APRICOT JAM

IN the fruit-ripe heat of afternoonEach muslined school-child seems a moon;And in the tents, those lazy wavesFrom out the echoing coral cavesOf light, like Venus from the seaThe clown seems, blond hair floating free.The switchback, with its noisy run,Is turning like the wooden sunAs he rides on his rocking-horseAll Struwwelpeter-haired; we courseOn sands as moist as sugar-cane,And the Fat Woman’s face and maneAre sometimes dappled by the shadeInto the likeness of some maidLong dead ... those golden shadows fellOn Cressid or Alaciel.The beggar-tunes on horseback ride,With cheeks as pink as Angels’,—glideThrough Babylon, Chicago, Troy,And Black Man’s Land. Each golden boyBlows silver trumpets over these,As clear as apples on the trees.I will go home and pack my pride,Then with these beggar-tunes I’ll ride—For all the hymns I try to singAre but Love’s beggars shiveringIn thorny thickets where one seesStars grow for wild wet raspberries.

IN the fruit-ripe heat of afternoonEach muslined school-child seems a moon;

And in the tents, those lazy wavesFrom out the echoing coral caves

Of light, like Venus from the seaThe clown seems, blond hair floating free.

The switchback, with its noisy run,Is turning like the wooden sun

As he rides on his rocking-horseAll Struwwelpeter-haired; we course

On sands as moist as sugar-cane,And the Fat Woman’s face and mane

Are sometimes dappled by the shadeInto the likeness of some maid

Long dead ... those golden shadows fellOn Cressid or Alaciel.

The beggar-tunes on horseback ride,With cheeks as pink as Angels’,—glide

Through Babylon, Chicago, Troy,And Black Man’s Land. Each golden boy

Blows silver trumpets over these,As clear as apples on the trees.

I will go home and pack my pride,Then with these beggar-tunes I’ll ride—

For all the hymns I try to singAre but Love’s beggars shivering

In thorny thickets where one seesStars grow for wild wet raspberries.

BENEATH the dancing, glancing greenThe tea is spread amid the sheenOf pince-nez (glints of thought); thus seen,In sharp reflections only, brainPerceives the world all flat and plainIn rounded segments, joy and pain.The parasols dance like the sun,Cast wavering nets of shade that runAcross the chattering table’s fun,The laughing faces, and acrossHalf-shadowed faces looking cross,And black hair with a bird-bright gloss.The flashing children stayed and checked,Smooth india-rubber leaves reflectTheir parrot-green on circumspectGlazed china, where the negroid teaReflects the world’s obscurityIn high lights such as pince-nez see.And all the sheen of shadows featherMuslin frocks like plumes; together,In the hot and flashing weather,Bird-high voices shrill and chatterWith the high and glinting clatterTea-cups make, and whispered patter—(Listen, and you’ll get a slap!)Worlds are small as any map,And life will come our way—mayhap.

THE world grows furry, grunts with sleep ...But I must on the surface keep.The jolting of the train to meSeems some primeval vertebræAttached by life-nerves to my brain—Reactionary once again.So that I see shapes crude and newAnd ordered,—with some end in view,No longer with the horny eyesOf other people’s memories.Through highly varnished yellow heat,As through a lens that does not fit,The faces jolt in cubes, and IPerceive their odd solidityAnd lack of meaning absolute:For why should noses thus protrude,And to what purpose can relateEach hair so oddly separate?Anchored against the puff of breeze,As shallow as the crude blue seas,The coloured blocks and cubes of facesSeem Noah’s arks that shelter racesOf far absurdities to breedTheir queer kind after we are dead.Blue wooden foliage creaks with heatAnd there are woollen buns to eat—Bright-varnished buns to touch and seeAnd, black as an Inferno, tea.Then (Recketts’ blue) a puff of wind....Heredity regains my mindAnd I am sitting in the trainWhile thought becomes like flesh,—the brainNot independent, but derivedFrom hairy matter that half lived—Identities not round or whole.A questing beast who thirsts for soul,The furry vegetation there—Purring with heat, sucks in the air;And dust that’s gathered in the train,Protecting flesh, seems almost brain—(That horny substance altering sight);How strange, intangible is lightWhence all is born, and yet by touchWe live,—the rest is not worth much....Once more the world grows furred with sleep,—But I must on the surface keepWhile mammoths from the heat are born—Great clumsy trains with tusk and hornWhereon the world’s too sudden tossedThrough frondage of our mind, and lost.

