Daisymead

“I will now call on Alberic Morphine to give us a reading.” ...The rows of young women look up; their eyes glisten; they shiverWith the kind of emotion that’s really very misleading.All have fine eyes, yellow faces, vile clothes and “a liver.”They smoke a great deal, bathe little, and wear no stays;Their artistic garments are made on the Grecian plan;They flock in their crowds to the latest “poetic” plays;And aspire to a union of souls—with some pimply young man.

“I will now call on Alberic Morphine to give us a reading.” ...

The rows of young women look up; their eyes glisten; they shiver

With the kind of emotion that’s really very misleading.

All have fine eyes, yellow faces, vile clothes and “a liver.”

They smoke a great deal, bathe little, and wear no stays;Their artistic garments are made on the Grecian plan;They flock in their crowds to the latest “poetic” plays;And aspire to a union of souls—with some pimply young man.

They smoke a great deal, bathe little, and wear no stays;

Their artistic garments are made on the Grecian plan;

They flock in their crowds to the latest “poetic” plays;

And aspire to a union of souls—with some pimply young man.

The most intense resort in Highbrow Green(Where only those whodothings may be seen)Is known as Crookedwych—a sweet retreat,Serene and sunny, quite unlike astreet.Herein is “Daisymead,” the Brownes’ abode,Where Jones encountered highbrows à la mode.Jones was a very harmless sort of man,Not made on any esoteric plan,And when he struck this sanctuary of artPoor Jones felt quite unequal to his part.Art maidens with short hair and naked toesDeprived him of his hat. They wore old roseAnd sang about their “little turtle dove”And asked him if he’d “sow the seeds of love?”(They were the Misses Browne). “I’ve come to call....”“Then follow, to the house-place, sir,” they cried,“And make you featly welcome. Ma’s inside.”He followed. Ma received him in the hall.“I’m seventeen come Sunday, fol-de-lol,”She trilled untruly, pouring out the teaFrom leadless teapot into leadless cups.Then, “fol-de-lol-de-fol-de-diddle-dee,”—Handing nut tabloids to the waiting pups.And more, about the “wraggle gipsies, O.”Jones murmured, “Pray excuse me. I must go.I think I am unwell ... the walk too much.Proteid? No thank you. No, I never touchFood before dinner ... I can find the door.”He found it and he fled. Ah, never more!

The most intense resort in Highbrow Green

(Where only those whodothings may be seen)

Is known as Crookedwych—a sweet retreat,

Serene and sunny, quite unlike astreet.

Herein is “Daisymead,” the Brownes’ abode,

Where Jones encountered highbrows à la mode.

Jones was a very harmless sort of man,Not made on any esoteric plan,And when he struck this sanctuary of artPoor Jones felt quite unequal to his part.

Jones was a very harmless sort of man,

Not made on any esoteric plan,

And when he struck this sanctuary of art

Poor Jones felt quite unequal to his part.

Art maidens with short hair and naked toesDeprived him of his hat. They wore old roseAnd sang about their “little turtle dove”And asked him if he’d “sow the seeds of love?”(They were the Misses Browne). “I’ve come to call....”

Art maidens with short hair and naked toes

Deprived him of his hat. They wore old rose

And sang about their “little turtle dove”

And asked him if he’d “sow the seeds of love?”

(They were the Misses Browne). “I’ve come to call....”

“Then follow, to the house-place, sir,” they cried,“And make you featly welcome. Ma’s inside.”He followed. Ma received him in the hall.“I’m seventeen come Sunday, fol-de-lol,”She trilled untruly, pouring out the teaFrom leadless teapot into leadless cups.Then, “fol-de-lol-de-fol-de-diddle-dee,”—Handing nut tabloids to the waiting pups.And more, about the “wraggle gipsies, O.”

“Then follow, to the house-place, sir,” they cried,

“And make you featly welcome. Ma’s inside.”

He followed. Ma received him in the hall.

“I’m seventeen come Sunday, fol-de-lol,”

She trilled untruly, pouring out the tea

From leadless teapot into leadless cups.

Then, “fol-de-lol-de-fol-de-diddle-dee,”

—Handing nut tabloids to the waiting pups.

And more, about the “wraggle gipsies, O.”

Jones murmured, “Pray excuse me. I must go.I think I am unwell ... the walk too much.Proteid? No thank you. No, I never touchFood before dinner ... I can find the door.”He found it and he fled. Ah, never more!

Jones murmured, “Pray excuse me. I must go.

I think I am unwell ... the walk too much.

Proteid? No thank you. No, I never touch

Food before dinner ... I can find the door.”

He found it and he fled. Ah, never more!

Mrs. Murgatroyd Martin thinks only of doing good:That is all that she lives for—to succour thepoor,poor, poor.She wants them to lead nobler lives (that is understood):To the world of Culture she opens them wide a door.She tells them of Pater and Pankhurst, of Tagore and Wilde;Of “Man-made-laws” and the virtues of proteid peas;Of Folk-Song, and Art and of sterilised milk for the child;Of the joys of the Morris Dance, and of poetry teas.And when the vile husbands get tipsy, on Saturday nights,She goes round next morning and gives them a piece of her mind,And rouses the downtrodden wives—and when this leads to fightsAnd black eyes, and bad language, she says: “But I meant to be kind!”

Mrs. Murgatroyd Martin thinks only of doing good:

That is all that she lives for—to succour thepoor,poor, poor.

She wants them to lead nobler lives (that is understood):

To the world of Culture she opens them wide a door.

She tells them of Pater and Pankhurst, of Tagore and Wilde;Of “Man-made-laws” and the virtues of proteid peas;Of Folk-Song, and Art and of sterilised milk for the child;Of the joys of the Morris Dance, and of poetry teas.

She tells them of Pater and Pankhurst, of Tagore and Wilde;

Of “Man-made-laws” and the virtues of proteid peas;

Of Folk-Song, and Art and of sterilised milk for the child;

Of the joys of the Morris Dance, and of poetry teas.

And when the vile husbands get tipsy, on Saturday nights,She goes round next morning and gives them a piece of her mind,And rouses the downtrodden wives—and when this leads to fightsAnd black eyes, and bad language, she says: “But I meant to be kind!”

And when the vile husbands get tipsy, on Saturday nights,

She goes round next morning and gives them a piece of her mind,

And rouses the downtrodden wives—and when this leads to fights

And black eyes, and bad language, she says: “But I meant to be kind!”

(St. James’s Street)

Mr. Reginald Hyphen is terribly “one of us;”He was born with a mouth just made for a silver spoon,And he’s always “dwedfully late” when he comes to dine.The thought of the Middle Classes makes him swoon,And he never will dance unless he is sure of the wine—And O, it was such an affair, when he took a ’bus!And yet he’s not only a butterfly, carefully smart,Hethinksa great deal, and has a devotion to Art.He has read some Meredith, too—“Rather neat in its way”—And perhaps, if he’s time, he will “do something like it—some day.”

