The Country Boy

Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.);Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by;Slide down the chimneys, and fly in betweenWarped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards;Come in at windows and invade small roomsTo chatter archly in old women’s ears,Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat,And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts....They make bent grandfathers recall the dayThey played the fool in the sun, under the sky,And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps“Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....”And then, they love to hover where maids sleep,Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes,Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips.And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls,They tinkle such sly secrets of delight,That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds,These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughsAnd memories of a kiss, in that dream worldWhere “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown,And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...To the strong lads they whisper of the wars,Of glory and red coats; or of bright wavesTumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped noseIn some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea;Or of adventures, where the world is warmAnd palm-trees stand above a glittering beachUnder deep skies; where you may chance to meetPaul and Virginia; or an Arab horde—Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened—Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on....Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee,With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up!”But get a punch on the nose from British boys,Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails,And go adventuring through the burning blue,And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin,And make an island (as the daylight fades)Which has a fierce volcano in her midstAnd a little white port, with clustering white houses,And pirate vessels in her anchorage....They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams!Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes,The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge,The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on;Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would beHow dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.

Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.);

Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by;

Slide down the chimneys, and fly in between

Warped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards;

Come in at windows and invade small rooms

To chatter archly in old women’s ears,

Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat,

And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts....

They make bent grandfathers recall the dayThey played the fool in the sun, under the sky,And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps“Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....”

They make bent grandfathers recall the day

They played the fool in the sun, under the sky,

And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps

“Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....”

And then, they love to hover where maids sleep,Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes,Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips.And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls,They tinkle such sly secrets of delight,That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds,These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughsAnd memories of a kiss, in that dream worldWhere “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown,And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...

And then, they love to hover where maids sleep,

Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes,

Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips.

And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls,

They tinkle such sly secrets of delight,

That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds,

These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs

And memories of a kiss, in that dream world

Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown,

And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...

To the strong lads they whisper of the wars,Of glory and red coats; or of bright wavesTumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped noseIn some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea;Or of adventures, where the world is warmAnd palm-trees stand above a glittering beachUnder deep skies; where you may chance to meetPaul and Virginia; or an Arab horde—Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened—Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on....

To the strong lads they whisper of the wars,

Of glory and red coats; or of bright waves

Tumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped nose

In some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea;

Or of adventures, where the world is warm

And palm-trees stand above a glittering beach

Under deep skies; where you may chance to meet

Paul and Virginia; or an Arab horde—

Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened—

Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on....

Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee,With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up!”But get a punch on the nose from British boys,Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails,And go adventuring through the burning blue,And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin,And make an island (as the daylight fades)Which has a fierce volcano in her midstAnd a little white port, with clustering white houses,And pirate vessels in her anchorage....

Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee,

With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up!”

But get a punch on the nose from British boys,

Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails,

And go adventuring through the burning blue,

And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin,

And make an island (as the daylight fades)

Which has a fierce volcano in her midst

And a little white port, with clustering white houses,

And pirate vessels in her anchorage....

They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams!Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes,The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge,The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on;Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would beHow dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.

They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams!

Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes,

The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge,

The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on;

Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would be

How dead without you!—in the Walworth Road.

Ere Jack went up to LondonHe held his head full high:His step was firm, his shoulders squareAnd bright and bold his eye.And ere he went to LondonOur maidens pleased him well,As little Rose from Yeovil,And dozens more, can tell.But now the London ladiesHave stolen all his thoughts,And wonderful rich presentsHe gives to those he courts.But O, the smile has left his lips,His eyes are tired and dim,And he’s forgotten lads at homeWho’ve not forgotten him.

Ere Jack went up to LondonHe held his head full high:His step was firm, his shoulders squareAnd bright and bold his eye.

Ere Jack went up to London

He held his head full high:

His step was firm, his shoulders square

And bright and bold his eye.

And ere he went to LondonOur maidens pleased him well,As little Rose from Yeovil,And dozens more, can tell.

And ere he went to London

Our maidens pleased him well,

As little Rose from Yeovil,

And dozens more, can tell.

But now the London ladiesHave stolen all his thoughts,And wonderful rich presentsHe gives to those he courts.

But now the London ladies

Have stolen all his thoughts,

And wonderful rich presents

He gives to those he courts.

But O, the smile has left his lips,His eyes are tired and dim,And he’s forgotten lads at homeWho’ve not forgotten him.

But O, the smile has left his lips,

His eyes are tired and dim,

And he’s forgotten lads at home

Who’ve not forgotten him.

1908.

“O, the spring is sweet in London, Rose; the sun shines in the ParkVery near as warm and happy as it used to shine at home—What’s the use of sitting sighing in my bedroom cold and darkWhen there’s many a girl will walk with me, if only asked to come?“There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng,There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street,And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a songIn the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet!“And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you,And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours,But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few,And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors.“Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind,It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange:This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind,And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it rightJust because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by,To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight.O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.”

“O, the spring is sweet in London, Rose; the sun shines in the Park

Very near as warm and happy as it used to shine at home—

What’s the use of sitting sighing in my bedroom cold and dark

When there’s many a girl will walk with me, if only asked to come?

“There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng,There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street,And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a songIn the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet!

“There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng,

There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street,

And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a song

In the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet!

“And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you,And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours,But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few,And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors.

“And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you,

And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours,

But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few,

And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors.

“Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind,It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange:This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind,And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.

“Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind,

It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange:

This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind,

And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.

“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it rightJust because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by,To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight.O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.”

“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it right

Just because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by,

To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight.

O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.”

(Bloomsbury)

As I climb these musty stairs,To my garret near the roof—Past the ladies singing airsFrom the latest Opéra-bouffe—I can see her little feetTwinkling in the brilliant light,I can hear the words so sweetThat she said for my delight,When the whirling dance was overAnd she joined me in the night.As I climb these hard-worn stairsTo my garret near the roof,All her pretty, subtle airs,As she kept me half-aloof,Fill my thoughts and banish cares;I can hear her soft reproofWhen I kissed her unawares,As I climb these weary stairsTo my garret near the roof.

As I climb these musty stairs,

To my garret near the roof—

Past the ladies singing airs

From the latest Opéra-bouffe—

I can see her little feet

Twinkling in the brilliant light,

I can hear the words so sweet

That she said for my delight,

When the whirling dance was over

And she joined me in the night.

As I climb these hard-worn stairsTo my garret near the roof,All her pretty, subtle airs,As she kept me half-aloof,Fill my thoughts and banish cares;I can hear her soft reproofWhen I kissed her unawares,As I climb these weary stairsTo my garret near the roof.

As I climb these hard-worn stairs

To my garret near the roof,

All her pretty, subtle airs,

As she kept me half-aloof,

Fill my thoughts and banish cares;

I can hear her soft reproof

When I kissed her unawares,

As I climb these weary stairs

To my garret near the roof.