METALLIC waves of people jarThrough crackling green toward the barWhere on the tables, chattering-white,The sharp drinks quarrel with the light.Those coloured muslin blinds the smilesShroud wooden faces in their wiles—Sometimes they splash like water (youYourself reflected in their hue).The conversation, loud and bright,Seems spinal bars of shunting lightIn firework-spirting greenery,O complicate machineryFor building Babel, iron craneBeneath your hair, that blue-ribbed maneIn noise and murder like the seaWithout its mutabilityOutside the bar, where jangling heatSeems out of tune and off the beat,A concertina’s glycerineExudes and mirrors in the greenYour soul, pure glucose edged with hintsOf tentative and half-soiled tints.

METALLIC waves of people jarThrough crackling green toward the bar

Where on the tables, chattering-white,The sharp drinks quarrel with the light.

Those coloured muslin blinds the smilesShroud wooden faces in their wiles—

Sometimes they splash like water (youYourself reflected in their hue).

The conversation, loud and bright,Seems spinal bars of shunting light

In firework-spirting greenery,O complicate machinery

For building Babel, iron craneBeneath your hair, that blue-ribbed mane

In noise and murder like the seaWithout its mutability

Outside the bar, where jangling heatSeems out of tune and off the beat,

A concertina’s glycerineExudes and mirrors in the green

Your soul, pure glucose edged with hintsOf tentative and half-soiled tints.

UPON sharp floods of noise there glideThe red-brick houses, float, collideWith aspidestras, trains on steelThat lead us not to what we feel.Hot glassy lights fill up the gloomAs water an aquarium,—All mirror-bright; beneath these seen,Our faces coloured by their sheen,Seem objects under water, bentBy each bright-hued advertisementWhose words are stamped upon our skinAs though the heat had burnt them in.The jolting of the train that madeAll objects coloured bars of shade,Projects them sideways till they splitSplinters from eyeballs as they flit.Down endless tubes of throats we squeezeOur words, lymphatic paint to pleaseOur sense of neatness, neutralizeThe overtint and oversize.I think it true that Heaven should beA narrow train for you and me,Where we perpetually must hauntThe moving oblique restaurantAnd feed on foods of other mindsBehind the hot and dusty blinds.

UPON sharp floods of noise there glideThe red-brick houses, float, collide

With aspidestras, trains on steelThat lead us not to what we feel.

Hot glassy lights fill up the gloomAs water an aquarium,—

All mirror-bright; beneath these seen,Our faces coloured by their sheen,

Seem objects under water, bentBy each bright-hued advertisement

Whose words are stamped upon our skinAs though the heat had burnt them in.

The jolting of the train that madeAll objects coloured bars of shade,

Projects them sideways till they splitSplinters from eyeballs as they flit.

Down endless tubes of throats we squeezeOur words, lymphatic paint to please

Our sense of neatness, neutralizeThe overtint and oversize.

I think it true that Heaven should beA narrow train for you and me,

Where we perpetually must hauntThe moving oblique restaurant

And feed on foods of other mindsBehind the hot and dusty blinds.

WHEN you lay dying fast, you said—And, weeping, were not comforted:“Look through this paper world! I seeThe lights of Heaven burn like goldThe other side; and Souls are soldFor these, yet only flesh, sold we!”And then you died and went to bliss.—I’m curious now to know if loveIs really Heaven—whereyourove.—Your kind of love ... or mine, Thaïs?And is there still the clinging mud?I think it drowned your soul like wine.And do the stars like street-lamps shine,Gilding the gutters where you stood,And lighting up your small face whereThin powder, like a trail of dust,Shows the mortality of lust ...Still black as hissing rain, your hair?Your body had become your soul....Thaïs,—do spirits crumble whole?

WHEN you lay dying fast, you said—And, weeping, were not comforted:“Look through this paper world! I see

The lights of Heaven burn like goldThe other side; and Souls are soldFor these, yet only flesh, sold we!”