Mr. Reginald Hyphen is terribly “one of us;”

He was born with a mouth just made for a silver spoon,

And he’s always “dwedfully late” when he comes to dine.

The thought of the Middle Classes makes him swoon,

And he never will dance unless he is sure of the wine—

And O, it was such an affair, when he took a ’bus!

And yet he’s not only a butterfly, carefully smart,Hethinksa great deal, and has a devotion to Art.He has read some Meredith, too—“Rather neat in its way”—And perhaps, if he’s time, he will “do something like it—some day.”

And yet he’s not only a butterfly, carefully smart,

Hethinksa great deal, and has a devotion to Art.

He has read some Meredith, too—“Rather neat in its way”—

And perhaps, if he’s time, he will “do something like it—some day.”

(Davies Street)

White arms, Love, you have, and thin fingers with glittering nails,And the soft blue smoke curls up from your parted mouth!The delicate rose of your cheeks never varies nor pales,And your frocks and your furs are perfection—devourer of youth!It is thrilling to think of your room and you, wicked, inside—Adorable snake, with a snake’s unflickering eyes,And an intimate smile (to share which, fools have died)And lips soft as a girl’s and like a siren’s, wise!Devourer of youth! You are never alone by your fire,You have always a boy there, who thinks you a goddess, ill-used,And adores you with passion, and brings you the gifts you desire—And the fiercer he burns, Dear, the better he keeps you amused!

White arms, Love, you have, and thin fingers with glittering nails,

And the soft blue smoke curls up from your parted mouth!

The delicate rose of your cheeks never varies nor pales,

And your frocks and your furs are perfection—devourer of youth!

It is thrilling to think of your room and you, wicked, inside—Adorable snake, with a snake’s unflickering eyes,And an intimate smile (to share which, fools have died)And lips soft as a girl’s and like a siren’s, wise!

It is thrilling to think of your room and you, wicked, inside—

Adorable snake, with a snake’s unflickering eyes,

And an intimate smile (to share which, fools have died)

And lips soft as a girl’s and like a siren’s, wise!

Devourer of youth! You are never alone by your fire,You have always a boy there, who thinks you a goddess, ill-used,And adores you with passion, and brings you the gifts you desire—And the fiercer he burns, Dear, the better he keeps you amused!

Devourer of youth! You are never alone by your fire,

You have always a boy there, who thinks you a goddess, ill-used,

And adores you with passion, and brings you the gifts you desire—

And the fiercer he burns, Dear, the better he keeps you amused!

(July, 1914)

White teeth, neat black moustache and lovely eyes—Face bronzed and beautiful, like a young god—Tired Rollo is the dreaming school girl’s prize.He leans against the wall, perhaps will danceIf they ask very nicely: sweet young things!He’s “an observer,” and he can’t concealHe’s frightfully bored with all this sort of crowd.He prefers artists, men of genius;He has a soul above the idle rich—“A looker-on, you know, at the world’s game.”Rude persons laugh. Adonis, rather hot,Twirls the ineffable moustache and smiles.—He is so much that other men are not.

White teeth, neat black moustache and lovely eyes—Face bronzed and beautiful, like a young god—Tired Rollo is the dreaming school girl’s prize.

White teeth, neat black moustache and lovely eyes—

Face bronzed and beautiful, like a young god—

Tired Rollo is the dreaming school girl’s prize.

He leans against the wall, perhaps will danceIf they ask very nicely: sweet young things!He’s “an observer,” and he can’t concealHe’s frightfully bored with all this sort of crowd.He prefers artists, men of genius;He has a soul above the idle rich—“A looker-on, you know, at the world’s game.”Rude persons laugh. Adonis, rather hot,Twirls the ineffable moustache and smiles.—He is so much that other men are not.

He leans against the wall, perhaps will dance

If they ask very nicely: sweet young things!

He’s “an observer,” and he can’t conceal

He’s frightfully bored with all this sort of crowd.

He prefers artists, men of genius;

He has a soul above the idle rich—

“A looker-on, you know, at the world’s game.”

Rude persons laugh. Adonis, rather hot,

Twirls the ineffable moustache and smiles.

—He is so much that other men are not.

1914.

Written on the occasion of the grand MARCH PAST of British Poets and Men of Letters, which took place under the Auspices of the League of National & Civic Idiocy onVictory Day, July 19th, 1919

Of Shavian prophets, bearded, and the bleatOf infant Sitwells baying at the moon;Of abstruse Eliot, and the effeteVieux Gosse—Sing Boom! Sing Boom!See, here they come! The martial music swells;Northcliffe, beflagged, leads on, with H. G. Wells;And prancing solemnly, and prancing slow,Come Hueffer, Shorter and Sir Sidney Low!Now, there’s a murmuring as of asphodels,The while each poet mouthes his roundelay—The bards, the bards! Be still my heart, ’tis they!Here’s J. C. Squire, and here the laurell’d Shanks;There’s Ezra’s circle of performing Yanks;And here that ardent and enduring oneWho, with cool madness, faced th’ opposing HunUntil—flick! Flick!—they fell down every one.And here is Lewis, blasting as he goes—He plays his one-man-band, yet keeps the pose!Here’s Secker with his owl; the Coterie;And gentle John with “gray dog Timothy”:Here’s sly Monro with Chapbook under armAnd fair aspirants round him in a swarm;Here is our Centaur, with desponding lyre;And here the Wufflet with adoring sire!Now come the veterans of Victorian years—Kipling in khaki, Binyon in tears,Here Yeats, with eyes distraught, and tangled hair,Moans the lost vogue of Deirdre, in Mayfair;While aged Moore, detached, a little bored,Tells doubtful tales to Mrs. Humphry Ward.See, now, Dame Propaganda lifts her gampAnd shelters under it each scribbling scamp.Hola, Sir Hall! Hail Beith! Hail Buchan bland!See, Dame Corelli takes Hugh Walpole’s hand;And Dora and Censora hover nigh,To tempt Sassoon and Read. They cannot buy;So Bennett weeps, and Beaver heaves a sigh.Now comes a rabble foul—avert the eyes—Of arm-chair “patriots” and Lloyd-Georgian spies.Hurl them from off Parnassus, with a shout—Even from the Press Club let them be kicked out!Chase them from London’s pubs, and bid them goAcross the foam, to lunch with Clemenceau!Chase them with odorous eggs and hunks of cheese!Be quiet, Muse, I will not sing of these.Of all the Georgian and Edwardian potes,Of all the Mile End Yidds in velvet coats,Of all the sets, the circles and the cliquesWho boost each other’s works in their critiques,Of all on whom E. M. has ever smiled;Of all whom Galloway has ever kyled;Of “marvellous boys,” and of youth’s soulful loom—Sing Boom!Sing Boom!Sing Boom!

