On Christmas Eve the brute CreationLift up their heads and speak with human voices;The Ox roars out his song of jubilationAnd the Ass rejoices.They dance for mirth in simple credenceThat man from devildom this day was saved,That of his froward spirit he has found riddance;They hymn the Son of David.Ox and Ass cloistered in stable,Break bounds to-night and see what shall astound you,A second Fall, a second death of Abel,Wars renewed around you.Cabals of great men against small men,Mobs, murders, informations, the packed jury,While Ignorance, the lubber prince of all men,Glowers with old-time fury.Excellent beasts, resign your speaking,Tempted in man’s own choleric tongue to name him.Hoof-and-horn vengeance have no thought of wreaking,Let your dumb grief shame him.
On Christmas Eve the brute CreationLift up their heads and speak with human voices;The Ox roars out his song of jubilationAnd the Ass rejoices.They dance for mirth in simple credenceThat man from devildom this day was saved,That of his froward spirit he has found riddance;They hymn the Son of David.Ox and Ass cloistered in stable,Break bounds to-night and see what shall astound you,A second Fall, a second death of Abel,Wars renewed around you.Cabals of great men against small men,Mobs, murders, informations, the packed jury,While Ignorance, the lubber prince of all men,Glowers with old-time fury.Excellent beasts, resign your speaking,Tempted in man’s own choleric tongue to name him.Hoof-and-horn vengeance have no thought of wreaking,Let your dumb grief shame him.
On Christmas Eve the brute CreationLift up their heads and speak with human voices;The Ox roars out his song of jubilationAnd the Ass rejoices.
They dance for mirth in simple credenceThat man from devildom this day was saved,That of his froward spirit he has found riddance;They hymn the Son of David.
Ox and Ass cloistered in stable,Break bounds to-night and see what shall astound you,A second Fall, a second death of Abel,Wars renewed around you.
Cabals of great men against small men,Mobs, murders, informations, the packed jury,While Ignorance, the lubber prince of all men,Glowers with old-time fury.
Excellent beasts, resign your speaking,Tempted in man’s own choleric tongue to name him.Hoof-and-horn vengeance have no thought of wreaking,Let your dumb grief shame him.
Snake Bull, my namesake, man of wrath,By no expense of knives or cloth,Only by work of muttered charmsCould draw all woman to his arms;None whom he summoned might resistNor none recall whom once he kissedAnd loosed them from his kiss, by whomThis mother-shame had come.The power of his compelling flameWas bound in virtue of our name,But when in secret he taught meLike him a thief of love to be,For half his secret I had foundAnd half explored the wizard groundOf words, and when giving consentOut at his heels I went.Then Fessé, jungle-god whose shapeIs one part man and three parts ape,Avenger of misuse by manOf lust that by his art began,And master of all mimicriesMade tittering laughter in the trees.With girlish whispers, sighs and gigglingSet the Bull prancing, the Snake wriggling;Where leaves were broadest and light dim,Fessé ambushed him.Up through the air I saw him swungTo bridal bowers with red flowers hung;He choked for mercy like a maidBy his own violent whim betrayed;Blood broke in fountains from his neck,I heard his hugged ribs creak and break,But what the tree-top rites might beHow should I stay to see?In terror of the Ape God’s powerI changed my person in that hour,Cast off the livery of my clan,Over unlawful hills I ran,I soiled me with forbidden earth.In nakedness of second birthI scorched away the Snake’s red eyesTattoed for name about my thighs,And slew the Sacred Bull oppressedWith passion on my breast.The girls of my new tribe are cold,Amazon, scarred, not soft to hold.They seek not men, nor are they sought,Whose children are not theirs, but boughtFrom outlaw tribes who dwell in trees—Tamed apes suckle these.The young men of the tribe are suchThat knife or bow they dare not touch,But in close watching of the skiesAnd reckoning counts they dim their eyes.Closed, each by each, in thoughtful barsThey plot the circuits of the stars,And frozen music dulls their needOf drink and man-flesh greed.They hold that virtue from them slipsWhen eye greets eye or lips touch lips;Down to the knee their broad beards fallAnd hardly are they men at all.Possessions they have none, nor schoolsFor tribal duties, nor close rules,No gods, no rites, no totem beasts,No friendships, no love feasts.Now quit, as they, of gong-roused lust,The leap of breasts, the scattering dust,In hermit splendour at my glassI watch the skies’ procession pass,Tracing my figures on the floorOf planets’ paths and comets’ lore;In calm amaze I cloak my will,I gaze, I count, untilHarsh from his House the Bull roars out,Forked lightning leaps his points about,Tattoos his shape upon the sky:Night anger fills the Serpent’s eyeWith desolating fire for oneWho thought the Serpent’s days were done,And girlish titterings from the treesLoosen my firm knees.
Snake Bull, my namesake, man of wrath,By no expense of knives or cloth,Only by work of muttered charmsCould draw all woman to his arms;None whom he summoned might resistNor none recall whom once he kissedAnd loosed them from his kiss, by whomThis mother-shame had come.The power of his compelling flameWas bound in virtue of our name,But when in secret he taught meLike him a thief of love to be,For half his secret I had foundAnd half explored the wizard groundOf words, and when giving consentOut at his heels I went.Then Fessé, jungle-god whose shapeIs one part man and three parts ape,Avenger of misuse by manOf lust that by his art began,And master of all mimicriesMade tittering laughter in the trees.With girlish whispers, sighs and gigglingSet the Bull prancing, the Snake wriggling;Where leaves were broadest and light dim,Fessé ambushed him.Up through the air I saw him swungTo bridal bowers with red flowers hung;He choked for mercy like a maidBy his own violent whim betrayed;Blood broke in fountains from his neck,I heard his hugged ribs creak and break,But what the tree-top rites might beHow should I stay to see?In terror of the Ape God’s powerI changed my person in that hour,Cast off the livery of my clan,Over unlawful hills I ran,I soiled me with forbidden earth.In nakedness of second birthI scorched away the Snake’s red eyesTattoed for name about my thighs,And slew the Sacred Bull oppressedWith passion on my breast.The girls of my new tribe are cold,Amazon, scarred, not soft to hold.They seek not men, nor are they sought,Whose children are not theirs, but boughtFrom outlaw tribes who dwell in trees—Tamed apes suckle these.The young men of the tribe are suchThat knife or bow they dare not touch,But in close watching of the skiesAnd reckoning counts they dim their eyes.Closed, each by each, in thoughtful barsThey plot the circuits of the stars,And frozen music dulls their needOf drink and man-flesh greed.They hold that virtue from them slipsWhen eye greets eye or lips touch lips;Down to the knee their broad beards fallAnd hardly are they men at all.Possessions they have none, nor schoolsFor tribal duties, nor close rules,No gods, no rites, no totem beasts,No friendships, no love feasts.Now quit, as they, of gong-roused lust,The leap of breasts, the scattering dust,In hermit splendour at my glassI watch the skies’ procession pass,Tracing my figures on the floorOf planets’ paths and comets’ lore;In calm amaze I cloak my will,I gaze, I count, untilHarsh from his House the Bull roars out,Forked lightning leaps his points about,Tattoos his shape upon the sky:Night anger fills the Serpent’s eyeWith desolating fire for oneWho thought the Serpent’s days were done,And girlish titterings from the treesLoosen my firm knees.
Snake Bull, my namesake, man of wrath,By no expense of knives or cloth,Only by work of muttered charmsCould draw all woman to his arms;None whom he summoned might resistNor none recall whom once he kissedAnd loosed them from his kiss, by whomThis mother-shame had come.
The power of his compelling flameWas bound in virtue of our name,But when in secret he taught meLike him a thief of love to be,For half his secret I had foundAnd half explored the wizard groundOf words, and when giving consentOut at his heels I went.
Then Fessé, jungle-god whose shapeIs one part man and three parts ape,Avenger of misuse by manOf lust that by his art began,And master of all mimicriesMade tittering laughter in the trees.With girlish whispers, sighs and gigglingSet the Bull prancing, the Snake wriggling;Where leaves were broadest and light dim,Fessé ambushed him.
Up through the air I saw him swungTo bridal bowers with red flowers hung;He choked for mercy like a maidBy his own violent whim betrayed;Blood broke in fountains from his neck,I heard his hugged ribs creak and break,But what the tree-top rites might beHow should I stay to see?
