The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part,But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.They say to mountains 'Be ye removèd.' They say to the lesser floods 'Be dry.'Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd—they are not afraid of that which is high.Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit—then is the bed of the deep laid bare,That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.He rears against the gates they rend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.They are concerned with matters hidden—under the earth-line their altars are.The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their work when they damn-well choose.As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat,Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd—they know the angels are on their side.They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.They sit at the Feet—they hear the Word—they see how truly the Promise runs:They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and—the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!MARY'S SONIf you stop to find out what your wages will beAnd how they will clothe and feed you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea,For the Sea will never need you.If you ask for the reason of every command,And argue with people about you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,For the Land will do better without you.If you stop to consider the work you have doneAnd to boast what your labour is worth, dear,Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!THE SONG OF THE LATHES1918(Being the words of the tune hummed at her lathe by Mrs. L. Embsay, widow.)The fans and the beltings they roar round me.The power is shaking the floor round meTill the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.It is good for me to be here!Guns in Flanders—Flanders guns!(I had a man that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,The bays and the galleries they loom over me,With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance:It is good for me to be here!The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.Our lights give warning, and fade over us.(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)Oh, it is good for me to be here!The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,Eating up the fields I used to know round me;And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector's office—So long have I been here!I've seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,Through the bit that isn't painted round our skylight rim,And the sunshine in the window slope according to the seasons,Twice since I've been here.The trains on the sidings they call to usWith the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;And we send 'em what we've finished, and they take it where it's wanted,For that is why we are here!Man's hate passes as his love will pass.God made woman what she always was.Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgivenessSo long as they are here!Once I was a woman, but that's by with me.All I loved and looked for, it must die with me.But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,And I serve His Judgments here!Guns in Flanders—Flanders guns!(I had a son that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!GETHSEMANEThe Garden called GethsemaneIn Picardy it was,And there the people came to seeThe English soldiers pass.We used to pass—we used to passOr halt, as it might be,And ship our masks in case of gasBeyond Gethsemane.The Garden called Gethsemane,It held a pretty lass,But all the time she talked to meI prayed my cup might pass.The officer sat on the chair,The men lay on the grass,And all the time we halted thereI prayed my cup might pass—It didn't pass—it didn't pass—It didn't pass from me.I drank it when we met the gasBeyond Gethsemane.THE PRO-CONSULSThe overfaithful sword returns the userHis heart's desire at price of his heart's blood.The clamour of the arrogant accuserWastes that one hour we needed to make good.This was foretold of old at our outgoing;This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,The strength and glory of our reputations,At the day's need, as it were dross, to guardThe tender and new-dedicate foundationsAgainst the sea we fear—not man's award.They that dig foundations deep,Fit for realms to rise upon,Little honour do they reapOf their generation,Any more than mountains gainStature till we reach the plain.With no veil before their faceSuch as shroud or sceptre lend—Daily in the market-place,Of one height to foe and friend—They must cheapen self to findEnds uncheapened for mankind.Through the night when hirelings rest,Sleepless they arise, alone,The unsleeping arch to testAnd the o'er-trusted corner-stone,'Gainst the need, they know, that liesHid behind the centuries.Not by lust of praise or show,Not by Peace herself betrayed—Peace herself must they foregoTill that peace be fitly made;And in single strength upholdWearier hands and hearts acold.On the stage their act hath framedFor thy sports, O Liberty!Doubted are they, and defamedBy the tongues their act set free,While they quicken, tend and raisePower that must their power displace.Lesser men feign greater goals,Failing whereof they may sitScholarly to judge the soulsThat go down into the pit,And, despite its certain clay,Heave a new world towards the day.These at labour make no sign,More than planets, tides or yearsWhich discover God's design,Not our hopes and not our fears;Nor in aught they gain or loseSeek a triumph or excuse.For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, whoHeeds how they perished or were paid that bore it?For, so the Shrine abide, what shame—what pride—If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?THE CRAFTSMANOnce, after long-drawn revel at The Mermaid,He to the overbearing BoanergesJonson, uttered (If half of it were liquor,Blessed be the vintage!)Saying how, at an alehouse under Cotswold,He had made sure of his very Cleopatra,Drunk with enormous, salvation-contemningLove for a tinker.How, while he hid from Sir Thomas's keepers,Crouched in a ditch and drenched by the midnightDews, he had listened to gipsy JulietRail at the dawning.How at Bankside, a boy drowning kittensWinced at the business; whereupon his sister(Lady Macbeth aged seven) thrust 'em under,Sombrely scornful.How on a Sabbath, hushed and compassionate—She being known since her birth to the townsfolk—Stratford dredged and delivered from AvonDripping Ophelia.So, with a thin third finger marryingDrop to wine-drop domed on the table,Shakespeare opened his heart till sunriseEntered to hear him.London wakened and he, imperturbable,Passed from waking to hurry after shadows …Busied upon shows of no earthly importance?Yes, but he knew it!THINGS AND THE MAN(IN MEMORIAM, JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN)1904'And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren; and they hated him yet the more.'