Of Shavian prophets, bearded, and the bleatOf infant Sitwells baying at the moon;Of abstruse Eliot, and the effeteVieux Gosse—Sing Boom! Sing Boom!

Of Shavian prophets, bearded, and the bleat

Of infant Sitwells baying at the moon;

Of abstruse Eliot, and the effete

Vieux Gosse—Sing Boom! Sing Boom!

See, here they come! The martial music swells;Northcliffe, beflagged, leads on, with H. G. Wells;And prancing solemnly, and prancing slow,Come Hueffer, Shorter and Sir Sidney Low!Now, there’s a murmuring as of asphodels,The while each poet mouthes his roundelay—The bards, the bards! Be still my heart, ’tis they!

See, here they come! The martial music swells;

Northcliffe, beflagged, leads on, with H. G. Wells;

And prancing solemnly, and prancing slow,

Come Hueffer, Shorter and Sir Sidney Low!

Now, there’s a murmuring as of asphodels,

The while each poet mouthes his roundelay—

The bards, the bards! Be still my heart, ’tis they!

Here’s J. C. Squire, and here the laurell’d Shanks;There’s Ezra’s circle of performing Yanks;And here that ardent and enduring oneWho, with cool madness, faced th’ opposing HunUntil—flick! Flick!—they fell down every one.And here is Lewis, blasting as he goes—He plays his one-man-band, yet keeps the pose!Here’s Secker with his owl; the Coterie;And gentle John with “gray dog Timothy”:Here’s sly Monro with Chapbook under armAnd fair aspirants round him in a swarm;Here is our Centaur, with desponding lyre;And here the Wufflet with adoring sire!

Here’s J. C. Squire, and here the laurell’d Shanks;

There’s Ezra’s circle of performing Yanks;

And here that ardent and enduring one

Who, with cool madness, faced th’ opposing Hun

Until—flick! Flick!—they fell down every one.

And here is Lewis, blasting as he goes—

He plays his one-man-band, yet keeps the pose!

Here’s Secker with his owl; the Coterie;

And gentle John with “gray dog Timothy”:

Here’s sly Monro with Chapbook under arm

And fair aspirants round him in a swarm;

Here is our Centaur, with desponding lyre;

And here the Wufflet with adoring sire!

Now come the veterans of Victorian years—Kipling in khaki, Binyon in tears,Here Yeats, with eyes distraught, and tangled hair,Moans the lost vogue of Deirdre, in Mayfair;While aged Moore, detached, a little bored,Tells doubtful tales to Mrs. Humphry Ward.

Now come the veterans of Victorian years—

Kipling in khaki, Binyon in tears,

Here Yeats, with eyes distraught, and tangled hair,

Moans the lost vogue of Deirdre, in Mayfair;

While aged Moore, detached, a little bored,

Tells doubtful tales to Mrs. Humphry Ward.

See, now, Dame Propaganda lifts her gampAnd shelters under it each scribbling scamp.Hola, Sir Hall! Hail Beith! Hail Buchan bland!See, Dame Corelli takes Hugh Walpole’s hand;And Dora and Censora hover nigh,To tempt Sassoon and Read. They cannot buy;So Bennett weeps, and Beaver heaves a sigh.

See, now, Dame Propaganda lifts her gamp

And shelters under it each scribbling scamp.

Hola, Sir Hall! Hail Beith! Hail Buchan bland!

See, Dame Corelli takes Hugh Walpole’s hand;

And Dora and Censora hover nigh,

To tempt Sassoon and Read. They cannot buy;

So Bennett weeps, and Beaver heaves a sigh.

Now comes a rabble foul—avert the eyes—Of arm-chair “patriots” and Lloyd-Georgian spies.Hurl them from off Parnassus, with a shout—Even from the Press Club let them be kicked out!Chase them from London’s pubs, and bid them goAcross the foam, to lunch with Clemenceau!Chase them with odorous eggs and hunks of cheese!Be quiet, Muse, I will not sing of these.

Now comes a rabble foul—avert the eyes—

Of arm-chair “patriots” and Lloyd-Georgian spies.

Hurl them from off Parnassus, with a shout—

Even from the Press Club let them be kicked out!

Chase them from London’s pubs, and bid them go

Across the foam, to lunch with Clemenceau!

Chase them with odorous eggs and hunks of cheese!

Be quiet, Muse, I will not sing of these.

Of all the Georgian and Edwardian potes,Of all the Mile End Yidds in velvet coats,Of all the sets, the circles and the cliquesWho boost each other’s works in their critiques,Of all on whom E. M. has ever smiled;Of all whom Galloway has ever kyled;Of “marvellous boys,” and of youth’s soulful loom—Sing Boom!Sing Boom!Sing Boom!

Of all the Georgian and Edwardian potes,

Of all the Mile End Yidds in velvet coats,

Of all the sets, the circles and the cliques

Who boost each other’s works in their critiques,

Of all on whom E. M. has ever smiled;

Of all whom Galloway has ever kyled;

Of “marvellous boys,” and of youth’s soulful loom—

Sing Boom!

Leave the radiant sun,Of drowsy rest the giver;Leave the song of the birds and leaveThe sob of the river.Break loose from his passionate arms,And awake from thy dream of bliss:King Death hath marked thy charmsAnd fain would kiss.

Leave the radiant sun,Of drowsy rest the giver;Leave the song of the birds and leaveThe sob of the river.

Leave the radiant sun,

Of drowsy rest the giver;

Leave the song of the birds and leave

The sob of the river.

Break loose from his passionate arms,And awake from thy dream of bliss:King Death hath marked thy charmsAnd fain would kiss.

Break loose from his passionate arms,

And awake from thy dream of bliss:

King Death hath marked thy charms

And fain would kiss.

1902.

“Oh, hear them in the Valley—The wailing voices cry!They count the yearly tallyOf lost girls that must die.Cold fingers in the gloaming,Will grope one night for me;I daren’t go heather-roaming,For fear the ghosts will see.“And now the rain is falling,They’ll cry the whole long night,I tremble at their calling—O take and hold me tight!Each of those warning spiritsWas once a girl, betrayed;O wayward love, be true to meWho am no more a maid.”

“Oh, hear them in the Valley—

The wailing voices cry!

They count the yearly tally

Of lost girls that must die.

Cold fingers in the gloaming,

Will grope one night for me;

I daren’t go heather-roaming,

For fear the ghosts will see.

“And now the rain is falling,They’ll cry the whole long night,I tremble at their calling—O take and hold me tight!Each of those warning spiritsWas once a girl, betrayed;O wayward love, be true to meWho am no more a maid.”

“And now the rain is falling,

They’ll cry the whole long night,

I tremble at their calling—

O take and hold me tight!

Each of those warning spirits

Was once a girl, betrayed;

O wayward love, be true to me

Who am no more a maid.”

1909.