(To Madame Josse)

Madame, from out the hurrying throngTwo boys have come to drink and talk;And one will make a little songAnd one a drawing, done in chalk.When all goes wayward with our artAnd beauty dances out of sight,It’s good to still a hungry heartWith chatter far into the night.Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines,Gay visions come to tired eyes;How bright the Isle of Java shinesBeneath what deep, cerulean skies!Transported to that dazzling climeWhere sunlight scalds a silver beach—We can forget the flight of time,And falterings of line and speech.We can forget our isle of dreamIs no more real than thoughts that fly—And follow close the magic gleamWhich charms and haunts us till we die.And so from out the hurrying throngWe two have come to drink and talk;And I have made a little song,And he a drawing, done in chalk!

Madame, from out the hurrying throngTwo boys have come to drink and talk;And one will make a little songAnd one a drawing, done in chalk.

Madame, from out the hurrying throng

Two boys have come to drink and talk;

And one will make a little song

And one a drawing, done in chalk.

When all goes wayward with our artAnd beauty dances out of sight,It’s good to still a hungry heartWith chatter far into the night.

When all goes wayward with our art

And beauty dances out of sight,

It’s good to still a hungry heart

With chatter far into the night.

Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines,Gay visions come to tired eyes;How bright the Isle of Java shinesBeneath what deep, cerulean skies!

Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines,

Gay visions come to tired eyes;

How bright the Isle of Java shines

Beneath what deep, cerulean skies!

Transported to that dazzling climeWhere sunlight scalds a silver beach—We can forget the flight of time,And falterings of line and speech.

Transported to that dazzling clime

Where sunlight scalds a silver beach—

We can forget the flight of time,

And falterings of line and speech.

We can forget our isle of dreamIs no more real than thoughts that fly—And follow close the magic gleamWhich charms and haunts us till we die.

We can forget our isle of dream

Is no more real than thoughts that fly—

And follow close the magic gleam

Which charms and haunts us till we die.

And so from out the hurrying throngWe two have come to drink and talk;And I have made a little song,And he a drawing, done in chalk!

And so from out the hurrying throng

We two have come to drink and talk;

And I have made a little song,

And he a drawing, done in chalk!

1908.

IOh fluttering hand, so white and warm and shy,Oh eyes that have imprisoned a stray beamStol’n from the moon! Oh tremulous heart’s cry,From lips new parted in some childish dream!See, Dear, the poplars tremble. They are very tall,They stand like pillars against the darkling sky,And over the little lake their shadows fall....See, through the gloom, the great white swans glide by.If you can love this little, why not all?Ah! brooding mouth that never will tell me why....IIOh, it is still, out here, under the starry glow:Your lips to mine you give, and my hand is in yours,And your body is mine if I wish it ... and yet, I knowThat the treasure I seek you deny,And the heart of you, soul of you, keep.IIII would know why you lift your head of a sudden, like this,And turn it (so finely poised) till the light picks outThe shape of your moulded neck, of your hair so sweet to kiss,And the line of your forehead and nose and lips that pout.Now are they blue as night, your veiled large eyes,But pale fire lights them, fire o’ the moon.Oh, why do you gasp, with little tangled cries,And why do you seize my hand to let it fall so soon?

IOh fluttering hand, so white and warm and shy,Oh eyes that have imprisoned a stray beamStol’n from the moon! Oh tremulous heart’s cry,From lips new parted in some childish dream!

Oh fluttering hand, so white and warm and shy,

Oh eyes that have imprisoned a stray beam

Stol’n from the moon! Oh tremulous heart’s cry,

From lips new parted in some childish dream!

See, Dear, the poplars tremble. They are very tall,They stand like pillars against the darkling sky,And over the little lake their shadows fall....See, through the gloom, the great white swans glide by.If you can love this little, why not all?Ah! brooding mouth that never will tell me why....

See, Dear, the poplars tremble. They are very tall,

They stand like pillars against the darkling sky,

And over the little lake their shadows fall....

See, through the gloom, the great white swans glide by.

If you can love this little, why not all?

Ah! brooding mouth that never will tell me why....

IIOh, it is still, out here, under the starry glow:Your lips to mine you give, and my hand is in yours,And your body is mine if I wish it ... and yet, I knowThat the treasure I seek you deny,And the heart of you, soul of you, keep.

Oh, it is still, out here, under the starry glow:

Your lips to mine you give, and my hand is in yours,

And your body is mine if I wish it ... and yet, I know

That the treasure I seek you deny,

And the heart of you, soul of you, keep.

IIII would know why you lift your head of a sudden, like this,And turn it (so finely poised) till the light picks outThe shape of your moulded neck, of your hair so sweet to kiss,And the line of your forehead and nose and lips that pout.

III

I would know why you lift your head of a sudden, like this,

And turn it (so finely poised) till the light picks out

The shape of your moulded neck, of your hair so sweet to kiss,

And the line of your forehead and nose and lips that pout.

Now are they blue as night, your veiled large eyes,But pale fire lights them, fire o’ the moon.Oh, why do you gasp, with little tangled cries,And why do you seize my hand to let it fall so soon?

Now are they blue as night, your veiled large eyes,

But pale fire lights them, fire o’ the moon.

Oh, why do you gasp, with little tangled cries,

And why do you seize my hand to let it fall so soon?

1911.

Now through the dripping, moonless night,Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise,They trace their footsteps by the lightOf love that fills their weary eyes.“Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place,With far less joy in it than tears,To set my lips to your warm faceIs worth a sight of dismal years!”“And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,”She whispers softly.... “See, the rainHas stopped, the clouds are broken through,The stars are shining clear again!”Pausing, they gaze across the HeathSubmerged in fog—a dim hush’d lakeWherein the wretched might seek death,And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake.Then clasping hands, and touching lips,They dream beneath great sombre trees,Whence large and solemn-falling dripsAre shaken by the restless breeze.“Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear,As kisses in the quiet night:Lean close, and let me hold you near,Put out your arms, and clasp me tight!“Why, should we wait, so cold and wise?We’re only human, Nell, we two;And even if love fades and dies—I shall remember this: won’t you?”

Now through the dripping, moonless night,Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise,They trace their footsteps by the lightOf love that fills their weary eyes.

Now through the dripping, moonless night,

Up West End Lane and Frognal Rise,

They trace their footsteps by the light

Of love that fills their weary eyes.

“Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place,With far less joy in it than tears,To set my lips to your warm faceIs worth a sight of dismal years!”

“Nellie, though Town’s a tiresome place,

With far less joy in it than tears,

To set my lips to your warm face

Is worth a sight of dismal years!”

“And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,”She whispers softly.... “See, the rainHas stopped, the clouds are broken through,The stars are shining clear again!”

“And I’m so happy, Jack, with you,”

She whispers softly.... “See, the rain

Has stopped, the clouds are broken through,

The stars are shining clear again!”

Pausing, they gaze across the HeathSubmerged in fog—a dim hush’d lakeWherein the wretched might seek death,And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake.

Pausing, they gaze across the Heath

Submerged in fog—a dim hush’d lake

Wherein the wretched might seek death,

And lovers drown for dear Love’s sake.

Then clasping hands, and touching lips,They dream beneath great sombre trees,Whence large and solemn-falling dripsAre shaken by the restless breeze.