—GenesisXXXVII.5.Oh ye who hold the written clueTo all save all unwritten things,And, half a league behind, pursueThe accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,Look! To your knee your baby bringsThe oldest tale since Earth began—The answer to your worryings'Once on a time there was a Man.'He, single-handed, met and slewMagicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.He lonely 'mid his doubting crew—'In all the loneliness of wings'—He fed the flame, he filled the springs,He locked the ranks, he launched the vanStraight at the grinning Teeth of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'The peace of shocked Foundations flewBefore his ribald questionings.He broke the Oracles in two,And bared the paltry wires and strings.He headed desert wanderings,He led his soul, his cause, his clanA little from the ruck of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'Thrones, Powers, Dominions block the viewWith episodes and underlings—The meek historian deems them trueNor heeds the song that Clio sings—The simple central truth that stingsThe mob to boo, the priest to ban;Things never yet created things—'Once on a time there was a Man.'A bolt is fallen from the blue.A wakened realm full circle swingsWhere Dothan's dreamer dreams anewOf vast and farborne harvestings;And unto him an Empire clingsThat grips the purpose of his plan.My Lords, how think you of these things?Once—in our time—is there a Man?THE BENEFACTORSAh! What avails the classic bentAnd what the cultured word,Against the undoctored incidentThat actually occurred?And what is Art whereto we pressThrough paint and prose and rhyme—When Nature in her nakednessDefeats us every time?It is not learning, grace nor gear,Nor easy meat and drink,But bitter pinch of pain and fearThat makes creation think.When in this world's unpleasing youthOur god-like race began,The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,Gave man control of man;Till, bruised and bitten to the boneAnd taught by pain and fear,He learned to deal the far-off stone,And poke the long, safe spear.So tooth and nail were obsoleteAs means against a foe,Till, bored by uniform defeat,Some genius built the bow.Then stone and javelin proved as vainAs old-time tooth and nail,Ere, spurred anew by fear and pain,Man fashioned coats of mail.Then was there safety for the richAnd danger for the poor,Till someone mixed a powder whichRedressed the scale once more.Helmet and armour disappearedWith sword and bow and pike,And, when the smoke of battle cleared,All men were armed alike…And when ten million such were slainTo please one crazy king,Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,Grew weary of the thing;And, at the very hour designed,To enslave him past recall,His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mindTurned and abolished all.All Power, each Tyrant, every MobWhose head has grown too large,Ends by destroying its own jobAnd earns its own discharge.And Man, whose mere necessitiesMove all things from his path,Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,And deprecates their wrath!THE DEAD KING(EDWARD VII.)1910Who in the Realm to-day lays down dear life for the sake of a land more dear?And, unconcerned for his own estate, toils till the last grudged sands have run?Let him approach. It is proven hereOur King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.For to him above all was Life good, above all he commandedHer abundance full-handed.The peculiar treasure of Kings was his for the taking:All that men come to in dreams he inherited waking:—His marvel of world-gathered armies—one heart and all races,His seas 'neath his keels when his war-castles foamed to their places;The thundering foreshores that answered his heralded landing;The huge lighted cities adoring, the assemblies upstanding;The Councils of Kings called in haste to learn how he was minded—The Kingdoms, the Powers, and the Glories he dealt with unblinded.To him came all captains of men, all achievers of glory,Hot from the press of their battles they told him their story.They revealed him their life in an hour and, saluting, departed,Joyful to labour afresh—he had made them new-hearted.And, since he weighed men from his youth, and no lie long deceived him,He spoke and exacted the truth, and the basest believed him.And God poured him an exquisite wine, that was daily renewed to him,In the clear-welling love of his peoples that daily accrued to him.Honour and service we gave him, rejoicingly fearless;Faith absolute, trust beyond speech and a friendship as peerless.And since he was Master and Servant in all that we asked him,We leaned hard on his wisdom in all things, knowing not how we tasked him.For on Him each new day laid command, every tyrannous hour,To confront, or confirm, or make smooth some dread issue of power;To deliver true judgment aright at the instant, unaided,In the strict, level, ultimate phrase that allowed or dissuaded;To foresee, to allay, to avert from us perils unnumbered,To stand guard on our gates when he guessed that the watchmen had slumbered;To win time, to turn hate, to woo folly to service and, mightily schoolingHis strength to the use of his Nations, to rule as not ruling.These were the works of our King; Earth's peace was the proof of them.God gave him great works to fulfil, and to us the behoof of them.We accepted his toil as our right—none spared, none excused him.When he was bowed by his burden his rest was refused him.We troubled his age with our weakness—the blacker our shame to us!Hearing his People had need of him, straightway he came to us.As he received so he gave—nothing grudged, naught denying,Not even the last gasp of his breath when he strove for us, dyingFor our sakes, without question, he put from him all that he cherished.Simply as any that serve him he served and he perished.All that Kings covet was his, and he flung it aside for us.Simply as any that die in his service he died for us.Who in the Realm to-day has choice of the easy road or the hard to tread?And, much concerned for his own estate, would sell his soul to remain in the sun?Let him depart nor look on Our dead.Our King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.A DEATH-BED'This is the State above the Law.The State exists for the State alone.'[This is a gland at the back of the jaw,And an answering lump by the collar-bone.]Some die shouting in gas or fire;Some die silent, by shell and shot.Some die desperate, caught on the wire;Some die suddenly. This will not.'Regis suprema Voluntas lex.'[It will follow the regular course of—throats.]Some die pinned by the broken decks,Some die sobbing between the boats.Some die eloquent, pressed to deathBy the sliding trench, as their friends can hear.Some die wholly in half a breathSome—give trouble for half a year.'There is neither Evil nor Good in lifeExcept as the needs of the State ordain.'[Since it is rather too late for the knife,All we can do is to mask the pain.]Some die saintly in faith and hope—One died thus in a prison-yard—Some die broken by rape or the rope;Some die easily. This dies hard.'I will dash to pieces who bar my way.Woe to the traitor! Woe to the weak!'[Let him write what he wishes to say.It tires him out if he tries to speak.]Some die quietly. Some aboundIn loud self-pity. Others spreadBad morale through the cots around …This is a type that is better dead.'The war was forced on me by my foes.All that I sought was the right to live.'[Don't be afraid of a triple dose;The pain will neutralize half we give.Here are the needles. See that he diesWhile the effects of the drug endure…What is the question he asks with his eyes?—Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure.]GEHAZI'Whence comest thou, Gehazi,So reverend to behold,In scarlet and in erminesAnd chain of England's gold?''From following after NaamanTo tell him all is well,Whereby my zeal hath made meA Judge in Israel.'Well done, well done, Gehazi,Stretch forth thy ready hand,Thou barely 'scaped from judgment,Take oath to judge the land,Unswayed by gift of moneyOr privy bribe, more base,Of knowledge which is profitIn any market-place.Search out and probe, Gehazi,As thou of all canst try,The truthful, well-weighed answerThat tells the blacker lie—The loud, uneasy virtue,The anger feigned at will,To overbear a witnessAnd make the Court keep still.Take order now, Gehazi,That no man talk asideIn secret with his judgesThe while his case is tried.Lest he should show them—reasonTo keep a matter hid,And subtly lead the questionsAway from what he did.Thou mirror of uprightness,What ails thee at thy vows?What means the risen whitenessOf the skin between thy brows?The boils that shine and burrow,The sores that slough and bleed—The leprosy of NaamanOn thee and all thy seed?Stand up, stand up, Gehazi,Draw close thy robe and go,Gehazi, Judge in Israel,A leper white as snow!THE VIRGINITYTry as he will, no man breaks wholly looseFrom his first love, no matter who she be.Oh, was there ever sailor free to choose,That didn't settle somewhere near the sea?Myself, it don't excite me nor amuseTo watch a pack o' shipping on the sea,But I can understand my neighbour's viewsFrom certain things which have occurred to me.Men must keep touch with things they used to useTo earn their living, even when they are free;And so come back upon the least excuse—Same as the sailor settled near the sea.He knows he's never going on no cruise—He knows he's done and finished with the sea,And yet he likes to feel she's there to use—If he should ask her—as she used to be.Even though she cost him all he had to lose,Even though she made him sick to hear or see,Still, what she left of him will mostly chooseHer skirts to sit by. How comes such to be?Parsons in pulpits, tax-payers in pews,Kings on your thrones, you know as well as me,We've only one virginity to lose,And where we lost it there our hearts will be!A PILGRIM'S WAYI do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.If these are added, I rejoice—if not, I shall not mind,So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head)And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;Since I myself have done no less and—sometimes pulled it off.Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!And when they work me random wrong, as often-times hath been,I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean)And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise,No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.But, as we give and as we take—whate'er our takings be—The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declareThere is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spareTill I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we haveShow nothing irredeemable on either side the grave.For as we live and as we die—if utter Death there be—The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!Deliver me from every pride—the Middle, High, and Low—That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and penThat bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged.Amen!That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbour be)This single faith in Life and Death and all Eternity'The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!'THE OLDEST SONGFor before Eve was Lilith—Old Tale.These were never your true love's eyes.Why do you feign that you love them?You that broke from their constancies,And the wide calm brows above them!This was never your true love's speech.Why do you thrill when you hear it?You that have ridden out of its reachThe width of the world or near it!This was never your true love's hair,—You that chafed when it bound youScreened from knowledge or shame or care,In the night that it made around you!'All these things I know, I know.And that's why my heart is breaking!'Then what do you gain by pretending so?'The joy of an old wound waking.'NATURAL THEOLOGYPRIMITIVEI ate my fill of a whale that died,And stranded after a month at sea…There is a pain in my inside.Why have the Gods afflicted me?Ow! I am purged till I am a wraith!Wow! I am sick till I cannot see!What is the sense of Religion and Faith?Look how the Gods have afflicted me!PAGANHow can the skin of rat or mouse holdAnything more than a harmless flea?…The burning plague has taken my household.Why have my Gods afflicted me?All my kith and kin are deceased,Though they were as good as good could be.I will out and batter the family priest,Because my Gods have afflicted me.MEDIÆVALMy privy and well drain into each otherAfter the custom of Christendie…Fevers and fluxes are wasting my mother.Why has the Lord afflicted me?The Saints are helpless for all I offer—So are the clergy I used to feeHenceforward I keep my cash in my coffer,Because the Lord has afflicted me.MATERIAL
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part,But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.They say to mountains 'Be ye removèd.' They say to the lesser floods 'Be dry.'Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd—they are not afraid of that which is high.Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit—then is the bed of the deep laid bare,That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.He rears against the gates they rend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.They are concerned with matters hidden—under the earth-line their altars are.The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their work when they damn-well choose.As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat,Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd—they know the angels are on their side.They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.They sit at the Feet—they hear the Word—they see how truly the Promise runs:They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and—the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part,But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains 'Be ye removèd.' They say to the lesser floods 'Be dry.'Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd—they are not afraid of that which is high.Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit—then is the bed of the deep laid bare,That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.He rears against the gates they rend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.They are concerned with matters hidden—under the earth-line their altars are.The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their work when they damn-well choose.As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat,Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd—they know the angels are on their side.They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.They sit at the Feet—they hear the Word—they see how truly the Promise runs:They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and—the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!
If you stop to find out what your wages will beAnd how they will clothe and feed you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea,For the Sea will never need you.If you ask for the reason of every command,And argue with people about you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,For the Land will do better without you.If you stop to consider the work you have doneAnd to boast what your labour is worth, dear,Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!
If you stop to find out what your wages will beAnd how they will clothe and feed you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea,For the Sea will never need you.
If you ask for the reason of every command,And argue with people about you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,For the Land will do better without you.
If you stop to consider the work you have doneAnd to boast what your labour is worth, dear,Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!
1918
(Being the words of the tune hummed at her lathe by Mrs. L. Embsay, widow.)
