Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
A blue-black Nubian plucking orangesAt Jaffa by a sea of malachite,In red tarboosh, green sash, and flowing whiteBurnous—among the shadowy memoriesThat haunt me yet by these bleak northern seasHe lives for ever in my eyes’ delight,Bizarre, superb in young immortal might—A god of old barbaric mysteries.Maybe he lived a life of lies and lust,Maybe his bones are now but scattered dust;Yet, for a moment he was life supremeExultant and unchallenged: and my rhymeWould set him safely out of reach of timeIn that old heaven where things are what they seem.
A blue-black Nubian plucking orangesAt Jaffa by a sea of malachite,In red tarboosh, green sash, and flowing whiteBurnous—among the shadowy memoriesThat haunt me yet by these bleak northern seasHe lives for ever in my eyes’ delight,Bizarre, superb in young immortal might—A god of old barbaric mysteries.Maybe he lived a life of lies and lust,Maybe his bones are now but scattered dust;Yet, for a moment he was life supremeExultant and unchallenged: and my rhymeWould set him safely out of reach of timeIn that old heaven where things are what they seem.
A blue-black Nubian plucking orangesAt Jaffa by a sea of malachite,In red tarboosh, green sash, and flowing whiteBurnous—among the shadowy memoriesThat haunt me yet by these bleak northern seasHe lives for ever in my eyes’ delight,Bizarre, superb in young immortal might—A god of old barbaric mysteries.
A blue-black Nubian plucking oranges
At Jaffa by a sea of malachite,
In red tarboosh, green sash, and flowing white
Burnous—among the shadowy memories
That haunt me yet by these bleak northern seas
He lives for ever in my eyes’ delight,
Bizarre, superb in young immortal might—
A god of old barbaric mysteries.
Maybe he lived a life of lies and lust,Maybe his bones are now but scattered dust;Yet, for a moment he was life supremeExultant and unchallenged: and my rhymeWould set him safely out of reach of timeIn that old heaven where things are what they seem.
Maybe he lived a life of lies and lust,
Maybe his bones are now but scattered dust;
Yet, for a moment he was life supreme
Exultant and unchallenged: and my rhyme
Would set him safely out of reach of time
In that old heaven where things are what they seem.
OBLIVION
Near the great pyramid, unshadowed, white,With apex piercing the white noon-day blaze.Swathed in white robes beneath the blinding raysLie sleeping Bedouins drenched in white-hot light.About them, searing to the tingling sight,Swims the white dazzle of the desert waysWhere the sense shudders, witless and adaze,In a white void with neither depth nor height.Within the black core of the pyramid,Beneath the weight of sunless centuries,Lapt in dead night King Cheops lies asleep:Yet in the darkness of his chamber hidHe knows no black oblivion more deepThan that blind white oblivion of noon skies.
Near the great pyramid, unshadowed, white,With apex piercing the white noon-day blaze.Swathed in white robes beneath the blinding raysLie sleeping Bedouins drenched in white-hot light.About them, searing to the tingling sight,Swims the white dazzle of the desert waysWhere the sense shudders, witless and adaze,In a white void with neither depth nor height.Within the black core of the pyramid,Beneath the weight of sunless centuries,Lapt in dead night King Cheops lies asleep:Yet in the darkness of his chamber hidHe knows no black oblivion more deepThan that blind white oblivion of noon skies.
Near the great pyramid, unshadowed, white,With apex piercing the white noon-day blaze.Swathed in white robes beneath the blinding raysLie sleeping Bedouins drenched in white-hot light.About them, searing to the tingling sight,Swims the white dazzle of the desert waysWhere the sense shudders, witless and adaze,In a white void with neither depth nor height.
Near the great pyramid, unshadowed, white,
With apex piercing the white noon-day blaze.
Swathed in white robes beneath the blinding rays
Lie sleeping Bedouins drenched in white-hot light.
About them, searing to the tingling sight,
Swims the white dazzle of the desert ways
Where the sense shudders, witless and adaze,
In a white void with neither depth nor height.
Within the black core of the pyramid,Beneath the weight of sunless centuries,Lapt in dead night King Cheops lies asleep:Yet in the darkness of his chamber hidHe knows no black oblivion more deepThan that blind white oblivion of noon skies.
Within the black core of the pyramid,
Beneath the weight of sunless centuries,
Lapt in dead night King Cheops lies asleep:
Yet in the darkness of his chamber hid
He knows no black oblivion more deep
Than that blind white oblivion of noon skies.
Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways,We came upon the little house asleepIn cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep,In the white magic of the full moon-blaze:Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze,Fearful to break that quiet, and to creepInto the home that had been ours to keepThrough a long year of happy nights and days.So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam,So old and ghostly like a house of dreamIt stood, that over us there stole the dreadThat even as we watched it, side by side,The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and diedWithin its walls, were sleeping in our bed.
Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways,We came upon the little house asleepIn cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep,In the white magic of the full moon-blaze:Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze,Fearful to break that quiet, and to creepInto the home that had been ours to keepThrough a long year of happy nights and days.So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam,So old and ghostly like a house of dreamIt stood, that over us there stole the dreadThat even as we watched it, side by side,The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and diedWithin its walls, were sleeping in our bed.
Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways,We came upon the little house asleepIn cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep,In the white magic of the full moon-blaze:Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze,Fearful to break that quiet, and to creepInto the home that had been ours to keepThrough a long year of happy nights and days.
Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways,
We came upon the little house asleep
In cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep,
In the white magic of the full moon-blaze:
Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze,
Fearful to break that quiet, and to creep
Into the home that had been ours to keep
Through a long year of happy nights and days.
So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam,So old and ghostly like a house of dreamIt stood, that over us there stole the dreadThat even as we watched it, side by side,The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and diedWithin its walls, were sleeping in our bed.
So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam,
So old and ghostly like a house of dream
It stood, that over us there stole the dread
That even as we watched it, side by side,
The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and died
Within its walls, were sleeping in our bed.
GOLD
All day the mallet thudded far belowMy garret, in an old ramshackle shedWhere ceaselessly, with stiffly nodding headAnd rigid motions ever to and froA figure like a puppet in a showBefore the window moved till day was dead,Beating out gold to earn his daily bread,Beating out thin fine gold-leaf blow on blow.And I within my garret all day longUnto that ceaseless thudding tuned my song,Beating out golden words in tune and timeTo that dull thudding, rhyme on golden rhyme.But in my dreams all night, in that dark shed,With aching arms I beat fine gold for bread.
All day the mallet thudded far belowMy garret, in an old ramshackle shedWhere ceaselessly, with stiffly nodding headAnd rigid motions ever to and froA figure like a puppet in a showBefore the window moved till day was dead,Beating out gold to earn his daily bread,Beating out thin fine gold-leaf blow on blow.And I within my garret all day longUnto that ceaseless thudding tuned my song,Beating out golden words in tune and timeTo that dull thudding, rhyme on golden rhyme.But in my dreams all night, in that dark shed,With aching arms I beat fine gold for bread.
All day the mallet thudded far belowMy garret, in an old ramshackle shedWhere ceaselessly, with stiffly nodding headAnd rigid motions ever to and froA figure like a puppet in a showBefore the window moved till day was dead,Beating out gold to earn his daily bread,Beating out thin fine gold-leaf blow on blow.
All day the mallet thudded far below
My garret, in an old ramshackle shed
Where ceaselessly, with stiffly nodding head
And rigid motions ever to and fro
A figure like a puppet in a show
Before the window moved till day was dead,
Beating out gold to earn his daily bread,
Beating out thin fine gold-leaf blow on blow.
And I within my garret all day longUnto that ceaseless thudding tuned my song,Beating out golden words in tune and timeTo that dull thudding, rhyme on golden rhyme.But in my dreams all night, in that dark shed,With aching arms I beat fine gold for bread.
And I within my garret all day long
Unto that ceaseless thudding tuned my song,
Beating out golden words in tune and time
To that dull thudding, rhyme on golden rhyme.
But in my dreams all night, in that dark shed,
With aching arms I beat fine gold for bread.
Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree,His scarlet tunic burns;And livelier than the green sap’s mantling gleeThe spring fire tingles through him headilyAs quivering he turnsAnd stammers out the old amazing taleOf youth and April weather;While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail,Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and paleBeneath her purple feather.
Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree,His scarlet tunic burns;And livelier than the green sap’s mantling gleeThe spring fire tingles through him headilyAs quivering he turnsAnd stammers out the old amazing taleOf youth and April weather;While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail,Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and paleBeneath her purple feather.
Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree,His scarlet tunic burns;And livelier than the green sap’s mantling gleeThe spring fire tingles through him headilyAs quivering he turns
Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree,
His scarlet tunic burns;
And livelier than the green sap’s mantling glee
The spring fire tingles through him headily
As quivering he turns
And stammers out the old amazing taleOf youth and April weather;While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail,Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and paleBeneath her purple feather.
And stammers out the old amazing tale
Of youth and April weather;
While she, with half-breathed jests that, sobbing, fail,
Sits, tight-lipped, quaking, eager-eyed and pale
Beneath her purple feather.
BATTLE
He’s gone.I do not understand.I only knowThat as he turned to goAnd waved his hand,In his young eyes a sudden glory shone:And I was dazzled by a sunset glow,And he was gone.
He’s gone.I do not understand.I only knowThat as he turned to goAnd waved his hand,In his young eyes a sudden glory shone:And I was dazzled by a sunset glow,And he was gone.
He’s gone.I do not understand.I only knowThat as he turned to goAnd waved his hand,In his young eyes a sudden glory shone:And I was dazzled by a sunset glow,And he was gone.
He’s gone.
I do not understand.
I only know
That as he turned to go
And waved his hand,
In his young eyes a sudden glory shone:
And I was dazzled by a sunset glow,
And he was gone.
He’d even have his jokeWhile we were sitting tight,And so he needs must pokeHis silly head in sightTo whisper some new jestChortling. But as he spokeA rifle cracked ...And now God knows when I shall hear the rest!
He’d even have his jokeWhile we were sitting tight,And so he needs must pokeHis silly head in sightTo whisper some new jestChortling. But as he spokeA rifle cracked ...And now God knows when I shall hear the rest!
He’d even have his jokeWhile we were sitting tight,And so he needs must pokeHis silly head in sightTo whisper some new jestChortling. But as he spokeA rifle cracked ...And now God knows when I shall hear the rest!
He’d even have his joke
While we were sitting tight,
And so he needs must poke
His silly head in sight
To whisper some new jest
Chortling. But as he spoke
A rifle cracked ...
And now God knows when I shall hear the rest!
“Two rows of cabbages,Two of curly-greens,Two rows of early peas,Two of kidney-beans.”That’s what he is muttering,Making such a song,Keeping other chaps awake,The whole night long.Both his legs are shot away,And his head is light;So he keeps on mutteringAll the blessed night:“Two rows of cabbages,Two of curly-greens,Two rows of early peas,Two of kidney-beans.”
“Two rows of cabbages,Two of curly-greens,Two rows of early peas,Two of kidney-beans.”That’s what he is muttering,Making such a song,Keeping other chaps awake,The whole night long.Both his legs are shot away,And his head is light;So he keeps on mutteringAll the blessed night:“Two rows of cabbages,Two of curly-greens,Two rows of early peas,Two of kidney-beans.”
“Two rows of cabbages,Two of curly-greens,Two rows of early peas,Two of kidney-beans.”
“Two rows of cabbages,
Two of curly-greens,
Two rows of early peas,
Two of kidney-beans.”
That’s what he is muttering,Making such a song,Keeping other chaps awake,The whole night long.
That’s what he is muttering,
Making such a song,
Keeping other chaps awake,
The whole night long.
Both his legs are shot away,And his head is light;So he keeps on mutteringAll the blessed night:
Both his legs are shot away,
And his head is light;
So he keeps on muttering
All the blessed night:
“Two rows of cabbages,Two of curly-greens,Two rows of early peas,Two of kidney-beans.”
“Two rows of cabbages,
Two of curly-greens,
Two rows of early peas,
Two of kidney-beans.”
Out of the sparkling seaI drew my tingling body clear, and layOn a low ledge the livelong summer day,Basking, and watching lazilyWhite sails in Falmouth Bay.My body seemed to burnSalt in the sun that drenched it through and through,Till every particle glowed clean and newAnd slowly seemed to turnTo lucent amber in a world of blue....I felt a sudden wrench—A trickle of warm blood—And found that I was sprawling in the mudAmong the dead men in the trench.
Out of the sparkling seaI drew my tingling body clear, and layOn a low ledge the livelong summer day,Basking, and watching lazilyWhite sails in Falmouth Bay.My body seemed to burnSalt in the sun that drenched it through and through,Till every particle glowed clean and newAnd slowly seemed to turnTo lucent amber in a world of blue....I felt a sudden wrench—A trickle of warm blood—And found that I was sprawling in the mudAmong the dead men in the trench.