And then you died and went to bliss.—I’m curious now to know if loveIs really Heaven—whereyourove.—Your kind of love ... or mine, Thaïs?

And is there still the clinging mud?I think it drowned your soul like wine.And do the stars like street-lamps shine,Gilding the gutters where you stood,

And lighting up your small face whereThin powder, like a trail of dust,Shows the mortality of lust ...Still black as hissing rain, your hair?

Your body had become your soul....Thaïs,—do spirits crumble whole?

WITHIN the long black avenues of NightGo pageants of delight,With masks of glass the night has stained with wine,Hair lifted like a vine;—And all the coloured curtains of the airWere fluttered. Passing there,The sounds seemed warring suns; and music flowedAs blood; the mask’d lamps showedTall houses light had gilded like despair:Black windows, gaping there.Through all the rainbow spaces of our laughterThose pageants followed after;The negress Night, within her house of glassWatched the processions pass.

WITHIN the long black avenues of NightGo pageants of delight,

With masks of glass the night has stained with wine,Hair lifted like a vine;—

And all the coloured curtains of the airWere fluttered. Passing there,

The sounds seemed warring suns; and music flowedAs blood; the mask’d lamps showed

Tall houses light had gilded like despair:Black windows, gaping there.

Through all the rainbow spaces of our laughterThose pageants followed after;

The negress Night, within her house of glassWatched the processions pass.

BLOW out the candles. Let the dance begin.Already, pale as Sin,The candles weep and pry like living things ...They dance, who have no wings.More vast and black than endless sleep, this room.Time beats his empty drumWhose hollow sound is echoed in our eyes—Deep wells where no moon lies.A crumpled paper mask hides every face—Creased to a smile of grace,With eyelids gilded, so the bitter tearsMake music for men’s ears.These masks, some coloured like an August moon,Or white, as sands that swoonWithin Time’s hour-glass, some as grey as rain,—Still mimic joy and pain.Thin pointed rags and tags edge our attire ...Bright plumes?... or tongues of fire,Whose painted laughter cracks the gilded skyOf this flat emperyThat has no soil where any flower may root,Nor rest for weary foot,But endless leagues of mirror: such the groundThat no horizons bound,—Carved topaz water;—sound a mirror seems!O! nakedness of dreamsBeneath the blinding radiance of hot skiesWhere no sun lives or dies.. . .Now that the dusty, creaking curtain, Day,Is folded, laid away,Each masked dancer is both piercèd HeartAnd Dream, its poiniard.Small winds creep from Infinity.... A flameOur blown hair, white as shame.Those seeds of worlds, the stars, are nought but blownRed tinsel from a Clown;The candles, living things to dance and pry:Out! hard Reality!

BLOW out the candles. Let the dance begin.Already, pale as Sin,

The candles weep and pry like living things ...They dance, who have no wings.

More vast and black than endless sleep, this room.Time beats his empty drum

Whose hollow sound is echoed in our eyes—Deep wells where no moon lies.

A crumpled paper mask hides every face—Creased to a smile of grace,

With eyelids gilded, so the bitter tearsMake music for men’s ears.

These masks, some coloured like an August moon,Or white, as sands that swoon

Within Time’s hour-glass, some as grey as rain,—Still mimic joy and pain.

Thin pointed rags and tags edge our attire ...Bright plumes?... or tongues of fire,

Whose painted laughter cracks the gilded skyOf this flat empery

That has no soil where any flower may root,Nor rest for weary foot,

But endless leagues of mirror: such the groundThat no horizons bound,—

Carved topaz water;—sound a mirror seems!O! nakedness of dreams

Beneath the blinding radiance of hot skiesWhere no sun lives or dies.. . .Now that the dusty, creaking curtain, Day,Is folded, laid away,

Each masked dancer is both piercèd HeartAnd Dream, its poiniard.

Small winds creep from Infinity.... A flameOur blown hair, white as shame.

Those seeds of worlds, the stars, are nought but blownRed tinsel from a Clown;

The candles, living things to dance and pry:Out! hard Reality!