The fans and the beltings they roar round me.The power is shaking the floor round meTill the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.It is good for me to be here!Guns in Flanders—Flanders guns!(I had a man that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,The bays and the galleries they loom over me,With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance:It is good for me to be here!The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.Our lights give warning, and fade over us.(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)Oh, it is good for me to be here!The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,Eating up the fields I used to know round me;And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector's office—So long have I been here!I've seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,Through the bit that isn't painted round our skylight rim,And the sunshine in the window slope according to the seasons,Twice since I've been here.The trains on the sidings they call to usWith the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;And we send 'em what we've finished, and they take it where it's wanted,For that is why we are here!Man's hate passes as his love will pass.God made woman what she always was.Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgivenessSo long as they are here!Once I was a woman, but that's by with me.All I loved and looked for, it must die with me.But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,And I serve His Judgments here!Guns in Flanders—Flanders guns!(I had a son that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!
The fans and the beltings they roar round me.The power is shaking the floor round meTill the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.It is good for me to be here!
Guns in Flanders—Flanders guns!(I had a man that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!
The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,The bays and the galleries they loom over me,With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance:It is good for me to be here!
The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.Our lights give warning, and fade over us.(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)Oh, it is good for me to be here!
The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,Eating up the fields I used to know round me;And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector's office—So long have I been here!
I've seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,Through the bit that isn't painted round our skylight rim,And the sunshine in the window slope according to the seasons,Twice since I've been here.
The trains on the sidings they call to usWith the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;And we send 'em what we've finished, and they take it where it's wanted,For that is why we are here!
Man's hate passes as his love will pass.God made woman what she always was.Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgivenessSo long as they are here!
Once I was a woman, but that's by with me.All I loved and looked for, it must die with me.But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,And I serve His Judgments here!
Guns in Flanders—Flanders guns!(I had a son that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!
The Garden called GethsemaneIn Picardy it was,And there the people came to seeThe English soldiers pass.We used to pass—we used to passOr halt, as it might be,And ship our masks in case of gasBeyond Gethsemane.The Garden called Gethsemane,It held a pretty lass,But all the time she talked to meI prayed my cup might pass.The officer sat on the chair,The men lay on the grass,And all the time we halted thereI prayed my cup might pass—It didn't pass—it didn't pass—It didn't pass from me.I drank it when we met the gasBeyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called GethsemaneIn Picardy it was,And there the people came to seeThe English soldiers pass.We used to pass—we used to passOr halt, as it might be,And ship our masks in case of gasBeyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called Gethsemane,It held a pretty lass,But all the time she talked to meI prayed my cup might pass.The officer sat on the chair,The men lay on the grass,And all the time we halted thereI prayed my cup might pass—
It didn't pass—it didn't pass—It didn't pass from me.I drank it when we met the gasBeyond Gethsemane.
The overfaithful sword returns the userHis heart's desire at price of his heart's blood.The clamour of the arrogant accuserWastes that one hour we needed to make good.This was foretold of old at our outgoing;This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,The strength and glory of our reputations,At the day's need, as it were dross, to guardThe tender and new-dedicate foundationsAgainst the sea we fear—not man's award.They that dig foundations deep,Fit for realms to rise upon,Little honour do they reapOf their generation,Any more than mountains gainStature till we reach the plain.With no veil before their faceSuch as shroud or sceptre lend—Daily in the market-place,Of one height to foe and friend—They must cheapen self to findEnds uncheapened for mankind.Through the night when hirelings rest,Sleepless they arise, alone,The unsleeping arch to testAnd the o'er-trusted corner-stone,'Gainst the need, they know, that liesHid behind the centuries.Not by lust of praise or show,Not by Peace herself betrayed—Peace herself must they foregoTill that peace be fitly made;And in single strength upholdWearier hands and hearts acold.On the stage their act hath framedFor thy sports, O Liberty!Doubted are they, and defamedBy the tongues their act set free,While they quicken, tend and raisePower that must their power displace.Lesser men feign greater goals,Failing whereof they may sitScholarly to judge the soulsThat go down into the pit,And, despite its certain clay,Heave a new world towards the day.These at labour make no sign,More than planets, tides or yearsWhich discover God's design,Not our hopes and not our fears;Nor in aught they gain or loseSeek a triumph or excuse.For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, whoHeeds how they perished or were paid that bore it?For, so the Shrine abide, what shame—what pride—If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?
The overfaithful sword returns the userHis heart's desire at price of his heart's blood.The clamour of the arrogant accuserWastes that one hour we needed to make good.This was foretold of old at our outgoing;This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,The strength and glory of our reputations,At the day's need, as it were dross, to guardThe tender and new-dedicate foundationsAgainst the sea we fear—not man's award.
They that dig foundations deep,Fit for realms to rise upon,Little honour do they reapOf their generation,Any more than mountains gainStature till we reach the plain.
With no veil before their faceSuch as shroud or sceptre lend—Daily in the market-place,Of one height to foe and friend—They must cheapen self to findEnds uncheapened for mankind.
Through the night when hirelings rest,Sleepless they arise, alone,The unsleeping arch to testAnd the o'er-trusted corner-stone,'Gainst the need, they know, that liesHid behind the centuries.
Not by lust of praise or show,Not by Peace herself betrayed—Peace herself must they foregoTill that peace be fitly made;And in single strength upholdWearier hands and hearts acold.
On the stage their act hath framedFor thy sports, O Liberty!Doubted are they, and defamedBy the tongues their act set free,While they quicken, tend and raisePower that must their power displace.
Lesser men feign greater goals,Failing whereof they may sitScholarly to judge the soulsThat go down into the pit,And, despite its certain clay,Heave a new world towards the day.
These at labour make no sign,More than planets, tides or yearsWhich discover God's design,Not our hopes and not our fears;Nor in aught they gain or loseSeek a triumph or excuse.