The deer stand outlined on a skyThat glows to red and pales to green:The restless pine-trees shake and sigh,And troubled spirits move, unseen.A brooding quiet holds the night.It is the hour of dreams, of fears,When day’s defiant dying lightFades, with a sombre hint of tears.We hardly speak, we hardly dare,Our steps are noiseless on the grass,And shadows haunt your eyes and hair.Does love pass as these moments pass?

The deer stand outlined on a skyThat glows to red and pales to green:The restless pine-trees shake and sigh,And troubled spirits move, unseen.

The deer stand outlined on a sky

That glows to red and pales to green:

The restless pine-trees shake and sigh,

And troubled spirits move, unseen.

A brooding quiet holds the night.It is the hour of dreams, of fears,When day’s defiant dying lightFades, with a sombre hint of tears.

A brooding quiet holds the night.

It is the hour of dreams, of fears,

When day’s defiant dying light

Fades, with a sombre hint of tears.

We hardly speak, we hardly dare,Our steps are noiseless on the grass,And shadows haunt your eyes and hair.Does love pass as these moments pass?

We hardly speak, we hardly dare,

Our steps are noiseless on the grass,

And shadows haunt your eyes and hair.

Does love pass as these moments pass?

1910.

Now slants the moonlight through the treesAnd bathes the pathway through the wood:The large leaves wrangle in the breezeAnd sigh, as if they understood.Dear Heart, it is so still and warm,—A lovelier night there has not been—But lonely I have left the farm,And lonely I have crossed the green.

Now slants the moonlight through the treesAnd bathes the pathway through the wood:The large leaves wrangle in the breezeAnd sigh, as if they understood.

Now slants the moonlight through the trees

And bathes the pathway through the wood:

The large leaves wrangle in the breeze

And sigh, as if they understood.

Dear Heart, it is so still and warm,—A lovelier night there has not been—But lonely I have left the farm,And lonely I have crossed the green.

Dear Heart, it is so still and warm,

—A lovelier night there has not been—

But lonely I have left the farm,

And lonely I have crossed the green.

1910.

Sang a maid at peep of dayTo the blackbird in the yew—“My true heart has flown away,Seeking other heart as true.”“Bird, my heart has taken wings,”Whispered she, with sorrowful eyes.“In the raging wind it sings,In the sun it cries, it cries.”

Sang a maid at peep of dayTo the blackbird in the yew—“My true heart has flown away,Seeking other heart as true.”

Sang a maid at peep of day

To the blackbird in the yew—

“My true heart has flown away,

Seeking other heart as true.”

“Bird, my heart has taken wings,”Whispered she, with sorrowful eyes.“In the raging wind it sings,In the sun it cries, it cries.”

“Bird, my heart has taken wings,”

Whispered she, with sorrowful eyes.

“In the raging wind it sings,

In the sun it cries, it cries.”

1910.

“He was a wilful chap,” said one“—The kind that often dies alone.”“He shamed us all,” another said:“’Tis just as well that he be dead.”“Poor Jack, poor Jack,” a third one sighed.“He swam to Bere against the tide“And beat John Hawkins, on the green.It’s long since such a lad was seen.”A fourth one laughed: “’Twould seem the townHe loved so well has let him down.“A poor thin corpse ’tis, to be sure,That he’s brought home to make manure.”They swathed his body, tall and slim,Then screwed the oak lid down on him.They put him in his deep-dug hole,And bawled responses for his soul.But, ere the gaping earth did close,One frail hand threw a frail white rose.

“He was a wilful chap,” said one“—The kind that often dies alone.”

“He was a wilful chap,” said one

“—The kind that often dies alone.”

“He shamed us all,” another said:“’Tis just as well that he be dead.”

“He shamed us all,” another said:

“’Tis just as well that he be dead.”

“Poor Jack, poor Jack,” a third one sighed.“He swam to Bere against the tide

“Poor Jack, poor Jack,” a third one sighed.

“He swam to Bere against the tide

“And beat John Hawkins, on the green.It’s long since such a lad was seen.”

“And beat John Hawkins, on the green.

It’s long since such a lad was seen.”

A fourth one laughed: “’Twould seem the townHe loved so well has let him down.

A fourth one laughed: “’Twould seem the town

He loved so well has let him down.

“A poor thin corpse ’tis, to be sure,That he’s brought home to make manure.”

“A poor thin corpse ’tis, to be sure,

That he’s brought home to make manure.”

They swathed his body, tall and slim,Then screwed the oak lid down on him.

They swathed his body, tall and slim,

Then screwed the oak lid down on him.

They put him in his deep-dug hole,And bawled responses for his soul.

They put him in his deep-dug hole,

And bawled responses for his soul.

But, ere the gaping earth did close,One frail hand threw a frail white rose.

But, ere the gaping earth did close,

One frail hand threw a frail white rose.

Cold it was, Dear, when you kissed me:Still I hear the steady dripsOf the wet from leaves and branchesAs we huddled ’neath the tree:I can feel your arms about me,And your lips upon my lips,And it’s you alone I dream of,—Though you’ve soon forgotten me.

Cold it was, Dear, when you kissed me:

Still I hear the steady drips

Of the wet from leaves and branches

As we huddled ’neath the tree:

I can feel your arms about me,

And your lips upon my lips,

And it’s you alone I dream of,

—Though you’ve soon forgotten me.

(March Winds: Seaford)

“I never will see you again,Nor go walking with you, nor be friends;You have rumpled my hair in the rain—This foolishness ends!You can carry your kisses elsewhere:I call it lowTo paw one about like a bear—You can go!”“Oh, you baby, to take it like that—Why, you’d better sit down in the shelterAnd polish your shoes on the mat—I’m off to the downs, helter-skelter!For it’s Heaven to race in the wind,With the rain in your eyes, on your cheek,And perhaps, on the top of the hill, by the cliff, I shall findA fairy will speak!“Oh, yes, there are fairies up there,With faces fresh in the dew—The wild wind kisses their wild long hair,And they run by the side of you.“I’m sorry you’re angry, like this,But I don’t think I want to be friends—”“If I gave you your kiss—Would that make amends?”

“I never will see you again,

Nor go walking with you, nor be friends;

You have rumpled my hair in the rain—

This foolishness ends!

You can carry your kisses elsewhere:

I call it low

To paw one about like a bear—

You can go!”

“Oh, you baby, to take it like that—Why, you’d better sit down in the shelterAnd polish your shoes on the mat—I’m off to the downs, helter-skelter!For it’s Heaven to race in the wind,With the rain in your eyes, on your cheek,And perhaps, on the top of the hill, by the cliff, I shall findA fairy will speak!

“Oh, you baby, to take it like that—

Why, you’d better sit down in the shelter

And polish your shoes on the mat—

I’m off to the downs, helter-skelter!

For it’s Heaven to race in the wind,

With the rain in your eyes, on your cheek,

And perhaps, on the top of the hill, by the cliff, I shall find

A fairy will speak!