Out of the sparkling seaI drew my tingling body clear, and layOn a low ledge the livelong summer day,Basking, and watching lazilyWhite sails in Falmouth Bay.
Out of the sparkling sea
I drew my tingling body clear, and lay
On a low ledge the livelong summer day,
Basking, and watching lazily
White sails in Falmouth Bay.
My body seemed to burnSalt in the sun that drenched it through and through,Till every particle glowed clean and newAnd slowly seemed to turnTo lucent amber in a world of blue....
My body seemed to burn
Salt in the sun that drenched it through and through,
Till every particle glowed clean and new
And slowly seemed to turn
To lucent amber in a world of blue....
I felt a sudden wrench—A trickle of warm blood—And found that I was sprawling in the mudAmong the dead men in the trench.
I felt a sudden wrench—
A trickle of warm blood—
And found that I was sprawling in the mud
Among the dead men in the trench.
She must go back, she said,Because she’d not had time to make the bed.We’d hurried her awaySo roughly ... and for all that we could say,She broke from us, and passedInto the night, shells falling thick and fast.
She must go back, she said,Because she’d not had time to make the bed.We’d hurried her awaySo roughly ... and for all that we could say,She broke from us, and passedInto the night, shells falling thick and fast.
She must go back, she said,Because she’d not had time to make the bed.We’d hurried her awaySo roughly ... and for all that we could say,She broke from us, and passedInto the night, shells falling thick and fast.
She must go back, she said,
Because she’d not had time to make the bed.
We’d hurried her away
So roughly ... and for all that we could say,
She broke from us, and passed
Into the night, shells falling thick and fast.
HILL-BORN
I sometimes wonder if it’s really trueI ever knewAnother lifeThan this unending strifeWith unseen enemies in lowland mud;And wonder if my bloodThrilled ever to the tuneOf clean winds blowing through an April noonMile after sunny mileOn the green ridges of the Windy Gile.
I sometimes wonder if it’s really trueI ever knewAnother lifeThan this unending strifeWith unseen enemies in lowland mud;And wonder if my bloodThrilled ever to the tuneOf clean winds blowing through an April noonMile after sunny mileOn the green ridges of the Windy Gile.
I sometimes wonder if it’s really trueI ever knewAnother lifeThan this unending strifeWith unseen enemies in lowland mud;And wonder if my bloodThrilled ever to the tuneOf clean winds blowing through an April noonMile after sunny mileOn the green ridges of the Windy Gile.
I sometimes wonder if it’s really true
I ever knew
Another life
Than this unending strife
With unseen enemies in lowland mud;
And wonder if my blood
Thrilled ever to the tune
Of clean winds blowing through an April noon
Mile after sunny mile
On the green ridges of the Windy Gile.
I do not fear to die’Neath the open sky,To meet death in the fightFace to face, upright.But when at last we creepInto a hole to sleep,I tremble, cold with dread,Lest I wake up dead.
I do not fear to die’Neath the open sky,To meet death in the fightFace to face, upright.But when at last we creepInto a hole to sleep,I tremble, cold with dread,Lest I wake up dead.
I do not fear to die’Neath the open sky,To meet death in the fightFace to face, upright.
I do not fear to die
’Neath the open sky,
To meet death in the fight
Face to face, upright.
But when at last we creepInto a hole to sleep,I tremble, cold with dread,Lest I wake up dead.
But when at last we creep
Into a hole to sleep,
I tremble, cold with dread,
Lest I wake up dead.
They ask me where I’ve been,And what I’ve done and seen.But what can I replyWho know it wasn’t I,But someone, just like me,Who went across the seaAnd with my head and handsSlew men in foreign lands ...Though I must bear the blameBecause he bore my name.
They ask me where I’ve been,And what I’ve done and seen.But what can I replyWho know it wasn’t I,But someone, just like me,Who went across the seaAnd with my head and handsSlew men in foreign lands ...Though I must bear the blameBecause he bore my name.
They ask me where I’ve been,And what I’ve done and seen.But what can I replyWho know it wasn’t I,But someone, just like me,Who went across the seaAnd with my head and handsSlew men in foreign lands ...Though I must bear the blameBecause he bore my name.
They ask me where I’ve been,
And what I’ve done and seen.
But what can I reply
Who know it wasn’t I,
But someone, just like me,
Who went across the sea
And with my head and hands
Slew men in foreign lands ...
Though I must bear the blame
Because he bore my name.