For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, whoHeeds how they perished or were paid that bore it?For, so the Shrine abide, what shame—what pride—If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?
Once, after long-drawn revel at The Mermaid,He to the overbearing BoanergesJonson, uttered (If half of it were liquor,Blessed be the vintage!)Saying how, at an alehouse under Cotswold,He had made sure of his very Cleopatra,Drunk with enormous, salvation-contemningLove for a tinker.How, while he hid from Sir Thomas's keepers,Crouched in a ditch and drenched by the midnightDews, he had listened to gipsy JulietRail at the dawning.How at Bankside, a boy drowning kittensWinced at the business; whereupon his sister(Lady Macbeth aged seven) thrust 'em under,Sombrely scornful.How on a Sabbath, hushed and compassionate—She being known since her birth to the townsfolk—Stratford dredged and delivered from AvonDripping Ophelia.So, with a thin third finger marryingDrop to wine-drop domed on the table,Shakespeare opened his heart till sunriseEntered to hear him.London wakened and he, imperturbable,Passed from waking to hurry after shadows …Busied upon shows of no earthly importance?Yes, but he knew it!
Once, after long-drawn revel at The Mermaid,He to the overbearing BoanergesJonson, uttered (If half of it were liquor,Blessed be the vintage!)
Saying how, at an alehouse under Cotswold,He had made sure of his very Cleopatra,Drunk with enormous, salvation-contemningLove for a tinker.
How, while he hid from Sir Thomas's keepers,Crouched in a ditch and drenched by the midnightDews, he had listened to gipsy JulietRail at the dawning.
How at Bankside, a boy drowning kittensWinced at the business; whereupon his sister(Lady Macbeth aged seven) thrust 'em under,Sombrely scornful.
How on a Sabbath, hushed and compassionate—She being known since her birth to the townsfolk—Stratford dredged and delivered from AvonDripping Ophelia.
So, with a thin third finger marryingDrop to wine-drop domed on the table,Shakespeare opened his heart till sunriseEntered to hear him.
London wakened and he, imperturbable,Passed from waking to hurry after shadows …Busied upon shows of no earthly importance?Yes, but he knew it!
(IN MEMORIAM, JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN)
1904
'And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren; and they hated him yet the more.'—GenesisXXXVII.5.
'And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren; and they hated him yet the more.'—GenesisXXXVII.5.
Oh ye who hold the written clueTo all save all unwritten things,And, half a league behind, pursueThe accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,Look! To your knee your baby bringsThe oldest tale since Earth began—The answer to your worryings'Once on a time there was a Man.'He, single-handed, met and slewMagicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.He lonely 'mid his doubting crew—'In all the loneliness of wings'—He fed the flame, he filled the springs,He locked the ranks, he launched the vanStraight at the grinning Teeth of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'The peace of shocked Foundations flewBefore his ribald questionings.He broke the Oracles in two,And bared the paltry wires and strings.He headed desert wanderings,He led his soul, his cause, his clanA little from the ruck of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'Thrones, Powers, Dominions block the viewWith episodes and underlings—The meek historian deems them trueNor heeds the song that Clio sings—The simple central truth that stingsThe mob to boo, the priest to ban;Things never yet created things—'Once on a time there was a Man.'A bolt is fallen from the blue.A wakened realm full circle swingsWhere Dothan's dreamer dreams anewOf vast and farborne harvestings;And unto him an Empire clingsThat grips the purpose of his plan.My Lords, how think you of these things?Once—in our time—is there a Man?
Oh ye who hold the written clueTo all save all unwritten things,And, half a league behind, pursueThe accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,Look! To your knee your baby bringsThe oldest tale since Earth began—The answer to your worryings'Once on a time there was a Man.'
He, single-handed, met and slewMagicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.He lonely 'mid his doubting crew—'In all the loneliness of wings'—He fed the flame, he filled the springs,He locked the ranks, he launched the vanStraight at the grinning Teeth of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'
The peace of shocked Foundations flewBefore his ribald questionings.He broke the Oracles in two,And bared the paltry wires and strings.He headed desert wanderings,He led his soul, his cause, his clanA little from the ruck of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'
Thrones, Powers, Dominions block the viewWith episodes and underlings—The meek historian deems them trueNor heeds the song that Clio sings—The simple central truth that stingsThe mob to boo, the priest to ban;Things never yet created things—'Once on a time there was a Man.'
A bolt is fallen from the blue.A wakened realm full circle swingsWhere Dothan's dreamer dreams anewOf vast and farborne harvestings;And unto him an Empire clingsThat grips the purpose of his plan.My Lords, how think you of these things?Once—in our time—is there a Man?
Ah! What avails the classic bentAnd what the cultured word,Against the undoctored incidentThat actually occurred?And what is Art whereto we pressThrough paint and prose and rhyme—When Nature in her nakednessDefeats us every time?It is not learning, grace nor gear,Nor easy meat and drink,But bitter pinch of pain and fearThat makes creation think.When in this world's unpleasing youthOur god-like race began,The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,Gave man control of man;Till, bruised and bitten to the boneAnd taught by pain and fear,He learned to deal the far-off stone,And poke the long, safe spear.So tooth and nail were obsoleteAs means against a foe,Till, bored by uniform defeat,Some genius built the bow.Then stone and javelin proved as vainAs old-time tooth and nail,Ere, spurred anew by fear and pain,Man fashioned coats of mail.Then was there safety for the richAnd danger for the poor,Till someone mixed a powder whichRedressed the scale once more.Helmet and armour disappearedWith sword and bow and pike,And, when the smoke of battle cleared,All men were armed alike…And when ten million such were slainTo please one crazy king,Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,Grew weary of the thing;And, at the very hour designed,To enslave him past recall,His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mindTurned and abolished all.All Power, each Tyrant, every MobWhose head has grown too large,Ends by destroying its own jobAnd earns its own discharge.And Man, whose mere necessitiesMove all things from his path,Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,And deprecates their wrath!
