The Little ReviewVol. IDECEMBER, 1914No. 9
The Little Review
Vol. IDECEMBER, 1914No. 9
Vol. IDECEMBER, 1914No. 9
Vol. I
DECEMBER, 1914
No. 9
Richard Aldington
(Oxford Street)
The hard rain-drops beat like wet pelletsOn my nose and right cheekAs we jerk and slither through the traffic.There is a great beating of wheelsAnd a rumble of ugly machines.The west-bound buses are full of menIn grey clothes and hard hats,Holding up umbrellasOver their sallow facesAs they return to the suburban rabbit-holes.The women-clerksTry to be brightly dressed;Now the wind makes their five-shilling-hats jumpAnd the hat-pins pull their hair.When one is quite free, and curious,They are fascinating to look at—Poor devils of a sober hell.The shop-lamps and the street-lampsSend steady rayed floods of yellow and red lightSo that Oxford street is paved with copper and chalcedony.
The hard rain-drops beat like wet pelletsOn my nose and right cheekAs we jerk and slither through the traffic.There is a great beating of wheelsAnd a rumble of ugly machines.The west-bound buses are full of menIn grey clothes and hard hats,Holding up umbrellasOver their sallow facesAs they return to the suburban rabbit-holes.The women-clerksTry to be brightly dressed;Now the wind makes their five-shilling-hats jumpAnd the hat-pins pull their hair.When one is quite free, and curious,They are fascinating to look at—Poor devils of a sober hell.The shop-lamps and the street-lampsSend steady rayed floods of yellow and red lightSo that Oxford street is paved with copper and chalcedony.
The hard rain-drops beat like wet pelletsOn my nose and right cheekAs we jerk and slither through the traffic.
The hard rain-drops beat like wet pellets
On my nose and right cheek
As we jerk and slither through the traffic.
There is a great beating of wheelsAnd a rumble of ugly machines.
There is a great beating of wheels
And a rumble of ugly machines.
The west-bound buses are full of menIn grey clothes and hard hats,Holding up umbrellasOver their sallow facesAs they return to the suburban rabbit-holes.The women-clerksTry to be brightly dressed;Now the wind makes their five-shilling-hats jumpAnd the hat-pins pull their hair.
The west-bound buses are full of men
In grey clothes and hard hats,
Holding up umbrellas
Over their sallow faces
As they return to the suburban rabbit-holes.
The women-clerks
Try to be brightly dressed;
Now the wind makes their five-shilling-hats jump
And the hat-pins pull their hair.
When one is quite free, and curious,They are fascinating to look at—Poor devils of a sober hell.
When one is quite free, and curious,
They are fascinating to look at—
Poor devils of a sober hell.
The shop-lamps and the street-lampsSend steady rayed floods of yellow and red lightSo that Oxford street is paved with copper and chalcedony.
The shop-lamps and the street-lamps
Send steady rayed floods of yellow and red light
So that Oxford street is paved with copper and chalcedony.
(Sunday Morning)
The cripples are going to church.Their crutches beat upon the stones,And they have clumsy iron boots.Their clothes are black, their faces peaked and mean;Their legs are witheredLike dried bean-pods.Their eyes are as stupid as frogs’.And the god, September,Has paused for a moment hereGarlanded with crimson leaves.He held a branch of fruited oak.He smiled like Hermes the beautifulCut in marble.
The cripples are going to church.Their crutches beat upon the stones,And they have clumsy iron boots.Their clothes are black, their faces peaked and mean;Their legs are witheredLike dried bean-pods.Their eyes are as stupid as frogs’.And the god, September,Has paused for a moment hereGarlanded with crimson leaves.He held a branch of fruited oak.He smiled like Hermes the beautifulCut in marble.
The cripples are going to church.Their crutches beat upon the stones,And they have clumsy iron boots.
The cripples are going to church.
Their crutches beat upon the stones,
And they have clumsy iron boots.
Their clothes are black, their faces peaked and mean;Their legs are witheredLike dried bean-pods.
Their clothes are black, their faces peaked and mean;
Their legs are withered
Like dried bean-pods.
Their eyes are as stupid as frogs’.
Their eyes are as stupid as frogs’.
And the god, September,Has paused for a moment hereGarlanded with crimson leaves.He held a branch of fruited oak.He smiled like Hermes the beautifulCut in marble.
And the god, September,
Has paused for a moment here
Garlanded with crimson leaves.
He held a branch of fruited oak.
He smiled like Hermes the beautiful
Cut in marble.