Then clasping hands, and touching lips,

They dream beneath great sombre trees,

Whence large and solemn-falling drips

Are shaken by the restless breeze.

“Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear,As kisses in the quiet night:Lean close, and let me hold you near,Put out your arms, and clasp me tight!

“Oh, nothing’s half so sweet, my dear,

As kisses in the quiet night:

Lean close, and let me hold you near,

Put out your arms, and clasp me tight!

“Why, should we wait, so cold and wise?We’re only human, Nell, we two;And even if love fades and dies—I shall remember this: won’t you?”

“Why, should we wait, so cold and wise?

We’re only human, Nell, we two;

And even if love fades and dies—

I shall remember this: won’t you?”

IUp from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill!(All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden wallsAnd hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still.)O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls!Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget!Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear.Under the golden moon, when the sun has set,Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!III love those small old houses, with bright front doors,And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay:Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores)And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit,In autumn and winter. In summer a roseClimbs in through the open window, caressing it;And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.IIIFields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyesBloom all to beauty of soft look and word.Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal armsOver joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.IVDo you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the rightWhen you reach the top, which climb to a walkShaded by elm-trees of great girth and height;And there are seats there, where lovers talk.And all in front is a valley, wide and deep—In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs:In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep,Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries....VIt rained, the wet poured from the leaves;They by the churchyard; entered inAnd sheltered underneath the eaves—So sweetly close; yet firm her chin.Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood;And she—half frightened and half kind—Whispered the warning words “be good,”But left his venturous arm entwined.When the shower stopped his hopes sank low,Farewell kind walls and darkling spire!They walked forlornly down Church Row;Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire.Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green—There parted, by a watery moon.His heart went throbbing “Might have been,”But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.”VIAt Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow lightPour from the bar upon a preacher’s headWho howls unheeded warnings to the night:Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed.Lonely young men walk, eager, to and froAnd search the passing faces—some find mates;Against the railings leans a giggling row;An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits.The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam;Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips,While couples meet and glance, then leave the stream,And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.VIISo, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blueYou may spy cities, dim in the dim sky,Stretching-strange roadways to the inner view.See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die....

Up from the desolate streets—the green, sweet hill!

(All crossed with scented paths, shut in by garden walls

And hung with shadowy trees—dark paths and still.)

O, open plateau, glittering pond, and love that calls!

Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget!Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear.Under the golden moon, when the sun has set,Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!

Here, ah! here, to be gods, to forget!

Here to leave home and troubles that soil and blear.

Under the golden moon, when the sun has set,

Here to forget and kiss—O joy bought dear!

III love those small old houses, with bright front doors,And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay:Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores)And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.

I love those small old houses, with bright front doors,

And shy windows that look on the Heath; they are quiet and gay:

Old books, old silver they have (that my heart adores)

And their women are slim, with soft voices; and kind things they say.

Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit,In autumn and winter. In summer a roseClimbs in through the open window, caressing it;And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.

Their lives are one exquisite tea—with the lamp unlit,

In autumn and winter. In summer a rose

Climbs in through the open window, caressing it;

And always there are petit-fours, music, and dreams—and repose.

IIIFields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyesBloom all to beauty of soft look and word.

III

Fields where the ugly, with divine-grown eyes

Bloom all to beauty of soft look and word.

Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal armsOver joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.

Trees, amorous trees, that fold maternal arms

Over joined lips, and halting vows half-heard.

IVDo you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the rightWhen you reach the top, which climb to a walkShaded by elm-trees of great girth and height;And there are seats there, where lovers talk.

Do you know Branch Hill? There are steps to the right

When you reach the top, which climb to a walk

Shaded by elm-trees of great girth and height;

And there are seats there, where lovers talk.

And all in front is a valley, wide and deep—In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs:In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep,Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries....

And all in front is a valley, wide and deep—

In summer a place of murmurs and laughing sighs:

In winter a sea of mists and deathly sleep,

Pierced by faint sobs and drowning, desolate cries....

VIt rained, the wet poured from the leaves;They by the churchyard; entered inAnd sheltered underneath the eaves—So sweetly close; yet firm her chin.

It rained, the wet poured from the leaves;

They by the churchyard; entered in

And sheltered underneath the eaves—

So sweetly close; yet firm her chin.

Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood;And she—half frightened and half kind—Whispered the warning words “be good,”But left his venturous arm entwined.

Her warmth, her fragrance, thrilled his blood;

And she—half frightened and half kind—

Whispered the warning words “be good,”

But left his venturous arm entwined.

When the shower stopped his hopes sank low,Farewell kind walls and darkling spire!They walked forlornly down Church Row;Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire.

When the shower stopped his hopes sank low,

Farewell kind walls and darkling spire!

They walked forlornly down Church Row;

Her eyes grown big; his lips on fire.

Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green—There parted, by a watery moon.His heart went throbbing “Might have been,”But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.”

Down Frognal Lane to Fortune Green—

There parted, by a watery moon.

His heart went throbbing “Might have been,”

But hers a-trembling “Not too soon.”

VIAt Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow lightPour from the bar upon a preacher’s headWho howls unheeded warnings to the night:Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed.

At Jack Straw’s Castle, streaks of yellow light

Pour from the bar upon a preacher’s head

Who howls unheeded warnings to the night:

Two p’licemen say he ought to be in bed.

Lonely young men walk, eager, to and froAnd search the passing faces—some find mates;Against the railings leans a giggling row;An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits.

Lonely young men walk, eager, to and fro

And search the passing faces—some find mates;

Against the railings leans a giggling row;

An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits.

The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam;Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips,While couples meet and glance, then leave the stream,And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.

The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam;

Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips,

While couples meet and glance, then leave the stream,

And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.

VIISo, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blueYou may spy cities, dim in the dim sky,Stretching-strange roadways to the inner view.See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die....

VII

So, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blue

You may spy cities, dim in the dim sky,

Stretching-strange roadways to the inner view.

See! See!—oh, loved one, see! Hope shall not die....

He: May I stop and kiss you here,O, my dear?She: You may stop, but I’ll not stay:I’m going homewards now—Good day!He: Here’s a lane, and quiet, too:’Tis where the folks from London woo,Two and two.She: It leads to Kilburn, where I live:I promised I’d be back at five—I must be quick or I’ll be late,No, no—I dare not wait.He: See, Maggie, it’s called Lover’s Lane,So other’s girls are kind, that’s plain.This love’s a thing that all men know;There, link your arm in my arm—so.She: I didn’t think you were so silly:Walk up—it’s chilly.He: O, since in life there’s little bliss,And most of it lies in a kiss—Don’t turn those cruel lips away,But just one moment, Maggie, stay!...Lor! here’s the blessed street. Oh! why....She: You foolish lad, don’task. Good-bye!

He: May I stop and kiss you here,O, my dear?

He: May I stop and kiss you here,

O, my dear?

She: You may stop, but I’ll not stay:I’m going homewards now—Good day!

She: You may stop, but I’ll not stay:

I’m going homewards now—Good day!

He: Here’s a lane, and quiet, too:’Tis where the folks from London woo,Two and two.

He: Here’s a lane, and quiet, too:

’Tis where the folks from London woo,

Two and two.