Ah! What avails the classic bentAnd what the cultured word,Against the undoctored incidentThat actually occurred?
And what is Art whereto we pressThrough paint and prose and rhyme—When Nature in her nakednessDefeats us every time?
It is not learning, grace nor gear,Nor easy meat and drink,But bitter pinch of pain and fearThat makes creation think.
When in this world's unpleasing youthOur god-like race began,The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,Gave man control of man;
Till, bruised and bitten to the boneAnd taught by pain and fear,He learned to deal the far-off stone,And poke the long, safe spear.
So tooth and nail were obsoleteAs means against a foe,Till, bored by uniform defeat,Some genius built the bow.
Then stone and javelin proved as vainAs old-time tooth and nail,Ere, spurred anew by fear and pain,Man fashioned coats of mail.
Then was there safety for the richAnd danger for the poor,Till someone mixed a powder whichRedressed the scale once more.
Helmet and armour disappearedWith sword and bow and pike,And, when the smoke of battle cleared,All men were armed alike…
And when ten million such were slainTo please one crazy king,Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,Grew weary of the thing;
And, at the very hour designed,To enslave him past recall,His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mindTurned and abolished all.
All Power, each Tyrant, every MobWhose head has grown too large,Ends by destroying its own jobAnd earns its own discharge.
And Man, whose mere necessitiesMove all things from his path,Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,And deprecates their wrath!
(EDWARD VII.)
1910
Who in the Realm to-day lays down dear life for the sake of a land more dear?And, unconcerned for his own estate, toils till the last grudged sands have run?Let him approach. It is proven hereOur King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.For to him above all was Life good, above all he commandedHer abundance full-handed.The peculiar treasure of Kings was his for the taking:All that men come to in dreams he inherited waking:—His marvel of world-gathered armies—one heart and all races,His seas 'neath his keels when his war-castles foamed to their places;The thundering foreshores that answered his heralded landing;The huge lighted cities adoring, the assemblies upstanding;The Councils of Kings called in haste to learn how he was minded—The Kingdoms, the Powers, and the Glories he dealt with unblinded.To him came all captains of men, all achievers of glory,Hot from the press of their battles they told him their story.They revealed him their life in an hour and, saluting, departed,Joyful to labour afresh—he had made them new-hearted.And, since he weighed men from his youth, and no lie long deceived him,He spoke and exacted the truth, and the basest believed him.And God poured him an exquisite wine, that was daily renewed to him,In the clear-welling love of his peoples that daily accrued to him.Honour and service we gave him, rejoicingly fearless;Faith absolute, trust beyond speech and a friendship as peerless.And since he was Master and Servant in all that we asked him,We leaned hard on his wisdom in all things, knowing not how we tasked him.For on Him each new day laid command, every tyrannous hour,To confront, or confirm, or make smooth some dread issue of power;To deliver true judgment aright at the instant, unaided,In the strict, level, ultimate phrase that allowed or dissuaded;To foresee, to allay, to avert from us perils unnumbered,To stand guard on our gates when he guessed that the watchmen had slumbered;To win time, to turn hate, to woo folly to service and, mightily schoolingHis strength to the use of his Nations, to rule as not ruling.These were the works of our King; Earth's peace was the proof of them.God gave him great works to fulfil, and to us the behoof of them.We accepted his toil as our right—none spared, none excused him.When he was bowed by his burden his rest was refused him.We troubled his age with our weakness—the blacker our shame to us!Hearing his People had need of him, straightway he came to us.As he received so he gave—nothing grudged, naught denying,Not even the last gasp of his breath when he strove for us, dyingFor our sakes, without question, he put from him all that he cherished.Simply as any that serve him he served and he perished.All that Kings covet was his, and he flung it aside for us.Simply as any that die in his service he died for us.Who in the Realm to-day has choice of the easy road or the hard to tread?And, much concerned for his own estate, would sell his soul to remain in the sun?Let him depart nor look on Our dead.Our King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.
Who in the Realm to-day lays down dear life for the sake of a land more dear?And, unconcerned for his own estate, toils till the last grudged sands have run?Let him approach. It is proven hereOur King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.
For to him above all was Life good, above all he commandedHer abundance full-handed.The peculiar treasure of Kings was his for the taking:All that men come to in dreams he inherited waking:—
His marvel of world-gathered armies—one heart and all races,His seas 'neath his keels when his war-castles foamed to their places;The thundering foreshores that answered his heralded landing;The huge lighted cities adoring, the assemblies upstanding;The Councils of Kings called in haste to learn how he was minded—The Kingdoms, the Powers, and the Glories he dealt with unblinded.
To him came all captains of men, all achievers of glory,Hot from the press of their battles they told him their story.They revealed him their life in an hour and, saluting, departed,Joyful to labour afresh—he had made them new-hearted.And, since he weighed men from his youth, and no lie long deceived him,He spoke and exacted the truth, and the basest believed him.
And God poured him an exquisite wine, that was daily renewed to him,In the clear-welling love of his peoples that daily accrued to him.Honour and service we gave him, rejoicingly fearless;Faith absolute, trust beyond speech and a friendship as peerless.And since he was Master and Servant in all that we asked him,We leaned hard on his wisdom in all things, knowing not how we tasked him.