“Oh, yes, there are fairies up there,With faces fresh in the dew—The wild wind kisses their wild long hair,And they run by the side of you.

“Oh, yes, there are fairies up there,

With faces fresh in the dew—

The wild wind kisses their wild long hair,

And they run by the side of you.

“I’m sorry you’re angry, like this,But I don’t think I want to be friends—”

“I’m sorry you’re angry, like this,

But I don’t think I want to be friends—”

“If I gave you your kiss—Would that make amends?”

“If I gave you your kiss—

Would that make amends?”

The clasped hand, the low laugh and the trill of love,Intimate whisper and long look and sinking headThat sinks but to be captured, while, above,The stars stand motionless, the tree seems dead.Cold, in the stillness, looks the thin moon down;Far off are murmuring sea and restless town—As far as life and death and common things—For two to-night know joy, a joy that sings.

The clasped hand, the low laugh and the trill of love,Intimate whisper and long look and sinking headThat sinks but to be captured, while, above,The stars stand motionless, the tree seems dead.

The clasped hand, the low laugh and the trill of love,

Intimate whisper and long look and sinking head

That sinks but to be captured, while, above,

The stars stand motionless, the tree seems dead.

Cold, in the stillness, looks the thin moon down;Far off are murmuring sea and restless town—As far as life and death and common things—For two to-night know joy, a joy that sings.

Cold, in the stillness, looks the thin moon down;

Far off are murmuring sea and restless town—

As far as life and death and common things—

For two to-night know joy, a joy that sings.

Sleep sound, Oh my love—Closed eyes, gentle breath—While I whisper, so you will not hear,Things I cannot tell you this side death.

Sleep sound, Oh my love

—Closed eyes, gentle breath—

While I whisper, so you will not hear,

Things I cannot tell you this side death.

When I lie down in my bedForty devils guard my head,They don’t let me sleep,They laugh when I weep.All night long they sneer and sneer:“Dead heart, cruel heart,Do you know where she is?How she moans! Don’t you hear?Under the madman’s kiss.“See, she’s fallen on her knees!—Dead heart, take your ease—Cries for pity, none to care.Happy Pair!“Now the Marquis cracks the whip!Justine up-to-date.Cannot givethisfiend the slip,For his name is Fate.”Forty devils guard my headWhen I lie down in my bed.All night long they rave and jeerAnd I cannot choose but hear.

When I lie down in my bedForty devils guard my head,They don’t let me sleep,They laugh when I weep.All night long they sneer and sneer:

When I lie down in my bed

Forty devils guard my head,

They don’t let me sleep,

They laugh when I weep.

All night long they sneer and sneer:

“Dead heart, cruel heart,Do you know where she is?How she moans! Don’t you hear?Under the madman’s kiss.

“Dead heart, cruel heart,

Do you know where she is?

How she moans! Don’t you hear?

Under the madman’s kiss.

“See, she’s fallen on her knees!—Dead heart, take your ease—Cries for pity, none to care.Happy Pair!

“See, she’s fallen on her knees!

—Dead heart, take your ease—

Cries for pity, none to care.

Happy Pair!

“Now the Marquis cracks the whip!Justine up-to-date.Cannot givethisfiend the slip,For his name is Fate.”

“Now the Marquis cracks the whip!

Justine up-to-date.

Cannot givethisfiend the slip,

For his name is Fate.”

Forty devils guard my headWhen I lie down in my bed.All night long they rave and jeerAnd I cannot choose but hear.

Forty devils guard my head

When I lie down in my bed.

All night long they rave and jeer

And I cannot choose but hear.

1920.

Round and round in a circle, slowly,Two by two go the mitred mutes:Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,Death for the pretty girls,Death for the brutes!Two black horses with two black tails,And the long black coach with its four black wheels;Black-edged handkerchiefs, black crêpe veils—But who minds now what the dead dog feels?For a corpse is foul as the rose is fairAnd the young must love—and the old don’t care.To-night it’s the dance, to-morrow the fair.Bury him quick, with a carriage and pair!Round and round in a circle, slowly,Two by two go the mitred mutes:Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,Death for the pretty girls,Death for the brutes!

Round and round in a circle, slowly,Two by two go the mitred mutes:Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,Death for the pretty girls,Death for the brutes!

Round and round in a circle, slowly,

Two by two go the mitred mutes:

Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,

Death for the pretty girls,

Death for the brutes!

Two black horses with two black tails,And the long black coach with its four black wheels;Black-edged handkerchiefs, black crêpe veils—But who minds now what the dead dog feels?

Two black horses with two black tails,

And the long black coach with its four black wheels;

Black-edged handkerchiefs, black crêpe veils—

But who minds now what the dead dog feels?

For a corpse is foul as the rose is fairAnd the young must love—and the old don’t care.To-night it’s the dance, to-morrow the fair.Bury him quick, with a carriage and pair!

For a corpse is foul as the rose is fair

And the young must love—and the old don’t care.

To-night it’s the dance, to-morrow the fair.

Bury him quick, with a carriage and pair!

Round and round in a circle, slowly,Two by two go the mitred mutes:Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,Death for the pretty girls,Death for the brutes!

Round and round in a circle, slowly,

Two by two go the mitred mutes:

Death for the wealthy, death for the lowly,

Death for the pretty girls,

Death for the brutes!

Ah! you moon, you fickle one,Traitor, like the cruel sun!You’ve disowned me now I lieUnderneath this alien sky—Mad, because I cannot die.Once you liked us, long ago,When the woods were flower-scented,When my love, with tender eyes,Listened to familiar liesIn the forest of St. Cloud.You were friend to those who woo ...Moon you might have warned, preventedUs from battening on hope,Thrown us down an end of rope!Thiswas coming, andyou knew,Could you treat a lover so!Ah! you moon, you fickle one,Traitor, like the cruel sun.

Ah! you moon, you fickle one,Traitor, like the cruel sun!You’ve disowned me now I lieUnderneath this alien sky—Mad, because I cannot die.

Ah! you moon, you fickle one,

Traitor, like the cruel sun!

You’ve disowned me now I lie

Underneath this alien sky—

Mad, because I cannot die.

Once you liked us, long ago,When the woods were flower-scented,When my love, with tender eyes,Listened to familiar liesIn the forest of St. Cloud.You were friend to those who woo ...Moon you might have warned, preventedUs from battening on hope,Thrown us down an end of rope!Thiswas coming, andyou knew,Could you treat a lover so!

Once you liked us, long ago,

When the woods were flower-scented,

When my love, with tender eyes,

Listened to familiar lies

In the forest of St. Cloud.

You were friend to those who woo ...

Moon you might have warned, prevented

Us from battening on hope,

Thrown us down an end of rope!

Thiswas coming, andyou knew,

Could you treat a lover so!