In terror of the Ape God’s powerI changed my person in that hour,Cast off the livery of my clan,Over unlawful hills I ran,I soiled me with forbidden earth.In nakedness of second birthI scorched away the Snake’s red eyesTattoed for name about my thighs,And slew the Sacred Bull oppressedWith passion on my breast.
The girls of my new tribe are cold,Amazon, scarred, not soft to hold.They seek not men, nor are they sought,Whose children are not theirs, but boughtFrom outlaw tribes who dwell in trees—Tamed apes suckle these.
The young men of the tribe are suchThat knife or bow they dare not touch,But in close watching of the skiesAnd reckoning counts they dim their eyes.Closed, each by each, in thoughtful barsThey plot the circuits of the stars,And frozen music dulls their needOf drink and man-flesh greed.
They hold that virtue from them slipsWhen eye greets eye or lips touch lips;Down to the knee their broad beards fallAnd hardly are they men at all.Possessions they have none, nor schoolsFor tribal duties, nor close rules,No gods, no rites, no totem beasts,No friendships, no love feasts.
Now quit, as they, of gong-roused lust,The leap of breasts, the scattering dust,In hermit splendour at my glassI watch the skies’ procession pass,Tracing my figures on the floorOf planets’ paths and comets’ lore;In calm amaze I cloak my will,I gaze, I count, until
Harsh from his House the Bull roars out,Forked lightning leaps his points about,Tattoos his shape upon the sky:Night anger fills the Serpent’s eyeWith desolating fire for oneWho thought the Serpent’s days were done,And girlish titterings from the treesLoosen my firm knees.
As I stood by the stair-head in the upper hallThe rooms to left and right were locked as before.It was senseless to hammer at an unreal doorPainted on the plaster of a ten-foot wall.There was half-light here, piled darkness beyondRising up sheer as the mountain of Time,The blank rock-face that no thought can climb,Girdled around with the Slough of Despond.I stood quite dumb, sunk fast in the mire,Lonely as the first man, or the last man,Chilled to despair since evening began,Dazed for the memory of a lost desire.But a voice said “Easily,” and a voice said “Come!”Easily I followed with no thought of doubt,Turned to the right hand, and the way stretched out;The ground held firmly; I was no more dumb.For that was the place where I longed to be,And past all hope there the kind lamp shone,The carpet was holy that my feet were on,And logs on the fire lay hissing for me.The cushions were friendship and the chairs were love,Shaggy with love was the great wolf skin,The clock ticked “Easily” as I entered in,“Come,” called the bullfinch from his cage above.Love went before me; it was shining nowFrom the eyes of a girl by the window wall,Whose beauty I knew to be fate and allBy the thin red ribbon on her calm brow.Then I was a hero and a bold boyKissing the hand I had never yet kissed;I felt red ribbon like a snake twistIn my own thick hair, so I laughed for joy.. . . . . . . . . .I stand by the stair-head in the upper hall;The rooms to the left and right are locked as before.Once I found entrance, but now never more,And Time leans forward with his glassy wall.
As I stood by the stair-head in the upper hallThe rooms to left and right were locked as before.It was senseless to hammer at an unreal doorPainted on the plaster of a ten-foot wall.There was half-light here, piled darkness beyondRising up sheer as the mountain of Time,The blank rock-face that no thought can climb,Girdled around with the Slough of Despond.I stood quite dumb, sunk fast in the mire,Lonely as the first man, or the last man,Chilled to despair since evening began,Dazed for the memory of a lost desire.But a voice said “Easily,” and a voice said “Come!”Easily I followed with no thought of doubt,Turned to the right hand, and the way stretched out;The ground held firmly; I was no more dumb.For that was the place where I longed to be,And past all hope there the kind lamp shone,The carpet was holy that my feet were on,And logs on the fire lay hissing for me.The cushions were friendship and the chairs were love,Shaggy with love was the great wolf skin,The clock ticked “Easily” as I entered in,“Come,” called the bullfinch from his cage above.Love went before me; it was shining nowFrom the eyes of a girl by the window wall,Whose beauty I knew to be fate and allBy the thin red ribbon on her calm brow.Then I was a hero and a bold boyKissing the hand I had never yet kissed;I felt red ribbon like a snake twistIn my own thick hair, so I laughed for joy.. . . . . . . . . .I stand by the stair-head in the upper hall;The rooms to the left and right are locked as before.Once I found entrance, but now never more,And Time leans forward with his glassy wall.
As I stood by the stair-head in the upper hallThe rooms to left and right were locked as before.It was senseless to hammer at an unreal doorPainted on the plaster of a ten-foot wall.
There was half-light here, piled darkness beyondRising up sheer as the mountain of Time,The blank rock-face that no thought can climb,Girdled around with the Slough of Despond.
I stood quite dumb, sunk fast in the mire,Lonely as the first man, or the last man,Chilled to despair since evening began,Dazed for the memory of a lost desire.
But a voice said “Easily,” and a voice said “Come!”Easily I followed with no thought of doubt,Turned to the right hand, and the way stretched out;The ground held firmly; I was no more dumb.
For that was the place where I longed to be,And past all hope there the kind lamp shone,The carpet was holy that my feet were on,And logs on the fire lay hissing for me.
The cushions were friendship and the chairs were love,Shaggy with love was the great wolf skin,The clock ticked “Easily” as I entered in,“Come,” called the bullfinch from his cage above.
Love went before me; it was shining nowFrom the eyes of a girl by the window wall,Whose beauty I knew to be fate and allBy the thin red ribbon on her calm brow.
Then I was a hero and a bold boyKissing the hand I had never yet kissed;I felt red ribbon like a snake twistIn my own thick hair, so I laughed for joy.. . . . . . . . . .I stand by the stair-head in the upper hall;The rooms to the left and right are locked as before.Once I found entrance, but now never more,And Time leans forward with his glassy wall.
Donne (for example’s sake),Keats, Marlowe, Spenser, Blake,Shelley and Milton,Shakespeare and Chaucer, Skelton—We love them as we know them,But who could dare outgo themAt their several arts,At their particular partsOf wisdom, power and knowledge?In the Poets’ College10Are no degrees nor stations,Comparisons, rivals,Stern examinations,Class declarations,Senior survivals;No creeds, religions, nationsCombatant togetherWith mutual damnations.Or tell me whetherShelley’s hand could take20The laurel wreath from Blake?Could Shakespeare make the lessChaucer’s goodliness?The poets of old,Each with his pen of goldGloriously writing,Found no need for fighting,In common being so rich;None need take the ditch,Unless this Chaucer beats30That Chaucer, or this KeatsWith other Keats is flyting:See Donne deny Donne’s feats,Shelley take Shelley down,Blake snatch at his own crown.Without comparison aiming high,Watching with no jealous eyeA neighbour’s renown,Each in his time contended,But with a mood late ended,40Some manner now put by,Or force expended,Sinking a new well when the old ran dry.So like my masters IVoice my ambition loud,In prospect proud,Treading the poet’s road,In retrospect most humble,For I stumble and tumble,I spill my load.50But often,Half-way to sleep,On a mountain shagged and steep,The sudden moment on me comesWith terrible roll of dream drums,Reverberations, cymbals, horns replying,When with standards flying,A cloud of horsemen behind,The coloured pomps unwindThe Carnival wagonsWith their saints and their dragons60On the screen of my teeming mind,The Creation and FloodWith our Saviour’s BloodAnd fat Silenus’ flagons,With every rare beastFrom the South and East,Both greatest and least,On and on,In endless variable procession.I stand at the top rungs70Of a ladder reared in the air,And I speak with strange tonguesSo the crowds murmur and stare,Then volleys again the blareOf horns, and summer flowersFly scattering in showers,And the Sun rolls in the sky,While the drums thumping byProclaim me....Oh, then, when I wakeCould I recovering take80And propose on this pageThe words of my rageAnd my blandishing speechSteadfast and sage,Could I stretch and reachThe flowers and the ripe fruitLaid out at the ladder’s foot,Could I rip a silken shredFrom the banner tossed ahead,Could I call a double flam90From the drums, could the GoatHorned with gold, could the RamWith a flank like a barn-door,The dwarf, the blackamoor,CouldJonah and the WhaleAnd theHoly GrailWith theSacking of RomeAndLot at his home,The Ape with his platter,Going clitter-clatter,100The Nymphs and the Satyr,And every other such matterCome before me hereStanding and speaking clearWith a “How do ye do?”And “Who are ye, who?”Could I show them so to youThat you saw them with me,Oh then, then I could beThe Prince of all Poetry110With never a peer,Seeing my way so clearTo unveil mystery.Telling you of land and sea,Of Heaven blithe and free,How I know there to beSuch and such Castles built in Spain,Telling also of Cockaigne,Of that glorious kingdom, Cand,Of the Delectable Land,120The land of Crooked Stiles,The Fortunate Isles,Of the more than three score milesThat to Babylon lead,A pretty city indeedBuilt on a four-square plan,Of the land of the Gold ManWhose eager horses whinnyIn their cribs of gold,Of the lands of Whipperginny,130Of the land where none grow old.Especially I could tellOf the Town of Hell,A huddle of dirty woesAnd houses in endless rowsStraggling across all space;Hell has no market-place,Nor point where four ways meet,Nor principal street,Nor barracks, nor Town Hall,140Nor shops at all,Nor rest for weary feet,Nor theatre, square, or park,Nor lights after dark,Nor churches nor inns,Nor convenience for sins,Hell nowhere begins,Hell nowhere ends,But over the world extendsRambling, dreary, limitless, hated well:150The suburbs of itself, I say, is Hell.But back to the sweetsOf Spenser and KeatsAnd the calm joy that greetsThe chosen of Apollo!Here let me mope, quirk, holloaWith a gesture that meetsThe needs that I followIn my own fierce way.Let me be grave-gay160Or merry-sad,Who rhyming here have hadMarvellous hope of achievementAnd deeds of ample scope,Then deceiving and bereavementOf this same hope.