BLOWN through the leaden circles of our hell,Each wisp of soul, tattered by winds of lust,Clawed at the voices, like a beaten bell.No movement ever raised the lifeless dust,As, blown beneath the night’s enormous pall,We call to you with goatish prance and paces:Our lips are red as nights of festivalAnd hell has dyed its fires upon our faces.These barren bodies may no children breedTo quench the sun with their corrupted breathSave these our hearts, our breasts, our bodies feed—The fruit of love like ours, the worms of death.Within our brain the darkness slowly fell:Our eyes’ dark vacuum reflects no days—No voice, no sight, no thought within our hell—But only flesh our loneliness allays.

BLOWN through the leaden circles of our hell,Each wisp of soul, tattered by winds of lust,Clawed at the voices, like a beaten bell.No movement ever raised the lifeless dust,

As, blown beneath the night’s enormous pall,We call to you with goatish prance and paces:Our lips are red as nights of festivalAnd hell has dyed its fires upon our faces.

These barren bodies may no children breedTo quench the sun with their corrupted breathSave these our hearts, our breasts, our bodies feed—The fruit of love like ours, the worms of death.

Within our brain the darkness slowly fell:Our eyes’ dark vacuum reflects no days—No voice, no sight, no thought within our hell—But only flesh our loneliness allays.

MONOTONOUSLY fell the rain,Like thoughts within an empty brain;The lolling weeds that fattened thereAbsorbed the broken lifeless air.“Do those dim eyes still hold a flameThat leaps to Heaven at my name?”“Mine eyes would hold God’s face in sight;But your lips burned away the light.”“Within your brain the blood runs high?”“You came like thought; you licked it dry.”“Oh, we have burnt our souls with lustTill they are whiter than the dust ...Now are they white as purity?”“You blind mine eyes ... I cannot see.”“I am so tired—I fain would creepTo hide within your heart and weep.”“My heart is dust ... no tears to shed.”“But carrion lives—it lives”—I said.

MONOTONOUSLY fell the rain,Like thoughts within an empty brain;

The lolling weeds that fattened thereAbsorbed the broken lifeless air.

“Do those dim eyes still hold a flameThat leaps to Heaven at my name?”

“Mine eyes would hold God’s face in sight;But your lips burned away the light.”

“Within your brain the blood runs high?”“You came like thought; you licked it dry.”

“Oh, we have burnt our souls with lustTill they are whiter than the dust ...

Now are they white as purity?”“You blind mine eyes ... I cannot see.”

“I am so tired—I fain would creepTo hide within your heart and weep.”

“My heart is dust ... no tears to shed.”“But carrion lives—it lives”—I said.

BENEATH umbrellas I can seePink faces sheened with stupidity,With whiskers spirting from them, (daysOf boredom, black and sentient raysFrom other personalities.)And, mourners too, white-bearded seasWalk slowly by them as they come,Sing hymns to the wind’s harmonium.Old men shake hands; their clawing graspSeems like a door without a clasp—That gapes on slow black emptiness....Now,—vanished is her cracked black dress,The house grows tall from vacancy,And in the kitchen I take teaWhile the furry sun creeps out—that rawLife,—sheathes its murderous clawAnd lets its tongue slink out to lapThe silence—(a slow-leaking tap)....

BENEATH umbrellas I can seePink faces sheened with stupidity,

With whiskers spirting from them, (daysOf boredom, black and sentient rays

From other personalities.)And, mourners too, white-bearded seas

Walk slowly by them as they come,Sing hymns to the wind’s harmonium.

Old men shake hands; their clawing graspSeems like a door without a clasp—

That gapes on slow black emptiness....Now,—vanished is her cracked black dress,The house grows tall from vacancy,And in the kitchen I take tea

While the furry sun creeps out—that rawLife,—sheathes its murderous claw

And lets its tongue slink out to lapThe silence—(a slow-leaking tap)....

