D. H. LAWRENCE

There has been so much noise,Bleeding and shouting and dying,Clamour of death.

There are so many dead,Many have died unconsenting,Their ghosts are angry, unappeased.

So many ghosts among us,Invisible, yet strong,Between me and thee, so many ghosts of the slain.

They come back, over the white sea, in the mist,Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghostsEndlessly returning on the uneasy sea.

They set foot on this land to which they have the right,They return relentlessly, in the silence one knows their tread,Multitudinous, endless, the ghosts coming home again.

They watch us, they press on us,They press their claim upon us,They are angry with us.

What do they want?We are driven mad,Madly we rush hither and thither:Shouting, “Revenge, Revenge,”Crying, “Pour out the blood of the foe,”Seeking to appease with blood the insistent ghosts.

Out of blood rise up new ghosts,Grey, stern, angry, unsatisfied,The more we slay and are slain, the more we raise up new ghosts against us.

Till we are mad with terror, seeing the slainVictorious, grey, grisly ghosts in our streets,Grey, unappeased ghosts seated in the music-halls.The dead triumphant, and the quick cast down,The dead, unassuaged and angry, silencing us,Making us pale and bloodless, without resistance.

What do they want, the ghosts, what is itThey demand as they stand in menace over against us?How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?

Since from blood poured out rise only ghosts again,What shall we do, what shall we give to them?What do they want, forever there on our threshold?

Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home,And in the silence, reverently, welcome them,And give them place and honour and service meet?

For one year's space, attend on our angry dead,Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet,Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence,Then lead them to the gates of the unknown,And bid farewell, oh stately travellers,And wait till they are lost upon our sight.

Then we shall turn us home again to lifeKnowing our dead are fitly housed in death,Not roaming here disconsolate, angrily.

And we shall have new peace in this our life,New joy to give more life, new bliss to live,Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.

Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door,And I lingered on the threshold with my handUpraised to knock and knock once more:Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor,Hollow re-echoed my heart.

The low-hung lamps stretched down the roadWith shadows drifting underneath,With a music of soft, melodious feetQuickening my hope as I hastened to meetThe low-hung light of her eyes.

The golden lamps down the street went out,The last car trailed the night behind,And I in the darkness wandered aboutWith a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubtIn the dying lamp of my love.

Two brown ponies trotting slowlyStopped at the dim-lit trough to drink.The dark van drummed down the distance slowly,And city stars so high and holyDrew nearer to look in the streets.

A hasting car swept shameful past.I saw her hid in the shadow,I saw her step to the curb, and fastRun to the silent door, where lastI had stood with my hand uplifted.She clung to the door in her haste to enter,Entered, and quickly castIt shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.

The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it muttersSomething which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recedeWinding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, afterThe street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.

The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they passTo the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of darknessThat watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.

I look at the swaling sunsetAnd wish I could go alsoThrough the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.

I wish that I could goThrough the red doors where I could put offMy shame like shoes in the porchMy pain like garments,And leave my flesh discarded lyingLike luggage of some departed travellerGone one knows not where.

Then I would turn roundAnd seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,I would laugh with joy.

A yellow leaf from the darknessHops like a frog before me——Why should I start and stand still?

I was watching the woman that bore meStretched in the brindled darknessOf the sick-room, rigid with willTo die—And the quick leaf tore meBack to this rainy swillOf leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.

I walk down the garden paths,And all the daffodilsAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.I walk down the patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,I too am a rarePattern. As I wander downThe garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,And the trainMakes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel, and the thriftOf the borders.Just a plate of current fashion,Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.Not a softness anywhere about me,Only whale-bone and brocade.And I sink on a seat in the shadeOf a lime tree. For my passionWars against the stiff brocade.The daffodils and squillsFlutter in the breezeAs they please.And I weep;For the lime tree is in blossomAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdropsIn the marble fountainComes down the garden paths.The dripping never stops.Underneath my stiffened gownIs the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,A basin in the midst of hedges grownSo thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,But she guesses he is near,And the sliding of the waterSeems the stroking of a dearHand upon her.What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,And he would stumble afterBewildered by my laughter.I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes.I would chooseTo lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,Till he caught me in the shade,And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,Aching, melting, unafraid.With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,And the plopping of the waterdrops,All about us in the open afternoon—I am very like to swoonWith the weight of this brocade,For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossomIn my bosom,Is a letter I have hid.It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord HartwellDied in action Thursday sen'night.”As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,The letters squirmed like snakes.“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.“No,” I told him.“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.No, no answer.”And I walked into the garden,Up and down the patterned paths,In my stiff, correct brocade.The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,Each one.I stood upright too,Held rigid to the patternBy the stiffness of my gown.Up and down I walked,Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.In a month, here, underneath this lime,We would have broke the pattern.He for me, and I for him,He as Colonel, I as Lady,On this shady seat.He had a whimThat sunlight carried blessing.And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walkUp and downThe patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.The squills and daffodilsWill give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.I shall goUp and down,In my gown.Gorgeously arrayed,Boned and stayed.And the softness of my body will be guarded from embraceBy each button, hook, and lace.For the man who should loose me is dead,Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,In a pattern called a war.Christ! What are patterns for?

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.

The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.

The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whirl of tulips and narcissus in the air.

In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white. It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells, and colours, and metals, and grains, and the whitecloth falls over its side, draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee pot, hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl—and my eyes begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts. Placid and peaceful the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask. A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream, flutter, call: “Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!” Coffee steam rises in a stream, clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight, revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam. The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.