Donne (for example’s sake),Keats, Marlowe, Spenser, Blake,Shelley and Milton,Shakespeare and Chaucer, Skelton—We love them as we know them,But who could dare outgo themAt their several arts,At their particular partsOf wisdom, power and knowledge?In the Poets’ College10Are no degrees nor stations,Comparisons, rivals,Stern examinations,Class declarations,Senior survivals;No creeds, religions, nationsCombatant togetherWith mutual damnations.Or tell me whetherShelley’s hand could take20The laurel wreath from Blake?Could Shakespeare make the lessChaucer’s goodliness?The poets of old,Each with his pen of goldGloriously writing,Found no need for fighting,In common being so rich;None need take the ditch,Unless this Chaucer beats30That Chaucer, or this KeatsWith other Keats is flyting:See Donne deny Donne’s feats,Shelley take Shelley down,Blake snatch at his own crown.Without comparison aiming high,Watching with no jealous eyeA neighbour’s renown,Each in his time contended,But with a mood late ended,40Some manner now put by,Or force expended,Sinking a new well when the old ran dry.So like my masters IVoice my ambition loud,In prospect proud,Treading the poet’s road,In retrospect most humble,For I stumble and tumble,I spill my load.50But often,Half-way to sleep,On a mountain shagged and steep,The sudden moment on me comesWith terrible roll of dream drums,Reverberations, cymbals, horns replying,When with standards flying,A cloud of horsemen behind,The coloured pomps unwindThe Carnival wagonsWith their saints and their dragons60On the screen of my teeming mind,The Creation and FloodWith our Saviour’s BloodAnd fat Silenus’ flagons,With every rare beastFrom the South and East,Both greatest and least,On and on,In endless variable procession.I stand at the top rungs70Of a ladder reared in the air,And I speak with strange tonguesSo the crowds murmur and stare,Then volleys again the blareOf horns, and summer flowersFly scattering in showers,And the Sun rolls in the sky,While the drums thumping byProclaim me....Oh, then, when I wakeCould I recovering take80And propose on this pageThe words of my rageAnd my blandishing speechSteadfast and sage,Could I stretch and reachThe flowers and the ripe fruitLaid out at the ladder’s foot,Could I rip a silken shredFrom the banner tossed ahead,Could I call a double flam90From the drums, could the GoatHorned with gold, could the RamWith a flank like a barn-door,The dwarf, the blackamoor,CouldJonah and the WhaleAnd theHoly GrailWith theSacking of RomeAndLot at his home,The Ape with his platter,Going clitter-clatter,100The Nymphs and the Satyr,And every other such matterCome before me hereStanding and speaking clearWith a “How do ye do?”And “Who are ye, who?”Could I show them so to youThat you saw them with me,Oh then, then I could beThe Prince of all Poetry110With never a peer,Seeing my way so clearTo unveil mystery.Telling you of land and sea,Of Heaven blithe and free,How I know there to beSuch and such Castles built in Spain,Telling also of Cockaigne,Of that glorious kingdom, Cand,Of the Delectable Land,120The land of Crooked Stiles,The Fortunate Isles,Of the more than three score milesThat to Babylon lead,A pretty city indeedBuilt on a four-square plan,Of the land of the Gold ManWhose eager horses whinnyIn their cribs of gold,Of the lands of Whipperginny,130Of the land where none grow old.Especially I could tellOf the Town of Hell,A huddle of dirty woesAnd houses in endless rowsStraggling across all space;Hell has no market-place,Nor point where four ways meet,Nor principal street,Nor barracks, nor Town Hall,140Nor shops at all,Nor rest for weary feet,Nor theatre, square, or park,Nor lights after dark,Nor churches nor inns,Nor convenience for sins,Hell nowhere begins,Hell nowhere ends,But over the world extendsRambling, dreary, limitless, hated well:150The suburbs of itself, I say, is Hell.But back to the sweetsOf Spenser and KeatsAnd the calm joy that greetsThe chosen of Apollo!Here let me mope, quirk, holloaWith a gesture that meetsThe needs that I followIn my own fierce way.Let me be grave-gay160Or merry-sad,Who rhyming here have hadMarvellous hope of achievementAnd deeds of ample scope,Then deceiving and bereavementOf this same hope.
Donne (for example’s sake),Keats, Marlowe, Spenser, Blake,Shelley and Milton,Shakespeare and Chaucer, Skelton—We love them as we know them,But who could dare outgo themAt their several arts,At their particular partsOf wisdom, power and knowledge?In the Poets’ College10Are no degrees nor stations,Comparisons, rivals,Stern examinations,Class declarations,Senior survivals;No creeds, religions, nationsCombatant togetherWith mutual damnations.Or tell me whetherShelley’s hand could take20The laurel wreath from Blake?Could Shakespeare make the lessChaucer’s goodliness?
The poets of old,Each with his pen of goldGloriously writing,Found no need for fighting,In common being so rich;None need take the ditch,Unless this Chaucer beats30That Chaucer, or this KeatsWith other Keats is flyting:See Donne deny Donne’s feats,Shelley take Shelley down,Blake snatch at his own crown.Without comparison aiming high,Watching with no jealous eyeA neighbour’s renown,Each in his time contended,But with a mood late ended,40Some manner now put by,Or force expended,Sinking a new well when the old ran dry.
So like my masters IVoice my ambition loud,In prospect proud,Treading the poet’s road,In retrospect most humble,For I stumble and tumble,I spill my load.50
But often,Half-way to sleep,On a mountain shagged and steep,The sudden moment on me comesWith terrible roll of dream drums,Reverberations, cymbals, horns replying,When with standards flying,A cloud of horsemen behind,The coloured pomps unwindThe Carnival wagonsWith their saints and their dragons60On the screen of my teeming mind,The Creation and FloodWith our Saviour’s BloodAnd fat Silenus’ flagons,With every rare beastFrom the South and East,Both greatest and least,On and on,In endless variable procession.I stand at the top rungs70Of a ladder reared in the air,And I speak with strange tonguesSo the crowds murmur and stare,Then volleys again the blareOf horns, and summer flowersFly scattering in showers,And the Sun rolls in the sky,While the drums thumping byProclaim me....Oh, then, when I wakeCould I recovering take80And propose on this pageThe words of my rageAnd my blandishing speechSteadfast and sage,Could I stretch and reachThe flowers and the ripe fruitLaid out at the ladder’s foot,Could I rip a silken shredFrom the banner tossed ahead,Could I call a double flam90From the drums, could the GoatHorned with gold, could the RamWith a flank like a barn-door,The dwarf, the blackamoor,CouldJonah and the WhaleAnd theHoly GrailWith theSacking of RomeAndLot at his home,The Ape with his platter,Going clitter-clatter,100The Nymphs and the Satyr,And every other such matterCome before me hereStanding and speaking clearWith a “How do ye do?”And “Who are ye, who?”Could I show them so to youThat you saw them with me,Oh then, then I could beThe Prince of all Poetry110With never a peer,Seeing my way so clearTo unveil mystery.