For on Him each new day laid command, every tyrannous hour,To confront, or confirm, or make smooth some dread issue of power;To deliver true judgment aright at the instant, unaided,In the strict, level, ultimate phrase that allowed or dissuaded;To foresee, to allay, to avert from us perils unnumbered,To stand guard on our gates when he guessed that the watchmen had slumbered;To win time, to turn hate, to woo folly to service and, mightily schoolingHis strength to the use of his Nations, to rule as not ruling.These were the works of our King; Earth's peace was the proof of them.God gave him great works to fulfil, and to us the behoof of them.We accepted his toil as our right—none spared, none excused him.When he was bowed by his burden his rest was refused him.We troubled his age with our weakness—the blacker our shame to us!Hearing his People had need of him, straightway he came to us.
As he received so he gave—nothing grudged, naught denying,Not even the last gasp of his breath when he strove for us, dyingFor our sakes, without question, he put from him all that he cherished.Simply as any that serve him he served and he perished.All that Kings covet was his, and he flung it aside for us.Simply as any that die in his service he died for us.
Who in the Realm to-day has choice of the easy road or the hard to tread?And, much concerned for his own estate, would sell his soul to remain in the sun?Let him depart nor look on Our dead.Our King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.
'This is the State above the Law.The State exists for the State alone.'[This is a gland at the back of the jaw,And an answering lump by the collar-bone.]Some die shouting in gas or fire;Some die silent, by shell and shot.Some die desperate, caught on the wire;Some die suddenly. This will not.'Regis suprema Voluntas lex.'[It will follow the regular course of—throats.]Some die pinned by the broken decks,Some die sobbing between the boats.Some die eloquent, pressed to deathBy the sliding trench, as their friends can hear.Some die wholly in half a breathSome—give trouble for half a year.'There is neither Evil nor Good in lifeExcept as the needs of the State ordain.'[Since it is rather too late for the knife,All we can do is to mask the pain.]Some die saintly in faith and hope—One died thus in a prison-yard—Some die broken by rape or the rope;Some die easily. This dies hard.'I will dash to pieces who bar my way.Woe to the traitor! Woe to the weak!'[Let him write what he wishes to say.It tires him out if he tries to speak.]Some die quietly. Some aboundIn loud self-pity. Others spreadBad morale through the cots around …This is a type that is better dead.'The war was forced on me by my foes.All that I sought was the right to live.'[Don't be afraid of a triple dose;The pain will neutralize half we give.Here are the needles. See that he diesWhile the effects of the drug endure…What is the question he asks with his eyes?—Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure.]
'This is the State above the Law.The State exists for the State alone.'[This is a gland at the back of the jaw,And an answering lump by the collar-bone.]
Some die shouting in gas or fire;Some die silent, by shell and shot.Some die desperate, caught on the wire;Some die suddenly. This will not.
'Regis suprema Voluntas lex.'[It will follow the regular course of—throats.]Some die pinned by the broken decks,Some die sobbing between the boats.
Some die eloquent, pressed to deathBy the sliding trench, as their friends can hear.Some die wholly in half a breathSome—give trouble for half a year.
'There is neither Evil nor Good in lifeExcept as the needs of the State ordain.'[Since it is rather too late for the knife,All we can do is to mask the pain.]
Some die saintly in faith and hope—One died thus in a prison-yard—Some die broken by rape or the rope;Some die easily. This dies hard.
'I will dash to pieces who bar my way.Woe to the traitor! Woe to the weak!'[Let him write what he wishes to say.It tires him out if he tries to speak.]
Some die quietly. Some aboundIn loud self-pity. Others spreadBad morale through the cots around …This is a type that is better dead.
'The war was forced on me by my foes.All that I sought was the right to live.'[Don't be afraid of a triple dose;The pain will neutralize half we give.
Here are the needles. See that he diesWhile the effects of the drug endure…What is the question he asks with his eyes?—Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure.]
'Whence comest thou, Gehazi,So reverend to behold,In scarlet and in erminesAnd chain of England's gold?''From following after NaamanTo tell him all is well,Whereby my zeal hath made meA Judge in Israel.'Well done, well done, Gehazi,Stretch forth thy ready hand,Thou barely 'scaped from judgment,Take oath to judge the land,Unswayed by gift of moneyOr privy bribe, more base,Of knowledge which is profitIn any market-place.Search out and probe, Gehazi,As thou of all canst try,The truthful, well-weighed answerThat tells the blacker lie—The loud, uneasy virtue,The anger feigned at will,To overbear a witnessAnd make the Court keep still.Take order now, Gehazi,That no man talk asideIn secret with his judgesThe while his case is tried.Lest he should show them—reasonTo keep a matter hid,And subtly lead the questionsAway from what he did.Thou mirror of uprightness,What ails thee at thy vows?What means the risen whitenessOf the skin between thy brows?The boils that shine and burrow,The sores that slough and bleed—The leprosy of NaamanOn thee and all thy seed?Stand up, stand up, Gehazi,Draw close thy robe and go,Gehazi, Judge in Israel,A leper white as snow!
'Whence comest thou, Gehazi,So reverend to behold,In scarlet and in erminesAnd chain of England's gold?''From following after NaamanTo tell him all is well,Whereby my zeal hath made meA Judge in Israel.'
Well done, well done, Gehazi,Stretch forth thy ready hand,Thou barely 'scaped from judgment,Take oath to judge the land,Unswayed by gift of moneyOr privy bribe, more base,Of knowledge which is profitIn any market-place.
Search out and probe, Gehazi,As thou of all canst try,The truthful, well-weighed answerThat tells the blacker lie—The loud, uneasy virtue,The anger feigned at will,To overbear a witnessAnd make the Court keep still.
Take order now, Gehazi,That no man talk asideIn secret with his judgesThe while his case is tried.Lest he should show them—reasonTo keep a matter hid,And subtly lead the questionsAway from what he did.