She: It leads to Kilburn, where I live:I promised I’d be back at five—I must be quick or I’ll be late,No, no—I dare not wait.

She: It leads to Kilburn, where I live:

I promised I’d be back at five—

I must be quick or I’ll be late,

No, no—I dare not wait.

He: See, Maggie, it’s called Lover’s Lane,So other’s girls are kind, that’s plain.This love’s a thing that all men know;There, link your arm in my arm—so.

He: See, Maggie, it’s called Lover’s Lane,

So other’s girls are kind, that’s plain.

This love’s a thing that all men know;

There, link your arm in my arm—so.

She: I didn’t think you were so silly:Walk up—it’s chilly.

She: I didn’t think you were so silly:

Walk up—it’s chilly.

He: O, since in life there’s little bliss,And most of it lies in a kiss—Don’t turn those cruel lips away,But just one moment, Maggie, stay!...Lor! here’s the blessed street. Oh! why....

He: O, since in life there’s little bliss,

And most of it lies in a kiss—

Don’t turn those cruel lips away,

But just one moment, Maggie, stay!

...

Lor! here’s the blessed street. Oh! why....

She: You foolish lad, don’task. Good-bye!

The moon shone withering, wild and white,And ruddy gleamed the bars,And far below, the city’s lightStreamed up to meet the stars.“Look down,” ses Tom, “them streets that shine,And look, the gaudy sky!By God, to-night, my girl, you’re mine”—And glad enough was I.Oh, why did blow so soft and warmThat breeze on Spaniards’ Road!I never thought to take no harm,Nor bear so hard a load.

The moon shone withering, wild and white,And ruddy gleamed the bars,And far below, the city’s lightStreamed up to meet the stars.

The moon shone withering, wild and white,

And ruddy gleamed the bars,

And far below, the city’s light

Streamed up to meet the stars.

“Look down,” ses Tom, “them streets that shine,And look, the gaudy sky!By God, to-night, my girl, you’re mine”—And glad enough was I.

“Look down,” ses Tom, “them streets that shine,

And look, the gaudy sky!

By God, to-night, my girl, you’re mine”

—And glad enough was I.

Oh, why did blow so soft and warmThat breeze on Spaniards’ Road!I never thought to take no harm,Nor bear so hard a load.

Oh, why did blow so soft and warm

That breeze on Spaniards’ Road!

I never thought to take no harm,

Nor bear so hard a load.

1913.

IWhat do I want with your little, shrinking love?See, I have a star in my hand, that I snatched from the blue above,I have the moon under my arm; and dreams in my heart that cry—And, look, the glow of my city, my home—like blood-red fire in the sky!You cannot bind me with cords, while you give or withhold little kisses,I will fly off and forget....Ah!IIHow can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”:You will not answer now, “it grows so late”—And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate!Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word!Listen a little while—you turn away.What? Your head droops.... You are frightened?Run in and hide.

What do I want with your little, shrinking love?

See, I have a star in my hand, that I snatched from the blue above,

I have the moon under my arm; and dreams in my heart that cry—

And, look, the glow of my city, my home—like blood-red fire in the sky!

You cannot bind me with cords, while you give or withhold little kisses,

I will fly off and forget....

Ah!

IIHow can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”:You will not answer now, “it grows so late”—And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate!

How can you tell? you say. Your heart cries “wait”:

You will not answer now, “it grows so late”—

And I stand, hungry, by your small, green gate!

Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word!Listen a little while—you turn away.What? Your head droops.... You are frightened?Run in and hide.

Dear, if you would but trust love’s whispered word!

Listen a little while—you turn away.

What? Your head droops.... You are frightened?

Run in and hide.

(June Night)

The sea-gulls wheel aloft and sink,Slide swiftly circlewise and fadeTo where the West is olive-pinkAnd rosy mists the river shade.And sullen, purposeful and strangeThe silent stream glides on, beneathThe patient bridge that will not change,And all the city holds its breath.Then gazing towards the sunken sunA pale girl eyes his lingering gleam,A soul whose little day is done,For whom will come no night, no dream.

The sea-gulls wheel aloft and sink,Slide swiftly circlewise and fadeTo where the West is olive-pinkAnd rosy mists the river shade.

The sea-gulls wheel aloft and sink,

Slide swiftly circlewise and fade

To where the West is olive-pink

And rosy mists the river shade.

And sullen, purposeful and strangeThe silent stream glides on, beneathThe patient bridge that will not change,And all the city holds its breath.

And sullen, purposeful and strange

The silent stream glides on, beneath

The patient bridge that will not change,

And all the city holds its breath.

Then gazing towards the sunken sunA pale girl eyes his lingering gleam,A soul whose little day is done,For whom will come no night, no dream.

Then gazing towards the sunken sun

A pale girl eyes his lingering gleam,

A soul whose little day is done,

For whom will come no night, no dream.

1908.

A very sordid street of red and green—Red houses and green paint—but in betweenEach villa lies a little garden spaceCherished on Summer Sundays. See his face,(A two-pound Clerk next morning) as he sweats,Tending the strawberries which his baby eats!A fool is he, not virtuous, but content:He hears no wings of God omnipotent,Nor feels the stirring of His mighty breath.Yet scorn not Gladstone Terrace in your pride,For see, what hopes and longings here reside,What gracious mysteries of love and death.

A very sordid street of red and green—

Red houses and green paint—but in between

Each villa lies a little garden space

Cherished on Summer Sundays. See his face,

(A two-pound Clerk next morning) as he sweats,

Tending the strawberries which his baby eats!

A fool is he, not virtuous, but content:He hears no wings of God omnipotent,Nor feels the stirring of His mighty breath.Yet scorn not Gladstone Terrace in your pride,For see, what hopes and longings here reside,What gracious mysteries of love and death.

A fool is he, not virtuous, but content:

He hears no wings of God omnipotent,

Nor feels the stirring of His mighty breath.

Yet scorn not Gladstone Terrace in your pride,

For see, what hopes and longings here reside,

What gracious mysteries of love and death.

(Bayswater)

From Notting Hill to Hyde Park SquareThe streets have an inhuman air,The houses—(six imposing floors;Dark, formidable, fierce front doors;Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind;Ball-room or billiard-room behind)—Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold,None but the ugly and the old....Watch, as you wander hereabout,The people who go in and out!Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats,Fur coats, check trousers, gleaming spats,Flock in procession, pompous, grand,Or drive in motors to the Strand;And massive women, towering high,Dart glances from a hawklike eye,Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze,Then drive (to train for several teas),Snub the companion, pat the dog,Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.Jerusalem no more golden isThan gloomy Bayswater, I wis!Her portals strike an awe profound—“Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground!Quell impropriety of tone;Hawkers and circulars begone”—For here the ruling race resideAnd guard our pledges and their pride.Her doors are sour: they never smile,But icily stare for mile on mile—Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard:Fastened securely, bolted, barred!

From Notting Hill to Hyde Park Square

The streets have an inhuman air,

The houses—(six imposing floors;

Dark, formidable, fierce front doors;

Tall windows, sightless, sealed and blind;

Ball-room or billiard-room behind)—

Must shelter, they’re so vast and cold,

None but the ugly and the old....