Telling you of land and sea,Of Heaven blithe and free,How I know there to beSuch and such Castles built in Spain,Telling also of Cockaigne,Of that glorious kingdom, Cand,Of the Delectable Land,120The land of Crooked Stiles,The Fortunate Isles,Of the more than three score milesThat to Babylon lead,A pretty city indeedBuilt on a four-square plan,Of the land of the Gold ManWhose eager horses whinnyIn their cribs of gold,Of the lands of Whipperginny,130Of the land where none grow old.
Especially I could tellOf the Town of Hell,A huddle of dirty woesAnd houses in endless rowsStraggling across all space;Hell has no market-place,Nor point where four ways meet,Nor principal street,Nor barracks, nor Town Hall,140Nor shops at all,Nor rest for weary feet,Nor theatre, square, or park,Nor lights after dark,Nor churches nor inns,Nor convenience for sins,Hell nowhere begins,Hell nowhere ends,But over the world extendsRambling, dreary, limitless, hated well:150The suburbs of itself, I say, is Hell.
But back to the sweetsOf Spenser and KeatsAnd the calm joy that greetsThe chosen of Apollo!Here let me mope, quirk, holloaWith a gesture that meetsThe needs that I followIn my own fierce way.Let me be grave-gay160Or merry-sad,Who rhyming here have hadMarvellous hope of achievementAnd deeds of ample scope,Then deceiving and bereavementOf this same hope.
Henry was a worthy king,Mary was his queen,He gave to her a snowdrop,Upon a stalk of green.Then all for his kindnessAnd all for his careShe gave him a new-laid eggIn the garden there.Love, can you sing?I cannot sing.Or story-tell?Not one I know.Then let us play at king and queen,As down the garden lawns we go.
Henry was a worthy king,Mary was his queen,He gave to her a snowdrop,Upon a stalk of green.Then all for his kindnessAnd all for his careShe gave him a new-laid eggIn the garden there.Love, can you sing?I cannot sing.Or story-tell?Not one I know.Then let us play at king and queen,As down the garden lawns we go.
Henry was a worthy king,Mary was his queen,He gave to her a snowdrop,Upon a stalk of green.
Then all for his kindnessAnd all for his careShe gave him a new-laid eggIn the garden there.
Love, can you sing?I cannot sing.Or story-tell?Not one I know.Then let us play at king and queen,As down the garden lawns we go.
This valley wood is hedgedWith the set shape of things.Here sorrows come not edged,Here are no harpies fledged,No roc has clapped his wings,No gryphons wave their stings;Here, poised in quietudeCalm elementals broodOn the set shape of things,They fend away alarmsFrom this green wood.Here nothing is that harms,No bull with lungs of brass,No toothed or spiny grass,No tree whose clutching armsDrink blood when travellers pass,No mount of Glass.No bardic tongues unfoldSatires or charms.Only the lawns are soft,The tree-stems, grave and old.Slow branches sway aloft,The evening air comes cold,The sunset scatters gold.Small grasses toss and bend,Small pathways idly tendTowards no certain end.
This valley wood is hedgedWith the set shape of things.Here sorrows come not edged,Here are no harpies fledged,No roc has clapped his wings,No gryphons wave their stings;Here, poised in quietudeCalm elementals broodOn the set shape of things,They fend away alarmsFrom this green wood.Here nothing is that harms,No bull with lungs of brass,No toothed or spiny grass,No tree whose clutching armsDrink blood when travellers pass,No mount of Glass.No bardic tongues unfoldSatires or charms.Only the lawns are soft,The tree-stems, grave and old.Slow branches sway aloft,The evening air comes cold,The sunset scatters gold.Small grasses toss and bend,Small pathways idly tendTowards no certain end.
This valley wood is hedgedWith the set shape of things.Here sorrows come not edged,Here are no harpies fledged,No roc has clapped his wings,No gryphons wave their stings;Here, poised in quietudeCalm elementals broodOn the set shape of things,They fend away alarmsFrom this green wood.Here nothing is that harms,No bull with lungs of brass,No toothed or spiny grass,No tree whose clutching armsDrink blood when travellers pass,No mount of Glass.No bardic tongues unfoldSatires or charms.Only the lawns are soft,The tree-stems, grave and old.Slow branches sway aloft,The evening air comes cold,The sunset scatters gold.Small grasses toss and bend,Small pathways idly tendTowards no certain end.
Mirror, Mirror, tell me,Am I pretty or plain?Or am I downright uglyAnd ugly to remain?Shall I marry a gentleman?Shall I marry a clown?Or shall I marry Old Knives-and-ScissorsShouting through the town?
Mirror, Mirror, tell me,Am I pretty or plain?Or am I downright uglyAnd ugly to remain?Shall I marry a gentleman?Shall I marry a clown?Or shall I marry Old Knives-and-ScissorsShouting through the town?
Mirror, Mirror, tell me,Am I pretty or plain?Or am I downright uglyAnd ugly to remain?
Shall I marry a gentleman?Shall I marry a clown?Or shall I marry Old Knives-and-ScissorsShouting through the town?
What did I dream? I do not know.The fragments fly like chaff.Yet, strange, my mind was tickled soI cannot help but laugh.Pull the curtains close again,Tuck my blanket in;Must a glorious humour waneBecause birds beginDiscoursing in a restless tone,Rousing me from sleep—The finest entertainment known,And given rag-cheap?
What did I dream? I do not know.The fragments fly like chaff.Yet, strange, my mind was tickled soI cannot help but laugh.Pull the curtains close again,Tuck my blanket in;Must a glorious humour waneBecause birds beginDiscoursing in a restless tone,Rousing me from sleep—The finest entertainment known,And given rag-cheap?
What did I dream? I do not know.The fragments fly like chaff.Yet, strange, my mind was tickled soI cannot help but laugh.
Pull the curtains close again,Tuck my blanket in;Must a glorious humour waneBecause birds begin
Discoursing in a restless tone,Rousing me from sleep—The finest entertainment known,And given rag-cheap?
“There’s less and less cohesionIn each collectionOf my published poetries?”You are taking me to task?And “What were my last Royalties?Reckoned in pounds, were they, or shillings,Or even perhaps in pence?”No, do not ask!I’m lost, in buyings and sellings.But please permit only once more for luckIrreconcilabilities in my book....For these are all the same stuff really,The obverse and reverse, if you look closely,Of busy Imagination’s new-coined money;And if you watch the blindPhototropisms of my fluttering mind,Whether, growing strong, I wrestle Jacob-wiseWith fiendish darkness blinking threatfullyIts bale-fire eyes,Or whether childishlyI dart to Mother-skirts of love and peaceTo play with toys until those horrors leave me—Yet note, whichever way I find release,By fight or flightBy being harsh or tame,The SPIRIT’S the same, the Pen-and-Ink’s the same.
“There’s less and less cohesionIn each collectionOf my published poetries?”You are taking me to task?And “What were my last Royalties?Reckoned in pounds, were they, or shillings,Or even perhaps in pence?”No, do not ask!I’m lost, in buyings and sellings.But please permit only once more for luckIrreconcilabilities in my book....For these are all the same stuff really,The obverse and reverse, if you look closely,Of busy Imagination’s new-coined money;And if you watch the blindPhototropisms of my fluttering mind,Whether, growing strong, I wrestle Jacob-wiseWith fiendish darkness blinking threatfullyIts bale-fire eyes,Or whether childishlyI dart to Mother-skirts of love and peaceTo play with toys until those horrors leave me—Yet note, whichever way I find release,By fight or flightBy being harsh or tame,The SPIRIT’S the same, the Pen-and-Ink’s the same.
“There’s less and less cohesionIn each collectionOf my published poetries?”You are taking me to task?And “What were my last Royalties?Reckoned in pounds, were they, or shillings,Or even perhaps in pence?”No, do not ask!I’m lost, in buyings and sellings.But please permit only once more for luckIrreconcilabilities in my book....
