and space,Grows reasonable, so that the spirit seesBehind the aimless drag of categoriesThe moving centuries, whose gestures mirrorAnd dissipate the cloudy shapes of error.O there’s the long way back, the dawns that scatterLike startled birds about the spirit, and chatterOf animal voices seeking lucid speechIn colonies of darkness. Truth can stretch,Though motionless, and set a hatchet blazingA path through the jungle where an ape is gazingAt the edge of a little light, with dripping muzzle,Black writhing palms, and eyes a drowsy puzzleOf fears and beastlike hopes. Then the light reachesHis pelt and holds him fast. In vain he snatchesAt the sheltering trees, in vain the leafy danceDown the long avenues of ignorance.Knowledge and the pain of knowledge fly beside him,And, where the leaves are darkest, clutch and ride himUntil he sloughs the shape of beast and canStand in the dawn upon his feet a man.But the jungle is not cleared, and still the shapesOf time and space and error move like apes.
TRUTH is the fourth dimension. By her graceMotion, the idiot of time and space,Grows reasonable, so that the spirit seesBehind the aimless drag of categoriesThe moving centuries, whose gestures mirrorAnd dissipate the cloudy shapes of error.O there’s the long way back, the dawns that scatterLike startled birds about the spirit, and chatterOf animal voices seeking lucid speechIn colonies of darkness. Truth can stretch,Though motionless, and set a hatchet blazingA path through the jungle where an ape is gazingAt the edge of a little light, with dripping muzzle,Black writhing palms, and eyes a drowsy puzzleOf fears and beastlike hopes. Then the light reachesHis pelt and holds him fast. In vain he snatchesAt the sheltering trees, in vain the leafy danceDown the long avenues of ignorance.Knowledge and the pain of knowledge fly beside him,And, where the leaves are darkest, clutch and ride himUntil he sloughs the shape of beast and canStand in the dawn upon his feet a man.But the jungle is not cleared, and still the shapesOf time and space and error move like apes.
TRUTH is the fourth dimension. By her graceMotion, the idiot of time and space,Grows reasonable, so that the spirit seesBehind the aimless drag of categoriesThe moving centuries, whose gestures mirrorAnd dissipate the cloudy shapes of error.O there’s the long way back, the dawns that scatterLike startled birds about the spirit, and chatterOf animal voices seeking lucid speechIn colonies of darkness. Truth can stretch,Though motionless, and set a hatchet blazingA path through the jungle where an ape is gazingAt the edge of a little light, with dripping muzzle,Black writhing palms, and eyes a drowsy puzzleOf fears and beastlike hopes. Then the light reachesHis pelt and holds him fast. In vain he snatchesAt the sheltering trees, in vain the leafy danceDown the long avenues of ignorance.Knowledge and the pain of knowledge fly beside him,And, where the leaves are darkest, clutch and ride himUntil he sloughs the shape of beast and canStand in the dawn upon his feet a man.
But the jungle is not cleared, and still the shapesOf time and space and error move like apes.
WITH this golden pencil—write“Written words must serve for sight.For the broken lights that stirredWedded eyes the complete word.Written words the trembling nerveOf the lover’s ear must serve.Laughter’s done and tears are over—Written words, instead, my lover.Words that have no scent must tellHow the secret jonquils smellIn your hair, and words protestThere are jonquils at your breast.Written words the gift must waste,When the very air hath tasteOf your lip, the sweets that partLove’s soft mouth and reach the heart.Separable these awaitFor the fifth to consummate,That are nothing, each alone,But all heaven joined in one.This, being lost, had hurt too much,Here are words instead of touch.”Therefore write and break the lead“Love that was alive is dead.”
WITH this golden pencil—write“Written words must serve for sight.For the broken lights that stirredWedded eyes the complete word.Written words the trembling nerveOf the lover’s ear must serve.Laughter’s done and tears are over—Written words, instead, my lover.Words that have no scent must tellHow the secret jonquils smellIn your hair, and words protestThere are jonquils at your breast.Written words the gift must waste,When the very air hath tasteOf your lip, the sweets that partLove’s soft mouth and reach the heart.Separable these awaitFor the fifth to consummate,That are nothing, each alone,But all heaven joined in one.This, being lost, had hurt too much,Here are words instead of touch.”Therefore write and break the lead“Love that was alive is dead.”