Watch, as you wander hereabout,The people who go in and out!Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats,Fur coats, check trousers, gleaming spats,Flock in procession, pompous, grand,Or drive in motors to the Strand;And massive women, towering high,Dart glances from a hawklike eye,Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze,Then drive (to train for several teas),Snub the companion, pat the dog,Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.

Watch, as you wander hereabout,

The people who go in and out!

Sleek-bellied men in varnished hats,

Fur coats, check trousers, gleaming spats,

Flock in procession, pompous, grand,

Or drive in motors to the Strand;

And massive women, towering high,

Dart glances from a hawklike eye,

Pause, sniffing the post-luncheon breeze,

Then drive (to train for several teas),

Snub the companion, pat the dog,

Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.

Jerusalem no more golden isThan gloomy Bayswater, I wis!Her portals strike an awe profound—“Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground!Quell impropriety of tone;Hawkers and circulars begone”—For here the ruling race resideAnd guard our pledges and their pride.Her doors are sour: they never smile,But icily stare for mile on mile—Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard:Fastened securely, bolted, barred!

Jerusalem no more golden is

Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis!

Her portals strike an awe profound—

“Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground!

Quell impropriety of tone;

Hawkers and circulars begone”—

For here the ruling race reside

And guard our pledges and their pride.

Her doors are sour: they never smile,

But icily stare for mile on mile—

Vast, supercilious, gleaming, hard:

Fastened securely, bolted, barred!

(Thames Embankment)

She wandered by the river’s brink,Her stricken heart stood still:She listened for his hastening stepWith mind to win or kill.From Ipswich up to London townLong days, long nights walked she:And now had tracked the soldier downWho caused her shame to be.She could not breathe, her throat grew dry,Her soldier looked so brave and strong:“Why Moll, my girl,” she heard him cry,“What brings you here along?”“From Ipswich, Dick, I’ve brought the son,”She moaned, “your broken promise gave.”He looked and laughed: “Poor little one!I’ve used you ill, I have.”She sank, and saw him smile good-bye—She who had thought to kill or win.He was too fine, too bold to die,The weak must suffer for his sin.

She wandered by the river’s brink,Her stricken heart stood still:She listened for his hastening stepWith mind to win or kill.

She wandered by the river’s brink,

Her stricken heart stood still:

She listened for his hastening step

With mind to win or kill.

From Ipswich up to London townLong days, long nights walked she:And now had tracked the soldier downWho caused her shame to be.

From Ipswich up to London town

Long days, long nights walked she:

And now had tracked the soldier down

Who caused her shame to be.

She could not breathe, her throat grew dry,Her soldier looked so brave and strong:“Why Moll, my girl,” she heard him cry,“What brings you here along?”

She could not breathe, her throat grew dry,

Her soldier looked so brave and strong:

“Why Moll, my girl,” she heard him cry,

“What brings you here along?”

“From Ipswich, Dick, I’ve brought the son,”She moaned, “your broken promise gave.”He looked and laughed: “Poor little one!I’ve used you ill, I have.”

“From Ipswich, Dick, I’ve brought the son,”

She moaned, “your broken promise gave.”

He looked and laughed: “Poor little one!

I’ve used you ill, I have.”

She sank, and saw him smile good-bye—She who had thought to kill or win.He was too fine, too bold to die,The weak must suffer for his sin.

She sank, and saw him smile good-bye—

She who had thought to kill or win.

He was too fine, too bold to die,

The weak must suffer for his sin.

All down that dismal villa’d street,With ugly green front doors,I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feetAnd wonder which was yours!And when the bedroom candles shoneAnd night fell deep and dark,The road would fade, and I’d press onAcross some faery park.And you before me, you so near!—Elusive, ’mid the trees.I the bold horseman, you the deer—What nights, what dreams were these?Must Love and Beauty always flyThe eager arms of men?Oh, I shall hunt you till I die,And when I live again!

All down that dismal villa’d street,With ugly green front doors,I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feetAnd wonder which was yours!

All down that dismal villa’d street,

With ugly green front doors,

I’d to and fro, on tiptoe feet

And wonder which was yours!

And when the bedroom candles shoneAnd night fell deep and dark,The road would fade, and I’d press onAcross some faery park.

And when the bedroom candles shone

And night fell deep and dark,

The road would fade, and I’d press on

Across some faery park.

And you before me, you so near!—Elusive, ’mid the trees.I the bold horseman, you the deer—What nights, what dreams were these?

And you before me, you so near!

—Elusive, ’mid the trees.

I the bold horseman, you the deer—

What nights, what dreams were these?

Must Love and Beauty always flyThe eager arms of men?Oh, I shall hunt you till I die,And when I live again!

Must Love and Beauty always fly

The eager arms of men?

Oh, I shall hunt you till I die,

And when I live again!

Come, give your hands to me, and leanYour dear bright head against my coat.Let me tear loose the furs that screenThe ivory column of your throat.Now, yield your hungry lips to mine,You passionate child! You cling so tight,The blood goes to my head like wine,As we race, breathless, through the night.How the time flies! We’re nearly there.Now grow sedate and proud once more—Put back your furs, bind up your hair,But pause, awhile, outside your door.No one can hear! So now, good-bye!Darling, to crush you, in the gloom,With kisses, would be ecstasy....“Shh! mother’s moving in her room!”

Come, give your hands to me, and leanYour dear bright head against my coat.Let me tear loose the furs that screenThe ivory column of your throat.

Come, give your hands to me, and lean

Your dear bright head against my coat.

Let me tear loose the furs that screen

The ivory column of your throat.

Now, yield your hungry lips to mine,You passionate child! You cling so tight,The blood goes to my head like wine,As we race, breathless, through the night.

Now, yield your hungry lips to mine,

You passionate child! You cling so tight,

The blood goes to my head like wine,

As we race, breathless, through the night.

How the time flies! We’re nearly there.Now grow sedate and proud once more—Put back your furs, bind up your hair,But pause, awhile, outside your door.

How the time flies! We’re nearly there.

Now grow sedate and proud once more—

Put back your furs, bind up your hair,

But pause, awhile, outside your door.

No one can hear! So now, good-bye!Darling, to crush you, in the gloom,With kisses, would be ecstasy....“Shh! mother’s moving in her room!”

No one can hear! So now, good-bye!

Darling, to crush you, in the gloom,

With kisses, would be ecstasy....

“Shh! mother’s moving in her room!”

1908.