THEY came upon us like a train—A rush, a scream, then gone again!With bodies like a continentEncased in silken seas, they wentAnd came and called and took their teaAnd patronised the DeityWho copies their munificenceWith creditable heart and sense.Each face a plaster monumentFor some belovèd aliment,Whose everlasting sleep they deignTo cradle in the Great Inane;Each tongue, a noisy clockwork bellTo toll the passing hour that fell;Each hat, an architect’s deviceFor building churches, cheap and nice.I sawthe County FamiliesAdvance and sit and take their teas;I saw the County gaze askanceAt my thin insignificance:Small thoughts like frightened fishes glideBeneath their eyes’ pale glassy tide:They said: “Poor thing! we must be nice!”They said: “We know your father!”—twice.

THEY came upon us like a train—A rush, a scream, then gone again!With bodies like a continentEncased in silken seas, they went

And came and called and took their teaAnd patronised the DeityWho copies their munificenceWith creditable heart and sense.

Each face a plaster monumentFor some belovèd aliment,Whose everlasting sleep they deignTo cradle in the Great Inane;

Each tongue, a noisy clockwork bellTo toll the passing hour that fell;Each hat, an architect’s deviceFor building churches, cheap and nice.

I sawthe County FamiliesAdvance and sit and take their teas;I saw the County gaze askanceAt my thin insignificance:

Small thoughts like frightened fishes glideBeneath their eyes’ pale glassy tide:They said: “Poor thing! we must be nice!”They said: “We know your father!”—twice.

THE carriage brushes through the brightLeaves (violent jets from life to light).Strong polished speed is plunging, heavesBetween the showers of bright hot leaves.The window-glasses glaze our facesAnd jarr them to the very basis,—But they could never put a polishUpon my manners, or abolishMy most distinct disinclinationFor calling on a rich relation!In her house, bulwark built betweenThe life man lives and visions seen,—The sunlight hiccups white as chalk,Grown drunk with emptiness of talk,And silence hisses like a snake,Invertebrate and rattling ache.. . . .Till suddenly, EternityDrowns all the houses like a sea,And down the street the Trump of DoomBlares,—barely shakes this drawing-roomWhere raw-edged shadows sting forlornAs dank dark nettles. Down the hornOf her ear-trumpet I conveyThe news that: “It is Judgment Day!”“Speak louder; I don’t catch, my dear.”I roared: “It is the Trump we hear!”“TheWhat?”—“The TRUMP!” ... “I shall complain—The boy-scouts practising again!”

HOW like a lusty satyr, the hot sunDoth in his orbit runO’er rivers and the light blue hills of noon,And where the white still moonSleeps in the lovely woodlands of the light.Made drunken with his might,Like flames the goat-foot satyrs leap and flingThe blossom’d beans of Spring.The oreads leave their swan-like fountains, bellsOf foam, and dark wood-wells,And grasses where the pale dew lovelorn liesAnd like an echo dies.The river-gods are tossing their blue manesStill wet with brine; the reinsLie loosely on their plunging horses; earthShakes with the storm of mirth;And all the cloudy castles of the airAre bathed with radiance. There,Beneath dark chestnut trees, King Pan doth sportWith all his hornèd court.Their goat-feet clattering to the oaten tuneThat cools the heat of noonLike water gurgling; hoofs all wreath’d with flowers,Wild as the dew-pale hours,The clownish satyrs dance the antic hay;They butt with horns and sway,While laughing leaves, like smitten cymbals thrillTheir sunburnt dance; untilThe light falls like a rain of panick’d leavesThrough the gold heart of eves.O’er misty fields, mild Dian’s old faint hornBloweth a sound forlorn.Then from their hives with palest flowers bedight,The yellow bees take flight—Whirling where old Silenus tries to singUnto his hornèd King—Feeding upon gold-freckled strawberries—And sting the poor fat fool until he cries.

GOLDEN night-airs lull his eyes,Starlight come not where Love lies,Lest your faint light touch his wingsWho swiftly comes and swiftly flies;Lovers, wake him not with sighs,But list where Philomela singsLullaby.Dreams come tiptoe to his bed,Dim fantastic wings outspreadTo fan his pretty sleeping eyes.Upon my breast he laid his head(On lilies white heap roses red);Hushed in my maiden heart, Love liesA-sleeping.

Dreams come tiptoe to his bed,Dim fantastic wings outspreadTo fan his pretty sleeping eyes.Upon my breast he laid his head(On lilies white heap roses red);Hushed in my maiden heart, Love liesA-sleeping.