Ah! you moon, you fickle one,Traitor, like the cruel sun.

Ah! you moon, you fickle one,

Traitor, like the cruel sun.

Christ, since I turned my back upon your altarsJoy has deserted me, the world is dull;The cry of passion fades away and falters,And what may be is no more beautiful.Hand me the scourge again, forsaken Master,Open your doors and bid me enter in,Then shall my pulses throb, my heart beat faster,And rapture kiss me with the lips of sin.

Christ, since I turned my back upon your altarsJoy has deserted me, the world is dull;The cry of passion fades away and falters,And what may be is no more beautiful.

Christ, since I turned my back upon your altars

Joy has deserted me, the world is dull;

The cry of passion fades away and falters,

And what may be is no more beautiful.

Hand me the scourge again, forsaken Master,Open your doors and bid me enter in,Then shall my pulses throb, my heart beat faster,And rapture kiss me with the lips of sin.

Hand me the scourge again, forsaken Master,

Open your doors and bid me enter in,

Then shall my pulses throb, my heart beat faster,

And rapture kiss me with the lips of sin.

1920.

The worn heart called the soul that flew,That soared on high, with fiery wing:“Once in a house of flesh, we twoDwelt silent, sorrowing.“I fled you for all false delights,Sister, I let you sleep and fade,While in the breathless summer nightsWith deathly joys I played.”The tired heart wailed and sank and died,Died terribly, a thousand deaths:Strange things that passed like wild-birds cried;The ghosts drew icy breaths.“Too late! My jewel, Bird of Hope,You slipt my grasp: now firm and freeYou soar to that Olympian slopeWhere every soul would be—”The dead voice failed; the soul flew by,Nor turned her course, nor dropped her wing:A cold wind shivered through the sky:The pale ghosts heard her sing.The sister of the weary heart,The bright-winged bird, the bird of fire,Flew onwards swiftly, and apart,Towards the heart’s desire.

The worn heart called the soul that flew,That soared on high, with fiery wing:“Once in a house of flesh, we twoDwelt silent, sorrowing.

The worn heart called the soul that flew,

That soared on high, with fiery wing:

“Once in a house of flesh, we two

Dwelt silent, sorrowing.

“I fled you for all false delights,Sister, I let you sleep and fade,While in the breathless summer nightsWith deathly joys I played.”

“I fled you for all false delights,

Sister, I let you sleep and fade,

While in the breathless summer nights

With deathly joys I played.”

The tired heart wailed and sank and died,Died terribly, a thousand deaths:Strange things that passed like wild-birds cried;The ghosts drew icy breaths.

The tired heart wailed and sank and died,

Died terribly, a thousand deaths:

Strange things that passed like wild-birds cried;

The ghosts drew icy breaths.

“Too late! My jewel, Bird of Hope,You slipt my grasp: now firm and freeYou soar to that Olympian slopeWhere every soul would be—”

“Too late! My jewel, Bird of Hope,

You slipt my grasp: now firm and free

You soar to that Olympian slope

Where every soul would be—”

The dead voice failed; the soul flew by,Nor turned her course, nor dropped her wing:A cold wind shivered through the sky:The pale ghosts heard her sing.

The dead voice failed; the soul flew by,

Nor turned her course, nor dropped her wing:

A cold wind shivered through the sky:

The pale ghosts heard her sing.

The sister of the weary heart,The bright-winged bird, the bird of fire,Flew onwards swiftly, and apart,Towards the heart’s desire.

The sister of the weary heart,

The bright-winged bird, the bird of fire,

Flew onwards swiftly, and apart,

Towards the heart’s desire.

IOn the closed door I knocked and knocked again.It was so cold without: the wind and rainBuffeted me, and made me sick and sore,And no birds sang, and night came on, and o’erThe surging wind rose pitiful sad criesFrom all the souls cast out of Paradise ...On the closed door I knocked and knocked againTill I grew tired with bitterness and pain.I made no fine resolve, I shed no tear:I knew that God was good, that she was dear,Only I wondered why these things had been,Why I was glad I loved, that she had seen.She was too pure to care, perhaps too cold,So, in the wilderness I should grow old,With but the memory of her wide grave eyesTo comfort me, shut out from Paradise.On the closed door I knocked and knocked again,And suddenly it opened on a chainAnd I peered close, and, eager, looked inside—Then turned me to the world that waited, wide:’Twas not for pride I suffered, not for sin;I was barred out to let a loved one in.IIAnd so from Paradise I turned my feet,And the earth claimed me, and I ran to meetThe salutation of the wind and rain,That swept across a desolate, sad plain.Then called the mountains and the grassy hills,Broad seas and rivers, and small tinkling rills:And there were forests wonderful and dark,And when the shrill wind ceased, sweet sang the lark,And I forgot lost love, in pleasant places,For I found other heavens, and sweeter facesSmiled from the lake, or laughed behind the reeds;—But in the night the heart that’s stricken bleeds.Then once at dawn-time, by a quiet pool,A goat-legged fellow cried: “Come hither, fool,And learn the tune that makes the world roll round:Life, lust and laughter mingle in the sound:’Twas made with longing and with tears and fire,But laughter conquered it, and mocked desire.”And then he took his pipe, this goat-legged man,And all the winds cried: “Hark, the song of Pan:Pan who is god of flocks and herds, who dwellsDeep in the woods a-weaving curious spellsAnd tunes that sob for joy, that thrill and weep—That charm to laughter and that soothe to sleep.”IIIAnd by and by Pan made a flute for me,And when I took the flute I seemed to seeVisions of bodied-thoughts, gay-clothed or dark,And each thought made a sound: and some the larkTook for his song—the gayest did he take—But I for mine took sombre ones, to makeA mournful wail for my lost love, but whileI sang I did forget my grief and smile.And then the sweetness of the tunes I madeThrilled me, and sorrow vanished and I playedEnraptured, with the sounds that charmed me best;And I made songs for pleasure, while the WestCrimsoned behind the dark, enchanted woods.Still by the silent pool, in varying moods,All night beneath the stars I laughed and sang,And through the shadows joyful echoes rang,And presently dryads slipt from tree to tree;Nymphs from the field and stream crept close to meAnd stealthy satyrs; and web-footed menClimbed from the lake; and from a fairy glenCame trooping little people with bright eyes,Who listened while I made them melodies.Then slender women, with white limbs and hairDusky as night, sought out my reedy lairTo hear my singing, and the loveliest oneLay in my arms until the night was done.

On the closed door I knocked and knocked again.

It was so cold without: the wind and rain

Buffeted me, and made me sick and sore,

And no birds sang, and night came on, and o’er

The surging wind rose pitiful sad cries

From all the souls cast out of Paradise ...

On the closed door I knocked and knocked again

Till I grew tired with bitterness and pain.

I made no fine resolve, I shed no tear:

I knew that God was good, that she was dear,

Only I wondered why these things had been,

Why I was glad I loved, that she had seen.