I, the son of London men,Give thanks to London once again.Here was I born; and I will dieUnder this friendly leaden sky—Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.City of beauty, flower of cities all—Where “Themmes” runs swiftly, and the ’buses roar(Even down the stately reaches of Whitehall)While chocolate trams invade the Surrey shore—Yours is a glamour which the years enhanceAnd in your grimy streets lives all romance!When I go out into the worldTo see the wonders there unfurl’d,Though marvelling much, when I lie downMy thoughts fly back to my own town.Memories of familiar streetsComfort me under foreign sheetsAnd Cockney humour brings the laughWhenbocksof foreign beer I quaff.My thoughts fly home. I see againRemembered houses, roads and men.The great town grows before my eyes,I hear its murmurs and its sighs,Travel, in dreams, the streets I knewAnd roam from Greenwich Park to Kew.I love to think of bland Pall Mall(Where Charles made love to Pretty Nell)And rich South Audley Street, and Wapping,And Bond Street and the Christmas shopping,Knightsbridge, the Inner Circle train,And Piccadilly and Park Lane;Kensington, where “nice” people liveWho give you tea (top-hat) at five;And Church Street, and that little pathWhich leads to the Broad Walk and the PondWhere boys sail boats and sparrows bath—And the dear woodland slope beyond....I love Hyde Park, the Serpentine,And Marble Arch at half-past nine,The graceful curve of Regent Street,The Queen Anne charm of Cheyne Walk(Its church, with Polyphemus’ eye,And those great chimneys, climbing the sky!)—The Inns of Court and that discreetTavern where Johnson used to talk;The bustle of Fleet Street and the blareOf Oxford Circus, Leicester Square;Charing Cross Road, with books for allIn shop and window, case and stall;Imperial Westminster, the Stores,Where Colonel Tompkins buys cigars;The Athenæum, where he snores;The “Troc,” and several other bars;The hall where Marie makes us roarWith jokes our consciences deploreAnd where dear Vesta Tilley sings—Our “London Idol,” bless her heart!—Where Robey leaps on from the wings,And good old X forgets her part.Then who can think of Richmond HillIn summertime, without a thrill?—Remembering days with Rose or NanWhen friendship ended, love began,And glamorous evenings in the parkUnder the beech trees hush’d and dark—The deer at gaze with glistening eyes,The London lights aglow in the skies(But far away) and no sound thereSave the caught breath and little sighsThat come from joy too great to bear.Richmond, all London lovers knowYour upland glades, and how, below,The bright Thames twines about your kneesThrough the green tracery of your trees....And just as I on Whitsunday,Have brought my girl to spend the day,So to your hill my fathers cameAnd, sure, my son will do the same....What sights there are, for those who know,In every part of this great city!Our men are mixed, it’s true, but oh,Are not our London maidens pretty?Look! you may see them everywhere—Laughing in ball-rooms in Mayfair,At tea at Ranelagh, or walkingOn Sunday in Hyde Park and talkingThe latest nonsense! What a sight,In frocks adorable and costly!At Epping too (East-enders mostly)You’ll see good London girls at play;On Hampstead Heath—and every dayThey troop in crowds up Chancery Lane....I’ll own, some Brixton girls are plain,The Ealing girls are proud and silly,They’re a queer lot in PiccadillyAnd—personally—I can’t standThe huzzies who infest the Strand.But in the bulk, far though you roam,You’ll find no girls like ours at home.Then what good cheer is London cheerWhen welcoming the infant year;On Derby day; or Christmas even;Or when Aunt Jane pops off to Heaven!In friendly restaurant or grillYou drink your bottle, eat your fill,Digest, while watching Russian dancers,Drive next to supper at some pub,Then mingle with the rag-time prancers,In a night café—called a club.And so to bed, should it be June,While the birds sing their morning tuneAnd the sun flushes all the EastAnd tips with rose chimney and roof.Heigho! the ending of the feast—The kiss good-bye, and no reproof!I cannot praise as I would praiseThe mother of my nights and days.Mine only in rough notes to singSongs of the streets from which I spring.I, the son of London men,Give thanks to London once again.Here was I born and I will dieUnder this friendly leaden sky—Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.

I, the son of London men,Give thanks to London once again.Here was I born; and I will dieUnder this friendly leaden sky—Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.

I, the son of London men,

Give thanks to London once again.

Here was I born; and I will die

Under this friendly leaden sky—

Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.

City of beauty, flower of cities all—Where “Themmes” runs swiftly, and the ’buses roar(Even down the stately reaches of Whitehall)While chocolate trams invade the Surrey shore—Yours is a glamour which the years enhanceAnd in your grimy streets lives all romance!

City of beauty, flower of cities all—

Where “Themmes” runs swiftly, and the ’buses roar

(Even down the stately reaches of Whitehall)

While chocolate trams invade the Surrey shore—

Yours is a glamour which the years enhance

And in your grimy streets lives all romance!

When I go out into the worldTo see the wonders there unfurl’d,Though marvelling much, when I lie downMy thoughts fly back to my own town.Memories of familiar streetsComfort me under foreign sheetsAnd Cockney humour brings the laughWhenbocksof foreign beer I quaff.

When I go out into the world

To see the wonders there unfurl’d,

Though marvelling much, when I lie down

My thoughts fly back to my own town.

Memories of familiar streets

Comfort me under foreign sheets

And Cockney humour brings the laugh

Whenbocksof foreign beer I quaff.

My thoughts fly home. I see againRemembered houses, roads and men.The great town grows before my eyes,I hear its murmurs and its sighs,Travel, in dreams, the streets I knewAnd roam from Greenwich Park to Kew.

My thoughts fly home. I see again

Remembered houses, roads and men.

The great town grows before my eyes,

I hear its murmurs and its sighs,

Travel, in dreams, the streets I knew

And roam from Greenwich Park to Kew.

I love to think of bland Pall Mall(Where Charles made love to Pretty Nell)And rich South Audley Street, and Wapping,And Bond Street and the Christmas shopping,Knightsbridge, the Inner Circle train,And Piccadilly and Park Lane;Kensington, where “nice” people liveWho give you tea (top-hat) at five;And Church Street, and that little pathWhich leads to the Broad Walk and the PondWhere boys sail boats and sparrows bath—And the dear woodland slope beyond....

I love to think of bland Pall Mall

(Where Charles made love to Pretty Nell)

And rich South Audley Street, and Wapping,

And Bond Street and the Christmas shopping,

Knightsbridge, the Inner Circle train,

And Piccadilly and Park Lane;

Kensington, where “nice” people live

Who give you tea (top-hat) at five;

And Church Street, and that little path

Which leads to the Broad Walk and the Pond

Where boys sail boats and sparrows bath—

And the dear woodland slope beyond....

I love Hyde Park, the Serpentine,And Marble Arch at half-past nine,The graceful curve of Regent Street,The Queen Anne charm of Cheyne Walk(Its church, with Polyphemus’ eye,And those great chimneys, climbing the sky!)—The Inns of Court and that discreetTavern where Johnson used to talk;The bustle of Fleet Street and the blareOf Oxford Circus, Leicester Square;Charing Cross Road, with books for allIn shop and window, case and stall;Imperial Westminster, the Stores,Where Colonel Tompkins buys cigars;The Athenæum, where he snores;The “Troc,” and several other bars;The hall where Marie makes us roarWith jokes our consciences deploreAnd where dear Vesta Tilley sings—Our “London Idol,” bless her heart!—Where Robey leaps on from the wings,And good old X forgets her part.