WITH this golden pencil—write“Written words must serve for sight.For the broken lights that stirredWedded eyes the complete word.
Written words the trembling nerveOf the lover’s ear must serve.Laughter’s done and tears are over—Written words, instead, my lover.
Words that have no scent must tellHow the secret jonquils smellIn your hair, and words protestThere are jonquils at your breast.
Written words the gift must waste,When the very air hath tasteOf your lip, the sweets that partLove’s soft mouth and reach the heart.
Separable these awaitFor the fifth to consummate,That are nothing, each alone,But all heaven joined in one.
This, being lost, had hurt too much,Here are words instead of touch.”
Therefore write and break the lead“Love that was alive is dead.”
IF any ask, O tell them that the moonWas lit in heaven when Queen AshtarothBeat at her lamp and fell upon the swoonOf love that soars in fire to fall a moth.If any ask, O tell them that for thisPriam’s great city of Troy was sacrificed,For love that is as bitter as the kissOf Judas the Iscariot, slaying Christ.If any ask, O tell them it is well,Though love comes like the swallow and flies as soon:Who has not found his heaven in the HellOf love unsatisfied beneath the moon?
IF any ask, O tell them that the moonWas lit in heaven when Queen AshtarothBeat at her lamp and fell upon the swoonOf love that soars in fire to fall a moth.If any ask, O tell them that for thisPriam’s great city of Troy was sacrificed,For love that is as bitter as the kissOf Judas the Iscariot, slaying Christ.If any ask, O tell them it is well,Though love comes like the swallow and flies as soon:Who has not found his heaven in the HellOf love unsatisfied beneath the moon?
IF any ask, O tell them that the moonWas lit in heaven when Queen AshtarothBeat at her lamp and fell upon the swoonOf love that soars in fire to fall a moth.
If any ask, O tell them that for thisPriam’s great city of Troy was sacrificed,For love that is as bitter as the kissOf Judas the Iscariot, slaying Christ.
If any ask, O tell them it is well,Though love comes like the swallow and flies as soon:Who has not found his heaven in the HellOf love unsatisfied beneath the moon?
THE crowder’s tuneDown a street in Babylon—His fiddle to the moonWith notes like stars that one by oneGlittered upon the empty street,Glittered and laughed and went(But there was a lisp of ghostly feet)To build a firmament.“Who walks by night in Babylon?‘I,’ said a lady, ‘becauseOf the wonderful thing I was,And the beautiful things all done,I walk in Babylon.’Who seeks for a lady by night?‘I,’ said a king, ‘My throneIs empty in Babylon.She fled from the light to the light,I seek for a lady by night.’Who calls by night in Babylon?‘They,’ answered love, ‘Yes over and overShe calls to her God, but he to his lover,And each of them walks by night alone,And they will not meet in Babylon.’”The crowder playedHis little tune, almostAs though he were afraidOf some forgotten ghostAwakening,And crying on the stringOf what was lostAnd would not comeAgain.He feared in vain.For the ghost, the ghost is dumbOf love that is past over,And the merciless laughter of the moonPursues the ghostly lover,Till in the empty streetThere’s an end of the lisp of feet,And the crowder breaks his fiddle and the tune,And all the stars are goneIn Babylon.