For these are all the same stuff really,The obverse and reverse, if you look closely,Of busy Imagination’s new-coined money;And if you watch the blindPhototropisms of my fluttering mind,Whether, growing strong, I wrestle Jacob-wiseWith fiendish darkness blinking threatfullyIts bale-fire eyes,Or whether childishly
I dart to Mother-skirts of love and peaceTo play with toys until those horrors leave me—Yet note, whichever way I find release,By fight or flightBy being harsh or tame,The SPIRIT’S the same, the Pen-and-Ink’s the same.
Epitaph on an Unfortunate Artist
He found a formula for drawing comic rabbits:This formula for drawing comic rabbits paid,So in the end he could not change the tragic habitsThis formula for drawing comic rabbits made.
He found a formula for drawing comic rabbits:This formula for drawing comic rabbits paid,So in the end he could not change the tragic habitsThis formula for drawing comic rabbits made.
He found a formula for drawing comic rabbits:This formula for drawing comic rabbits paid,So in the end he could not change the tragic habitsThis formula for drawing comic rabbits made.
Here rest in peace the bones of Henry Reece,Dead through his bitter championship of PeaceAgainst all eagle-nosed and cynic lordsWho keep thePax Romanawith their swords.Henry was only son of Thomas Reece,Banker and sometime Justice of the Peace,And of Jane Reece whom Thomas kept in dreadByPax Romanaof his board and bed.
Here rest in peace the bones of Henry Reece,Dead through his bitter championship of PeaceAgainst all eagle-nosed and cynic lordsWho keep thePax Romanawith their swords.Henry was only son of Thomas Reece,Banker and sometime Justice of the Peace,And of Jane Reece whom Thomas kept in dreadByPax Romanaof his board and bed.
Here rest in peace the bones of Henry Reece,Dead through his bitter championship of PeaceAgainst all eagle-nosed and cynic lordsWho keep thePax Romanawith their swords.
Henry was only son of Thomas Reece,Banker and sometime Justice of the Peace,And of Jane Reece whom Thomas kept in dreadByPax Romanaof his board and bed.
Comes a muttering from the earthWhere speedwell grows and daisies grow,“Pluck these weeds up, root and all,Search what hides below.”Root and all I pluck them out;There, close under, I have foundStumps of thorn with ancient crooksGrappled in the ground.I wrench the thorn-stocks from their holdTo set a rose-bush in that place;Love has pleasure in my rosesFor a summer space.Yet the bush cries out in grief:“Our lowest rootlets turn on rock,We live in terror of the droughtWithering crown and stock.”I grow angry with my creature,Tear it out and see it die;Far beneath I strike the stone,Jarring hatefully.Impotently must I mournRoses never to flower again?Are heart and back too slightly builtFor a heaving strain?Heave shall break my proud back never,Strain shall never burst my heart:Steely fingers hook in the crack,Up the rock shall start.Now from the deep and frightful pitShoots forth the spiring phœnix-treeLong despaired in this bleak land,Holds the air with boughs, with blandFragrance welcome to the bee,With fruits of immortality.
Comes a muttering from the earthWhere speedwell grows and daisies grow,“Pluck these weeds up, root and all,Search what hides below.”Root and all I pluck them out;There, close under, I have foundStumps of thorn with ancient crooksGrappled in the ground.I wrench the thorn-stocks from their holdTo set a rose-bush in that place;Love has pleasure in my rosesFor a summer space.Yet the bush cries out in grief:“Our lowest rootlets turn on rock,We live in terror of the droughtWithering crown and stock.”I grow angry with my creature,Tear it out and see it die;Far beneath I strike the stone,Jarring hatefully.Impotently must I mournRoses never to flower again?Are heart and back too slightly builtFor a heaving strain?Heave shall break my proud back never,Strain shall never burst my heart:Steely fingers hook in the crack,Up the rock shall start.Now from the deep and frightful pitShoots forth the spiring phœnix-treeLong despaired in this bleak land,Holds the air with boughs, with blandFragrance welcome to the bee,With fruits of immortality.
Comes a muttering from the earthWhere speedwell grows and daisies grow,“Pluck these weeds up, root and all,Search what hides below.”
Root and all I pluck them out;There, close under, I have foundStumps of thorn with ancient crooksGrappled in the ground.
I wrench the thorn-stocks from their holdTo set a rose-bush in that place;Love has pleasure in my rosesFor a summer space.
Yet the bush cries out in grief:“Our lowest rootlets turn on rock,We live in terror of the droughtWithering crown and stock.”
I grow angry with my creature,Tear it out and see it die;Far beneath I strike the stone,Jarring hatefully.
Impotently must I mournRoses never to flower again?Are heart and back too slightly builtFor a heaving strain?
Heave shall break my proud back never,Strain shall never burst my heart:Steely fingers hook in the crack,Up the rock shall start.
Now from the deep and frightful pitShoots forth the spiring phœnix-treeLong despaired in this bleak land,Holds the air with boughs, with blandFragrance welcome to the bee,With fruits of immortality.
Two gods once visited a hermit couple,Philemon and his Baucis, old books tell;They sampled elder-wine and called it nectar,Though nectar is the tastier drink by far.They made ambrosia of pot-herb and lentil,They ate pease-porridge even, with a will.Why, and so forth....But that night in the spare bedroomWhere they lay shivering in the musty gloom,Hermes and Zeus overheard conversation,Behind the intervening wall, drag onIn thoughtful snatches through the night. They idlyListened, and first they heard Philemon sigh:—Phi.“Since two souls meet and merge at time of marriage,Conforming to one stature and one age,An honest token each with each exchangingOf Only Love unbroken as a ring—What signified my boyhood’s ideal friendshipThat stared its ecstasy at eye and lip,But dared not touch because love seemed too holyFor flesh with flesh in real embrace to lie?”Bau.Then Baucis sighed in answer to Philemon,“Many’s the young man that my eye rests on(Our younger guest to-night provides the instance)Whose body brings my heart hotter romanceThan your dear face could ever spark within me;Often I wish my heart from yours set free.”Phi.“In this wild medley round us of Bought Love,Free Love and Forced Love and pretentious No-Love,Let us walk upright, yet with care considerWhether, in living thus, we do not err.Why might we not approve adulterous licenceIncreasing pleasurable experience?What could the soul lose through the body’s raptureWith a body not its mate, where thought is pure?”Bau.“Are children bonds of love? But even childrenGrow up too soon as women and as men,And in the growing find their own love private,Meet parent-love with new suspicious hate.Our favourites run the surest to the DevilIn spite of early cares and all good will.”Phi.“Sweetheart, you know that you have my permissionTo go your own way and to take love onWherever love may signal.”She replyingBau.Said, “I allow you, dearest, the same thing.”Zeus was struck dumb at this unholy compact,But Hermes knew the shadow from the factAnd took an oath that for whole chests of moneyNeither would faithless to the other be,Would not and could not, being twined togetherIn such close love that he for want of herRemoved one night-time from his side, would perish,And she was magnet-drawn by his least wish.Eternal Gods deny the sense of humour,That well might prejudice their infallible power,So Hermes and King Zeus not once considered,In treating of this idyll overheard,That love rehearses after life’s defeatRemembered conflicts of an earlier heat,Baucis, kind soul, was palsied, withered and bent,Philemon, too, was ten years impotent.