I love Hyde Park, the Serpentine,

And Marble Arch at half-past nine,

The graceful curve of Regent Street,

The Queen Anne charm of Cheyne Walk

(Its church, with Polyphemus’ eye,

And those great chimneys, climbing the sky!)—

The Inns of Court and that discreet

Tavern where Johnson used to talk;

The bustle of Fleet Street and the blare

Of Oxford Circus, Leicester Square;

Charing Cross Road, with books for all

In shop and window, case and stall;

Imperial Westminster, the Stores,

Where Colonel Tompkins buys cigars;

The Athenæum, where he snores;

The “Troc,” and several other bars;

The hall where Marie makes us roar

With jokes our consciences deplore

And where dear Vesta Tilley sings

—Our “London Idol,” bless her heart!—

Where Robey leaps on from the wings,

And good old X forgets her part.

Then who can think of Richmond HillIn summertime, without a thrill?—Remembering days with Rose or NanWhen friendship ended, love began,And glamorous evenings in the parkUnder the beech trees hush’d and dark—The deer at gaze with glistening eyes,The London lights aglow in the skies(But far away) and no sound thereSave the caught breath and little sighsThat come from joy too great to bear.

Then who can think of Richmond Hill

In summertime, without a thrill?—

Remembering days with Rose or Nan

When friendship ended, love began,

And glamorous evenings in the park

Under the beech trees hush’d and dark—

The deer at gaze with glistening eyes,

The London lights aglow in the skies

(But far away) and no sound there

Save the caught breath and little sighs

That come from joy too great to bear.

Richmond, all London lovers knowYour upland glades, and how, below,The bright Thames twines about your kneesThrough the green tracery of your trees....And just as I on Whitsunday,Have brought my girl to spend the day,So to your hill my fathers cameAnd, sure, my son will do the same.

Richmond, all London lovers know

Your upland glades, and how, below,

The bright Thames twines about your knees

Through the green tracery of your trees....

And just as I on Whitsunday,

Have brought my girl to spend the day,

So to your hill my fathers came

And, sure, my son will do the same.

...

What sights there are, for those who know,In every part of this great city!Our men are mixed, it’s true, but oh,Are not our London maidens pretty?

What sights there are, for those who know,

In every part of this great city!

Our men are mixed, it’s true, but oh,

Are not our London maidens pretty?

Look! you may see them everywhere—Laughing in ball-rooms in Mayfair,At tea at Ranelagh, or walkingOn Sunday in Hyde Park and talkingThe latest nonsense! What a sight,In frocks adorable and costly!At Epping too (East-enders mostly)You’ll see good London girls at play;On Hampstead Heath—and every dayThey troop in crowds up Chancery Lane....

Look! you may see them everywhere—

Laughing in ball-rooms in Mayfair,

At tea at Ranelagh, or walking

On Sunday in Hyde Park and talking

The latest nonsense! What a sight,

In frocks adorable and costly!

At Epping too (East-enders mostly)

You’ll see good London girls at play;

On Hampstead Heath—and every day

They troop in crowds up Chancery Lane....

I’ll own, some Brixton girls are plain,The Ealing girls are proud and silly,They’re a queer lot in PiccadillyAnd—personally—I can’t standThe huzzies who infest the Strand.But in the bulk, far though you roam,You’ll find no girls like ours at home.

I’ll own, some Brixton girls are plain,

The Ealing girls are proud and silly,

They’re a queer lot in Piccadilly

And—personally—I can’t stand

The huzzies who infest the Strand.

But in the bulk, far though you roam,

You’ll find no girls like ours at home.

Then what good cheer is London cheerWhen welcoming the infant year;On Derby day; or Christmas even;Or when Aunt Jane pops off to Heaven!

Then what good cheer is London cheer

When welcoming the infant year;

On Derby day; or Christmas even;

Or when Aunt Jane pops off to Heaven!

In friendly restaurant or grillYou drink your bottle, eat your fill,Digest, while watching Russian dancers,Drive next to supper at some pub,Then mingle with the rag-time prancers,In a night café—called a club.

In friendly restaurant or grill

You drink your bottle, eat your fill,

Digest, while watching Russian dancers,

Drive next to supper at some pub,

Then mingle with the rag-time prancers,

In a night café—called a club.

And so to bed, should it be June,While the birds sing their morning tuneAnd the sun flushes all the EastAnd tips with rose chimney and roof.Heigho! the ending of the feast—The kiss good-bye, and no reproof!

And so to bed, should it be June,

While the birds sing their morning tune

And the sun flushes all the East

And tips with rose chimney and roof.

Heigho! the ending of the feast—

The kiss good-bye, and no reproof!

I cannot praise as I would praiseThe mother of my nights and days.Mine only in rough notes to singSongs of the streets from which I spring.

I cannot praise as I would praise

The mother of my nights and days.

Mine only in rough notes to sing

Songs of the streets from which I spring.

I, the son of London men,Give thanks to London once again.Here was I born and I will dieUnder this friendly leaden sky—Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.

I, the son of London men,

Give thanks to London once again.

Here was I born and I will die

Under this friendly leaden sky—

Like grandfer’s grandfer, so will I.

Londonian Athens, I, thy hill sublimeWill celebrate, in my unfeeling rhyme!In Grave Tannhauser Street and New Thought Lane,Parsifal Avenue, and Shavian RoadDwells High Intelligence, with massive brain,Bearing like Atlas an almighty load—The burden of decision: “Yes” or “No”?—Can Nichols stay, or Vachel Lindsay go?Here dwells the last arbitrament of art.How great ishe? Is that one large or small?Here is the wanton poet made to smart,Here the uncurbed romancer takes his fall;Here they deal faithfully with Squiff and NoggsAnd here (for dinners) puff Sir Roller Loggs.Fresh every day, when dawn makes Highbrow HillSoftened and rosy, blithe and gentle and sweet,The Intellectuals their quivers fillWith poisonous darts, to fire from safe retreat.Biffkin and Briggs and SolomonandSnooksMust be put down, for they leadawful lives,And any simple souls who read their booksMight kiss their housemaids or desert their wives.Earth must be purged, be cleaned from this disease!(And England does what Highbrow Hill decrees.)

Londonian Athens, I, thy hill sublimeWill celebrate, in my unfeeling rhyme!

Londonian Athens, I, thy hill sublime

Will celebrate, in my unfeeling rhyme!

In Grave Tannhauser Street and New Thought Lane,Parsifal Avenue, and Shavian RoadDwells High Intelligence, with massive brain,Bearing like Atlas an almighty load—The burden of decision: “Yes” or “No”?—Can Nichols stay, or Vachel Lindsay go?

In Grave Tannhauser Street and New Thought Lane,

Parsifal Avenue, and Shavian Road

Dwells High Intelligence, with massive brain,

Bearing like Atlas an almighty load—

The burden of decision: “Yes” or “No”?—

Can Nichols stay, or Vachel Lindsay go?

Here dwells the last arbitrament of art.How great ishe? Is that one large or small?Here is the wanton poet made to smart,Here the uncurbed romancer takes his fall;Here they deal faithfully with Squiff and NoggsAnd here (for dinners) puff Sir Roller Loggs.

Here dwells the last arbitrament of art.

How great ishe? Is that one large or small?

Here is the wanton poet made to smart,

Here the uncurbed romancer takes his fall;

Here they deal faithfully with Squiff and Noggs

And here (for dinners) puff Sir Roller Loggs.