Thou mirror of uprightness,What ails thee at thy vows?What means the risen whitenessOf the skin between thy brows?The boils that shine and burrow,The sores that slough and bleed—The leprosy of NaamanOn thee and all thy seed?Stand up, stand up, Gehazi,Draw close thy robe and go,Gehazi, Judge in Israel,A leper white as snow!
Try as he will, no man breaks wholly looseFrom his first love, no matter who she be.Oh, was there ever sailor free to choose,That didn't settle somewhere near the sea?Myself, it don't excite me nor amuseTo watch a pack o' shipping on the sea,But I can understand my neighbour's viewsFrom certain things which have occurred to me.Men must keep touch with things they used to useTo earn their living, even when they are free;And so come back upon the least excuse—Same as the sailor settled near the sea.He knows he's never going on no cruise—He knows he's done and finished with the sea,And yet he likes to feel she's there to use—If he should ask her—as she used to be.Even though she cost him all he had to lose,Even though she made him sick to hear or see,Still, what she left of him will mostly chooseHer skirts to sit by. How comes such to be?Parsons in pulpits, tax-payers in pews,Kings on your thrones, you know as well as me,We've only one virginity to lose,And where we lost it there our hearts will be!
Try as he will, no man breaks wholly looseFrom his first love, no matter who she be.Oh, was there ever sailor free to choose,That didn't settle somewhere near the sea?
Myself, it don't excite me nor amuseTo watch a pack o' shipping on the sea,But I can understand my neighbour's viewsFrom certain things which have occurred to me.
Men must keep touch with things they used to useTo earn their living, even when they are free;And so come back upon the least excuse—Same as the sailor settled near the sea.
He knows he's never going on no cruise—He knows he's done and finished with the sea,And yet he likes to feel she's there to use—If he should ask her—as she used to be.
Even though she cost him all he had to lose,Even though she made him sick to hear or see,Still, what she left of him will mostly chooseHer skirts to sit by. How comes such to be?
Parsons in pulpits, tax-payers in pews,Kings on your thrones, you know as well as me,We've only one virginity to lose,And where we lost it there our hearts will be!
I do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.If these are added, I rejoice—if not, I shall not mind,So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head)And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;Since I myself have done no less and—sometimes pulled it off.Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!And when they work me random wrong, as often-times hath been,I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean)And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise,No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.But, as we give and as we take—whate'er our takings be—The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declareThere is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spareTill I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we haveShow nothing irredeemable on either side the grave.For as we live and as we die—if utter Death there be—The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!Deliver me from every pride—the Middle, High, and Low—That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and penThat bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged.Amen!That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbour be)This single faith in Life and Death and all Eternity'The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!'
I do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.If these are added, I rejoice—if not, I shall not mind,So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head)And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;Since I myself have done no less and—sometimes pulled it off.Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
And when they work me random wrong, as often-times hath been,I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean)And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise,No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.But, as we give and as we take—whate'er our takings be—The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declareThere is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spareTill I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we haveShow nothing irredeemable on either side the grave.For as we live and as we die—if utter Death there be—The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Deliver me from every pride—the Middle, High, and Low—That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and penThat bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged.Amen!That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbour be)This single faith in Life and Death and all Eternity'The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!'
For before Eve was Lilith—Old Tale.
These were never your true love's eyes.Why do you feign that you love them?You that broke from their constancies,And the wide calm brows above them!This was never your true love's speech.Why do you thrill when you hear it?You that have ridden out of its reachThe width of the world or near it!This was never your true love's hair,—You that chafed when it bound youScreened from knowledge or shame or care,In the night that it made around you!'All these things I know, I know.And that's why my heart is breaking!'Then what do you gain by pretending so?'The joy of an old wound waking.'
These were never your true love's eyes.Why do you feign that you love them?You that broke from their constancies,And the wide calm brows above them!
This was never your true love's speech.Why do you thrill when you hear it?You that have ridden out of its reachThe width of the world or near it!
This was never your true love's hair,—You that chafed when it bound youScreened from knowledge or shame or care,In the night that it made around you!
'All these things I know, I know.And that's why my heart is breaking!'Then what do you gain by pretending so?'The joy of an old wound waking.'
I ate my fill of a whale that died,And stranded after a month at sea…There is a pain in my inside.Why have the Gods afflicted me?Ow! I am purged till I am a wraith!Wow! I am sick till I cannot see!What is the sense of Religion and Faith?Look how the Gods have afflicted me!
I ate my fill of a whale that died,And stranded after a month at sea…There is a pain in my inside.Why have the Gods afflicted me?Ow! I am purged till I am a wraith!Wow! I am sick till I cannot see!What is the sense of Religion and Faith?Look how the Gods have afflicted me!
How can the skin of rat or mouse holdAnything more than a harmless flea?…The burning plague has taken my household.Why have my Gods afflicted me?All my kith and kin are deceased,Though they were as good as good could be.I will out and batter the family priest,Because my Gods have afflicted me.
How can the skin of rat or mouse holdAnything more than a harmless flea?…The burning plague has taken my household.Why have my Gods afflicted me?
All my kith and kin are deceased,Though they were as good as good could be.I will out and batter the family priest,Because my Gods have afflicted me.
My privy and well drain into each otherAfter the custom of Christendie…Fevers and fluxes are wasting my mother.Why has the Lord afflicted me?The Saints are helpless for all I offer—So are the clergy I used to feeHenceforward I keep my cash in my coffer,Because the Lord has afflicted me.
My privy and well drain into each otherAfter the custom of Christendie…Fevers and fluxes are wasting my mother.Why has the Lord afflicted me?The Saints are helpless for all I offer—So are the clergy I used to feeHenceforward I keep my cash in my coffer,Because the Lord has afflicted me.