FROM Florence and from Venice,Like silver swans at noon,That silken dim winds menace—Each barque a drownèd moon,I’ll bring you freights of amber,Perfumèd like the rose,To build your sleeping chamber,And song-birds for your close;Faint stars to go a-singing,Like fluttering nightingalesFrom golden cages winging,When, Love, your tir’d wing fails.And as we come a-rowing,Great rainbows rise and swingLike haughty peacocks bowingIn the gardens of the King.

WITHIN your magic web of hair lies furledThe fire and splendour of the ancient world;The dire gold of the comet’s wind-blown hair,The songs that turned to gold the evening airWhen all the stars of heaven sang for joy;The flames that burnt the cloud-high city Troy;The mænad fire of spring on the cold earth,The myrrh-lit flames that gave both life and birthTo the soul-Phœnix, and the star-bright showerThat came to Danæ in her brazen tower.Within your burning web of hair lies furledThe fire and splendour of the ancient world.

THE swans more white than those forgotten fairWho ruled the kingdoms that of old-time were,Within the sunset water deeply gazeAs though they sought some beautiful dim face,The youth of all the world; or pale lost gems,And crystal shimmering diadems,The moon for ever seeks in woodland streamsTo deck her cool faint beauty; thus in dreams,Belov’d, I seek lost suns within your eyesAnd find but wrecks of love’s gold argosies.

THE fat light clings upon my skin,Like grease that slowly forms a thinAnd foul white film; so close it lies,It feeds upon my lips and eyes.The black fly hits the window-paneThat shuts its dirty body in;So once, his spirit fought to quitThe body that imprisoned it.He always seemed so fond of me,Until one day he chanced to seeMy head, a little on one side,Loll softly as if I had died.Since then, he rarely looked my way,Though he could never know what layWithin my brain; though iron his will,I thought, he’s young and teachable.And often, as I took my drink,I chuckled in my heart to thinkWhose dark blood ran within his veins:You see, it spared me half my pains.The time was very long untilI had the chance to work my will;Once seen, the way was clear as light,A father’s patience infinite.He always was so sensitive;But soon I taught him how to liveWith each day, just a patch of white,A blinded patch of black, each night.Each day he watched my gaiety.It’s very difficult to dieWhen one is young.... I pitied him,The glass I filled up to the brim,His shaking fingers scarce could hold;His limbs were trembling as with cold....I waited till from night and dayAll meaning I had wiped away,And then I gave it him again;The wine made heaven in his brain.Then spider-like, the kindly wineThrust tentacles through every vein,And knotted him so very fastI knew I had him safe at last.And sometimes in the dawn, I’d creepTo watch him as he lay asleep,And each time, see my son’s face grownIn some blurred line, more like my own.A crumpled rag, he lies all nightUntil the first white smear of light;And sleep is but an empty hole ...No place for him to hide his soul,No outlet there to set him free:He never can escape from me.Yet still I never know what thought,All fly-like, in his mind lies caught:His face seems some half-spoken wordForgot again as soon as heard,Beneath the livid skin of light;Oh, just an empty space of white,Now all the meaning’s gone. I’ll sitA little while, and stare at it.

THE fat light clings upon my skin,Like grease that slowly forms a thinAnd foul white film; so close it lies,It feeds upon my lips and eyes.

The black fly hits the window-paneThat shuts its dirty body in;So once, his spirit fought to quitThe body that imprisoned it.

He always seemed so fond of me,Until one day he chanced to seeMy head, a little on one side,Loll softly as if I had died.

Since then, he rarely looked my way,Though he could never know what layWithin my brain; though iron his will,I thought, he’s young and teachable.

And often, as I took my drink,I chuckled in my heart to thinkWhose dark blood ran within his veins:You see, it spared me half my pains.

The time was very long untilI had the chance to work my will;Once seen, the way was clear as light,A father’s patience infinite.

He always was so sensitive;But soon I taught him how to liveWith each day, just a patch of white,A blinded patch of black, each night.