Two gods once visited a hermit couple,Philemon and his Baucis, old books tell;They sampled elder-wine and called it nectar,Though nectar is the tastier drink by far.They made ambrosia of pot-herb and lentil,They ate pease-porridge even, with a will.Why, and so forth....But that night in the spare bedroomWhere they lay shivering in the musty gloom,Hermes and Zeus overheard conversation,Behind the intervening wall, drag onIn thoughtful snatches through the night. They idlyListened, and first they heard Philemon sigh:—Phi.“Since two souls meet and merge at time of marriage,Conforming to one stature and one age,An honest token each with each exchangingOf Only Love unbroken as a ring—What signified my boyhood’s ideal friendshipThat stared its ecstasy at eye and lip,But dared not touch because love seemed too holyFor flesh with flesh in real embrace to lie?”Bau.Then Baucis sighed in answer to Philemon,“Many’s the young man that my eye rests on(Our younger guest to-night provides the instance)Whose body brings my heart hotter romanceThan your dear face could ever spark within me;Often I wish my heart from yours set free.”Phi.“In this wild medley round us of Bought Love,Free Love and Forced Love and pretentious No-Love,Let us walk upright, yet with care considerWhether, in living thus, we do not err.Why might we not approve adulterous licenceIncreasing pleasurable experience?What could the soul lose through the body’s raptureWith a body not its mate, where thought is pure?”Bau.“Are children bonds of love? But even childrenGrow up too soon as women and as men,And in the growing find their own love private,Meet parent-love with new suspicious hate.Our favourites run the surest to the DevilIn spite of early cares and all good will.”Phi.“Sweetheart, you know that you have my permissionTo go your own way and to take love onWherever love may signal.”She replyingBau.Said, “I allow you, dearest, the same thing.”Zeus was struck dumb at this unholy compact,But Hermes knew the shadow from the factAnd took an oath that for whole chests of moneyNeither would faithless to the other be,Would not and could not, being twined togetherIn such close love that he for want of herRemoved one night-time from his side, would perish,And she was magnet-drawn by his least wish.Eternal Gods deny the sense of humour,That well might prejudice their infallible power,So Hermes and King Zeus not once considered,In treating of this idyll overheard,That love rehearses after life’s defeatRemembered conflicts of an earlier heat,Baucis, kind soul, was palsied, withered and bent,Philemon, too, was ten years impotent.
Two gods once visited a hermit couple,Philemon and his Baucis, old books tell;They sampled elder-wine and called it nectar,Though nectar is the tastier drink by far.They made ambrosia of pot-herb and lentil,They ate pease-porridge even, with a will.Why, and so forth....But that night in the spare bedroomWhere they lay shivering in the musty gloom,Hermes and Zeus overheard conversation,Behind the intervening wall, drag onIn thoughtful snatches through the night. They idlyListened, and first they heard Philemon sigh:—
Phi.“Since two souls meet and merge at time of marriage,Conforming to one stature and one age,An honest token each with each exchangingOf Only Love unbroken as a ring—What signified my boyhood’s ideal friendshipThat stared its ecstasy at eye and lip,But dared not touch because love seemed too holyFor flesh with flesh in real embrace to lie?”
Bau.Then Baucis sighed in answer to Philemon,“Many’s the young man that my eye rests on(Our younger guest to-night provides the instance)Whose body brings my heart hotter romanceThan your dear face could ever spark within me;Often I wish my heart from yours set free.”
Phi.“In this wild medley round us of Bought Love,Free Love and Forced Love and pretentious No-Love,Let us walk upright, yet with care considerWhether, in living thus, we do not err.Why might we not approve adulterous licenceIncreasing pleasurable experience?What could the soul lose through the body’s raptureWith a body not its mate, where thought is pure?”
Bau.“Are children bonds of love? But even childrenGrow up too soon as women and as men,And in the growing find their own love private,Meet parent-love with new suspicious hate.Our favourites run the surest to the DevilIn spite of early cares and all good will.”
Phi.“Sweetheart, you know that you have my permissionTo go your own way and to take love onWherever love may signal.”
She replyingBau.Said, “I allow you, dearest, the same thing.”
Zeus was struck dumb at this unholy compact,But Hermes knew the shadow from the factAnd took an oath that for whole chests of moneyNeither would faithless to the other be,Would not and could not, being twined togetherIn such close love that he for want of herRemoved one night-time from his side, would perish,And she was magnet-drawn by his least wish.
Eternal Gods deny the sense of humour,That well might prejudice their infallible power,So Hermes and King Zeus not once considered,In treating of this idyll overheard,That love rehearses after life’s defeatRemembered conflicts of an earlier heat,Baucis, kind soul, was palsied, withered and bent,Philemon, too, was ten years impotent.
Unknown to each other in a hostile camp,Spies of two empire nations unallied,These heroes met, princes of East and West,Over a ragged pack of cards, by chance.Never believe what credulous annalistsRecord you in good faith of that encounter.I was there myself, East’s man, and witnessed all.In the main camp of the Middle Kingdom’s armyAt a soldier’s mess, shortly before Retreat,East, a pretended trooper, stepping in10Glanced round the room, shortly discerning West,Who sat dejected at a corner table.East moved by curiosity or compassionPulled out his cards, offering West the cut,And West, disguised as a travelling ballad-man,Took and cut; they played together thenFor half an hour or more; then went their ways.Never believe such credulous annalistsAs tell you, West for sign of recognition,Greatness to greatness, wit to dexterous wit,20With sleight of magic most extraordinaryAlters the Duty on his Ace of Spades,Making three-pence three-halfpence; East, it’s said,For a fantastic sly acknowledgment,While his grave eyes betoken no surprise,Makes magic too; presto, the Knave of HeartsNims the Queen’s rose and cocks it in his capFurtively, so that only West remarks it.But such was not the fact; contrariwise,When Proteus meets with Proteus, each annuls30The variability of the other’s mind.Single they stand, casting their mutable cloaks.So for this present chance, I take my oathThat leaning across and watching the cards closeI caught no hint of prestidigitation.Never believe approved biographersWho’ll show a sequence of the games then played,Explaining that the minds of these two princesWere of such subtlety and such nimblenessThat Whipperginny on the fall of a card40Changed to Bézique or Cribbage or Piquet,Euchre or Écarté, then back once more,Each comprehending with no signal shownThe opposing fancies of the other’s mind.It’s said, spectators of this play grew dazed,They turned away, thinking the gamesters drunk.But I, who sat there watching, keeping score,Say they observed the rules of but one gameThe whole bout, playing neither well nor illBut slowly, with their thoughts in other channels,50Serene and passionless like wooden men.Neither believe those elegant essayistsWho reconstruct the princes’ conversationFrom grotesque fabrics of their own vain brains.I only know that East gave West a nod,Asking him careless questions about trade;West gave the latest rumours from the front,Raising of sieges, plots and pillages.He told a camp-fire yarn to amuse the soldiersWhereat they all laughed emptily (East laughed too).60He sang a few staves of the latest catch,And pulling out his roll of rhymes, unfurled it,Ballads and songs, measured by the yard-rule.But do not trust the elegant essayistsWho’d have you swallow all they care to tellOf the riddling speech in painfuldouble entendreThat West and East juggled across the cards,So intricate, so exquisitely resolvedIn polished antithetical periodsThat by comparison, as you must believe,70Solomon himself faced with the Queen of ShebaAnd Bishop Such, preaching before the King,Joined in one person would have seemed mere trash.I give my testimony beyond refutal,Nailing the lie for all who ask the facts.Pay no heed to those vagabond dramatistsWho, to present this meeting on the stage,Would make my Prince, stealthily drawing outA golden quill and stabbing his arm for blood,Scratch on a vellum slip some hasty sentence80And pass it under the table; which West signsWithhisblood, so the treaty’s made between themAll unobserved and two far nations weddedWhile enemy soldiers loll, yawning, around.I was there myself, I say, seeing everything.Truly, this is what passed, that East regardingWest with a steady look and knowing him well,For an instant let the heavy soldier-mask,His best protection, a dull cast of face,Light up with joy, and his eyes shoot out mirth.90West then knew East, checked, and misdealt the cards.Nothing at all was said, on went the game.But East bought from West’s bag of ballads, after,Two sombre histories, and some songs for dancing.Also distrust those allegoricalPainters who treating of this famous sceneAre used to splash the skies with lurching Cupids,Goddesses with loose hair, and broad-cheeked Zephyrs;They burnish up the soldiers’ breastplate steelRusted with languor of their long campaign,100To twinkling high-lights of unmixed white paint,Giving them buskins and tall plumes to wear,While hard by, in a wanton imagery,Aquatic Triton thunders on his conchAnd Satyrs gape from behind neighbouring trees.I who was there, sweating in my shirt-sleeves,Felt no divinity brooding in that mess,For human splendour gave the gods rebuff.Do not believe them, seem they never so wise,Credibly posted with all new research,110Those elegant essayists, vagabond dramatists,Authentic and approved biographers,Solemn annalists, allegoricalPainters, each one misleading or misled.One thing is true, that of all sights I have seenIn any quarter of this world of men,By night, by day, in court, field, tavern, or barn,That was the noblest, East encountering West,Their silent understanding and restraint,Meeting and parting like the Kings they were120With plain indifference to all circumstance;Saying no good-bye, no handclasp and no tears,But letting speech between them fade awayIn casual murmurs and half compliments,East sauntering out for fresh intelligence,And West shuffling away, not looking back,Though each knew well that this chance meeting stoodFor turning movement of world history.And I? I trembled, knowing these things must be.