On the sidewalk boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles, with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates. The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air, but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street, and a girl with a gay spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeledpatent leather shoes. Tap, tap, the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers on her hat.

A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay with new paint, and rumbles contentedly sprinkling clear water over the white dust. Clear zig-zagging water which smells of tulips and narcissus.

The thickening branches make a pink “grisaille” against the blue sky.

Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time. Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white dust, leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind, jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.

A motor car cuts a swath through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible, shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high, and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.

Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still brick façade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars, darting colours farinto the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings out of high windows, whirling of machine belts, blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the jar of a church bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.

The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the shop-windows putting out their contents in a flood of flame.

The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow, and blow into patterns of fire-flowers, as the sky fades. Trades scream in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver is the sidelong sliver of a watch-maker's sign with its length on another street. A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building, but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?

I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean, it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.

My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower heads with no stems. I cannot see the beer glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city, glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring.

The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air.

Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky when it is fresh-washed and fair ... I smell the stars ... they are like tulips and narcissus ... I smell them in the air.

This Quartet was played from the manuscript by the Flonzaley Quartet during their season of 1915 and 1916. The poem is based upon the programme which M. Stravinsky appended to his piece, and is an attempt to reproduce the sound and movement of the music as far as is possible in another medium.

Thin-voiced, nasal pipesDrawing sound out and outUntil it is a screeching thread,Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,It hurts.Whee-e-e!Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!There are drums here,Banging,And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stonesOf the market-place.Whee-e-e!Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones,Clumsy and hard they are,And uneven,Losing half a beatBecause the stones are slippery.Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!The thin Spring leavesShake to the banging of shoes.Shoes beat, slap,Shuffle, rap,And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,Little pigs' voicesWeaving among the dancers,A fine, white threadLinking up the dancers.Bang! Bump! Tong!Petticoats,Stockings,Sabots,Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;Red, blue, yellow,Drunkenness steaming in colours;Red, yellow, blue,Colours and flesh weaving together,In and out, with the dance,Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.Pigs' cries white and tenuous,White and painful,White and—Bump!Tong!

Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,Cherry petals fall and flutter,And the white Pierrot,Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earthWith his finger-nails.

An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,It wheezes and coughs.The nave is blue with incense,Writhing, twisting,Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine;The priests whine their bastard LatinAnd the censers swing and click.The priests walk endlesslyRound and round,Droning their LatinOff the key.The organ crashes out in a flaring chordAnd the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.Dies illa, dies iræ,Calamitatis et miseriæ,Dies magna et amara valde.A wind rattles the leaded windows.The little pear-shaped candle-flames leap and flutter.Dies illa, dies iræ,The swaying smoke drifts over the altar.Calamitatis et miseriæ,The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water.Dies magna et amara valde.And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them,Stretched upon a bier.His ears are stone to the organ,His eyes are flint to the candles,His body is ice to the water.Chant, priests,Whine, shuffle, genuflect.He will always be as rigid as he is nowUntil he crumbles away in a dust heap.Lacrymosa dies illa,Qua resurget ex favillaJudicandus homo reus.Above the grey pillars, the roof is in darkness.

THE END

Richard Aldington

Images.Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915; and The Four Seas Company, Boston, 1916.

John Gould Fletcher

Fire and Wine.Grant Richards, Ltd., London, 1913.

Fool's Gold.Max Goschen, London, 1913.

The Dominant City.Max Goschen, London, 1913.

The Book of Nature.Constable & Co., London, 1913.

Visions of the Evening.Erskine McDonald, London, 1913.

Irradiations: Sand and Spray.Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1915.

Goblins and Pagodas.Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1916.

F. S. Flint

The Net of Stars.Elkin Mathews, London, 1909.

Cadences.Poetry Book Shop, London, 1915.

D. H. Lawrence

Love Poems and Others.Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.

Prose:

The White Peacock.William Heinemann, London, 1911.

The Trespasser.Duckworth & Co., London, 1912.

Sons and Lovers.Duckworth & Co., London, 1913.

The Prussian Officer.Duckworth & Co., London, 1914.

The Rainbow.Methuen & Co., London, 1915.

Drama:

The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd.Mitchell Kennerley, New York, 1914.

Amy Lowell

A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass.Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1912. The Macmillan Company, New York, 1915.

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed.The Macmillan Company, New York; and Macmillan & Co., London, 1914.

Prose:Six French Poets.The Macmillan Company, New York; and Macmillan and Co., London, 1915.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTEThe following printer's errors have been corrected:“from” corrected to “form” (page viii)“sweeling” corrected to “swaling” (page 73)The following unusual spellings have been retained:“anarchaic” (page vii)Some of the poems in this anthology were also included in the following books:H. D.Sea Garden.Constable & Co., London, 1916.John Gould FletcherBreakers and Granite.The Macmillan Company, New York, 1921.Amy LowellMen, Women and Ghosts.Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New York, 1916.

The following printer's errors have been corrected:

“from” corrected to “form” (page viii)“sweeling” corrected to “swaling” (page 73)

The following unusual spellings have been retained:

“anarchaic” (page vii)

Some of the poems in this anthology were also included in the following books:

H. D.

Sea Garden.Constable & Co., London, 1916.

John Gould Fletcher

Breakers and Granite.The Macmillan Company, New York, 1921.

Amy Lowell

Men, Women and Ghosts.Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston and New York, 1916.

Back to IndexNext