Each day he watched my gaiety.It’s very difficult to dieWhen one is young.... I pitied him,The glass I filled up to the brim,

His shaking fingers scarce could hold;His limbs were trembling as with cold....I waited till from night and dayAll meaning I had wiped away,

And then I gave it him again;The wine made heaven in his brain.Then spider-like, the kindly wineThrust tentacles through every vein,

And knotted him so very fastI knew I had him safe at last.And sometimes in the dawn, I’d creepTo watch him as he lay asleep,

And each time, see my son’s face grownIn some blurred line, more like my own.A crumpled rag, he lies all nightUntil the first white smear of light;

And sleep is but an empty hole ...No place for him to hide his soul,No outlet there to set him free:He never can escape from me.

Yet still I never know what thought,All fly-like, in his mind lies caught:His face seems some half-spoken wordForgot again as soon as heard,

Beneath the livid skin of light;Oh, just an empty space of white,Now all the meaning’s gone. I’ll sitA little while, and stare at it.

THIS black tower drinks the blinding light.Strange windows livid white,Tremble beneath the curse of God.Yet living weeds still nodTo the huge sun, a devil’s eyeThat tracks the souls that die.The clock beats like the heart of DoomWithin the narrow room;And whispering with some ghastly airThe curtains float and stir.But still she never speaks a word;I think she hardly heardWhen I with reeling footsteps cameAnd softly spoke her name.But yet she does not sleep. Her eyesStill watch in wide surpriseThe thirsty knife that pitied her;But those lids never stir,Though creeping Fear still gnaws like painThe hollow of her brain.She must have some sly plan, the cheat,To lie so still. The beatThat once throbbed like a muffled drumWith fear to hear me come,Now never sounds when I creep nigh.Oh! she was always sly.And if to spite her, I dared stealBehind her bed, and feelWith fumbling fingers for her heart ...Ere I could touch the smart,Once more wild shriek on shriek would tearThe dumb and shuddering air....And still she never speaks to me.She only smiles to seeHow in dark corners secret-slyNew-born Eternity,All spider-like, doth spin and castStrange threads to hold Time fast.

THIS black tower drinks the blinding light.Strange windows livid white,

Tremble beneath the curse of God.Yet living weeds still nod

To the huge sun, a devil’s eyeThat tracks the souls that die.

The clock beats like the heart of DoomWithin the narrow room;

And whispering with some ghastly airThe curtains float and stir.

But still she never speaks a word;I think she hardly heard

When I with reeling footsteps cameAnd softly spoke her name.

But yet she does not sleep. Her eyesStill watch in wide surprise

The thirsty knife that pitied her;But those lids never stir,

Though creeping Fear still gnaws like painThe hollow of her brain.

She must have some sly plan, the cheat,To lie so still. The beat

That once throbbed like a muffled drumWith fear to hear me come,

Now never sounds when I creep nigh.Oh! she was always sly.

And if to spite her, I dared stealBehind her bed, and feel

With fumbling fingers for her heart ...Ere I could touch the smart,

Once more wild shriek on shriek would tearThe dumb and shuddering air....

And still she never speaks to me.She only smiles to see

How in dark corners secret-slyNew-born Eternity,

All spider-like, doth spin and castStrange threads to hold Time fast.

OUR dreams create the babes we bear;Our beauty goes to make them fair.We give them all we have of good,Our blood to drink, our hearts for food;And in our souls they lie and restUntil upon their mother’s breast,So innocent and sweet they lie.They live to curse us; then they die.When he was born, it seemed the springHad come again with birds to singAnd blossoms dancing in the sunWhere streams released from winter run.His sunlit hair was all my gold,His loving eyes my wealth untold;All heaven was hid within my breastWhereon my child was laid to rest.He grew to manhood. Then one cameFalse-hearted as Hell’s blackest shame,To steal my child from me, and thrustThe soul I loved down to the dust.Her hungry, wicked lips were redAs that dark blood my son’s hand shed.Her eyes were black as Hell’s own night,Her ice-cold breast was winter-white.I had put by a little goldTo bury me when I was cold.Her fangèd, wanton kiss to buyMy son’s love willed that I should die.The gold was hid beneath my bed;So little, and my weary headWas all the guard it had. They lieSo quiet and still who soon must die.He stole to kill me while I slept—The little son, who never weptBut that I kissed his tears awaySo fast, his weeping seemed but play.So light his footfall, yet I heardIts echo in my heart, and stirredFrom out my weary sleep to seeMy child’s face bending over me.The wicked knife flashed serpent-wise.—Yet I saw nothing but his eyes,And heard one little word he saidGo echoing down among the Dead.