Unknown to each other in a hostile camp,Spies of two empire nations unallied,These heroes met, princes of East and West,Over a ragged pack of cards, by chance.Never believe what credulous annalistsRecord you in good faith of that encounter.I was there myself, East’s man, and witnessed all.In the main camp of the Middle Kingdom’s armyAt a soldier’s mess, shortly before Retreat,East, a pretended trooper, stepping in10Glanced round the room, shortly discerning West,Who sat dejected at a corner table.East moved by curiosity or compassionPulled out his cards, offering West the cut,And West, disguised as a travelling ballad-man,Took and cut; they played together thenFor half an hour or more; then went their ways.Never believe such credulous annalistsAs tell you, West for sign of recognition,Greatness to greatness, wit to dexterous wit,20With sleight of magic most extraordinaryAlters the Duty on his Ace of Spades,Making three-pence three-halfpence; East, it’s said,For a fantastic sly acknowledgment,While his grave eyes betoken no surprise,Makes magic too; presto, the Knave of HeartsNims the Queen’s rose and cocks it in his capFurtively, so that only West remarks it.But such was not the fact; contrariwise,When Proteus meets with Proteus, each annuls30The variability of the other’s mind.Single they stand, casting their mutable cloaks.So for this present chance, I take my oathThat leaning across and watching the cards closeI caught no hint of prestidigitation.Never believe approved biographersWho’ll show a sequence of the games then played,Explaining that the minds of these two princesWere of such subtlety and such nimblenessThat Whipperginny on the fall of a card40Changed to Bézique or Cribbage or Piquet,Euchre or Écarté, then back once more,Each comprehending with no signal shownThe opposing fancies of the other’s mind.It’s said, spectators of this play grew dazed,They turned away, thinking the gamesters drunk.But I, who sat there watching, keeping score,Say they observed the rules of but one gameThe whole bout, playing neither well nor illBut slowly, with their thoughts in other channels,50Serene and passionless like wooden men.Neither believe those elegant essayistsWho reconstruct the princes’ conversationFrom grotesque fabrics of their own vain brains.I only know that East gave West a nod,Asking him careless questions about trade;West gave the latest rumours from the front,Raising of sieges, plots and pillages.He told a camp-fire yarn to amuse the soldiersWhereat they all laughed emptily (East laughed too).60He sang a few staves of the latest catch,And pulling out his roll of rhymes, unfurled it,Ballads and songs, measured by the yard-rule.But do not trust the elegant essayistsWho’d have you swallow all they care to tellOf the riddling speech in painfuldouble entendreThat West and East juggled across the cards,So intricate, so exquisitely resolvedIn polished antithetical periodsThat by comparison, as you must believe,70Solomon himself faced with the Queen of ShebaAnd Bishop Such, preaching before the King,Joined in one person would have seemed mere trash.I give my testimony beyond refutal,Nailing the lie for all who ask the facts.Pay no heed to those vagabond dramatistsWho, to present this meeting on the stage,Would make my Prince, stealthily drawing outA golden quill and stabbing his arm for blood,Scratch on a vellum slip some hasty sentence80And pass it under the table; which West signsWithhisblood, so the treaty’s made between themAll unobserved and two far nations weddedWhile enemy soldiers loll, yawning, around.I was there myself, I say, seeing everything.Truly, this is what passed, that East regardingWest with a steady look and knowing him well,For an instant let the heavy soldier-mask,His best protection, a dull cast of face,Light up with joy, and his eyes shoot out mirth.90West then knew East, checked, and misdealt the cards.Nothing at all was said, on went the game.But East bought from West’s bag of ballads, after,Two sombre histories, and some songs for dancing.Also distrust those allegoricalPainters who treating of this famous sceneAre used to splash the skies with lurching Cupids,Goddesses with loose hair, and broad-cheeked Zephyrs;They burnish up the soldiers’ breastplate steelRusted with languor of their long campaign,100To twinkling high-lights of unmixed white paint,Giving them buskins and tall plumes to wear,While hard by, in a wanton imagery,Aquatic Triton thunders on his conchAnd Satyrs gape from behind neighbouring trees.I who was there, sweating in my shirt-sleeves,Felt no divinity brooding in that mess,For human splendour gave the gods rebuff.Do not believe them, seem they never so wise,Credibly posted with all new research,110Those elegant essayists, vagabond dramatists,Authentic and approved biographers,Solemn annalists, allegoricalPainters, each one misleading or misled.One thing is true, that of all sights I have seenIn any quarter of this world of men,By night, by day, in court, field, tavern, or barn,That was the noblest, East encountering West,Their silent understanding and restraint,Meeting and parting like the Kings they were120With plain indifference to all circumstance;Saying no good-bye, no handclasp and no tears,But letting speech between them fade awayIn casual murmurs and half compliments,East sauntering out for fresh intelligence,And West shuffling away, not looking back,Though each knew well that this chance meeting stoodFor turning movement of world history.And I? I trembled, knowing these things must be.
Unknown to each other in a hostile camp,Spies of two empire nations unallied,These heroes met, princes of East and West,Over a ragged pack of cards, by chance.Never believe what credulous annalistsRecord you in good faith of that encounter.I was there myself, East’s man, and witnessed all.In the main camp of the Middle Kingdom’s armyAt a soldier’s mess, shortly before Retreat,East, a pretended trooper, stepping in10Glanced round the room, shortly discerning West,Who sat dejected at a corner table.East moved by curiosity or compassionPulled out his cards, offering West the cut,And West, disguised as a travelling ballad-man,Took and cut; they played together thenFor half an hour or more; then went their ways.
Never believe such credulous annalistsAs tell you, West for sign of recognition,Greatness to greatness, wit to dexterous wit,20With sleight of magic most extraordinaryAlters the Duty on his Ace of Spades,Making three-pence three-halfpence; East, it’s said,For a fantastic sly acknowledgment,While his grave eyes betoken no surprise,Makes magic too; presto, the Knave of HeartsNims the Queen’s rose and cocks it in his capFurtively, so that only West remarks it.But such was not the fact; contrariwise,When Proteus meets with Proteus, each annuls30The variability of the other’s mind.Single they stand, casting their mutable cloaks.So for this present chance, I take my oathThat leaning across and watching the cards closeI caught no hint of prestidigitation.
Never believe approved biographersWho’ll show a sequence of the games then played,Explaining that the minds of these two princesWere of such subtlety and such nimblenessThat Whipperginny on the fall of a card40Changed to Bézique or Cribbage or Piquet,Euchre or Écarté, then back once more,Each comprehending with no signal shownThe opposing fancies of the other’s mind.It’s said, spectators of this play grew dazed,They turned away, thinking the gamesters drunk.But I, who sat there watching, keeping score,Say they observed the rules of but one gameThe whole bout, playing neither well nor illBut slowly, with their thoughts in other channels,50Serene and passionless like wooden men.
Neither believe those elegant essayistsWho reconstruct the princes’ conversationFrom grotesque fabrics of their own vain brains.I only know that East gave West a nod,Asking him careless questions about trade;West gave the latest rumours from the front,Raising of sieges, plots and pillages.He told a camp-fire yarn to amuse the soldiersWhereat they all laughed emptily (East laughed too).60He sang a few staves of the latest catch,And pulling out his roll of rhymes, unfurled it,Ballads and songs, measured by the yard-rule.But do not trust the elegant essayistsWho’d have you swallow all they care to tellOf the riddling speech in painfuldouble entendreThat West and East juggled across the cards,So intricate, so exquisitely resolvedIn polished antithetical periodsThat by comparison, as you must believe,70Solomon himself faced with the Queen of ShebaAnd Bishop Such, preaching before the King,Joined in one person would have seemed mere trash.I give my testimony beyond refutal,Nailing the lie for all who ask the facts.