She was too pure to care, perhaps too cold,

So, in the wilderness I should grow old,

With but the memory of her wide grave eyes

To comfort me, shut out from Paradise.

On the closed door I knocked and knocked again,

And suddenly it opened on a chain

And I peered close, and, eager, looked inside—

Then turned me to the world that waited, wide:

’Twas not for pride I suffered, not for sin;

I was barred out to let a loved one in.

IIAnd so from Paradise I turned my feet,And the earth claimed me, and I ran to meetThe salutation of the wind and rain,That swept across a desolate, sad plain.Then called the mountains and the grassy hills,Broad seas and rivers, and small tinkling rills:And there were forests wonderful and dark,And when the shrill wind ceased, sweet sang the lark,And I forgot lost love, in pleasant places,For I found other heavens, and sweeter facesSmiled from the lake, or laughed behind the reeds;—But in the night the heart that’s stricken bleeds.Then once at dawn-time, by a quiet pool,A goat-legged fellow cried: “Come hither, fool,And learn the tune that makes the world roll round:Life, lust and laughter mingle in the sound:’Twas made with longing and with tears and fire,But laughter conquered it, and mocked desire.”And then he took his pipe, this goat-legged man,And all the winds cried: “Hark, the song of Pan:Pan who is god of flocks and herds, who dwellsDeep in the woods a-weaving curious spellsAnd tunes that sob for joy, that thrill and weep—That charm to laughter and that soothe to sleep.”

And so from Paradise I turned my feet,

And the earth claimed me, and I ran to meet

The salutation of the wind and rain,

That swept across a desolate, sad plain.

Then called the mountains and the grassy hills,

Broad seas and rivers, and small tinkling rills:

And there were forests wonderful and dark,

And when the shrill wind ceased, sweet sang the lark,

And I forgot lost love, in pleasant places,

For I found other heavens, and sweeter faces

Smiled from the lake, or laughed behind the reeds;

—But in the night the heart that’s stricken bleeds.

Then once at dawn-time, by a quiet pool,

A goat-legged fellow cried: “Come hither, fool,

And learn the tune that makes the world roll round:

Life, lust and laughter mingle in the sound:

’Twas made with longing and with tears and fire,

But laughter conquered it, and mocked desire.”

And then he took his pipe, this goat-legged man,

And all the winds cried: “Hark, the song of Pan:

Pan who is god of flocks and herds, who dwells

Deep in the woods a-weaving curious spells

And tunes that sob for joy, that thrill and weep—

That charm to laughter and that soothe to sleep.”

IIIAnd by and by Pan made a flute for me,And when I took the flute I seemed to seeVisions of bodied-thoughts, gay-clothed or dark,And each thought made a sound: and some the larkTook for his song—the gayest did he take—But I for mine took sombre ones, to makeA mournful wail for my lost love, but whileI sang I did forget my grief and smile.And then the sweetness of the tunes I madeThrilled me, and sorrow vanished and I playedEnraptured, with the sounds that charmed me best;And I made songs for pleasure, while the WestCrimsoned behind the dark, enchanted woods.Still by the silent pool, in varying moods,All night beneath the stars I laughed and sang,And through the shadows joyful echoes rang,And presently dryads slipt from tree to tree;Nymphs from the field and stream crept close to meAnd stealthy satyrs; and web-footed menClimbed from the lake; and from a fairy glenCame trooping little people with bright eyes,Who listened while I made them melodies.Then slender women, with white limbs and hairDusky as night, sought out my reedy lairTo hear my singing, and the loveliest oneLay in my arms until the night was done.

III

And by and by Pan made a flute for me,

And when I took the flute I seemed to see

Visions of bodied-thoughts, gay-clothed or dark,

And each thought made a sound: and some the lark

Took for his song—the gayest did he take—

But I for mine took sombre ones, to make

A mournful wail for my lost love, but while

I sang I did forget my grief and smile.

And then the sweetness of the tunes I made

Thrilled me, and sorrow vanished and I played

Enraptured, with the sounds that charmed me best;

And I made songs for pleasure, while the West

Crimsoned behind the dark, enchanted woods.

Still by the silent pool, in varying moods,

All night beneath the stars I laughed and sang,

And through the shadows joyful echoes rang,

And presently dryads slipt from tree to tree;

Nymphs from the field and stream crept close to me

And stealthy satyrs; and web-footed men

Climbed from the lake; and from a fairy glen

Came trooping little people with bright eyes,

Who listened while I made them melodies.

Then slender women, with white limbs and hair

Dusky as night, sought out my reedy lair

To hear my singing, and the loveliest one

Lay in my arms until the night was done.

1909.

(Whit-Monday, 1909)

Chocolates and brandy balls and butterscotch,“Tit-Bits,” “The Mother’s Friend” and “Woman’s Life,”Sixpenny photographs, a silver watch,A “little wonder” of a pocket-knife—All these for sale: the sunshine, given free,Beats down upon the beach and on the seaWhere ma and brats—fat legs and little feet—Paddle and laugh and redden in the heat.All through the happy day they call and shout,Shriek with delight and giggle and “hooray”;And two alone look gloomy and put out,Causing a lady to her pal to say:“’Oo’s that young man wot give ’is girl a shove?”“O them poor sulky devils, they’re in love!”

Chocolates and brandy balls and butterscotch,

“Tit-Bits,” “The Mother’s Friend” and “Woman’s Life,”

Sixpenny photographs, a silver watch,

A “little wonder” of a pocket-knife—

All these for sale: the sunshine, given free,

Beats down upon the beach and on the sea

Where ma and brats—fat legs and little feet—

Paddle and laugh and redden in the heat.

All through the happy day they call and shout,

Shriek with delight and giggle and “hooray”;

And two alone look gloomy and put out,

Causing a lady to her pal to say:

“’Oo’s that young man wot give ’is girl a shove?”

“O them poor sulky devils, they’re in love!”

A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the heart grows merry!But I think of a little farm slid by, and a dark girl at the ferry.The sun dies, and a bird cries, and a bright star’s gleaming:And I afloat, and all alone, with the long night for dreaming....A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the stream swirls under;And here am I by the still white town, in a sad, hush’d wonder.Lovers sigh and the leaves sigh—and bright eyes peeping:A boy laughs and a girl laughs ... and ah! who’s weeping?

A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the heart grows merry!

But I think of a little farm slid by, and a dark girl at the ferry.

The sun dies, and a bird cries, and a bright star’s gleaming:

And I afloat, and all alone, with the long night for dreaming....

A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the stream swirls under;And here am I by the still white town, in a sad, hush’d wonder.Lovers sigh and the leaves sigh—and bright eyes peeping:A boy laughs and a girl laughs ... and ah! who’s weeping?

A strong stroke, and the boat leaps, and the stream swirls under;

And here am I by the still white town, in a sad, hush’d wonder.