OUR dreams create the babes we bear;Our beauty goes to make them fair.We give them all we have of good,Our blood to drink, our hearts for food;

And in our souls they lie and restUntil upon their mother’s breast,So innocent and sweet they lie.They live to curse us; then they die.

When he was born, it seemed the springHad come again with birds to singAnd blossoms dancing in the sunWhere streams released from winter run.

His sunlit hair was all my gold,His loving eyes my wealth untold;All heaven was hid within my breastWhereon my child was laid to rest.

He grew to manhood. Then one cameFalse-hearted as Hell’s blackest shame,To steal my child from me, and thrustThe soul I loved down to the dust.

Her hungry, wicked lips were redAs that dark blood my son’s hand shed.Her eyes were black as Hell’s own night,Her ice-cold breast was winter-white.

I had put by a little goldTo bury me when I was cold.Her fangèd, wanton kiss to buyMy son’s love willed that I should die.

The gold was hid beneath my bed;So little, and my weary headWas all the guard it had. They lieSo quiet and still who soon must die.

He stole to kill me while I slept—The little son, who never weptBut that I kissed his tears awaySo fast, his weeping seemed but play.

So light his footfall, yet I heardIts echo in my heart, and stirredFrom out my weary sleep to seeMy child’s face bending over me.

The wicked knife flashed serpent-wise.—Yet I saw nothing but his eyes,And heard one little word he saidGo echoing down among the Dead.

THEY say the Dead may never dream.But yet I heard my pierced heart screamHis name within the dark. They lieWho say the Dead can ever die.For in the grave I may not sleepFor dreaming that I hear him weep.And in the dark, my dead hands gropeIn search of him. O barren hope!I cannot draw his head to restDeep down upon my wounded breast ...He gave the breast that fed him wellTo suckle the small worms of Hell.The little wicked thoughts that fedUpon the weary helpless Dead ...They whispered o’er my broken heart,They stuck their fangs deep in the smart.“The child she bore with bloody sweatAnd agony has paid his debt.Through that bleak face the stark winds play;The crows have chased his soul away.“His body is a blackened ragUpon the tree—a monstrous flag.”Thus one worm to the other saith.Those slow mean servitors of Death,They chuckling said: “Your soul, grown blindWith anguish, is the shrieking WindThat blows the flame that never diesAbout his empty, lidless eyes.”I tore them from my heart. I said:“The life-blood that my son’s hand shed,That from my broken heart outburst,I’d give again, to quench his thirst.“He did no sin. But cold blind earthThe body was that gave him birth.All mine, all mine the sin; the loveI bore him was not deep enough.”

THEY say the Dead may never dream.But yet I heard my pierced heart screamHis name within the dark. They lieWho say the Dead can ever die.

For in the grave I may not sleepFor dreaming that I hear him weep.And in the dark, my dead hands gropeIn search of him. O barren hope!

I cannot draw his head to restDeep down upon my wounded breast ...He gave the breast that fed him wellTo suckle the small worms of Hell.

The little wicked thoughts that fedUpon the weary helpless Dead ...They whispered o’er my broken heart,They stuck their fangs deep in the smart.

“The child she bore with bloody sweatAnd agony has paid his debt.Through that bleak face the stark winds play;The crows have chased his soul away.

“His body is a blackened ragUpon the tree—a monstrous flag.”Thus one worm to the other saith.Those slow mean servitors of Death,

They chuckling said: “Your soul, grown blindWith anguish, is the shrieking WindThat blows the flame that never diesAbout his empty, lidless eyes.”

I tore them from my heart. I said:“The life-blood that my son’s hand shed,That from my broken heart outburst,I’d give again, to quench his thirst.

“He did no sin. But cold blind earthThe body was that gave him birth.All mine, all mine the sin; the loveI bore him was not deep enough.”

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

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