THE crowder’s tuneDown a street in Babylon—His fiddle to the moonWith notes like stars that one by oneGlittered upon the empty street,Glittered and laughed and went(But there was a lisp of ghostly feet)To build a firmament.“Who walks by night in Babylon?‘I,’ said a lady, ‘becauseOf the wonderful thing I was,And the beautiful things all done,I walk in Babylon.’Who seeks for a lady by night?‘I,’ said a king, ‘My throneIs empty in Babylon.She fled from the light to the light,I seek for a lady by night.’Who calls by night in Babylon?‘They,’ answered love, ‘Yes over and overShe calls to her God, but he to his lover,And each of them walks by night alone,And they will not meet in Babylon.’”The crowder playedHis little tune, almostAs though he were afraidOf some forgotten ghostAwakening,And crying on the stringOf what was lostAnd would not comeAgain.He feared in vain.For the ghost, the ghost is dumbOf love that is past over,And the merciless laughter of the moonPursues the ghostly lover,Till in the empty streetThere’s an end of the lisp of feet,And the crowder breaks his fiddle and the tune,And all the stars are goneIn Babylon.
THE crowder’s tuneDown a street in Babylon—His fiddle to the moonWith notes like stars that one by oneGlittered upon the empty street,Glittered and laughed and went(But there was a lisp of ghostly feet)To build a firmament.
“Who walks by night in Babylon?‘I,’ said a lady, ‘becauseOf the wonderful thing I was,And the beautiful things all done,I walk in Babylon.’
Who seeks for a lady by night?‘I,’ said a king, ‘My throneIs empty in Babylon.She fled from the light to the light,I seek for a lady by night.’
Who calls by night in Babylon?‘They,’ answered love, ‘Yes over and overShe calls to her God, but he to his lover,And each of them walks by night alone,And they will not meet in Babylon.’”
The crowder playedHis little tune, almostAs though he were afraidOf some forgotten ghostAwakening,And crying on the stringOf what was lostAnd would not comeAgain.He feared in vain.For the ghost, the ghost is dumbOf love that is past over,And the merciless laughter of the moonPursues the ghostly lover,Till in the empty streetThere’s an end of the lisp of feet,And the crowder breaks his fiddle and the tune,And all the stars are goneIn Babylon.
PAST Buckhurst Hill the motor-busTakes and shakes the three of us.When first we went, there were but twoIn Epping Forest, I and you.That summer as I understandA forester from fairylandSet a notice up, “No road,”By the ways our feet had trod.No one came and no one knew,When the spring returned and blueFlowers burned, how deep behindBurned the blossoms of the mind.No one guessed and no one heardHow beyond the singing bird,Some one sang in solitudeIn the wood within the wood.No one watched the years go by(Not even you, not even I),In the wood alone apartGreen and waiting in the heart.Till last week the foresterHeard a little footstep stir,Took his notice down and smiledAt the coming of a child.Conquering the solitudeA child is laughing in the wood.Past Buckhurst Hill the motor-busTakes us back the three of us.
PAST Buckhurst Hill the motor-busTakes and shakes the three of us.When first we went, there were but twoIn Epping Forest, I and you.That summer as I understandA forester from fairylandSet a notice up, “No road,”By the ways our feet had trod.No one came and no one knew,When the spring returned and blueFlowers burned, how deep behindBurned the blossoms of the mind.No one guessed and no one heardHow beyond the singing bird,Some one sang in solitudeIn the wood within the wood.No one watched the years go by(Not even you, not even I),In the wood alone apartGreen and waiting in the heart.Till last week the foresterHeard a little footstep stir,Took his notice down and smiledAt the coming of a child.Conquering the solitudeA child is laughing in the wood.Past Buckhurst Hill the motor-busTakes us back the three of us.
PAST Buckhurst Hill the motor-busTakes and shakes the three of us.When first we went, there were but twoIn Epping Forest, I and you.
That summer as I understandA forester from fairylandSet a notice up, “No road,”By the ways our feet had trod.
No one came and no one knew,When the spring returned and blueFlowers burned, how deep behindBurned the blossoms of the mind.
No one guessed and no one heardHow beyond the singing bird,Some one sang in solitudeIn the wood within the wood.
No one watched the years go by(Not even you, not even I),In the wood alone apartGreen and waiting in the heart.
Till last week the foresterHeard a little footstep stir,Took his notice down and smiledAt the coming of a child.
Conquering the solitudeA child is laughing in the wood.Past Buckhurst Hill the motor-busTakes us back the three of us.
Printed at The Vincent Works, Oxford.