Fresh every day, when dawn makes Highbrow HillSoftened and rosy, blithe and gentle and sweet,The Intellectuals their quivers fillWith poisonous darts, to fire from safe retreat.

Fresh every day, when dawn makes Highbrow Hill

Softened and rosy, blithe and gentle and sweet,

The Intellectuals their quivers fill

With poisonous darts, to fire from safe retreat.

Biffkin and Briggs and SolomonandSnooksMust be put down, for they leadawful lives,And any simple souls who read their booksMight kiss their housemaids or desert their wives.Earth must be purged, be cleaned from this disease!(And England does what Highbrow Hill decrees.)

Biffkin and Briggs and SolomonandSnooks

Must be put down, for they leadawful lives,

And any simple souls who read their books

Might kiss their housemaids or desert their wives.

Earth must be purged, be cleaned from this disease!

(And England does what Highbrow Hill decrees.)

I had been well brought up: I liked the best.My prose was modelled on Rebecca West,My “little things” erstwhile reflected tone,My brother poets claimed me as their own.In those blithe days, before the War began—Ah me, I was a safe young Georgian!Now all is chaos, all confusion.Bolshes have cast E. M. from his high throne:Wild women have rushed in, and savage YanksBlather of Booth and Heaven: and T. S. E.Uses great words that are as Greek to me.Tell me the Truth, and ah, forgo these pranks—Whom must I imitate? Who’s really It?On whose embroidered footstool should I sit?There’s Podgrass now—he seems a coming man;Writes unintelligible stuff, half French, half Erse.He told me Philomela had techniqueBut not much feeling; Crashaw knew his trade,But Keats had no idea of writing verse....The thing to read (he said) had just come out,His latest work, entitled “Bloody Shout.”And then there’s Father Michael, Secker’s pal,Who’s left dear Sylvia for the Clergy-house.Michael lives sumptuously: silver, old oak,Incunabula, the Yellow Book, Madonnas, Art;Excited wobblings on the brink of Rome;The “Inner Life,” birettas, candles, Mass;Fun with Church Times and Bishops; four hair shirts,And Mr. Percy Dearmer’s Parson’s Book.He talked to me of AntinomianismAnd stirred the incense, while two candles burned,Then read aloud his works, with eye upturned.(Somehow I felt I’d heard it all before—When I was “boat-boy,” in a pinafore.)Are Sitwells really safe? Is Iris TreeA certain guide to higher poesy?Can Nichols be relied on, for a lead;Or should I thump it with Sassoon and Read?Or would it not be vastly better funTo write of Nymphs, with Richard Aldington?Or shall I train, and nervously aspireTo join with Edward Shanks and J. C. Squire—A modest “chorus” in a well-paid choir?I’ve thought of J. M. Murry and Sturge Moore,I’ve thought of Yeats (I thought of him before).I’ve toyed with Aldous Huxley and Monro—I don’t know where I am, or where to go.Oh, mighty Mr. Gosse! Unbend, I pray!Guide one poor poet who has lost his way....

I had been well brought up: I liked the best.

My prose was modelled on Rebecca West,

My “little things” erstwhile reflected tone,

My brother poets claimed me as their own.

In those blithe days, before the War began—

Ah me, I was a safe young Georgian!

Now all is chaos, all confusion.Bolshes have cast E. M. from his high throne:Wild women have rushed in, and savage YanksBlather of Booth and Heaven: and T. S. E.Uses great words that are as Greek to me.Tell me the Truth, and ah, forgo these pranks—Whom must I imitate? Who’s really It?On whose embroidered footstool should I sit?

Now all is chaos, all confusion.

Bolshes have cast E. M. from his high throne:

Wild women have rushed in, and savage Yanks

Blather of Booth and Heaven: and T. S. E.

Uses great words that are as Greek to me.

Tell me the Truth, and ah, forgo these pranks—

Whom must I imitate? Who’s really It?

On whose embroidered footstool should I sit?

There’s Podgrass now—he seems a coming man;Writes unintelligible stuff, half French, half Erse.He told me Philomela had techniqueBut not much feeling; Crashaw knew his trade,But Keats had no idea of writing verse....The thing to read (he said) had just come out,His latest work, entitled “Bloody Shout.”

There’s Podgrass now—he seems a coming man;

Writes unintelligible stuff, half French, half Erse.

He told me Philomela had technique

But not much feeling; Crashaw knew his trade,

But Keats had no idea of writing verse....

The thing to read (he said) had just come out,

His latest work, entitled “Bloody Shout.”

And then there’s Father Michael, Secker’s pal,Who’s left dear Sylvia for the Clergy-house.Michael lives sumptuously: silver, old oak,Incunabula, the Yellow Book, Madonnas, Art;Excited wobblings on the brink of Rome;The “Inner Life,” birettas, candles, Mass;Fun with Church Times and Bishops; four hair shirts,And Mr. Percy Dearmer’s Parson’s Book.He talked to me of AntinomianismAnd stirred the incense, while two candles burned,Then read aloud his works, with eye upturned.(Somehow I felt I’d heard it all before—When I was “boat-boy,” in a pinafore.)

And then there’s Father Michael, Secker’s pal,

Who’s left dear Sylvia for the Clergy-house.

Michael lives sumptuously: silver, old oak,

Incunabula, the Yellow Book, Madonnas, Art;

Excited wobblings on the brink of Rome;

The “Inner Life,” birettas, candles, Mass;

Fun with Church Times and Bishops; four hair shirts,

And Mr. Percy Dearmer’s Parson’s Book.

He talked to me of Antinomianism

And stirred the incense, while two candles burned,

Then read aloud his works, with eye upturned.

(Somehow I felt I’d heard it all before—

When I was “boat-boy,” in a pinafore.)

Are Sitwells really safe? Is Iris TreeA certain guide to higher poesy?Can Nichols be relied on, for a lead;Or should I thump it with Sassoon and Read?Or would it not be vastly better funTo write of Nymphs, with Richard Aldington?Or shall I train, and nervously aspireTo join with Edward Shanks and J. C. Squire—A modest “chorus” in a well-paid choir?

Are Sitwells really safe? Is Iris Tree

A certain guide to higher poesy?

Can Nichols be relied on, for a lead;

Or should I thump it with Sassoon and Read?

Or would it not be vastly better fun

To write of Nymphs, with Richard Aldington?

Or shall I train, and nervously aspire

To join with Edward Shanks and J. C. Squire

—A modest “chorus” in a well-paid choir?

I’ve thought of J. M. Murry and Sturge Moore,I’ve thought of Yeats (I thought of him before).I’ve toyed with Aldous Huxley and Monro—I don’t know where I am, or where to go.

I’ve thought of J. M. Murry and Sturge Moore,

I’ve thought of Yeats (I thought of him before).

I’ve toyed with Aldous Huxley and Monro—

I don’t know where I am, or where to go.

Oh, mighty Mr. Gosse! Unbend, I pray!Guide one poor poet who has lost his way....

Oh, mighty Mr. Gosse! Unbend, I pray!

Guide one poor poet who has lost his way....

(1914)

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