Lovers sigh and the leaves sigh—and bright eyes peeping:

A boy laughs and a girl laughs ... and ah! who’s weeping?

1912.

Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea—A pale light on the horizon lingers and shinesThat might shine round the Graal; and weStand very silent, underneath the pines.Oh, swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,Looking roguishly back and flying onward—soI follow, flashing after. Blessed night!

Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea—A pale light on the horizon lingers and shinesThat might shine round the Graal; and weStand very silent, underneath the pines.

Waves lap the beach, pines stretch to meet the sea—

A pale light on the horizon lingers and shines

That might shine round the Graal; and we

Stand very silent, underneath the pines.

Oh, swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,Looking roguishly back and flying onward—soI follow, flashing after. Blessed night!

Oh, swift expresses for the spirit’s flight!

Sometimes the moon is like a maid I know,

Looking roguishly back and flying onward—so

I follow, flashing after. Blessed night!

1912.

We were staying (that night) in a very old palace—Very dark, very large, and sheer to the water below.The rooms were silent and strange, and you were frightened:The silver lamp gave a feeble, flickering glow.And the bed had a high dark tester and carved black posts.And behind our heads was a glimmer of old brocade.Do you remember? you thought the shadows were full of ghosts,And the sound of the lapping water made you afraid.Ah, and your face shone pale, in the gleam of that quivering flame!And your bosom was rich with the round pearls row on row;And you looked proud and jewelled, and passionate without shame—Like some Princess who stooped to her lover, a long while ago.

We were staying (that night) in a very old palace—

Very dark, very large, and sheer to the water below.

The rooms were silent and strange, and you were frightened:

The silver lamp gave a feeble, flickering glow.

And the bed had a high dark tester and carved black posts.And behind our heads was a glimmer of old brocade.Do you remember? you thought the shadows were full of ghosts,And the sound of the lapping water made you afraid.

And the bed had a high dark tester and carved black posts.

And behind our heads was a glimmer of old brocade.

Do you remember? you thought the shadows were full of ghosts,

And the sound of the lapping water made you afraid.

Ah, and your face shone pale, in the gleam of that quivering flame!And your bosom was rich with the round pearls row on row;And you looked proud and jewelled, and passionate without shame—Like some Princess who stooped to her lover, a long while ago.

Ah, and your face shone pale, in the gleam of that quivering flame!

And your bosom was rich with the round pearls row on row;

And you looked proud and jewelled, and passionate without shame—

Like some Princess who stooped to her lover, a long while ago.

1912.

A squalid station, tramcars, dusty palmsIn a great square; and then the surging streetsThat cut the town in two, where its heart beats.Crowds jostle to and fro, brats cadge for alms,Sell lottery tickets, hand their sister’s card(With her address, nude photograph and hours);Men offer little birds, old women flow’rs;Red-coated guards loaf by; a half-blind bardDrones out stale tunes; and amorous ladies stare(Clad in rich clothes, with very bad black eyes)At men with Brownings bulging at their thighsWho’ll fight for a Republic—when they dare.

A squalid station, tramcars, dusty palms

In a great square; and then the surging streets

That cut the town in two, where its heart beats.

Crowds jostle to and fro, brats cadge for alms,

Sell lottery tickets, hand their sister’s card

(With her address, nude photograph and hours);

Men offer little birds, old women flow’rs;

Red-coated guards loaf by; a half-blind bard

Drones out stale tunes; and amorous ladies stare

(Clad in rich clothes, with very bad black eyes)

At men with Brownings bulging at their thighs

Who’ll fight for a Republic—when they dare.

1914.

(Charente)

It’s to Juillac-le-coq, where the vines stretch o’er the plain,And the little streams are running eau-de-vie and the sweet champagne,That I’d take my pipe and smoke it, sitting on some garden wall,And kick my heels and dream my dreams, and never work at all.For the sun’s bright, and the moon’s bright, and all the women’s eyesAre bright there; and joy’s there, and love that fools despise.It’s a little dusty village, full of laughing men and girls;At the thought of it my breath comes short, my tired brain spins and whirls.I must tramp along and find it, choose my sunny white-washed wall,And sing my songs, and dream my dreams, and never work at all.There are vines there, and wines there, and straight, long dazzling waysThat shine white, on a fine night, when high the full moon sways.

It’s to Juillac-le-coq, where the vines stretch o’er the plain,

And the little streams are running eau-de-vie and the sweet champagne,

That I’d take my pipe and smoke it, sitting on some garden wall,

And kick my heels and dream my dreams, and never work at all.

For the sun’s bright, and the moon’s bright, and all the women’s eyes

Are bright there; and joy’s there, and love that fools despise.

It’s a little dusty village, full of laughing men and girls;At the thought of it my breath comes short, my tired brain spins and whirls.I must tramp along and find it, choose my sunny white-washed wall,And sing my songs, and dream my dreams, and never work at all.There are vines there, and wines there, and straight, long dazzling waysThat shine white, on a fine night, when high the full moon sways.

It’s a little dusty village, full of laughing men and girls;

At the thought of it my breath comes short, my tired brain spins and whirls.

I must tramp along and find it, choose my sunny white-washed wall,

And sing my songs, and dream my dreams, and never work at all.

There are vines there, and wines there, and straight, long dazzling ways

That shine white, on a fine night, when high the full moon sways.

1910.

Long roads that stretch out hard and white,Long roads that climb into the sky,They haunt me in this London night:I knew them well in days gone by—Knew them and loved them! Bright they shone—They led to that enchanting land,Where all the throneless gods live onAnd where men go, who understand;Where hills too lovely to be trueRise dazzling, in diviner air,And under heavens for ever blueLove grows to friendship fine and rare.Far from a bitter world of toilThey led, those roads of long ago:They climbed the skies to fairy soil,They glittered like a line of snow.

Long roads that stretch out hard and white,Long roads that climb into the sky,They haunt me in this London night:I knew them well in days gone by—

Long roads that stretch out hard and white,

Long roads that climb into the sky,

They haunt me in this London night:

I knew them well in days gone by—

Knew them and loved them! Bright they shone—They led to that enchanting land,Where all the throneless gods live onAnd where men go, who understand;

Knew them and loved them! Bright they shone—

They led to that enchanting land,

Where all the throneless gods live on

And where men go, who understand;

Where hills too lovely to be trueRise dazzling, in diviner air,And under heavens for ever blueLove grows to friendship fine and rare.

Where hills too lovely to be true

Rise dazzling, in diviner air,

And under heavens for ever blue

Love grows to friendship fine and rare.

Far from a bitter world of toilThey led, those roads of long ago:They climbed the skies to fairy soil,They glittered like a line of snow.

Far from a bitter world of toil

They led, those roads of long ago:

They climbed the skies to fairy soil,

They glittered like a line of snow.

1910.

Ars Longa

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