Pay no heed to those vagabond dramatistsWho, to present this meeting on the stage,Would make my Prince, stealthily drawing outA golden quill and stabbing his arm for blood,Scratch on a vellum slip some hasty sentence80And pass it under the table; which West signsWithhisblood, so the treaty’s made between themAll unobserved and two far nations weddedWhile enemy soldiers loll, yawning, around.I was there myself, I say, seeing everything.Truly, this is what passed, that East regardingWest with a steady look and knowing him well,For an instant let the heavy soldier-mask,His best protection, a dull cast of face,Light up with joy, and his eyes shoot out mirth.90West then knew East, checked, and misdealt the cards.Nothing at all was said, on went the game.But East bought from West’s bag of ballads, after,Two sombre histories, and some songs for dancing.
Also distrust those allegoricalPainters who treating of this famous sceneAre used to splash the skies with lurching Cupids,Goddesses with loose hair, and broad-cheeked Zephyrs;They burnish up the soldiers’ breastplate steelRusted with languor of their long campaign,100To twinkling high-lights of unmixed white paint,Giving them buskins and tall plumes to wear,While hard by, in a wanton imagery,Aquatic Triton thunders on his conchAnd Satyrs gape from behind neighbouring trees.I who was there, sweating in my shirt-sleeves,Felt no divinity brooding in that mess,For human splendour gave the gods rebuff.
Do not believe them, seem they never so wise,Credibly posted with all new research,110Those elegant essayists, vagabond dramatists,Authentic and approved biographers,Solemn annalists, allegoricalPainters, each one misleading or misled.One thing is true, that of all sights I have seenIn any quarter of this world of men,By night, by day, in court, field, tavern, or barn,That was the noblest, East encountering West,Their silent understanding and restraint,Meeting and parting like the Kings they were120With plain indifference to all circumstance;Saying no good-bye, no handclasp and no tears,But letting speech between them fade awayIn casual murmurs and half compliments,East sauntering out for fresh intelligence,And West shuffling away, not looking back,Though each knew well that this chance meeting stoodFor turning movement of world history.And I? I trembled, knowing these things must be.
To WinifredThe day she’s wed(Having no gold) I send insteadThis sewing basket,And lovinglyDemand that she,If ever wanting help from me,Will surely ask it.Which being gravely said,Now to go straight aheadWith a cutting of string,An unwrapping of paper,With a haberdasher’s flourish,The airs of a draper,To reviewAnd search this basket through.Here’s one place fullOf coloured wool,And various yarnWith which to darn;A sampler, too,I’ve worked for you,Lettered from A to Z,The text of whichIn small cross-stitchIsLove to Winifred.Here’s a rag-doll whereinTo thrust the casual pin.His name is BenjaminFor his ingenuous face;Be sure I’ve not forgottenBlack thread or crochet cotton;While Brussels laceHas found a placeBehind the needle-case.(But the case for the scissors?Empty, as you see;Love must never be sunderedBetween you and me.)Winifred Roberts,Think of me, do,When the friends I am sendingAre working for you.The song of the thimbleIs, “Oh, forget her not.”Says the tape-measure,“Absent but never forgot.”Benjamin’s songHe sings all day long,Though his voice is not strong:He hoarsely holloasMore or less as follows:—Button boxesNever have locks-es,For the keys would soon disappear.But here’s a linen buttonWith a smut on,And a big bone buttonWith a cut on,A pearly and a fancyOf small significancy,And the badges of a Fireman and a Fusilier.Which song he’ll alternateWith sounds like a Turkish hubble-bubbleSmoked at a furious rate,The words are scarcely intelligible:—(Prestissimo)Needles and ribbons and packets of pins,Prints and chintz and odd bodikins,They’d never mind whetherYou laid ’em togetherOr one from the other in pockets and tins.For packets of pins and ribbons and needlesOr odd bodikins and chintz and prints,Being birds of a feather.Would huddle togetherLike minnows on billows or pennies in mints.He’ll learn to sing more prettilyWhen you take him out to ItalyOn your honeymoon,(Oh come back soon!)To Florence or to Rome,Theprima donnas’home,To Padua or to GenoaWhere tenors all sing tra-la-la....Good-bye, Winifred,Bless your heart, Ben.Come back happyAnd safe agen.
To WinifredThe day she’s wed(Having no gold) I send insteadThis sewing basket,And lovinglyDemand that she,If ever wanting help from me,Will surely ask it.Which being gravely said,Now to go straight aheadWith a cutting of string,An unwrapping of paper,With a haberdasher’s flourish,The airs of a draper,To reviewAnd search this basket through.Here’s one place fullOf coloured wool,And various yarnWith which to darn;A sampler, too,I’ve worked for you,Lettered from A to Z,The text of whichIn small cross-stitchIsLove to Winifred.Here’s a rag-doll whereinTo thrust the casual pin.His name is BenjaminFor his ingenuous face;Be sure I’ve not forgottenBlack thread or crochet cotton;While Brussels laceHas found a placeBehind the needle-case.(But the case for the scissors?Empty, as you see;Love must never be sunderedBetween you and me.)Winifred Roberts,Think of me, do,When the friends I am sendingAre working for you.The song of the thimbleIs, “Oh, forget her not.”Says the tape-measure,“Absent but never forgot.”Benjamin’s songHe sings all day long,Though his voice is not strong:He hoarsely holloasMore or less as follows:—Button boxesNever have locks-es,For the keys would soon disappear.But here’s a linen buttonWith a smut on,And a big bone buttonWith a cut on,A pearly and a fancyOf small significancy,And the badges of a Fireman and a Fusilier.Which song he’ll alternateWith sounds like a Turkish hubble-bubbleSmoked at a furious rate,The words are scarcely intelligible:—(Prestissimo)Needles and ribbons and packets of pins,Prints and chintz and odd bodikins,They’d never mind whetherYou laid ’em togetherOr one from the other in pockets and tins.For packets of pins and ribbons and needlesOr odd bodikins and chintz and prints,Being birds of a feather.Would huddle togetherLike minnows on billows or pennies in mints.He’ll learn to sing more prettilyWhen you take him out to ItalyOn your honeymoon,(Oh come back soon!)To Florence or to Rome,Theprima donnas’home,To Padua or to GenoaWhere tenors all sing tra-la-la....Good-bye, Winifred,Bless your heart, Ben.Come back happyAnd safe agen.
To WinifredThe day she’s wed(Having no gold) I send insteadThis sewing basket,And lovinglyDemand that she,If ever wanting help from me,Will surely ask it.
Which being gravely said,Now to go straight aheadWith a cutting of string,An unwrapping of paper,With a haberdasher’s flourish,The airs of a draper,To reviewAnd search this basket through.
Here’s one place fullOf coloured wool,And various yarnWith which to darn;A sampler, too,I’ve worked for you,Lettered from A to Z,The text of whichIn small cross-stitchIsLove to Winifred.
Here’s a rag-doll whereinTo thrust the casual pin.His name is BenjaminFor his ingenuous face;Be sure I’ve not forgottenBlack thread or crochet cotton;While Brussels laceHas found a placeBehind the needle-case.(But the case for the scissors?Empty, as you see;Love must never be sunderedBetween you and me.)
Winifred Roberts,Think of me, do,When the friends I am sendingAre working for you.The song of the thimbleIs, “Oh, forget her not.”Says the tape-measure,“Absent but never forgot.”
Benjamin’s songHe sings all day long,Though his voice is not strong:He hoarsely holloasMore or less as follows:—
Button boxesNever have locks-es,For the keys would soon disappear.But here’s a linen buttonWith a smut on,And a big bone buttonWith a cut on,A pearly and a fancyOf small significancy,And the badges of a Fireman and a Fusilier.Which song he’ll alternateWith sounds like a Turkish hubble-bubbleSmoked at a furious rate,The words are scarcely intelligible:—
(Prestissimo)Needles and ribbons and packets of pins,Prints and chintz and odd bodikins,They’d never mind whetherYou laid ’em togetherOr one from the other in pockets and tins.
For packets of pins and ribbons and needlesOr odd bodikins and chintz and prints,Being birds of a feather.Would huddle togetherLike minnows on billows or pennies in mints.
He’ll learn to sing more prettilyWhen you take him out to ItalyOn your honeymoon,(Oh come back soon!)To Florence or to Rome,Theprima donnas’home,To Padua or to GenoaWhere tenors all sing tra-la-la....
Good-bye, Winifred,Bless your heart, Ben.Come back happyAnd safe agen.